FIC: An Appropriate Response to Reality ('Years Went By' series, Part 5)
An Appropriate Response to Reality
by Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Spock/McCoy (K/S/Mc for the series)
In the interest of having a name for it, I'm just going to call this, the 'Years Went By' series:
And Years Went By
Wished Me Well
Any Other Day
Time Is A River
~~*~~
No matter how many times he patiently explained that he was just a doctor, damn it, it never seemed to help much. He was, though, just a doctor, not a scientist or a pilot or even a bricklayer. McCoy was a doctor and wasn’t that enough? He knew how to treat several hundred different species on a wing and a prayer, he had the chops to create a cure for any number of exotic viruses and infections they’d run into. He could heal their wounds, tend to their ills. What the hell else did they need from him?
As it turned out, they needed any number of things. Doctor, mentor, counselor, spy.
McCoy’s background in psychology was sketchy at best, but the past year had expanded in exponentially. Fact of the matter was, for all that they were an Constitution-class ship loaded with some of the best scientists and officers that Starfleet had to offer, they were also a bunch of kids loaded into a tin can that was floating in space, a long, long way from home and they weren’t headed back any time soon.
It put McCoy in the rather unenviable position of surrogate father figure. Who else were they going to go to? Scotty had the years on him but not the understanding, Kirk had the understanding but he was the captain, and young, so young yet. He had enough troubles of his own. And Spock? A Vulcan attempting to soothe the overwrought emotions of humans? Christ on a cracker, you may as well ask a crocodile would he kindly be a vegetarian from here on out. If the crew had to go to Spock to ease their troubles, he thought there might just be a spike in suicide rates onboard.
That left him and though he’d never admit to it, truthfully, McCoy didn’t mind much. He wasn’t old enough to be a father to any of these kids, but they needed someone to pour their troubles out to, and if had to be him, so be it. He liked most of 'em and he might have been expecting to only treat their broken bones but a broken mind was still just as damaged and painful.
There was certainly a paper in all of this, somewhere, if he ever got the gumption to write it. If Starfleet intended on increasing the length of starship missions then they better damn well start getting councilors on board. He’d mentioned it to his superiors, but all that had landed him was more work. Keep track of the psychological effects of extended space travel, they’d said. That much he could do, but keeping track of it wasn't much help to the kids who were experiencing it.
It made the case in his hand, neatly filled with medical tricorders and hyposprays, less useful than the man who carried it, and there was a damned good reason that doctors hadn't been replaced by biobeds. Someone needed to be here to nurture the Human spirit., species notwithstanding.
Now, Medical Bay was the best place for those with a serious illness, but if an injured person really wanted to stay in his quarters, and if the doctor approved of it, they could. Thus, the doctors on the Enterprise actually did make house calls. McCoy didn’t mind that much, either. A person was more likely to open up if they felt comfortable in their surroundings, he’d learned, and any idiot knew that an injured person might have more of a need to open up.
With that in mind, he strode briskly towards the quarters of the only injured person on the Enterprise. Chekov’s ill-timed visit to Engineering had given him the gift that kept on giving; plasma burns. Easy enough to treat if they’d been standard burns and he’d gotten just enough information from Chekov and Scotty to know that they weren’t standard. Just listening to the two of them gabble on about it had given him a headache. He swore, the two of them were a staggering combination of intelligence and reckless stupidity-
The kid was responding all right to the treatments, but McCoy had taken him off duty anyway. Better safe than sorry, he always said. He'd let the on call doctor handle it yesterday, since he hadn't been in much of a condition to drop in on patients, but the report wasn't nearly as satisfying as seeing it with his own eyes, making sure their resident young genius was getting the best care possible.
The door had slid open before he'd even had time to chime, a testament to the boredom of the occupant. Chekov was in his tiny sitting room, looking the chipper chickadee indeed, today. McCoy made a note to give the kid a thorough scan just to make sure he wasn't hiding any signs of pain in the hopes of getting back to the bridge. Had to give him credit for his determination, if not for his stubbornness.
McCoy sank down into the chair across from him and set his case on the floor. "How’s it going this morning, kid?"
"Very well, Doctor," Chekov said politely, waving with one bandaged hand.
"Hrmph," McCoy muttered, not buying it. "All right, let’s see ‘em."
Obediently, he held out both hands, not even wincing as McCoy gently unwrapped them. Shiny pink skin greeted him, evidence of wounds healing quite well. It was a hell of a relief to see it but he ran the tricorder over them anyway, just to confirm what he already knew. The kid was going to be back to a hundred-percent in no time flat.
"They’re looking much better today," McCoy finally said aloud, "I’ll check back again tomorrow but I don’t see any reason that you can’t be back on duty in another day or so. He had to bite back a grin of his own as Chekov lit up, his wide smile blinding.
"This is wonderful news! I have been very bored," he confided, the thickness of his accent blurring the words but even that didn’t hide the edge of anxiety in them.
McCoy gave him a stern look, "Try being bored a little more when you’re on-duty, all right? I know you and Scotty weren’t trying to stir up trouble but if either of you had bothered to wear the proper gear, you wouldn’t be sitting here."
His grin dimmed a little, "Da, this I know."
He’d probably already heard an earful from Jim and Spock about it, so McCoy wasn’t about to add more salt to the wound. Instead, he pulled out the dermal regenerator and went to work carefully on the healing burns. Slow and sure, that was the way to treat burns like these.
"No permanent harm done," McCoy said neutrally, glancing up briefly before refocusing on his work. "Let’s keep it that way. I’m getting used to you, kid, and I don’t want to have to break in a new guy anytime soon."
"Yes, sir," Chekov chirped, returning easily to his former cheeriness. Here was one crewmember who handled the stresses of space travel with a song in his heart, McCoy thought wryly. Burn him, break him, and he staggered back in for more. A fellow should admire his resilience. But it wasn’t his resilience that McCoy was thinking of when the kid piped up again.
"Doctor, I wanted to tell you, I am very sorry to have missed your birthday," Chekov told him earnestly. He might have said more if he hadn’t suddenly broke off with a yelp and a bright Russian curse, yanking his hand away from McCoy.
A new line of red was scrawled across his palm where McCoy had jerked in surprise and it took McCoy a moment to gather himself enough to take Chekov’s hand back. The kid let him, a little reluctantly, but relaxed easily enough as McCoy healed the damage he’d just cause.
"Sorry," McCoy said, gruffly. "You surprised me, is all. Who the hell told you it was my birthday?"
"The captain," Chekov said, the wariness in his voice as heavy as his accent. His hand tensed a little as if he half-expected McCoy to give him a matching set for his troubles. But McCoy’s grip was as steady as a doctor’s should be, his mouth a grim line as he waited for Chekov to continue. "He…told us you did not celebrate, but I wanted just to tell you…birthdays were very important in my family," Chekov finished, a little lamely, and it didn’t take a therapist to see his anxiety, his longing. Even this old country doctor could see it, enough to set aside his own issues for a just a bit.
"Well, thank you for remembering, then," McCoy said, carefully. "I’m not much for celebrating myself, but it…it’s good that you remembered."
The uncertainty in his eyes eased, and Chekov smiled at him, happy again, "I did consider getting you a present, but the captain..."
"No presents!" McCoy said, hastily. Christ, that was all he needed. Chekov was barely even legal and like Jim wasn’t trouble enough. With the perversity of all mental images that a person didn’t really want to see, a brief thought of Chekov naked and eager, with that stupid grin still on his face, flashed into McCoy’s thoughts. He suppressed a shudder, more than a little grateful that Chekov didn’t have an ounce of telepathy to him.
He did make a mental note to check when Chekov’s birthday was, though. McCoy might not want a gift but a kid who was far from home and from a family to whom birthdays were important might just appreciate a small present--
"Dr. McCoy to Medical Bay, priority one."
He was already on his feet and running before the computer had even finished, barely registering Chekov's shocked expression as he bolted through the door. Crew members walking the corridors scrambled out of his way and that was one good thing that came from Starfleet obedience training. If you saw the doctor running, you knew you needed to move your ass.
The lift at the end of the hall was open, two crewmen just stepping in, only to leap back as McCoy shoved rudely past them. "Out!" he snarled and they went, watching him with wide eyes as the doors closed.
A Priority One meant one thing. There was someone in his Medical Bay who was doing a damned good try at dying and they needed a doctor now to convince them otherwise. It was just a fucking shame that the lift didn't care that he needed to be there two minutes ago, that there was someone dying, and that McCoy thought he could taste his own heartbeat, quivering shudders in his chest because he knew who had been on the away team on planet. Course he knew. The specifics of it eluded him at the moment; it had been a damned long week. Trade meeting, planetary exploration, who the hell knew? The only reason he knew there was a mission was he'd read the morning report; he'd long since learned to glance over the details and this morning he'd woken up alone, with his monitor already opened to it like a morning after note--
What he did know was both Spock and Jim had been down there, and he could feel the dampness of sweat on his upper lip, at the small of his back, because he also knew, very specifically, the ratio of injuries both of them tended to receive. Dimly, he thought that Spock might be appreciative of his knowledge, in that perverse Vulcan way. Statistics, mathematics, whatever it was fucking Vulcans masturbated over, he didn't damn well care right now. All he knew was that the lift couldn't respond to a single one of his silent urgings to go faster.
An eternity of waiting, second ticking by that he could have timed to the beats of his heart, before the door slid open on the proper floor. McCoy was squeezing through the door before it had had time to fully open, the sound of his boots loud in the corridor as he ran, skittering to a stop as the door to Medical Bay slid obediently open and revealed half the fucking crew in there.
Jim. God, had to be Jim.
Later, after times like these, when he was half-drunk in his quarters, cheap whiskey always his preferred form of therapy, McCoy was able to appreciate his own calmness. The way his vision cleared and his hands steadied, every ounce of medical knowledge he had surging to the forefront, shoving aside fear and emotion, and in these moments, he was every goddamned inch a doctor.
The sight of Jim sprawled out on the biobed, spattered with crimson splotches and dark burn marks didn't change that, and it didn't keep him from rudely pushing aside a few bystanders to check the readings. Chapel was already doing the same, working with an equal amount of calm efficiency. The biobed was already spewing out reading and just glancing at it, McCoy could already see two things; one, Jim was going to be fine and two, none of the people milling around in Medical Bay realized that. There was a lot of blood, true, and if he’d been stuck down on the planet things would have been a lot hairier, but he wasn’t, and that was that.
"Get the hell out of the way," McCoy barked. "All of you. Out!" They obeyed the voice of authority like the good little officers they were, the cloud of people disappearing like so much vapor, revealing another figure who had been standing back, out of the way. Spock, his clothes stained with as many dark scarlet smears as Jim's were. McCoy was no detective but he didn't think it took much of one to figure out that Spock had carried his captain, his...whatever the hell they were, to Med Bay.
He was already drifting towards the door, obviously ready to take advantage of McCoy's orders and get out while the getting was good. Spock was no doctor but he was a scientist and he'd know how to check the reading enough to see that Jim wasn't in any danger.
A shot of emotion managed to slice cleanly though McCoy's calm and he looked up from his initial assessment long enough to snap out. "Not you, Spock. Sit."
Spock stilled instantly, almost staggering in his efforts to stop and that unnamed emotion tightened again in McCoy's chest. Not all of the blood on his uniform was red. It was interspersed with deep green and red splatters, like the universe's worst Christmas joke. One dark green line was grimed against Spock's cheek, too far away for McCoy to see if it was an actual injury or just a smear.
Spock folded his hands into the small of his back and stood stiffly, Goddamned stubborn..."Doctor, I believe you should focus your attention on the captain."
McCoy didn't even look up, already calibrating the dermal regenerator that Chapel had slapped briskly into his hand. Readings indicated that Jim had sustained moderate blood loss, which the biobed was already replacing, minor burns from an unknown weapon, and a severe laceration across the abdomen which was the primary location of the blood loss. No internal injuries, no organ repair or replacement necessary.
Frankly, they hadn't needed McCoy to bust a gut getting here but since he would have chewed them out later if they hadn't called him, well, he couldn't blame them much for it. Lucky little Jimmy had come through with his skin intact again, or at least most of it. His First Officer, on the other hand...
Spock was already swaying in the direction of the door again, taking one step back, then another.
McCoy flicked on the dermal regenerator and started on the laceration first. "Pick a bed and sit your ass down, Commander, or should I make it an order?" He had the authority, they both knew it.
"Of course," Spock said stiffly, giving in with all the grace a Vulcan could manage as he settled himself somewhat gingerly on the biobed next to Jim's. Just the fact that he was showing any discomfort meant he must've been in a hell of a lot of pain. Vulcans had a pain tolerance that rivaled any drunken asshole from back home, even one on a Saturday night.
The wound was closing nicely, not so much as a mark on the smooth skin of Jim's belly. Pure textbook doctoring and McCoy could have done it blindfolded. Instead, he eyed his other patient, considering. Pale enough that his skin had a visible greenish cast, the biobed spitting out readings on his vitals, pain levels...damn, they were through the roof. "Chapel, give him an analgesic."
That got a good round of reaction. From Chapel, who murmured, "Yes, Doctor," as she readied a hypo, to Spock, whose spine stiffened like he'd just had a broomstick shoved up his ass.
"That will not be necessary, " Spock said tersely, leaning away from her.
"Don't recall asking you." McCoy mumbled, neatly cutting off the remains of Jim's shirt. Another emotion managed to worm its way past his calm as he gently healed the various abrasions and contusions. Ruthlessly, McCoy pushed it back before he even allowed himself to consider what it was. They were fine, the both of them, and they'd both be back on their feet, ready to destroy more of their clothing soon enough. Starfleet must have a hellava uniform budget for the Enterprise.
Spock was fending off Chapel with as much dignity as he could. "I am fully capable of controlling my own pain, Doctor, and I do not like to be medicated when it is unnecessary."
That finally tipped McCoy over the edge into the enough is enough territory. Just who was the doctor here, damn it. Discreetly, McCoy picked up a hypo and in one smooth motion, he loaded it one-handed and pressed it against Spock’s neck while he was turned away.
Vulcans all declared that they were purely logical, emotionless bastards but it sure as hell wasn't logic flashing in Spock's eyes when he whipped his head around to glare at McCoy. Shame he didn't have time to appreciate it, since he was taking care of a patient here, what with being a doctor and all that.
"I did not require...I do not..." Spock tried, words slurring and he didn't have a protest left in him as Chapel helped him lay back on the biobed.
"Can't hear you, Commander, speak up," McCoy murmured, his eyes on Jim. There were a few more slurred words behind him, too blurry to understand and he didn't bother to try. Christ almighty, Jim was a mess. A mass of contusions, most of them already blooming into wildflower patches of purple. Each one vanished under the proper application of good old Twenty-Third century medicine, but it took a little time for each one to fade under his coaxing fingertips. What the hell had they gotten into down there, a rock slide?
He knew the moment that Spock finally succumbed because Chapel was back next to him, rearranging his instruments into the proper order after McCoy flung each one aside and picked up another.
"Readings indicate minor lacerations and contusions, mild dehydration and exhaustion, Doctor," Chapel informed him.
"Start fluids and make sure he stays put." Not that he needed to state the obvious, Chapel was too damned good a nurse not to already be two steps ahead of him. "Let me finish up with Jimmy-Boy here and then we'll see about getting him back on his feet."
"Yes, Doctor."
Surrounded by the soft beeps of the computer and the soothing hum of the biobeds, McCoy settled into doing what he did best; being a doctor.
~~*~~
Didn't take too long to get Jim settled in, every tiny injury seen to and soothed, healed and fussed over, until McCoy was confident that each one had been cared for, and then he drugged the hell out of his captain so he'd damn well stay in Sickbay for rest of the day. Might be teetering on the edge of ethical there, but McCoy didn't much care and Jim could wait a while before going back down to negotiate with the rock people, or whatever the hell they'd been doing planetside. McCoy still hadn't bothered to ask but he might before they go back down.
A drugged out Jim was a nicely quiet one, sprawled out and snoring faintly beneath the blanket that Chapel had spread over him and McCoy allowed himself the luxury of checking on his stats just one more time...
-stable, heart rate normal, blood pressure normal-
...before he checked on his other patient. Chapel had cleaned Spock up and treated his injuries, major and minor contusions and a bunch of cracked ribs which explained the pain he'd been in earlier, and there was a certain glazed look in his eyes that declared that McCoy had overdone it a little on the painkillers. He knew he had a reputation for being downright stingy with his meds but the truth of it was, he had no qualms about dosing it out when it was actually necessary.
"Looks like you're going to live, Spock," McCoy said briskly, punching a last scan into the biobed to make sure nothing had been missed. Computers were only as thorough as a fellow made them, after all.
"Of course. Had I been in any danger, I would have certainly realized it."
"Of course," McCoy mimicked. The biobed beeped, spitting out a clean, if inebriated, bill of health. "Well, you have a choice then. You can stay here a bit and rest, or you can go back to your quarters. Take your pick and don't even ask about going to the bridge today. It's bed, Doctor's orders."
Spock sat up, carefully, the soft blue pajamas that Chapel had gotten for him hanging slightly on his slim form. "If that is the case, I would prefer my quarters but I do not believe I am capable of walking to them at this moment."
Not unless he wanted to collapse in the corridor halfway there. Of course, McCoy could counteract the analgesic, but then Spock would be in some pain. Even healing the broken bones wouldn't alleviate all the microscopic bruising and injury, and it was better not to over process the tissues. "Tell you what, I'll give you hand there and get you settled in if you agree that if you feel anything out of the ordinary, you hightail it back here. Deal?"
"As you say."
It wasn't until he'd gotten Spock to his feet and looped an arm under his shoulders that it hit him. That heat, Vulcan body temperature degrees above Human, pressed all along his side. Pressed against him and McCoy felt a flush rise in his cheeks had nothing to do with temperature.
Goddamned pointy-eared, slim-hipped...pretty, in the same way Jim was pretty and the pressure of his body against McCoy's hip brought with it a flood of recent memories, every one of them involving Spock wearing considerably less.
"Where are we headed?" McCoy asked gruffly, clearing his throat a little. It was a damned good thing he already had a reputation for being brusque, he didn't even want to consider the kind of reputation his thoughts would be earning him otherwise.
"I believe I am capable of leading the way," Spock informed him dryly, and so McCoy let him and tried not to feel the body that was rubbing against his own with every step.
It was only when they were on the lift that McCoy realized they weren't heading to Jim's quarters. He hadn't really thought about where Spock slept, or Jim for that matter, but he'd assumed wherever it was, it was together. But he knew Jim was still in his own quarters, as captain, he needed to be, and Spock--maybe Spock liked to sleep in his own room when he was hurt?
Impossible to tell by looking. He'd never been in Spock's quarters before but the sparseness of the furnishings looked like the usual. Who the hell knew what kind of junk Vulcans liked to haul around with them, for all he knew, Jim's quarters were brimming to the gills with padds and weird Vulcan knickknacks.
He didn't have much time to think about it. Spock was steady enough on his feet but McCoy could tell he was fading fast. He got him into the bedroom, Standard regulation size, blankets, and sheets, thank you, and into the bed.
Eased off Spock's borrowed slippers and pulled up the blankets, and told himself he wasn't fussing like an old grandmother, he was a doctor, it was his job to make sure his patients were comfortable. Warm. Spock was tucked into the blankets like a little child, watching McCoy with dark eyes and it was hard to admit, harder than McCoy wanted to believe, that he didn't want to leave just yet. He wanted to touch, just a little, reassure with his hands that what he could see with his own eyes was true. He had two fingertips pressed into the inside of Spock's wrist in an archaic form of pulse taking because that he could excuse, could allow, he was a doctor.
But it wasn't enough. Not with his calm tenderly breaking off around him, every emotional shield he had quivering at the point of shattering. He'd been safe in med bay, surrounded by tools of the trade, shored up by his nurses and hyposprays but now he was here, with Spock, and there had been so much blood, so much of their blood, and he just wanted, he just needed--
Only he hadn’t gotten a list of rules when he agreed to this foolhardy little ménage a trois, was he even allowed to need this? Was he allowed to do anything or was he supposed to hang around waiting like a kid after school for them to invite him in?
He didn't know. So instead he sat here like a fool, taking the small contact that he could excuse and in a moment, he'd leave, get the hell away from here before all his emotions shattered their sharp little pieces around him with the one person who he knew would appreciate it the least.
Or so he thought, until Spock said, quietly, "If you wish to touch me, you will certainly get no objection from me. I do understand the irrational desire to reassure oneself."
For a long moment, all McCoy could do was gape at him, "How-" He closed his mouth with a snap before any other foolishness could tumble out. Touch telepath. Of course.
Having permission granted only made McCoy head towards the opposite, yanking his hand away. Or he tried to, before Spock caught it neatly, held it with both gentleness and strength, and that was almost worse than feeling like a fool. He was well and truly caught for the moment and close to snarling at Spock to let him the hell go when Spock loosened his grip, stroked his thumb lightly across McCoy's knuckles.
"Doc-Leonard," he said, softly, "I cannot read more than your surface thoughts and I will endeavor to prevent that if you wish." And just like that, the tension that had started bubbling up in McCoy like fizz in soda water eased and he could breathe again.
"Don’t hurt yourself," McCoy snorted, ignored the shakiness in his voice. Hesitantly, he pulled his hand free, stroked his fingertips lightly over Spock's like he'd had done to him a couple times now. Over the back of his hand, to his fingertips and then down his palms.
The response was gratifying. Spock made a soft, pleased sound, sighing as he sank back against the pillows. It made McCoy bolder, stroking his fingers between Spock’s.
"It is fascinating to note that of the times we have been together thusly, one of us has always been some form of intoxicated," Spock murmured, his eyes half-closed as he watched McCoy stroking his hand.
"I wasn’t drunk the second time."
"No," Spock agreed. "But neither were you thinking clearly. I may have taken a slight advantage of that."
A slight advantage? As the guy who'd been pinned to the desk, McCoy had a thing or three to say about that, but it would have to wait. Instead, he conceded, just a little. "Maybe. Can I ask you something? Why would you do that, anyway? Why the hell do you even want me if you have Jim? I don’t get this." If Spock had taken advantage of him to get a little piece of ass, it seemed pretty fair to do the same to get a little information.
"That is several somethings. I am not sure I am capable of properly answering even one at this moment," Spock closed his eyes and slumped lower into the bed, but when McCoy would have let guilt settle thickly in his gut and slunk back to sickbay, Spock spoke again. "However…I took advantage of your less than inebriated state because that is the only time you can be taken advantage of. As a Vulcan, I admit to some admiration of your ability to shield yourself from others."
Shield...? "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"If I hadn’t kissed you that night, you would have either removed me from your quarters physically or removed yourself mentally. On your birthday," Spock added, like McCoy would have forgotten which night. "If I hadn’t touched you in your office and kept you from building your shields back up, you would not be here now." Spock spoke with quiet certainty, even as he gently twined his fingers with McCoy's, keeping him from pulling away.
"I…shields? I’m no damned telepath." McCoy said, a little weakly. Hell, maybe he had given Spock a little too much in the drug department.
"And yet, you surround yourself with barriers as impenetrable as the strongest practitioner of the kolinahr." Spock opened his eyes again, his dark gaze slitted against the brightness of the room. "You do not understand and I am not capable of explaining in this moment. We do not talk well together, you and I."
"No, we don’t," McCoy agreed, a little wryly. At least that made sense. "Believe you suggested before that we try a different kind of communication."
"I did but I would be unable to reciprocate at this moment," Spock said apologetically. His fingers never stilled, moving softly against McCoy's.
"S'all right. I don't mind."
And he didn't, not one damned bit. Not when he could finally, finally, pull Spock's hand up to his lips and kiss every knuckle, run his tongue between his fingers. Listen to him gasp when he curled his tongue over the soft pad of his forefinger and that little sound was as good as permission, made McCoy muss the blankets he'd so carefully arranged and just touch.
Smooth skin dusted with dark, silky hair, not as coarse as he'd expect in a human and that was a little reminder there, that this was Spock that he was touching, that he wanted to touch and McCoy didn't have to say anything at all. Didn't have to admit that it'd been years, years upon years, since he'd really done this, drunken encounters aside. Since he'd consciously helped another person out of their clothes, since he'd leaned down and licked a dark nipple, felt it harden against his tongue.
He'd had more sex in the past few days than he'd had in the past five years but every other time he’d had to be little more than a willing receptacle. He could just lay there and let it all happen to him, let it wash over him like rain in the springtime.
This, he had to do himself.
If he'd let himself notice, McCoy would have seen the tremor in his hands as he slid them down Spock's slim hips, down his thighs. Shaking in a palsy that a doctor should never allow. But he wasn't a doctor here, not really, not with Spock naked against the sheets, faint gleam of sweat shining on his skin. God damn, just...McCoy never could have guessed that Spock could look so much like pure sex, never would have tried to dream he'd want nothing more than to touch him, right now.
Slid his shaking hands between Spock's legs and he had a long, slender cock, much like the man himself. If he’d been expecting something extraordinary, McCoy would have been sorely disappointed. Whoever had created the universe had been remarkable unimaginative in His creation of the genitalia of most humanoid species.
Ordinary or not, it felt like something unreal to touch, to wrap his hand around that hot, hot, length, to lean over and press his lips to the damp tip and taste soft moisture, faint bitterness that was as fundamental as the blood he'd been splattered with earlier.
Hesitantly, McCoy let Spock press up between his lips, let him sift his hand into McCoy's hair and guide him, hold him lightly. Begging with a touch and he was helpless not to comply, felt his eyes stinging as he took Spock almost too deep, sucking and releasing clumsily, Christ, it had been years, and he fumbled for Spock's free hand with his own, felt the grind of his bones in the too-tight grip.
It took only a few moments of forever, tension prickling at his temples as McCoy sucked hard, let his teeth just scrape over taut, sensitive skin, and he felt as much as heard Spock choke off a cry, felt him tense and he expected the wet burst across the back of his tongue, swallowed without thought as Spock jerked softly beneath him.
The grip on the back of his neck eased enough for him to pull off and McCoy did, but he didn't try yet to pull his hand free even though it ached from Spock's grip. His mouth felt swollen, lips red, his jaw too-loose and aching, still salt-bitter and hot. He wondered at how he looked, if he walked into the corridor would anyone know what they'd been doing behind that closed door?
Better not to think about it, maybe. He'd stay a bit longer and then go check on Jim.
Spock's eyes were closed, more asleep than not McCoy figured and he carefully pulled his fingers free, tugged the blankets back over Spock before he could get a chill. Sat there and stroked all the wrinkles from the blankets, until Spock's breathing was slow and even and then he stood to go.
And yelped aloud as Spock grabbed his wrist, glazed eyes slitting open.
"Jesus, take it easy--"
A soft, whispered stream of Vulcan, words that McCoy couldn't piece together with his limited knowledge of the language.
"Say something a person can understand, would you?"
A soft exhale, and Spock closed his eyes again, "If I were Human, perhaps I would be jealous of you."
What the fuck...this was not the kind of pillow talk McCoy could remember ever having. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
A soft blink, and McCoy could see Spock's eyes were still dilated, dark pupils wide, "He cannot help but love me. He chooses to love you."
"Don't." McCoy said thickly, don't, Christ, don't. He was not up to dealing with any inebriated ramblings, not now. He tugged hard at his wrist, yanking bruises into it that he'd have to heal later as Spock refused to release him.
"Doctor, you have been sexually involved with him for years now, surely you are aware of his feelings."
Drugged or not, that was fucking calculated, Doctor, not Leonard, not anything else. "We weren't!"
"Ah, yes. A birthday ceremony, only." Sharp as a laser scalpel, mocking and cool, and just then, McCoy hated him, hated the thick taste still on the back of his tongue. And then everything about Spock abruptly softened, gentled, his fingertips soothing the red lines on McCoy's wrist that he'd caused. "Leonard, Jim has many friends and to my knowledge, none of them have been the recipient of oral sex as a gift, no matter how auspicious the occasion."
"I can't do this right now...I need to...I have to get back to Sick Bay, I'm still on duty." McCoy managed, and finally, Spock let him go. On duty, sure, and sucking off his first officer, what the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he doing? So busy playing therapist for the rest of the crew and here he was doing..."I need to go," he repeated, backing towards the door.
"Yes," Spock agreed, softly, already sleep-blurred. "Take care of Jim."
"Always do." It was automatic because it was true. He always took care of Jim, always. He had to, someone had to, and he was a doctor. He was good at taking care of people.
"I'll check in on you later," McCoy said, weakly, and it was a lie and he knew it. He'd send someone else, and maybe they wouldn't be a doctor, but they'd be able to check on Spock without...they'd be able to check on Spock.
Spock didn't reply, finally asleep, resting properly like a patient should and McCoy turned and walked carefully out, started back to Sickbay and then changed his mind and went instead to get his equipment from Chekov's room. The kid was still in his sitting room when McCoy stepped in, a surreal moment of déjà vu that had him shaking his head.
"Is everything all right, Doctor?" Chekov asked him anxiously, holding out one of his hands for McCoy to go over laboriously with the dermal regenerator.
"Everything is fine," McCoy told him gruffly, absently rubbing the back of his free hand over his mouth.
Chekov looked at him consideringly, the grumpy doctor bent over his sore, pinkened hand, and nearly asked him if something was wrong. Doctor McCoy was blustery as an old bear on the outside but Chekov knew at his heart he was a tender, caring man who had visited him far more often than was required, reassuring him time and again that he would heal Chekov's hands to the best of his abilities.
Today, he seemed troubled and Chekov would have been happy to help him, happy to return his caring. At the last moment, though, he bit it back and kept his silence. If the doctor wanted to speak to someone, surely he would do it at his own choosing. He hardly needed a kid, as McCoy so often called him, to interfere.
They sat together in silence, the doctor and his patient, hands held together in mechanical healing.
-finis-
by Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Spock/McCoy (K/S/Mc for the series)
In the interest of having a name for it, I'm just going to call this, the 'Years Went By' series:
And Years Went By
Wished Me Well
Any Other Day
Time Is A River
~~*~~
No matter how many times he patiently explained that he was just a doctor, damn it, it never seemed to help much. He was, though, just a doctor, not a scientist or a pilot or even a bricklayer. McCoy was a doctor and wasn’t that enough? He knew how to treat several hundred different species on a wing and a prayer, he had the chops to create a cure for any number of exotic viruses and infections they’d run into. He could heal their wounds, tend to their ills. What the hell else did they need from him?
As it turned out, they needed any number of things. Doctor, mentor, counselor, spy.
McCoy’s background in psychology was sketchy at best, but the past year had expanded in exponentially. Fact of the matter was, for all that they were an Constitution-class ship loaded with some of the best scientists and officers that Starfleet had to offer, they were also a bunch of kids loaded into a tin can that was floating in space, a long, long way from home and they weren’t headed back any time soon.
It put McCoy in the rather unenviable position of surrogate father figure. Who else were they going to go to? Scotty had the years on him but not the understanding, Kirk had the understanding but he was the captain, and young, so young yet. He had enough troubles of his own. And Spock? A Vulcan attempting to soothe the overwrought emotions of humans? Christ on a cracker, you may as well ask a crocodile would he kindly be a vegetarian from here on out. If the crew had to go to Spock to ease their troubles, he thought there might just be a spike in suicide rates onboard.
That left him and though he’d never admit to it, truthfully, McCoy didn’t mind much. He wasn’t old enough to be a father to any of these kids, but they needed someone to pour their troubles out to, and if had to be him, so be it. He liked most of 'em and he might have been expecting to only treat their broken bones but a broken mind was still just as damaged and painful.
There was certainly a paper in all of this, somewhere, if he ever got the gumption to write it. If Starfleet intended on increasing the length of starship missions then they better damn well start getting councilors on board. He’d mentioned it to his superiors, but all that had landed him was more work. Keep track of the psychological effects of extended space travel, they’d said. That much he could do, but keeping track of it wasn't much help to the kids who were experiencing it.
It made the case in his hand, neatly filled with medical tricorders and hyposprays, less useful than the man who carried it, and there was a damned good reason that doctors hadn't been replaced by biobeds. Someone needed to be here to nurture the Human spirit., species notwithstanding.
Now, Medical Bay was the best place for those with a serious illness, but if an injured person really wanted to stay in his quarters, and if the doctor approved of it, they could. Thus, the doctors on the Enterprise actually did make house calls. McCoy didn’t mind that much, either. A person was more likely to open up if they felt comfortable in their surroundings, he’d learned, and any idiot knew that an injured person might have more of a need to open up.
With that in mind, he strode briskly towards the quarters of the only injured person on the Enterprise. Chekov’s ill-timed visit to Engineering had given him the gift that kept on giving; plasma burns. Easy enough to treat if they’d been standard burns and he’d gotten just enough information from Chekov and Scotty to know that they weren’t standard. Just listening to the two of them gabble on about it had given him a headache. He swore, the two of them were a staggering combination of intelligence and reckless stupidity-
The kid was responding all right to the treatments, but McCoy had taken him off duty anyway. Better safe than sorry, he always said. He'd let the on call doctor handle it yesterday, since he hadn't been in much of a condition to drop in on patients, but the report wasn't nearly as satisfying as seeing it with his own eyes, making sure their resident young genius was getting the best care possible.
The door had slid open before he'd even had time to chime, a testament to the boredom of the occupant. Chekov was in his tiny sitting room, looking the chipper chickadee indeed, today. McCoy made a note to give the kid a thorough scan just to make sure he wasn't hiding any signs of pain in the hopes of getting back to the bridge. Had to give him credit for his determination, if not for his stubbornness.
McCoy sank down into the chair across from him and set his case on the floor. "How’s it going this morning, kid?"
"Very well, Doctor," Chekov said politely, waving with one bandaged hand.
"Hrmph," McCoy muttered, not buying it. "All right, let’s see ‘em."
Obediently, he held out both hands, not even wincing as McCoy gently unwrapped them. Shiny pink skin greeted him, evidence of wounds healing quite well. It was a hell of a relief to see it but he ran the tricorder over them anyway, just to confirm what he already knew. The kid was going to be back to a hundred-percent in no time flat.
"They’re looking much better today," McCoy finally said aloud, "I’ll check back again tomorrow but I don’t see any reason that you can’t be back on duty in another day or so. He had to bite back a grin of his own as Chekov lit up, his wide smile blinding.
"This is wonderful news! I have been very bored," he confided, the thickness of his accent blurring the words but even that didn’t hide the edge of anxiety in them.
McCoy gave him a stern look, "Try being bored a little more when you’re on-duty, all right? I know you and Scotty weren’t trying to stir up trouble but if either of you had bothered to wear the proper gear, you wouldn’t be sitting here."
His grin dimmed a little, "Da, this I know."
He’d probably already heard an earful from Jim and Spock about it, so McCoy wasn’t about to add more salt to the wound. Instead, he pulled out the dermal regenerator and went to work carefully on the healing burns. Slow and sure, that was the way to treat burns like these.
"No permanent harm done," McCoy said neutrally, glancing up briefly before refocusing on his work. "Let’s keep it that way. I’m getting used to you, kid, and I don’t want to have to break in a new guy anytime soon."
"Yes, sir," Chekov chirped, returning easily to his former cheeriness. Here was one crewmember who handled the stresses of space travel with a song in his heart, McCoy thought wryly. Burn him, break him, and he staggered back in for more. A fellow should admire his resilience. But it wasn’t his resilience that McCoy was thinking of when the kid piped up again.
"Doctor, I wanted to tell you, I am very sorry to have missed your birthday," Chekov told him earnestly. He might have said more if he hadn’t suddenly broke off with a yelp and a bright Russian curse, yanking his hand away from McCoy.
A new line of red was scrawled across his palm where McCoy had jerked in surprise and it took McCoy a moment to gather himself enough to take Chekov’s hand back. The kid let him, a little reluctantly, but relaxed easily enough as McCoy healed the damage he’d just cause.
"Sorry," McCoy said, gruffly. "You surprised me, is all. Who the hell told you it was my birthday?"
"The captain," Chekov said, the wariness in his voice as heavy as his accent. His hand tensed a little as if he half-expected McCoy to give him a matching set for his troubles. But McCoy’s grip was as steady as a doctor’s should be, his mouth a grim line as he waited for Chekov to continue. "He…told us you did not celebrate, but I wanted just to tell you…birthdays were very important in my family," Chekov finished, a little lamely, and it didn’t take a therapist to see his anxiety, his longing. Even this old country doctor could see it, enough to set aside his own issues for a just a bit.
"Well, thank you for remembering, then," McCoy said, carefully. "I’m not much for celebrating myself, but it…it’s good that you remembered."
The uncertainty in his eyes eased, and Chekov smiled at him, happy again, "I did consider getting you a present, but the captain..."
"No presents!" McCoy said, hastily. Christ, that was all he needed. Chekov was barely even legal and like Jim wasn’t trouble enough. With the perversity of all mental images that a person didn’t really want to see, a brief thought of Chekov naked and eager, with that stupid grin still on his face, flashed into McCoy’s thoughts. He suppressed a shudder, more than a little grateful that Chekov didn’t have an ounce of telepathy to him.
He did make a mental note to check when Chekov’s birthday was, though. McCoy might not want a gift but a kid who was far from home and from a family to whom birthdays were important might just appreciate a small present--
"Dr. McCoy to Medical Bay, priority one."
He was already on his feet and running before the computer had even finished, barely registering Chekov's shocked expression as he bolted through the door. Crew members walking the corridors scrambled out of his way and that was one good thing that came from Starfleet obedience training. If you saw the doctor running, you knew you needed to move your ass.
The lift at the end of the hall was open, two crewmen just stepping in, only to leap back as McCoy shoved rudely past them. "Out!" he snarled and they went, watching him with wide eyes as the doors closed.
A Priority One meant one thing. There was someone in his Medical Bay who was doing a damned good try at dying and they needed a doctor now to convince them otherwise. It was just a fucking shame that the lift didn't care that he needed to be there two minutes ago, that there was someone dying, and that McCoy thought he could taste his own heartbeat, quivering shudders in his chest because he knew who had been on the away team on planet. Course he knew. The specifics of it eluded him at the moment; it had been a damned long week. Trade meeting, planetary exploration, who the hell knew? The only reason he knew there was a mission was he'd read the morning report; he'd long since learned to glance over the details and this morning he'd woken up alone, with his monitor already opened to it like a morning after note--
What he did know was both Spock and Jim had been down there, and he could feel the dampness of sweat on his upper lip, at the small of his back, because he also knew, very specifically, the ratio of injuries both of them tended to receive. Dimly, he thought that Spock might be appreciative of his knowledge, in that perverse Vulcan way. Statistics, mathematics, whatever it was fucking Vulcans masturbated over, he didn't damn well care right now. All he knew was that the lift couldn't respond to a single one of his silent urgings to go faster.
An eternity of waiting, second ticking by that he could have timed to the beats of his heart, before the door slid open on the proper floor. McCoy was squeezing through the door before it had had time to fully open, the sound of his boots loud in the corridor as he ran, skittering to a stop as the door to Medical Bay slid obediently open and revealed half the fucking crew in there.
Jim. God, had to be Jim.
Later, after times like these, when he was half-drunk in his quarters, cheap whiskey always his preferred form of therapy, McCoy was able to appreciate his own calmness. The way his vision cleared and his hands steadied, every ounce of medical knowledge he had surging to the forefront, shoving aside fear and emotion, and in these moments, he was every goddamned inch a doctor.
The sight of Jim sprawled out on the biobed, spattered with crimson splotches and dark burn marks didn't change that, and it didn't keep him from rudely pushing aside a few bystanders to check the readings. Chapel was already doing the same, working with an equal amount of calm efficiency. The biobed was already spewing out reading and just glancing at it, McCoy could already see two things; one, Jim was going to be fine and two, none of the people milling around in Medical Bay realized that. There was a lot of blood, true, and if he’d been stuck down on the planet things would have been a lot hairier, but he wasn’t, and that was that.
"Get the hell out of the way," McCoy barked. "All of you. Out!" They obeyed the voice of authority like the good little officers they were, the cloud of people disappearing like so much vapor, revealing another figure who had been standing back, out of the way. Spock, his clothes stained with as many dark scarlet smears as Jim's were. McCoy was no detective but he didn't think it took much of one to figure out that Spock had carried his captain, his...whatever the hell they were, to Med Bay.
He was already drifting towards the door, obviously ready to take advantage of McCoy's orders and get out while the getting was good. Spock was no doctor but he was a scientist and he'd know how to check the reading enough to see that Jim wasn't in any danger.
A shot of emotion managed to slice cleanly though McCoy's calm and he looked up from his initial assessment long enough to snap out. "Not you, Spock. Sit."
Spock stilled instantly, almost staggering in his efforts to stop and that unnamed emotion tightened again in McCoy's chest. Not all of the blood on his uniform was red. It was interspersed with deep green and red splatters, like the universe's worst Christmas joke. One dark green line was grimed against Spock's cheek, too far away for McCoy to see if it was an actual injury or just a smear.
Spock folded his hands into the small of his back and stood stiffly, Goddamned stubborn..."Doctor, I believe you should focus your attention on the captain."
McCoy didn't even look up, already calibrating the dermal regenerator that Chapel had slapped briskly into his hand. Readings indicated that Jim had sustained moderate blood loss, which the biobed was already replacing, minor burns from an unknown weapon, and a severe laceration across the abdomen which was the primary location of the blood loss. No internal injuries, no organ repair or replacement necessary.
Frankly, they hadn't needed McCoy to bust a gut getting here but since he would have chewed them out later if they hadn't called him, well, he couldn't blame them much for it. Lucky little Jimmy had come through with his skin intact again, or at least most of it. His First Officer, on the other hand...
Spock was already swaying in the direction of the door again, taking one step back, then another.
McCoy flicked on the dermal regenerator and started on the laceration first. "Pick a bed and sit your ass down, Commander, or should I make it an order?" He had the authority, they both knew it.
"Of course," Spock said stiffly, giving in with all the grace a Vulcan could manage as he settled himself somewhat gingerly on the biobed next to Jim's. Just the fact that he was showing any discomfort meant he must've been in a hell of a lot of pain. Vulcans had a pain tolerance that rivaled any drunken asshole from back home, even one on a Saturday night.
The wound was closing nicely, not so much as a mark on the smooth skin of Jim's belly. Pure textbook doctoring and McCoy could have done it blindfolded. Instead, he eyed his other patient, considering. Pale enough that his skin had a visible greenish cast, the biobed spitting out readings on his vitals, pain levels...damn, they were through the roof. "Chapel, give him an analgesic."
That got a good round of reaction. From Chapel, who murmured, "Yes, Doctor," as she readied a hypo, to Spock, whose spine stiffened like he'd just had a broomstick shoved up his ass.
"That will not be necessary, " Spock said tersely, leaning away from her.
"Don't recall asking you." McCoy mumbled, neatly cutting off the remains of Jim's shirt. Another emotion managed to worm its way past his calm as he gently healed the various abrasions and contusions. Ruthlessly, McCoy pushed it back before he even allowed himself to consider what it was. They were fine, the both of them, and they'd both be back on their feet, ready to destroy more of their clothing soon enough. Starfleet must have a hellava uniform budget for the Enterprise.
Spock was fending off Chapel with as much dignity as he could. "I am fully capable of controlling my own pain, Doctor, and I do not like to be medicated when it is unnecessary."
That finally tipped McCoy over the edge into the enough is enough territory. Just who was the doctor here, damn it. Discreetly, McCoy picked up a hypo and in one smooth motion, he loaded it one-handed and pressed it against Spock’s neck while he was turned away.
Vulcans all declared that they were purely logical, emotionless bastards but it sure as hell wasn't logic flashing in Spock's eyes when he whipped his head around to glare at McCoy. Shame he didn't have time to appreciate it, since he was taking care of a patient here, what with being a doctor and all that.
"I did not require...I do not..." Spock tried, words slurring and he didn't have a protest left in him as Chapel helped him lay back on the biobed.
"Can't hear you, Commander, speak up," McCoy murmured, his eyes on Jim. There were a few more slurred words behind him, too blurry to understand and he didn't bother to try. Christ almighty, Jim was a mess. A mass of contusions, most of them already blooming into wildflower patches of purple. Each one vanished under the proper application of good old Twenty-Third century medicine, but it took a little time for each one to fade under his coaxing fingertips. What the hell had they gotten into down there, a rock slide?
He knew the moment that Spock finally succumbed because Chapel was back next to him, rearranging his instruments into the proper order after McCoy flung each one aside and picked up another.
"Readings indicate minor lacerations and contusions, mild dehydration and exhaustion, Doctor," Chapel informed him.
"Start fluids and make sure he stays put." Not that he needed to state the obvious, Chapel was too damned good a nurse not to already be two steps ahead of him. "Let me finish up with Jimmy-Boy here and then we'll see about getting him back on his feet."
"Yes, Doctor."
Surrounded by the soft beeps of the computer and the soothing hum of the biobeds, McCoy settled into doing what he did best; being a doctor.
~~*~~
Didn't take too long to get Jim settled in, every tiny injury seen to and soothed, healed and fussed over, until McCoy was confident that each one had been cared for, and then he drugged the hell out of his captain so he'd damn well stay in Sickbay for rest of the day. Might be teetering on the edge of ethical there, but McCoy didn't much care and Jim could wait a while before going back down to negotiate with the rock people, or whatever the hell they'd been doing planetside. McCoy still hadn't bothered to ask but he might before they go back down.
A drugged out Jim was a nicely quiet one, sprawled out and snoring faintly beneath the blanket that Chapel had spread over him and McCoy allowed himself the luxury of checking on his stats just one more time...
-stable, heart rate normal, blood pressure normal-
...before he checked on his other patient. Chapel had cleaned Spock up and treated his injuries, major and minor contusions and a bunch of cracked ribs which explained the pain he'd been in earlier, and there was a certain glazed look in his eyes that declared that McCoy had overdone it a little on the painkillers. He knew he had a reputation for being downright stingy with his meds but the truth of it was, he had no qualms about dosing it out when it was actually necessary.
"Looks like you're going to live, Spock," McCoy said briskly, punching a last scan into the biobed to make sure nothing had been missed. Computers were only as thorough as a fellow made them, after all.
"Of course. Had I been in any danger, I would have certainly realized it."
"Of course," McCoy mimicked. The biobed beeped, spitting out a clean, if inebriated, bill of health. "Well, you have a choice then. You can stay here a bit and rest, or you can go back to your quarters. Take your pick and don't even ask about going to the bridge today. It's bed, Doctor's orders."
Spock sat up, carefully, the soft blue pajamas that Chapel had gotten for him hanging slightly on his slim form. "If that is the case, I would prefer my quarters but I do not believe I am capable of walking to them at this moment."
Not unless he wanted to collapse in the corridor halfway there. Of course, McCoy could counteract the analgesic, but then Spock would be in some pain. Even healing the broken bones wouldn't alleviate all the microscopic bruising and injury, and it was better not to over process the tissues. "Tell you what, I'll give you hand there and get you settled in if you agree that if you feel anything out of the ordinary, you hightail it back here. Deal?"
"As you say."
It wasn't until he'd gotten Spock to his feet and looped an arm under his shoulders that it hit him. That heat, Vulcan body temperature degrees above Human, pressed all along his side. Pressed against him and McCoy felt a flush rise in his cheeks had nothing to do with temperature.
Goddamned pointy-eared, slim-hipped...pretty, in the same way Jim was pretty and the pressure of his body against McCoy's hip brought with it a flood of recent memories, every one of them involving Spock wearing considerably less.
"Where are we headed?" McCoy asked gruffly, clearing his throat a little. It was a damned good thing he already had a reputation for being brusque, he didn't even want to consider the kind of reputation his thoughts would be earning him otherwise.
"I believe I am capable of leading the way," Spock informed him dryly, and so McCoy let him and tried not to feel the body that was rubbing against his own with every step.
It was only when they were on the lift that McCoy realized they weren't heading to Jim's quarters. He hadn't really thought about where Spock slept, or Jim for that matter, but he'd assumed wherever it was, it was together. But he knew Jim was still in his own quarters, as captain, he needed to be, and Spock--maybe Spock liked to sleep in his own room when he was hurt?
Impossible to tell by looking. He'd never been in Spock's quarters before but the sparseness of the furnishings looked like the usual. Who the hell knew what kind of junk Vulcans liked to haul around with them, for all he knew, Jim's quarters were brimming to the gills with padds and weird Vulcan knickknacks.
He didn't have much time to think about it. Spock was steady enough on his feet but McCoy could tell he was fading fast. He got him into the bedroom, Standard regulation size, blankets, and sheets, thank you, and into the bed.
Eased off Spock's borrowed slippers and pulled up the blankets, and told himself he wasn't fussing like an old grandmother, he was a doctor, it was his job to make sure his patients were comfortable. Warm. Spock was tucked into the blankets like a little child, watching McCoy with dark eyes and it was hard to admit, harder than McCoy wanted to believe, that he didn't want to leave just yet. He wanted to touch, just a little, reassure with his hands that what he could see with his own eyes was true. He had two fingertips pressed into the inside of Spock's wrist in an archaic form of pulse taking because that he could excuse, could allow, he was a doctor.
But it wasn't enough. Not with his calm tenderly breaking off around him, every emotional shield he had quivering at the point of shattering. He'd been safe in med bay, surrounded by tools of the trade, shored up by his nurses and hyposprays but now he was here, with Spock, and there had been so much blood, so much of their blood, and he just wanted, he just needed--
Only he hadn’t gotten a list of rules when he agreed to this foolhardy little ménage a trois, was he even allowed to need this? Was he allowed to do anything or was he supposed to hang around waiting like a kid after school for them to invite him in?
He didn't know. So instead he sat here like a fool, taking the small contact that he could excuse and in a moment, he'd leave, get the hell away from here before all his emotions shattered their sharp little pieces around him with the one person who he knew would appreciate it the least.
Or so he thought, until Spock said, quietly, "If you wish to touch me, you will certainly get no objection from me. I do understand the irrational desire to reassure oneself."
For a long moment, all McCoy could do was gape at him, "How-" He closed his mouth with a snap before any other foolishness could tumble out. Touch telepath. Of course.
Having permission granted only made McCoy head towards the opposite, yanking his hand away. Or he tried to, before Spock caught it neatly, held it with both gentleness and strength, and that was almost worse than feeling like a fool. He was well and truly caught for the moment and close to snarling at Spock to let him the hell go when Spock loosened his grip, stroked his thumb lightly across McCoy's knuckles.
"Doc-Leonard," he said, softly, "I cannot read more than your surface thoughts and I will endeavor to prevent that if you wish." And just like that, the tension that had started bubbling up in McCoy like fizz in soda water eased and he could breathe again.
"Don’t hurt yourself," McCoy snorted, ignored the shakiness in his voice. Hesitantly, he pulled his hand free, stroked his fingertips lightly over Spock's like he'd had done to him a couple times now. Over the back of his hand, to his fingertips and then down his palms.
The response was gratifying. Spock made a soft, pleased sound, sighing as he sank back against the pillows. It made McCoy bolder, stroking his fingers between Spock’s.
"It is fascinating to note that of the times we have been together thusly, one of us has always been some form of intoxicated," Spock murmured, his eyes half-closed as he watched McCoy stroking his hand.
"I wasn’t drunk the second time."
"No," Spock agreed. "But neither were you thinking clearly. I may have taken a slight advantage of that."
A slight advantage? As the guy who'd been pinned to the desk, McCoy had a thing or three to say about that, but it would have to wait. Instead, he conceded, just a little. "Maybe. Can I ask you something? Why would you do that, anyway? Why the hell do you even want me if you have Jim? I don’t get this." If Spock had taken advantage of him to get a little piece of ass, it seemed pretty fair to do the same to get a little information.
"That is several somethings. I am not sure I am capable of properly answering even one at this moment," Spock closed his eyes and slumped lower into the bed, but when McCoy would have let guilt settle thickly in his gut and slunk back to sickbay, Spock spoke again. "However…I took advantage of your less than inebriated state because that is the only time you can be taken advantage of. As a Vulcan, I admit to some admiration of your ability to shield yourself from others."
Shield...? "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"If I hadn’t kissed you that night, you would have either removed me from your quarters physically or removed yourself mentally. On your birthday," Spock added, like McCoy would have forgotten which night. "If I hadn’t touched you in your office and kept you from building your shields back up, you would not be here now." Spock spoke with quiet certainty, even as he gently twined his fingers with McCoy's, keeping him from pulling away.
"I…shields? I’m no damned telepath." McCoy said, a little weakly. Hell, maybe he had given Spock a little too much in the drug department.
"And yet, you surround yourself with barriers as impenetrable as the strongest practitioner of the kolinahr." Spock opened his eyes again, his dark gaze slitted against the brightness of the room. "You do not understand and I am not capable of explaining in this moment. We do not talk well together, you and I."
"No, we don’t," McCoy agreed, a little wryly. At least that made sense. "Believe you suggested before that we try a different kind of communication."
"I did but I would be unable to reciprocate at this moment," Spock said apologetically. His fingers never stilled, moving softly against McCoy's.
"S'all right. I don't mind."
And he didn't, not one damned bit. Not when he could finally, finally, pull Spock's hand up to his lips and kiss every knuckle, run his tongue between his fingers. Listen to him gasp when he curled his tongue over the soft pad of his forefinger and that little sound was as good as permission, made McCoy muss the blankets he'd so carefully arranged and just touch.
Smooth skin dusted with dark, silky hair, not as coarse as he'd expect in a human and that was a little reminder there, that this was Spock that he was touching, that he wanted to touch and McCoy didn't have to say anything at all. Didn't have to admit that it'd been years, years upon years, since he'd really done this, drunken encounters aside. Since he'd consciously helped another person out of their clothes, since he'd leaned down and licked a dark nipple, felt it harden against his tongue.
He'd had more sex in the past few days than he'd had in the past five years but every other time he’d had to be little more than a willing receptacle. He could just lay there and let it all happen to him, let it wash over him like rain in the springtime.
This, he had to do himself.
If he'd let himself notice, McCoy would have seen the tremor in his hands as he slid them down Spock's slim hips, down his thighs. Shaking in a palsy that a doctor should never allow. But he wasn't a doctor here, not really, not with Spock naked against the sheets, faint gleam of sweat shining on his skin. God damn, just...McCoy never could have guessed that Spock could look so much like pure sex, never would have tried to dream he'd want nothing more than to touch him, right now.
Slid his shaking hands between Spock's legs and he had a long, slender cock, much like the man himself. If he’d been expecting something extraordinary, McCoy would have been sorely disappointed. Whoever had created the universe had been remarkable unimaginative in His creation of the genitalia of most humanoid species.
Ordinary or not, it felt like something unreal to touch, to wrap his hand around that hot, hot, length, to lean over and press his lips to the damp tip and taste soft moisture, faint bitterness that was as fundamental as the blood he'd been splattered with earlier.
Hesitantly, McCoy let Spock press up between his lips, let him sift his hand into McCoy's hair and guide him, hold him lightly. Begging with a touch and he was helpless not to comply, felt his eyes stinging as he took Spock almost too deep, sucking and releasing clumsily, Christ, it had been years, and he fumbled for Spock's free hand with his own, felt the grind of his bones in the too-tight grip.
It took only a few moments of forever, tension prickling at his temples as McCoy sucked hard, let his teeth just scrape over taut, sensitive skin, and he felt as much as heard Spock choke off a cry, felt him tense and he expected the wet burst across the back of his tongue, swallowed without thought as Spock jerked softly beneath him.
The grip on the back of his neck eased enough for him to pull off and McCoy did, but he didn't try yet to pull his hand free even though it ached from Spock's grip. His mouth felt swollen, lips red, his jaw too-loose and aching, still salt-bitter and hot. He wondered at how he looked, if he walked into the corridor would anyone know what they'd been doing behind that closed door?
Better not to think about it, maybe. He'd stay a bit longer and then go check on Jim.
Spock's eyes were closed, more asleep than not McCoy figured and he carefully pulled his fingers free, tugged the blankets back over Spock before he could get a chill. Sat there and stroked all the wrinkles from the blankets, until Spock's breathing was slow and even and then he stood to go.
And yelped aloud as Spock grabbed his wrist, glazed eyes slitting open.
"Jesus, take it easy--"
A soft, whispered stream of Vulcan, words that McCoy couldn't piece together with his limited knowledge of the language.
"Say something a person can understand, would you?"
A soft exhale, and Spock closed his eyes again, "If I were Human, perhaps I would be jealous of you."
What the fuck...this was not the kind of pillow talk McCoy could remember ever having. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
A soft blink, and McCoy could see Spock's eyes were still dilated, dark pupils wide, "He cannot help but love me. He chooses to love you."
"Don't." McCoy said thickly, don't, Christ, don't. He was not up to dealing with any inebriated ramblings, not now. He tugged hard at his wrist, yanking bruises into it that he'd have to heal later as Spock refused to release him.
"Doctor, you have been sexually involved with him for years now, surely you are aware of his feelings."
Drugged or not, that was fucking calculated, Doctor, not Leonard, not anything else. "We weren't!"
"Ah, yes. A birthday ceremony, only." Sharp as a laser scalpel, mocking and cool, and just then, McCoy hated him, hated the thick taste still on the back of his tongue. And then everything about Spock abruptly softened, gentled, his fingertips soothing the red lines on McCoy's wrist that he'd caused. "Leonard, Jim has many friends and to my knowledge, none of them have been the recipient of oral sex as a gift, no matter how auspicious the occasion."
"I can't do this right now...I need to...I have to get back to Sick Bay, I'm still on duty." McCoy managed, and finally, Spock let him go. On duty, sure, and sucking off his first officer, what the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he doing? So busy playing therapist for the rest of the crew and here he was doing..."I need to go," he repeated, backing towards the door.
"Yes," Spock agreed, softly, already sleep-blurred. "Take care of Jim."
"Always do." It was automatic because it was true. He always took care of Jim, always. He had to, someone had to, and he was a doctor. He was good at taking care of people.
"I'll check in on you later," McCoy said, weakly, and it was a lie and he knew it. He'd send someone else, and maybe they wouldn't be a doctor, but they'd be able to check on Spock without...they'd be able to check on Spock.
Spock didn't reply, finally asleep, resting properly like a patient should and McCoy turned and walked carefully out, started back to Sickbay and then changed his mind and went instead to get his equipment from Chekov's room. The kid was still in his sitting room when McCoy stepped in, a surreal moment of déjà vu that had him shaking his head.
"Is everything all right, Doctor?" Chekov asked him anxiously, holding out one of his hands for McCoy to go over laboriously with the dermal regenerator.
"Everything is fine," McCoy told him gruffly, absently rubbing the back of his free hand over his mouth.
Chekov looked at him consideringly, the grumpy doctor bent over his sore, pinkened hand, and nearly asked him if something was wrong. Doctor McCoy was blustery as an old bear on the outside but Chekov knew at his heart he was a tender, caring man who had visited him far more often than was required, reassuring him time and again that he would heal Chekov's hands to the best of his abilities.
Today, he seemed troubled and Chekov would have been happy to help him, happy to return his caring. At the last moment, though, he bit it back and kept his silence. If the doctor wanted to speak to someone, surely he would do it at his own choosing. He hardly needed a kid, as McCoy so often called him, to interfere.
They sat together in silence, the doctor and his patient, hands held together in mechanical healing.
-finis-