Chapter Six
When Spock entered the small room, nothing changed. Jim still repeated his mantra, curled barefoot and shivering into the corner. Slowly, carefully, Spock made his way to the centre of the room and lowered himself to the ground. His legs stayed together as they folded underneath him. He knelt and sat back on his heels, resting his hands on his knees in the standard Vulcan meditation position.
Spock closed his eyes and waited.
Twenty minutes passed and neither man moved.
Spock counted the seconds, his own breaths and the repetitions muttered by Jim.
Another thirty minutes crawled by and finally Jim's litany stuttered. The hollow man's breath was harsh and rough like the rest of him. There were several long moments where Jim just stared at the stranger in the room, silent and still. He shifted slowly and Spock waited for a moment before sliding his eyes open.
Crack
The fist connected solidly with his jaw, sending Spock bodily to the ground. Jim crawled on top of him and gripped Spock's short hair in one hand.
Crack
Jim pummelled punch after punch into Spock's face, until his knuckles became bloody and Spock's lip bust. But Spock never fought back, merely allowing Jim to repeatedly take out his frustration and anger and fear on him. With every connection, Spock radiated every ounce of warmth and affection and safety he'd accumulated for Jim over the past two years. Eventually, Jim slumped forward and rolled off him, panting against the wall.
With slow, careful movements, Spock resumed his meditation pose, this time keeping his eyes open and watched Jim.
Jim glared at him from across the small room, anger and violence thinly shielding the fear and confusion in his eyes. His face crumpled in desperate confusion.
Still defensive, Jim paced in front of Spock on all fours. He was like a caged wild animal, facing a new trainer, stubbornly holding on to its feral habits. He was visibly unsettled by the brief telepathic contact he experienced, the natural need to hold on to comfort waring with the instinct to defend and attack.
Cautiously, Jim approached, limbs sticking out at sharp angles as he crouched low to the ground. Spock's dark eyes followed his movements. Jim curled into himself nearby, tense muscles thrumming with hyper-aware anxiety.
A tentative hand brushed Spock's sleeve, along the silver bands declaring his rank. The gold thread of Spock's shirt caught on the rough calluses on Jim's palm.
The crouched man gasped quietly and scrambled back slightly, his hand clawing up his own arm, leaving dark red gouges from his fingernails. The tattered and faded gold cuff that had been shoved onto Jim's bicep was slowly dragged down his too-thin arm. Jim crumpled it into his hands and held it close to his chest. He edged closer, shuffling with his arms and legs across the floor.
He stopped surprisingly close to Spock and leaned in as if he was about to share a secret. The half-Vulcan was careful to not move closer or further away while Jim lowered his hands into his lap. His legs were at uncomfortable-looking angles as his feet were pressed together, sole to sole in front of him. The gold material was wrung and tugged between his hands for several long minutes.
Finally, Jim bent down and spread the cuff on the floor between them, laying it flat and straightening it. The silver insignia was worn thin and stained with something that looked like blood.
Jim looked up at him expectantly. Spock did not move and Jim flared up in anger. He beat the ground with force, growling deeply. Again, he crumpled the cuff in his hands and brought it to his chest before lowering it and spread it on the floor.
When Spock did nothing, Jim repeated the motion, staring intently and with desperation.
Spock finally understood and carefully ripped the wristband from his own gold uniform sleeve. He pressed it to his chest and then laid it on the floor beside Jim's. The new cuff seemed to shine with brightness beside its dull and tattered counterpart.
Jim looked up at him with urgency and hit the ground with one closed fist again.
'James Tiberius Kirk.' He recited, pounding the ground. 'James Tiberius Kirk.'
Spock hesitated for a long moment. He leant forward and touched his own cuff.
'Spock.'
For a second, Spock was concerned he'd misinterpreted the rudimentary communication, until Jim shifted so he sat in the same position as Spock, sitting back on his heels with his legs folded underneath him.
'Spock.' He echoed, mimicking the other man's movement and vocal inflection. He fell from the meditation position and scrambled for his own cuff, quickly shoving it up his arm for safekeeping. 'James Tiberius Kirk.'
Spock repeated the motion and spoke his own name. It seemed he had taken part in some rudimentary initiation ceremony, but when he looked again at Jim's open face, he realised the truth.
It was an introduction.
Jim resumed his previous position, curled into the corner and muttering his litany, but he wasn't fearful or defensive any more. Jim had accepted Spock's presence, but was attempting to keep separate.
'James Tiberius Kirk. Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise. N dash Delta 17676-0981-'
'15432.' Spock finished.
Jim's head jerked up and levelled a steady stared at him. Spock repeated the sequence again, allowing some confusion to creep into his voice to indicate a question. Recognition brightened Jim's eyes and he nodded understanding. He crawled forward to sit directly in front of the half-Vulcan.
'15432.' He said earnestly, then he performed several strange actions.
Jim cupped a hand and brought it to his mouth twice, then laced his fingers together and pushed them down into the ground twice. He looked up at Spock as if to gauge his reaction. When Spock gave none, Jim dragged a finger along a particularly ragged scar on his shoulder, laced his fingers again and lifted them in one sharp movement.
Cautiously, Spock began to mimic the actions but Jim gripped his wrists and tugged his hands down. There was no hostility in his face, just frustration at being misunderstood. Jim scrambled backwards and grabbed the empty plate from the corner.
He held it between them, tapped the plate once and brought the same hand to Spock's mouth.
Psychically, Spock was still radiating warmth and safety, and Jim reeled back when he touched Spock's skin. His expression shifted, from irritation to wonder. The plate clattered to the ground, forgotten. Jim shuffled closer and pressed his hand to Spock's cheek. His eyes lost focus and drifted down and to the side, like a blind man mapping a stranger's face.
Ragged fingernails scraped lightly against his jaw and cheek, scratching feint marks into the smooth skin. Jim's other hand rubbed at his own cheek, tugging at the coarse hairs of his beard. Both hands travelled upwards, following the same path until they reached the top of each man's head. Spock's immaculate cap of hair was a strong contrast to Jim's long, ragged, tangled mane.
Jim gasped and pulled sharply on his own hair, several strands breaking around his fingers. His attention shifted to the snapped hairs. Almost as if out of habit, Jim pulled and untangled each hair and laid it on the floor.
McCoy watched the entire interaction, slumped in a chair outside the observation room for the past hour. He huffed a laugh when Jim touched Spock's face as well as his own. He must have been captivated by the psychic presence with every touch to smooth skin.
Jim's expression changed when he tugged at his own hair, almost with disgust and irritation.
'Of all the vain things to bring him back.' McCoy muttered.
Jim seemed totally occupied with the new task of untangling the broken strands. Now he was focussed on ordering them by length. McCoy took the opportunity to tap on the intercom to the small room.
'I think I understood some of that.' He said, deliberately keeping the volume very low.
A small inclination of Spock's head on the other side of the glass indicated he was listening to McCoy's guess.
'He's trying to be the same as you, looking for similarities. Mimicry is the most basic form of communication.'
'And what is Jim attempting to communicate now?' Spock asked quietly, watching the other man for any change away from his current obsession.
'He wants a shave.' A slow grin spread across McCoy's face. 'Jim always hated stubble, even back at the Academy. He couldn't stand it. He knows it feels wrong.'
'You are certain of this?' Spock clarified.
'It's worth a shot.'
'Now that he is aware of his environment, it is likely that the Captain will react negatively to your presence.' Spock said.
'Well, I'll just have to be reintroduced then, wont I?'
A smile tugged at McCoy's lips as he watched.
'You seem pleased.' Spock noted, hyperaware of emotions even when he never expressed them himself.
'He's communicating, Spock.' McCoy said, something akin to reverence in his voice. 'Jim's in there somewhere.'
His forehead pressed against the glass, the smile spreading across his face.
'He's still alive.'
Wow, this one took an embarrassingly long time to pump out, for that I apologize. Unfortunately, long stretches between updates are going to be the norm nowadays, but they definitely will come! No word as of yet of the meaning of the numbers, unless you can decode Jim's unusual movements.
Please review! This chapter was a little test of my descriptive skills and I want to know how I went. I know it ended fast and weirdly, but I wanted it finished and out there!
Any hints on what shaving devices they use in the future would be greatly appreciated! Otherwise, I'm just gonna role with a razor.
Next chapter: The great re-introduction, and how Jim reacts to a blade being taken to his face.