A/N: I didn't want to have another A/N so soon but I need to clarify something. In Vulcan, there are five different ways of saying, "I grieve with thee." One of which is from a subordinate to a superior (this includes child/adult), another of which is from a subordinate to a group of superiors, another of which is a superior to a subordinate (again, this includes adult/child), another of which is from a superior to a group of subordinates, and the other of which is for family to express with each other. Jim uses the last because while he is Spock's superior officer, he does not wish for their relationship outside of that to be developed in that manner, as well as to prove to Spock that he considers him to be more than just a friend, although Spock won't consciously register that yet. So: no bitching about my Vulcan being wrong, because it's not. XD

Also for future reference: I know fanon has Vulcans being hot-blooded compared to humans, but that actually isn't right. Vulcan bodies have a lower core temperature than humans do. Not that I mind it, I'm very used to it, but yeah, just another don't bitch at me please note. :3

Jim looked over at Spock as he made his move, smiling at the momentarily intense concentration that he saw there. It had been four and a half weeks since their first chess game, and he had gotten the foundation laid for Spock to trust him with his grief. First had been apologising again for what he said to Spock, the way that he forced Spock to show his emotional state to all and sundry during the Nero incident. Then had been talking to Spock about his own grief over his father. It was nothing like the same – the man had been dead all of his life after all – but Jim had been told all of his life about how his mother would have rather had his father around than Jim around. The fact that she had let Frank beat on him had just proved how much she didn't love Jim. Or Sam for that matter, considering that his abusive stepfather hadn't limited himself to beating Jim. Sam had taken the brunt of things until he ran away.

He had almost gotten a good reaction, a reciprocation, from Spock then, but it hadn't been enough. It had still been too soon.

So instead of pushing it, Jim had held back and begun an exchange of happy memories, interests, likes, dislikes, and other various things. It was slow going, but working out rather outstandingly well. Tonight, however, Spock was struggling. Occasionally he could focus well for a few minutes, but his concentration kept slipping. His eyes kept showing flashes of pain and grief. His body was stiff and less graceful than usual. Now that their mission was under way, the routine activity was not enough to distract Spock from his grief any more. It was truly a good thing for both Spock and Uhura that they had broken up – she couldn't help him with this, and that could have broken them apart in a situation that caused resentment and hurt.

Spock made his move. It was time.

Tonight was a bad night. Oh, not that he wasn't enjoying – how strange – being around the Captain, but it just hurt too much right now. With nothing to distract him, his grief was agonising. It was eating away at him; gnawing on his shields, chewing on his control, dissolving his stability.

His head shot up when a hand covered his, and he tried to pull away until he saw the Captain's determined eyes and felt understanding, compassion, and sorrow – no pity, there is no pity – flowing into his body. But-

Then his Captain spoke in perfect Vulcan, his inflection and pronunciation absolutely fluent as he said, "S'ti th'laktra, Spock. Du nam-tor ri sa'awek. Nash-veh dungi kwon-sum nenikaya du heh nam-tor tra' na' du."

I grieve with thee, Spock. You are not alone. I will always support you and be there for you.

Spock stared at the man across from him for a moment, until what he was saying slammed into him and he gasped out a sob, almost choking on his breath as tears overwhelmed him, leaving him shaking and stunned. His sorrow, his pain, his overwhelming grief – they overcame him and he shook, nearly keening from the pressure of his shields collapsing underneath the nearly unbearable force of the onslaught of his emotions. He struggled to control it but the torrent of understanding washed away his reservations. Suddenly, it didn't matter that he had an audience, because his audience miraculously understood. The Captain did not care if he was more or less Vulcan compared to human so long as he did not act in a superior manner. He never had and Spock knew he never would. Kirk was simply not like that. Spock had learned that he was amazingly accepting over the past few weeks, on top of what he had already learned over the past year and more.

The continuing support he felt, the understanding and compassion, was as cathartic as his insensible sobbing was, releasing his suppressed feelings in a steady stream.

Spock was unsure of how long he was there, but when his grief finally abated it was severely muted and he felt better than he had felt since the loss of Vulcan – more importantly, specifically the loss of his beloved (he would admit that; he was never going to deny it again) mother. As soon as he had stopped crying, Kirk had taken his hand away and was looking at him intently. "There is nothing wrong with expressing yourself when you are overwhelmed. I understand that it is not the Vulcan way, but you are half human, which bends all of the rules, Spock. You cannot make yourself either Vulcan or human, so therefore you need to stop trying to. Find a balance between the two that makes you feel comfortable, and your life will significantly improve, I promise you this."

…He had never thought of it like that, but the Captain was right. He could never be as good at suppressing his emotions as a full blooded Vulcan could, which meant that eventually they would get to be too much for him to handle by simple meditation. It had been proven to him over and over again before this that he could be provoked into an emotional response, but if the Captain was right, then finding the appropriate balance would make if far more difficult to provoke him.

Jim watched Spock take in his words and smiled slightly as acceptance and understanding bloomed in his gaze, comprehension of the truth radiating outward. He spoke again, determined to get their foundation set already. "If you ever, ever need someone to talk to about anything whatsoever, just tell me. I will always listen, I will never judge, and I will always understand. And hey, from now on call me Jim when we're not on duty!"

He grinned irrepressibly as he said the last, and waited for agreement (eventually he would get Spock to call him Jim even when on duty, if it didn't happen naturally), which was not very long in coming. Spock was practically tasting his name as he said it when he responded. "Jim… I do believe I can do that, if you insist."

Jim watched him gravely, his voice serious as he said, "I do insist. Good friends should call each other by first name, and I would hope that after this you would agree to be my friend more deeply, Spock. I mean to support you in any way that I can, regardless of if you do the same for me or not."

He knew that Spock needed it, the kind of support that he had been unable to accept growing up, but which he still so desperately had to have. His words got him a sharp look, then a searching gaze, and he let Spock observe him silently, not saying anything more. He would have placed his hand on Spock's again to prove his sincerity, but he didn't think that was a good idea right now. Spock needed to recover from finally allowing himself to grieve over his losses, not to be set off by intimately experiencing something like that when he thought it was forever lost to him. He would be able to faintly sense it from Jim as it was, even without the touch. Jim knew his telepathy was incredibly strong.

Finally, Spock spoke again, "Yes. Thank you, Cap-Jim."

Jim smiled happily at him and then made his move on the board, respecting that Spock needed a distraction right now and going back to their game.

He could have sworn that Spock almost smiled at his action and implicit understanding.

When the Captain – no, he told me to call him Jim – finally left Spock's rooms, he sank to the floor and began his meditation for the night, easily falling into a trance and dispassionately observing both his emotions and his carefully rebuilt shields. With the stress from his unbearable grief gone, his mind was calm once more, and his shields were fully functioning once more.

Jim was right. There will be a balance for me, one in which I can both express my emotions when necessary and yet still be as restrained on a normal basis as what I am used to. How odd that I can indeed be both human and Vulcan at the same time, that I will finally have a balance between the two sides, and that it could only happen because of the advice given to me by my Captain, whom I used to hate so passionately.

His life was so odd, but somehow he knew that he would not have it any other way. This connection would be good for him, it was blatantly clear. He gave off a purely mental sigh and sank deeper into his meditation, smoothing out his mind as he always did. Tomorrow was a new day with a new set of circumstances. He needed to be ready for it.