Well done, Spock.
It's difficult just getting the words past your lips. Fading in for a moment from oblivion, perhaps from sleep, there's the quiet of a room smelling faintly of familiar antiseptics. Sterile ceiling, low light, nebulous shadows. You'd turn your head if you could, towards the soft voices off to your left, but your neck is firmly immobilized. Warmth. The rest of your body's wrapped so tightly in blankets that you couldn't move even if you wanted to. And it's as you realize this that one of the shadows becomes a distinct shape, desired, as it looms closer to your left elbow.
Spock, you insist, trying to lift your arms, but it's no use.
He leans forward, his expression grave, the well-loved face deeply lined with worry. He's still dressed in too many layers, that damned parka tailor-made for beaming down into freezing temperatures. Was that what had happened? Hypothermia? You're not cold now. Not with him leaning over you like that. He's so close now you can feel his breath on your cheek. Smell of cardamom. Something like rye.
And he says nothing, only nods. Lowers his mouth to yours as if to speak in prayer.
First contact is so understated as to be electric: cool, dry lips, even slightly chapped, that curve so firmly to your own that you wonder, strangely, if this here-and-now will be your resting place forever. You close your eyes and tilt up your chin, meeting him pressure for pressure, finding that you can manage at least that much. Cardamom-breath as his nostrils flare, his lips begin to part against yours, all with such slow, painful deliberation that you can feel tremors in him that are, perhaps, residual from wherever it was you had been that had turned your bones to ice.
(You feel the deep, awful seize in every nerve. His hood falls a bit, shields you both.)
And what happens next, you'll remember always, the sheer, sweet amazement in the sound he makes that isn't so much a blessing as a plea as the room seems to tilt and the cardamom-rye-Spock taste slips past your lips with real, gripping finality. His tongue brushes yours with gentle possessiveness and withdraws again, but isn't gone for long. The shape of the kiss, the restrained, aching tilt of it—oh, everything shifts. Your hands struggle free now, reaching, and he catches your wrists with those fierce, slender fingers and begs you between too-infrequent breaths, Lie still.
You would, too, except you've found the slight roughness of his cheek and the softness of his hair, and the rustle of the hood's interior against the backs of your hands is oddly comforting. The clench in your chest says you'll die if he stops, if you're left alone in the wake of this astonishing, unexpected act. You tug at him—Stay, you think, please stay—but the urgency in him now speaks of time slipping swiftly away. He's already withdrawing, and the same slight pressure of his lips as before speaks of terrible regret. You left something unfinished. He must go.
Spock, you repeat, in the last breath of space left between you.
His eyes never leave you, not once, as the shadows reclaim him.