fandom_stocking ficlets
I wrote six total, but I think I'm going to post the longer ones separately so my tags don't get too cluttered.
Title: Very Civilized
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: teen
Pairing(s): Simon/Kaylee
Notes: Written for winslow_arizona. 710 words.
Summary: He's still pretty bad at putting his thoughts into words. She's okay with that, though. (Post-movie.)
“It reminds me of Osiris,” Simon said, looking out across the vast snowy landscape, “except you would see the lights of Capital City all along the horizon.” He pointed. “Just this line of gold and white lights, like a line between…” He caught himself just in time and bit his lip.
“Go on,” Kaylee prompted, a certain sharpness to her tone.
Simon sighed. “I was going to say, like a line between civilization and space. But I didn’t mean it in a - a negative way,” he explained quickly.
“It’s shiny. ‘Sides, we ain’t so civilized out in the black.” She elbowed him playfully in the side.
“No, and I like that,” said Simon, wondering when he was going to fall headlong into a trap and whether or not extricating himself would require begging. He’d gotten pretty good at begging over the past couple of years. To the point where he actually rather liked it. Especially when it involved mild restraints and/or that ostrich feather he’d bought for her on Persephone.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said with unfeigned conviction. “Kaylee…” He pressed his mittened hands together and looked down at them pensively. The air on Mnemosyne was bitter cold; each painful exhalation produced a puff of water vapor that stood out ghostly white against the black sky. He licked his chapped lips and tried again. “What I want to say is…”
She leaned into him, tilting her face up. “Us uncivilized types ain’t so bad? That it?”
“Well, yeah. But I was trying to say it in a way that wasn’t… I want to say it right.” As he traced the curve of her cheek, the wind blew her hair back, exposing the slender column of her neck. “Bao bay…” he said, stroking his fingers along the underside of her chin.
“Oh, Simon.” She flung up her hands and suddenly his face was full of freezing white powder. Blinking and spluttering, he made a grab for her, but she dodged away from him, laughing.
“Ta ma de!” Choking on the cold air and melting snow, he lunged again.
She dropped low to scoop more snow into her hands, but slipped when she started to rise again, and landed hard on her butt. She tried once more to rise, fell back down, and then she just started laughing, her head thrown back, her legs splayed wide in front of her. He fell on top of her and ended up with another face full of snow, but then somehow he managed to get his arms around her shoulders, pinning her.
“You,” he panted, his heart pounding, his nerves flaring, “crazy, uncivilized…”
“Your face,” she squealed. And then she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.
Her nose was cold, as were the tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. But her mouth was warm and sweet, so he decided to let his guard down and risk another sneak attack, cradling her face between his hands as he kissed her back. This was so much easier - and more pleasant - than trying to put his stupid ideas on love and material comforts into words. He’d been thinking of saying something along the lines of, At least we have starlight. I’ll take that over city lights. Yeah, he thought, shutting up and kissing her was definitely the smarter option.
Kaylee’s gloved hands worked their way into his coat. His stomach muscles clenched, but her small, knowing hands stroked him through his sweater, and it wasn’t long before his shivers became frissons of pleasure. All the same, he broke the kiss reluctantly and, leaning his forehead against hers, whispered, “Maybe we should relocate.”
She hmm’d against his lips, then laughed - a bit breathlessly - and replied, “It would be the civilized thing to do. I can’t feel my … anything.”
Simon grinned. “I’ll be happy to feel your anything once we get inside.”
He supposed he deserved to have more snow flung in his face for that. But then she started to drag him to his feet, licking the melting snow from his eyelids, cheeks, and lips as she did, and he decided that everything was perfectly shiny.
12/14/10
_____
Title: Customs Old And New
Fandom: Voltron
Rating: all ages
Pairing(s): Sven/Romelle
Notes: Written for desert_vixen. 490 words.
Summary: Sven and Romelle ring in the new year on Planet Pollux.
Sven and Romelle sat atop the low stone fence, watching fireworks go off over the castle. Her head was tipped back, her eyes alight with excitement. She seemed completely comfortable and at ease, even though her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold. At each glittering rainbow pinwheel, she wriggled beside him; had she not been holding a mug of glögg between her mittened hands, Sven had no doubt she would have been clapping.
You should be there, he thought. You are their princess and they love you. He had tried to say those words earlier, several times, in fact. When she’d first arrived at his house, breathless from her ride across the snow-covered hills. As she’d tugged off her wet boots and socks and set them neatly in front of the stove in his small kitchen. While she stood beside him, wearing a pair of his slippers - which were almost comically too big for her small feet - as he ladled glögg into their mugs.
He’d tried to say it, had looked away and opened his mouth with the words on the tip of his tongue … but the aroma of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and bitter orange had filled the air, mingling with her perfume, and he’d shut his mouth.
As they watched the fireworks, Sven couldn’t help laughing at himself, albeit internally. He would die for her. Once, he very nearly had. There was really nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Why, then, did he feel like such a coward when he was sitting right beside her?
As if sensing his distress, Romelle set her mug down on the fence and wrapped both arms around one of his. Leaning her cheek against his shoulder, she said softly, “Did you know that fireworks are not actually a New Year’s custom on Pollux?”
He glanced down at her. She was smiling and her eyes had a mischievous gleam.
His breath hitched. “I … did not know that,” he replied softly.
“I’m sure we’ll adopt it as a custom,” Romelle continued. “They are lovely.”
There was a pop! and a great green-and-purple spiral opened like a flower in the sky above them. Romelle hugged Sven’s arm tighter.
When the last sparks had faded into the night sky, Sven cleared his throat and then said hesitantly, “Fireworks are a New Year’s custom in Sweden.”
“They’re not making you homesick, are they?”
“A little,” he confessed. “But I would rather be here.”
“I’m glad.” She lifted a hand to cup his chin and guide his mouth down to hers. “Because they’re for you, you know.”
Her kiss was warm and sweet, like spiced wine. Letting his eyes drift closed, he drank her in, and the fact that she was a princess while he was merely an ex-pilot did not make one bit of difference. You should be here, he thought as he held her and kissed her under the exploding sky.
12/21/10
_____
Title: SNAFU
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Rating: all ages
Characters: Rand, Kirk
Notes: For medie. 630 words.
Summary: Rand has the situation under control. By which she means they're both still alive.
Janice Rand was feeling pretty good about herself and their chances of surviving the night by the time Kirk moaned faintly and started to flutter his eyelashes. She scrambled around the campfire to where he lay under a pile of fronds and slender branches, and waited tentatively.
Blue eyes blinked up at her slowly for several moments before focusing on her face. “Um,” Kirk said. “Status, Yeoman?”
His voice was weak and pain-filled, but he seemed lucid. He didn’t appear to be shivering anymore either. Janice permitted herself a small sigh of relief, then said, “Our status, Captain, is that we’re lost. Our communicators are gone, so I can only assume Commander Spock and the others are looking for us right now. I don’t know how far downstream we floated.”
She watched him process this information, a worried little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Yeoman?” he said at length.
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m naked, aren’t I?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are you naked?” He didn’t sound hopeful, just curious.
She looked down briefly at her bra and panties. “Mostly, Sir.”
“I … see.”
He kept his eyes on her face, but Janice found herself blushing anyway. “Our clothes were soaked,” she explained. “I spread them out by the fire. They should be dry soon…ish.”
“Still have my phaser?”
“No, Sir.”
“So, how did you…? The fire…?”
“I found flint by the river,” Janice said, and felt a small surge of pride in her chest. “And I managed not to lose my knife.”
“You carry a knife, Yeoman? Since when?”
Since those bratty kids on Ophiucus IV tied her up and used her as bait to catch the rest of the away team. But she didn’t care to reflect on those memories of helplessness, not at the moment, anyway. “I just do,” she said, straightening her back and lifting her chin slightly. “How do you feel?”
She steeled herself for a prevarication if not an outright lie. She was forever chasing after him to keep doctor’s appointments, and once it had taken the concerted efforts of the entire bridge crew to get him down to sickbay when he was feeling ill.
“Cold and … achy,” he said to her surprise - and dismay. If he were willing to admit that much, then he was feeling pretty bad. She knew he’d struck his head at some point as the river bore them along; there was an ugly dark bruise the size of a walnut just below his hairline. She suspected he’d banged his ribs pretty hard as well; she’d accidentally brushed her hand over them while removing his shirt, and, even unconscious, he’d winced with pain.
“Don’t worry,” Janice said. “I have things under control.”
“Got a plan?”
“Not exactly,” she confessed, hugging her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “But we’re alive, and you’re conscious again. And I made sure the fire’s visible from the river. If - when Spock comes looking for us, he shouldn’t have too much trouble finding us. I just hope,” she went on, trying to work some levity into her tone, for her sake as much as his, “that our clothes are good and dry before he does.”
Kirk closed his eyes. “That’s assuming he got away.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Spock would’ve gotten away.” He was stubbornly insistent.
“Then he’ll find us. Don’t worry.”
He opened his eyes again. They gleamed in the firelight. “I’m not worried,” he said. The corners of his lips lifted in a faint smile. She searched his face for mockery, but didn’t find a trace of it.
“Good job with the fire,” he added.
She straightened her back again and smiled down at him. “I was a Girl Scout before I joined the service.”
“I’m in good hands,” said Kirk.
12/24/10
_____
Title: Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores
Fandom: Star Trek TOS (or AOS)
Rating: all ages
Characters: McCoy, Spock
Notes: For loneraven. This was meant to be AOS, but I kept hearing Kelley and Nimoy as I wrote the dialog. Works either way. 715 words.
Summary: An exchange of gifts.
McCoy looked up when Spock entered his office.
“You wished to see me, Doctor?” Spock said, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tipped slightly to the right.
“Yeah,” McCoy said, waving him over. “C’mon, have a seat.”
While Spock lowered himself with measured grace into the chair indicated, McCoy rummaged through one of his desk drawers. Some day, he told himself for the umpteenth time, he was going to get this mess organized. He finally found what he’d been looking for, and set it on the desk in front of Spock.
“Merry Christmas, Mister Spock.”
Spock looked at the small wrapped and beribboned box, and raised an eyebrow. “I do not celebrate Christmas, Doctor.”
“Yeah, I know. But I do, and I like getting gifts for people. Open it up. Won’t bite ya.”
Was it his imagination, or did doubt flicker in the brown eyes, just for a moment? Had to be his imagination, McCoy thought as Spock slid the box toward him and began, with long, elegant fingers, to peel away the wrapping paper.
“You can just rip it,” McCoy said, feeling fidgety all of a sudden. He tapped his feet against the carpeted floor. “But I suppose that wouldn’t be logical, wasting paper.”
“Indeed not. Moreover, it would imply a level of impatience that is unseemly.”
“Unseemly for whom?” McCoy shot back, wondering if he’d been insulted. “You ever see the captain tear into a package?”
Spock inclined his head as if to say Point taken. Nonetheless, he continued methodically, and by the time the wrapping paper and the ribbon fell away, McCoy was just about bouncing in his seat. Spock lifted the lid of the box and studied its contents in his usual impassive manner.
“Well?” said McCoy. “What do you think?”
Spock reached into the box and lifted out the little silver bookmark. “‘To unpathed waters, undreamed shores,’” he read. “Shakespeare. The Winter’s Tale. Act four, scene four. Thank you, Doctor. While I do have a number of bookmarks, most of them are of comparatively flimsy material. This one, however, will last. It is a useful gift.”
McCoy hadn’t expected an explosive reaction - hell, it was only a bookmark, albeit one he’d had engraved personally - but he couldn’t help feeling a bit crushed. “Well,” he grumbled, fingers clawing at the armrests of his chair, “you’re welcome.”
“I am curious,” Spock continued, either oblivious to McCoy’s tone or choosing to ignore it. “What made you select this particular quotation? In the context of the scene…”
“I just liked it,” McCoy said. “Never mind the context.”
“I see.”
McCoy sighed. “Actually,” he said reluctantly, “no. I mean, I liked it, yeah, but I also thought it was appropriate. Again, taken out of context.” He looked down at the empty gift box and the neatly folded silver paper. “We’ve served together almost a year now. I know we’ve had our differences, but on the whole…” He bit at his lower lip. “On the whole, I’m rather pleased with the arrangement. Glad we’re serving together. Sailed many unpathed waters, visited many an undreamed shore, if you want to get metaphorical. I hope it continues a good long while.”
He glanced up then, and met Spock’s gaze. Something lit those dark eyes of his - just for a moment. This time, McCoy was certain. He felt his irritation fall away like so much jetsam. A second later, he’d forgotten it entirely.
“So,” he said slowly, “you like it?”
“Indeed, Doctor. Thank you again.” Spock rose and, taking the bookmark with him, walked to the doorway, where he paused for a moment, then turned to look back at McCoy. “I regret,” he said, “that I do not have anything of a similar nature to give to you. I had not anticipated an exchange of gifts. However … after some consideration, I have come to conclusion that there is nothing unseemly about ripping wrapping paper, particularly if the gift is from … a friend.” He gave one of his enigmatic little Spock-smiles, and McCoy goggled.
“Wait a sec - did you just concede the point?”
“Indeed, Doctor,” Spock said, stepping through the doorway. “Merry Christmas.”
The door slid closed quickly, which was a shame, because it meant he probably missed McCoy’s triumphant grin.
12/24/10
Title: Very Civilized
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: teen
Pairing(s): Simon/Kaylee
Notes: Written for winslow_arizona. 710 words.
Summary: He's still pretty bad at putting his thoughts into words. She's okay with that, though. (Post-movie.)
“It reminds me of Osiris,” Simon said, looking out across the vast snowy landscape, “except you would see the lights of Capital City all along the horizon.” He pointed. “Just this line of gold and white lights, like a line between…” He caught himself just in time and bit his lip.
“Go on,” Kaylee prompted, a certain sharpness to her tone.
Simon sighed. “I was going to say, like a line between civilization and space. But I didn’t mean it in a - a negative way,” he explained quickly.
“It’s shiny. ‘Sides, we ain’t so civilized out in the black.” She elbowed him playfully in the side.
“No, and I like that,” said Simon, wondering when he was going to fall headlong into a trap and whether or not extricating himself would require begging. He’d gotten pretty good at begging over the past couple of years. To the point where he actually rather liked it. Especially when it involved mild restraints and/or that ostrich feather he’d bought for her on Persephone.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said with unfeigned conviction. “Kaylee…” He pressed his mittened hands together and looked down at them pensively. The air on Mnemosyne was bitter cold; each painful exhalation produced a puff of water vapor that stood out ghostly white against the black sky. He licked his chapped lips and tried again. “What I want to say is…”
She leaned into him, tilting her face up. “Us uncivilized types ain’t so bad? That it?”
“Well, yeah. But I was trying to say it in a way that wasn’t… I want to say it right.” As he traced the curve of her cheek, the wind blew her hair back, exposing the slender column of her neck. “Bao bay…” he said, stroking his fingers along the underside of her chin.
“Oh, Simon.” She flung up her hands and suddenly his face was full of freezing white powder. Blinking and spluttering, he made a grab for her, but she dodged away from him, laughing.
“Ta ma de!” Choking on the cold air and melting snow, he lunged again.
She dropped low to scoop more snow into her hands, but slipped when she started to rise again, and landed hard on her butt. She tried once more to rise, fell back down, and then she just started laughing, her head thrown back, her legs splayed wide in front of her. He fell on top of her and ended up with another face full of snow, but then somehow he managed to get his arms around her shoulders, pinning her.
“You,” he panted, his heart pounding, his nerves flaring, “crazy, uncivilized…”
“Your face,” she squealed. And then she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.
Her nose was cold, as were the tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks. But her mouth was warm and sweet, so he decided to let his guard down and risk another sneak attack, cradling her face between his hands as he kissed her back. This was so much easier - and more pleasant - than trying to put his stupid ideas on love and material comforts into words. He’d been thinking of saying something along the lines of, At least we have starlight. I’ll take that over city lights. Yeah, he thought, shutting up and kissing her was definitely the smarter option.
Kaylee’s gloved hands worked their way into his coat. His stomach muscles clenched, but her small, knowing hands stroked him through his sweater, and it wasn’t long before his shivers became frissons of pleasure. All the same, he broke the kiss reluctantly and, leaning his forehead against hers, whispered, “Maybe we should relocate.”
She hmm’d against his lips, then laughed - a bit breathlessly - and replied, “It would be the civilized thing to do. I can’t feel my … anything.”
Simon grinned. “I’ll be happy to feel your anything once we get inside.”
He supposed he deserved to have more snow flung in his face for that. But then she started to drag him to his feet, licking the melting snow from his eyelids, cheeks, and lips as she did, and he decided that everything was perfectly shiny.
12/14/10
_____
Title: Customs Old And New
Fandom: Voltron
Rating: all ages
Pairing(s): Sven/Romelle
Notes: Written for desert_vixen. 490 words.
Summary: Sven and Romelle ring in the new year on Planet Pollux.
Sven and Romelle sat atop the low stone fence, watching fireworks go off over the castle. Her head was tipped back, her eyes alight with excitement. She seemed completely comfortable and at ease, even though her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink with cold. At each glittering rainbow pinwheel, she wriggled beside him; had she not been holding a mug of glögg between her mittened hands, Sven had no doubt she would have been clapping.
You should be there, he thought. You are their princess and they love you. He had tried to say those words earlier, several times, in fact. When she’d first arrived at his house, breathless from her ride across the snow-covered hills. As she’d tugged off her wet boots and socks and set them neatly in front of the stove in his small kitchen. While she stood beside him, wearing a pair of his slippers - which were almost comically too big for her small feet - as he ladled glögg into their mugs.
He’d tried to say it, had looked away and opened his mouth with the words on the tip of his tongue … but the aroma of cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and bitter orange had filled the air, mingling with her perfume, and he’d shut his mouth.
As they watched the fireworks, Sven couldn’t help laughing at himself, albeit internally. He would die for her. Once, he very nearly had. There was really nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Why, then, did he feel like such a coward when he was sitting right beside her?
As if sensing his distress, Romelle set her mug down on the fence and wrapped both arms around one of his. Leaning her cheek against his shoulder, she said softly, “Did you know that fireworks are not actually a New Year’s custom on Pollux?”
He glanced down at her. She was smiling and her eyes had a mischievous gleam.
His breath hitched. “I … did not know that,” he replied softly.
“I’m sure we’ll adopt it as a custom,” Romelle continued. “They are lovely.”
There was a pop! and a great green-and-purple spiral opened like a flower in the sky above them. Romelle hugged Sven’s arm tighter.
When the last sparks had faded into the night sky, Sven cleared his throat and then said hesitantly, “Fireworks are a New Year’s custom in Sweden.”
“They’re not making you homesick, are they?”
“A little,” he confessed. “But I would rather be here.”
“I’m glad.” She lifted a hand to cup his chin and guide his mouth down to hers. “Because they’re for you, you know.”
Her kiss was warm and sweet, like spiced wine. Letting his eyes drift closed, he drank her in, and the fact that she was a princess while he was merely an ex-pilot did not make one bit of difference. You should be here, he thought as he held her and kissed her under the exploding sky.
12/21/10
_____
Title: SNAFU
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Rating: all ages
Characters: Rand, Kirk
Notes: For medie. 630 words.
Summary: Rand has the situation under control. By which she means they're both still alive.
Janice Rand was feeling pretty good about herself and their chances of surviving the night by the time Kirk moaned faintly and started to flutter his eyelashes. She scrambled around the campfire to where he lay under a pile of fronds and slender branches, and waited tentatively.
Blue eyes blinked up at her slowly for several moments before focusing on her face. “Um,” Kirk said. “Status, Yeoman?”
His voice was weak and pain-filled, but he seemed lucid. He didn’t appear to be shivering anymore either. Janice permitted herself a small sigh of relief, then said, “Our status, Captain, is that we’re lost. Our communicators are gone, so I can only assume Commander Spock and the others are looking for us right now. I don’t know how far downstream we floated.”
She watched him process this information, a worried little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Yeoman?” he said at length.
“Yes, Sir?”
“I’m naked, aren’t I?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are you naked?” He didn’t sound hopeful, just curious.
She looked down briefly at her bra and panties. “Mostly, Sir.”
“I … see.”
He kept his eyes on her face, but Janice found herself blushing anyway. “Our clothes were soaked,” she explained. “I spread them out by the fire. They should be dry soon…ish.”
“Still have my phaser?”
“No, Sir.”
“So, how did you…? The fire…?”
“I found flint by the river,” Janice said, and felt a small surge of pride in her chest. “And I managed not to lose my knife.”
“You carry a knife, Yeoman? Since when?”
Since those bratty kids on Ophiucus IV tied her up and used her as bait to catch the rest of the away team. But she didn’t care to reflect on those memories of helplessness, not at the moment, anyway. “I just do,” she said, straightening her back and lifting her chin slightly. “How do you feel?”
She steeled herself for a prevarication if not an outright lie. She was forever chasing after him to keep doctor’s appointments, and once it had taken the concerted efforts of the entire bridge crew to get him down to sickbay when he was feeling ill.
“Cold and … achy,” he said to her surprise - and dismay. If he were willing to admit that much, then he was feeling pretty bad. She knew he’d struck his head at some point as the river bore them along; there was an ugly dark bruise the size of a walnut just below his hairline. She suspected he’d banged his ribs pretty hard as well; she’d accidentally brushed her hand over them while removing his shirt, and, even unconscious, he’d winced with pain.
“Don’t worry,” Janice said. “I have things under control.”
“Got a plan?”
“Not exactly,” she confessed, hugging her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “But we’re alive, and you’re conscious again. And I made sure the fire’s visible from the river. If - when Spock comes looking for us, he shouldn’t have too much trouble finding us. I just hope,” she went on, trying to work some levity into her tone, for her sake as much as his, “that our clothes are good and dry before he does.”
Kirk closed his eyes. “That’s assuming he got away.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Spock would’ve gotten away.” He was stubbornly insistent.
“Then he’ll find us. Don’t worry.”
He opened his eyes again. They gleamed in the firelight. “I’m not worried,” he said. The corners of his lips lifted in a faint smile. She searched his face for mockery, but didn’t find a trace of it.
“Good job with the fire,” he added.
She straightened her back again and smiled down at him. “I was a Girl Scout before I joined the service.”
“I’m in good hands,” said Kirk.
12/24/10
_____
Title: Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores
Fandom: Star Trek TOS (or AOS)
Rating: all ages
Characters: McCoy, Spock
Notes: For loneraven. This was meant to be AOS, but I kept hearing Kelley and Nimoy as I wrote the dialog. Works either way. 715 words.
Summary: An exchange of gifts.
McCoy looked up when Spock entered his office.
“You wished to see me, Doctor?” Spock said, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tipped slightly to the right.
“Yeah,” McCoy said, waving him over. “C’mon, have a seat.”
While Spock lowered himself with measured grace into the chair indicated, McCoy rummaged through one of his desk drawers. Some day, he told himself for the umpteenth time, he was going to get this mess organized. He finally found what he’d been looking for, and set it on the desk in front of Spock.
“Merry Christmas, Mister Spock.”
Spock looked at the small wrapped and beribboned box, and raised an eyebrow. “I do not celebrate Christmas, Doctor.”
“Yeah, I know. But I do, and I like getting gifts for people. Open it up. Won’t bite ya.”
Was it his imagination, or did doubt flicker in the brown eyes, just for a moment? Had to be his imagination, McCoy thought as Spock slid the box toward him and began, with long, elegant fingers, to peel away the wrapping paper.
“You can just rip it,” McCoy said, feeling fidgety all of a sudden. He tapped his feet against the carpeted floor. “But I suppose that wouldn’t be logical, wasting paper.”
“Indeed not. Moreover, it would imply a level of impatience that is unseemly.”
“Unseemly for whom?” McCoy shot back, wondering if he’d been insulted. “You ever see the captain tear into a package?”
Spock inclined his head as if to say Point taken. Nonetheless, he continued methodically, and by the time the wrapping paper and the ribbon fell away, McCoy was just about bouncing in his seat. Spock lifted the lid of the box and studied its contents in his usual impassive manner.
“Well?” said McCoy. “What do you think?”
Spock reached into the box and lifted out the little silver bookmark. “‘To unpathed waters, undreamed shores,’” he read. “Shakespeare. The Winter’s Tale. Act four, scene four. Thank you, Doctor. While I do have a number of bookmarks, most of them are of comparatively flimsy material. This one, however, will last. It is a useful gift.”
McCoy hadn’t expected an explosive reaction - hell, it was only a bookmark, albeit one he’d had engraved personally - but he couldn’t help feeling a bit crushed. “Well,” he grumbled, fingers clawing at the armrests of his chair, “you’re welcome.”
“I am curious,” Spock continued, either oblivious to McCoy’s tone or choosing to ignore it. “What made you select this particular quotation? In the context of the scene…”
“I just liked it,” McCoy said. “Never mind the context.”
“I see.”
McCoy sighed. “Actually,” he said reluctantly, “no. I mean, I liked it, yeah, but I also thought it was appropriate. Again, taken out of context.” He looked down at the empty gift box and the neatly folded silver paper. “We’ve served together almost a year now. I know we’ve had our differences, but on the whole…” He bit at his lower lip. “On the whole, I’m rather pleased with the arrangement. Glad we’re serving together. Sailed many unpathed waters, visited many an undreamed shore, if you want to get metaphorical. I hope it continues a good long while.”
He glanced up then, and met Spock’s gaze. Something lit those dark eyes of his - just for a moment. This time, McCoy was certain. He felt his irritation fall away like so much jetsam. A second later, he’d forgotten it entirely.
“So,” he said slowly, “you like it?”
“Indeed, Doctor. Thank you again.” Spock rose and, taking the bookmark with him, walked to the doorway, where he paused for a moment, then turned to look back at McCoy. “I regret,” he said, “that I do not have anything of a similar nature to give to you. I had not anticipated an exchange of gifts. However … after some consideration, I have come to conclusion that there is nothing unseemly about ripping wrapping paper, particularly if the gift is from … a friend.” He gave one of his enigmatic little Spock-smiles, and McCoy goggled.
“Wait a sec - did you just concede the point?”
“Indeed, Doctor,” Spock said, stepping through the doorway. “Merry Christmas.”
The door slid closed quickly, which was a shame, because it meant he probably missed McCoy’s triumphant grin.
12/24/10