A/N: I wasn't sure if I wanted to split this into two parts but I decided not to after all. Not sure when the next part will come but I'm tossing around ideas in my head. I guess this is what happens when you get inspired to write something else and then bam, inspiration for your works in progress come to the forefront. I hope you liked this addition. I was tempted to make them kiss but they will again in time.
Their next moments were spent in silence, sipping the alien tea that seemed to be the only edible source of food around. Their makeshift environs weren't much better - it was a threadbare log house, full of handcrafted wooden furniture, if one discounted the bed. It was small, enough to house at most four grown adults. When Spock analyzed their surroundings, he speculated it could be seasonal lodging, temporary.
Strong gusts of wind whistled among the barren trees like voices of wandering ghosts. Their tricorder scans showed no one around but that was before the storm had emerged unannounced. Only the thunderous crack of snapping branches from swift breezes blared in the night.
They both estimated that outside their walls, a blizzard was raging on, blanketing the ground white. The amount of snow that accumulated in the past several hours was astonishing, even to McCoy's eyes. Their experiences with the rare San Francisco snowfall never prepared them for this. And in Georgia winters, snow at all was a novelty. They had never set foot on a planet with this much snow.
At least, there was plenty of fresh water to drink now.
The cupboards held utensils and various practical items: pots, pans, cups, bowls. It was all terribly mundane and standard. But beyond that, after searching high and low, their conclusion was that anything perishable was either gone or inedible. Except for the tea.
If this tea was the only thing of sustenance on this side of the world, then it's no wonder that there was no one around.
The storm continued on, trapping the two inside their temporary shelter. From the sounds of it, it might last all night, McCoy thought. Might as well camp out and hope for the best.
He glanced over to the bed, no doubt cold but at least a makeshift mattress rested on top of a beautifully carved bed frame. If they weren't trapped on this unfortunate planet, McCoy would've taken the time to admire the craftsmanship, to feel the smooth, lacquered wood under his hands. Time, love, and dedication bled from the hands who made it; he could tell.
Their shelter contained a small, leftover pile of dry logs, enough to light the fireplace for a couple of days. Maybe if they could cut it into smaller pieces it would last longer. Their phasers helped bring the flames to life, saving them from a frozen death.
In an earlier cursory search, Spock discovered what seemed to be bed linens and pillows. Simple things really, mostly cream, hand-spun sheets except for one large, hand embroidered blanket done in various shades of red, purple, and white. The two of them dumped the bedding close enough to the fire as they drank their tea. Maybe when the sheets were warm enough, they could cover themselves.
It was bleak and hopeless, at least for the moment.
Only the embroidered blanket and the fire spoke otherwise.
This was not the first time he shared a bed with Spock.
It seems they were destined to share space when danger was around. Images of missions past danced before his eyes, huddling in prisons with Jim and Sulu, sometimes Chekov and Scotty. Once McCoy bunked with Uhura in dignitary quarters on a world were co-ed lodgings were the norm.
But alone? No, only with others around, even though Spock had always been warm. (He'd never tell him even though the Vulcan could probably sense it now if he grabbed out and touched him.)
He never huddled so closely to him that he could count every wisp of Spock's eyelashes. McCoy could see a slow, icy shiver crawl through his companion, his mouth parted to take deep, slow breaths.
(What if he crossed the line like Spock did before? He didn't know why he felt he could trap the warmth of Spock's breath if he pressed their lips together. It's survival, that's all.)
"Spock," McCoy whispered. In the dark of Spock's shadow, alone like this, his voice felt delicate, tentative.
Spock opened his eyes in the dim light, and found bits of the fire gleaming in the blue of McCoy's eyes.
"You're cold," McCoy stated, the blankets rustling to open space around his body. "We're not going to survive the night like this. Come on."
Spock nodded, seeing the logic in his proposal. It was the first time since the storm arrived that he felt like himself, his mind working properly. There was no confusion, just clear, logical certainty.
They moved close together, the sheets wrapped around the two again like a cocoon, encasing the both of them. Their foreheads were touching, their breaths brought feeling into their face.
No one said a word, the arrival of McCoy's mental presence pleasantly humming around them, warmer than the fire. It was familiar and safe, and the world outside was a distant worry. McCoy stared in those brown eyes again, wondering if Spock could sense him, read him again like before.
He never got the courage to ask aloud. Instead, they spent the night wrapped in the aura of their thoughts, their eyes never wavering until slumber took over.