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psicygni · 7 years

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Spock and Bones go on their first date, or at least the first date in which they actually both know and have agreed that it's a date (I feel like with this ship it's important to be precise...)

It’s Jim’s fault.

And water’s wet and space is cold and Vulcans are logically, insufferably pedantic and McCoy really, really should start reevaluating his posting on this damn ship, his choice of friends, his career, and probably his entire life.

“You two came,” Jim says and McCoy shrugs off the hand Jim claps to his shoulder. “We’ve got a table in the back, c’mon I’ll get drinks.”

McCoy sighs. Spock doesn’t, but his eyebrow does a sort of half twitch that is probably close enough.

There is a table in the back. Full of Uhura and Scotty and Sulu and Chekov and there’s a table in the front, right up next to the windows that if McCoy had any damn luck at all, he and Spock would spend the evening sitting at, arguing about the logic in going to a bar and only ordering tea while Jim and the rest of their motley crew found their own damn bar and didn’t happen to choose the only one McCoy wanted to be at. Alone. With Spock, alone. In some goddamn peace and quiet.

Spock orders tea anyway and McCoy gets a beer and frowns into it with none of the accompanying enjoyment of a terribly irritating debate and sure as hell none of the privacy that he and Spock left the ship for in the first place.

Which was the entire point. To finally - finally - really do this thing that had been hovering between them for far, far too long.

Under the table, Spock’s knee knocks into McCoy’s. Oblivious, Jim chatters on and Sulu laughs and Chekov orders another round and this really, really wasn’t worth working up the courage to ask Spock if he wanted to come here in the first place if tonight is going to be exactly like every other evening on the ship, now was it.

…

In orbit around Capella Prime, Spock suggests a concert. A concert entirely comprised of sentient trees conducting a flock of gigantic, purple, signing birds that frankly could shatter glass and McCoy must be out of his mind to say yes.

Which he does. Cause misaligned shift schedules and harried, rushed lunches, and the odd night in the rec room with the entire rest of the crew there isn’t exactly working for him and apparently not for Spock either.

So a night off the ship with some goddamn alone time - discounting the screeching birds that Spock so apparently enjoys - is just the ticket.

“Great minds think alike,” Uhura says and holds up a ticket of her own.

McCoy closes his eyes. Breathes deeply.

“Good evening,” Spock says and drops McCoy’s hand that he just - just - took and McCoy wasn’t exactly finished enjoying those warm, long fingers wrapped around his own.

“Oh,” Uhura says. Blinks. Looks between the two of them and this, dammit, is why being off the ship was the entire point, because being off the ship means - erroneously, apparently - being away from the crew, and if they’re away from the crew and in the type of privacy that apparently doesn’t exist in the Alpha Quadrant then they can maybe, just maybe, explore what’s between them without the accompanying attention of their gossip starved coworkers.

“Sorry,” Uhura says hurriedly and bless her, takes a quick step back. “I’ll just-”

She points over her shoulder and disappears into the crowd and McCoy always did like her best of all of them.

Her seat is next to theirs.

“Sorry,” she says again and McCoy shakes his head and whatever. It’s fine. Spock actually has someone to talk to about harmonic dissonance and the use of sequential triads and anyway, McCoy only came in the first place for the chance to rest his shoulder against Spock’s and enjoy an evening off work. Or something like that, at least.

Halfway through the first song, Spock takes his hand again and when he squeezes McCoy’s fingers, McCoy squeezes back. They’ll figure all this out eventually. Probably.

…

The outdoor light show on Aldeberan IV is renown throughout the sector.

And really, really damn cold.

“Wear a hat,” McCoy says.

“Heat loss in Vulcans is-”

“-You just don’t want to mess up your hair.”

He tugs Spock’s zipper up higher. They’re so close. The railing of the viewing platform is just behind McCoy, Spock is gloriously right in front of him and McCoy only lets go of the zipper pull to straighten Spock’s collar.

God, he’s so… so… It’s unfair, really, the play of green and blue and gold lights across those cheekbones and those eyes and-

“You are facing away from the show,” Spock says softly.

The words are puffs of white in the air between them. McCoy tucks his fingers into the back of that haircut. Spock’s hair is so soft. And his body is warm even through their thick coats, and warmer still when Spock pushes forward until the railing meets the small of McCoy’s back.

“Might be,” McCoy agrees and pulls gently at his hold on Spock and his heart is racing in a probably illogical way because it’s just Spock, there’s no need to overthink this, to hesitate and savor and wonder at the fact that they’re finally-

The screech of a comm makes McCoy jump.

“Goddamnit.” He fumbles for it, his hands stiff with cold. And now the rest of him too, what with how Spock has stepped back.

“Kerensky’s viral load is elevated,” Chapel says when he’s worked his comm open. “And her vitals are falling.”

“On my way.” McCoy punches in the line for Engineering. “Scotty, one to beam up.”

Through the gold swirl of the transporter, McCoy does get a glimpse of the light show. And Spock there, his chin tucked into the collar of his coat. McCoy closes his eyes and when he opens them again, it’s to the transporter room and what will be a long night of work.

Goddamn figures, doesn’t it. Just his luck.

…

It’s absolutely gorgeous.

The beach, too.

But mostly Spock with the cuffs of his pants neatly rolled up, his boots left above the line of the waves, and his sleeves folded back as he oh so gently holds a snail beneath the rush of clear, warm water.

“They are telepathic,” he says and there’s that note in his voice that McCoy associates with terribly engrossing sensor readings, an excellent specimen of unknown flora, and the very soft hint of what he can imagine well enough to be a bit of boyish wonder.

“They thinking complicated snail thoughts?” McCoy asks. There’s a brush of sand stuck to Spock’s knee. Gently, McCoy wipes it away.

Spock’s head tips, his eyes tracking back and forth with focus. They’re so clear brown. Catching the sunlight and the shadows of those long lashes and dammit, McCoy might just be embarassed if there was anyone within ten miles to see him here, crouched in the foamy spray of the edge of the beach, mooning at Spock.

Which there isn’t. Thank God.

His finger’s wet from the waves and there’s the grit of sand on his skin and all the same he crooks his knuckle under Spock’s chin and half off balance and entirely too much sun in his eyes, he leans over and kisses him.

“The temperature of the water,” Spock whispers when they finally pull away. His lips are wet. And there’s a spark in those eyes of his and McCoy can’t help himself from brushing his thumb over the corner of his mouth. He wants to kiss him again. “That is how they navigate.”

“Fascinating,” McCoy whispers back and this time, Spock drops the damn snail, fits his hands to McCoy’s shoulders, and this is… this is just… this is everything that McCoy has thought about and daydreamed about and imagined and anticipated and it is still somehow all the better for being honest to God, actual reality.

Which it is. There’s sunshine and pristine sand and Spock kissing him back and hours until they have to be anywhere.

When they finally break away Spock is smiling. Sort of. Or not not smiling and McCoy could very happily spend the rest of the day they have here studying that softness in his expression.

Which slowly turns into a crease between his brows and a tightening at the corner of his eyes.

“What is it?” McCoy asks.

“Was that there earlier?” Spock asks and when he points, McCoy turns, frowning. Spock’s other hand is still on his shoulder and McCoy really doesn’t give a damn about the stick laying on the beach that’s caught Spock’s attention.

Though… no. It wasn’t.

“What the hell?” McCoy asks when he spots a second one farther up the beach.

And then a third appears in an arc of motion from the trees that McCoy was idly thinking would provide a pretty pleasant spot of shade for the rest of the afternoon.

Spock stands with a splash of water around his ankles that catches McCoy in the shins.

Up the beach, another spear lands.

“Our readings showed the planet is uninhabited,” Spock says.

“Well, obviously not.”

“An astute observation, Doctor.”

“Astute,” McCoy mutters. Another spear buries into the sand, far closer this time.

“Enterprise, this is Commander Spock requesting an immediate beam out,” Spock says into his comm.

“Aye, Commander, we’re having a wee bit of trouble getting a lock on you,” Scotty says, his voice tinny and scratchy.

“Great,” McCoy says. “Any logical plan, Spock?”

“Yes.” Spock steps backwards as three more spears fly towards them. One slices Spock’s boot neatly in half. “Swim.”

“Best damn day ever,” McCoy groans and dives into the waves after Spock.

…

This is… less than ideal.

Or, no. It was already far, far beyond unideal when their shuttle didn’t make the rendezvous. Then the rain started and this is just frankly miserable.

“I’m applying for a transfer when we get back,” McCoy says to the sheet of rain pouring down the mouth of the cave. “Somewhere warm. Palm trees. Fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.”

Spock’s shivering. Far too badly to actually make any use of the flint in his white, chapped hands. McCoy sighs and walks over, his feet squishing in his wet boots.

“Give me that,” he says. “Did you eat anything? No, you didn’t, did you.”

“I was-”

“-Making a very geometrically pleasing pyramid of kindling,” McCoy says and strikes the knife down the flint. “Well done. Now put your damn hands in your pockets.”

It takes longer than it should, but there’s finally a fire and Spock finally uncurls from the ball he’s shuffled himself into, and the cave finally heats up enough that they’re probably not going to die of exposure before their shuttle makes it through the ion storm currently trapping them here.

Though they might die of something else. The way today is going, McCoy wouldn’t be all that surprised.

“Tonight’s meal of choice is a protein bar or a protein bar,” McCoy says and holds up one in each hand. “I’ll even let you pick which one you want.”

“They are the same flavor.”

“Hey, I know how to treat a date,” McCoy says and tosses one over.

An eyebrow inches up that pale forehead. “Is that what this is?”

“Well, romantic firelight, dinner, I’m pretty sure we could make shadow puppets on the wall and call it a movie.” He bites into his bar and God, these things are awful. “Frankly, this might be as good as it gets.”

“You did not bring me flowers,” Spock says and takes the smallest bite possible off the corner of his own bar.

“Actually eat that, dammit,” McCoy says. “And you didn’t bring me any flowers either, if you didn’t notice.”

“There is lichen growing on the cave walls,” Spock says. “It could be collected.”

“Knowing our luck, it’d probably try to eat us,” McCoy says. His clothes are wet and really, the stick of them against his skin is all the worse for pressing up against Spock, but he does so all the same, an arm tucked over Spock’s shoulders and his thumb rubbing back and forth over his arm.

He feels good. Even drenched and shivering and stiff with cold, Spock feels good tucked into McCoy’s side like that. Nice. Like he fits.

“Your ability to assume the worst possible outcome is as admirable as ever, Doctor.”

“Thanks,” McCoy mutters and rolls his eyes.

Spock rests his head against his shoulder. Under McCoy’s cheek, his hair is still damp.

It could be better. Dry, for one. Far warmer than their meager fire can make the cave. A decent meal. Hell, a bottle of wine even and Spock’s fingers laced with his, not curled into tight balls in his lap.

But it also probably could be worse. How, McCoy doesn’t want to know. But this, here, tonight… this isn’t all that bad. He pulls Spock closer. No, it’s not all that bad at all.

#v. important to be precise #spones #long post #dribble drabbles and blurbs #what-if-im-a-mermaid

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