McCoy/Chapel- Part One: I Think You Waste Your Sweetness
I Think You Waste Your Sweetness
by JJPH
(see profile page for disclaimer)
Christine Chapel gave up a prominent career in biomedical research when she’d read that Starfleet was recruiting bright, young, medical minds for long-term space exploration. Christine had never been what anyone would reasonably call adventurous (her idea of a Friday night out was dinner at the local diner and a beer with her girlfriends), but the thought of those brave men and women, and non-gender-identified aliens, flinging themselves into the unknown without the proper medical staff makes Christine feel nauseous. So she signed up and bought three sets of the uniform and packed her belongings for a five-year tour on the U.S.S. Enterprise.
It’s not that Starfleet is an inherently sexist organization by any means, but Christine certainly feels the fact that she’s a woman when she’s walking the Enterprise halls. She estimates she’s outnumbered by males at least three to one, but getting the actual numbers would mean talking to Commander Spock and Christine’s not sure if she can handle that just quite yet.
She doesn’t have a crush on Commander Spock. Really, she doesn’t. It’s just that he’s so neat and tidy, so brilliant and calm, so collected and serene and…okay, she has a little bit of a crush on Commander Spock. She’d been inspected along with the rest of the recruits on her first day by the senior science officer and first officer. She always was a sucker for dark eyes and she spent a solid portion of her lunch hour daydreaming about him picking her out of a crowd and asking for her advice or being wowed by her performance record and promoting her to be his assistant. Ridiculous things like that.
Doctor Leonard McCoy is neither collected nor serene. He is brilliant and tidy, but about as far away from calm as you can get. He shouts and swears right in front of his staff and doesn’t seem to care that the captain spends more time being treated for sexual diseases than the entirety of Engineering put together. He is her superior officer and her attending physician and not her type at all. He’s too old for her and clearly doesn’t bother shaving every day and-and sometimes, when he’s barking orders at the other nurses, something in Christine’s stomach twists. Hard. It’s those moments that she tries to pull up the faces of her old boyfriends from back at the Academy or even Commander Spock to push down the tight feeling in her chest. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
It only gets worse when she starts pulling double shifts. After Nero, Doctor McCoy asked a handful of staff to take over for the injured and the dead. Christine doesn’t mind the extra time. It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for her to come back to her quarters. What bothers her are the overnights. It’s a big sickbay, state of the art, and with a skeleton staff Christine winds up working next to Doctor McCoy more often than not. She gets no special treatment from him, no slack for giving up sleep. “Good God, Chapel,” he snaps when her head falls forward and the light she’s holding falters. “I’m trying to get this scanner repaired before morning. You know, when the patients show up and need saving?” Christine feels her face go hot while Doctor McCoy mutters under his breath. She holds the light perfectly still until her arm goes numb.
The next night, she drops a tray full of inoculation vials and he goes on for five solid minutes about rationing supplies and proper respect for equipment and somewhere in the middle of all that, Christine realizes she’s turned on, like ridiculously turned on. She excuses herself back to her quarters, pretending she’s getting a caffeine supplement, and brings herself off in two minutes flat with just the thought of his voice, insistent and hot, against her ear. That’s it, girl, take it, good, oh fuck, like that. When she staggers back to sickbay, Doctor McCoy’s waiting for her. His eyes look even darker in the lowlights of the quiet room. “I’m sorry if I was too rough on you,” he says and an aftershock ripples through Christine.
“It’s all right,” she replies. Her thighs are still trembling. She can’t meet his eye.
*
If McCoy had a currency credit for every time he had to give his captain a vaccine against some horrific off-world sexually transmitted disease, he’d be retired right now, sucking down margaritas on a beach somewhere in New Japan while gorgeous island girls fanned him with palms. Instead he’s here, at stupid o’clock in the morning, watching Chapel watch him. She thinks she’s being discreet and maybe she is. None of the other staff have noticed that she stares a couple extra seconds at him when he orders her to restock bandages or check the vaccine supply. But he can feel her; feel her, staring at him. Eyes wide, pupils blown to hell, her breath coming short and shallow through pink lips, and McCoy thinks about wrapping his hand in her long hair and tugging, hard, to get at her neck. Taking his teeth to the spot where her pulse picks up every time he calls her Chapel.
After all, he’s not made of stone. It’s been a nearly four years since the divorce and longer since he’d been getting anything close to regular sex. Sure, there were willing and eager girls at the Academy, but McCoy always felt bad when he took one of them back to his quarters, a little guilty at their sweet morning-after smiles and kisses. It’s not that McCoy doesn’t enjoy himself, because at the end of the day even bad sex is better than no sex at all, but he spends most of those encounters with his hands fisted in the bedsheets, breathing deeply through his nose to keep from gripping the girl’s hip and pressing down until she whimpers. His ex-wife called him on it once, when he’d tried to tell her why he kept his eyes squeezed shut in bed. Afterwards, she’d told him she liked it a little rough on occasion, and that had helped. But a little rough, McCoy thinks as he watches Chapel stoop over a console, never seemed to be rough enough.
“Chapel,” he shouts and feels a painful-sharp spike of pleasure when she flushes. “Get over here.” She comes running and that shouldn’t please him as much as it does. He beckons her over to an empty bed. It’s been a quiet night and there are no patients at the moment, so he doesn’t mind pulling her away from routine inspection. She steps in front of him and for reasons he’d rather not discuss, McCoy tugs the privacy curtain closed around them. The nurse looks even more skittish up close and McCoy fights the urge to rolls his eyes. “What’s going on with you? You stare at me He taps his temple. “Twenty-twenty eyesight, and you stare.” She looks so positively miserable that he takes her upper arms gently, rubbing like he’d soothe a colt. She flinches. “Damnit, Chapel, I won’t bite,” he grits out. She nods.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she says, her voice low and throaty under the whir of machinery. “I-I just wanted to -” She trails off and before McCoy can prompt her to finish, she goes up on her toes and presses a sloppy kiss to his mouth. Her aim’s a little off and she leaves a shiny streak of wet across his cheek. Her hands fly up to cover her face. “God, I’m sorry-it’s been a while and you’re-” She sounds defeated. “You smell so good.”
McCoy’s not sure he’s still breathing. A beautiful woman is throwing herself at him in the middle of his sickbay. It’s all twelve kinds of wrong and there are crew members not twenty feet away and damnit all, he’s a doctor, not a machine, and he kisses her. His nose cracks into hers and her breath catches, but McCoy can’t stop now. He cups her jaw in his broad palms and sucks wetly, messily at her mouth. She responds by raking her nails through his short hair and McCoy feels an answering tug behind his navel.
“Bones.” James T. Fucking Kirk is standing right outside the curtain. Chapel opens her mouth, to speak or shout, McCoy isn’t certain, but neither one is acceptable. He clamps a hand over her mouth and holds one finger to his own. “I can barely sit down since the away mission. I think something’s up…down there.” If I thought I could get away with it, McCoy thinks hatefully, I’d maroon him back on Delta Vega myself. There’s a pause while McCoy tries to gather his thoughts and Jim rambles on. “I’d talk to one of the other doctors, but I thought it might affect morale.” As if McCoy didn’t know the captain was actively sleeping his way through the entire medical team.
McCoy holds his hand steady over Christine’s mouth. The roughness of his skin seems darker compared to the pale flush staining her cheeks. Her eyes are wide and her lips work against his palm, slick and hot. He grunts and presses harder, too hard, and she gives underneath him, her entire body going slack and loose. It feels like acceptance, like permission, and McCoy gets harder than he has been in years.
“Okay,” he whispers, grateful for the pull curtains muffling his voice. “Okay, girl. Just be quiet, dammit.” He raises his voice. “I’ll be right with you, Jim. Take a seat at the far end.” For one wild moment, McCoy thinks Jim is going to ignore him and push back the curtain anyway, but after a moment, the captain huffs a sigh and clomps his way down the line of beds.
Christine hasn’t moved since McCoy covered her mouth, but she’s starting to now, twisting and pushing her hips into him. McCoy takes his free hand and shoves her back onto the examination table. Christine scrabbles at McCoy’s belt in utter silence. He swats her hands away, but she’s not having that. She finally pries his trousers open as he’s thanking God for the obscene length of regulation skirts. He peels her underwear down her thighs. He’s shaking as badly as she is now, and he knows it’s only his hand over her mouth that’s keeping the tiny yelps and moans from alerting the entire med team and the goddamn captain as to just what’s going on here.
He runs his hands up her smooth thigh until he feels her, hot and damp, on his fingertips. He rips one hand away and sucks two fingers into his mouth, holding her gaze the whole time. She squeezes her eyes shut as he sucks, quick and dirty, and slides them inside her. Christine strains up as she bites down on the hand keeping her quiet. She grabs the wrist hovering over her belly and tries to force his fingers up to where she needs them most. McCoy grins, fierce and hard, and twists his hand. She keens soundlessly and rolls her hips against him, rocking mindlessly. Her dark eyes are huge and pleading while she tugs his boxers down. McCoy can’t remember the last time he had a woman beg him for his cock. He’s pretty sure this is the best damn shift he’s ever had.
He grasps Christine’s legs and pulls her down the table until her knees are hitched up over his waist. She locks her calves around his lower back and his body throbs, every instinct screaming at him to give her what’s she’s asking for, what she needs. He’s about to push into her when a strange impulse grabs him and he drops to his knees. He hated doing this with his wife, but Christine seems so tightly wound, ready to shake apart at the lightest touch that it’s more for comfort than anything else. He licks a long, slow stripe between her thighs, his tongue soft and soothing. He can feel her tighten below his mouth and when he looks up her body, she’s mouthing his name. He palms his dick when it twitches at the sight of her. He can’t wait any longer.
He drives into her with one sure snap of his hips and now he’s the one trying to keep it quiet. He bites at her breasts, cursing the uniform between him and her flesh. She’s panting now, her mouth screwed up like it hurts her to stay silence, and McCoy can’t help it, he digs his blunt fingers into the softness of her waist. Someone walks past the curtain close enough to make it flutter in their wake and McCoy pumps harder, faster. This needs to be over, and fast, or he’s going to give in (as if there’s anything left to give) to his desire to find out just what combination of his teeth and his cock make her sob for more. He slips one hand from his death-grip on her hip and thumbs her clit. She hiccups out a high, thin, “Doctor-” and then comes in sharp, tugging spasms around him. McCoy pictures her spread out in his bed, surrounded by soundproofed walls and a locked door, screaming herself hoarse, and comes too. It’s good, hard as a sucker punch, and it just goes on and on until he falls forward onto the shaking nurse. “Jesus, honey,” he murmurs, his forehead resting on her breast. One finger traces a wet patch with the faint inlay of teeth on the front of her tunic and he muses that he lied before. He did bite.
“Any day now, Bones!” The captain’s voice brings McCoy back to himself. He pulls out and tries not to gasp when Christine moans softly at the separation. She reaches for him blindly, her eyes half-closed and glassy. He seizes her wrist and presses it down to the table. If he didn’t listen for that sort of thing, he wouldn’t have noticed her breath catch. He closes his eyes and zips up his trousers. Fucking hell, this one, he thinks as he shoves his hair back into place, this one is going to be trouble.
Jim’s got a textbook case of Genovian crotch-rot and two inoculations later, McCoy is ready to shove him out of sickbay before hearing one more time about the ass on that female, Bones, you would’ve done the same. “Sure, captain. Whatever you say,” McCoy mumbles while he puts away his scanner.
“What’s wrong with Chapel?” Jim asks. McCoy nearly chokes on the panic rising in his throat and follows the captain’s gaze. In his haste to fix up Jim, McCoy had not pulled the curtain all the way closed. She’s managed to roll over onto her side and has tucked one arm under her head like a pillow. She looks fucking destroyed, color too high, mouth parted, knees twitching like she’s caught in a fever dream. She looks perfect.
“Bit of the flu,” McCoy snarls and walks Jim out into the hallway himself. Once the turbolift doors have closed behind the captain, McCoy sinks back against the corridor wall. He scrubs a hand over his face, which turns out to be a mistake. He smells like her sweat.
He stands out there a long time until one of the med tech calls him back.