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Four days, 13 hours, 27 minutes, and 19.7 seconds was how long Jim had been dead. Four days, 13 hours, 27 minutes, and 19.7 seconds for his vivid blue eyes to glaze over, for his hand to fall away from the glass, for Spock to relish the snap of Khan’s bones, for Doctor McCoy to work incessantly to create a regenerative serum from Khan’s blood.
17 days, 21 hours, 14 minutes, and 42.3 seconds was how long it took for Jim to regain consciousness. 17 days, 21 hours, 14 minutes, and 42.3 seconds of minimal sleep, of hovering over the repairs of the ship Jim loves, of spending silent hours at Jim’s bedside, of fielding questions from the crew Jim died for.
When his captain opens his eyes in Starfleet Hospital, gasping out his first conscious breath, it takes all of Spock’s Vulcan control not to fall apart right there. Stillness has never suited Jim, he is movement, he is boundless, life-indicating energy, and he has been stagnant for too long.
Doctor McCoy bustles around the room, adjusting the monitors by the captain's bed, and injecting an assortment of hyposprays into his neck, much to his chagrin. The doctor masks his worry under a guise of gruff scolding, but his relief is palpable. Once he is as satisfied as he can be with the captain's present condition, he departs to update the Admiralty, leaving Spock with the illogical warning to not break his patient.
For a moment, there is nothing, both of them silently regarding the other. Spock remains motionless, his hands clasped behind his back.
But when Jim holds out his hand Spock, nothing could stop him from stepping forward and reaching back, from feeling the warm callused skin of Jim’s hand in his both of his own. The sharp shards of grief that had lingered even after Jim began to breathe again dulled. He revels in the press of Jim’s hand, marvels at it’s short, bitten nails, the rough palms, the scar on his thumb. Jim’s relief is projected through his touch, and is matched by Spock’s own. They are thinking the same thing: there is no longer glass to separate their hands.
Chocolate brown eyes meet electric blue. “I didn’t just go back for you because you’re my friend,” Jim whispers, locked in Spock’s gaze.
Spock pulls one hand away from Jim’s and brushes his cheek cautiously with his fingertips. “I know.”
With the hand not desperately clutched in Spock’s, the human nervously extends his index and middle finger towards the vulcan, and Spock suddenly realizes what his counterpart meant when he said that Jim Kirk would define him, for this small gesture seems to Spock that it will define the rest of his life.
He mirrors Jim’s fingers and presses back in a Vulcan kiss, entirely lowering his mental shields. Through the touch of the ozh’esta he feels what Jim feels, a chaotic hurricane of trepidation, joy, relief, anticipation, and love, such complete and absolute love.
Why had it taken such utter devastation for them to realize it?
Spock cannot allow Jim to go without knowing any longer, there was too much to say as his t’hy’la suffered in the radiation chamber, and he refuses to squander the second chance he’s been given.
“Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, Jim.”
The human smiles widely, looking at Spock with adoration. He is radiating joy, and whether he understand the words or the sentiment behind them, Spock isn’t sure.
Jim pulls him down into a very human kiss, either way.