Trees Against the Sky - Chapter Two
Title: Trees Against the Sky
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in thehelp_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinfic for giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared
in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter One
Chapter 2
He wakes up slowly, his awareness creeping back to him in bits and pieces.
He is…lying on his back. He is warm. He cannot move.
His name is Spock.
Pushing at the edges of his mind are flashes of memory, disjointed scraps full of light and flame. He thinks he remembers that he was in a shuttlecraft. Visions of a blue-green planet beneath him, a large nebula just off the port bow. Murmurs of voices behind him. Then nothing until the flickering lights of a fire, and waves of excruciating pain.
He can remember the sound of a voice amidst the wash of hurt, but it’s a different voice than the one he can remember from the shuttle. Hands that pushed under his twisted body and pulled, then darkness again.
He is becoming gradually more aware of his surroundings as he collects himself, letting his senses reach out and catalogue the area around him as he lies perfectly still.
The sound of birds, the heat of the day. The angle of the sunlight on his body implies that it is late afternoon, and he remembers from the shuttle that the area of the planet onto which they had fixed their orbit was just entering mid-summer. Likely to be hot.
There is no sound of another bipedal being nearby, only the rustling of wind in leaves and the unconcerned chirping of the nearby avians. Which…is interesting. Where exactly is he? And how exactly did he get there?
Spock takes a deep breath, parting his lips to allow the scents to play over his palate, identifying those which he can, and cataloguing the others for later analysis. Wood is the predominant smell, wood and sun-warmed foliage. He is either beneath or in a large tree, he thinks, though how and why are yet to be determined. There is also the smell of the thin blanket draped across him, which must be woven from some sort of grass fiber. Over to his right he can taste the scent of previous meals, which leads him to believe that he is in some kind of personal dwelling. Extrapolation would dictate that it is likely to be the home of either the person who rescued him, or else a close family member or friend. He can pick up the odor of a nearby latrine, though the smell is well masked. The refuse is well kept, then - reassuring. A breeze drifts across his skin, raising goose bumps where the blanket doesn’t cover. A river, a relatively short distance from where he lays - one with substantial tidal flats, likely a wide and shallow track across what must be plains.
He gives a final sniff, but finds nothing he had missed initially. He considers opening his eyes, but he can already feel unconsciousness pulling at him again. His body is doing what it does best at these moments - devoting itself entirely to healing. His thoughts fade back into oblivion, and he drifts.
--
The next time he wakes, Spock is immediately aware of a presence very near him. He pauses for a millisecond, wondering if it is wise to advertise his conscious state, but dismisses it nearly instantly. Clearly if this being wanted him dead, it would not have bothered saving him, not to mention the many opportunities it has since had to end his life.
He opens his eyes.
The boy is across the small room from him, head bent over something in his lap, face scrunched in concentration as he works what looks like a needle through a well-tanned hide. Light plays across his features, late evening sun through the lattice work walls casting geometric patterns on his darkly tanned skin. He’s very clearly humanoid, but Spock can’t quite figure out how he would be here - he’s sure he remembers that they had seen forms of sentient humanoid life on this planet, but there had been no First Contact, and therefore, there should be no humans.
Logically, if there has been no First Contact, this boy must be of the native race. But the native race is of a completely different skin tone and bone structure, based on what he remembers from the long-range viewers. This boy is too different, he thinks, to be a genetic mutation, and he looks like nothing so much as a human adolescent.
Fascinating, Spock thinks, and makes an involuntary movement with his arm that has him hissing in pain. For all that his body is adept at healing itself, he must have been very seriously injured, because he is now aware that he hurts. He hisses again under his breath, attempting to move his arm to a non-painful position, and becomes suddenly aware that the motion across the room has stopped, the boy’s light eyes trained intently on him.
Their gazes lock for an instant, and then the boy is moving. He is older than Spock first thought, but the worried lines his face makes as he settles on his knees next to Spock’s pallet give him away. He’s an old teenager at the youngest, perhaps older, and whoever he is, he’s clearly been here a while.
“Are you ok?”
Spock wants to laugh, suddenly - Ensign Glover had the propensity for that same question, and it had taken Spock months to adapt to the consistent need of humans for verbal feedback.
The youth’s face is still concerned, so Spock nods, looking around quickly for something to drink. He doesn’t trust his vocal cords at this juncture without something to lubricate them.
The boy is quick, and presses a cup of water into his hand, levering an arm behind him to help Spock rise up to enough of an angle to swallow. He watches Spock carefully as Spock drinks the water slowly, allowing it to coat his throat and wet the insides of his mouth fully before reluctantly swallowing. He can feel the coolness all the way down his esophagus, refreshing his currently parched tissues.
He finishes the cup and hands it back wordlessly, letting the stranger guide him gently back down onto the mats beneath him.
“My condition is improving.”
The boy looks at him sharply.
“Uh-huh. Not what I asked.” He rolls his eyes. “I can tell that your condition is improving - you’re not seconds from death anymore, if you hadn’t noticed.”
He speaks Standard like he’s forgotten that he knows how, his voice rough and accented. Spock’s not even sure that he’s aware he’s speaking Standard, for that matter - he seems preoccupied, glancing around the small room at his various supplies. Whatever concern is bothering him seems to be swiftly dispatched, and he turns his uncompromising stare back on Spock.
“So, what are you anyway?” He tips his head, reaching out to touch an ear point, but pulling his hand back before it makes contact. “I mean…I don’t even know what to feed you. I’ve never seen anything like you. You’re not like them” he makes a vague gesture toward the outside, and Spock files away this “them” for further questioning, “but you’re not like me, either. So…”
Spock is the first to look away, moving his arm cautiously out from under the blanket and flexing his fingers. So far, so good. He can feel that several ribs are broken, but his healing trance seems to have gotten them well on the way to mending. His left arm must also have had a hairline fracture, and the flexing of the tendons in his hands pulls on it uncomfortably, but again, it is now at least halfway healed.
His leg is another story. He doesn’t move it, not yet. The low, consistent, throb, and the lumpy shape under the covers tells him it’s heavily splinted and badly broken. It must have taken the brunt of the impact when he hit.
When they hit.
“Are there any others?”
There’s a flash of pity across the other’s face, but he makes no attempt either to hide it, or to lie.
“No. One was dead when I got there, another was nearly gone.” He eyes are calm, but serious. “I almost didn’t see you; you were away from the others. But you were the only survivor.”
Spock feels his stomach sink. He’d been hoping without realizing it, hoping that the crash might not have been so bad, that during the indeterminate amount of time he’d been unresponsive, that Glover and Ajmani were off somewhere recuperating, or even better, salvaging some form of communication from the wreckage.
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“About four or so days. You were in and out of it for the day it took to bring you here, then another three and a half since then.”
“There have been no other…sightings…in that time?”
The boy narrows his eyes like he knows what Spock is trying to ask, but shakes his head slowly, no. Spock lets his eyes close in a moment of despair, aching deeply for the loss of his crewmates, little though he knew them.
He refuses to even contemplate the idea that he may be stuck here.
He can feel the weight of exhaustion on him again, and leans back into the bedding. Maybe by the time he has finished healing, they will have come looking for him. Maybe then he will no longer be stranded here, alone.
--
Spock wakes again just as dawn breaks, the birdsong in the tree so raucous that he can’t begin to think how some humans find the noise peaceful and soothing. It had been irritating when Glover played his “Forest Sounds” files, and the real thing is apparently even more obnoxious, Spock thinks. There’s something that sounds very much like a tin can being pried open, and it seems to be perched directly above his head. He winces as it starts up again, pulling his good hand up to cover his ear and twisting his head so that his unprotected ear faces down into the bedding.
A gradually increasing guffaw begins to sneak its way past the protection of Spock’s hand, and he opens his eyes to see the boy sitting across from him, hands over his ears, and laughing uproariously at the look on Spock’s face.
“Oh god, I’m sorry.” He wipes tears from the corner of his eyes. “It was just…you were sleeping so peacefully, and then the look on your face…” he begins to laugh helplessly, legs spread out before him, loincloth tight around his hips. “You looked like you could have killed it with just your mind, with your eyes still closed. It was perfect. Ohh….” He trails off, still chuckling quietly to himself.
“The first time I heard one of those, I couldn’t even figure out if it was alive or not. I thought someone was twisting metal or something. When they showed me that it was a bird, I couldn’t believe it.” He drops his hands from his ears and looks Spock over, and Spock is once again struck by the very obvious intelligence in his gaze. “You’re looking better today. Like you might stay awake longer than half a conversation.”
Spock considers, letting his consciousness take stock of his body. He is indeed better, though still a long way from being fully healed.
“I am.”
“Great. You hungry?”
“I am.”
On cue, his stomach rumbles, bringing to his attention the aching hollowness in his guts that had been secondary to his residual aches and pains. He can feel that he has lost weight, his body stealing the energy needed to heal from his muscles and flesh.
It’s only a moment, and then there is a bowl being pressed into his hands. It’s clearly hand carved, from some sort of large nut, it seems. The contents are unidentifiable, but the smell is very appealing, and if it is something that this boy can eat, then it is unlikely to harm him. He tips the rim to his lips and takes a cautious mouthful.
The taste is…unusual. It’s neither bad nor good, but rather completely unlike anything he has eaten before. The boy is watching him carefully, so he takes another mouthful and swallows.
“I realize that I do not know your name.”
It’s only just occurred to him, in fact, but the fleeting cloud across the boy’s face is interesting in response to such a simple question.
“Jim.”
Spock waits. The boy’s face is closed.
“You have no family name?”
The boy looks away, hands clenching in his lap.
“Not that I can remember.”
Ah. Spock makes a show of enjoying another mouthful of soup, hoping to set the boy at ease. To set Jim at ease.
“How did you come to be on this planet? You are…human, are you not?”
Spock hadn’t realized that it was possible for Jim’s face to become more still.
“Yes. I am human.” He looks away. “I…don’t remember much of how I came here. I know that I fell from the sky, like you. I know that I was injured, like you. Bones saved me.” He stands, his motions stiff, tight. “That’s all I know.”
Three steps across the room and he’s gone, pushing aside the curtain the must function as a door. Footsteps disappear from his hearing, and Spock lowers his head to contemplate the remaining contents of his bowl.
He hadn’t meant to offend.
--
It’s several hours before Jim returns. Spock had set his bowl as far from his sleeping mat as he could, but he is nowhere near being able to move himself around. His fractured arm is still painful, limiting the use of his dominant hand, and his broken leg is excruciating at any motion. He had managed to find a receptacle that is clearly intended as some sort of chamber pot, and slid himself far enough off the mats to avail himself of it before sliding himself back. He represses the illogical surge of embarrassment that such banal dependence produces.
The whole process leaves him drained and aching, his muscles weakened and stressed from the crash. He has what feels like a full-body bruise, and he can only begin to imagine what kind of shape he must have been in originally, that he is still in this much discomfort. He pushes the thought away, and pulls himself into a sitting pose, back straight, legs in front of him to accommodate his injury. Meditation will not last long; he is too exhausted. But it is necessary that he begin re-incorporating it into his daily life, if he hopes to continue making progress in his recovery.
If he hopes to recover enough to leave.
He’s only just slid into the second state when he hears the quiet sound of the door panel. He keeps his eyes closed, allowing his breathing to continue its slow and rhythmic pace. The steps cross the room and stop next to him, the mats shifting as a weight settles next to him.
In. Out. In.
“I’m sorry.”
Out. In.
“I just…” Spock can hear the uncomfortable shifting of the body next to him. “I just…don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like that I can’t remember it. And seeing you…it’s just…too close for comfort.”
Out. In. Out.
“I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Spock opens his eyes.
“It is unnecessary to apologize, Jim. Your responses were rooted in your emotions, and therefore were logical in context.” He pauses, meeting Jim’s gaze. “I was not offended.”
A weak smile spreads itself across Jim’s face, and he reaches out to take a small jar in one hand, and Spock’s injured hand in the other. Spock represses an overly strong inhalation.
“Great. Thanks.”
Jim removes the cover from the jar and turns Spock’s hand over onto his knee. Spock can see now that the underside of his wrist and his two outside fingers have been burned. He had not yet noticed, and he takes a moment to be concerned at the level of distraction he must be experiencing to have not realized the full extent of his topical injuries in the several day span of his recuperation.
“What are you…”
The cream is cool on his skin, moist and soothing as Jim’s firm fingers rub it into his damaged flesh. Jim keeps his eyes on his work, his fingers sure and strong as he works the oily product in small circles, watching with a critical eye as it absorbs into Spock’s skin.
“Just a little something Bones gave me to put on you. I’ve been doing it for days now.” He blinks up at Spock. “I hope that’s ok.”
Spock doesn’t have the heart or the will power to begin the explanation of why, exactly, this is not in any way ‘ok’. The sensation and pressure of Jim’s fingers pressing the skin on his fingers back and forth is too overwhelming. Besides, he reminds himself, due to his injured arm, this is actually not something he can do for himself at the moment. It is only logical to accept assistance when offered. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, ignoring Jim’s low chuckle.
“Guess that feels good, then.”
Spock doesn’t dignify it with a response.
At some point Jim produces a small blade, and the first kiss of an edge along the end of Spock’s fingertip makes him shudder, his eyes opening in time to see the small crescent of discarded nail falling to the floor. He clamps down on his responses in an effort not to impale himself as Jim grasps his fingers firmly, one by one, and trims his nails down to the nub. The scrape of the blade raises goose bumps all over Spock’s body, his recently acquired calm shattered into oblivion by this unknowing act of gentle consideration.
At long last Jim is done, and moves off the bed to brush the small pile of clippings off the edge of the platform. Spock sags back into the covers, his body humming with the extended contact and care.
Jim smiles, pulls a blanket up over his legs.
“I don’t think I got your name either, you know?”
“Spock.” He blinks. “My name is Spock.”
Chapter Three
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in thehelp_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinfic for giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared
in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter One
Chapter 2
He wakes up slowly, his awareness creeping back to him in bits and pieces.
He is…lying on his back. He is warm. He cannot move.
His name is Spock.
Pushing at the edges of his mind are flashes of memory, disjointed scraps full of light and flame. He thinks he remembers that he was in a shuttlecraft. Visions of a blue-green planet beneath him, a large nebula just off the port bow. Murmurs of voices behind him. Then nothing until the flickering lights of a fire, and waves of excruciating pain.
He can remember the sound of a voice amidst the wash of hurt, but it’s a different voice than the one he can remember from the shuttle. Hands that pushed under his twisted body and pulled, then darkness again.
He is becoming gradually more aware of his surroundings as he collects himself, letting his senses reach out and catalogue the area around him as he lies perfectly still.
The sound of birds, the heat of the day. The angle of the sunlight on his body implies that it is late afternoon, and he remembers from the shuttle that the area of the planet onto which they had fixed their orbit was just entering mid-summer. Likely to be hot.
There is no sound of another bipedal being nearby, only the rustling of wind in leaves and the unconcerned chirping of the nearby avians. Which…is interesting. Where exactly is he? And how exactly did he get there?
Spock takes a deep breath, parting his lips to allow the scents to play over his palate, identifying those which he can, and cataloguing the others for later analysis. Wood is the predominant smell, wood and sun-warmed foliage. He is either beneath or in a large tree, he thinks, though how and why are yet to be determined. There is also the smell of the thin blanket draped across him, which must be woven from some sort of grass fiber. Over to his right he can taste the scent of previous meals, which leads him to believe that he is in some kind of personal dwelling. Extrapolation would dictate that it is likely to be the home of either the person who rescued him, or else a close family member or friend. He can pick up the odor of a nearby latrine, though the smell is well masked. The refuse is well kept, then - reassuring. A breeze drifts across his skin, raising goose bumps where the blanket doesn’t cover. A river, a relatively short distance from where he lays - one with substantial tidal flats, likely a wide and shallow track across what must be plains.
He gives a final sniff, but finds nothing he had missed initially. He considers opening his eyes, but he can already feel unconsciousness pulling at him again. His body is doing what it does best at these moments - devoting itself entirely to healing. His thoughts fade back into oblivion, and he drifts.
--
The next time he wakes, Spock is immediately aware of a presence very near him. He pauses for a millisecond, wondering if it is wise to advertise his conscious state, but dismisses it nearly instantly. Clearly if this being wanted him dead, it would not have bothered saving him, not to mention the many opportunities it has since had to end his life.
He opens his eyes.
The boy is across the small room from him, head bent over something in his lap, face scrunched in concentration as he works what looks like a needle through a well-tanned hide. Light plays across his features, late evening sun through the lattice work walls casting geometric patterns on his darkly tanned skin. He’s very clearly humanoid, but Spock can’t quite figure out how he would be here - he’s sure he remembers that they had seen forms of sentient humanoid life on this planet, but there had been no First Contact, and therefore, there should be no humans.
Logically, if there has been no First Contact, this boy must be of the native race. But the native race is of a completely different skin tone and bone structure, based on what he remembers from the long-range viewers. This boy is too different, he thinks, to be a genetic mutation, and he looks like nothing so much as a human adolescent.
Fascinating, Spock thinks, and makes an involuntary movement with his arm that has him hissing in pain. For all that his body is adept at healing itself, he must have been very seriously injured, because he is now aware that he hurts. He hisses again under his breath, attempting to move his arm to a non-painful position, and becomes suddenly aware that the motion across the room has stopped, the boy’s light eyes trained intently on him.
Their gazes lock for an instant, and then the boy is moving. He is older than Spock first thought, but the worried lines his face makes as he settles on his knees next to Spock’s pallet give him away. He’s an old teenager at the youngest, perhaps older, and whoever he is, he’s clearly been here a while.
“Are you ok?”
Spock wants to laugh, suddenly - Ensign Glover had the propensity for that same question, and it had taken Spock months to adapt to the consistent need of humans for verbal feedback.
The youth’s face is still concerned, so Spock nods, looking around quickly for something to drink. He doesn’t trust his vocal cords at this juncture without something to lubricate them.
The boy is quick, and presses a cup of water into his hand, levering an arm behind him to help Spock rise up to enough of an angle to swallow. He watches Spock carefully as Spock drinks the water slowly, allowing it to coat his throat and wet the insides of his mouth fully before reluctantly swallowing. He can feel the coolness all the way down his esophagus, refreshing his currently parched tissues.
He finishes the cup and hands it back wordlessly, letting the stranger guide him gently back down onto the mats beneath him.
“My condition is improving.”
The boy looks at him sharply.
“Uh-huh. Not what I asked.” He rolls his eyes. “I can tell that your condition is improving - you’re not seconds from death anymore, if you hadn’t noticed.”
He speaks Standard like he’s forgotten that he knows how, his voice rough and accented. Spock’s not even sure that he’s aware he’s speaking Standard, for that matter - he seems preoccupied, glancing around the small room at his various supplies. Whatever concern is bothering him seems to be swiftly dispatched, and he turns his uncompromising stare back on Spock.
“So, what are you anyway?” He tips his head, reaching out to touch an ear point, but pulling his hand back before it makes contact. “I mean…I don’t even know what to feed you. I’ve never seen anything like you. You’re not like them” he makes a vague gesture toward the outside, and Spock files away this “them” for further questioning, “but you’re not like me, either. So…”
Spock is the first to look away, moving his arm cautiously out from under the blanket and flexing his fingers. So far, so good. He can feel that several ribs are broken, but his healing trance seems to have gotten them well on the way to mending. His left arm must also have had a hairline fracture, and the flexing of the tendons in his hands pulls on it uncomfortably, but again, it is now at least halfway healed.
His leg is another story. He doesn’t move it, not yet. The low, consistent, throb, and the lumpy shape under the covers tells him it’s heavily splinted and badly broken. It must have taken the brunt of the impact when he hit.
When they hit.
“Are there any others?”
There’s a flash of pity across the other’s face, but he makes no attempt either to hide it, or to lie.
“No. One was dead when I got there, another was nearly gone.” He eyes are calm, but serious. “I almost didn’t see you; you were away from the others. But you were the only survivor.”
Spock feels his stomach sink. He’d been hoping without realizing it, hoping that the crash might not have been so bad, that during the indeterminate amount of time he’d been unresponsive, that Glover and Ajmani were off somewhere recuperating, or even better, salvaging some form of communication from the wreckage.
“How long have I been unconscious?”
“About four or so days. You were in and out of it for the day it took to bring you here, then another three and a half since then.”
“There have been no other…sightings…in that time?”
The boy narrows his eyes like he knows what Spock is trying to ask, but shakes his head slowly, no. Spock lets his eyes close in a moment of despair, aching deeply for the loss of his crewmates, little though he knew them.
He refuses to even contemplate the idea that he may be stuck here.
He can feel the weight of exhaustion on him again, and leans back into the bedding. Maybe by the time he has finished healing, they will have come looking for him. Maybe then he will no longer be stranded here, alone.
--
Spock wakes again just as dawn breaks, the birdsong in the tree so raucous that he can’t begin to think how some humans find the noise peaceful and soothing. It had been irritating when Glover played his “Forest Sounds” files, and the real thing is apparently even more obnoxious, Spock thinks. There’s something that sounds very much like a tin can being pried open, and it seems to be perched directly above his head. He winces as it starts up again, pulling his good hand up to cover his ear and twisting his head so that his unprotected ear faces down into the bedding.
A gradually increasing guffaw begins to sneak its way past the protection of Spock’s hand, and he opens his eyes to see the boy sitting across from him, hands over his ears, and laughing uproariously at the look on Spock’s face.
“Oh god, I’m sorry.” He wipes tears from the corner of his eyes. “It was just…you were sleeping so peacefully, and then the look on your face…” he begins to laugh helplessly, legs spread out before him, loincloth tight around his hips. “You looked like you could have killed it with just your mind, with your eyes still closed. It was perfect. Ohh….” He trails off, still chuckling quietly to himself.
“The first time I heard one of those, I couldn’t even figure out if it was alive or not. I thought someone was twisting metal or something. When they showed me that it was a bird, I couldn’t believe it.” He drops his hands from his ears and looks Spock over, and Spock is once again struck by the very obvious intelligence in his gaze. “You’re looking better today. Like you might stay awake longer than half a conversation.”
Spock considers, letting his consciousness take stock of his body. He is indeed better, though still a long way from being fully healed.
“I am.”
“Great. You hungry?”
“I am.”
On cue, his stomach rumbles, bringing to his attention the aching hollowness in his guts that had been secondary to his residual aches and pains. He can feel that he has lost weight, his body stealing the energy needed to heal from his muscles and flesh.
It’s only a moment, and then there is a bowl being pressed into his hands. It’s clearly hand carved, from some sort of large nut, it seems. The contents are unidentifiable, but the smell is very appealing, and if it is something that this boy can eat, then it is unlikely to harm him. He tips the rim to his lips and takes a cautious mouthful.
The taste is…unusual. It’s neither bad nor good, but rather completely unlike anything he has eaten before. The boy is watching him carefully, so he takes another mouthful and swallows.
“I realize that I do not know your name.”
It’s only just occurred to him, in fact, but the fleeting cloud across the boy’s face is interesting in response to such a simple question.
“Jim.”
Spock waits. The boy’s face is closed.
“You have no family name?”
The boy looks away, hands clenching in his lap.
“Not that I can remember.”
Ah. Spock makes a show of enjoying another mouthful of soup, hoping to set the boy at ease. To set Jim at ease.
“How did you come to be on this planet? You are…human, are you not?”
Spock hadn’t realized that it was possible for Jim’s face to become more still.
“Yes. I am human.” He looks away. “I…don’t remember much of how I came here. I know that I fell from the sky, like you. I know that I was injured, like you. Bones saved me.” He stands, his motions stiff, tight. “That’s all I know.”
Three steps across the room and he’s gone, pushing aside the curtain the must function as a door. Footsteps disappear from his hearing, and Spock lowers his head to contemplate the remaining contents of his bowl.
He hadn’t meant to offend.
--
It’s several hours before Jim returns. Spock had set his bowl as far from his sleeping mat as he could, but he is nowhere near being able to move himself around. His fractured arm is still painful, limiting the use of his dominant hand, and his broken leg is excruciating at any motion. He had managed to find a receptacle that is clearly intended as some sort of chamber pot, and slid himself far enough off the mats to avail himself of it before sliding himself back. He represses the illogical surge of embarrassment that such banal dependence produces.
The whole process leaves him drained and aching, his muscles weakened and stressed from the crash. He has what feels like a full-body bruise, and he can only begin to imagine what kind of shape he must have been in originally, that he is still in this much discomfort. He pushes the thought away, and pulls himself into a sitting pose, back straight, legs in front of him to accommodate his injury. Meditation will not last long; he is too exhausted. But it is necessary that he begin re-incorporating it into his daily life, if he hopes to continue making progress in his recovery.
If he hopes to recover enough to leave.
He’s only just slid into the second state when he hears the quiet sound of the door panel. He keeps his eyes closed, allowing his breathing to continue its slow and rhythmic pace. The steps cross the room and stop next to him, the mats shifting as a weight settles next to him.
In. Out. In.
“I’m sorry.”
Out. In.
“I just…” Spock can hear the uncomfortable shifting of the body next to him. “I just…don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like that I can’t remember it. And seeing you…it’s just…too close for comfort.”
Out. In. Out.
“I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Spock opens his eyes.
“It is unnecessary to apologize, Jim. Your responses were rooted in your emotions, and therefore were logical in context.” He pauses, meeting Jim’s gaze. “I was not offended.”
A weak smile spreads itself across Jim’s face, and he reaches out to take a small jar in one hand, and Spock’s injured hand in the other. Spock represses an overly strong inhalation.
“Great. Thanks.”
Jim removes the cover from the jar and turns Spock’s hand over onto his knee. Spock can see now that the underside of his wrist and his two outside fingers have been burned. He had not yet noticed, and he takes a moment to be concerned at the level of distraction he must be experiencing to have not realized the full extent of his topical injuries in the several day span of his recuperation.
“What are you…”
The cream is cool on his skin, moist and soothing as Jim’s firm fingers rub it into his damaged flesh. Jim keeps his eyes on his work, his fingers sure and strong as he works the oily product in small circles, watching with a critical eye as it absorbs into Spock’s skin.
“Just a little something Bones gave me to put on you. I’ve been doing it for days now.” He blinks up at Spock. “I hope that’s ok.”
Spock doesn’t have the heart or the will power to begin the explanation of why, exactly, this is not in any way ‘ok’. The sensation and pressure of Jim’s fingers pressing the skin on his fingers back and forth is too overwhelming. Besides, he reminds himself, due to his injured arm, this is actually not something he can do for himself at the moment. It is only logical to accept assistance when offered. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, ignoring Jim’s low chuckle.
“Guess that feels good, then.”
Spock doesn’t dignify it with a response.
At some point Jim produces a small blade, and the first kiss of an edge along the end of Spock’s fingertip makes him shudder, his eyes opening in time to see the small crescent of discarded nail falling to the floor. He clamps down on his responses in an effort not to impale himself as Jim grasps his fingers firmly, one by one, and trims his nails down to the nub. The scrape of the blade raises goose bumps all over Spock’s body, his recently acquired calm shattered into oblivion by this unknowing act of gentle consideration.
At long last Jim is done, and moves off the bed to brush the small pile of clippings off the edge of the platform. Spock sags back into the covers, his body humming with the extended contact and care.
Jim smiles, pulls a blanket up over his legs.
“I don’t think I got your name either, you know?”
“Spock.” He blinks. “My name is Spock.”
Chapter Three