ok so it’s not exactly what you asked for i’m afraid; i’m notoriously bad at following prompts to the letter so i ended up sticking them both in a heatwave, mostly because i’m stuck in one right now and if i have to suffer so does everyone else and my writing ability

also it’s aos!spones because i suck and somehow all my star trek fic ends up turning into aos!fic even when i try not to let it get away with that lmao,, sorry!

On his first night of shore leave after the Krall incident, McCoy wakes up suddenly to an empty bed in the middle of what appears to be a desert, if the uncomfortably hot, arid atmosphere is anything to go by.

He sits up, disoriented. “Lights at thirty percent,” he croaks, the words dragging over his dry, cracked lips like razor blades.

No response. So the power’s out, then. Well, at least that’ll be easier to fix the generator than a broken air conditioning unit, McCoy supposes as he staggers blearily into the kitchen. He restrains himself from sticking his head directly beneath the water faucet and instead fills a glass he picked up off the counter on his way in, but it’s a test in endurance not to down the whole thing in one when he sets it to his lips. It’s refreshingly cool, but almost as soon as he’s set it down the oppressive heat returns, surrounding him in a cocoon of sticky warmth that promises to best all his attempts to keep it at bay.

McCoy rests his head on the counter and groans. The tap gurgles sympathetically, and Helix twines around his legs, butting her head against his knees with a rusty meow. McCoy grins as he scoops her up, ignoring her wriggling limbs. The presence of their cat almost always precedes the appearance of the other occupant of their temporary accommodation here in San Francisco, and sure enough, less than a minute passes before Spock enters the kitchen, mirroring McCoy almost exactly as he fills his own glass and drains it, all the while scrutinising the PADD in his hand

“Good afternoon, Leonard.” Spock doesn’t even look up from his PADD when he speaks, but there’s a warmth to his voice far more welcome than the unexpected heatwave.

“Afternoon?” McCoy squints at the clock, but there’s no display; it’s been disabled by the powercut. “Shit.” The full implications of a lack of electrical power begin to dawn on him, and he frowns. They need to get the generator up and running again as soon as possible. “I should-”

“I have already contacted a technician. They will be available to assist in the necessary repairs tomorrow morning,” Spock interrupts him smoothly. “They apologise for the delay, but ours was not the only residence affected by last night’s storm.”

McCoy doesn’t remember a storm. That being said, remembering anything that happened in the last 24 hours is a struggle right now, so he doesn’t dwell on it, focusing instead on finding something to eat that doesn’t require an electrical appliance to heat or refrigerate it.

He’s halfway through his sandwich when he notices Spock hasn’t moved since first entering the room. He’s still staring down at his PADD, seemingly oblivious to the stifling heat in a long-sleeved black t-shirt and faded sweatpants McCoy has a sneaking suspicion are his own. That, or they shrunk a hell of a lot in the wash.

“Are you-” McCoy frowns, incredulous- “are you doing paperwork?”

“All crew members are required to submit a mission report after every excursion into deep space,” Spock replies, still not looking up.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” says McCoy, raising his voice slightly, as if he were speaking to someone from a great distance (which, come to think of it, isn’t too far from the truth), “but we are on shore leave. You can afford to relax for a day or two before you start pushing papers.”

This time Spock doesn’t respond, only raises one eyebrow, and McCoy sighs. As much as he’s growing to enjoy arguing with his colleague and- the word boyfriend comes to mind, but it’s far too juvenile for his liking, so he settles on significant other- if his internal body temperature rises any further he might spontaneously combust where he stands.

He waves a hand dismissively. “Have fun with that, then. I’m going back to bed to sleep off this heatwave.” When Spock doesn’t reply, he rolls his eyes. “If you’re not going to join me, then don’t bother waking me up unless anything ‘fascinating’ happens.”

This time, Spock nods, but there’s an absent quality to the action that suggests to McCoy it’s more an instinctual response than actual acknowledgement.

“Hey,” he says, swatting Spock’s hip, “don’t forget to take regular breaks. And for god’s sake, drink if you get thirsty.”

Spock’s lips twitch. “I am not a child, Leonard. I am perfectly capable of ensuring my own wellbeing.”

“I know you,” McCoy retorts, before adding, in a gentler tone, “the last thing I need is you dehydrating in this heat.”

Something in Spock’s expression softens,  and he crosses the room, placing his PADD on the table before stepping into McCoy’s personal space, allowing him to rest his head against Spock’s chest; though the lack of a heartbeat is still somewhat unsettling, and the warmth of his body almost unbearable in the suffocating heat, it’s comforting to be able to wrap his arms around the vulcan and celebrate the simple fact that they’re still alive. After everything they’ve been through- Krall and his swarm, Khan, Nero, and all the countless skirmishes in between- they’re both standing here, in this stuffy kitchenette, still in possession of all four limbs and the better part of their sanity.

“I will take care of myself, ashayam,” Spock assures him, one hand carding through McCoy’s hair in an attempt to smooth down his tangled curls. “That much I can promise you.”

And damnit, McCoy knows Spock is only using terms of endearment to placate him, but it doesn’t stop him from snuggling closer, lifting his head slightly in order to rest it on Spock’s bony shoulder.

“Mngh,” he murmurs. “Good morning, love.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Leonard.”

“Oh, shut up.”

ok so it’s not exactly what you asked for i’m afraid; i’m notoriously bad at following prompts to the letter so i ended up sticking them both in a heatwave, mostly because i’m stuck in one right now and if i have to suffer so does everyone else and my writing ability

also it’s aos!spones because i suck and somehow all my star trek fic ends up turning into aos!fic even when i try not to let it get away with that lmao,, sorry!

On his first night of shore leave after the Krall incident, McCoy wakes up suddenly to an empty bed in the middle of what appears to be a desert, if the uncomfortably hot, arid atmosphere is anything to go by.

He sits up, disoriented. “Lights at thirty percent,” he croaks, the words dragging over his dry, cracked lips like razor blades.

No response. So the power’s out, then. Well, at least that’ll be easier to fix the generator than a broken air conditioning unit, McCoy supposes as he staggers blearily into the kitchen. He restrains himself from sticking his head directly beneath the water faucet and instead fills a glass he picked up off the counter on his way in, but it’s a test in endurance not to down the whole thing in one when he sets it to his lips. It’s refreshingly cool, but almost as soon as he’s set it down the oppressive heat returns, surrounding him in a cocoon of sticky warmth that promises to best all his attempts to keep it at bay.

McCoy rests his head on the counter and groans. The tap gurgles sympathetically, and Helix twines around his legs, butting her head against his knees with a rusty meow. McCoy grins as he scoops her up, ignoring her wriggling limbs. The presence of their cat almost always precedes the appearance of the other occupant of their temporary accommodation here in San Francisco, and sure enough, less than a minute passes before Spock enters the kitchen, mirroring McCoy almost exactly as he fills his own glass and drains it, all the while scrutinising the PADD in his hand

“Good afternoon, Leonard.” Spock doesn’t even look up from his PADD when he speaks, but there’s a warmth to his voice far more welcome than the unexpected heatwave.

“Afternoon?” McCoy squints at the clock, but there’s no display; it’s been disabled by the powercut. “Shit.” The full implications of a lack of electrical power begin to dawn on him, and he frowns. They need to get the generator up and running again as soon as possible. “I should-”

“I have already contacted a technician. They will be available to assist in the necessary repairs tomorrow morning,” Spock interrupts him smoothly. “They apologise for the delay, but ours was not the only residence affected by last night’s storm.”

McCoy doesn’t remember a storm. That being said, remembering anything that happened in the last 24 hours is a struggle right now, so he doesn’t dwell on it, focusing instead on finding something to eat that doesn’t require an electrical appliance to heat or refrigerate it.

He’s halfway through his sandwich when he notices Spock hasn’t moved since first entering the room. He’s still staring down at his PADD, seemingly oblivious to the stifling heat in a long-sleeved black t-shirt and faded sweatpants McCoy has a sneaking suspicion are his own. That, or they shrunk a hell of a lot in the wash.

“Are you-” McCoy frowns, incredulous- “are you doing paperwork?”

“All crew members are required to submit a mission report after every excursion into deep space,” Spock replies, still not looking up.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” says McCoy, raising his voice slightly, as if he were speaking to someone from a great distance (which, come to think of it, isn’t too far from the truth), “but we are on shore leave. You can afford to relax for a day or two before you start pushing papers.”

This time Spock doesn’t respond, only raises one eyebrow, and McCoy sighs. As much as he’s growing to enjoy arguing with his colleague and- the word boyfriend comes to mind, but it’s far too juvenile for his liking, so he settles on significant other- if his internal body temperature rises any further he might spontaneously combust where he stands.

He waves a hand dismissively. “Have fun with that, then. I’m going back to bed to sleep off this heatwave.” When Spock doesn’t reply, he rolls his eyes. “If you’re not going to join me, then don’t bother waking me up unless anything ‘fascinating’ happens.”

This time, Spock nods, but there’s an absent quality to the action that suggests to McCoy it’s more an instinctual response than actual acknowledgement.

“Hey,” he says, swatting Spock’s hip, “don’t forget to take regular breaks. And for god’s sake, drink if you get thirsty.”

Spock’s lips twitch. “I am not a child, Leonard. I am perfectly capable of ensuring my own wellbeing.”

“I know you,” McCoy retorts, before adding, in a gentler tone, “the last thing I need is you dehydrating in this heat.”

Something in Spock’s expression softens,  and he crosses the room, placing his PADD on the table before stepping into McCoy’s personal space, allowing him to rest his head against Spock’s chest; though the lack of a heartbeat is still somewhat unsettling, and the warmth of his body almost unbearable in the suffocating heat, it’s comforting to be able to wrap his arms around the vulcan and celebrate the simple fact that they’re still alive. After everything they’ve been through- Krall and his swarm, Khan, Nero, and all the countless skirmishes in between- they’re both standing here, in this stuffy kitchenette, still in possession of all four limbs and the better part of their sanity.

“I will take care of myself, ashayam,” Spock assures him, one hand carding through McCoy’s hair in an attempt to smooth down his tangled curls. “That much I can promise you.”

And damnit, McCoy knows Spock is only using terms of endearment to placate him, but it doesn’t stop him from snuggling closer, lifting his head slightly in order to rest it on Spock’s bony shoulder.

“Mngh,” he murmurs. “Good morning, love.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Leonard.”

“Oh, shut up.”