FIC: Any Other Day 1/1 (S/Mc/K, NC-17)
Mar. 4th, 2010 04:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeAny Other Day
by Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Summary: We saw the night of in And Years Went By, and we saw the morning after in Wished Me Well. Now it's the day after and for better or worse, McCoy is stone cold sober.
Notes: This will make very little sense without reading the first two, so go for And Years Went By and Wished Me Well before trying your hand at this.
~*~
People joined Starfleet for a bunch of different reasons. Some of them were even truly altruistic, wanting to be there when the galaxy needed saving, wanting to be part of the peace keeping process. Then there were the scientists who knew they'd never have a better opportunity to study the unknown world, getting firsthand experience rather than staying in the sterile security of the lab.
Some people wanted adventure, bright-eyed kids who believed the goddamned recruitment posters and enlisted, came out a few years later in their shiny uniforms and spent the rest of their time trying not to get their asses killed on an uncharted planet light years from home.
What none of those people realized until it was too late was one important little fact. Between those adventures, peacekeeping missions and scientific explorations alike, shuttling through the deep blackness of space was really fucking boring. Boring enough for chess tournaments and singing engagements to be enough to get the whole ship into an uproar.
There were only two exceptions to the rule of boring: engineering and that was only because Scotty could never leave damn well enough alone, was always trying to squeeze just a little more out of his beloved engines. The other exception was Medical Bay.
Even the best medical tricorder couldn't pick up every possible illness, particularly an undocumented one, and it certainly couldn't pick up the case of sniffles that one Ensign didn't report because he didn't think it mattered much. No matter how often McCoy railed and cajoled everyone on the damned ship to come to sickbay if they felt even the tiniest bit under the weather, if they had a lingering headache, the slightest itchiness to the eyes, they never did it. Those sniffles would turn into a shipwide, festering plague because some idiot opened a box they got on some godforsaken planet and it let loose a century old rhizome to infect them. Two weeks of space travel to incubate and in the boring expanse of space, McCoy had a sickbay loaded with moaning people who needed a full range of the treatment that he'd just had to invent with the feverish speed of necessity.
Yeah, running Medical on the Enterprise was anything but boring and McCoy usually liked it that way. Not that he liked seeing people suffering, hell, no, but he loved being a doctor, loved helping people with his own particular brand of brilliance. He couldn't negotiate a trade treaty worth a damn and he'd be vomiting in his own lap before he'd be able to pilot the ship into a black hole, but stagger into his Sickbay with misery in your eyes, and Doctor McCoy would damn sure get you back on your feet.
Usually, he liked it that way.
Today, with a lingering ache hovering behind his eyes that was equal parts alcohol and lack of sleep, he only hoped that any epidemics would kindly wait until tomorrow. If the cobbler's children always went barefoot, then a ship's doctor never got a sick day.
Luck was with him, for once. Only one patient and he had a simple rhinovirus, nothing that required the personal attention of the Chief Medical Officer. Nurse Chapel was checking on the patient, an Ensign by his uniform, but she looked up when McCoy came in, her expression composing itself into warm sympathy that he ignored.
Not that there was anything for her to be sympathetic about, nothing visible, anyway. McCoy's uniform was neat as a pin, like always, and a couple of well-timed hypospray injections guaranteed that he didn't look any different than his normal, surly self. Chapel, though, wasn't one who was easy to fool.
It wasn't like he didn't know that she knew it had been his birthday yesterday but Chapel was also damned good nurse, had that almost mystical quality of knowing just what the doctor needed. And what McCoy needed right now was to be left the hell alone.
With barely a glance of acknowledgment, McCoy went into his office and the second the door slid shut behind him, he gave up the pretense. Almost staggered around his desk and slumped into his chair so's he could close his dry, aching eyes.
Just sitting down gave him a firm reminder of what he'd been up to the night before and with who. Whom. Whatever the hell it was, grammar was beyond him right now. Even a judicious application of 21st century medicine hadn't healed up all his aches and pains, and it was damned hard to ignore just how he'd gotten all those finger-shaped bruises when he'd had to stare at them to fix 'em.
Christ, today was going to be very long.
He'd deliberately scheduled himself on the Beta shift to get a chance to recover from his birthday evening. Time and experience had taught him that lesson. What he hadn't taken into account was an extra bout of drinking the next morning, nor had he figured in the enthusiasm of the average Vulcan in his calculations. Or that of his Captain. Those were equations he'd never, ever guessed he'd have to include when planning out his daily schedule.
McCoy sighed heavily, reached up to rub the aching place between his eyes. He might not have needed to calculate odds on Jim before but chances were he'd need to be doing some fancy mathematics to sort things out now. Five years of friendship with Jim meant he knew the kid pretty damn well and he knew Jim wasn't going to let this go. It was too much to hope that Jim would let this sleeping dog lie. No, the kid was going to poke that mean ol' mutt with a stick until it jumped up and bit them both and McCoy had no idea what would happen after that. Whether the very friendship he'd treasured and been trying to protect from one pointy-eared bastard was going to be wrecked by a birthday tradition gone awry.
Yep, Jim was going to want to talk and sooner or later he'd get McCoy cornered. It was only a matter of time.
For today, it was better to push it aside, he decided. Not easily done but McCoy had done a fair bit of repression over the years and he could set this aside for the moment, take it back out to puzzle over when he was feeling a little less like the underside of a whorehouse rug.
One of the downsides of being Chief Medical Officer was the endless reports that had to be sent, tersely worded missives that gave a skeletal outline of the goings on of the ship's various catastrophes. Pretty damned pointless McCoy would say if he were asked; there was no good way to explain the feel of dying man's blood squelching warmly between your fingers or the helpless frustration a doctor felt as he tried to come up with a miracle cure with his crew, his family, collapsing around him.
No report could ever express the truth of it and even the papers he often wrote for medical journals couldn't articulate what really happened but somehow, the reports were worse. Either the higher ups only focused on what they perceived as mistakes or they ignored them entirely which made them not only a pain in the ass but completely useless as far as McCoy was concerned.
That didn't mean he could get out of doing the damned things though and today seemed like a perfect day to get the ones that had been piling up out of his inbox and on their way to Starfleet Medical Command so he could get either his appropriate chewing out or be completely disregarded.
A few hours later and most of his headache was finally gone, chased away by equal parts of strong coffee and stronger self-medicating. Chapel had only been in a couple of times, checking up on him in her own quiet way. Suspecting, he was sure, that the doctor was plenty hung over from the night before. It was a damned good thing she couldn't possibly suspect anything more than that, could have no idea why McCoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair from time to time.
The clock was moving forward swiftly and Beta shift was over by the time McCoy really looked up from his work. Gamma shift was just moving into full swing and he'd just started to stretch, thinking fond thoughts towards food for the first time that day when his door opened again with a quiet hiss.
He looked up, expecting the duty nurse to be standing there with a disapproving look, ready to shuffle him out of Sickbay for the night. That was what he'd been expecting and annoyed words were already forming on his lips to tell her, in appropriate terms, to piss off, he was almost done.
Those words died away, unspoken, because what he was expecting was a duty nurse but what he got was an expressionless Vulcan standing at his door, waiting with his hands clasped behind his back.
Looked like he might be getting cornered sooner than he'd expected.
"Doctor," Spock said, nodding slightly. "You have finished your report on the Tensudu 4 incident. I wished to discuss it with you before you sent it to command."
That faint, prickly fear that had been crawling its way up McCoy's spine eased back down and he gave himself a mental shake. Stupid of him, to think that Spock wanted to chat him up about the night before. About fucking him the night before. They went over reports together a couple of times a week and he'd completely forgotten that today was likely to be just such an occasion.
"Yeah, I have it," McCoy said, tiredly. Normally, he'd bristle the second Spock walked in the door, equal parts piss and vinegar, and ready to deal with whatever logical bullshit Spock felt like throwing his way. Hell, he'd be the first to admit he enjoyed their little spats but today...just...not today.
Spock nodded again and stepped into his office, the door closing behind him as he seated himself opposite to McCoy.
McCoy pulled up his report on his screen and sent it to Spock's padd. The Tensudu 4 incident. Pretty straightforward, all things considered, standard allergic reaction to plant life that caused blistering and swelling in Humans and various other species including Vulcans, similar to that of the genus Toxicodendron.
"Not much to talk about with this one, treatment is just about the same as any plant-induced contact dermatitis. Clean the area well, treat with..."
"You are apprehensive about the events of last night."
"... and...corticosteroids..." McCoy trailed off, staring at Spock who was watching him with the same bland expression as he did everything. Well, wasn't that just wonderful. He'd been cornered for this topic of conversation by the goddamned Vulcan and he hadn't even had a chance to prep his speech.
Given the choice between having this chat with Spock and fleeing for the hills, McCoy figured that taking the coward's way out was the way to go for today.
"Not sure if this is an appropriate topic of conversation while we're on duty," McCoy said, stiffly. If there was one good way to yank Spock away from this wreck waiting to happen, it was a reminder of his responsibilities.
Just his luck that Spock wasn't biting today. "I am not currently on duty and your shift ended approximately forty-five minutes ago."
True enough. McCoy sighed and rubbed at his temples before he gave in to the urge to pull open the bottom drawer of his desk and take out a dark bottle with no label, along with a couple of glasses. Medicine of the gods and the way today was heading, another hangover was the least of his worries.
Spock raised one eyebrow as he poured out a fingers worth of cheap whiskey into each glass. If ever there was an occasion for rotgut, this had to be it, but something about Spock's look made him uncomfortable, not exactly accusing, but still-- "I never drink when I'm on duty," he snapped, holding the glass in two hands though he didn't drink it, yet.
"I did not say otherwise," Spock replied, smoothly. "As I said, your shift is over. However, as I do not imbibe..." he nodded pointedly at the other glass.
"Assumed Jim would be joining us for this little chat," McCoy said, relaxing enough to toss back his drink, grimacing as it burned its way down. Not much could compare to a good Saurian brandy but to even try with this would be a grave insult to all liquor.
"The captain is otherwise occupied."
"So he sent you down here to talk to me?" McCoy asked, disbelievingly. He wondered if there was a chance that the whiskey had gone over.
"As you say."
"Then he needs another goddamned physical because he is out of his damned mind," McCoy snapped, snatching up the other glass and tossing back that one, too. He didn't want to have this conversation at all and he'd be damned if he was going to have it sober.
"I came here out of my own volition," Spock said. There was the barest edge of sharpness to his tone and once, it would have given McCoy as smug sense of satisfaction to hear it. Whatever emotion it was inspiring in him now, smug was not the word to describe it. "To speak with you. And I think you have had enough of the hair in the dog, I believe is the colloquialism."
"Hair of the dog," McCoy corrected, almost absently. "Comes from medieval medical practices. So now that the linguistics lesson is out of the way, quit trying to bullshit me and just say what you have to say."
McCoy crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back in his chair and considered enjoying the sight of Spock floundering in front of him. Spock was so rarely caught out that McCoy could only wish it had happened during better circumstances, the better to savor his discomfort.
Far too soon, Spock collected himself. "You know that Jim and I--"
"That you're fucking?" McCoy drawled, "Yeah. I knew that much."
Spock's lips thinned ever so slightly, the barest visual evidence of annoyance. "Yes. Previous to that, I had already assumed that you and Jim were engaged in a sexual relationship, therefore, I was unsurprised when he spoke to me of it."
"One blowjob a year ain't exactly a relationship."
"Yet it is sexual."
"Can't argue that," McCoy sighed. "Is there a point to this? Because if you'd like to get to it, I'd surely appreciate it."
For a long moment, Spock only stared at him mutely, thin-lipped and his face tight, those eyes that weren't, quite, Vulcan glaring at him, and McCoy stared back innocently, pure and sweet as vanilla ice cream.
Abruptly, Spock stood, "Very well."
It seemed like he'd finally managed to chase Spock off, he thought for one dizzying second, batting away equal parts of relief and regret that settled right into his gut along with two shots of cheap whiskey for just long enough for Spock to stalk around the desk and yank him from his chair, his own honest shock buried beneath the hot pressure of a Vulcan mouth.
"Wait," he tried to say, failed, couldn't speak around the extra tongue in his mouth. He couldn't taste anything with his booze-deadened taste buds, but he could feel, feel Spock kissing him almost viciously as he pushed McCoy back on the desk, hear the dim clatter of padds and the thump of a glass falling to the floor around them.
Christ, yes. It would be so easy to give into this, to let that hot mouth and, fuck, hands that were already pushing up his uniform shirt, sliding hotly over his chest, down his sides, just touching him everywhere. Shoving his shirt over his head and Spock had to break their kiss to tug it off and that was enough to allow words to finally spill out, not words that McCoy wanted to speak and yet...
"I can't do this," he groaned. "I can't."
Spock's mouth was back on him, hot, hot, as he sucked a line up McCoy's jaw to his ear. "You already have. Twice."
Christ, he had, but this was different, this was...he wasn't drunk, he wasn't hung over, it wasn't his birthday, and Jim wasn't...it was Jim he'd been expecting, Jim he'd been waiting...had he been waiting? Still here in his office past shift, still here and Spock...
"I wasn't expecting this from you," McCoy managed. He couldn't, quite, make himself push Spock away. "Want to explain to me how the fuck this is logical?"
Another bruising kiss, hard teeth clicking against his own and McCoy pushed up into it, a little helplessly.
"No, I do not," Spock said, breathed it, God, into McCoy's mouth. He had both of McCoy's hands in his own, twining their fingers together over and over in that bizarre, erotic way he had the night before. McCoy had a doctor's hands, more sensitive, maybe, because a little hand rub shouldn't be getting him as hard as it was. It took a moment for him to notice Spock was still talking, murmuring in between kisses.
"Sex in and of itself is not illogical. It is pleasurable as well as an excellent reliever of stress and a good form of physical exercise."
McCoy blinked up at him, incredulous. "You're saying you want to fuck me because it's good exercise?
"Of course not," Surprisingly patient, what with Spock kissing like McCoy was something to be devoured. "I am attracted to you."
There was some reply he should have made to that, something sarcastic and cutting but it wasn't possible to sputter out a single word because Spock chose that moment to push one hand into McCoy's trousers, tearing off the button on his fly almost casually and the soft ping of it hitting the floor was as distant as Earth, a hot Vulcan mouth and cool Vulcan hands touching him ceaselessly. The only sound McCoy could make was embarrassingly close to a sob as he arched up, only his shoulders still on the desk as he pushed into the tight clench of Spock's fist.
He barely even registered that Spock had stripped off his trousers, naked on his own desk with Spock still fully clothed on top of him and it might have pissed him off, flustered him , goddamned Vulcans, if Spock hadn't been so obviously tousled, his hair wrecked and his mouth swollen. Pretty, fucking pretty, like Jim was pretty, yeah, and he wanted that hot mouth around his cock again. He could admit to that, he wanted it, wanted it all.
Wanted it enough that he needed no encouragement to draw his legs up this time, canting his hips up in an invitation that any inbred fool could understand, much less a brilliant science officer.
Spock's eyes went a little wide but it wasn't like his clothes could hide his interest. He was hard enough that his cock was pushing firmly into McCoy's belly, searching for any port in a storm, McCoy figured.
"Come on," McCoy groaned, "C'mon, in my desk, there's lube." Shame there was nothing sexual at all to do with it, it was just standard medical grade lubricant, along with any other number of other things in his desk; he could start his own medical gift shop with the contents in the drawers.
Spock was already fumbling with the drawer, searching, even as his mouth formed faint protests, "I hurt you, that first time."
"No," McCoy shook his head, a little wildly. "No, it was fine, it was great."
"I did. I will endeavor not to repeat that error. You are unlike Jim in this respect."
Just the implication of those words sent a sharp, unexpected thrum of lust right into his gut. Thinking of Jim like this, sprawled out naked on his desk, beneath Spock, or maybe even beneath--
"What's fucking Jim like?" he demanded, "Tell me!"
McCoy yelped aloud as Spock pressed a slickened finger into him, still faintly sore from the night before. One finger quickly became two, little more than a cursory preparation despite Spock's promise.
"You are tighter than Jim," Spock murmured, licking almost frantically at McCoy's ear, twisting his fingers deeper inside.
McCoy shook his head desperately; that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "No...Jim..."
"Jim is not here," Spock said, sharply, and McCoy hissed as he withdrew his fingers abruptly. "I want you."
"Ah!" McCoy couldn't help his startled cry, Spock pushing his legs up and apart, already pressing his cock into him. He'd barely done more than open his trousers, all McCoy could feel beneath his hands was uniform, even as he scrabbled more desperately, searching for bare skin. A strong hand caught his own firmly, pulled it up so that Spock could press a kiss into his palm.
"I have you," Spock whispered as he slid deeply inside, rocking into him with surprising gentleness, "I have you...I..."
It did burn, a little, but not so much as the night before. McCoy hooked his ankles into the small of Spock's back, hauled him in, hard. He was sore and it had hurt the night before but what Spock didn't seem to understand was how little McCoy cared. He wanted Spock to fuck bruises into him, wanted it hard and deep and fierce. And maybe Spock picked up on that, that prized Vulcan telepathy finally good for something useful because he shifted his grip to McCoy's hips, and thrust in hard, ruthlessly quick and it was perfect.
"Yeah, come on, that's good, you feel so good," McCoy babbled out, words escaping him like a spring flood, words washing out between them until McCoy was barely aware of what he was even saying, only knew that he didn't want Spock to stop. Close, he was so close, squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation.
A strong hand gripping his chin startled him into looking up, Spock's face bare inches from his own as he glared.
"Say my name," Spock demanded, his eyes wild, hair clinging damply to his face and when McCoy only stared at him dumbly he shifted his grip considerably lower, squeezing McCoy's cock hard enough that he yelped, fingers circling the base effectively preventing him from tipping over the edge.
It was a cruel balance between Spock's hard, ceaseless thrusts inside him and his hand gripping him, Spock still glaring down at him, teeth slightly bared in a grimace.
"…Spock," McCoy mumbled, hardly audible but he saw Spock's nostrils flare in response, a sharp breath sucked in between grit teeth. It made him want say it again, and he did, louder, "Spock."
Again, and now Spock's hand wasn't punishing so much as it was stroking him, and McCoy began to improvise, words interspersed with moans and whimpers, "Spock, yeah, harder, Christ, yeah, Spock, you feel so good, fuck me hard, yeah, yeah…"
An endless stream of words flowing out of him, all interspersed with his name, Spock, yes, Spock, Spock, until they stuttered off, lost in his loud groan as he arched up a last time and came in a wet spatter of warmth over Spock's hand and between them. McCoy collapsed back on his desk, panting for breath, still clinging limply to Spock and it gave him a perfect chance to watch, watch those eyes close as Spock gave in to his own climax, pretty even like this, his expression frozen for the briefest moment of time before he sagged down onto McCoy.
They lay there for a long moment, until McCoy shifted uncomfortably. For being so scrawny, Spock was surprisingly heavy and McCoy sucked in a deep breath of relief as Spock shifted up to rest on his elbows. He wasn't quite as relieved when Spock finally withdrew from him, biting off a groan as his body vehemently protested the second invasion in as many days.
"It's fine," McCoy said sharply before Spock could apologize again, his eyes dark with concern. He was a fucking doctor, goddamnit, he'd know if he was really hurt.
They dressed in silence, Spock doing little more than fastening his pants and straightening his hair while McCoy had to search for every piece of his clothes. They finally found his last sock beneath the desk and he sat down to pull it on, every bit of him too exhausted to stand any more.
Spock took back his own seat, again looking as neat and serene as ever. It made McCoy want to ruffle his hair, to give some proof of what had just happened.
"Leonard—" Spock began, but McCoy broke in. He had something to say about this, damn it, and Spock was going to listen to him for a change.
"I can't do this," McCoy said bluntly, let every ounce of his weariness into his voice. "I can't just be in some casual affair with you two. My birthday was one thing but this…" he shook his head, tiredly. "I just can't."
Spock tilted his head slightly, studying him, "Pardon my confusion, Doctor, but I was unaware that we had asked such a thing of you."
Oh, that hurt. More than he had expected, even more perhaps because it hadn't been expected. He'd been prepared for the argument, been ready to push them aside, been ready to let this be, only to find that there was nothing to argue about. Everything he'd been about to deny, they hadn't wanted from him to begin with.
Any other day, he would have blustered away his pain and anger, pushed it aside with a few choice, bitter words but instead McCoy found he couldn't say a word. Not this time.
Spock seemed to take his silence as a chance to continue, because he as he stood, he added, "Being fully aware of the arguments you would have against it, the captain and I decided that we would forgo asking your opinion on the issue. If you wish to sleep in your own quarters tonight, that would be understandable but your presence at Jim's would not be unwelcome."
McCoy barely heard him, murmured some appropriate response as Spock nodded to him before he turned and left, the swish of the closing doors behind him terribly final.
Well. It seemed he wouldn't have to worry about a conversation with Jim at all, since it didn't seem much like he was interested in having one. Wasn't that just a weight off his mind.
The bottle of whiskey was still sitting on the corner of his desk, somehow escaping the carnage of the rest of it. Neither of the glasses had survived, both lying in damp pieces on his floor and McCoy looked at the bottle for a long time, breathing in the smell of sex, his sex, his and Spock's. Slowly, he reached for it, picked it up, watched the cheap liquor glimmer with amber light. With a harsh, deliberate flick of his wrist, he flung it against the wall and watched it shatter, and explosion of glass and tawny liquid that ran down his wall in streams.
McCoy watched it drip down, pooling on the floor before he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the door, not really caring much about how he might look.
Beta shift was over and it was time to go.
-finis-
Read Next Chapter
by Keelywolfe
Rating: NC-17
Summary: We saw the night of in And Years Went By, and we saw the morning after in Wished Me Well. Now it's the day after and for better or worse, McCoy is stone cold sober.
Notes: This will make very little sense without reading the first two, so go for And Years Went By and Wished Me Well before trying your hand at this.
~*~
People joined Starfleet for a bunch of different reasons. Some of them were even truly altruistic, wanting to be there when the galaxy needed saving, wanting to be part of the peace keeping process. Then there were the scientists who knew they'd never have a better opportunity to study the unknown world, getting firsthand experience rather than staying in the sterile security of the lab.
Some people wanted adventure, bright-eyed kids who believed the goddamned recruitment posters and enlisted, came out a few years later in their shiny uniforms and spent the rest of their time trying not to get their asses killed on an uncharted planet light years from home.
What none of those people realized until it was too late was one important little fact. Between those adventures, peacekeeping missions and scientific explorations alike, shuttling through the deep blackness of space was really fucking boring. Boring enough for chess tournaments and singing engagements to be enough to get the whole ship into an uproar.
There were only two exceptions to the rule of boring: engineering and that was only because Scotty could never leave damn well enough alone, was always trying to squeeze just a little more out of his beloved engines. The other exception was Medical Bay.
Even the best medical tricorder couldn't pick up every possible illness, particularly an undocumented one, and it certainly couldn't pick up the case of sniffles that one Ensign didn't report because he didn't think it mattered much. No matter how often McCoy railed and cajoled everyone on the damned ship to come to sickbay if they felt even the tiniest bit under the weather, if they had a lingering headache, the slightest itchiness to the eyes, they never did it. Those sniffles would turn into a shipwide, festering plague because some idiot opened a box they got on some godforsaken planet and it let loose a century old rhizome to infect them. Two weeks of space travel to incubate and in the boring expanse of space, McCoy had a sickbay loaded with moaning people who needed a full range of the treatment that he'd just had to invent with the feverish speed of necessity.
Yeah, running Medical on the Enterprise was anything but boring and McCoy usually liked it that way. Not that he liked seeing people suffering, hell, no, but he loved being a doctor, loved helping people with his own particular brand of brilliance. He couldn't negotiate a trade treaty worth a damn and he'd be vomiting in his own lap before he'd be able to pilot the ship into a black hole, but stagger into his Sickbay with misery in your eyes, and Doctor McCoy would damn sure get you back on your feet.
Usually, he liked it that way.
Today, with a lingering ache hovering behind his eyes that was equal parts alcohol and lack of sleep, he only hoped that any epidemics would kindly wait until tomorrow. If the cobbler's children always went barefoot, then a ship's doctor never got a sick day.
Luck was with him, for once. Only one patient and he had a simple rhinovirus, nothing that required the personal attention of the Chief Medical Officer. Nurse Chapel was checking on the patient, an Ensign by his uniform, but she looked up when McCoy came in, her expression composing itself into warm sympathy that he ignored.
Not that there was anything for her to be sympathetic about, nothing visible, anyway. McCoy's uniform was neat as a pin, like always, and a couple of well-timed hypospray injections guaranteed that he didn't look any different than his normal, surly self. Chapel, though, wasn't one who was easy to fool.
It wasn't like he didn't know that she knew it had been his birthday yesterday but Chapel was also damned good nurse, had that almost mystical quality of knowing just what the doctor needed. And what McCoy needed right now was to be left the hell alone.
With barely a glance of acknowledgment, McCoy went into his office and the second the door slid shut behind him, he gave up the pretense. Almost staggered around his desk and slumped into his chair so's he could close his dry, aching eyes.
Just sitting down gave him a firm reminder of what he'd been up to the night before and with who. Whom. Whatever the hell it was, grammar was beyond him right now. Even a judicious application of 21st century medicine hadn't healed up all his aches and pains, and it was damned hard to ignore just how he'd gotten all those finger-shaped bruises when he'd had to stare at them to fix 'em.
Christ, today was going to be very long.
He'd deliberately scheduled himself on the Beta shift to get a chance to recover from his birthday evening. Time and experience had taught him that lesson. What he hadn't taken into account was an extra bout of drinking the next morning, nor had he figured in the enthusiasm of the average Vulcan in his calculations. Or that of his Captain. Those were equations he'd never, ever guessed he'd have to include when planning out his daily schedule.
McCoy sighed heavily, reached up to rub the aching place between his eyes. He might not have needed to calculate odds on Jim before but chances were he'd need to be doing some fancy mathematics to sort things out now. Five years of friendship with Jim meant he knew the kid pretty damn well and he knew Jim wasn't going to let this go. It was too much to hope that Jim would let this sleeping dog lie. No, the kid was going to poke that mean ol' mutt with a stick until it jumped up and bit them both and McCoy had no idea what would happen after that. Whether the very friendship he'd treasured and been trying to protect from one pointy-eared bastard was going to be wrecked by a birthday tradition gone awry.
Yep, Jim was going to want to talk and sooner or later he'd get McCoy cornered. It was only a matter of time.
For today, it was better to push it aside, he decided. Not easily done but McCoy had done a fair bit of repression over the years and he could set this aside for the moment, take it back out to puzzle over when he was feeling a little less like the underside of a whorehouse rug.
One of the downsides of being Chief Medical Officer was the endless reports that had to be sent, tersely worded missives that gave a skeletal outline of the goings on of the ship's various catastrophes. Pretty damned pointless McCoy would say if he were asked; there was no good way to explain the feel of dying man's blood squelching warmly between your fingers or the helpless frustration a doctor felt as he tried to come up with a miracle cure with his crew, his family, collapsing around him.
No report could ever express the truth of it and even the papers he often wrote for medical journals couldn't articulate what really happened but somehow, the reports were worse. Either the higher ups only focused on what they perceived as mistakes or they ignored them entirely which made them not only a pain in the ass but completely useless as far as McCoy was concerned.
That didn't mean he could get out of doing the damned things though and today seemed like a perfect day to get the ones that had been piling up out of his inbox and on their way to Starfleet Medical Command so he could get either his appropriate chewing out or be completely disregarded.
A few hours later and most of his headache was finally gone, chased away by equal parts of strong coffee and stronger self-medicating. Chapel had only been in a couple of times, checking up on him in her own quiet way. Suspecting, he was sure, that the doctor was plenty hung over from the night before. It was a damned good thing she couldn't possibly suspect anything more than that, could have no idea why McCoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair from time to time.
The clock was moving forward swiftly and Beta shift was over by the time McCoy really looked up from his work. Gamma shift was just moving into full swing and he'd just started to stretch, thinking fond thoughts towards food for the first time that day when his door opened again with a quiet hiss.
He looked up, expecting the duty nurse to be standing there with a disapproving look, ready to shuffle him out of Sickbay for the night. That was what he'd been expecting and annoyed words were already forming on his lips to tell her, in appropriate terms, to piss off, he was almost done.
Those words died away, unspoken, because what he was expecting was a duty nurse but what he got was an expressionless Vulcan standing at his door, waiting with his hands clasped behind his back.
Looked like he might be getting cornered sooner than he'd expected.
"Doctor," Spock said, nodding slightly. "You have finished your report on the Tensudu 4 incident. I wished to discuss it with you before you sent it to command."
That faint, prickly fear that had been crawling its way up McCoy's spine eased back down and he gave himself a mental shake. Stupid of him, to think that Spock wanted to chat him up about the night before. About fucking him the night before. They went over reports together a couple of times a week and he'd completely forgotten that today was likely to be just such an occasion.
"Yeah, I have it," McCoy said, tiredly. Normally, he'd bristle the second Spock walked in the door, equal parts piss and vinegar, and ready to deal with whatever logical bullshit Spock felt like throwing his way. Hell, he'd be the first to admit he enjoyed their little spats but today...just...not today.
Spock nodded again and stepped into his office, the door closing behind him as he seated himself opposite to McCoy.
McCoy pulled up his report on his screen and sent it to Spock's padd. The Tensudu 4 incident. Pretty straightforward, all things considered, standard allergic reaction to plant life that caused blistering and swelling in Humans and various other species including Vulcans, similar to that of the genus Toxicodendron.
"Not much to talk about with this one, treatment is just about the same as any plant-induced contact dermatitis. Clean the area well, treat with..."
"You are apprehensive about the events of last night."
"... and...corticosteroids..." McCoy trailed off, staring at Spock who was watching him with the same bland expression as he did everything. Well, wasn't that just wonderful. He'd been cornered for this topic of conversation by the goddamned Vulcan and he hadn't even had a chance to prep his speech.
Given the choice between having this chat with Spock and fleeing for the hills, McCoy figured that taking the coward's way out was the way to go for today.
"Not sure if this is an appropriate topic of conversation while we're on duty," McCoy said, stiffly. If there was one good way to yank Spock away from this wreck waiting to happen, it was a reminder of his responsibilities.
Just his luck that Spock wasn't biting today. "I am not currently on duty and your shift ended approximately forty-five minutes ago."
True enough. McCoy sighed and rubbed at his temples before he gave in to the urge to pull open the bottom drawer of his desk and take out a dark bottle with no label, along with a couple of glasses. Medicine of the gods and the way today was heading, another hangover was the least of his worries.
Spock raised one eyebrow as he poured out a fingers worth of cheap whiskey into each glass. If ever there was an occasion for rotgut, this had to be it, but something about Spock's look made him uncomfortable, not exactly accusing, but still-- "I never drink when I'm on duty," he snapped, holding the glass in two hands though he didn't drink it, yet.
"I did not say otherwise," Spock replied, smoothly. "As I said, your shift is over. However, as I do not imbibe..." he nodded pointedly at the other glass.
"Assumed Jim would be joining us for this little chat," McCoy said, relaxing enough to toss back his drink, grimacing as it burned its way down. Not much could compare to a good Saurian brandy but to even try with this would be a grave insult to all liquor.
"The captain is otherwise occupied."
"So he sent you down here to talk to me?" McCoy asked, disbelievingly. He wondered if there was a chance that the whiskey had gone over.
"As you say."
"Then he needs another goddamned physical because he is out of his damned mind," McCoy snapped, snatching up the other glass and tossing back that one, too. He didn't want to have this conversation at all and he'd be damned if he was going to have it sober.
"I came here out of my own volition," Spock said. There was the barest edge of sharpness to his tone and once, it would have given McCoy as smug sense of satisfaction to hear it. Whatever emotion it was inspiring in him now, smug was not the word to describe it. "To speak with you. And I think you have had enough of the hair in the dog, I believe is the colloquialism."
"Hair of the dog," McCoy corrected, almost absently. "Comes from medieval medical practices. So now that the linguistics lesson is out of the way, quit trying to bullshit me and just say what you have to say."
McCoy crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back in his chair and considered enjoying the sight of Spock floundering in front of him. Spock was so rarely caught out that McCoy could only wish it had happened during better circumstances, the better to savor his discomfort.
Far too soon, Spock collected himself. "You know that Jim and I--"
"That you're fucking?" McCoy drawled, "Yeah. I knew that much."
Spock's lips thinned ever so slightly, the barest visual evidence of annoyance. "Yes. Previous to that, I had already assumed that you and Jim were engaged in a sexual relationship, therefore, I was unsurprised when he spoke to me of it."
"One blowjob a year ain't exactly a relationship."
"Yet it is sexual."
"Can't argue that," McCoy sighed. "Is there a point to this? Because if you'd like to get to it, I'd surely appreciate it."
For a long moment, Spock only stared at him mutely, thin-lipped and his face tight, those eyes that weren't, quite, Vulcan glaring at him, and McCoy stared back innocently, pure and sweet as vanilla ice cream.
Abruptly, Spock stood, "Very well."
It seemed like he'd finally managed to chase Spock off, he thought for one dizzying second, batting away equal parts of relief and regret that settled right into his gut along with two shots of cheap whiskey for just long enough for Spock to stalk around the desk and yank him from his chair, his own honest shock buried beneath the hot pressure of a Vulcan mouth.
"Wait," he tried to say, failed, couldn't speak around the extra tongue in his mouth. He couldn't taste anything with his booze-deadened taste buds, but he could feel, feel Spock kissing him almost viciously as he pushed McCoy back on the desk, hear the dim clatter of padds and the thump of a glass falling to the floor around them.
Christ, yes. It would be so easy to give into this, to let that hot mouth and, fuck, hands that were already pushing up his uniform shirt, sliding hotly over his chest, down his sides, just touching him everywhere. Shoving his shirt over his head and Spock had to break their kiss to tug it off and that was enough to allow words to finally spill out, not words that McCoy wanted to speak and yet...
"I can't do this," he groaned. "I can't."
Spock's mouth was back on him, hot, hot, as he sucked a line up McCoy's jaw to his ear. "You already have. Twice."
Christ, he had, but this was different, this was...he wasn't drunk, he wasn't hung over, it wasn't his birthday, and Jim wasn't...it was Jim he'd been expecting, Jim he'd been waiting...had he been waiting? Still here in his office past shift, still here and Spock...
"I wasn't expecting this from you," McCoy managed. He couldn't, quite, make himself push Spock away. "Want to explain to me how the fuck this is logical?"
Another bruising kiss, hard teeth clicking against his own and McCoy pushed up into it, a little helplessly.
"No, I do not," Spock said, breathed it, God, into McCoy's mouth. He had both of McCoy's hands in his own, twining their fingers together over and over in that bizarre, erotic way he had the night before. McCoy had a doctor's hands, more sensitive, maybe, because a little hand rub shouldn't be getting him as hard as it was. It took a moment for him to notice Spock was still talking, murmuring in between kisses.
"Sex in and of itself is not illogical. It is pleasurable as well as an excellent reliever of stress and a good form of physical exercise."
McCoy blinked up at him, incredulous. "You're saying you want to fuck me because it's good exercise?
"Of course not," Surprisingly patient, what with Spock kissing like McCoy was something to be devoured. "I am attracted to you."
There was some reply he should have made to that, something sarcastic and cutting but it wasn't possible to sputter out a single word because Spock chose that moment to push one hand into McCoy's trousers, tearing off the button on his fly almost casually and the soft ping of it hitting the floor was as distant as Earth, a hot Vulcan mouth and cool Vulcan hands touching him ceaselessly. The only sound McCoy could make was embarrassingly close to a sob as he arched up, only his shoulders still on the desk as he pushed into the tight clench of Spock's fist.
He barely even registered that Spock had stripped off his trousers, naked on his own desk with Spock still fully clothed on top of him and it might have pissed him off, flustered him , goddamned Vulcans, if Spock hadn't been so obviously tousled, his hair wrecked and his mouth swollen. Pretty, fucking pretty, like Jim was pretty, yeah, and he wanted that hot mouth around his cock again. He could admit to that, he wanted it, wanted it all.
Wanted it enough that he needed no encouragement to draw his legs up this time, canting his hips up in an invitation that any inbred fool could understand, much less a brilliant science officer.
Spock's eyes went a little wide but it wasn't like his clothes could hide his interest. He was hard enough that his cock was pushing firmly into McCoy's belly, searching for any port in a storm, McCoy figured.
"Come on," McCoy groaned, "C'mon, in my desk, there's lube." Shame there was nothing sexual at all to do with it, it was just standard medical grade lubricant, along with any other number of other things in his desk; he could start his own medical gift shop with the contents in the drawers.
Spock was already fumbling with the drawer, searching, even as his mouth formed faint protests, "I hurt you, that first time."
"No," McCoy shook his head, a little wildly. "No, it was fine, it was great."
"I did. I will endeavor not to repeat that error. You are unlike Jim in this respect."
Just the implication of those words sent a sharp, unexpected thrum of lust right into his gut. Thinking of Jim like this, sprawled out naked on his desk, beneath Spock, or maybe even beneath--
"What's fucking Jim like?" he demanded, "Tell me!"
McCoy yelped aloud as Spock pressed a slickened finger into him, still faintly sore from the night before. One finger quickly became two, little more than a cursory preparation despite Spock's promise.
"You are tighter than Jim," Spock murmured, licking almost frantically at McCoy's ear, twisting his fingers deeper inside.
McCoy shook his head desperately; that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "No...Jim..."
"Jim is not here," Spock said, sharply, and McCoy hissed as he withdrew his fingers abruptly. "I want you."
"Ah!" McCoy couldn't help his startled cry, Spock pushing his legs up and apart, already pressing his cock into him. He'd barely done more than open his trousers, all McCoy could feel beneath his hands was uniform, even as he scrabbled more desperately, searching for bare skin. A strong hand caught his own firmly, pulled it up so that Spock could press a kiss into his palm.
"I have you," Spock whispered as he slid deeply inside, rocking into him with surprising gentleness, "I have you...I..."
It did burn, a little, but not so much as the night before. McCoy hooked his ankles into the small of Spock's back, hauled him in, hard. He was sore and it had hurt the night before but what Spock didn't seem to understand was how little McCoy cared. He wanted Spock to fuck bruises into him, wanted it hard and deep and fierce. And maybe Spock picked up on that, that prized Vulcan telepathy finally good for something useful because he shifted his grip to McCoy's hips, and thrust in hard, ruthlessly quick and it was perfect.
"Yeah, come on, that's good, you feel so good," McCoy babbled out, words escaping him like a spring flood, words washing out between them until McCoy was barely aware of what he was even saying, only knew that he didn't want Spock to stop. Close, he was so close, squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation.
A strong hand gripping his chin startled him into looking up, Spock's face bare inches from his own as he glared.
"Say my name," Spock demanded, his eyes wild, hair clinging damply to his face and when McCoy only stared at him dumbly he shifted his grip considerably lower, squeezing McCoy's cock hard enough that he yelped, fingers circling the base effectively preventing him from tipping over the edge.
It was a cruel balance between Spock's hard, ceaseless thrusts inside him and his hand gripping him, Spock still glaring down at him, teeth slightly bared in a grimace.
"…Spock," McCoy mumbled, hardly audible but he saw Spock's nostrils flare in response, a sharp breath sucked in between grit teeth. It made him want say it again, and he did, louder, "Spock."
Again, and now Spock's hand wasn't punishing so much as it was stroking him, and McCoy began to improvise, words interspersed with moans and whimpers, "Spock, yeah, harder, Christ, yeah, Spock, you feel so good, fuck me hard, yeah, yeah…"
An endless stream of words flowing out of him, all interspersed with his name, Spock, yes, Spock, Spock, until they stuttered off, lost in his loud groan as he arched up a last time and came in a wet spatter of warmth over Spock's hand and between them. McCoy collapsed back on his desk, panting for breath, still clinging limply to Spock and it gave him a perfect chance to watch, watch those eyes close as Spock gave in to his own climax, pretty even like this, his expression frozen for the briefest moment of time before he sagged down onto McCoy.
They lay there for a long moment, until McCoy shifted uncomfortably. For being so scrawny, Spock was surprisingly heavy and McCoy sucked in a deep breath of relief as Spock shifted up to rest on his elbows. He wasn't quite as relieved when Spock finally withdrew from him, biting off a groan as his body vehemently protested the second invasion in as many days.
"It's fine," McCoy said sharply before Spock could apologize again, his eyes dark with concern. He was a fucking doctor, goddamnit, he'd know if he was really hurt.
They dressed in silence, Spock doing little more than fastening his pants and straightening his hair while McCoy had to search for every piece of his clothes. They finally found his last sock beneath the desk and he sat down to pull it on, every bit of him too exhausted to stand any more.
Spock took back his own seat, again looking as neat and serene as ever. It made McCoy want to ruffle his hair, to give some proof of what had just happened.
"Leonard—" Spock began, but McCoy broke in. He had something to say about this, damn it, and Spock was going to listen to him for a change.
"I can't do this," McCoy said bluntly, let every ounce of his weariness into his voice. "I can't just be in some casual affair with you two. My birthday was one thing but this…" he shook his head, tiredly. "I just can't."
Spock tilted his head slightly, studying him, "Pardon my confusion, Doctor, but I was unaware that we had asked such a thing of you."
Oh, that hurt. More than he had expected, even more perhaps because it hadn't been expected. He'd been prepared for the argument, been ready to push them aside, been ready to let this be, only to find that there was nothing to argue about. Everything he'd been about to deny, they hadn't wanted from him to begin with.
Any other day, he would have blustered away his pain and anger, pushed it aside with a few choice, bitter words but instead McCoy found he couldn't say a word. Not this time.
Spock seemed to take his silence as a chance to continue, because he as he stood, he added, "Being fully aware of the arguments you would have against it, the captain and I decided that we would forgo asking your opinion on the issue. If you wish to sleep in your own quarters tonight, that would be understandable but your presence at Jim's would not be unwelcome."
McCoy barely heard him, murmured some appropriate response as Spock nodded to him before he turned and left, the swish of the closing doors behind him terribly final.
Well. It seemed he wouldn't have to worry about a conversation with Jim at all, since it didn't seem much like he was interested in having one. Wasn't that just a weight off his mind.
The bottle of whiskey was still sitting on the corner of his desk, somehow escaping the carnage of the rest of it. Neither of the glasses had survived, both lying in damp pieces on his floor and McCoy looked at the bottle for a long time, breathing in the smell of sex, his sex, his and Spock's. Slowly, he reached for it, picked it up, watched the cheap liquor glimmer with amber light. With a harsh, deliberate flick of his wrist, he flung it against the wall and watched it shatter, and explosion of glass and tawny liquid that ran down his wall in streams.
McCoy watched it drip down, pooling on the floor before he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the door, not really caring much about how he might look.
Beta shift was over and it was time to go.
-finis-
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Date: 2010-03-05 03:23 am (UTC)