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Jamie wakes up with a start. When he prods at his memory, trying to figure out why he is panting, it comes up blank. Regardless of whether he can remember it or not, they’re still upset about something.

He breathes out, big and slow just like Bones always tells him to. One, two, three, he counts in his head. He expects a response—a smile from Len or a thumbs-up from Cats, maybe—but nothing comes. He reaches tentatively for the headspace, and can’t get it. He tries again.

Ah.

He’s frontstuck.

Okay, Jamie, okay. You got this. Come on. The narration helps his heart stop kicking a bit. Being frontstuck is kind of stressful no matter what he does, though. He checks the chrono; it reads 02:04 in faintly glowing digits.

It takes Jamie a moment to sort through everything he’s feeling—confused, upset, rattled—and everything he wants—warmth, comfort… Spock.

Yes. Yes! That will work. Spock is great at falling back asleep. He won’t mind if Jamie wakes him up. Yes. He’ll do that.

First order of business: getting out of bed. It’s easier said than done. He shuffles upright, ignoring the ache in his chest that he doesn’t understand. Spock will help. If nothing else, being around him will be good. Spock is like a hundred million sunrises, all of them bursting into nova. He is kind and careful and good. Jamie likes him.

The air is cold against his too-long legs as he swings them over the side of the bed. He glances around in the almost-dark for anything he might want to bring and finds nothing. That seems to be a running theme tonight.

Once he’s out of bed and got the momentum going, it is much easier to cross to the door of the bathroom that connects their and Spock’s rooms. The door slides open and the dim bathroom night-light turns on. Jamie ignores it and steps across to the second door. It slides open as well; they’ve long since keyed the doors to allow each other entry. (‘They’ being Spock plus everyone in the collective. It was a group decision.)

The air in Spock’s room is much warmer and more agreeable for Jamie. He grins to himself with his top teeth over his bottom lip and approaches the sleeping alcove. He pauses. Hm. He doesn’t know if he should wake Spock or just get in. He doesn’t want to startle him.

After a moment of deliberation, Jamie crawls in facing Spock. If he doesn’t wake Spock with the action then he can just go on sleeping, which seems ideal. Warm, Jamie thinks happily as he situates himself under the blankets.

Spock makes a throaty, half-asleep sound and stirs slightly. Jamie winces; despite knowing that Spock won't be upset to be woken, he can't help but feel ruth for having disturbed him.

“Jim?” Spock slurs out in a voice that is somewhere between a whisper and a mumble.

“Jamie,” corrects Jamie quietly. He tries to make out Spock’s face but nothing is clear in the dark.

Spock yawns widely. “What are you doing here, pi’Jamie?” he asks with slightly better diction. The diminutive makes Jamie smile.

Jamie considers it. “Had a nightmare,” he admits. “Well. Someone did. It’s like a, a big blank space for me. Hurts, though.” He pats his own chest. “Someone else is upset, I think.”

Spock wakens fully at that, pulling himself onto his elbows while still half-reclining. His voice is muzzy with sleep but concerned as he says, “Is there anything I can do?”

Jamie makes a noncommittal noise. “‘S not me that’s upset. I dunno. I just wanted some company.”

“Very well,” Spock says, some of the tension evaporating. “Would you like—contact?”

Jamie grins again and makes an affirmative noise. Spock lets out an amused little huff and says, “Come here.” Jamie immediately circles his arms around him and presses his face into Spock’s muscled chest.

Spock’s hands settle on his back. "Nashaut,” he murmurs. Jamie nestles closer. Spock, his mind whispers, relieved. He’s so warm. He’s so good.

A sudden urge to cry presses up against Jamie’s eyes. He does not want to cry. He does not know why anyone wants them to cry. They are not stressed or upset. They’re just—existing. There isn’t anything to be sad about! he thinks to himself, but it does not quell the pain in his chest.

“What is wrong?” Spock asks, and for half a moment Jamie has no idea why he is feeling what he is, or how Spock knows that something is wrong. He shrugs into Spock’s body.

“I think I’m missing memories,” he says quietly into Spock’s neck.

“Ah,” Spock says. “I’m sure there is a reason for everything your brain does, pi’Jamie.”

Jamie pulls away to look Spock in the eyes, even through the murky dark. “I can’t remember anything from when we were thirteen,” he says. “I think something… happened.”

Even in the dark, Jamie can see how something draws strained in Spock’s expression. His next words are careful. “Your brain has done this to protect you. There are some things you do not have to see.” He pauses. Jamie can hear him take a steady breath in. His voice is very soft as he continues, “Please do not allow it to concern you.”

It’s a reassurance, in Spock’s own way, and it makes Jamie feel better. “‘Kay,” he says, lying back down against his chest. Exhaustion rushes up against him, heavy and dark, and he relaxes, lets it seep into his bones.

“Love you,” Jamie mumbles against Spock’s collarbone.

Their friend stiffens for a barely perceptible second, then returns the hug with briefly intense force. “And I, you,” he says, reverberating in his chest. Jamie presses closer to that sound. That is safety. That is Spock.

He falls asleep.