A Temporary Madness: A1, P34
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:
- 1,500 words.
- Rated PG13.
- No warnings.
Notes: The end of Arc One! There will be a pause while I wrap up the interlude and the second arc, and then on we shall go.
Arc One, Part Thirty-Four
That April had broken bitter, cold with a heavy, dank fog hanging off the sky and smothering the city, clinging to the surfaces and rubbing its polluted filth on the glass, smearing its ugly way over everything. But it had been a step up, yet again, from the dreary wet of February and the icy sleet of March that had taken an eternity to lift. The depression of March had permeated everything - it had bled through the walls of Spock's apartment to that night they spent sitting on the floor by the front door, McCoy's arm around his shoulders and the phone in his hand, ready to call the ambulance if there was just one more hitch, just one more...there had been an argument in the parking lot of the asthma clinic two days later, and for a terrible moment, McCoy had been convinced that Spock was about to cry or hit him, or both, and he'd wanted nothing more than to take back whatever it was he'd said and make it all go away.
But he wasn't God. He couldn't make things just go away.
Time passed; time always did, and when April dawned (though the weather didn't change for a while) the leaky exhaustion of March sank with the winter, and on the evening of the second, Spock kissed him outside his apartment building, and had blithely ignored the indignant squawk from a neighbour. April brought the early traces of spring, and the abandonment of their gloves in favour of bare hands - and the sensation that they'd weather this and be alright.
It had dawned with Jo's very first broken bone (and to McCoy's eternal pride, gained from falling out of a tree in true McCoy fashion), and the first forty-eight-hour callout in just about six years at work, and the intense amusement of hearing Spock swear for the first time after breaking a glass and slicing open two fingers on the shards, even if that amusement had been eventually tempered with the fact that the slash was long enough to require three stitches.
They had been busy, that first week - the labs had performance evaluations, which Spock seemed to detest with the same power that Jim detested monogamy; Jo had wailed long and hard for her father at the hospital and had utterly disrupted the usual childcare pattern with her bullheaded insistence; and to top it off, McCoy's pager hadn't stopped beeping for nearly four days. He had begun to have nightmares about it, which only made Spock's jaw twitch at though he desperately wanted to be openly mocking and roll his eyes.
It had not been the best start to a month ever, despite McCoy's intense amusement at the idea that Spock actually knew any cursing in English - he supposed either Jim or himself were probably to blame for that - although the dank weather and the complete absence of anything resembling a sun since last September meant that the pollen count involved the numerical abilities of a two-year-old to calculate. Which meant their already limited time wasn't being limited further, at the very least, by the asthma.
But McCoy was ready, this time. He was ready for the entire month of June to be spent on his cell phone bill, and sneak-visits to a tiny apartment on the fourth floor with a crap view, and the odd caught call between looking after his still ridiculously active daughter and making sure no more idiots caught themselves on fire in the middle of the emergency room (middle of March, and don't freakin' ask). He was ready for it - ready for the constant battle, and the moments away from it all, and stopping distance of hearing the first tell-tale hitch or grind or wheeze in Spock's breathing. Hell, he was armed, with memorised medication names, and prevention times, and even beginning to recognise that vague spine-stiffness that smacked of a bad day...and when July started to settle out, he would be ready, and definitely looking forward to taking a week off work and not going outside for at least five days. To celebrate. Obviously.
And just being prepared, and not blindsided, put him in a better frame of mind.
Sometimes, he'd get to see him sick - though they were still battling that one out - but the incidents of actually being sick seemed to be going down, so he was letting that all slide for the moment. He bitched and moaned, of course - Spock would think him off if he didn't - but he largely rolled his eyes and let it go. He'd pick it up again in the summer, after the flowers, and hopefully use sex as a bribe (Jim was right about some things, at least) and definitely do some more shouting and ranting and raving, and get that look like Spock couldn't decide whether to kiss him or smack him, and occasionally did both.
But most of all...
It was this, when Spock walked into the bar that Jim had chosen for the evening, and the first thing he looked for was not Jim, or the bar, or a sweep of the patrons, but McCoy. And he wouldn't do anything - wouldn't approach, because a drink came first; wouldn't smile, because he just didn't; wouldn't call out, for the same reason - but McCoy was the first thing he would look for, and even if Spock didn't smile for it, it made McCoy smile, damn it.
And it was this, when he got his drink and joined them (in this instance, at another pool table with a worse tilt than the one in Harry's) and they didn't hug or kiss or do anything like that - but when he bent to take his first shot and begin the evening's destruction of Jim's confidence, McCoy would run his fingers along the leather belt and the slip of white skin across his back, feel the heat and bone and shiver of him, and just rest his hand there for a moment.
And Spock didn't pluck his hand away.
He would straighten again, and he would be relaxed and still and calm, and when he moved away, McCoy's hand would drop again - but while he didn't move, while he stood and watched Jim take his shot, McCoy's hand would stay right where it was, thumb rubbing into the smooth skin of his back, and Spock would let him.
Spock would...let him.
"So," McCoy said, when Jim turned from his defeat to find a table and order something resembling food, wearing his usual mockery of a scowl and muttering something about his dignity. "It's a year to the day since we met."
"It is," Spock's eyes were darker than usual, the pupils blown wide, and when McCoy rested a hand back on that narrow hip and circled his thumb into the joint again, they obliterated the brown entirely. He looked wild, feral - dangerous. Sex on legs, and he wasn't even wearing leather tonight. "Is this the first anniversary?"
"I guess it is."
"You guess?"
"Well, I didn't realise then that this was going to be something more than another idle fling," McCoy drawled, digging his thumb lightly into that hip again. "Don't think I realised that for a while."
"A while?"
McCoy shrugged. "I can't pinpoint it. Can you?"
"The tenth of June," Spock said, to McCoy's surprise. "The medical conference."
McCoy cocked his head. "Lunch on the grass," he said slowly, "and that night after at your apartment."
Something shifted in Spock's gaze, and McCoy's couldn't quite tell what it was yet, but he liked it. He'd learn to read it; in the meantime, he could at least appreciate it.
"Nights in your apartment aside, this is an anniversary, so I reckon we need to celebrate that."
"And how do you propose that we do so?"
McCoy shrugged. "I've done my cleanin' this weekend, and I'm on the early shift tomorrow, so I can send you home again before you gotta go to work."
Both of Spock's eyebrows met his hairline, and McCoy grinned at the...not-quite-surprise in his face.
"You are confident."
"Optimistic," McCoy drawled. "Fresh sheets on the bed, too."
"I see," Spock said, his thumb beginning to rub around the mouth of the bottle and collect the condensation. "And this requires mention, because...?"
"Because," McCoy leaned in close to whisper, "there's no damn point in gettin' that fine ass of yours in my bed - my double bed, I might add - and rippin' you apart if you're too seized up to appreciate it."
Spock didn't colour, but McCoy knew what to look for now, and there was a definite faint shiver around his fingers on that beer bottle. A tiny muscle, caught between the tendons of his thumb and first finger, twitched in time to his breathing.
"Fresh sheets," he echoed.
"S'what I said," McCoy replied lazily, hooking a finger into the top of Spock's belt and tugging sharply enough to be felt, sharply enough to move him, before dropping his hand again quickly. "'Course if you're too tired for it..."
"I do not believe that I said that." A hair too fast.
"Guys, c'mon, there's a pizza deal - Spock, they'll do olives!" Jim hollered from the bar, and McCoy smirked, holding Spock's dilated gaze.
"Comin', Jim," he drawled, and finally the colour crept into that white face. "Later," he added in a low tone, before turning.
His hand was caught, briefly, and a breath washed by his ear.
"Later."
April ninth was a damn good day after all.
END ARC ONE.
Next: Interlude One
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:
- 1,500 words.
- Rated PG13.
- No warnings.
Notes: The end of Arc One! There will be a pause while I wrap up the interlude and the second arc, and then on we shall go.
Arc One, Part Thirty-Four
That April had broken bitter, cold with a heavy, dank fog hanging off the sky and smothering the city, clinging to the surfaces and rubbing its polluted filth on the glass, smearing its ugly way over everything. But it had been a step up, yet again, from the dreary wet of February and the icy sleet of March that had taken an eternity to lift. The depression of March had permeated everything - it had bled through the walls of Spock's apartment to that night they spent sitting on the floor by the front door, McCoy's arm around his shoulders and the phone in his hand, ready to call the ambulance if there was just one more hitch, just one more...there had been an argument in the parking lot of the asthma clinic two days later, and for a terrible moment, McCoy had been convinced that Spock was about to cry or hit him, or both, and he'd wanted nothing more than to take back whatever it was he'd said and make it all go away.
But he wasn't God. He couldn't make things just go away.
Time passed; time always did, and when April dawned (though the weather didn't change for a while) the leaky exhaustion of March sank with the winter, and on the evening of the second, Spock kissed him outside his apartment building, and had blithely ignored the indignant squawk from a neighbour. April brought the early traces of spring, and the abandonment of their gloves in favour of bare hands - and the sensation that they'd weather this and be alright.
It had dawned with Jo's very first broken bone (and to McCoy's eternal pride, gained from falling out of a tree in true McCoy fashion), and the first forty-eight-hour callout in just about six years at work, and the intense amusement of hearing Spock swear for the first time after breaking a glass and slicing open two fingers on the shards, even if that amusement had been eventually tempered with the fact that the slash was long enough to require three stitches.
They had been busy, that first week - the labs had performance evaluations, which Spock seemed to detest with the same power that Jim detested monogamy; Jo had wailed long and hard for her father at the hospital and had utterly disrupted the usual childcare pattern with her bullheaded insistence; and to top it off, McCoy's pager hadn't stopped beeping for nearly four days. He had begun to have nightmares about it, which only made Spock's jaw twitch at though he desperately wanted to be openly mocking and roll his eyes.
It had not been the best start to a month ever, despite McCoy's intense amusement at the idea that Spock actually knew any cursing in English - he supposed either Jim or himself were probably to blame for that - although the dank weather and the complete absence of anything resembling a sun since last September meant that the pollen count involved the numerical abilities of a two-year-old to calculate. Which meant their already limited time wasn't being limited further, at the very least, by the asthma.
But McCoy was ready, this time. He was ready for the entire month of June to be spent on his cell phone bill, and sneak-visits to a tiny apartment on the fourth floor with a crap view, and the odd caught call between looking after his still ridiculously active daughter and making sure no more idiots caught themselves on fire in the middle of the emergency room (middle of March, and don't freakin' ask). He was ready for it - ready for the constant battle, and the moments away from it all, and stopping distance of hearing the first tell-tale hitch or grind or wheeze in Spock's breathing. Hell, he was armed, with memorised medication names, and prevention times, and even beginning to recognise that vague spine-stiffness that smacked of a bad day...and when July started to settle out, he would be ready, and definitely looking forward to taking a week off work and not going outside for at least five days. To celebrate. Obviously.
And just being prepared, and not blindsided, put him in a better frame of mind.
Sometimes, he'd get to see him sick - though they were still battling that one out - but the incidents of actually being sick seemed to be going down, so he was letting that all slide for the moment. He bitched and moaned, of course - Spock would think him off if he didn't - but he largely rolled his eyes and let it go. He'd pick it up again in the summer, after the flowers, and hopefully use sex as a bribe (Jim was right about some things, at least) and definitely do some more shouting and ranting and raving, and get that look like Spock couldn't decide whether to kiss him or smack him, and occasionally did both.
But most of all...
It was this, when Spock walked into the bar that Jim had chosen for the evening, and the first thing he looked for was not Jim, or the bar, or a sweep of the patrons, but McCoy. And he wouldn't do anything - wouldn't approach, because a drink came first; wouldn't smile, because he just didn't; wouldn't call out, for the same reason - but McCoy was the first thing he would look for, and even if Spock didn't smile for it, it made McCoy smile, damn it.
And it was this, when he got his drink and joined them (in this instance, at another pool table with a worse tilt than the one in Harry's) and they didn't hug or kiss or do anything like that - but when he bent to take his first shot and begin the evening's destruction of Jim's confidence, McCoy would run his fingers along the leather belt and the slip of white skin across his back, feel the heat and bone and shiver of him, and just rest his hand there for a moment.
And Spock didn't pluck his hand away.
He would straighten again, and he would be relaxed and still and calm, and when he moved away, McCoy's hand would drop again - but while he didn't move, while he stood and watched Jim take his shot, McCoy's hand would stay right where it was, thumb rubbing into the smooth skin of his back, and Spock would let him.
Spock would...let him.
"So," McCoy said, when Jim turned from his defeat to find a table and order something resembling food, wearing his usual mockery of a scowl and muttering something about his dignity. "It's a year to the day since we met."
"It is," Spock's eyes were darker than usual, the pupils blown wide, and when McCoy rested a hand back on that narrow hip and circled his thumb into the joint again, they obliterated the brown entirely. He looked wild, feral - dangerous. Sex on legs, and he wasn't even wearing leather tonight. "Is this the first anniversary?"
"I guess it is."
"You guess?"
"Well, I didn't realise then that this was going to be something more than another idle fling," McCoy drawled, digging his thumb lightly into that hip again. "Don't think I realised that for a while."
"A while?"
McCoy shrugged. "I can't pinpoint it. Can you?"
"The tenth of June," Spock said, to McCoy's surprise. "The medical conference."
McCoy cocked his head. "Lunch on the grass," he said slowly, "and that night after at your apartment."
Something shifted in Spock's gaze, and McCoy's couldn't quite tell what it was yet, but he liked it. He'd learn to read it; in the meantime, he could at least appreciate it.
"Nights in your apartment aside, this is an anniversary, so I reckon we need to celebrate that."
"And how do you propose that we do so?"
McCoy shrugged. "I've done my cleanin' this weekend, and I'm on the early shift tomorrow, so I can send you home again before you gotta go to work."
Both of Spock's eyebrows met his hairline, and McCoy grinned at the...not-quite-surprise in his face.
"You are confident."
"Optimistic," McCoy drawled. "Fresh sheets on the bed, too."
"I see," Spock said, his thumb beginning to rub around the mouth of the bottle and collect the condensation. "And this requires mention, because...?"
"Because," McCoy leaned in close to whisper, "there's no damn point in gettin' that fine ass of yours in my bed - my double bed, I might add - and rippin' you apart if you're too seized up to appreciate it."
Spock didn't colour, but McCoy knew what to look for now, and there was a definite faint shiver around his fingers on that beer bottle. A tiny muscle, caught between the tendons of his thumb and first finger, twitched in time to his breathing.
"Fresh sheets," he echoed.
"S'what I said," McCoy replied lazily, hooking a finger into the top of Spock's belt and tugging sharply enough to be felt, sharply enough to move him, before dropping his hand again quickly. "'Course if you're too tired for it..."
"I do not believe that I said that." A hair too fast.
"Guys, c'mon, there's a pizza deal - Spock, they'll do olives!" Jim hollered from the bar, and McCoy smirked, holding Spock's dilated gaze.
"Comin', Jim," he drawled, and finally the colour crept into that white face. "Later," he added in a low tone, before turning.
His hand was caught, briefly, and a breath washed by his ear.
"Later."
April ninth was a damn good day after all.
END ARC ONE.
Next: Interlude One