A Temporary Madness: A1, P29
Title: A Temporary Madness
Summary: The story of two lives becoming one - which is easier said than done when one's divorced, the other's neurotic, and both suffer from the unfortunate malady of being friends with James T. Kirk.
Overall Rating: NC17.
Overall Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content, moderate violence.
Chapter Specifics:
- 2,800 words.
- Rated R.
- Warning: almost-porn.
Arc One, Part Twenty-Nine
Spock's birthday, that year, happened to fall on a Wednesday. And as they seemed to be cut from the same cloth, McCoy was only aware of the run-up to said birthday thanks to palming his wallet during one of Jim's Monday nights at Harry's and sneaking a look at his license (which had an alarmingly psychopathic photo). And, as Spock had been a sneaky bastard back in August, McCoy had opted to be equally sneaky when the twenty-eighth of November rolled around, and was barely separable from the night before thanks to the heavy, black clouds belching rain over the entire city.
McCoy had, therefore, made plans - leaving thankfully on time, he spared enough to return home, shower, change, and head right back out to Spock's apartment, thumbing out a text in the middle of slow-moving, rain-clogged traffic. By the time he pulled up in front of the apartment block, the rain had eased enough to allow a sprint from the car to the door without getting drenched through, and taking the stairs allowed him to look at least semi-dry by the time Spock swung the door open.
"Leonard, what...?" he blinked at McCoy's smart slacks and dark shirt.
"Get yourself pretty and let's go."
Spock narrowed his eyes. "Pretty?"
"We're going out," McCoy said, pointedly jamming his foot in the doorway.
"We are?"
"Yep," McCoy said. "I took a leaf outta your book, and your license outta your wallet."
Spock blinked, then something seemed to click. "Ah. Leonard, I..."
"Shut it. I made reservations."
Spock looked dubious. "I have reservations."
"And I don't care. Get your shirt and pants on, and let's go. Smart-casual, and easy to peel off again afterwards. Git."
Spock paused a moment longer, then turned on his heel and retreated to the back of the apartment, leaving McCoy to inch through the gap and close the door behind him. He eyed the new so-called security chain with disgust. If he could squirm through the gap, the damn chain was too long. Far too long.
The apartment was, as usual, pristine, save for the upturned book on the couch (Nietzsche's The Gay Science, in a fit of pure irony. He probably had Human, All Too Human lying around someplace as well) and, surprisingly, a sealed pharmacy paper bag on the coffee table, which he either hadn't gotten around to putting away, or had uncharacteristically left out regardless. There was a half-drunk mug of either dark tea or coffee, and an empty wrapper belonging to - he nudged it over - a protein bar. Which meant he hadn't gone for making dinner yet (or had planned to skip it, yet another bad habit).
"Will this suffice?"
Spock re-emerged, the grey t-shirt replaced with a blue dress shirt and black slacks that, judging by the vague clutch around the crotch, were doing something sinful to his backside.
"You bet your ass it will," McCoy grinned, crossing the room to kiss him (the mug was half-full of dark tea) and sneak a quick grope at said ass before backing up and gallantly offering his arm. "Your chariot awaits."
"Your car is hardly a chariot."
"Better than your bike in this weather."
Spock declined to comment as he collected his jacket - a sleek, suit-like affair - from the hook, and his keys from the bowl, and locked up behind them.
"You need a shorter chain for the door."
"Apparently so, as you were meant to wait here."
"Yeah right," McCoy sniped, using the privacy of the stairwell to keep an arm around Spock's waist as long as possible. "As a warning: I brought a change of clothes. So don't get too smart."
"As you technically forced entry into my apartment, I fail to see why inviting you back poses a greater risk."
"I didn't force shit, your chain's too long," McCoy said, holding the door, and they stepped into the narrow gap of safety under the smokers' overhang.
"Regardless, you entered without permission."
"Better get used to it," McCoy leered, unpeeling himself and turning his collar up. "Alright. On three."
"Leonard," Spock said, the moment that McCoy turned into the parking lot.
"No complaints outta you until it's over," McCoy returned. "You don't get to complain."
Spock eyed the gleaming glass front of the restaurant dubiously. Hanashoubu - or Hannah's, as the locals tended to call it - was just about the only Japanese restaurant in the bay area that served halfway decent Japanese food. It served excellent Japanese food, in fact - and its prices reflected that.
"But..."
"Nope," McCoy said, getting out of the car and hunching against the rain. The parking lot was a tad more sheltered, but the winter had stripped down the leaves from the overhanging trees, and so they stepped briskly into the shadow of the building, the wind hissing angrily at their escape.
"Leonard, really, this is not neces..."
"I know it ain't," McCoy shrugged as they brushed through the glass doors and were instantly confronted with an absolutely tiny Asian woman. "Dr. McCoy, table for two at eight thirty."
"Of course," she bobbed in a bow that made dwarves look tall, whipped a couple of menus off the station, and led them through the quiet-yet-full restaurant towards a quiet booth in a hidden alcove at the back, leaving them promptly to their own devices and snapping something at a passing waiter that made Spock's mouth twitch.
"Leonard," he tried again as they sat, and McCoy hooked his foot around Spock's ankle, hidden by the long tablecloth.
"Just shut up and enjoy it," he said. "Won't happen again until next year anyhow."
It took a little longer for Spock to apparently relax - though his starter of what looked like a squid flattened by a landing jumbo jet seemed to do the trick - but there was a distinct amusement he was drawing from the chatter of Japanese amongst the staff, and from McCoy's half-hearted grumbling about the smell of fish. But he adamantly kept his hands to his own side of the table, and sidestepped their customary flirting rather than returning it with equal force; McCoy tucked both feet around Spock's right ankle, and used it as a substitute. Hopefully it was merely the public setting.
"I gotta admit, I'm a little surprised," he said in the lull between the main course(s) - given that apparently Asian people split up their meals into a thousand and one tiny bowls, or at least this place did.
"About?"
"You," he said. "You're still damn Chinese..."
"Japanese."
"...given that you've been living in America fuck-knows how long..."
"Approximately half of my life."
"...now, and should be more or less totally naturalised..."
"It would be unfortunate, to be entirely American."
"...but you're not. You're still very..." McCoy waved a hand. "Foreign."
"And yet," Spock noted, "my peers in Sendai always referred to me as being extremely American. I am a foreigner in either country."
"Well, you're more of a Jap than I am."
"...I would be highly amused to see the reaction of Sendai to you, Leonard," Spock said, offering a very tiny smile over the top of his glass.
"And Georgia to you, darlin'," McCoy grinned. "Hell, you'd be an alien in Dahlonega, what with your fancy science and countin'."
Spock cocked his head. "You did not like Dahlonega?"
"Place is fine; people ain't," McCoy shrugged. "It's too damn small. Atlanta - you can find the people worth your time in Atlanta. Go up into Chattahoochee, you don't even need the people in the first place, jus' you and nature. But Dahlonega itself - too small. I got out as a student and I wouldn't go back for the world, even if California ain't exactly brimmin' with common sense."
Spock's lips twitched again.
"You don't get men like you in Dahlonega," McCoy said, and Spock ducked his head. "You can get plenty embarrassed if you want, but it's true. Men like you are one in a million, and you get ten to a penny in Dahlonega, not one in a million."
Spock frowned slightly. "Then why were you in Dahlonega?"
McCoy was brought up short - he blinked, thrown off, before his brain rebooted and he huffed out a laugh. "Slippery son of a bitch, aren't you?"
"I am merely applying your own argument universally, and such an application provides that question."
"Well," McCoy said. "I got outta Dahlonega. Does that count for somethin'?"
Spock dropped his gaze back to his glass, and leaned back as the waiter appeared with dessert.
"Perhaps everything, Leonard."
It was almost midnight by the time McCoy pulled the car into the closest available space to the door, the rain still hammering down on the roof in a soothing counterpoint to the engine. He felt caught somewhere between the sleepy satisfaction of a long day, good food and better company, and the adrenalin buzz that he got from arguing with Spock (and there had been plenty of that when he'd paid for both of them, crushing Spock's protests underfoot with all the skill that the medical profession offered in completely ignoring other people's misgivings).
When he slipped free of his seatbelt and leaned over to kiss Spock in the darkness of the car, he could taste the argument on his lips.
"Shut it," he growled. "What kind of a man would I be to let you pay for anything on your birthday?"
"Apparently, a wiser man with more disposable income," Spock returned lowly, his fingers tucked warm and safe behind McCoy's ear, keeping him close.
"Call it a present," McCoy countered, briefly following the shadow of stubble before returning to that mouth. "Better'n some cheap gift you'll hate and sell on the internet in the morning anyway."
"Perhaps," Spock allowed, threading those fingers further into his hair. "And it was a gift much appreciated, if overpriced."
"No such thing for you," McCoy returned, briefly rediscovering the taste of that odd, smoky tea Spock had had before the main course, and spreading the remnants of that taste over his own lips. It was nicer out of the cup.
"I was led to believe, however..."
Uh-oh.
"...that allowing one party to pay for the meal implied an unspoken contract that the other would submit to sexual intercourse later in the evening."
McCoy snorted. "That's an outdated and damn stupid custom."
"And yet accurate. Your hand has not left my thigh for ten minutes."
It hadn't, but that was besides the point, and McCoy said as much, between multiple attempts at finding that sharp Japanese alcohol lingering at the back of Spock's mouth.
"You brought a change of clothes."
McCoy paused, and knew that Spock could read the answer in his face.
"You don't owe me anythin'," he said brusquely.
"No," Spock agreed, his thigh rippling with movement under McCoy's fingers before his knees parted slightly and he rocked his hip up into the hand. "But I do wish to prolong the evening, and express my thanks."
McCoy struggled, his moral compass and his libido going to war (and not for the first time).
"After what you just said, the southerner in me ain't happy," he pointed out.
"The man in you is," Spock returned, pressing his hand down on McCoy's to curl them both around the growing erection in his slacks. That alone almost caused McCoy's brain to short-circuit, and he groaned into another, distinctly messier kiss.
"You play damn dirty pool," he breathed.
"Would you like to come up for coffee?"
"Your coffee's vile."
"I am not offering coffee," and Spock rocked his hips again, the slacks hiding nothing from McCoy's well-placed hand.
"Oh God yes."
The elevator was, for once, working; the enclosed space and the alcohol from dinner combined to let Spock bury his hands in McCoy's hair and assault his tongue with single-minded concentration. The feel of that semi in his slacks was enticing enough - demanding enough - that McCoy kept a hand planted on the place where his leg met his buttock, locking him in place, groin-to-groin, and sucked out his air to keep him breathless enough to not think of escaping at least until they reached the right floor.
Getting into the apartment was a mess of fumbling hands and the rattle of keys before bursting into the small space and slamming the door unnecessarily loudly behind them. The bedroom was a mile away, over creaky floorboards and city lights through unshielded windows, and then McCoy was crashing down onto the mattress, Spock's knees locked either side of his own, and the both of them breathing the same air.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he protested after another minute or two of heady, heavy kissing. "Back up, back up."
Spock paused, blinking in the faint glow from the main road. "Leonard?"
McCoy rolled his shoulders. "I feel...vaguely like you're...I don't know. Like this is because I paid. Like I've paid for this."
Spock stared down at him - then, quite unexpectedly, ripped his jacket open and liberated his wallet, smacking McCoy's hands aside when he tried to prevent him. He deftly removed a twenty dollar bill before tossing the wallet away into the darkness of the room and sliding the bill into the back pocket of his pants.
"Now you have paid for this," he said, and literally tore - tore - McCoy's shirt apart.
All thought of monetary compensation fled with the rake of his nails across McCoy's chest, and the sudden surge of primal, instinctive - not thought, but action. McCoy surged up to tackle him, tearing his own jacket free and clutching at skin and muscle and the sheer smell of him - and they inelegantly tumbled from the bed to the floor.
They did not return to it for some time.
"Leonard. Leonard."
McCoy groaned, turned over - and squawked inelegantly as he nearly fell out of the bed.
Ah, yes. Spock's. Spock's ridiculously narrow bed.
"Chinese bastard," he grumbled.
"Japanese," Spock returned blandly from the doorway. He was half-dressed in a fresh pair of pants and an open white shirt, face freshly shaven, and the faint smell of coffee just about permeating the stink of sex that surrounded the bed. "I must go to work shortly."
"Okay. Okay, I'm up. Fuck," McCoy groaned, stretching and managing to untangle himself from the sheets. "Goddamn, you're exhausting."
"Thank you."
"Smug fucker."
"Indeed."
"Where're my pants?"
"In the main room. Would you like them?"
"Yeah, there's some law about driving naked," McCoy grumbled, kicking the tattered remains of his shirt aside and locating his underwear. He supposed that after that feral performance, he should count himself lucky they'd survived. "Good thing I brought a change of clothes. What the hell?"
"I surmised it would be an excellent way to distract you," Spock replied, disappearing into the main room.
"Yeah, no shit," McCoy grumbled, giving up on his socks. God only knew what had happened to them. "I think you're technically a prostitute now."
"Is a single client sufficient to warrant that status?"
"Hell if I know, but I'm twenty dollars poorer for it. You gotta be the cheapest damn hooker in the state."
"More than that, if we include the meal," Spock said, returning and tossing McCoy's pants at him.
"Okay, a hundred and seventy dollars poorer for it," McCoy said, catching them and snapping them out. "Still pretty cheap, given that I think I had a seizure in there somewhere."
"Merely an orgasm, Leonard."
"Merely, my ass."
"That is very far from mere."
"Yours ain't so bad either, darlin'," McCoy grinned crookedly at him as he ripped open his bag and located a fresh shirt. "Same time next year?"
"I would hope rather sooner than that," Spock returned primly, retreating into the main room again. When McCoy followed, he was tying his laces on the couch. "I am quite happy to...pay for services rendered with more tonkatsu, if you so desire it."
"My services are free, unlike some Chinese immigrants around here," McCoy said, hefting his bag onto his shoulder and grabbing his coat. It had, judging by a glance out of the window, gone from bucketing it down to merely ordinary rain.
Halfway to the door, Spock's hand shot out to clamp around his belt buckle, and suddenly they were nose-to-nose, and there was a hand slipping into his pants.
"Whoa, if you wanna get to work on..."
A crinkle sounded, and he glanced down at the twenty dollar bill suddenly tucked into the front of his pants.
"For such satisfactory nights, my services are also free."
He stared at the calm, almost-smirking foreigner in front of him, then cracked a smile of his own.
"So if it's ever shit, you're gonna rob me?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, then. I better make sure I always fuck you stupid."
Spock's eyes darkened noticeably at the vulgarity, and McCoy leaned in to kiss his cheek daringly, reminiscent of that first date and the tricky son-of-a-bitch that had slipped out of his hands, quite literally.
"See you Monday, Spock. And bring a change of clothes."
Next: Arc One, Part Thirty
Summary: The story of two lives becoming one - which is easier said than done when one's divorced, the other's neurotic, and both suffer from the unfortunate malady of being friends with James T. Kirk.
Overall Rating: NC17.
Overall Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content, moderate violence.
Chapter Specifics:
- 2,800 words.
- Rated R.
- Warning: almost-porn.
Arc One, Part Twenty-Nine
Spock's birthday, that year, happened to fall on a Wednesday. And as they seemed to be cut from the same cloth, McCoy was only aware of the run-up to said birthday thanks to palming his wallet during one of Jim's Monday nights at Harry's and sneaking a look at his license (which had an alarmingly psychopathic photo). And, as Spock had been a sneaky bastard back in August, McCoy had opted to be equally sneaky when the twenty-eighth of November rolled around, and was barely separable from the night before thanks to the heavy, black clouds belching rain over the entire city.
McCoy had, therefore, made plans - leaving thankfully on time, he spared enough to return home, shower, change, and head right back out to Spock's apartment, thumbing out a text in the middle of slow-moving, rain-clogged traffic. By the time he pulled up in front of the apartment block, the rain had eased enough to allow a sprint from the car to the door without getting drenched through, and taking the stairs allowed him to look at least semi-dry by the time Spock swung the door open.
"Leonard, what...?" he blinked at McCoy's smart slacks and dark shirt.
"Get yourself pretty and let's go."
Spock narrowed his eyes. "Pretty?"
"We're going out," McCoy said, pointedly jamming his foot in the doorway.
"We are?"
"Yep," McCoy said. "I took a leaf outta your book, and your license outta your wallet."
Spock blinked, then something seemed to click. "Ah. Leonard, I..."
"Shut it. I made reservations."
Spock looked dubious. "I have reservations."
"And I don't care. Get your shirt and pants on, and let's go. Smart-casual, and easy to peel off again afterwards. Git."
Spock paused a moment longer, then turned on his heel and retreated to the back of the apartment, leaving McCoy to inch through the gap and close the door behind him. He eyed the new so-called security chain with disgust. If he could squirm through the gap, the damn chain was too long. Far too long.
The apartment was, as usual, pristine, save for the upturned book on the couch (Nietzsche's The Gay Science, in a fit of pure irony. He probably had Human, All Too Human lying around someplace as well) and, surprisingly, a sealed pharmacy paper bag on the coffee table, which he either hadn't gotten around to putting away, or had uncharacteristically left out regardless. There was a half-drunk mug of either dark tea or coffee, and an empty wrapper belonging to - he nudged it over - a protein bar. Which meant he hadn't gone for making dinner yet (or had planned to skip it, yet another bad habit).
"Will this suffice?"
Spock re-emerged, the grey t-shirt replaced with a blue dress shirt and black slacks that, judging by the vague clutch around the crotch, were doing something sinful to his backside.
"You bet your ass it will," McCoy grinned, crossing the room to kiss him (the mug was half-full of dark tea) and sneak a quick grope at said ass before backing up and gallantly offering his arm. "Your chariot awaits."
"Your car is hardly a chariot."
"Better than your bike in this weather."
Spock declined to comment as he collected his jacket - a sleek, suit-like affair - from the hook, and his keys from the bowl, and locked up behind them.
"You need a shorter chain for the door."
"Apparently so, as you were meant to wait here."
"Yeah right," McCoy sniped, using the privacy of the stairwell to keep an arm around Spock's waist as long as possible. "As a warning: I brought a change of clothes. So don't get too smart."
"As you technically forced entry into my apartment, I fail to see why inviting you back poses a greater risk."
"I didn't force shit, your chain's too long," McCoy said, holding the door, and they stepped into the narrow gap of safety under the smokers' overhang.
"Regardless, you entered without permission."
"Better get used to it," McCoy leered, unpeeling himself and turning his collar up. "Alright. On three."
"Leonard," Spock said, the moment that McCoy turned into the parking lot.
"No complaints outta you until it's over," McCoy returned. "You don't get to complain."
Spock eyed the gleaming glass front of the restaurant dubiously. Hanashoubu - or Hannah's, as the locals tended to call it - was just about the only Japanese restaurant in the bay area that served halfway decent Japanese food. It served excellent Japanese food, in fact - and its prices reflected that.
"But..."
"Nope," McCoy said, getting out of the car and hunching against the rain. The parking lot was a tad more sheltered, but the winter had stripped down the leaves from the overhanging trees, and so they stepped briskly into the shadow of the building, the wind hissing angrily at their escape.
"Leonard, really, this is not neces..."
"I know it ain't," McCoy shrugged as they brushed through the glass doors and were instantly confronted with an absolutely tiny Asian woman. "Dr. McCoy, table for two at eight thirty."
"Of course," she bobbed in a bow that made dwarves look tall, whipped a couple of menus off the station, and led them through the quiet-yet-full restaurant towards a quiet booth in a hidden alcove at the back, leaving them promptly to their own devices and snapping something at a passing waiter that made Spock's mouth twitch.
"Leonard," he tried again as they sat, and McCoy hooked his foot around Spock's ankle, hidden by the long tablecloth.
"Just shut up and enjoy it," he said. "Won't happen again until next year anyhow."
It took a little longer for Spock to apparently relax - though his starter of what looked like a squid flattened by a landing jumbo jet seemed to do the trick - but there was a distinct amusement he was drawing from the chatter of Japanese amongst the staff, and from McCoy's half-hearted grumbling about the smell of fish. But he adamantly kept his hands to his own side of the table, and sidestepped their customary flirting rather than returning it with equal force; McCoy tucked both feet around Spock's right ankle, and used it as a substitute. Hopefully it was merely the public setting.
"I gotta admit, I'm a little surprised," he said in the lull between the main course(s) - given that apparently Asian people split up their meals into a thousand and one tiny bowls, or at least this place did.
"About?"
"You," he said. "You're still damn Chinese..."
"Japanese."
"...given that you've been living in America fuck-knows how long..."
"Approximately half of my life."
"...now, and should be more or less totally naturalised..."
"It would be unfortunate, to be entirely American."
"...but you're not. You're still very..." McCoy waved a hand. "Foreign."
"And yet," Spock noted, "my peers in Sendai always referred to me as being extremely American. I am a foreigner in either country."
"Well, you're more of a Jap than I am."
"...I would be highly amused to see the reaction of Sendai to you, Leonard," Spock said, offering a very tiny smile over the top of his glass.
"And Georgia to you, darlin'," McCoy grinned. "Hell, you'd be an alien in Dahlonega, what with your fancy science and countin'."
Spock cocked his head. "You did not like Dahlonega?"
"Place is fine; people ain't," McCoy shrugged. "It's too damn small. Atlanta - you can find the people worth your time in Atlanta. Go up into Chattahoochee, you don't even need the people in the first place, jus' you and nature. But Dahlonega itself - too small. I got out as a student and I wouldn't go back for the world, even if California ain't exactly brimmin' with common sense."
Spock's lips twitched again.
"You don't get men like you in Dahlonega," McCoy said, and Spock ducked his head. "You can get plenty embarrassed if you want, but it's true. Men like you are one in a million, and you get ten to a penny in Dahlonega, not one in a million."
Spock frowned slightly. "Then why were you in Dahlonega?"
McCoy was brought up short - he blinked, thrown off, before his brain rebooted and he huffed out a laugh. "Slippery son of a bitch, aren't you?"
"I am merely applying your own argument universally, and such an application provides that question."
"Well," McCoy said. "I got outta Dahlonega. Does that count for somethin'?"
Spock dropped his gaze back to his glass, and leaned back as the waiter appeared with dessert.
"Perhaps everything, Leonard."
It was almost midnight by the time McCoy pulled the car into the closest available space to the door, the rain still hammering down on the roof in a soothing counterpoint to the engine. He felt caught somewhere between the sleepy satisfaction of a long day, good food and better company, and the adrenalin buzz that he got from arguing with Spock (and there had been plenty of that when he'd paid for both of them, crushing Spock's protests underfoot with all the skill that the medical profession offered in completely ignoring other people's misgivings).
When he slipped free of his seatbelt and leaned over to kiss Spock in the darkness of the car, he could taste the argument on his lips.
"Shut it," he growled. "What kind of a man would I be to let you pay for anything on your birthday?"
"Apparently, a wiser man with more disposable income," Spock returned lowly, his fingers tucked warm and safe behind McCoy's ear, keeping him close.
"Call it a present," McCoy countered, briefly following the shadow of stubble before returning to that mouth. "Better'n some cheap gift you'll hate and sell on the internet in the morning anyway."
"Perhaps," Spock allowed, threading those fingers further into his hair. "And it was a gift much appreciated, if overpriced."
"No such thing for you," McCoy returned, briefly rediscovering the taste of that odd, smoky tea Spock had had before the main course, and spreading the remnants of that taste over his own lips. It was nicer out of the cup.
"I was led to believe, however..."
Uh-oh.
"...that allowing one party to pay for the meal implied an unspoken contract that the other would submit to sexual intercourse later in the evening."
McCoy snorted. "That's an outdated and damn stupid custom."
"And yet accurate. Your hand has not left my thigh for ten minutes."
It hadn't, but that was besides the point, and McCoy said as much, between multiple attempts at finding that sharp Japanese alcohol lingering at the back of Spock's mouth.
"You brought a change of clothes."
McCoy paused, and knew that Spock could read the answer in his face.
"You don't owe me anythin'," he said brusquely.
"No," Spock agreed, his thigh rippling with movement under McCoy's fingers before his knees parted slightly and he rocked his hip up into the hand. "But I do wish to prolong the evening, and express my thanks."
McCoy struggled, his moral compass and his libido going to war (and not for the first time).
"After what you just said, the southerner in me ain't happy," he pointed out.
"The man in you is," Spock returned, pressing his hand down on McCoy's to curl them both around the growing erection in his slacks. That alone almost caused McCoy's brain to short-circuit, and he groaned into another, distinctly messier kiss.
"You play damn dirty pool," he breathed.
"Would you like to come up for coffee?"
"Your coffee's vile."
"I am not offering coffee," and Spock rocked his hips again, the slacks hiding nothing from McCoy's well-placed hand.
"Oh God yes."
The elevator was, for once, working; the enclosed space and the alcohol from dinner combined to let Spock bury his hands in McCoy's hair and assault his tongue with single-minded concentration. The feel of that semi in his slacks was enticing enough - demanding enough - that McCoy kept a hand planted on the place where his leg met his buttock, locking him in place, groin-to-groin, and sucked out his air to keep him breathless enough to not think of escaping at least until they reached the right floor.
Getting into the apartment was a mess of fumbling hands and the rattle of keys before bursting into the small space and slamming the door unnecessarily loudly behind them. The bedroom was a mile away, over creaky floorboards and city lights through unshielded windows, and then McCoy was crashing down onto the mattress, Spock's knees locked either side of his own, and the both of them breathing the same air.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he protested after another minute or two of heady, heavy kissing. "Back up, back up."
Spock paused, blinking in the faint glow from the main road. "Leonard?"
McCoy rolled his shoulders. "I feel...vaguely like you're...I don't know. Like this is because I paid. Like I've paid for this."
Spock stared down at him - then, quite unexpectedly, ripped his jacket open and liberated his wallet, smacking McCoy's hands aside when he tried to prevent him. He deftly removed a twenty dollar bill before tossing the wallet away into the darkness of the room and sliding the bill into the back pocket of his pants.
"Now you have paid for this," he said, and literally tore - tore - McCoy's shirt apart.
All thought of monetary compensation fled with the rake of his nails across McCoy's chest, and the sudden surge of primal, instinctive - not thought, but action. McCoy surged up to tackle him, tearing his own jacket free and clutching at skin and muscle and the sheer smell of him - and they inelegantly tumbled from the bed to the floor.
They did not return to it for some time.
"Leonard. Leonard."
McCoy groaned, turned over - and squawked inelegantly as he nearly fell out of the bed.
Ah, yes. Spock's. Spock's ridiculously narrow bed.
"Chinese bastard," he grumbled.
"Japanese," Spock returned blandly from the doorway. He was half-dressed in a fresh pair of pants and an open white shirt, face freshly shaven, and the faint smell of coffee just about permeating the stink of sex that surrounded the bed. "I must go to work shortly."
"Okay. Okay, I'm up. Fuck," McCoy groaned, stretching and managing to untangle himself from the sheets. "Goddamn, you're exhausting."
"Thank you."
"Smug fucker."
"Indeed."
"Where're my pants?"
"In the main room. Would you like them?"
"Yeah, there's some law about driving naked," McCoy grumbled, kicking the tattered remains of his shirt aside and locating his underwear. He supposed that after that feral performance, he should count himself lucky they'd survived. "Good thing I brought a change of clothes. What the hell?"
"I surmised it would be an excellent way to distract you," Spock replied, disappearing into the main room.
"Yeah, no shit," McCoy grumbled, giving up on his socks. God only knew what had happened to them. "I think you're technically a prostitute now."
"Is a single client sufficient to warrant that status?"
"Hell if I know, but I'm twenty dollars poorer for it. You gotta be the cheapest damn hooker in the state."
"More than that, if we include the meal," Spock said, returning and tossing McCoy's pants at him.
"Okay, a hundred and seventy dollars poorer for it," McCoy said, catching them and snapping them out. "Still pretty cheap, given that I think I had a seizure in there somewhere."
"Merely an orgasm, Leonard."
"Merely, my ass."
"That is very far from mere."
"Yours ain't so bad either, darlin'," McCoy grinned crookedly at him as he ripped open his bag and located a fresh shirt. "Same time next year?"
"I would hope rather sooner than that," Spock returned primly, retreating into the main room again. When McCoy followed, he was tying his laces on the couch. "I am quite happy to...pay for services rendered with more tonkatsu, if you so desire it."
"My services are free, unlike some Chinese immigrants around here," McCoy said, hefting his bag onto his shoulder and grabbing his coat. It had, judging by a glance out of the window, gone from bucketing it down to merely ordinary rain.
Halfway to the door, Spock's hand shot out to clamp around his belt buckle, and suddenly they were nose-to-nose, and there was a hand slipping into his pants.
"Whoa, if you wanna get to work on..."
A crinkle sounded, and he glanced down at the twenty dollar bill suddenly tucked into the front of his pants.
"For such satisfactory nights, my services are also free."
He stared at the calm, almost-smirking foreigner in front of him, then cracked a smile of his own.
"So if it's ever shit, you're gonna rob me?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, then. I better make sure I always fuck you stupid."
Spock's eyes darkened noticeably at the vulgarity, and McCoy leaned in to kiss his cheek daringly, reminiscent of that first date and the tricky son-of-a-bitch that had slipped out of his hands, quite literally.
"See you Monday, Spock. And bring a change of clothes."
Next: Arc One, Part Thirty