FIC: Once A Blue
He tells Jim that it’s something to help him relax.
By the time that Jim’s realized that something is wrong, he’s already useless and McCoy is pushing him onto a bed. Jim wants to ask him what the hell is going on, but doesn’t, because he’s stupid like that - always thinks it’s his fault, too trusting for his own fucking health, reverting back to the little boy that McCoy glimpses once a blue moon; insecure, an emotional masochist, slavish to the slightest hint of approval. McCoy can see the dulled gears turning behind those clear aqua eyes, but it doesn’t worry him; Jim is blind to the bullshit of people he cares about, a facet of his personality developed from those long hard years of excusing his abusive parent(s) in the name of love and misguided loyalty.
‘Unbelievable,’ He grumbles under his breath, knowing full well that Jim is listening to every word, ‘Whatever happened to not drinking on the job?’ It’s a harsh thing to say and the words bring Jim’s demons out in full manifestation.
‘It was a drink…’ Jim mumbles, his distress obvious even through his dazed state. He leans up on an elbow and rubs his head - McCoy’s eyes flick to the timer on his datapad - the headache is right on time. The blond grimaces and gives him an imploring look, ‘It was really small, Bones, you have to believe me!’
‘I believe you,’ He mumbles.
Jim smiles at him weakly, relieved that someone is on his side. McCoy looks away. Through the privacy curtains, there’s the sound of the main Sickbay doors opening and Chapel calling out a greeting to “Commander Spock,” wanting to know what the Vulcan wanted - he’s looking for Jim, as usual. Jim seizes up like a naughty child caught touching something he shouldn’t.
‘Shit…’ The younger man groans, struggling to sit upright, ‘Oh shit, Bones, they can’t see me like this, especially not Spock… he’ll be a completely unbearable prick about it.’
‘You should have thought of that earlier.’ McCoy says, unsympathetic. He scans the younger man over with the medical tricorder. A few more minutes and Jim will become flushed, feverish, before he begins to lose cognitive abilities.
‘Bones.’
There’s something different in the way that Jim says his name. It makes him look up. For the moment, the brilliant and youngest ever Captain in Starfleet history is a disheveled young man, terrified of disappointing someone whom he thinks he ought to give a damn about. Even his opinion, which Jim so loudly and happily dismisses, is mulled over in secret. One day, Jim may grow up, if he gets any further in this budding something he’s got with Spock, the friendships he’s begun with the rest of the senior crew. Until then, Jim is just this side of gullible when it comes to anyone he’s close to - or considers close.
Jim’s expression shifts, his usually sunny complexion paling. ‘Bones I’m going to be sick.’
McCoy barely has time to snatch up a disposal bin and shove it in Jim’s direction before the younger man is throwing up. He grabs his tricorder just as the privacy curtains snap aside with a sharp hiss. He glares at the Vulcan.
‘You rip out those and you’re damn well paying for them.’
‘Doctor McCoy,’ Spock says calmly, completely ignoring his remark. The little tick at his forehead could mean that he’s disgusted or he’s concerned - McCoy prefers the first explanation. ‘How is the Captain?’
Jim’s pleading glance just before he doubles over and throws up another mouthful of dinner makes him pause, but he never intended to tell the truth anyway. McCoy clears his throat, ‘I believe it’s just something he ate. Don’t worry I’ll make sure he’s good for tomorrow.’
He putters around Jim, pressing him down into the bed and turning on the monitors. Jim blinks up at him and then smiles softly - ‘Bones…’ He whispers, eyes suddenly widening, ‘Where’s my mom?’
The drugs are working, maybe a little too well. ‘You’ll be okay, Jim, just get some rest.’ He pats the younger man fondly on the shoulder and turns to his waiting audience.
Spock stares back, eyes dark. This is the tricky part. ‘You’ll do him no good here,’ He mutters, grabbing a nearby hypospray kit and making a pretension of looking for something to make Jim feel better, ‘I need to him to get some rest and if you stick around, he’ll want to be entertained and next thing you know, you’ll be wadding through Sulu and Uhura’s latest compendium on training maneuvers across the Neutral Zone and it’s tactical implications.’
Spock lingers, reluctant. A burst of ire shoots through him. He levels the Vulcan with a glare that’s unmistakable - either start throwing up and get into a bed, or get the hell out of the Sickbay. The good thing about Spock, he supposes, is that the man knows his place. Nodding, he leaves after giving another thoughtful look in Jim’s direction.
‘Goodnight, Captain.’ The Vulcan nodded to him, ‘Doctor.’
He waits a beat after the hiss of the doors before calling Chapel over, ‘Nurse, finish up by checking on depleted stock in the cold storage- make a list.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Her reply is brisk and concise. Chapel trusts him. She doesn’t even become curious when he starts riffling through the medicine cabinet. Picking up her datapad, she shrugs on the padded lab coat and exits left. The doors to the medical supplies cold storage hisses close behind her. Alone at last, he quickly takes what he needs and goes back to his waiting patient.
Jim glances at him, swallowing thickly as he panted, still sickly but a reddish hue coming over his cheeks now. ‘Hey Bones.’
‘I thought I told you to get some rest.’ McCoy holds his patient up into a half-sitting position and gets him to clean out his mouth with a swig of mouthwash. ‘Spit,’ He orders, holding up a fresh disposal bin.
Jim spits. Good boy.
He roughly rolls Jim over onto his stomach. There’s an oomph and a whine of surprise. He pushes the shirt up and pulls the pants down just enough for him to access the full length of Jim’s spine. It flexes and shudders at the sensation of his fingers pressing down, probing.
‘Bones, what are you-‘
He shoves Jim back down flat on the bed. ‘Relax, the conventional treatment for this kind of stomach bug will just make things worse, so I’m going to try something a little different.’
Jim believes him, relaxes and hugs his pillow, submitting entirely.
McCoy takes an audible breath, and then presses the hypospray to the base of Jim’s spine. The hiss is loud and terrible in the quiet. The next shift doesn’t start till an hour from now, and besides Chapel, everyone else has been sent off early. There are no prying eyes, no one to question him. Raising his hand, he lightly raps his knuckles against Jim’s back thigh. The younger man doesn’t even flinch. He is starting to sweat though, skin becoming hot to the touch. It’s the induced fever coming on. He pulls the underwear down roughly.
Slapping on gloves, he coats his right index finger in lube. ‘You still okay there?’
The answer is slurred, ‘I feel hot, Bones.’
‘That’s natural - I gave you something to sweat it out.’ He draws the curtains tight around the bed and dims the lighting in their part of the ward. There shouldn’t be a silhouette cast this way, even if someone should walk in unexpectedly they’d have to peek inside to know what is going on in here. ‘Shut up and get some sleep, Jim.’
He drags the pants down further. He tries a finger but that’s quickly joined by another. The mix of muscle relaxant and medieval anesthesia means that Jim feels nothing and accepts his fingers like a truly experienced whore. He thrusts his fingers in and out, checking for - darn it, what is he checking for? It’s just not the same behind a layer of rubber. Jim stirs a little. He pulls out and strips the glove off, dropping it into the disposal.
McCoy pulls the blanket to cover his patient and quickly heads over to the sink. Nothing beats washing hands the old-fashioned way and giving it a pass under the sterilite; he uses a brush too, cleaning under his fingernails, wanting to be thorough. When he goes back, he doesn’t hesitate. Jim clutches his pillow a little tighter and makes a little muffled whine when his probing fingers reach his prostate. It amuses him that that even drugged out of his mind and numb from the waist down, Jim would know that someone had their fingers up his ass.
Rolling the man over on his side, he reaches around and palms the cock. Flaccid and no measureable response. Good. It’s not time yet. Liberally coating his fingers in more lube, he feels his way inside Jim, curling his fingers as if his hand could crawl into the young man’s guts. Something stirs in his lower belly, furious and dark, at the sensation of all that hot tightness clinging to his fingers, right down to the knuckle.
The hiss of the door interrupts him, sending a kick of adrenalin up his spine, unease down his guts. His cock stirs.
‘Doctor McCoy?’
He exhales loudly and pulls his fingers out, hearing the slick sound as they left Jim’s ass. ‘What is it, Chapel?’
‘I’ve finished compiling the list.’
He grabs a handy rag and wipes his fingers, staring at the dark redness of the hole he’s managed to open up. Jim’s been fucked recently. It’s the slight discoloration, sign of healing abrasions. Jim's been a naughty boy. ‘Good. Send it up to Communications, tell them to relay it to our next stopover - then I recommend some rest, Nurse.’
There’s a rustle of cloth, and the computer terminal beeping as she follows his orders. ‘Yes, sir - should I wait around for Mendoza to arrive?’
‘Nothing’s happening, Chapel, so get out of here before I kick you out.’ He says with practiced gruffness, pretending distraction.
There’s amusement in the woman’s voice, ‘Of course Doctor. Goodnight.’
‘Hmm…’ He murmurs.
As soon as the doors hiss close, he rolls Jim onto his back and strips him, throwing the Starfleet issue boxer briefs into the disposal. The gold command shirt and undershirt, pants, socks and boots go into a tagged bag. Naked flesh is a pretty normal part of his daily routine and he sees Jim on a regular basis, but there’s something different about this particular night, something special. Ah, of course, McCoy thinks with a smirk, it’s the quiet - no one is yapping at him.
He drags the hips to the side so one of Jim’s legs hangs off the side of the bed. McCoy pushes the legs apart, one on the bed, one over his shoulder and squeezes a liberal amount of lube over Jim’s stomach. He smears his fingers through it before thrusting in and out of Jim’s asshole, slow and thoughtful. He could hypospray him with a low-grade localized painkiller for the next twenty four hours. A little awkward but it’s possible; he’ll just say that it’s part of the treatment - Lord knows that Jim needs options when it comes to treatments, with all the shit he’s allergic to - add a little stokaline and happy chemicals, and Jim will be practically purring for the day.
Hmm… tempting but Jim’s been used recently, may be used again - McCoy eyes the flaccid cock, imagining it thickening and hardening, pushing into him. He pulls his fingers out and settles Jim back onto the bio-bed. He presses the hypospray to Jim’s inner thigh and feels a thrill as he hears it hiss, pushing the drug straight into Jim’s femoral artery. Only a few seconds pass before Jim’s cock stirs. He doesn’t wait, just smears his palm through the remaining lube on the abdomen and grasps Jim’s cock firmly. With clinical movements, he brings the man to full arousal and is rewarded with a slightly pained groan. There are vague grimaces as the younger man twists a little, eyes fluttering.
McCoy watches carefully, hand pumping and stroking, his thumb flicking and rolling over the tip. Jim’s spine arches but his legs remain immobile, still affected by the dose he injected into his spinal cord. Pale eyes open and look right through him, before rolling up in Jim’s head, lost in a drug induced stupor. He smiles a little; some days he’s too good at his job.
Quickly stripping down, McCoy neatly folds his clothes and tucks them into one of the baskets in the nearby trolley. He rakes his hand through the remaining lube on Jim’s stomach and starts to masturbate. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes before he is biting his lip, wanting to fuck something or be fucked - that’s the beauty of being a doctor, he supposes, even in med school, all those classmates, ready and willing to stick their fingers and other instruments up his ass, and then vice versa, all for the sake of a good grade and friendly class bonding.
Grabbing the lube resting on top of the trolley, he squirts more into his palms and rubs them together, before massaging Jim’s erection like he is applying tropical cream, nice solid firm strokes, to cover the maximum amount of skin in the shortest time. The younger man moans and tosses his head back, hair tangled mess and damp from fever.
He lowers the bed from consultation-height to something more manageable and throws a leg over Jim’s thighs, settling across them comfortably. Grasping both their erections, he strokes them together, and has to fight the swell of sudden pleasure by tugging on his balls. He’s never gone this far before, and FUCK - McCoy groans and closes his eyes briefly, trying to keep his mind from flickering through those fantasies he uses jerking off in the privacy of his own quarters, because one single fragment from those and he’ll be humping Jim’s leg.
The prep is quick and practiced; there’s more lube on Jim’s cock and then he’s shuffling forwards, sitting back down and fucking himself on his sleeping lover for the evening. It’s all about him - he moves his hips erratically, then deep and slow, breathing through his teeth as he works that cock against his prostate with every stroke. Jim moans and his arms shift around, lax fingers grasping at nothing, but otherwise just lays there, jolting with each downward slap of flesh against flesh.
He comes with a hissed groan against Jim’s sternum, fingers bruising around Jim’s upper arms as the rush courses through his body, his other hand jerking him off until he’s coming over Jim’s bellybutton. The younger man grimaces and turns his head to the side, whining. McCoy releases the cock he’s hijacked. Jim doesn’t have an orgasm - in fact his erection is softening. Getting off the bed, he grabs the derma-regenerator and fixes up the damage on the arm. Just to cover his bases, McCoy also runs the regenerator over Jim’s cock and hips, and hyposprays him with another sedative. He cleans up a little but doesn’t bother overdoing it - Jim’s fever will last a few more hours, and he’ll wake up filthy either way.
The Sickbay doors hiss open, making his head snap up. Ah, the next shift. The sound of light chatter floats across to him - M’Benga, Mendoza and Jackson. He takes out a few moist antiseptic towels and wipes himself between the legs, cleaning away the traces of cum and lube.
‘That you, Mendoza?’ He grumbles, pulling on his pants and shirt.
‘… ah, yes, sir.’ There’s slight confusion in the young man’s voice.
McCoy pulls the thin blanket up until it’s up to Jim’s chin and draws the privacy curtains to the side, pushing the trolley in front of him to hide his bare feet. There’s no point hiding - it’ll just make them suspicious.
‘You’re all late. But you, Nurse Mendoza, this is the third time.’
Mendoza gives him a sheepish look, ‘Sorry sir. Won’t do it again.’
He raises a censuring eyebrow and watches the young man become flustered, quickly rushing off to continue the inventory of the medicine cabinets in Ward 4. M’Benga gives him a stoic shrug and disappears off to the labs. Jackson smiles, her red hair bloody underneath the bright lights. He ducks back behind the curtains and pulls on his boots in the dimness.
‘We can take it from here, Doctor McCoy. You should have signed out fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Yes, well I would have, Nurse, if someone had been here to hold down the fort.’ A hand is smoothed down his uniform. It smells of sweat in here, but thankfully the smell of sex is illusive under the neutral, slightly acidic scent of the lube, which smells like pretty much every non-scented skin contact substance including muscle relaxant and chaffing cream. He takes a deep breath, savoring the odd non-smell. ‘The Captain’s going to be here overnight - I’ll need you to watch him.’
She rushes over - so predictable. ‘Is he okay?’ She asks, frowning with concern.
McCoy nods gruffly, ‘Just another allergic reaction - I’ve got him stabilized and he’s sedated for now. Just wake him up at some point for fluids and a toilet trip.’
‘Of course.’
He goes to wash his hands. Jackson follows, dutifully taking notes on her PADD.
‘You’ll find the vomit in the disposal bins - I’ve already taken a sample so get rid of it. Contact his yeoman - he’ll need a fresh change of clothes - and what he came into Sickbay is bagged and tagged. I also want you to prepare a new dietary card for him - light foods for the next two days, nothing spicy or too exotic. Got that Jackson?’
Jackson nods, ‘Yes sir.’
‘Good.’ He says, drying his hands on a sterile towel. ‘Goodnight, Nurse.’
‘Goodnight, Doctor. Hope you enjoy your evening.’
He already has. Nodding, he leaves. The urge to fuck something is still with him even though his ass is still feeling the pleasant after-sensations of a good precise fuck. It feels unfinished, like he needs something else to take the edge off. The turbolift finally arrives, doors opening with a whistle.
‘Deck Five.’ He says as he gets in, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. He closes his eyes, fighting down the urge to go back to Sickbay and fuck Jim hard enough to leave bruises. Maybe next time.
and I kind of feel like hiding now...
By the time that Jim’s realized that something is wrong, he’s already useless and McCoy is pushing him onto a bed. Jim wants to ask him what the hell is going on, but doesn’t, because he’s stupid like that - always thinks it’s his fault, too trusting for his own fucking health, reverting back to the little boy that McCoy glimpses once a blue moon; insecure, an emotional masochist, slavish to the slightest hint of approval. McCoy can see the dulled gears turning behind those clear aqua eyes, but it doesn’t worry him; Jim is blind to the bullshit of people he cares about, a facet of his personality developed from those long hard years of excusing his abusive parent(s) in the name of love and misguided loyalty.
‘Unbelievable,’ He grumbles under his breath, knowing full well that Jim is listening to every word, ‘Whatever happened to not drinking on the job?’ It’s a harsh thing to say and the words bring Jim’s demons out in full manifestation.
‘It was a drink…’ Jim mumbles, his distress obvious even through his dazed state. He leans up on an elbow and rubs his head - McCoy’s eyes flick to the timer on his datapad - the headache is right on time. The blond grimaces and gives him an imploring look, ‘It was really small, Bones, you have to believe me!’
‘I believe you,’ He mumbles.
Jim smiles at him weakly, relieved that someone is on his side. McCoy looks away. Through the privacy curtains, there’s the sound of the main Sickbay doors opening and Chapel calling out a greeting to “Commander Spock,” wanting to know what the Vulcan wanted - he’s looking for Jim, as usual. Jim seizes up like a naughty child caught touching something he shouldn’t.
‘Shit…’ The younger man groans, struggling to sit upright, ‘Oh shit, Bones, they can’t see me like this, especially not Spock… he’ll be a completely unbearable prick about it.’
‘You should have thought of that earlier.’ McCoy says, unsympathetic. He scans the younger man over with the medical tricorder. A few more minutes and Jim will become flushed, feverish, before he begins to lose cognitive abilities.
‘Bones.’
There’s something different in the way that Jim says his name. It makes him look up. For the moment, the brilliant and youngest ever Captain in Starfleet history is a disheveled young man, terrified of disappointing someone whom he thinks he ought to give a damn about. Even his opinion, which Jim so loudly and happily dismisses, is mulled over in secret. One day, Jim may grow up, if he gets any further in this budding something he’s got with Spock, the friendships he’s begun with the rest of the senior crew. Until then, Jim is just this side of gullible when it comes to anyone he’s close to - or considers close.
Jim’s expression shifts, his usually sunny complexion paling. ‘Bones I’m going to be sick.’
McCoy barely has time to snatch up a disposal bin and shove it in Jim’s direction before the younger man is throwing up. He grabs his tricorder just as the privacy curtains snap aside with a sharp hiss. He glares at the Vulcan.
‘You rip out those and you’re damn well paying for them.’
‘Doctor McCoy,’ Spock says calmly, completely ignoring his remark. The little tick at his forehead could mean that he’s disgusted or he’s concerned - McCoy prefers the first explanation. ‘How is the Captain?’
Jim’s pleading glance just before he doubles over and throws up another mouthful of dinner makes him pause, but he never intended to tell the truth anyway. McCoy clears his throat, ‘I believe it’s just something he ate. Don’t worry I’ll make sure he’s good for tomorrow.’
He putters around Jim, pressing him down into the bed and turning on the monitors. Jim blinks up at him and then smiles softly - ‘Bones…’ He whispers, eyes suddenly widening, ‘Where’s my mom?’
The drugs are working, maybe a little too well. ‘You’ll be okay, Jim, just get some rest.’ He pats the younger man fondly on the shoulder and turns to his waiting audience.
Spock stares back, eyes dark. This is the tricky part. ‘You’ll do him no good here,’ He mutters, grabbing a nearby hypospray kit and making a pretension of looking for something to make Jim feel better, ‘I need to him to get some rest and if you stick around, he’ll want to be entertained and next thing you know, you’ll be wadding through Sulu and Uhura’s latest compendium on training maneuvers across the Neutral Zone and it’s tactical implications.’
Spock lingers, reluctant. A burst of ire shoots through him. He levels the Vulcan with a glare that’s unmistakable - either start throwing up and get into a bed, or get the hell out of the Sickbay. The good thing about Spock, he supposes, is that the man knows his place. Nodding, he leaves after giving another thoughtful look in Jim’s direction.
‘Goodnight, Captain.’ The Vulcan nodded to him, ‘Doctor.’
He waits a beat after the hiss of the doors before calling Chapel over, ‘Nurse, finish up by checking on depleted stock in the cold storage- make a list.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ Her reply is brisk and concise. Chapel trusts him. She doesn’t even become curious when he starts riffling through the medicine cabinet. Picking up her datapad, she shrugs on the padded lab coat and exits left. The doors to the medical supplies cold storage hisses close behind her. Alone at last, he quickly takes what he needs and goes back to his waiting patient.
Jim glances at him, swallowing thickly as he panted, still sickly but a reddish hue coming over his cheeks now. ‘Hey Bones.’
‘I thought I told you to get some rest.’ McCoy holds his patient up into a half-sitting position and gets him to clean out his mouth with a swig of mouthwash. ‘Spit,’ He orders, holding up a fresh disposal bin.
Jim spits. Good boy.
He roughly rolls Jim over onto his stomach. There’s an oomph and a whine of surprise. He pushes the shirt up and pulls the pants down just enough for him to access the full length of Jim’s spine. It flexes and shudders at the sensation of his fingers pressing down, probing.
‘Bones, what are you-‘
He shoves Jim back down flat on the bed. ‘Relax, the conventional treatment for this kind of stomach bug will just make things worse, so I’m going to try something a little different.’
Jim believes him, relaxes and hugs his pillow, submitting entirely.
McCoy takes an audible breath, and then presses the hypospray to the base of Jim’s spine. The hiss is loud and terrible in the quiet. The next shift doesn’t start till an hour from now, and besides Chapel, everyone else has been sent off early. There are no prying eyes, no one to question him. Raising his hand, he lightly raps his knuckles against Jim’s back thigh. The younger man doesn’t even flinch. He is starting to sweat though, skin becoming hot to the touch. It’s the induced fever coming on. He pulls the underwear down roughly.
Slapping on gloves, he coats his right index finger in lube. ‘You still okay there?’
The answer is slurred, ‘I feel hot, Bones.’
‘That’s natural - I gave you something to sweat it out.’ He draws the curtains tight around the bed and dims the lighting in their part of the ward. There shouldn’t be a silhouette cast this way, even if someone should walk in unexpectedly they’d have to peek inside to know what is going on in here. ‘Shut up and get some sleep, Jim.’
He drags the pants down further. He tries a finger but that’s quickly joined by another. The mix of muscle relaxant and medieval anesthesia means that Jim feels nothing and accepts his fingers like a truly experienced whore. He thrusts his fingers in and out, checking for - darn it, what is he checking for? It’s just not the same behind a layer of rubber. Jim stirs a little. He pulls out and strips the glove off, dropping it into the disposal.
McCoy pulls the blanket to cover his patient and quickly heads over to the sink. Nothing beats washing hands the old-fashioned way and giving it a pass under the sterilite; he uses a brush too, cleaning under his fingernails, wanting to be thorough. When he goes back, he doesn’t hesitate. Jim clutches his pillow a little tighter and makes a little muffled whine when his probing fingers reach his prostate. It amuses him that that even drugged out of his mind and numb from the waist down, Jim would know that someone had their fingers up his ass.
Rolling the man over on his side, he reaches around and palms the cock. Flaccid and no measureable response. Good. It’s not time yet. Liberally coating his fingers in more lube, he feels his way inside Jim, curling his fingers as if his hand could crawl into the young man’s guts. Something stirs in his lower belly, furious and dark, at the sensation of all that hot tightness clinging to his fingers, right down to the knuckle.
The hiss of the door interrupts him, sending a kick of adrenalin up his spine, unease down his guts. His cock stirs.
‘Doctor McCoy?’
He exhales loudly and pulls his fingers out, hearing the slick sound as they left Jim’s ass. ‘What is it, Chapel?’
‘I’ve finished compiling the list.’
He grabs a handy rag and wipes his fingers, staring at the dark redness of the hole he’s managed to open up. Jim’s been fucked recently. It’s the slight discoloration, sign of healing abrasions. Jim's been a naughty boy. ‘Good. Send it up to Communications, tell them to relay it to our next stopover - then I recommend some rest, Nurse.’
There’s a rustle of cloth, and the computer terminal beeping as she follows his orders. ‘Yes, sir - should I wait around for Mendoza to arrive?’
‘Nothing’s happening, Chapel, so get out of here before I kick you out.’ He says with practiced gruffness, pretending distraction.
There’s amusement in the woman’s voice, ‘Of course Doctor. Goodnight.’
‘Hmm…’ He murmurs.
As soon as the doors hiss close, he rolls Jim onto his back and strips him, throwing the Starfleet issue boxer briefs into the disposal. The gold command shirt and undershirt, pants, socks and boots go into a tagged bag. Naked flesh is a pretty normal part of his daily routine and he sees Jim on a regular basis, but there’s something different about this particular night, something special. Ah, of course, McCoy thinks with a smirk, it’s the quiet - no one is yapping at him.
He drags the hips to the side so one of Jim’s legs hangs off the side of the bed. McCoy pushes the legs apart, one on the bed, one over his shoulder and squeezes a liberal amount of lube over Jim’s stomach. He smears his fingers through it before thrusting in and out of Jim’s asshole, slow and thoughtful. He could hypospray him with a low-grade localized painkiller for the next twenty four hours. A little awkward but it’s possible; he’ll just say that it’s part of the treatment - Lord knows that Jim needs options when it comes to treatments, with all the shit he’s allergic to - add a little stokaline and happy chemicals, and Jim will be practically purring for the day.
Hmm… tempting but Jim’s been used recently, may be used again - McCoy eyes the flaccid cock, imagining it thickening and hardening, pushing into him. He pulls his fingers out and settles Jim back onto the bio-bed. He presses the hypospray to Jim’s inner thigh and feels a thrill as he hears it hiss, pushing the drug straight into Jim’s femoral artery. Only a few seconds pass before Jim’s cock stirs. He doesn’t wait, just smears his palm through the remaining lube on the abdomen and grasps Jim’s cock firmly. With clinical movements, he brings the man to full arousal and is rewarded with a slightly pained groan. There are vague grimaces as the younger man twists a little, eyes fluttering.
McCoy watches carefully, hand pumping and stroking, his thumb flicking and rolling over the tip. Jim’s spine arches but his legs remain immobile, still affected by the dose he injected into his spinal cord. Pale eyes open and look right through him, before rolling up in Jim’s head, lost in a drug induced stupor. He smiles a little; some days he’s too good at his job.
Quickly stripping down, McCoy neatly folds his clothes and tucks them into one of the baskets in the nearby trolley. He rakes his hand through the remaining lube on Jim’s stomach and starts to masturbate. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes before he is biting his lip, wanting to fuck something or be fucked - that’s the beauty of being a doctor, he supposes, even in med school, all those classmates, ready and willing to stick their fingers and other instruments up his ass, and then vice versa, all for the sake of a good grade and friendly class bonding.
Grabbing the lube resting on top of the trolley, he squirts more into his palms and rubs them together, before massaging Jim’s erection like he is applying tropical cream, nice solid firm strokes, to cover the maximum amount of skin in the shortest time. The younger man moans and tosses his head back, hair tangled mess and damp from fever.
He lowers the bed from consultation-height to something more manageable and throws a leg over Jim’s thighs, settling across them comfortably. Grasping both their erections, he strokes them together, and has to fight the swell of sudden pleasure by tugging on his balls. He’s never gone this far before, and FUCK - McCoy groans and closes his eyes briefly, trying to keep his mind from flickering through those fantasies he uses jerking off in the privacy of his own quarters, because one single fragment from those and he’ll be humping Jim’s leg.
The prep is quick and practiced; there’s more lube on Jim’s cock and then he’s shuffling forwards, sitting back down and fucking himself on his sleeping lover for the evening. It’s all about him - he moves his hips erratically, then deep and slow, breathing through his teeth as he works that cock against his prostate with every stroke. Jim moans and his arms shift around, lax fingers grasping at nothing, but otherwise just lays there, jolting with each downward slap of flesh against flesh.
He comes with a hissed groan against Jim’s sternum, fingers bruising around Jim’s upper arms as the rush courses through his body, his other hand jerking him off until he’s coming over Jim’s bellybutton. The younger man grimaces and turns his head to the side, whining. McCoy releases the cock he’s hijacked. Jim doesn’t have an orgasm - in fact his erection is softening. Getting off the bed, he grabs the derma-regenerator and fixes up the damage on the arm. Just to cover his bases, McCoy also runs the regenerator over Jim’s cock and hips, and hyposprays him with another sedative. He cleans up a little but doesn’t bother overdoing it - Jim’s fever will last a few more hours, and he’ll wake up filthy either way.
The Sickbay doors hiss open, making his head snap up. Ah, the next shift. The sound of light chatter floats across to him - M’Benga, Mendoza and Jackson. He takes out a few moist antiseptic towels and wipes himself between the legs, cleaning away the traces of cum and lube.
‘That you, Mendoza?’ He grumbles, pulling on his pants and shirt.
‘… ah, yes, sir.’ There’s slight confusion in the young man’s voice.
McCoy pulls the thin blanket up until it’s up to Jim’s chin and draws the privacy curtains to the side, pushing the trolley in front of him to hide his bare feet. There’s no point hiding - it’ll just make them suspicious.
‘You’re all late. But you, Nurse Mendoza, this is the third time.’
Mendoza gives him a sheepish look, ‘Sorry sir. Won’t do it again.’
He raises a censuring eyebrow and watches the young man become flustered, quickly rushing off to continue the inventory of the medicine cabinets in Ward 4. M’Benga gives him a stoic shrug and disappears off to the labs. Jackson smiles, her red hair bloody underneath the bright lights. He ducks back behind the curtains and pulls on his boots in the dimness.
‘We can take it from here, Doctor McCoy. You should have signed out fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Yes, well I would have, Nurse, if someone had been here to hold down the fort.’ A hand is smoothed down his uniform. It smells of sweat in here, but thankfully the smell of sex is illusive under the neutral, slightly acidic scent of the lube, which smells like pretty much every non-scented skin contact substance including muscle relaxant and chaffing cream. He takes a deep breath, savoring the odd non-smell. ‘The Captain’s going to be here overnight - I’ll need you to watch him.’
She rushes over - so predictable. ‘Is he okay?’ She asks, frowning with concern.
McCoy nods gruffly, ‘Just another allergic reaction - I’ve got him stabilized and he’s sedated for now. Just wake him up at some point for fluids and a toilet trip.’
‘Of course.’
He goes to wash his hands. Jackson follows, dutifully taking notes on her PADD.
‘You’ll find the vomit in the disposal bins - I’ve already taken a sample so get rid of it. Contact his yeoman - he’ll need a fresh change of clothes - and what he came into Sickbay is bagged and tagged. I also want you to prepare a new dietary card for him - light foods for the next two days, nothing spicy or too exotic. Got that Jackson?’
Jackson nods, ‘Yes sir.’
‘Good.’ He says, drying his hands on a sterile towel. ‘Goodnight, Nurse.’
‘Goodnight, Doctor. Hope you enjoy your evening.’
He already has. Nodding, he leaves. The urge to fuck something is still with him even though his ass is still feeling the pleasant after-sensations of a good precise fuck. It feels unfinished, like he needs something else to take the edge off. The turbolift finally arrives, doors opening with a whistle.
‘Deck Five.’ He says as he gets in, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. He closes his eyes, fighting down the urge to go back to Sickbay and fuck Jim hard enough to leave bruises. Maybe next time.
and I kind of feel like hiding now...