igrab
in
grabi_hands
Color in Translation [Spock/McCoy, PG-13]
Title: Color in Translation
Author: igrab
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Written For: st_xi_kink, for this prompt
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,391
Summary: The 5 Times Spock Noticed the Color of McCoy's Eyes
Notes: I'm going on the prompter's word about the actor's eye colors, I didn't do any research about this myself (and I don't notice these things, psh) so if it's wrong, I don't care. It was a request.
1:
He does not have a word to describe it.
The closest he can think of is pla-yar-kur, but that color is generally lighter, brighter, and does not encompass the deep, almost shifting nature of the green and blues in his irises.
He realizes that their eyes have been locked for twelve seconds, now, and it's an inappropriate amount of time to maintain such a contact. He looks away, back to his station, and doesn't notice how McCoy's eyes linger.
2:
He's watching from afar this time, a professional interest in the injuries his captain has sustained. He would be a poor Science Officer if he didn't notice the details - the green of the doctor's eyes as he spoke in low tones, the overly human exasperation clearly evident without needing to hear the words. Spock makes a mental note, convinces himself it's in the name of science to study the changing colors of McCoy's eyes as he shifts moods faster than a sandstorm. He does not understand emotions, and Kirk uses that weakness on him like a wrench, but he can never tell what the captain's really feeling and he doesn't understand.
McCoy reads like a news broadcast on every channel. Direct and to the point, and it's refreshing, to Spock. He isn't used to layers of emotion. He isn't used to any of this.
He's starting to realize that the color of his eyes are like a headline, and one glance is enough to understand the rest of the broadcast, without even trying.
3:
Spock's gaze follows the little whirling sensor - over his shoulder, across his bare chest, down his sides, back up. He does this to avoid looking at McCoy's face, because that would be distracting.
He doesn't bitch and moan, the way he does with Jim. He's tight-lipped, and silent, and somehow that's worse, for Spock could take his anger but he does not know how to take his silence.
"Look at me," he commands in that rough, surly voice, and Spock has no choice - he points the scanner in his eyes, and Spock's pupils contract in response to the bright light, but there's no avoiding his eyes when their faces are so close.
He sees a shade of blue that chills him to the bone. He's used to the Captain's eyes, but never McCoy's. Similar shade, but this time, they pierce like ice, and he's left with an understanding that he's somehow, somewhere along the line, done something horribly wrong.
There is anger in those eyes, a simple anger unbridled by frustration and affection and tough love. It's pure and unrestrained, and it's only after his heart stutters in his chest that he can comprehend the combination of the rigid silence and the ice-blue eyes, and understand that the anger was not directed at him.
His curiosity threatens to overwhelm, but he keeps his mouth closed, and focuses on willing his body to heal faster.
4:
"I'm not drunk," McCoy informs him, one hand thrown over his face. It's impossible to tell what he's feeling, for once, and Spock has a scientifically-based conviction that, were he able to see the color of his eyes, he would be able to figure it out.
He moves across the room, picking up clothes and books and sheets of paper, and he's cautious at first but grows bolder when he hears something like a grateful sigh. Spock knows from experience that this is the aftermath of anger, but he also knows that the anger has passed, and another, emptier emotion has taken its place.
He does not know why the doctor lets him do this. Perhaps he's the only one he trusts to remember the exact formation of bottles in his medicine cabinet, the only one who would fold his shirts as he put them away (simply out of habit), the only one who would reverentially stack his books alphabetically on the bookshelf, careful to touch them as little as possible. He knows they are considered antiques.
When it's all done, and McCoy's room is back to normal (he even made the bed, because he was nothing if not thorough) he moves up behind him, carefully watches the steady breathing of a man in mental turmoil. Delicately, as he second-guesses himself - he is still painfully, burningly curious, and he wants McCoy to stop him, but he doesn't - he slides his fingers under the skin of his wrist, easily lifts the doctor's arm from his face.
They stare into each other's eyes for a long moment, and the twisting of his heart in his abdomen is illogical and uncalled for.
The doctor's eyes are gold.
5:
He finds him on the observation deck, Vulcan hands locked behind his back as he stares out into the stars.
"...I really appreciate what you did for me," he starts off, all brash and raw and tactless as always. "Last night."
Spock turns his head to look at him, and the small smile that curves his lips is in reaction to the exposure, rather than despite it. "Your appreciation, while welcome, is unnecessary. I did the logical thing," and here he smiles a little more, quite helplessly. "For a friend in need."
McCoy looks like he's about to clap him on the shoulder, but thinks better of it. McCoy doesn't forget the details, that Vulcans are touch-sensitive, and he wouldn't be much of a good doctor if he did.
But Spock finds himself wishing, for a brief moment, that he had.
"I have noticed that your eyes change color," he murmurs, and he knows that it's off-topic but the question has been burning into him. "According to how you feel."
"Pretty hard not to," he grumbles, but Spock is getting better at discerning the finer points of what he really means when he pretends to be grouchy. In this case, he was fairly sure the emotion was embarrassment.
"Green when you are frustrated. Ice blue in anger. Gold when you are..."
"...sad," he finished, cutting his eyes away to glance out at the stars. "Fucking heartbroken, really."
"There is one I do not know," Spock begins, and he shifts closer unconsciously, to lean against the railing in a motion of companionship. "It is a dark pla-yar-kur, both green and blue at the same time. It was the first color that I noticed."
"Yeah." The silence stretches on for a bit, Spock waiting, McCoy - apprehensive, he decides. McCoy is apprehensive about something relating to this particular shade. "That's usually the color they turn, when I'm looking at someone that I... like."
The pause and the lilt of his voice told the story that his words failed to capture, and Spock had an innate understanding of the tentative emotion behind the color. "Ashaya," he murmurs, and can see the faint echo of McCoy's eyebrow raise in their transparent reflections.
"What's that mean?"
Their eyes meet in the window, but he can't see their color, and the curiosity builds again. "Affection." He turns to look at him, that smile still dancing at his lips, and hopes that the doctor will do the same.
He is not disappointed. "Are all Vulcans as pretty as you?"
That makes him grin, not so much with his mouth but with his eyes, and they dance with delight. "Aesthetic pleasure is subjective, doctor. But I must admit, I would be disappointed to find that you think they are."
"Fuck, I love it when you talk like that. Can I touch you?" His words are bold, and would be insensitive, but he was a doctor, not a poet, as he would surely say, and Spock was oddly gratified by the brash courtesy.
"Please do," he murmured, and that was where it all starts, really.
The last he sees of Leonard McCoy's eyes for a time is a dark, dark blue, and he does not need a translation, not when the proof is in his hands, and his lips, and his skin.
Author: igrab
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Written For: st_xi_kink, for this prompt
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,391
Summary: The 5 Times Spock Noticed the Color of McCoy's Eyes
Notes: I'm going on the prompter's word about the actor's eye colors, I didn't do any research about this myself (and I don't notice these things, psh) so if it's wrong, I don't care. It was a request.
1:
He does not have a word to describe it.
The closest he can think of is pla-yar-kur, but that color is generally lighter, brighter, and does not encompass the deep, almost shifting nature of the green and blues in his irises.
He realizes that their eyes have been locked for twelve seconds, now, and it's an inappropriate amount of time to maintain such a contact. He looks away, back to his station, and doesn't notice how McCoy's eyes linger.
2:
He's watching from afar this time, a professional interest in the injuries his captain has sustained. He would be a poor Science Officer if he didn't notice the details - the green of the doctor's eyes as he spoke in low tones, the overly human exasperation clearly evident without needing to hear the words. Spock makes a mental note, convinces himself it's in the name of science to study the changing colors of McCoy's eyes as he shifts moods faster than a sandstorm. He does not understand emotions, and Kirk uses that weakness on him like a wrench, but he can never tell what the captain's really feeling and he doesn't understand.
McCoy reads like a news broadcast on every channel. Direct and to the point, and it's refreshing, to Spock. He isn't used to layers of emotion. He isn't used to any of this.
He's starting to realize that the color of his eyes are like a headline, and one glance is enough to understand the rest of the broadcast, without even trying.
3:
Spock's gaze follows the little whirling sensor - over his shoulder, across his bare chest, down his sides, back up. He does this to avoid looking at McCoy's face, because that would be distracting.
He doesn't bitch and moan, the way he does with Jim. He's tight-lipped, and silent, and somehow that's worse, for Spock could take his anger but he does not know how to take his silence.
"Look at me," he commands in that rough, surly voice, and Spock has no choice - he points the scanner in his eyes, and Spock's pupils contract in response to the bright light, but there's no avoiding his eyes when their faces are so close.
He sees a shade of blue that chills him to the bone. He's used to the Captain's eyes, but never McCoy's. Similar shade, but this time, they pierce like ice, and he's left with an understanding that he's somehow, somewhere along the line, done something horribly wrong.
There is anger in those eyes, a simple anger unbridled by frustration and affection and tough love. It's pure and unrestrained, and it's only after his heart stutters in his chest that he can comprehend the combination of the rigid silence and the ice-blue eyes, and understand that the anger was not directed at him.
His curiosity threatens to overwhelm, but he keeps his mouth closed, and focuses on willing his body to heal faster.
4:
"I'm not drunk," McCoy informs him, one hand thrown over his face. It's impossible to tell what he's feeling, for once, and Spock has a scientifically-based conviction that, were he able to see the color of his eyes, he would be able to figure it out.
He moves across the room, picking up clothes and books and sheets of paper, and he's cautious at first but grows bolder when he hears something like a grateful sigh. Spock knows from experience that this is the aftermath of anger, but he also knows that the anger has passed, and another, emptier emotion has taken its place.
He does not know why the doctor lets him do this. Perhaps he's the only one he trusts to remember the exact formation of bottles in his medicine cabinet, the only one who would fold his shirts as he put them away (simply out of habit), the only one who would reverentially stack his books alphabetically on the bookshelf, careful to touch them as little as possible. He knows they are considered antiques.
When it's all done, and McCoy's room is back to normal (he even made the bed, because he was nothing if not thorough) he moves up behind him, carefully watches the steady breathing of a man in mental turmoil. Delicately, as he second-guesses himself - he is still painfully, burningly curious, and he wants McCoy to stop him, but he doesn't - he slides his fingers under the skin of his wrist, easily lifts the doctor's arm from his face.
They stare into each other's eyes for a long moment, and the twisting of his heart in his abdomen is illogical and uncalled for.
The doctor's eyes are gold.
5:
He finds him on the observation deck, Vulcan hands locked behind his back as he stares out into the stars.
"...I really appreciate what you did for me," he starts off, all brash and raw and tactless as always. "Last night."
Spock turns his head to look at him, and the small smile that curves his lips is in reaction to the exposure, rather than despite it. "Your appreciation, while welcome, is unnecessary. I did the logical thing," and here he smiles a little more, quite helplessly. "For a friend in need."
McCoy looks like he's about to clap him on the shoulder, but thinks better of it. McCoy doesn't forget the details, that Vulcans are touch-sensitive, and he wouldn't be much of a good doctor if he did.
But Spock finds himself wishing, for a brief moment, that he had.
"I have noticed that your eyes change color," he murmurs, and he knows that it's off-topic but the question has been burning into him. "According to how you feel."
"Pretty hard not to," he grumbles, but Spock is getting better at discerning the finer points of what he really means when he pretends to be grouchy. In this case, he was fairly sure the emotion was embarrassment.
"Green when you are frustrated. Ice blue in anger. Gold when you are..."
"...sad," he finished, cutting his eyes away to glance out at the stars. "Fucking heartbroken, really."
"There is one I do not know," Spock begins, and he shifts closer unconsciously, to lean against the railing in a motion of companionship. "It is a dark pla-yar-kur, both green and blue at the same time. It was the first color that I noticed."
"Yeah." The silence stretches on for a bit, Spock waiting, McCoy - apprehensive, he decides. McCoy is apprehensive about something relating to this particular shade. "That's usually the color they turn, when I'm looking at someone that I... like."
The pause and the lilt of his voice told the story that his words failed to capture, and Spock had an innate understanding of the tentative emotion behind the color. "Ashaya," he murmurs, and can see the faint echo of McCoy's eyebrow raise in their transparent reflections.
"What's that mean?"
Their eyes meet in the window, but he can't see their color, and the curiosity builds again. "Affection." He turns to look at him, that smile still dancing at his lips, and hopes that the doctor will do the same.
He is not disappointed. "Are all Vulcans as pretty as you?"
That makes him grin, not so much with his mouth but with his eyes, and they dance with delight. "Aesthetic pleasure is subjective, doctor. But I must admit, I would be disappointed to find that you think they are."
"Fuck, I love it when you talk like that. Can I touch you?" His words are bold, and would be insensitive, but he was a doctor, not a poet, as he would surely say, and Spock was oddly gratified by the brash courtesy.
"Please do," he murmured, and that was where it all starts, really.
The last he sees of Leonard McCoy's eyes for a time is a dark, dark blue, and he does not need a translation, not when the proof is in his hands, and his lips, and his skin.