Chapter Text
One bed, one armchair. The room was small and threadbare and there was a musty odour to everything. McCoy didn’t much care. They had been walking for hours in temperatures that had dropped far too rapidly for comfort, and he would take what he could get. McCoy hadn’t bothered asking before he’d dumped his bag over by the chair.
There was a brief silence behind him, but he sensed Spock was about to object anyway. Doubtless something to do with the fact that McCoy was the oldest, or that Vulcans needed less rest.
McCoy saved him the trouble. “Makes sense,” he said without turning round, rootling through his bag in search of something a little more comfortable to wear to sleep in, and ideally a bit warmer too. It was chilly in the room, though he was hoping that was just because it had been empty.
“Bones – ” began Jim coaxingly. His first port of call; if charm failed, he’d move onto arguments.
Spock evidently thought the same, because when McCoy half-turned he saw Spock laying a hand on Jim’s arm, the glance that passed between the two of them.
The way they could talk without words. McCoy thought he might hate them, if he weren't so damn in love with them.
McCoy pointed at Spock. “You’re taller than either of us. You need more space, and I know you’re tired.” His finger swivelled to Jim. “You’re still recovering from that nasty bug last week, and don’t think I didn’t notice you limping out there. You’ll take the bed. How’s that for logic, Spock?”
Jim didn’t look happy, but Spock’s hand was still on his arm. He stayed quiet. Spock himself gave McCoy a look that somehow managed to be both impassive and disapproving.
“It is acceptable,” he said after a moment, begrudgingly.
McCoy turned back to his belongings. Mostly because he got the distinct impression that Spock was allowing him to win the argument rather than actually believing his argument.
Did he know?
It wasn’t the first time McCoy had wondered, but the thought still made his heart clench up tight in his chest.
No, he told himself. Spock didn’t know. His behaviour towards McCoy hadn’t changed at all over the past few months, and it would have if he had any idea of the thoughts that sometimes ran through McCoy’s mind when he looked at them. Spock was possessive of Jim, Lord knew, he wouldn’t tolerate it if he knew –
And it wasn’t just Jim. It was Spock too. McCoy wanted them both, wanted what they had with each other with both of them, together and apart and in any way they would let him. Except they wouldn't, because they had each other.
God, he was pathetic.
They had let it go, behind him. McCoy could hear them moving about, getting ready for bed. He stripped off his own tunic and pulled on a soft sweater, accepted the quilt that Spock handed him, and made himself as comfortable as he could.
He waited until they were both in bed before reaching for the lamp, squeezed into the limited space between the armchair and the peeling wall.
It felt awkward. He was very aware that it was his presence that made it awkward, the unnecessary voyeur.
He hated it, so he said, “No funny business,” in a stern tone, and found some small relief at Jim’s smile, Spock’s haughty sniff.
And that was that.
-
He hadn’t really believed they’d try anything with him in the room. But he was beginning to think he might have felt less lonely if they had.
His back was already complaining at the lumpy armchair and the musty smell was getting harder to ignore, but worse than that was the thrice-damned cold. His nose felt like an icicle on the end of his face, and no amount of huddling under his quilt was helping.
Jim and Spock weren’t experiencing the same issues. They were both fast asleep, curled around each other, Spock’s arm looped around Jim and Jim’s face half-pressed into Spock’s chest, his hair flopping into his eyes. Jim fidgeted a lot in his sleep; McCoy knew this from too many long nights spent monitoring Jim’s rest in sickbay. Spock was very still, but peacefully so. McCoy knew this also.
He knew, but he would never know them as they knew each other. That thought kept him awake every bit as much as the cold.
Jim sighed. He squirmed in Spock’s arms, restless. Spock’s grip tightened reflexively, gently; he made an unconscious noise that most closely resembled a rumble. Jim settled.
They would repeat their little dance soon, or else perform a new one. Spock would roll onto his back, drawing Jim onto his shoulder. Jim's arm would come up to rest on Spock's stomach and McCoy would see the curve of his bicep, the elegant Vulcan hand that splayed across Jim’s waist.
McCoy had watched them for longer than he would ever admit. Longer than any of them would be comfortable with. He should look away.
He didn’t.
He must have drifted off into a fitful slumber at some point, because the next thing he knew the air was noticeably even colder and there was noise from the bed as someone stirred. Then, quiet but clear: “Doctor McCoy?”
McCoy sniffed. His face ached in the chill and the rest of his body wasn’t faring all that much better, the cold biting through the meagre quilt. He met Spock’s eyes in the darkness.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Then Spock shifted up on the bed, moving Jim with him. Jim didn’t wake as Spock carefully rolled him to the edge of the bed, just sighed and re-buried his face in Spock’s shoulder.
McCoy laughed softly. “He looks comfy, alright.”
“I believe he is. It is warmer here.”
A statement of fact. Not an invitation – and yet there was a little more space beside Spock now, and expectation in his shadowed gaze.
McCoy pretended not to notice. It went against everything. He shouldn’t expect it of them – couldn’t. Spock might offer his higher temperature as a comfort out of some misplaced notion of compassion, though Lord knew whether that was a Vulcan idea or a human one. But that didn’t mean he wanted to. And Jim was asleep. He couldn’t say yes or no to McCoy clambering into bed with him and his bondmate, disturbing his rest. Rest that he definitely needed, after the week the three of them had had.
That was the safest argument, McCoy thought. As ever, with Spock, it would come down to their captain.
“Jim – ”
“Will complain if he wakes in this temperature and you are not in the bed,” Spock said firmly.
McCoy opened his mouth, then closed it. It was probably true.
A beat.
Then Spock tilted his head just so, his brow furrowing. The look on his face was – gentle, almost.
“Leonard.”
McCoy still hesitated. But then Spock drew back their blanket a little, the movement an open invitation, and his will caved.
He gathered up his quilt and stood, wincing as his back complained. Spock said nothing. He waited, holding the blanket back, until McCoy had gingerly picked his way over to the bed.
He couldn’t bring himself to regret his choice the moment he slid onto the bed and the blanket folded around him. Spock radiated warmth. McCoy had to wrestle the instinctive urge to huddle closer to him, keeping a respectful distance between their bodies as much as he could in the limited space. Even without touching Spock, the heat was a blessed relief. He fancied he could feel it seeping into his bones, working into his muscles and loosening all the knots he’d worked up in the armchair. He breathed out and finally relaxed.
“Jim’s been hoggin’ the good spot, for sure,” McCoy muttered, then realised how that could sound. He glanced up at Spock, wrestling with the urge to quickly reject his own words and fumble through an excuse, but Spock didn’t appear to have noticed his slip-up.
He was very aware how unlikely that was to be true. He supposed he should just be thankful that Spock was either too tired or too indifferent to pounce on it.
It would be so much easier to fall asleep here, with Spock’s body heat warding off the chill and no aching joints from an awkwardly curled body. McCoy could already feel exhaustion dragging at him, but he fended it off for just a short while more, arranging himself to make sure he wasn’t invading Spock’s space.
Spock had closed his eyes, but at McCoy's movements he opened them again and glanced sideways.
“Sorry,” McCoy muttered, “just getting comfy – ”
Spock said nothing. He eased his shoulder under Jim and used it to pull Jim onto his own chest, so that he and McCoy were lying shoulder-to-almost-shoulder and Jim was half-sprawled on top of Spock. The movement brought Jim closer to McCoy, and he clamped down ruthlessly on hopeless surge of fondness he felt at the sight of Jim’s sleeping face, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked younger when he was asleep. They both did.
Jim did wake at being moved this time, though McCoy noted with another rush of the same damned affection that it was the first time he had stirred during any of their rearranging. For all his sickbay vigils, McCoy had never seen him sleep as deeply as he had tonight, here with Spock.
He lifted his head. McCoy could just about make out his frown in the darkness. “Spock…?”
“Hush,” Spock murmured. The look he was giving Jim was so tender it made McCoy’s chest seize up all over again. “The night is cold. Leonard has joined us.”
“Oh.” Jim swallowed a yawn and slumped back down, already half-asleep. His face returned to its preferred position, pressed into Spock’s neck. “Good. S’freezing.”
“Your nose is freezing,” Spock said under his breath, startling a huff of laughter out of McCoy.
“Really, Spock? That cold?”
“Cold enough to warrant the exaggeration,” said Spock in a dignified tone.
“Cold enough,” McCoy repeated, smiling. He was just about ready to settle down, content that he had created as much room for Spock as he could without toppling backwards off the bed, when Spock turned his head and fixed him with a serious look.
“Are you comfortable now?”
He was referring to the space that had been created between them, McCoy realised. More than that. He believed that the space was for McCoy’s benefit, and not for his own; that McCoy sought distance from him for the sake of sleeping better, and not because he hated the thought of making Spock uncomfortable with his presence.
He almost looked sad about it.
McCoy stared at him for a second longer than was appropriate. The look on Spock’s face raised a question in his mind – and a tiny flickering hope in his treacherous heart.
He was probably delirious. He was tired enough. He could just about imagine how embarrassing it would be if he misread the look on Spock’s face and did something he’d regret. He’d have to write himself up for exhaustion-induced insanity. Temporary, of course.
“I’m comfy," he said. Then, trying to convey his sincerity without making either of them uncomfortable: "Thanks, Spock.”
“Good.” Spock sounded… satisfied. Oddly so. Like he’d achieved something worthwhile, got something he’d wanted for a while.
Don’t read into it, Leonard.
They slept.