He realized as he heard the panicked moans of the half Vulcan whisper into his quarters and around his ears that he had fallen apart, and for the last two months, Spock had painstakingly pieced him back together, and patched up the hole where Sam had once been. His first officer had guarded his mental well being nightly, with chess, played badly on Jim's part, though it did not matter because Spock was really there to pluck memories from Jim's mind and weave them into acceptance of death. And after those drawn out games and discussions, it was Spock's magnificent hands that would lead him through now empty halls to the mess, put food on his plate and bid him to eat. It was Spock who somehow lulled him into a deep sleep for the night, and asked him how he was when he met him for the walk to the bridge. It was Spock who had held him when he finally broke down sobbing and fighting.
That same man had left him alone last night, deciding it was finally time to give Jim back to himself, and he had been right. But now, as Jim went through their adjoined bathroom, the one Spock kept so startlingly clean, he realized Deneba had been no walk in the park for the commander either. The sight of the room shocked him, not because it was out of the ordinary, still spotless and hot and so Vulcan. But it was the way Spock was curled so tightly into himself in the wrath of some dank nightmare that made everything else seem somehow…wrong.
He had once, one shore leave with McCoy and a reluctant Spock, talked about nightmares. McCoy's of course, were about losing patients and Jim's were about such ridiculous things as Scotty massacring the Enterprise. Spock said he had never had one. Jim looked at him, meeting his electric eyes, and wondering. McCoy, as usual, broke his reverie by saying " even if you had, unless some one woke you up, you wouldn't be able to distinguish it from real life". Spock had merely nodded, and once again met Jim's gaze, the liquid orbs full, this time, with suffering.
He carefully approached Spock's prone form on the bed, and watched for a cruel minute the agony on Spock's face. Then he shook him, urgently saying his name, begging him to wake up. When he finally did, it was as if he had no idea where he was, or why he was not in pain. "Oh God" thought Jim "he was dreaming about those things". His skin began to feel like lactic acid as guilt coursed though him. This poor, poor man suffered through excruciating horror to save his nephew and that planet, and then was blinded for his efforts. He quietly thanked who ever was watching over him that his first officer, his friend, had his vision back.
With gentle tones he attempted to sooth the trembling figure on the bed, reaching out a hand to touch him, but withdrew it quickly when he saw him flinch. "Touch telepath." he remembered, "These past few months must have been hell with me throwing myself into his arms with emotions." He pulled a chair up and sat quietly, whispering comforting words to the sensitive ears, knowing he needed to speak no louder. It took almost an hour for Spock to speak, and when he did, he simply uttered "Jim?" and reached out his hand. When Kirk took the proffered hand, he had expected Spock to pull back, but instead, he clutched it, shaking and nervous. "Spock" he said, "It was a dream, you're safe". He moved closer to him, wrapped his arms around his secretly strong shoulders, despaired that, despite the lack of reality of the dream, it would forever be real to Spock. "Vulcans do not dream" Spock said as his body relaxed into the embrace, and Jim's heart broke because the man he was holding would forever hate himself for this perceived impurity. " It's alright", Jim said, "You do". Spock closed his eyes and Kirk knew that Spock wished he didn't, but the youngest captain of a starship, the great brave captain had nothing to offer this time, except an embrace and words that said it was ok, but knew it wasn't, had nothing to offer but himself.