It was almost Jim's undoing. At first, he didn't know what he was seeing--it was himself, but not, because you can't see yourself in your memories, was it Bill, the show, something else?

Spock.

Jim through Spock's eyes, unrequited and loyal, through moments Jim remembered and others he didn't because they had happened yet or because their significance was known only to Spock. Watching him, always watching him, the fire of pon farr, knowing he'd killed his captain, decisions disagreed with but orders followed, irritation at human irrationality mixed with admiration for human instinct, missions accomplished, lives risked for one another willingly, minds in tune despite vast differences and no bond between them, a pair of golden eyes, hands too ready to land on an arm, a shoulder, Spock reaching back for a touch knowing it was a mistake but unable to help himself; then later, seeing him again after long absence (where did you go, Spock?), the futility of kohlinar etched in the lines of Jim's face as his eyes crinkled up in greeting, distances too difficult to breach, Jim reaching and letting his hand fall away, remembering Jim in a sea of half-familiar faces, climbing back slowly, Jim never knowing, never seeing, because Spock had never let him.

There was more, but Jim had to stop it. It was not pain, but there was something, too much, too fast, in the flood.