Spock could feel the warmth seep into his
bones. He settled more comfortably into the corner and let out a contented sigh. So warm. And there at his side, McCoy,
stretched out like a cat luxuriating on a hot summer's day. He wondered at the
expression, reasoning absently that it must have come from McCoy's memory and not his own.
There had been no cats on Vulcan, Shelats, but no cats.
Spock bit his lip and felt only cold pain as the blood trickled down his chin.
There was no warmth, there was no cat, and there was certainly no McCoy. He
was on the Columbus, life support had failed, he was suffering from oxgyen deprivation.
The hot tub had been an excelent idea. Spock had been sceptical at first,
but as he sank down into the water, all doubts were banished from his thoughts. The
water would be recycled anyway, so it wasn't really a waste.
He felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. The shuttle must
have drifted closer to the system's sun. Without power there was no way to change
course, he would drift farther and farther in and before the suttle had a chance to burn up he would die of heat exhaustion,
if the lack of oxygen didn't take him first. An illogical death.
McCoy stretched expansivly, using the gesture as an excuse to put his arm around Spock.
The Vulcan found he didn't mind, it was more comfortable like that anyway. He
felt the lips first on his bare shoulder, then his neck and finally his ear. Soft,
dry and warm on his skin, burning almost, but in a good way.
McCoy's lips had never been there, would never be there. The heat wasn't
just on his neck, but all over. His body had shut down sweat production to save
water. It was a response from the desert, the heat would be more, but he would
retain water. But even the desert had never been this hot.
Spock almost purred, the sound a long low vibration that started somewhere deep in his being. Spurred on by the obvious approval, McCoy turned in the water, curling himself into Spock, one knee resting
between Spock's thighs, one hand still at his shoulder, the other at his waist, and there, that comfortable pressure building
in his chest.
The pressure was there, but it was far from comfortable. It was coming
close, the end. The weight on his chest would build until it became unbearable
and his fight for breath would be over. It was too soon. There was so much left undone, unsaid. So much missing.
McCoy was whispering in his ear, nonsence that he would normally have felt compelled to respond to, but not today. McCoy could quote medical treatises for all he cared, that voice, that low whisper
that promised so much more was enough.
"Spock," he said, much louder, "Spock, can you hear me?"
"Spock," he said, so loud that the sound reverberated in the tiny cabin, "Spock,
can you hear me?"
Spock forced his eyes open, peered up at the face in front of him. "Are
you real?" he asked, in a voice that did not sound like his own.
McCoy grinned, "Damn real." He flipped open his communicator, "McCoy here,
beam us straight to sickbay, Scotty." Turning back to Spock, he said, "Hang in
there, cause if you die on my, I swear to God I'm gonna kill you."
He closed his eyes again, thinking only how illogical that was, but that it didn't matter, not if it was McCoy who
said it and then as he slipped back into unconcsiouness, the familiar feel of the transporter took hold of him and all was