( open )

[logistical]

When: September 2-3rd, daytime.
Rating: G.
Characters: Spock (logistical) & OPEN.
Summary: Someone has acquired a lute and is playing.
Notes: Wrote in [action] but prose is also welcome.
Log:

[ Spock hasn't yet installed a door to cover that "magnificent hole in the wall" (as Jim has dubbed it. McCoy was far more less forgiving), and claims it is due to lack of sufficient currency. That is true - he prefers to save rather than spend right away - but he is getting quite comfortable simply being a busybody and listening to the goings-on of the other apartment. The transition was inevitable and he shouldn't be putting it off, but the displacement to the City, even with the crew, had not been easy. He found living in a metropolitan area constricting considering he had spent the majority of the past few years on board a spaceship, where they could leave at a moment's notice. He'd have taken the expanse of Vulcan's deserts over this in a heartbeat, and not for purely sentimental reasons. ]

[ However, there's no longer a home except the Enterprise, no family save for her crew, and while he has made an attempt to make his residence presentable he has no intention of getting to know the City. Walks are limited to exercise - though he needed little - and his routine is strict, but offers little comfort or intellectual stimulation. ]

[ Even work is progressing frustratingly slowly. Unlike Jim, who finds other outlets for the restless energy, Spock diverts his into more projects. He would read, but since Khan was at the library, Spock avoids it as much as he can, and he occasionally skims the books Nyota has finished and placed on the shelf to be returned as soon as possible. ]

[ So one day, he quite spontaneously decides to find himself a lute. The exact object wouldn't be present in the City, but there was wood, and strings, he could make do. When he's satisfied, he sits in the middle of the living room, and begins to play. ]

[ Maybe you are visiting. Maybe you are walking by, or coming home and wondering what the music is. Or maybe you are an angry neighbour who wants to know when that racket can stop. In any case, the sound carries. ]

Comments

[hischair]

[ I like both sides of you. There's a helpless sentiment behind it, a How could I not? that Jim doesn't bother to answer. There's no need to, not when everything retreats (or tries to) at the sight-sound of Chris dying, his thoughts. The grief yawns and reopens a chasm in Jim that spans all the way back to his childhood and running a Chevy off that cliff so he'd have one less ghost of George Kirk to contend with. Chris is gone, the closest I had to a father.

His grip on Spock is unsteady, needy. He can't sob because the tears feel like a noose on their way up from the pit of his gut that ensnare his vocal chords. Faint, tentative surprise slips through the meld when he realizes the depth of Spock's care; uncertain what to do, Jim's affection flares a hungry red and has a moment's yearning, badly hidden afterwards in the somber blacks and greys of a funeral that should never have taken place. He's never been one to cling to death when he has the option of life and Spock is his (best friend, but then there's Bones for that, Spock is just plainly his in ways he can't describe, no word does what they have justice) and Jim —

Jim nudges the forehead against his own, the profiles of two noses brushing, and everything is still pulsing red like the promise of a heartbeat behind a veil. ]

[logistical]

[You are very strange, he teases. Only Nyota had liked both sides of him. He hadn't wanted for friends - he couldn't miss what he'd never understood, could he? A sliver of regret bubbles in him and he decides immediately he dislikes it.]

[And all of it disappears, crushed under the weight of Jim's grief. Instinctively he stretches out a hand (knowing what it costs, Vulcans are not tactile), and his palm hits glass.]

[they are gone]

[Glass. He stares. The funeral never should've happened, none of the crew should've been lost. Spock hears a distant echo, inquiring about the psychological evaluations, and the words post traumatic stress and survivor's guilt are frequently mentioned but nothing comes of them. All he has is the proof in Jim's mind; that Jim won't share easily, and neither will Spock.]

[Black and grey fades to white, and blue. San Francisco. The air is clean, sharp, Jim's waking up from his coma. There's a word, drifting on the wind, but it remains unsaid, unacknowledged. A weak, flickering flame, which goes out, it's not fully here, not yet. Spock stays there, with McCoy. In real time, he does cry, they're Jim's tears.]

[He loved you, Spock says, after a while. I have preserved that, and he wished for you to know.]

[hischair]

[ If he could share the murkier recesses of his mind, the places he goes to hate himself and replay his failures, there's a high likelihood he still wouldn't willingly take Spock there, even without the kneejerk reaction to barricade it from sight. It says enough that the surface is skimmed, not broken, and he lifts the hand from the glass because Spock reached out. Jim understands and appreciates. He can anchor the tears that are shed on his behalf, absently holding fast to the wrist of the hand touching his face in real time, the pad of a thumb soothing lines back and forth, over an instep.

These are new memories; Jim doesn't remember waking. He knows only the darkness, watching with the air of a spectator as Spock and Bones stand by his bed and a riot of color dims to a simple pale glow.

Thank you. And then, It's going to be weird, not hearing you soon.

It hurt when Jim wrenched his head away from Prime's fingers, he doesn't want that to happen again. The difference in knowing Spock's thoughts here and having to guess at them suddenly feels enormous. ]

[logistical]

[Jim'd said it was all his but Spock knows otherwise. He has two sides and even he doesn't know where each one reaches to, he hasn't explored the abysses, having no tools to do so. He doesn't doubt Jim has them too, but he's new to this still and won't understand what he's being kept out of. He can only try.]

[He's standing at Jim's bedside with McCoy - exchanging worried looks, and drawn to each other in shared pain. They can only try.]

[But he's done, grieving. Holding to the past makes no sense. It hurts, but he will put it away, examine it when he knows what to do with it. They move to the bridge again. I would be happy to accompany you, he says, in the memory, and Jim smiles. You. Happy?]

[Instead of the real answer, he changes it. Yes. Happy. He loosens his grip, and prepares to pull away, like a receding tide.]

[hischair]

[ There's the equivalent of fond laughter when he feels that response. "Yes, Happy." It makes the conclusion of the meld far easier to bear — and alright, so Spock knows him well enough to leave it on a high note, even though the world that draws back into focus is a blurry one at first and there are still embarrassingly wet tracks lining his face, dripping around his nose and salting Jim's dry lips.

He takes a deep breath and wipes the mess off on a sleeve, passing a hand on his eyes. Human minds aren't made for telepathy and his feels like a child having sat right at the front of several roller-coasters, thrilled but woosy. Damn, but he wishes they were still connected to see if that would amuse Spock. You're strange too he thinks, before it sinks in they've already detached from the mental contact.

His voice cracks as he swallows, licking his lips. ]

That was ... [ Belatedly, he releases Spock's wrist. Whoops. ] Jesus, Spock.

[logistical]

[Spock doesn't laugh; he smiles, the expression oddly human, before his usual stoic veneer takes its place, and he steps out of the meld. A door closes, he lowers his hand and sits patiently. His tears stopped as abruptly as they started. The afternoon sunlight is in the room, and the clock says only a few minutes have passed even though it felt like eternity, lost in Jim's mind.]

[Tilting his head, he looks at Jim, up and down.]

A wild ride?

[He's never melded with a human other than Nyota, and her thoughts are usually extremely different. Jim's new, and Spock isn't quite sure how to deal with all of... that.]

[hischair]

[ Once he starts laughing, he can't stop. Jim's lingering wonder swells, tickled by the phrasing and overwhelmed by too much new information to care what anyone thinks when his forehead bumps a shoulder, tugging him into a loose embrace.

Still giggling, Jim splutters against an upper arm as he sags. ]

Yeah, it — it really was. [ And because he's given up resisting. ] Guess I've still got a perfect record.

[ A wild ride. Christ. ]

You're welcome.

[logistical]

[There's no one else here, and from Jim, he knows the usual protocol, he awkwardly reaches around and hugs him loosely.]

In future, would you prefer I provide alcohol for you beforehand?

[Let the teasing begin. 8'D]

[hischair]

[ WHAT A DICK. Ah, but that's a nice hug, and he rubs his nose in retaliation!! across a shoulder before slouching right back in his seat so he can see the ceiling. ]

Only if you eat chocolate, smartass. [ He pinches the bridge of his nose. ] Can we start with a hot drink? Break me in gently.

[logistical]

[ew, boogers you'll pay for that!!. Spock frowns.]

I do not see how that is an acceptable trade.

[hischair]

[ Muttering, ] ... I need to have a serious talk with you about aftercare, sometime.

[ But for now, Jim nudges a knee with his own and offers a tired smile. ]

You just blended my brain like a Spock-Jim milkshake. It aches. Make some tea? [ It feels like he needs to root himself in the present, drinking something might help. ] Please.

[logistical]

[He's about to vehemently protest that Jim's showing no signs of injury, and thus medical aftercare seems entirely unnecessary, but the rest of it suggests there's a connotation he's missed entirely, and now that he has the request to focus on, can dismiss it.]

Kindly alert me if you experience headaches, or frequent nightmares. Vulcans do not meld with other species, the long-term effects are not widely known.

[But I chose to share my mind with you, he leaves unsaid. Standing up, he nods.]

I have little experience with Terran versions of the beverage. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to do so.

[hischair]

[ He might not tell him if his infrequent nightmares get amplified by the meld, knowing that Spock went to such personal lengths to establish it in the first place. Really, touched as he is by that he'd rather not complain about much for the rest of time. Or at least a week. ]

Just make whatever you'd usually drink, I'm good for anything.

[logistical]

[The unfortunate fact is: Spock is now aware of that inclination, and it amplifies his own tendencies to keep things to himself. He'll take a while to sort it all out, though.]

[He wanders into the kitchen and takes out everything he needs, getting to work efficiently, not particularly concerned if Jim stays where he is or follows him.]

[hischair]

[ Friend, he is flopping facedown on Spock's couch and no mistake, needing to give his brain a rest as it slowly processes everything that just happened.

This is where he's going to live for a while until the tea magic happens, peace out. ]