personality is the product of a clash between two opposing forces

[perform_admirably]

Three days of Hell on Earth - and somehow the hours of the morning after the world is calm again have moved Spock to more frustration than any of it. The insistence of his memory to forget between one day and the next that 'computer, lights on' does not function nearly as well without a computer. The insistence of the building's boiler to always run out of hot water during the very middle of his shower, despite an intentional variance of 0.15 hours every day since arriving in order to determine the best time to schedule it for the early morning. Running out of food and having no great desire to steal more knowing that he has no intentions - out of a lack of present ability - to replace what he takes.

Most would be happy to be alive. Spock finds it easier to be annoyed in very small ways, rather than elated in large ones. Easier to let what concerns him be flat, normal, sterile. To be neither angry about what's happened nor relieved for what can continue.

Flat, normal, sterile boredom draws him down the stairwell and into Jim Kirk's building at no later than eight in the morning, knocking sharply at the door with his knuckles. He waits. The other man is in there, and when Spock knocks, he expects an answer, with the same stubbornness of a child. So he waits.

"Captain," he says, only once.

His sling, a write-off after the anomaly, no longer supports the cast on his nearly-healed arm. In his hand, he grips a box, found incidentally at an antiques shop nearly a week ago during a search for a piercing saw. A wooden tangram puzzle.

It doesn't occur to him that Jim Kirk might not be in any mood for a puzzle.

Comments

[to_boldly]

"No," Jim agrees with a chuckle, no he would not accuse Spock of group think, propensity towards mindmelding aside. And as much as he'd like to set the other man's mind at ease on that point, when it comes to sharing the experience in that way, Jim will steadfastly refuse. Emotional transference is one thing - reliving the destruction of one's home planet through their eyes, feeling that old heart break as surely as if it'd been lodged in his own side - Jim's not doing that again. And what's more, he's not inflicting it on Spock, either. Once is surely enough to experience that kind of devastation.

Jim shifts, taking another drink from his cup as he tries to think of something else. "How's the arm?"

[perform_admirably]

The chuckle pleases Spock, expression warming half a degree again to something more at-ease. There is not much that separates this face from the face of a moment ago. There rarely is, though Kirk seems to be able to scrape meaning enough from Spock's stares to hold a lengthy conversation.

He doesn't know what it is that Kirk lived through on Delta-Vega. Only that Kirk's roundabout answer is no. And the subject is ultimately ... inessential. With that between them, Spock drops the topic most permanently. Wheedling is simply not who Spock is. Fruitless, desperate is not who Spock is.

"Healing," he says, sedate. "I believe I will find the doctor and request that he remove the cast after the end of this next week." Which will no doubt cause an argument, but Spock uses his words very precisely, and request to Spock is a little more imperative than it might be to others. He wants the cast off already, regardless of McCoy's medical opinion.

"Speaking of injuries." He raises his cup slightly to Jim. "You shared an aphorism of your mother's with me. My own mother used to say something along the lines of, 'one could get clean in a teacup if one had to.'" A polite reminder that Jim still needs his morning hygiene. "I also came here to discuss some new ideas that I have concerning the greater situation. And to ask you ... if you would be amenable to participating in a game with me."

[to_boldly]

Jim's face is thoroughly buried in one hand by the time Spock stops speaking. "Okay," he says, pushing back his chair. "I am going to take a quick shower before your nose and my feelings start fighting over who's the more offended. You stay here. Drink your tea."

Without waiting for argument, Jim departs back through his bedroom door, shedding his shirt as he goes. He hardly waits at all for the water to get hot, eager to find out what this game might be, and, he realizes, standing under the spray, to hear Spock's new ideas. Rinsing the soap away, he makes a half-assed attempt at his hair before giving up, steps out of the shower and redresses with as much haste as his aching body will allow.

"Tip," says Jim when he reenters the kitchen, picking up the conversation as though whole minutes haven't passed. "Don't make this suggestion to Bones in a room with anything throwable. He has startling accuracy for a man who's never taken a marksmanship course."

[perform_admirably]

Spock gives a small shrug as Jim stands to leave, doing what he's told. "I had planned to stay here and to drink my tea," he follows after Jim.

And he does. So that when the man comes back out, Spock has an empty cup, a bored expression, a partially-dismantled Keurig, and a pair of hands steepled thoughtfully on Jim Kirk's small kitchen table. He does not look up at the sound of Kirk's voice, having heard the sounds of the shower turning off and busy shuffling from across the apartment.

"Point of fact: The Human benchmark median reaction time is 215 milliseconds. The Vulcan benchmark median reaction time is 120 milliseconds. Make inferences."

Spock for: Bones wishes.

[to_boldly]

Between Spock's commentary and the dismembered coffeemaker Jim was most certainly not done using, he swiftly resolves to be there when Bones loses it and hypos the Vulcan unconscious.

"Unless you plan on making that thing more efficient," he says, pointing at the Keurig, "I'm going to need you to put that back together. I need at least four cups before noon, and caffeine withdrawal is an ugly process." He smiles sweetly. "Make inferences."

[perform_admirably]

"There is still half a carafe of coffee left. There's no need to become distressed." The brow twitches again. But Spock makes his inferences from that saccharine expression on the other man's full lips. The sort of inferences that suggest an apology, even if he might not otherwise. "I was concerned that it might not have a filter. I'll put it back together - sit down, have more if you supposedly need it."


There is a pause just short enough to seem unforgiving. "My present belief is that we may be trapped in some form of generated warp bubble, by means, technological or otherwise, vastly different in theory and practice than our own, and of deeply concerning lack of ethic. Nevertheless, you may want to approach your equations from such a hypothetical standpoint and see what yields."

[to_boldly]

"A warp bubble travelling not only through spacetime, but through all possible versions of spacetime," says Jim, morbidly impressed at the scale of that, should it prove true.

It's enough to distract him from his insufficiently caffeinated headache, at least until Jim spies the pot Spock has so helpfully pointed out. He pours another cup and returns to the table. "You know the amount of energy it takes to power a single warp drive. How rare the dilithium crystals are that make regulating that much electromagnetic radiation possible." Jim's expression darkens as his thoughts move from science to conjecture. "What the hell could be powerful enough to sustain a warp bubble for this long, with enough...finesse to bring select people into it at will?"

Gingerly, Jim tests the stretch of his arm against the bruises pulling tight across his shoulders. "What could layer another nightmarish reality on top of the first one so seamlessly, then poof it away again just as fast?"

[perform_admirably]

"We both understand the relation between matter and energy, Captain. An object at once traveling through infinite time and space would require infinite energy." It was, of course, one of the major restrictions of the top reaches of faster-than-light travel. On this scale, conjecture is all that they have. Rather than suggest an answer to Jim's question, Spock stays pointedly silent. The answer, of course, is nothing, but as they are observably here in reality, the answer is not nothing.

"Would you give me your arm? You will need it to play. If something isn't done, you won't stop complaining, and complaining is not a very efficient way to enjoy recreation." And although Spock is the one to make the request, he reaches his good arm slightly forward, hesitant, practically nervous. On Vulcan, it might be a business-like matter of course, part of their medicine, what Spock intends to do. This is not Vulcan - it is Jim's kitchen.

[to_boldly]

"You don't know I'll complain," mutters Jim, even though he certainly will. And though he trusts Spock, he's seen the levels of pain Spock deems acceptable, which makes him wary of what lengths the man will go to in the name of medicine.

"You even think the words 'my mind to your mind' and I'm punching you in the face," he says, lips quirked as he extends his arm.

[perform_admirably]

"Honestly." The look that he slides Jim is bone-dry but just as patient. He takes the extended arm awkwardly in his own which still wears the bulky cast, turning it over to examine first the lines of blue veins on the softer, thinner skin on the inside, and then the shape of Jim's rough elbow. The skin smells clean now, at the very least - sweet and oily soap, whatever kind it is that Jim's using. Not relevant, really, is it.

"People on your planet have been doing this for at least four thousand years, your surprise is appreciated but entirely unnecessary. No need to squirm. The principle is counter-irritation and it is not 'new' and very effective. If we keep your mind busy with something else, the discomfort is no longer prioritized." Even as he says it, his eyes now narrow, and he stops avoiding an actual touch to run the fingers of his free hands over the other man's wrist, down the inside of his arm, to the elbow, and back to the inside again with a professional touch that straddles a line between acupuncture and phlebotomy. Spock's brow darts: he's found what he's looking for with inhuman sensitivity, a cluster of nerves. Which he gives a sharp pinch.

And then he gives a very, very tiny gasp of surprise. "I suppose it's my planet as well."

[to_boldly]

Jim's skin tingles before Spock ever touches it, some form of anticipation running up Jim's spine and along his nerves. For a moment, he almost wants to take his arm back, but then he identifies the urge as shyness of all things, and promptly crushes it.

His mouth is just open to speak and distract himself when he feels another sensation coming on, one Jim can't as readily identify. Soap. Not in his nose, but almost, the smell rising from his own skin too faint to take notice of, yet his awareness of it grows all the same. Dimly, Jim is aware that Spock is speaking, but he can't concentrate, chasing that odd thread of secondary awareness towards its source, heart picking up speed as he begins to think that it isn't his awareness at all, that it's actually -

Spock pinches, and Jim jolts upright in his chair, tingles that are most certainly centered in his own skin spiraling out from the pinch like a strike to his funny bone. "Fuck," he gasps quietly. "This is better?"

[perform_admirably]

There is a reason that Vulcans are as adept as they are at finding and controlling body responses, not simply knowledge, not simply sensitivity, but of course, as Spock has kindly omitted, a very shallow sense of what the other person is experiencing. Feeling where the nerves are, not finding where the nerves are.

It should, however, be entirely one-sided. Yet Spock feels an oddness somewhere in the middle of his chest. Jim's heart-beat, because, of course, Spock's heart is not there. He ignores the lapse brutally, almost a little too brutally, and presses the flat of the side of his palm against Jim's inner elbow before bending his forearm upward, to test flexion. Then he takes his hands away completely, business-like, and leans back stiffly in his chair.

Of course he does not regret having done what he can for the discomfort Jim is in. The problem with regret was that it was highly illogical. Because, of course, at one time whatever it was that one was regretting had been exactly what they'd wanted to do.

Spock blinks, ignoring the hairs standing on end on one of his own arms. "Normatively. Yes. This is better. Give it a moment. I brought a tangram puzzle set. It is a dissection puzzle popular on Earth. The objective is to form a specific shape given an outline, using all seven pieces, which may not overlap. You'll find it's quite simple, but oddly rewarding. A good exercise for relaxation after the events of the past three days. I presumed you would not be leaving your domicile today, and so ... "

Spock has come to keep him company. Strangely hard to admit.

[to_boldly]

Spock releases him as if burned, yet Jim can't find it in him to be offended, too distracted by the sparks in his arm. They're already already neutralizing in favor of a numbness that he can already feel extending upwards, dulling the ache in his upper body to a degree that's very nearly blissful given what came before.

"Huh," Jim grunts, flexing his hand. "So you came to cure my bruises and my boredom." He smiles over the table. "Thanks, Spock. Probably be good to get out of my head for a while." Out of his head, and out of the endless, frustrated loop of trying to figure out what had happened in the last few days, and whose face Jim had to phaser off to prevent it ever happening again.

[perform_admirably]

There is no way that the other man hasn't noticed what Spock has, and that he has chosen not to comment is curiously relieving, whether or not it's intentional on Jim's part, or simply an incidental of the conversation. Spock is still grateful - he had intended a mind-probe, and not anything approaching such an open experience. Now that things are drifting somewhere more mundane, toward the game Spock towed over, he leans back against the chair a little less stiffly.

His eyes flutter to the ceiling for a moment before he leans forward again, crossing his arms across his chest and folding one leg over the other at the knees. "Thank you, Captain. In a manner of speaking, yes. As your First Officer, is it not my responsibility to see to the management of day-to-day activities, such as maintenance and logistics? As there is no ship to take responsibility for, these definitions become rather more narrowed. Your maintenance." Spock uses the blink again, the one that signifies the end of something and the beginning of something else where facial expression is absent.

"I normally play with a rather strict timer. However, I would not want to discourage you, should you be unfamiliar with the game's form. If you find it disagreeable, my scanner is sitting on your counter-top, should you decide you would do something more immediately productive."

[to_boldly]

Jim is beginning to understand what Bones means when he says Jim is aging him prematurely - if his eyebrows keep getting this kind of workout, he'll have deep forehead wrinkles within the week.

"You are terrifying when you're bored," he says, drawing his brows down again with some effort. "So." Jim leans forward with interest. "Appealing to my ego by suggesting that my spatial skills might not be up to par to pique my interest in the game. Management or manipulation?" He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm gonna beat your record either way."

[perform_admirably]

"Terrifying, Captain?" Spock says with a placid chill which suggests that he enjoys some things more than playing this game - but very few. "I would let it be known for the record, as I have no doubt that you and Doctor McCoy are keeping one, that 'boredom' is not an emotion, but rather, a motivational state. And that, perhaps, if you worry that I might be manipulating your ego, you may benefit yourself by removing something so inconvenient. It does not matter to me whether I win or lose so long as I play exceptionally. I desire that I should be threatened with difficulties."

Though the tug at the corner of Spock's straight-faced lips suggests otherwise. The translucent ghost of irritation, but then, a shrug. "My motivation was simply to see you display the liveliness of your intellect for me."

[to_boldly]

"So now I'm entertaining you," Jim laughs. "Who's managing whose boredom now? All right." Slapping his hands together, Jim finds he doesn't need those last two cups of coffee after all. Between the thinly veiled needling and the relief to his back, he's already raring to go.

"Remove my ego," he murmurs, reaching for the game. "I think you like my ego, Spock. Your mouth says no," he sing songs, "but the eyes say yes."

[perform_admirably]

"I cannot imagine what you mean." He watches the other man spill the wooden contents on the table with the very same expression, barely there, a tightness at the corner of Spock's eyes. A Vulcan smile. It isn't the first time he hears this from someone, but it's the first time he's heard it and not considered it an insult. That there was anything in his eyes that was not on his lips.

"This ego is incurably willful, moody, audacious, unpredictable, obstinate. Why would an individual who comes of a society of peaceful, logical individuals who desire harmony and require orderliness 'like' said ego? That would be highly illogical."

The eyes, of course, translate for Jim. Vital, new, intrepid, bold. His mother had told him while he was still young enough that she could get away with it, on many occasions, that he had his father's ears - and her eyes.

"Either way, you begin. Make good on your threat. Your coffee machine still needs fixing."

[to_boldly]

"You're fixing it," says Jim. "I stole that coffeemaker fair and square from an abandoned department store, and now it's mine. Rule number of of maintaining your Captain: keep him caffeinated."

As he speaks, Jim dumps the pieces of the game onto the table between them, seizing them with the immediate assumption that he'll know what shape he's meant to make. "I'm taking all that as a compliment, by the way," he says with a quick look up, "Which is how I'm pretty sure how you meant it. What, uh. What shape am I making here? Anything I want or...what's the hardest?"

[perform_admirably]

"That's what I said." Spock, fitting of black plastic and new metal already in one hand, gives him a momentarily confused look, before pointing with the piece of the coffee pot to the stack of yellowing paper found at the bottom of the frame that the seven pieces were sitting in.

"Unless you're planning on playing with extrasensory projection, there are templates on those, about two hundred of them, to be matched exactly. It should take an experienced, skillful player about twenty seconds to complete an unfamiliar puzzle. I typically give myself eight. The game won't take long; that's why I brought the scanner."

Because, apparently, Spock plans on spending the entire day in this apartment. He has not considered the possible consequences of this. The only Human other than Kirk that he's spent a great deal of time with, recreational time, was Nyota Uhura. And that relationship had moved quite beyond dissection puzzles.

[to_boldly]

Digging out the paper, Jim studies it, eyes passing swiftly over each design. Truth be told, for a man who grew up putting engines back together, frequently using parts whose origins were not vehicular, it seems like a bit of a cakewalk.

Selecting one of the harder ones just to be an ass, Jim sets himself to assembling the shape, forming it in his mind in less than three seconds, with his hands in less than ten. "Does this come in three dimensions?" he wonders, even as a secondary part of his brain considers the rest of what Spock has said.

Truth be told, Jim is dying to get back to his scanner, ready to reprogram it with all the ferocity he possesses to find some clue regarding their imprisonment in this world, but...he also wants to beat Spock's game. "Which one did you do fastest?"

[perform_admirably]

The first look that Jim receives is - however brief - legitimately impressed by the performance. Spock expects Kirk to be good, but not quite so close to as good as he is. Which is, he realizes immediately, a terribly patronizing opinion to have. He discards it for the next time - he'll make a better selection. Jim Kirk is making good on his threat, the logical conclusion of what Spock is watching.

There is still a lingering of surprise in his voice when he says, "I'm aware that it is your right to ask questions to which you already know the answer. If only you exercised it less often. No, this does not come in three dimensions in this exact iteration. Not in the apparent century. I simply picked it up when I was searching for something else. I don't remember which was the fastest. It was a game that I played as a very young child. You're aware already, of course. My mother was a schoolteacher from Earth."

And, as if in admitting this he's somehow tired himself out from conversation, he goes quietly back to the remaining bits of the coffee machine.

"Bringing it was whim. I should have known better."

[to_boldly]

"I do one puzzle right and you should have known better?" asks Jim, frowning at him over the completed puzzle. "Wait, you brought me a game you played as a kid, and now you're unhappy with - "

Jim stops abruptly, confused, and irritated with himself for being so. "Is the reason you guys share thoughts because you're so damn hard to read, otherwise?"

[perform_admirably]

There is a quick flutter of blinks. Spock finishes with the coffee machine, replaces it on the counter, picking up the scanner on his way there. Which, stony-faced, he holds out toward Jim.

"I should have kept my conversation to professional subjects." He should have known better. Why hadn't Spock known better? Why is Jim so bothered? "It would have been the fruitful and natural choice. You are my Captain. My apologies. At present, I think it becomes disgracefully obvious that my thinking is disordered and my motives for coming here, unclear. If this frustrates you, I could leave."

But he doesn't want to.

Which is ... fascinating.

[to_boldly]

"You told me why you came here," Jim replies, and maybe it's his own loneliness, the lack of control over their situation that he tries beating back every day only to fail again and again, maybe it's the fact that the man in front of him is one of only two he actually knows, and he only came here to, to...Jim's mouth bitterly shapes the word. "To manage me. I don't care if the conversation strays to the non-professional, okay? I'd...fucking welcome it, there's - " Jim sighs. "There's more to life than our work, isn't there?"