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Awakening from hibernation never happened all at once.
It was one of the main reasons that Spock had never allowed himself to give in to the ancient instinct while dwelling in the underground tunnels of Romulus— they had to move so often, and it would not do for his students to have to drag along his unresponsive body. One that they would have had to take care not to jostle and bruise, as he was an old man, and had been since the day he’d no longer had someone to grow old with.
And yet.
As Spock’s senses slowly returned to him, the first thing he became aware of was a hand stroking his hair. A hand that radiated warmth in both the physical and psionic realms.
Spock? The warmth cooed, brushing against his mind like the waves against the shore. Are you waking up? I can feel it, I think…
The voice trailed off, and Spock scrambled to keep it close, his sluggish mind finally jolting into action.
He reached out, just slightly, cautious of his long-wrecked outer mindscape, the cold void of broken bonds that he knew awaited him just beyond his innermost shields, barren long before the devastation of the Va’Pak.
The warmth met him halfway, and as they collided (though perhaps ‘collided’ was too violent a term), the process of waking accelerated all at once.
Spock’s eyelids fluttered, the inner set sticking and aching in his haste to open them, but he didn’t care. He had important things — the most important things — to see, and so he willed his stubborn body to obey him.
His sleep-addled memories unfogged quicker than his eyes, revealing the recollections of the months before he’d finally allowed his tired bones and mind to rest, to heal from so many years of neglect, now that it was finally safe to do so.
Now that there was a warm, safe home for him to slumber in, to gather every soft and comfortable thing to nest with just as he liked.
Now that there was someone there to watch over him again.
With a number of impatient blinks, Spock’s vision finally began to clear, and the warmth that had coaxed him forth from sleep coalesced into gold.
The yellow light of the heat lamp stationed above his head, purchased and assembled by caring hands.
The burnt umber of the drawn curtains, keeping out the scorching sunlight of the New Vulcan afternoon.
The orange of the light that seeped through, casting bright stripes across the room.
The light brown of the sleep robe wrapped around his body, soft and warm against his wrinkled skin.
The gold of the no longer broken bond, renewed and repaired and thrumming gently with care/worry/anticipation/love.
The gold of the beloved face waiting to greet him. The hand that had moved down to cup his weathered cheek.
The gold of that smile, broadening as Spock’s eyes finally focused.
“There you are,” Jim said. “Welcome back, sweetheart.”
He leaned forward to kiss Spock’s forehead, chuckling when Spock purred.
“Take your time,” he murmured. “There’s no rush.”
All the time in the world, Spock thought idly, tilting his head up to nuzzle against the soft underside of his t’hy’la’s chin. He felt more than heard Jim’s pleased hum, and his purr grew louder as strong arms squeezed him gently.
For the first time in so many years, he did not dread waking up tomorrow.