He moves then, not Bones nor any ghost of my imagining, but him, real and alive and moving toward me in the dark.
I’m holding my breath, not realizing I’m doing it until I hear him, a rustle of heavy fabric so faint I wouldn’t hear it otherwise. I can feel him close to me. I want so badly to reach out that it hurts, a physical ache somewhere inside of me, but I can’t, I can’t. Because if I do and there’s nothing…
He touches me, the brush of fingertips on my bare arm.
A sound–me. Was that me?
Kirk on Vulcan, waiting for Spock’s recovery and agonising over things that happened in the dark, that he was too afraid to let into the light. This is exquisitely painful and exquisitely beautiful.