He's awash in a sea of colors.
He's just an empty shell, and logically should have no preferences to which, but he finds the healthy green of the foliage or the blue of this planet's sky—and for some reason he knows different planets have differing skies—more aesthetically appealing than the volatile, orange-specked scarlet that now assaults his morphing senses.
He retains sensory information as well as anyone should, and he remembers the cool sensation of the wind at night, when he was seemingly much smaller, and how unpleasant it was until those people found him—a human man, and a woman carrying traits of both Romulans and Vulcans. He recalls his discomfort and unreasonably wishes for it when the scarlet engulfs him in searing heat, hotter than his species is used to. He wishes to freeze in company rather than burn alone.
Maybe he'd like to burn in company, he decides, as suddenly the colors are muffled, the heat replaced with a different, more gentle kind of warmth, the scent of human sweat, dirt, and cinnamon in lieu of burning plant life, and a stagnant mind suddenly activated.
He realizes he logically shouldn't like being held quite so much, but a newly-awakened niggling in the back of his mind presses him to make an exception for this human. If he had the strength he'd hold right back, raise his fingers to compress the human's arms and bring him closer, and use the yearning tendrils of his mind to connect. To reach out.
He doesn't know how alone he is until he is awash in a sea of dark warmth and emotion. He doesn't know how blindingly stupid he is until he's made the connection with his savior—it is a justified moniker, seeing as no name could be found and he'd have burnt by myself—however crude it may be.
Everything, everything flashes behind his eyes and he attempts to abstain from collapsing even as gravity forces his acquiescence. He feels, amazingly, the pure love in the man's grip, the relief, the human urge to holler and cry despite of the situation. He feels deep-seeded emotional pain, agony that's torn through his mind for weeks that feel like years, and burgeoning hatred in response to a newly-acquired ache.
He laments he might not quite-so-perfectly recall those sensations, but is confident of one thing: he will remember Jim. Golden; revered; the perfect Captain.
(Perhaps he shouldn't call Jim his 'savior' after all. T'hy'la, buried within the depths of his conscious with little literal meaning, is a much better fit.)
...
He's confused.
What was the purpose? What was the reason?
Why would he have 'done the same' for him?
It's illogical, and logic is all he can be sure of, an adamant rock in his mindscape, so he clings to it and learns to associate this human's face with the human phrase, "a grain of salt".
But that's not quite right. Something about the human's eyes… And a name. A rapturous, euphoric name calling out from some hidden recess he's ashamedly too afraid to willfully encounter. The other humans have names, yes, but this one is so important he feels as though it should be branded on his forehead.
A friend. A friend who would travel across the galaxy simply for a chance to resurrect him, or so his father says. He repeats words to the human he's almost sure he's never spoken before, but they spark a positive reaction in his eye so he continues, "playing it by ear".
He wonders where all these human phrases are coming from.
He also wonders why his heart seems to throb—impossible—at the desperation in the human's voice as he says,
"Spock? Don't you remember?"
The human wants him to remember, and if this human wants something he has to give it. Anything. He'd do anything. He risks the obscure, shadowy portion of his subconscious to search for answers.
And is illuminated.
"Jim. Your name… is Jim."
"Yes."
Most things remain where they lie, metaphorically cobwebbed and irrelevant, but he's never been so certain of anything. Not even the peaceful recluse found in logic.
He's still awash in a sea of colors—crimson, dust, off-white, olive- but perhaps he can be allowed some leniency for now preferring gold over blue and green. For preferring a warm embrace to a cool gesture of acknowledgement.
For preferring Jim to everything else.
A/N: Hello again. Don't kill me if the second part of this is rubbish compared to the first part; it's midnight, and I got a bit distracted rewatching the end of Search for Spock to refresh my memory on what exactly was said. I squealed and seemingly lost all eloquence.
Anywho—it's approximately thirty minutes into Friday the thirteenth of May, and therefore you are implored to review. Or Spot will hide under a ladder all day, and Data will blame you.
(Wrong show, I know. So kill me.)
This obviously takes place during the end of Search for Spock, the first part being in the perspective of LDS!Spock, which was fun because I could screw characterization since Spock's just a husk at that point. I assumed he kept his sense of logic because it was so deeply ingrained in him, and he'd obviously have working senses. Even the t'hy'la sense. He's also still half-human so his knowledge of basic emotions would remain.
The second part was the oh-so-adorable last scene of the movie, in which embarrassed boyfriends eradicate the theatre and their female companions squealed their arses off all because the script writer felt like being romantic.
Woo, first posted Star Trek fanfic. I'm so proud of myself.