Author's Note: I squealed when i wrote this. The idea for this chapter was my inspiration for the story.
The first thing he becomes aware of is a pounding headache- the kind that pulses in step with your heartbeat and feels like someone is hitting you in the head with an anvil at regular intervals. This headache is not particularly helped by the fact that he is hanging upside down. For a moment he thinks he's back on Thiristher, (the carnival planet where he was captured on one of his first away missions) being hung by his ankles again, (god he fucking hated that planet. They kept asking him if he knew how to juggle) but then he opens his eyes to the (blinding, painful) light and realizes that he's still on ship. He's being carried in a fireman's lift- his upper body has been slung over someone's shoulders so his head is at the level of their lower back. They smell good- like spice.
It takes him almost a minute to come to these basic, primary conclusions. He feels quite unlike himself- as if he is on a merry-go-round of 21st century Earth: everything, even the dull colors of the ceiling paint, seems unnaturally bright, everything seems to be moving a little, breathing almost, and he's horribly dizzy. His eyes close.
The first thing he sees when he next wakes is a pair of shoes, because he is still draped over the person's shoulder like a bag of flour. They are conspicuously shiny, Starfleet shoes. He can only see the heels of the shoes, because the shoes are attached (thankfully) to a pair of legs. The person attached to the legs is standing in front of a door and muttering something. Pressing buttons. He hears the tiny key tones in different combinations. Like music, he thinks, or would think if he wasn't so tired; his head feels as if someone has scooped out his brain with a spoon. There isn't much room for thinking, only feeling. The arm and hand holding onto him are warm; the lights are too white; his head is buzzing and the tips of his fingers are thrumming unpleasantly with pins and needles from being upside down too long.
The voice says something again. It's a low voice, steady sounding, and pleasant, and he feels it rather than hears it from the person's chest. The tone of the rumbling sounds…unhappy, but does not sort itself out into words for him to understand. The tones of the buttons ping again and then there is a whoosh and the rumble sounds pleased and they are moving again. He accepts the movement like a sleepy child acknowledges the frequent stops and starts of a car on a long trip; there is nothing to worry about. Someone knows where they are going.
And now, his eyelids fluttering, he takes in, in brief flashes, the shoes again, the doorway, a chest of drawers with a holocube on top with changing pictures, clothes on the floor, and then the someone removes him from their shoulder in one easy movement and gently lays him on top of the bed. Something like incense and yet not and the comforting aroma of Starfleet soap sweeps over him as his head reaches the pillow. It conveys to him an almost overwhelming sense of safety and home and familiarity, though he cannot place it, that he sinks onto the blanket like a rag doll, every part of his body relaxed. The someone moves again, footsteps quiet, and the lights dim and the ache in his head subsides somewhat, and with the lowering of pain comes the welcome ability of basic cognition.
He's in his quarters, and the last thing he remembers is being on the Bridge and the feelings of achy exhaustion permeating every bone in his body. Falling asleep. He fell asleep. Who has the conn? Ship…maybe the ship's in danger. How long has he been asleep?
Jim struggles up into wakefulness, trying to open his eyes, get out of bed. A hand gently but firmly prevents him from rising and the face of his first officer comes into view. The Vulcan's gaze meets his in the half light and Spock's face swims in and out of focus, pale and tense-looking and Jim tries to make him understand what he has to do, he has to get back to the bridge. Spock, he thinks. Spock. The ship, that's the important… his thoughts are running together into an incomprehensible mess, but this must be understood.
"The ship…is the ship…"
Spock takes his wrist, and the man's hand is welcome fire against Kirk's arm, and he doesn't even have the presence of mind to see the oddness in that Spock is touching him, not a clap on the back or a hand on the shoulder but skin to skin. He's so tired it's as good as if he were drunk out of his mind; it's unlikely he'll remember anything in the morning.
"Negotiations are complete, Captain; Enterprise is safe. In your absence, I will man the conn." Spock's normally un-inflected voice is softer than usual, somehow, and warm, and everythingisallright and he can sleep.
Brilliantly blue eyes meet black in a wordless expression of thank you, and then Spock releases his wrist suddenly and the hands, carefully this time to touch no centimeter of skin, lower him back on the pillows.
Jim sinks back onto the coverlet. A pocket of air plays coldly on his face as the door to his quarters closes; and then darkness furthers itself on the inside of his eyelids and his mind and he is once more deeply asleep.
Even after Spock is gone, the feeling of safety and the woody scent of incense linger lightly in the air.