[The bond always managed to feel perfectly natural in his mind. Something new and a little weird, but it's never actually managed to breach the territory being of something unwanted. It's like adjusting to a new sense, some new spectrum of colour that human eyes couldn't catch before. Even after their little-- (Jim generously labels it a misadventure in his mind) it's settled well enough. Sometimes it's open, sometimes it's closed, but it's always there and he's always peripherally aware of it.
More aware now than usual. It hits him when he's doing scrollwork on one of the ornaments for his Christmas tree exhibit and the chisel slips against the wood, creating a long score in the bow of the miniature Enterprise he's been working on.
For a moment he stares at it in shock. Worry and uncertainty and - fear? Press in on his mind and he thinks about Marcus, about losing crewmembers through a scar much like this one, ripped through the framework of the Enterprise-- the flashback is so intrinsic, so real that he has to sit down and remind himself to breathe.
Where's it coming from? The anxiety? Not his. He was fine. Spock? It doesn't work, there's something stopping him. The bond is fraught with -- emotion, too many of them, way too many, and Jim tries to reach for it, to steady and stabilize it with every trick he's ever learned about the mind, but it's not enough. He feels Spock call to him, but it feels like listening to someone in a sandstorm, trying to hear over the rush and heat of a sirocco. Throat choked with dust, eyes shuttered with grit, it's all too much and Jim can only reach out blindly.
Enough to find his location.
He stands, mechanical, and doesn't even grab his jacket on the way out the door. He's pretty sure his car couldn't handle the snow on the mainland, though he tosses himself into it in and fires it up for the race to the edge of the turtle. He parks it near the edge of the flipper, pulls the keys and runs the rest of the way.
He's always been a good endurance runner, but through the deep snow it still takes him a while to get there, tentatively checking the bond now and then to make sure he's going in the right damn direction. It leads him to one of the domed houses, and without even thinking about it he pushes the door open.]
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More aware now than usual. It hits him when he's doing scrollwork on one of the ornaments for his Christmas tree exhibit and the chisel slips against the wood, creating a long score in the bow of the miniature Enterprise he's been working on.
For a moment he stares at it in shock. Worry and uncertainty and - fear? Press in on his mind and he thinks about Marcus, about losing crewmembers through a scar much like this one, ripped through the framework of the Enterprise-- the flashback is so intrinsic, so real that he has to sit down and remind himself to breathe.
Where's it coming from? The anxiety? Not his. He was fine. Spock? It doesn't work, there's something stopping him. The bond is fraught with -- emotion, too many of them, way too many, and Jim tries to reach for it, to steady and stabilize it with every trick he's ever learned about the mind, but it's not enough. He feels Spock call to him, but it feels like listening to someone in a sandstorm, trying to hear over the rush and heat of a sirocco. Throat choked with dust, eyes shuttered with grit, it's all too much and Jim can only reach out blindly.
Enough to find his location.
He stands, mechanical, and doesn't even grab his jacket on the way out the door. He's pretty sure his car couldn't handle the snow on the mainland, though he tosses himself into it in and fires it up for the race to the edge of the turtle. He parks it near the edge of the flipper, pulls the keys and runs the rest of the way.
He's always been a good endurance runner, but through the deep snow it still takes him a while to get there, tentatively checking the bond now and then to make sure he's going in the right damn direction. It leads him to one of the domed houses, and without even thinking about it he pushes the door open.]