(no subject)
Title: A Healing Touch
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Summary: Spock's hands are injured in an incident on an away mission, and it's up to McCoy to save him.
Warnings: Blood. Lots of it. Also contains sex. Rough sex. But no blood and sex. I promise.
No one was entirely sure how the accident had occurred. Spock, when they found him, was nearly in a state of shock, his hands and arms covered in blood. His own blood, thick and green. The sleeves of his uniform were in tatters. Several of the gashes on his hands were deep, to the bone. As far as anyone could tell, he'd tried to call for help; his communicator lay on the ground by his side. He'd tried to staunch the blood flow, by the looks of the strips half-torn from the bottom of his shirt, but managing even a tourniquet would have been impossible with his mangled hands.
They beamed him to sick bay as quickly as the transporter would allow.
McCoy began working almost before Spock had completely materialized. He put Chapel to work with a dermal regenerator for the smaller, less sever wounds, barely pausing long enough to tranquilize Spock first. The deep gashes in his hands needed extra care and attention; there was severe damage to the muscles and tendons, and McCoy, though good as his job, didn't know if he was good enough to fix this.
"What in the name of God did you do?" he muttered under his breath, working furiously to clean the wounds before he even attempted to close them. "I've never seen anything like this."
"Doctor?" Chapel asked, glancing up from her work.
"Look at how neat these incisions are," McCoy replied, pointing. "Surgical precision - as if someone knew exactly where and how to cut him to do the most damage." His own hands were covered to wrists in Spock's blood now, and the Vulcan's face was unsettlingly pale. "A few minutes more, and we'd have lost him."
He returned to his work in stony silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. One mistake, and Spock might never regain full use of his hands. When he was finished, he sent Chapel away and cleaned up by himself, shaking with adrenaline and nerves he hadn't allowed himself to feel during surgery. With the surgical tools in hand, he was steady, calm; without them, and without the life of a patient on the line, he felt nearly sick to his stomach.
What he needed was a stiff drink. What he had was a cup of coffee. There'd be time for the whiskey later, when he was off-duty. The cup still in hand, he returned to Spock's bedside, staring at the Vulcan's hands, which were now covered in thin, pale scars - scars which would fade over time, until the entire incident was nothing but a memory.
He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, when Spock opened his eyes. The Vulcan didn't seem at all surprised to see McCoy bending over him. He was still pale - there hadn't been enough Vulcan blood on hand for a proper transfusion, an oversight that McCoy intended to bring to Jim's attention, loudly if necessary - but alive and pale was far preferable to dead.
"Your skill is most admirable, Doctor," Spock said, flexing his fingers experimentally.
McCoy closed the ward with a sharp command to the computer and demanded, "What the hell happened to you down there, Spock?"
"I believe a gesture of gratitude is customary," Spock continued, ignoring the question. "Of course, I find such displays unnecessary, but you humans seem to take such comfort in them."
"Damn it, Spock," McCoy growled, but he was cut off in his rant as Spock took his hand.
The Vulcan toyed with his fingers, and continued evenly, "It would appear that you have adequately repaired the damage. I commend you, Doctor. You have surpassed my expectations." Somehow, Spock seemed to be smiling smugly without changing his expression at all.
"So it was all just a test?" McCoy knew he was sulking, and he didn't care. Leave it to Spock, to take such a nerve-wracking experience and reduce it to a matter of academic curiosity.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "It would hardly be logical to risk myself in such a manner solely for the purpose of putting your skills to the test, Doctor," he replied, in a tone that suggested McCoy was very much aware of the fact.
McCoy sighed, clasping Spock's hand tightly. "Don't you dare scare me like that again, you pointy-eared bastard," he muttered.
"I assure you, Doctor, eliciting feelings of fear was not my intention."
The two of them fell silent, and McCoy closed his eyes, concentrating on the warmth of Spock's hand. Even though he'd lost a lot of blood, the Vulcan's body temperature was still inhumanly high.
"I have not as yet had the opportunity to test the dexterity of my hands," Spock said suddenly.
McCoy opened his eyes, to see Spock not-really-smiling up at him. He arched an eyebrow at the Vulcan, and Spock released his hand, trailing his fingers lightly, almost teasingly, over McCoy's stomach.
"Would you care to assist me in determining if I have regained full use of my hands, Doctor?" He might have been asking if McCoy wanted to test a bit of lab equipment, for all the emotion - or lack thereof - in his query. McCoy could only grunt his assent and fumble to push his trousers down around his hips, and draw his breath in sharply when Spock's warm, deft fingers brushed against him.
"It would appear," Spock commented, "that I have not lost any noticeable range of motion. Highly commendable indeed, Doctor."
McCoy went weak at the knees, and had to lean against the biobed for support. He reached up unsteadily, and clamped a hand over Spock's mouth. "Shut up," he rasped, between ragged gasps for breath. Spock raised an eyebrow and tightened his grip just enough that McCoy suddenly found himself incapable of doing anything but sinking down, catching himself on the bed at the last minute.
Had Spock been human, he might have smirked. "You appear to be enjoying yourself, Doctor."
McCoy's only response was to grab tightly at the sheets as he pulled himself up and into the bed, unable to summon the breath to speak.
"Your inability to formulate a response is regrettable," Spock continued, as it is imperative that I acquire a second opinion as to the restoration of-" He stopped as McCoy ran a finger along the palm of his free hand.
McCoy increased the pressure of his touch, and Spock paused, his eyes half-lidded. After a moment he resumed his ministrations slowly, as McCoy began to massage his hand.
It wasn't long before it was Spock who was unable to speak. Though McCoy's effect on him was not so dramatic, in the low light McCoy could see a faint tinge of green had begun creeping up the edges of Spock's ears. Though Spock's breathing remained measured and steady, McCoy - long used to the apparent unresponsiveness of his partner and lover - knew how to read all the little signs that showed he was having some effect. A twitch of the eyebrows, Spock's half-parted lips, the way his eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly.
Spock pulled himself together enough to speak, but it seemed to McCoy that it took more effort than usual. "Your technique is remarkably improved, Doctor."
McCoy reached down and grabbed Spock's other hand before pushing himself up to sit astride Spock's hips. His thumbs dug into Spock's palms, and Spock offered no resistance. Only then did McCoy free a hand to push his trousers down more, and he rolled off Spock's hips, pulling the Vulcan over and on top of him, guiding his head down gently.
He groaned and arched his back as Spock's warm lips closed around him, and he buried his fingers in Spock's hair, holding on tightly. Perhaps a bit too tightly, because suddenly Spock growled deep in the back of his throat and sat up, grabbing McCoy forcefully by the wrists.
McCoy tried to sit up, but Spock shoved him roughly and he fell back, but not without putting up a struggle. Spock pinned him to the bed effortlessly, his fingers digging sharply into McCoy's shoulders. McCoy cursed and twisted from side to side, then abandoned that venture and tore at Spock's trousers instead. Spock's fingers tightened on his shoulders and he lowered his head to sink his teeth into McCoy's neck.
It wasn't often that the Vulcan abandoned himself the way he did now, but buried deep beneath that logical, calculating brain, the raw and primal instincts that had driven his ancestors burned strong.
McCoy grabbed a fistful of Spock's hair again, hissing and baring his teeth. With his free hand, he pulled Spock down until they were pressed tightly against each other, and that gave McCoy the leverage he needed to roll over, so that Spock was pinned beneath him.
They wrestled for dominance for some time, each leaving scores of bruises and bite marks on the other. Spock was on top of him now, his trousers discarded over the side of the biobed, and without warning he slipped his hands under McCoy's shirt and raked his nails down McCoy's chest, leaving a trail of red welts.
He writhed and twisted, as much from the pain as from the heat of Spock's fingers. Spock's ears were flushed, his cheeks dappled with green.
McCoy's hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat. He fell back against the bed, closing his eyes, and Spock pushed up against him. Too worn out to resist, McCoy grunted as Spock entered him slowly.
Spock began to thrust, and McCoy reached for his hands and twined their fingers together tightly; with each thrust, his thumbs dug into Spock's palms. He groaned, gasped raggedly for breath, twisted and turned as Spock continued, relentless. Spock seemed outwardly unaffected by his own actions, except for the bright green flush of exertion; he seemed only to be concentrating on keeping a steady pace, and his breathing was slow and even.
The bond the two of them shared through touch-telepathy told a different story. For all that Spock appeared to be unaffected, McCoy's own arousal and pleasure resonated with his, each of them feeling what the other felt, each of them adding to the other's pleasure.
They finished together, and Spock collapsed on top of McCoy, who reached down to pull the sheets over the two of them. "This doesn't mean you're forgiven for scaring me half to death," McCoy whispered roughly, wrapping an arm around Spock's waist as the Vulcan rolled over and onto his side.
"Your refusal to forgive me is noted, Doctor," Spock replied, curling his hand around McCoy's.
McCoy rolled his eyes and settled a little more comfortably into the bed. "Get some rest, Spock. Doctor's orders." The Vulcan didn't reply, and within moments, they were both asleep.
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Summary: Spock's hands are injured in an incident on an away mission, and it's up to McCoy to save him.
Warnings: Blood. Lots of it. Also contains sex. Rough sex. But no blood and sex. I promise.
No one was entirely sure how the accident had occurred. Spock, when they found him, was nearly in a state of shock, his hands and arms covered in blood. His own blood, thick and green. The sleeves of his uniform were in tatters. Several of the gashes on his hands were deep, to the bone. As far as anyone could tell, he'd tried to call for help; his communicator lay on the ground by his side. He'd tried to staunch the blood flow, by the looks of the strips half-torn from the bottom of his shirt, but managing even a tourniquet would have been impossible with his mangled hands.
They beamed him to sick bay as quickly as the transporter would allow.
McCoy began working almost before Spock had completely materialized. He put Chapel to work with a dermal regenerator for the smaller, less sever wounds, barely pausing long enough to tranquilize Spock first. The deep gashes in his hands needed extra care and attention; there was severe damage to the muscles and tendons, and McCoy, though good as his job, didn't know if he was good enough to fix this.
"What in the name of God did you do?" he muttered under his breath, working furiously to clean the wounds before he even attempted to close them. "I've never seen anything like this."
"Doctor?" Chapel asked, glancing up from her work.
"Look at how neat these incisions are," McCoy replied, pointing. "Surgical precision - as if someone knew exactly where and how to cut him to do the most damage." His own hands were covered to wrists in Spock's blood now, and the Vulcan's face was unsettlingly pale. "A few minutes more, and we'd have lost him."
He returned to his work in stony silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. One mistake, and Spock might never regain full use of his hands. When he was finished, he sent Chapel away and cleaned up by himself, shaking with adrenaline and nerves he hadn't allowed himself to feel during surgery. With the surgical tools in hand, he was steady, calm; without them, and without the life of a patient on the line, he felt nearly sick to his stomach.
What he needed was a stiff drink. What he had was a cup of coffee. There'd be time for the whiskey later, when he was off-duty. The cup still in hand, he returned to Spock's bedside, staring at the Vulcan's hands, which were now covered in thin, pale scars - scars which would fade over time, until the entire incident was nothing but a memory.
He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, when Spock opened his eyes. The Vulcan didn't seem at all surprised to see McCoy bending over him. He was still pale - there hadn't been enough Vulcan blood on hand for a proper transfusion, an oversight that McCoy intended to bring to Jim's attention, loudly if necessary - but alive and pale was far preferable to dead.
"Your skill is most admirable, Doctor," Spock said, flexing his fingers experimentally.
McCoy closed the ward with a sharp command to the computer and demanded, "What the hell happened to you down there, Spock?"
"I believe a gesture of gratitude is customary," Spock continued, ignoring the question. "Of course, I find such displays unnecessary, but you humans seem to take such comfort in them."
"Damn it, Spock," McCoy growled, but he was cut off in his rant as Spock took his hand.
The Vulcan toyed with his fingers, and continued evenly, "It would appear that you have adequately repaired the damage. I commend you, Doctor. You have surpassed my expectations." Somehow, Spock seemed to be smiling smugly without changing his expression at all.
"So it was all just a test?" McCoy knew he was sulking, and he didn't care. Leave it to Spock, to take such a nerve-wracking experience and reduce it to a matter of academic curiosity.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "It would hardly be logical to risk myself in such a manner solely for the purpose of putting your skills to the test, Doctor," he replied, in a tone that suggested McCoy was very much aware of the fact.
McCoy sighed, clasping Spock's hand tightly. "Don't you dare scare me like that again, you pointy-eared bastard," he muttered.
"I assure you, Doctor, eliciting feelings of fear was not my intention."
The two of them fell silent, and McCoy closed his eyes, concentrating on the warmth of Spock's hand. Even though he'd lost a lot of blood, the Vulcan's body temperature was still inhumanly high.
"I have not as yet had the opportunity to test the dexterity of my hands," Spock said suddenly.
McCoy opened his eyes, to see Spock not-really-smiling up at him. He arched an eyebrow at the Vulcan, and Spock released his hand, trailing his fingers lightly, almost teasingly, over McCoy's stomach.
"Would you care to assist me in determining if I have regained full use of my hands, Doctor?" He might have been asking if McCoy wanted to test a bit of lab equipment, for all the emotion - or lack thereof - in his query. McCoy could only grunt his assent and fumble to push his trousers down around his hips, and draw his breath in sharply when Spock's warm, deft fingers brushed against him.
"It would appear," Spock commented, "that I have not lost any noticeable range of motion. Highly commendable indeed, Doctor."
McCoy went weak at the knees, and had to lean against the biobed for support. He reached up unsteadily, and clamped a hand over Spock's mouth. "Shut up," he rasped, between ragged gasps for breath. Spock raised an eyebrow and tightened his grip just enough that McCoy suddenly found himself incapable of doing anything but sinking down, catching himself on the bed at the last minute.
Had Spock been human, he might have smirked. "You appear to be enjoying yourself, Doctor."
McCoy's only response was to grab tightly at the sheets as he pulled himself up and into the bed, unable to summon the breath to speak.
"Your inability to formulate a response is regrettable," Spock continued, as it is imperative that I acquire a second opinion as to the restoration of-" He stopped as McCoy ran a finger along the palm of his free hand.
McCoy increased the pressure of his touch, and Spock paused, his eyes half-lidded. After a moment he resumed his ministrations slowly, as McCoy began to massage his hand.
It wasn't long before it was Spock who was unable to speak. Though McCoy's effect on him was not so dramatic, in the low light McCoy could see a faint tinge of green had begun creeping up the edges of Spock's ears. Though Spock's breathing remained measured and steady, McCoy - long used to the apparent unresponsiveness of his partner and lover - knew how to read all the little signs that showed he was having some effect. A twitch of the eyebrows, Spock's half-parted lips, the way his eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly.
Spock pulled himself together enough to speak, but it seemed to McCoy that it took more effort than usual. "Your technique is remarkably improved, Doctor."
McCoy reached down and grabbed Spock's other hand before pushing himself up to sit astride Spock's hips. His thumbs dug into Spock's palms, and Spock offered no resistance. Only then did McCoy free a hand to push his trousers down more, and he rolled off Spock's hips, pulling the Vulcan over and on top of him, guiding his head down gently.
He groaned and arched his back as Spock's warm lips closed around him, and he buried his fingers in Spock's hair, holding on tightly. Perhaps a bit too tightly, because suddenly Spock growled deep in the back of his throat and sat up, grabbing McCoy forcefully by the wrists.
McCoy tried to sit up, but Spock shoved him roughly and he fell back, but not without putting up a struggle. Spock pinned him to the bed effortlessly, his fingers digging sharply into McCoy's shoulders. McCoy cursed and twisted from side to side, then abandoned that venture and tore at Spock's trousers instead. Spock's fingers tightened on his shoulders and he lowered his head to sink his teeth into McCoy's neck.
It wasn't often that the Vulcan abandoned himself the way he did now, but buried deep beneath that logical, calculating brain, the raw and primal instincts that had driven his ancestors burned strong.
McCoy grabbed a fistful of Spock's hair again, hissing and baring his teeth. With his free hand, he pulled Spock down until they were pressed tightly against each other, and that gave McCoy the leverage he needed to roll over, so that Spock was pinned beneath him.
They wrestled for dominance for some time, each leaving scores of bruises and bite marks on the other. Spock was on top of him now, his trousers discarded over the side of the biobed, and without warning he slipped his hands under McCoy's shirt and raked his nails down McCoy's chest, leaving a trail of red welts.
He writhed and twisted, as much from the pain as from the heat of Spock's fingers. Spock's ears were flushed, his cheeks dappled with green.
McCoy's hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat. He fell back against the bed, closing his eyes, and Spock pushed up against him. Too worn out to resist, McCoy grunted as Spock entered him slowly.
Spock began to thrust, and McCoy reached for his hands and twined their fingers together tightly; with each thrust, his thumbs dug into Spock's palms. He groaned, gasped raggedly for breath, twisted and turned as Spock continued, relentless. Spock seemed outwardly unaffected by his own actions, except for the bright green flush of exertion; he seemed only to be concentrating on keeping a steady pace, and his breathing was slow and even.
The bond the two of them shared through touch-telepathy told a different story. For all that Spock appeared to be unaffected, McCoy's own arousal and pleasure resonated with his, each of them feeling what the other felt, each of them adding to the other's pleasure.
They finished together, and Spock collapsed on top of McCoy, who reached down to pull the sheets over the two of them. "This doesn't mean you're forgiven for scaring me half to death," McCoy whispered roughly, wrapping an arm around Spock's waist as the Vulcan rolled over and onto his side.
"Your refusal to forgive me is noted, Doctor," Spock replied, curling his hand around McCoy's.
McCoy rolled his eyes and settled a little more comfortably into the bed. "Get some rest, Spock. Doctor's orders." The Vulcan didn't reply, and within moments, they were both asleep.