She eyes the hypospray in her hand skeptically. "You sure you need this?" It has an alien script on the side, flowing letters that look beautiful, not that she could read them worth a damn. What happened to traditional Latin names for medicine?
His face is white and grows paler as the shuttle makes a lurch forward. "If you can't do it, Chapel, hand it over and I'll do it myself." He closes his eyes and leans against the padded headrest of his chair. It is a Very Good Thing that the shuttle is on autopilot because neither one of them is paying attention or has a clue where they are, besides, of course, heading to the Enterprise.
She places her finger on his neck and rubs, unconsciously, even as he urges her to hurry with a mumbled, "I'm not a child." Rolling her eyes now, she lets the hypospray eject and then drops it onto the seat next to her.
"Gimme a minute," he groans, rubbing his temples. He stays reclined against the seat like that for a few minutes and Christine starts to get worried. She touches his hand tentatively and he grabs hers in an iron grip. She gasps in pain and his eyes open. His touch softens but he doesn't let go of her hand. "Sorry. Did I hurt you?"
"No—" His eyes are red and her fingers itch for a tricorder. What the hell is wrong with him? "—I'm fine. Dammit, McCoy, your eyes!"
He blinks. "What's wrong with them?" He licks his lips and looks at her, a heated gaze that makes her toes curl. "I don't feel cold and nauseous anymore. In fact," he leans in close and breathes in her scent, "I feel fucking warm." Her stomach flips and she attempts to pull away. They did this—once—and decided to not ruin a perfectly good friendship and working relationship. Well, he had decided. She had just nodded at the appropriate pauses in his too-quiet speech the morning after.
Her ego tells her to tell him to fuck off, but she ignores her and stops struggling to retain control of her hand. "Let me get the tricorder from my bag, McCoy. You aren't yourself and—nngghf."
His mouth is on hers and she barely remembers to breathe. His hands tug her hair a little too hard and his teeth nip at her lips, demanding entrance. She lets him and ends up straddling his lap moments later, pulling on his own hair, absently noticing that he needs a haircut, but then forgetting that thought when his firm grip on her ass brings her flush with his growing arousal. She's wearing her blue uniform skirt and the skimpy red underwear that make her feel like a goddess, so his thrust upwards almost goes inside her.
Time to take back some control here.
"Are you sure you want this?" she manages to ask, breaking away from him to catch a breath and kneel in front of him to fumble open his uniform trousers. The way her hands are shaking, she wonders if she is under the influence of whatever drug she has foolishly injected into McCoy.
"What do you think, Chapel?" he asks sarcastically. There. There's her McCoy back, legs spread in front of her, hand on his hard cock, skin flushed in a way she had never thought to see again.
She grins. Poor baby—he hates to be out of control. She bats his hand away from his erection and pulls his trousers all the way down to catch on his boots and keep him immobile.
"Fuck, woman. Give me your mouth."
"Where?" she asks innocently, touching him oh-so-softly, teasing him with kisses up his thigh. He grabs her hair and pushes her down. She complies, sucking with soft pulls at the head of his cock, taking him in deeper as he demands more in low words and dirty language.
"Tha's right," he murmurs, keeping a firm grip on her head, "keep going." She's obstinate and stops when he's close, leaning back on her heels and scanning him for signs of the drug, and he glares at her for the interruption, giving her his trademark what the fuck? look.
"I want you," she states baldly and sees his eyes widen and his hands tighten into fists. "But I want you willing. Not under the influence of" —she picks up the hypospray and grimaces— "whatever you're on."
"Goddammit, Christine. I'm fucking willing. Have been. You've just been blind—I don't need an alien drug to want to fuck you."
His face flushes even more and he sits up, reaching for her. He drags her to a standing position and pulls down the red satin, inhaling appreciatively when the garment pools to the floor. "C'mere," he groans and she does, perching on his lap, kissing him when his hand goes between her legs, shuddering when he circles her clit, methodically, even though his hand trembles.
"Here, I'm right here. Not going anywhere, Chris." She rocks against his fingers, eyes closed—she doesn't want to see his red eyes, not now. They pop open when he lifts her up and she is filled by him.
He moves her on him, slowly, biting her through her uniform shirt. Her hand reaches down to finger her clit and he groans when she flutters around him. He sucks her nipples through her shirt and she comes from the pressure of her fingers and his mouth.
He doesn't last long. Seconds later, he pulls out and comes over her thighs. "No condom," he murmurs and they pant loudly in the relative quiet of the shuttle.
When they arrive back on the ship, Christine looks presentable. A little flushed, but presentable. McCoy's uniform is neat, but there is a bulge in his right pocket. Kirk raises his eyebrows at him as they walk by, but doesn't say a word.
McCoy fingers the panties in his pocket and smiles.