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Story Notes:

Written for a commentfic prompt; "How exactly does one make a snow angel?" 

When Spock entered the kitchen after completing his morning meditation, ready to join Jim for breakfast, he was surprised to find Jim neither at the replicator programming the meal nor at the table eating it. He also had not completed any of his usual morning tasks, such as shaving or dressing, and did not seem in any hurry to do so, despite the relative lateness of the morning. Rather, his husband was standing before the glass panel door that lead to the apartment's small outdoor terrace, wearing his bathrobe and staring intently. His face was mere millimeters from the glass.

"I can't believe it," he murmured. He had deactivated the privacy tinting, leaving his body a dark silhouette against the unfettered brightness of the morning light. "I absolutely can't believe it."

"What can you not believe?" Spock asked, and Jim could only shake his head and point.

Spock's pupils were almost fully dilated after his long session in the dimness of the meditation room, and the full light coming through the untinted glass was uncomfortable. But he nevertheless nodded obligingly to his husband, engaged his inner eyelid, constricted his pupils, and came to stand at Jim's side.

When he saw the cause of Jim's distraction, he tilted his head and raised one eyebrow.

"Fascinating," he said.

"I know," Jim murmured, still staring. "I can't stop looking at it. I can't believe it's real."

"It is statistically unlikely, but certainly genuine," Spock said. "You have no need to doubt your senses, Jim."

"Snow," Kirk breathed, and his exhale briefly condensed to a small patch of frost against the glass. "Snow. In San Francisco. A regular blizzard, too; isn't it beautiful?"

"I believe the human eye is predisposed to find high contrast visuals appealing..." Spock started, and Jim chuckled and slid a hand around Spock's waist, bringing their hips together. His hand was colder than usual, from being positioned so near the glass.

"It's got to be a miracle," Kirk said. The psychic thrum of his pleasure had heightened with their contact, sparking through their bond and tinting Spock's own mind with its warmth. "It never snows here; it's got to have been eighty years..."

"Eighty-seven years," Spock supplied, "eleven months, and six days." He had researched the climate of the region very carefully when he and Jim had purchased the apartment. To do so was only logical.

Kirk turned to him, eyes extraordinarily bright as he smiled.

"Well then, this is a special occasion. We ought to celebrate." He gave Spock's waist a quick, hard squeeze before loosening his hold just enough to reach for the door handle. "Come out here with me."

"Jim..." Spock said, pulling backward slightly. His eyes skimmed from Jim's bathrobe and bare calves, to his own thin Vulcan meditation garment, to the swirls of whiteness blowing on the other side of the glass, and back again. Interesting though the snow might be, as a desert creature, he did not necessarily relish the idea of exposing his body and that of his mate's to the cold wetness it presented.

"Just for a second," Jim wheedled, his expression almost childlike in his delight. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, we should at least get to observe it firsthand." He turned his elated gaze once more to the soft white drifts now obscuring the outdoor furniture and Spock's small collection of potted succulents. He laughed aloud. "I feel just like a kid; like I could just rush out of the house and into the fields and start making snow angels."

Spock blinked at the unfamiliar term.

"Indeed?" He asked. Perhaps the phrase was some sort of idiom. "How exactly does one 'make a snow angel?' "

His husband's grin grew positively manic. Excited hilarity spiked though their bond; Spock decided the idiom was likely sexual in nature, or otherwise amusing.

"Like this," Jim cried, and then, completely eschewing both his house slippers and the nearby bin of plastic deck shoes, he was out the door and into the snowy terrace in a blast of frigid air and swirling snow. Spock, completely perplexed, could only watch as Jim leapt to the center of the deck, flopped down, and began to flail his limbs in wide, scissoring motions that parted his robe almost beyond the point of any reasonable attempt at modesty.

Spock just had time to wonder if the falling snow was thick enough to obscure the view of any nearby residents, and, if not, what exactly they would make of the sight of a decorated Starfleet admiral rolling on his back mostly unclothed in a snowbank, when Jim righted himself and bustled back into the warm kitchen in a second burst of freezing air.

"That," he said, breathless and flushed an engaging, exotic pink from exposure to the cold, "is how you make a snow angel."

He pointed through the glass and Spock was able to make out the clumsy impression his husband's floundering had impacted upon the smooth surface of the snow; the round print of his head flanked by three wide triangles created by his moving limbs. Spock was momentarily baffled, until the terminology clicked into place and he remembered his cultural studies on human religious histories and Judeo-Christian mythologies.

Wings. The flailing of the limbs had resulted in a crude depiction of a winged humanoid in a wide, full skirt. Not an idiom then, but a literal representation of an 'angel,' created in the canvas of the fresh snow by the simple motion of the artist's limbs.

"Fascinating," he said again, and Kirk chuckled through his chattering teeth.

"I'm glad you approve," he said, and shivered violently as a chunk of melting snow dripped down from his hair and onto one bared shoulder. "Brr, I'm freezing."

"An inevitable consequence of prostrating oneself in the snow," Spock observed. "Perhaps, meteorological phenomenon notwithstanding, it would have been wiser to remain inside."

"I never did enjoy sitting on the sidelines," Kirk said, grinning sheepishly as another chunk of snow slid down, leaving a trail of meltwater and goosebumps in its wake as it trickled down his chest. Spock caught it with one outstretched finger, and the contrast of hot human skin and cold melting ice was fascinating of its own accord.

"Indeed, you do not," Spock said, and reached down to press his warm, dampened fingers against Jim's own chilled ones, relishing the surge of joint psychic contentment the contact brought.

Snow did indeed have its merits.

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