"Spock, I… I don't know how to thank you for… For..."
Jim looked down at the floor. One hand grasped at the other, trying to hold on, slipping. An anchor in observed but as yet uncharted waters.
Still searching for the right words, for any words, Jim felt a cool hand cautiously touch his own. He took a breath. He closed his eyes.
Slowly straightening to stand at his full height, Jim let his hands fall to his sides. He swallowed, and breathed deeply. Opening his eyes, he looked at Spock again. This time with intent. This time with purpose. Kirk looked in order to see.
Jim saw his friend. Not vulcan. Not human. Not a scientist. Not a soldier. Not confident. Not afraid. Not any of these things, and all of these things. A thousand and one more beside. Jim looked, and Jim saw.
Beneath the calm and tranquil surface, beautiful, peaceful, intimidating in its cool serenity, lay an entire world that very few were ever gifted the chance to see. A world of chaos and conflict, passion and fury, curiosity and hope. A world lit up by vibrant, multicolour neon, where thoughts and ideas played like sunlight in the current, yet covered over by the brooding, dark shroud of insecurity, fear, rejection. Expectation. Delineation. Never enough, always too much. Intelligence, emotion, humanity, vulcanity. Too much, not enough.
And rebellion. That piercing white light, tiny but powerful in its intensity. Strong enough to burn through everything. To burn through his father, his mother, Vulcan, Earth, the Science Academy, Starfleet, regulations, his own ego, and the rules of the universe which demanded, time and again, that Jim Kirk could not possibly survive. That spark, that flame, that precision point of light had burned within him his entire existence. It had kept him alive. It had kept Jim alive.
And, now, standing and seeing his friend, Jim Kirk watched all of those emotions, those facets, those thoughts, those beliefs; all of those beautiful edges of Spock, which glittered and burned beneath the surface like stars. No. Spock was not all that he seemed to be. He was more. He was less. He was everything.
Spock spoke, Jim's gaze drifted to pink lips, carrying his name like the breeze carries blossom in the spring.
"Jim... There is no need to thank me." Spock's voice was little more than a whisper. To Jim it was as loud as waves crashing against the shore. "All I ask is that you let me help."
Twenty years of apprehension, insecurity, loneliness, and rejection were swept away like dust before the oncoming storm.
Five years of friendship, loyalty, reliance, devotion, trust, and affection flooded across the rapidly disappearing space between them. A tidal wave. A tsunami. Insurmountable. Unavoidable. All-consuming.
Jim found the words he had been searching for.
"I do, Spock. I do need to thank you. For everything. For being. For all that you are. Thank you."
The dam shattered.
"Jim…"