He was going to kill Jim. No, this time he meant it; doctor or not, best friend or not, enough was enough. No more fixing him up after a mission gone bad. No more nursing drinks together. No more commiserating about the bunch of assholes who ran Starfleet. Jim was as good as dead, better than dead, because McCoy had had enough.
Of course, he’d have to find the idiot before he could kill him, and therein lay the problem. On a pleasure planet with well over a thousand “fun” houses nearby, each of them offering something new and exotic, McCoy had a better chance of finding himself embroiled in a fight for some lady’s honor than of finding his intrepid captain and best friend. Now normally this wouldn’t have been a problem—he’d been on shore leave with Jim enough times to know that he disappeared and returned whenever he damn well felt like it—but this time, McCoy had been involved in administering vaccines to the colonists on board Enterprise when the arrangements were being made, and so Jim had gotten the hotel room for their single night. He’d gotten a nice room, with two standard beds and walls that weren’t paper thin, and McCoy had considered it a pretty standard situation…until he realized Jim had also gotten only one key. One key that Jim had taken with him when he disappeared.
And now McCoy was standing outside in the hallway trying to look like he wasn’t breaking into his own room, trying to figure out how anyone had ever picked locks before there was a computer to hack, and trying—in vain—to comfort himself with the idea of strangling his best friend. Surprisingly, he wasn’t particularly successful at any of those things, and it was with a great sigh that he gave up, banging his forehead against the cursedly solid wood door.
McCoy sighed, and banged his head again. Damn him, but he’d forgotten Spock had the room next door.
“Is something wrong?”
McCoy didn’t so much as turn around at the polite query, and he mumbled his words into breath-dampened wood.
“No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you going to be ill in the hallway?”
“No, I—uh—just can’t find my key.” McCoy patted his pocket ineffectively, hoping the answer would satisfy the mild curiosity, and he was surprised when he heard more than saw Spock edge closer.
“Is the Captain returning soon?”
McCoy looked up then, to glare at Spock’s impassive face.
“I don’t know.”
Spock was undeterred, and also smarter than McCoy often admitted.
“Does the Captain have your key?”
“I told you, I—” The lie wasn’t completed, because Spock was staring at him like he was about to make a mistake, the same look that scared the wits out of the new scientists. “Yeah, he does. I can’t get in, all right, and I don’t know when he’ll be back!” His annoyance manifested in a shout, and he kicked the door for emphasis, earning himself a disdainful look from one of the most disdainful people he knew.
“There is no need to shout, Doctor McCoy.”
McCoy banged his head against the door a third time, deciding his life was just perfect. Spock also apparently decided the conversation had reached its end, because he moved towards his own door, key in hand.
McCoy watched him pause out of the corner of his eye.
“Doctor McCoy. If you require only a place to sleep, I would be willing to loan you the use of my bed.”
McCoy pursed his lips in thought, and Spock continued to wait by the door, not looking at him, not so much as fiddling with his keys—a very cool character, Commander Spock, and he could almost admire that trait when Spock wasn’t being an asshole.
“Don’t you need sleep?”
“I plan to review several scientific articles, and I am well rested.” A tactful non-answer, something that was to be expected from a politician’s son, but McCoy’s interest was peaked nonetheless.
“Scientific articles? Which ones?”
“The ones I have written, Doctor.”
“Oh. Well, if you don’t mind…” He trailed off, because he must have been desperate to accept a stay with Spock, someone who was—at best—kind of dull.
Only until Jim returned, he promised himself. Then he’d storm over there, have a firm word with the young idiot, and the inevitably awkward night could be quickly forgotten.
Spock seemed to understand his plan and approve.
“It will not be unduly inconvenient,” Spock finally said, and he finally completed the act of unlocking his door, moving out of sight as soon as he was able. McCoy rolled his eyes.
“You’re too kind.”
When he received no answer, McCoy simply followed.
McCoy’s prediction of the next few hours was pretty accurate: it was boring, because Spock didn’t say much and McCoy was, well, trying to sleep. He wasn’t particularly tired, however, so what he ended up doing instead was watching Spock read, only occasionally making a note on the datapad he held in his hands. He didn’t hum. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t even blink that often.
It was more than a little alarming, and he must have been attempting to sleep in vain for at least a couple hours before he finally heaved an exasperated sigh and pushed the sheets to his feet.
“Can’t you, you know, do something?”
Spock didn’t even look up, simply scratching his stylus against some minute detail on the screen.
“Do what, Doctor?”
“Whistle? Cross and uncross your legs? Jumping jacks? Some movement to show that you’re actually alive in the corner over there, because you’re freaking me out a little bit.”
Spock looked up then and—curiously enough—he waved before looking back down again.
“I assure you, your beads and rattles are not needed at the moment.”
McCoy saw red.
“Listen, you green-blooded—” He was interrupted by a crash next door, and he all but jumped out of bed. “Finally.” But his relief was short lived.
“I thought you said you had a suite, Jim?’”
“Honey, I never said it was an expensive suite, and—oh hey, sweet, Bones isn’t back yet!”
“Which is his bed?”
“Don’t remember. The front one?”
Bones banged on the wall.
“No, you idiot, it’s the far one!”
There was a titter, like the sound of a bird, and he wondered what the hell species Jim had taken home with him that night.
“Did you hear something?”
“Nope,” Jim responded cheerfully. “But…oh, yes, just like that, honey. Didn’t know your species could—”
“Most don’t. But…oh. Oooh.”
Bones buried his face in his hands, more so when he realized Spock was staring at the wall incredulously. As much as he wanted to make a joke about Vulcans and sex-ed, he resisted because, well, Spock could break him in half and no one would ever find the body.
As for Jim and his screamer in there…banging on the wall didn’t help, and neither did shouting. Bones had never been unfortunate enough to catch Jim in mid-action before, but now, he was almost wishing he had been able to burst into the room at precisely the wrong moment—the mental scarring would be a minor bump in the road when considering the fact that he would be able to throw something at him.
Bones scowled at the wall for what felt like hours, and every time he glanced at Spock (he was curious, and he had been ridiculously amused to see him look appalled at some of the noises Jim and his lady made) he could have sworn he had just looked back down at his datapad the instant Bones’ eyes’ flickered his direction. Things couldn’t have been more awkward.
Until they were.
“Oh, Captain—CAPTAIN AWESOME!”
“Wait, what?” McCoy blinked at the wall as if answers were going to open up in the soft yellow paper if he only looked long enough. He wasn’t certain whether to laugh, or to laugh hysterically.
“At least he is modest,” Spock said quietly, not looking up from his datapad, and McCoy stared at him.
“Did you—did you just make a joke?”
“I was merely attempting to distract you.”
McCoy started to laugh then, and he collapsed back against the pillows. For some reason, he didn’t feel so out of place anymore. Awkward, annoyed, embarrassed, but not out of place.
“Thanks,” he said quietly before pulling the sheets back to his chin. “Thanks a lot.”
The only response was the soft click of the datapad as McCoy closed his eyes.
The next time Enterprise had shore leave was about four months later, because Starfleet was full of sadistic jerks who didn’t understand the concept of “space crazy.” Since McCoy was nothing but willing to learn from his mistakes, he didn’t room with Jim and his enthusiasm this time, and—learning from Spock’s mistakes—he didn’t room next to Jim either. It was the best for everyone, he figured, because where he planned to go on this pleasure planet…well, let’s just say it wasn’t to Jim’s tastes, and McCoy’s tastes were more than a little happy to have free rein, if only for one night.
He was humming while he brushed his teeth, standing naked and freshly-showered in his room and thinking of all the exercise he was going to be getting that evening. Since he had sprung for a luxurious double standard bed and no roommate, he saw nothing wrong with indulging a little in the privacy.
Which was of course when the door opened without warning, revealing his cool Vulcan coworker.
“Dammit, Spock!” McCoy grabbed the towel quickly, but not before Spock had a good five seconds of naked doctor to ogle if he was inclined, which he most likely wasn’t. Still, the blush was embarrassing in a way the nudity hadn’t been, and the combination—McCoy wrapped in a towel and blushing, Spock blinking as if attempting to clear the vision from his eyes—was enough to annoy anybody.
Jesus, he wasn’t that bad to look at!
“I did not mean to disturb, Doctor.”
“Hell. What do you want? How did you get in here?”
Spock raised an eyebrow.
“The door was open.”
“And you assumed you could just come in?” Like he did then, settling himself calmly in the chair at the front of the suite.
“Doctor, given your intelligence and the relatively high crime rate in this city, I concluded that the door would not be left unlocked intentionally and that it would be unwise to announce my presence. My apologies.”
The logical reasoning lost its appeal when Spock just sounded so damned unapologetic about the whole thing, and McCoy briefly considered throwing a bar of soap at him.
“What if I’d been, you know, busy?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Merely that you are practical enough to save such activities until they are warranted.” Translation: You’ve been doing without, and I know it. McCoy wasn’t sure whether he should be uncomfortable about that or not, and then decided not: there was a coworker caring about his sex life and then there was Spock knowing about his sex life, and there was about a hundred percent chance that Spock’s comment was more along the lines of a scientific study rather than interest, or an offer.
McCoy refused to be disappointed, and then he refused to wonder why he would ever be disappointed. They weren’t friends, they barely spoke when they weren’t arguing, and except for one awkward night in a tiny motel room, McCoy had never agreed with him. Never.
There was a shift of fabric, and it was only then that McCoy realized Spock was carrying a tented fabric bag, the equivalent to a small duffel.
“What are you doing here, Spock?”
Spock blinked at him slowly and then looked away.
“There was an accident in the C ventilation system, and a third of the lower decks were evacuated until the issue could be resolved, a matter that will take some weeks. Unfortunately, my room was one such contaminated location—”
“And you need a place to stay?” McCoy finished, more than a touch of dread in his voice. His plans of sex and excitement went up in smoke, just like that, and Spock stiffened, clearly sensing it.
“If it is an inconvenience—”
“No, it’s fine.” McCoy did owe him, and he knew that there weren’t exactly many rooms left in the motel, less now that this ventilation disaster had eliminated more than a few options. It was just bad luck—his bad luck. “But…I had plans, if you don’t mind?” Why he ended the statement with a question he wasn’t sure, but Spock answered it anyway.
“I do not. I have many things to do this evening, and several articles to edit.”
So saying, Spock shifted his position just enough to pull a standard datapad from his bag, clearly intending to spend his night doing just that. Clearly intending to sit there, possibly indefinitely, while McCoy did who-knows-what. McCoy felt the twinges of his southern upbringing say he was being a bad host, and he sighed.
“If you don’t have anything, you know, strictly planned, you can come along. I’m sure you’ll get back in time to edit some of those articles?”
“Will it not be a hindrance to your plans?”
“No, not really. Just…ah, wear a nice shirt, okay?”
Spock glanced at his science blue tunic, one—McCoy was sure—of a very efficient several dozen.
“Is there something wrong with the one I have on?”
McCoy sighed, and watched his fun evening disappear.
It was purely on impulse that McCoy didn’t change the first of his evening’s plans, a reservation for a rather popular, rather exclusive restaurant by the name of Midas Kiss; he had initially made a reservation for two because he had planned on having company, albeit different company than he had now, and it had taken him almost two weeks of haggling to get the reservation itself. He wasn’t going to change it, no way, no how…and it might have been just a little bit petty, but when he dragged Spock along with him, he didn’t mention it was a restaurant the catered to exclusively gay clientele either.
The shock, he thought, would make up in some way for the fact that he wasn’t getting laid that night, and maybe the expression on Spock’s face would even be a good story. Maybe it would even be ridiculous.
McCoy waited for Spock to realize where they were with a sort of evil inner glee all through the appetizer of white asparagus and Rigellian jelly. He waited through two glasses of wine and a Vulcan spring water and—when he thought he saw Spock look up and take in the surroundings curiously—he even waited through half of a side salad.
But Spock said nothing except to remark on the dressing, and McCoy couldn’t take it anymore.
“Okay, seriously, I know you’re more aware of your surroundings than this. Aren’t you going to say something about it?”
Spock speared an Andorian beet and raised it to his lips before chewing slowly. If he had wanted to prolong the silence as much as possible, he was doing an admirable job.
“Something about what, Leonard?”
The use of his first name surprised him enough that he didn’t have a response ready, and he blinked far too rapidly.
“Uhh…that this is a gay restaurant?”
Another beet was pierced with the curling fork, and McCoy was just aware enough to notice that Spock seemed to have an order that he was eating the contents of his salad in, much like a picky teenager.
“Restaurants do not have sexual preferences.”
“Har-de-har. Doesn’t it offend your Vulcan concepts of, I don’t know, logical relationships?”
Spock actually looked away from his food at that, and McCoy didn’t miss the way his tongue darted to catch the remains of dressing from the prongs of his fork.
“Doctor, we have long since evolved beyond the need to crucify our peers on the basis of sexual inclinations. As any study into the matter has shown, sexuality is fluid and difficult to influence intentionally, moreso for Vulcan sexuality.”
McCoy leaned back, surprised, and when the waiter came to deliver his pasta and offer Spock more salad, he was still trying to come up with the words.
“There are gay Vulcans?” The question seemed inadequate, but thankfully Spock’s brilliant mind saw through the shocked query and addressed what McCoy actually wanted to know.
“Strictly speaking, the majority of Vulcans are pansexual, as biology ensures an attraction to the opposite sex during crucial periods. However, whether a Vulcan is attracted to males or females or even aliens is controlled much the same way as human sexuality, and with as much success.” McCoy waited, and Spock actually seemed amused as he contemplated the lean greens in front of him. McCoy felt his lips twitch, partially in response to things that he hadn’t even considered, and partially because hell, Spock didn’t surprise him that often.
“Which is no success at all, huh?”
They were silent for a moment, and McCoy tried his pasta; it was delicious.
“So what are you? Pansexual?”
“Yes, although I have found an inclination towards human males in the past.”
“Really,” McCoy deadpanned, partly because he felt like he had slipped, somehow. Like Spock was humoring him, or lying, or mocking him.
But Spock confirmed the almost accusation without hesitation.
They munched in relative, almost-peaceful silence for a few more minutes, because Spock was neither volunteering information nor requesting it, and McCoy had more questions than he thought was reasonable considering Spock was Spock.
“Did you do the bar-hopping thing on Earth? You must have been discreet; I never heard about it.”
Not that McCoy’s ears were perked for the slightest bit of gossip about sparkling-clean Spock, but he had always thought it was impossible to have a gay relationship in Starfleet without it making the space-rounds, no matter how open minded people claimed to be these days. McCoy would certainly never have managed it.
“Shortly before meeting Nyota, I had a long-term lover. I have not seen the need since.” It was said so simply, like it had merely been that, like Spock had just moved on. McCoy wondered if there was more to the story, just as he realized that he shouldn’t have cared.
And then Spock asked a question that McCoy really didn’t want.
“And you, Doctor? What sexuality do you identify with?”
“Nothing like Jim’s, thank God.” The question was neatly deflected, a casual query that could have made their downright friendly interaction something awkward. Spock was open-minded…and McCoy was gay.
Set out like that, in a nice restaurant that catered almost exclusively to homosexual couples with the two of them sharing a room later, it almost looked like the fling he had originally been wanting. Almost.
And then he remembered that it actually wasn’t and that this was Spock, and he felt annoyed all over again. He pushed his half-finished plate away.
Spock wasn’t, but he clearly sensed McCoy’s sudden unease, and he nodded.
“Yes. What other events would you like me to attend?”
McCoy mentally went over his plans for the evening, examining and discarding those things he had been looking forward to almost without regret. The Andorian concert? He hadn’t thought to get two tickets and he wasn’t rude enough to leave Spock behind, so that was out. The seminar on a new strain of nano-technology? Spock could probably school everyone there, and McCoy didn’t think he could handle the embarrassment. Hitting the bars? Spock had never done that, and McCoy didn’t really want to be the first to introduce him to the idea of casual sex between strangers.
“Do you have any more of those articles you were reading?”
Spock nodded and they left, McCoy paying reflexively before he realized exactly what he was doing; Spock didn’t comment, and McCoy didn’t wonder why, not until they were out walking in the green moonlight.
But the idea that crossed his mind was absurd, and he didn’t mention it. They walked in silence, he and Spock, and when they returned to McCoy’s room, they settled side by side on the bed in the same way.
The articles he read were interesting, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t have remembered what they were about if he’d tried, his heart was beating too fast and his mind was spinning with that absurd idea.
Just ask him. Come on—you’re both adults.
“Spock.” The sound came out as a croak, and McCoy cleared his dry throat when Spock glanced at him. “Spock, do you want to—”
He was interrupted by a sudden bang, and he nearly catapulted himself out of the bed. It sounded like a goddamn war, but after a few seconds, the banging repeated, following by…creaking and moaning from the floor above.
Oh, for the love of—
McCoy was ready to start cursing the horndogs above them—yes, he was fucking jealous—when Spock blinked up at the ceiling curiously.
“Doctor, I do believe that is the Captain.”
McCoy blanched, and whatever latent lust he’d been feeling died instantly.
“Yes. Unless you know of another Captain currently on this planet who would answer to the phrase ‘naughty Klingon boy.’”
McCoy snorted at that—he didn’t envy Spock’s better hearing right at that moment.
“Nope, that does sound like Jim.” As did the creaking, come to think of it—the kid was all energy, and McCoy had listened to gossip well enough at the academy to hear that.
“Doctor. What were you going to say?”
McCoy just shook his head. With Spock’s eyes on him and so cool, he just couldn’t say it, even if the mood hadn’t been broken.
Vulcan sexuality might be fluid, but there’s no reason to think it would flow towards you, old man.
“Spock, do you want to go to sleep?”
They made quick work of their nighttime activities and climbed into bed, McCoy’s lips still tasting of toothpaste because he’d been in such a hurry to turn his back to the reality of Spock changing, lest that idea crop up again. It would be great to go to sleep…but as soon as he heard Spock begin to settle into a pile of blankets on the floor, he stopped him, against his better judgment.
“Wait. You can sleep up here as long as you don’t kick or anything.”
“You are certain?”
McCoy didn’t look at him, worried—perhaps too much—that any motion to turn towards Spock would reveal the hard-on that had returned with a vengeance in the silence around them, and the thankful silence above them.
“Yeah. Sure. I don’t mind.”
The bed dipped significantly because Vulcans weighed a ton, and McCoy just stared harder out the window.
“I believe it is a human custom to say ‘good night.’”
McCoy could have laughed, but he sighed instead.
“Yeah. Good night, Spock.”
McCoy didn’t sleep well that night, and he made a mental note: never again.
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
Spock peered at him from behind the dark-paneled door, taking in the suitcase and—strangely enough—the pillow before stepping aside.
“What seems to be the problem this time, Doctor?”
“Jim. He’s, er, a bit tipsy, and a bit friendly right now. More friendly than I’d like.”
Spock looked at him dubiously.
“The captain is assaulting you?”
“No! No, nothing like that. Just…do you know what a noogie is?”
“I do not.”
“Well, that’s probably better for everyone, then.” There was silence, and then McCoy finished quietly, “I just need a place to crash until tomorrow.”
“Very well.” Spock responded by opening the door fully and then hobbling back to his desk, his recent injury still troubling him despite his Vulcan control. McCoy watched him out of the corner of his eye as he unpacked just the barest necessities, noticing that a datapad was once again cradled in long-fingered hands. McCoy was curious.
“Why the hell do you take shore leave anyway? Every time I see you, you’re doing things that you could be doing on the ship.”
Spock didn’t look up, and McCoy watched his stylus fly across the screen with alarming speed—some scientific report, probably.
“My mother was a great believer in the benefits of “fresh air.” While I cannot say I completely agree with her assessment, there is something beneficial about a change of scenery on occasion, despite the fact that I do not engage in the same frivolities as my peers in my spare time.”
“You don’t have spare time, and there’s nothing bad about ‘frivolities.’ You enjoyed the restaurant we went to last time, didn’t you?” McCoy held his breath, wondering if Spock was going to deny even that, and was glad when he couldn’t seem to bring himself to. When his motions paused.
And then he said something that was a surprise between them, because Spock was Spock and McCoy was McCoy.
“Doctor, I enjoyed our conversation more.”
McCoy swallowed, and his heart was beating like a panicked bird in his chest.
“Indeed. It was…enlightening.”
Enlightening. Not as good as an “interesting” or “fascinating” when it came to things Spock found worth observing, but it was still impressive. Still a step up from the inevitable “illogical” that he heard at least once a day.
And that idea showed up again, for the first time in two months.
McCoy dropped his pillow on the floor and busied himself with hunting for the spare blanket that must have been somewhere in the closet, all the while rationalizing what seemed like—to him—an occasion where his hormones were flying out of control.
So he hadn’t had sex in about a year, thanks to Spock’s presence on their last shore leave and his own bad luck this time—big deal. So he wasn’t exactly immune when it came to seeing him with side glances, noting the stunning countenance before he realized who he was looking at—it happened to everyone, right? So he didn’t exactly hate him and Jim liked him well enough, and McCoy was horny—there were others if he wanted someone to take the edge off, and even if he wanted someone he could spend the night with regularly.
But Spock wouldn’t make it weird, which was a point in his favor. Spock could stay professional in public while—and McCoy’s mind insisted on adding this last part—being an absolute animal in the sack. Spock could be a lot of things and McCoy wouldn’t have to scour the bars every time they had shore leave, and all he had to do was ask. And because it was Spock, the rejection wouldn’t even hurt.
But he didn’t ask. Why? Hell if he knew.
“Doctor, what are you doing?”
McCoy looked up and found Spock watching him, and he gestured to the makeshift bed on the floor.
“Getting ready for bed. Why?”
“Doctor.” Spock sounded disapproving, and McCoy felt like an ensign who had botched a basic chemical test. “You offered me your bed when necessary, and I would be remiss if I did not do the same. Also, it would be wasteful, as I do not intend to use it tonight.”
“Oh yeah? Going to meet someone?” McCoy didn’t know where the question came from, and the look Spock shot him was…alarmed. McCoy relaxed before he could stop himself.
Wait, what? Why the hell was he relieved about that?
“No. I intend to meditate.”
“Oh. I won’t get in the way, will I?”
“It is unlikely your presence will hinder my efforts. However, I would request that you stay silent.”
McCoy could understand that, and he settled back into the firm mattress and permanently dented pillows of the standard motel room. He’d had plans for that night, things he’d wanted to do, people he’d want to—er—meet, but for some reason, watching Spock meditate seemed like a better time.
I’m doing it for Jim, he reassured himself. In case he really did drink too much, and needs help. It sounded logical at least, which meant Spock probably wouldn’t ask him why he wasn’t looking for company, as his fancy dress shirt said he had planned to.
The thing was, though, that meditation wasn’t particularly interesting to watch. Call him crazy, but Vulcan meditation amounted to some form of impersonation of a statue in long, dark robes while burning incense and remaining perfectly, 100% still, and McCoy knew there was nothing interesting about that.
Except to sit, Spock hiked his robes up and out of the way, exposing smooth, pale skin for just an instant, and then McCoy was hooked, waiting with tense muscles and bated breath for just one more peek…it was creepy and he knew it, but a part of him claimed it was due. Spock was here, obviously not feeling modest enough to dress in his typical layers. McCoy was here, sacrificing his night of meaningless flings to sit on an uncomfortable bed and make sure Jim didn’t die in his sleep and that Spock didn’t set the place on fire with that incense he used (the incense was actually kind of nice, smelling like burnt chamomile and sage, but McCoy wouldn’t admit to that). It was logical that he was here.
But it wasn’t entirely logical that McCoy saw Spock—a casual friend, an antagonistic coworker at best—and felt that urge to jump his skinny body, again. Two times couldn’t be a fluke, and although it was probably true that he was desperate, he certainly hadn’t been eying Jim like a hunk of man-meat while they shared a room, and in much less clothing.
What the hell was it about Spock?
He never got a chance to find an answer, because there was a sudden moan from next door, something that sounded suspiciously like a breathy “Jim,” and McCoy wondered how he could be so stupid as to think Jim wouldn’t invite someone over. He barely had time to tell a suddenly distracted Spock where he was going before he darted out the door, and pushed inside.
He immediately turned around and left.
“Doctor?” Spock peered out into the hallway, eying McCoy’s angry stomp back to their shared room without comment, and merely moving when McCoy would have pushed by him. “Doctor, is the captain all right? Does he need to be returned to the ship?”
McCoy threw up his hands before he flopped half-heartedly on the bed.
“That’s it, Spock. I’m done—I’m not rooming with him anymore.”
“Spock.” He waited until Spock had snuffed the slim incense cones and looked at him. “He says his own name when masturbating.”
That eyebrow, for once, went high into Spock’s hairline, and not because of anything McCoy had done—it felt like a victory.
“Technically, James is the fourth most prevalent male name on Earth, so it is entirely possible—”
“Jim, sure, whatever, but James Tiberius Kirk? I’m gonna hit him.” And McCoy was annoyed, too; that was the problem with rooming with the weirdest damn kid he’d ever met, but for some reason, McCoy never thought of it when he was reserving rooms. Hell if he knew why.
“That is unnecessary, Doctor. You may simply room with me on our next shore leave.”
The offer was made casually, as if Spock didn’t specifically request single rooms every time, as if he didn’t end up doing without every time. He seemed curiously unbothered by the idea of a permanent roommate on his shore leave and—interestingly enough—McCoy wasn’t bothered by it either.
That was new.
When Spock went back to meditating—sans incense—and McCoy went back to lying on the bed, propped on his elbows and staring, he felt like they’d reached some sort of agreement for the first time.
And, yeah, McCoy ogled the hell out of him this time, but he didn’t feel nearly as guilty as he had before they were roommates.
Amazingly enough, McCoy and Spock got along well the first time they roomed together intentionally, and the second. It surprised everyone who saw the room assignments, but despite how confrontational and argumentative they were on the bridge, in meetings, and during meals, they were almost…peaceful when they shared those two single beds. They just didn’t have much to argue about when there were no missions, no computers, no danger lurking around every corner…and if they had the occasional “debate,” that was only to be expected.
“Yes. Dammit, Spock!”
Spock just continued to look at him dubiously, arms crossed.
“Doctor, I am not going to indulge you in this. I see no reason to visit an, as you say, “easy house.” Should you not be asking the captain this?”
McCoy waved the question away, aware of his own ulterior motives.
“Jim doesn’t like men, er, I think. Come on, Spock—I’m not saying you have to leave with anyone or anything like that. There are dances—”
“I do not dance.”
“I do not require sustenance at this time.”
“—and things like craft fairs. Music? You like music.”
McCoy’s voice was close to pleading, and Spock’s eyes had narrowed.
“Doctor, you are attempting to disguise the fact that the purpose of this location is to solicit others for sex.”
“And what’s wrong with that? Don’t tell me the Vulcans don’t have needs.”
“My ‘needs’ would be better addressed without the presence of strangers, and yours would as well. Why do you insist on this?”
McCoy swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. A reason…well, he couldn’t exactly say that he was hoping to solicit Spock for sex, and that he thought the surroundings would give him the courage to do so. He also couldn’t say that he wanted to scope out Spock’s type and—failing that—that he wanted to see him naked.
“No reason. I just thought that in the event Jim decided he wanted to roll around with a screamer, again, he should have some competition.”
“I have no wish to compete with the captain in this manner.”
Okay then. How about plan B?
“Fine, fine. Suit yourself. I’ll go, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
McCoy turned to leave, dressed in a blue shirt that looked too much like his uniform and a black coat that hardly screamed “fuckable”, and Spock stopped him.
“Doctor.” McCoy waited for something, something along the lines of “pick me.” Well, he hoped for it. “Did you not have reports you had planned to do?”
“They can wait,” he responded, annoyed. He kept forgetting that he was dealing with Spock, and that “subtle” didn’t work on him—it was amazing he ever got laid, if he missed all the cues McCoy was throwing around. Or maybe Spock just didn’t want him, in which case…screw him too.
“Doctor, as your commanding officer—”
“All right, all right. You’re worse than that stodgy old man I used to work for at Starfleet Academy Medical,” McCoy grumbled, wondering when he’d become Jim, and why he hadn’t picked up any of his better traits. He was too old to be whining or ditching work for fun, and he knew it.
“It is not unreasonable to want to maintain a schedule.”
McCoy sighed, and shrugged off his coat. Spock was right—for once—and McCoy knew he was just being difficult himself. But he couldn’t help it; he’d been throwing clues for three damn months, and sure, they might have hung out—Spock did like music—and Spock might have even been something like funny when he tried, but every damn time they shared that room, McCoy wished they had just one bed. He thought “I wish I’d jumped on him the first chance I got,” but, well, he didn’t know if that wouldn’t have gotten him thrown through a wall. He still didn’t know.
But Spock sure seemed determined to cock-block him with work, and McCoy supposed that was good enough.
They sat in silence for hours, McCoy doing his work and Spock reading whatever it was on his datapad that held his attention so that he never even met McCoy’s eyes, and he thought that things hadn’t been this awkward since the first time they’d shared a room, almost—was it already two years ago?
And, because Starfleet regulations made certain that the senior officers were at least in a close radius in case of emergencies, that was exactly when McCoy remembered what else had made their first stay so awkward.
McCoy honestly didn’t know how he hadn’t caught some strange space disease by this point, and it was with a sigh that he banged lightly on the wall.
“He’s at it again.”
Spock, who normally would have responded with something along the lines of “at least he is healthy,” was curiously silent, and staring at the wall like it had offended him.
“Spock. Hey, Spock?”
Spock, in response, just stood up stiffly and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Seriously, what the hell?”
McCoy would have gone after him—was prepared to, in fact—when Spock returned, looking the closest to flushed that McCoy had ever seen. He took another look at the wall, breathed deeply, and left again, this time for several minutes. This process of something like pacing was repeated three more times while McCoy watched, confused, and then Spock sat, back straight as the bed’s headboard.
“Spock? Are you all right?”
“These walls are extremely thin.”
“Yes, and?” McCoy was curious—they were used to overhearing Jim’s activities, even if they didn’t exactly look forward to it. Why should this time be different, except…and then he saw Spock’s nostrils flare before he shifted suspiciously.
Vulcans had a better sense of smell than humans too.
“My God, you’re—you’re getting horny!” McCoy hooted out laughter, aware that he was probably killing any chance of getting Spock in the sack and still unable to stop himself. “You’re a-actually—” He finished with a deep laugh, and Spock glared at him.
“Doctor, your amusement is not appreciated.”
“D-do you need some private time? Cause I can leave. Go laugh in the hallway.”
“No, I understand. It’s fine really; nothing a little—”
McCoy was suddenly slammed into the headboard, with a very agitated Vulcan pinning him to a cheap motel mattress.
“Doctor. Do. Not. Push me.”
The menacing tone went unheard when McCoy felt the impressive hardness digging into his stomach, the lean legs on either side of his body, the incredible heat…it was enough to make him grin.
And before Spock could process the statement, McCoy grabbed his head and pulled him down into a biting kiss, one that was returned quickly and with a growl that made his own body kick into high gear faster than an Orion slave boy.
When Spock pulled away sharply, McCoy was panting like he’d just been running for his life.
“What’s wrong? Too fast?” Please don’t say “yes.” The way Spock was still hovering above him certainly didn’t say he was feeling guilty, but he kept looking at the wall, flinching whenever there was a telltale creak from the other side, and…oh.
“No. However…Doctor, this is not the place.”
McCoy glanced around, at the dingy lighting and the sparse decorations. It looked kind of sordid to him, true, but he normally wouldn’t have minded. Spock apparently did, and so McCoy did something he never did, with any one night stand: offered to take them home.
Spock pushed off of him and McCoy missed the pressure and heat immediately, aware that he was throwing a hard-on like he hadn’t since he was fifteen.
“I’ll meet you in an hour?”
Spock eyed him quickly, lingering on the bulge in his pants, and McCoy was about to say “fuck it” and tackle him when Spock took the decision away from him, gathering his belongings and contacting Scotty for an immediate beam-up.
“You have forty-five minutes.”
He disappeared in a swirl of gold, and McCoy was on his feet before Spock had completely disappeared.
It took McCoy less than twenty minutes to check out of the dingy motel and return to Enterprise, less than ten to take a quick but thorough shower, his body still singing. It had been so long since he’d been close to anyone, and while that was certainly part of it, the rest of him just wanted Spock, for reasons he didn’t want to examine and wouldn’t until he’d been pounded into a mattress at least twice.
He made it to Spock’s quarters in half an hour, and if he had been worried about looking too eager, he shouldn’t have been; Spock was on him the second the doors opened, not casting so much as a furtive glance down the hallway. They could have been standing in the middle of the Academy for all he seemed to care, and McCoy was remarkably okay with that.
He was equally okay with how fast Spock stripped from the robe that he’d been wearing, and the green flushed cock that stood high and at an angle from thick black hair, the tight muscles and strong legs. He really was something of exotic fantasy, and McCoy wanted to touch him more than anything…and so he did.
Spock, in return, curled his fingers in his belt loop and pulled him forward, towards the bed, never pausing in the deep kisses that sure said this meant a hell of a lot more than one night.
Don’t think about that. He didn’t, and when Spock pushed him hard, so that he landed flat on his back with his pants gaping open and his shirt pushed up to his armpits, he expected to be pounced on, without so much as a by-your-leave. What McCoy did not expect, however, was for Spock to reach into his nightstand and pull out a familiar jar of herbal lotion, the kind McCoy recommended for sore muscles, nor did he expect exploring hands to slide down his clothed legs, past his calves, to pull off his shoes and socks and then rest on the arches of his bare feet. Then, somewhat surprisingly, those hands shifted to his left foot and began to circle its outline, from sole to heel to arch and back again. The touch was slightly ticklish, and McCoy huffed out a laughing question that was much less intimidating than he would have liked.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Be specific, Leonard.”
“I mean…feet? Really, feet do it for you?”
The hands, in response, began pressing into the side of his sole in smooth rhythmic motions. Back and forth, back and forth, until he felt like he was going to melt. The pressure was hard and demanding and coaxing, and McCoy actually leaned back with a sigh before he could stop himself.
“Do you find it unpleasant?”
Clever thumbs met a particularly hard knot on foot, and his leg jerked, the tingle unexpected and pleasant.
“No, I wouldn’t say that. It’s just not what I consider foreplay, you know.” Although now that he was on the receiving end, hell if he knew why.
Spock looked at him in fond exasperation, the motions of his fingers never slowing.
“Leonard, if you do not treat your partners properly, you will not be allowed to have more.”
Is that a threat or a promise? The thought made McCoy smirk, moreso because he knew Spock had heard it, judging by the way his hands froze for a microsecond.
“You’re treating me properly, huh?”
His hands shifted to the right foot in response, repeating the gesture for several moments before answering.
“Yes. It seems only fitting, as you will have difficulty walking in the morning.”
Spock glanced up at him, and when his eyes returned to his work, they took the long route, lingering on the inches of McCoy’s skin bared to the open air, the parting of his pants, the bunching of his shirt.
“Doctor, I am not bragging.”
McCoy felt his blood race through his veins like it had somewhere to be, and the already hard sex inside his underwear peaked out of the fabric, the rosy head begging for a touch. As soon as Spock had finished with his right foot, those hands darted forward to tug his pants down, and the dark head followed, swallowing the tip of his penis while Spock’s hands traced his furred thighs, circling round and round the defined muscles.
Treating me well, indeed…Spock hummed and McCoy began to breathe faster, but the noises he would have made—could have made—were choked off, just in case. The smell of that herbal lotion filled the air and McCoy felt dizzy, wondering if he’d ever be able to hand the stuff out again without imagining Spock on his knees.
And then, curiously, Spock pulled back and his hands stilled, the hard, unsatisfied length leaving his mouth with a soft pop.
“What’s wrong? Why are you stopping?” The words were barely coherent, and McCoy wondered if screaming would be less condemning after all.
Spock traced the bare skin just on the inside of his thigh.
“These three freckles form an isosceles triangle.”
The response was for a hot tongue to dart in-between his legs, right at the femoral artery of his left thigh. McCoy swallowed, hard, and he felt a familiar twinge at the base of his spine, his ass squeezing reflexively.
“What was that for?” Even though heaven knew he didn’t care at this point.
“You are unique, Doctor. I thought perhaps they might taste of something.”
It’s the thought that counts… McCoy found it strangely flattering that Spock thought any part of his body was unique, even if he was disappointed.
“Perhaps.” Spock did not seem bothered by the soft accusation, and McCoy didn’t wonder about it, because the next instant, Spock’s head had disappeared and his legs were over his shoulders, the gentle tongue prodding at the opening to his body without hurry. If Spock had wanted to know his weakness, he’d certainly found it.
“Yes, right there…yes…yes…!” The slow laps of tongue changed to soft, persuasive sucking, and McCoy groaned, his ankles crossing behind Spock’s spine and digging into a firm back, hoping to push that mouth more firmly against the tingling pucker. Spock never touched him with his fingers; he didn’t need to, as his long tongue continued to lick at the inside of his body, seemingly without any higher goal.
McCoy thought he might go mad.
“Spock…come on, Spock, stop fooling around…”
He didn’t, not immediately, but when the unbearable heat was replaced with cool air, McCoy shivered from more than the shock of the sensation.
“Do you prefer lotion, Leonard, or gel?”
McCoy didn’t give a rat’s ass, and he said so.
“Your phrases, while curious, do not make much sense. Perhaps it would be better if you simply said ‘Whichever you prefer, Commander.’”
McCoy grinned, and grunted as the slick, cool finger returned to that well tasted part of his body.
“Commander, huh? That why you keep calling me ‘doctor?’”
“That, Leonard, would be illogical.”
But you didn’t seem to mind being illogical before… McCoy didn’t say it, thinking he would keep it to himself, and then deciding to hold it for a special occasion when a second finger pushed into him and those thin lips wrapped around him again. It had been too long, so long, but Spock’s fingers were slender and knew his body better than any other one night stand—damn telepaths—and then he forgot all about holding it over his head.
Damn, he IS good at this…the thought was dazed although the sensations were clear and each motion calculated to drag him into ecstasy, and McCoy wondered if he should be jealous, but then decided he didn’t know who he should be jealous of. He’d had more than his share of good times, but Spock was thorough, careful…intense. He slathered lube on like it was going out of style, and those probing fingers were twisting, arching, finding every sensitive spot inside his body until they were pulled free, the wet sound that followed both expected and obscene.
To feel Spock sliding into him was like perfection, and although McCoy suspected he was already too attached to the bastard as is, he pulled his hips back with a snap when he would have edged away—too gentle. Who wanted gentle? Not McCoy.
“Yes, Spock, yes…Commander.”
Spock’s thrusts broke rhythm for almost a full second, and McCoy knew he was grinning from ear to ear like a madman, a sex-crazed loon, and Spock responded by leaning forward and biting his lip. The tender mark was soothed with a hot tongue, and the faintest breath whispered “Doctor” across his lips like an exclamation, the closest McCoy had ever come to hearing Spock sound out of breath. And then his hips started to move, that long cock meeting no resistance as it plunged in and out of a willing body, and McCoy didn’t know what the hell he was shouting, only that it was loud.
Can’t blame Jim, if this is how it was—
Spock growled, and kissed him on the lips, hard, his hips giving a punishing jerk that made McCoy make a sound uncomfortably similar to a moan.
“Cease thinking of the Captain.”
“Okay.” McCoy didn’t question it, because Spock’s hot hands seemed like they were everywhere, digging into his hips, pushing his throbbing cock against his stomach, twisting the delicate flesh just hard enough to provide a sweet burn of unsatisfied want while he plunged inside him. And when that thumb lingered over the spongy head, tickled across the tip while Spock’s hips slammed into him, McCoy knew he did scream, and came all over the pale flesh against him.
Spock followed with a quiet shudder, and McCoy would have been disappointed except that would have been insane.
“Christ, Spock. Christ.”
“I will accept that as the compliment that is due.”
McCoy let out a reluctant huff of laughter, not even minding the smug voice; his upper legs were numb.
“Seriously, Spock, I don’t think I can move.”
Spock eyed him doubtfully.
“That would be unfortunate. You are certain?”
“Yeah, I think so. Why—” McCoy didn’t need to finish, as his answer came in the form of the softened flesh still inside him firming once more, impressively fast. “Shit. You weren’t bragging, were you?”
McCoy cursed, but lightly. He doubted he’d be able to keep up, but already his little doctor was showing an interest in the proceedings, so he couldn’t be too upset about damned Vulcan anatomy.
“Well hell’s bells. Let’s see if we can go for a record, then?”
And laughing—almost carefree—McCoy rolled them off the bed.
McCoy was able to walk the next morning, but even he could admit it was closer to a hobble. He’d only been on shift for about an hour, and already three people had asked him if he’d been injured, if he’d fallen, if his hip was okay, like he was some sort of old man. As much as he wanted to respond “no, Spock just reamed me in the ass last night,” he didn’t because he wasn’t quite ready for that gossip, and because it was hard to be snarky and annoyed when he couldn’t stop whistling.
But seriously—five damn times. Spock had warned him that he wouldn’t be able to get it up for days afterward, but McCoy couldn’t say he minded since he already had more stiff muscles than he could bear and enough weird looks to last him a lifetime. But next time…next time…there actually would be a next time.
Spock had asked him to dinner next week, and McCoy had said “yes.” That, almost more than the sex, was cause for whistling—of all things—“He’s My Guy.”
McCoy stopped whistling, however, when he entered the mess hall and saw Jim giving him the stink eye.
“Somebody’s chipper this morning.”
McCoy grinned, all teeth, as he went to collect his tray.
“Sure am. How are you, Jim?”
“As if you don’t know. Thanks, by the way, for keeping me up.” The words were irritated but said with an amused smile as he drank his—really?—chocolate milk.
“Oh? You came back early?” McCoy sat and calmly spread boysenberry jam across his toast, hoping the statement came out sounding as casual as he’d hoped. Jim, in response, punched him lightly in the arm and laughed.
“Yes. I don’t know how you got Spock to cooperate, but I get it, okay? I’ll be quieter from now-on, just so long as you two don’t keep up with that terrible caterwauling.”
The bargain—and it was a bargain—went over McCoy’s head completely.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please. If I hear another “oh doctor” in the middle of the night, I’ll issue myself a phaser and shoot myself in the foot, just so you can go back to sickbay. Six hours. Six hours.”
McCoy started to laugh. Jim thought they’d been pretending to get back at him. To teach him a lesson.
The truth was, McCoy had forgotten the officers quarters weren’t soundproof yet.
“It pays to be thorough. Oh, and Jim?” Jim looked up, looking amused as he ate his bacon bagel, and McCoy couldn’t resist. “It wasn’t “oh doctor.” It was “Oh, Commander.”
Jim sputtered and coughed into his milk, and McCoy just ate his toast with a smile.