Spock moves slightly closer, and reaches one hand out toward Hunter, lightly touching the pads of his fingers against specific points on the other man's face. His hands aren't quite as warm as a human's would be, but it's not uncomfortably cold, just cool. "Nahp, hif-bi tu throks," he says, his voice taking on an intonation that would not be out of place in a ritualistic setting. "My mind to your mind... my thoughts to your thoughts. Our minds... one and together."

It's like being at the top of the first hill on a rollercoaster, poised in a moment in time, waiting for the inevitable plunge into chaos and mayhem. Spock's mind is like a vast desert, massive stones arranged in logical patterns, but on the horizon, a dark storm gathers, and behind it lurks a deep ocean of emotions, locked away from the desert through rigid self-control. And the desert still bears the scars of a great flood, when the ocean ripped through the desert and tore his hard-earned stoicism to shreds.

Voices swirl between them, momentary phrases and snatches of words, but nothing solid, the proper memories where they come from dismissed almost as soon as they arise. The probing presence of Spock pushes deeper into Hunter's mind, exploring the shape of it, and listening for the truth in his thoughts.