A/N: Written for Shannon Rose (aka SleepyMcCoy on tumblr), inspired by her art of fluffy!Spones bundled up, holding hot drinks in their hands. I have no idea why this came into my mind or if I did the two of them justice or if this fic is any good. But it's my first, finished Spones fic (poetry doesn't count though I can point you to it if you want to read it) so I'm proud of that at least! The title is inspired and the same as the X-Files episode, even though this is not a crossover fic. Originally posted on anon on Shannon's tumblr.
"Time passes in moments ... moments which,
rushing past define the path of a life just as surely as they lead towards its end.
How rarely do we stop to examine that path, to see the reasons why all things happen,
to consider whether the path we take in life is our own making or simply one into which we drift with eyes closed."
- Dr. Dana Scully, X-Files: All Things
The clink of ceramic against the wooden table broke Spock out of his thoughts. The steam rose reminiscent of a cloud.
"It's herbal tea," McCoy supplied even when Spock didn't ask.
Spock gazed at him for a moment, his hands sought the warmth of the mug, the sensation seeping into his skin. Heat was more familiar to him than this strange, cold world.
"What," McCoy interrupted. Spock's eyes fell back to the steaming beverage. "Don't make me order you to drink it."
The sound of the chair scraping the floor resounded in his ears, McCoy's face opposing his across the table in the periphery of his view. "I can make it an order, if that's what you want," grumbled the doctor. His tone expressed the exasperation, the humor, and the possible eye roll that Spock predicted would be there. Doctor McCoy, and his words, were often more complex than perceived.
A loud, fast, grinding screech reached his ears, the doctor's face now closer than earlier, danced in his peripherals. "You alright, Spock? The tea is getting cold," he asked, concern overriding anything else.
Spock lifted his head, and found himself in the face of those blue eyes. The hue was familiar to him, a recognizable sight in his presence. Flashes of occasions where he found himself at the other end of that look came to mind. He observed it was a deeper color than when the doctor was in a more positive mood. Spock followed the pupils of his companion cataloging any physical hint of something wrong, it's intense focus on him.
McCoy was not like most humans, or other humanoids. Even when he possessed the knowledge about Vulcan's and touch, the doctor adapted to find a way to maintain his tactile nature but in an acceptable manner for Spock. He could see the man's hand reaching out to him, to assess and diagnose him in the only way he currently could.
He didn't know why, if it was the cold, or the unfamiliar environment, or simply because they were alone, but he found himself acting…strangely. He stopped McCoy's hand, covering it with his own, trapping it against the table. His hands were ice cold to the touch, the contrast of Spock's tea warmed hands apparent, possibly warming McCoy in a similar manner. His blue eyes darted back and forth from their hands to Spock's face, his eyes wide by mere millimeters, his eye brows more pronounced by worry lines. The surface of the man's thoughts skimmed over him; the warm, smooth timbre of his natural accent broadcasting in his mental landscape. Worry, confusion, symptom assessment: it buzzed around in McCoy's mind like the warp bubble gliding around the ship, the stars streaking fast.
McCoy set his eyes on his and his thoughts came to a halt; his words and his thoughts were the same. As the man opened his mouth, an inexplicable urge flew through Spock and he silenced him without a sound, only breathing and the pressing of lips.
It was quiet, all too quiet, both in mind and in sound.
Surely, the man was not a stranger to a kiss?