from psicygni

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.

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