Chapter Text
It started with a kiss.
Afterwards, McCoy could never quite piece together how it had happened. He remembered the away mission – although he would rather forget that part of the story: a humid, stormy planet, a miscommunication with the local people, the sound of an explosion, a sickening ten minutes when the redshirt team was feared to be dead and, most vividly of all, a golden scimitar pressed against Spock's throat, almost drawing blood.
A miserable day, in other words, but not an unusual one. Everyone had beamed back safely and McCoy had patched up the mess as usual. He clearly remembered standing at the sink in the back room of the medbay, dog-tired but still flushed with adrenaline and deep-seated fear, scouring his hands up to his elbows after everyone else had gone. Everyone except Spock, that is.
Spock was there and the doctor was arguing with him. There was nothing unusual about that, either. Venting his emotions by picking a fight with the Vulcan had become a drug to him. And Spock, bless his stubborn heart – and curse his fluent tongue – never let an argument drop. At least, not an argument with McCoy. Was there something special about their spat on this particular day, some specific trigger that had finally sent McCoy over the edge? The substance of the argument blurred in the doctor's memory, mingling with all their other heated exchanges of words and thoughts and feelings over the years. No, there was nothing special about it.
McCoy dried his hands angrily and strode over to Spock.
"Because I care about you, dammit!"
And Spock, seated primly in a chair, looked up at him through his infuriatingly beautiful lashes, and murmured – what was it he had said? It didn't really matter, for they had had moments like this before, on those rare but treasured occasions when they had lowered their barriers a little and let each other see the truth: that beneath it all, they trusted each other with their lives, and valued each other as real friends.
Except this time, with the fatigue and the relief and the soft look on Spock's face, McCoy couldn't take it any more. Giving himself up entirely to instinct, he bent down so that his hands were on the arms of Spock's chair, leaned in, closed his eyes and kissed him.
Any remaining mental processes immediately shut down, lost in the feeling of those lips – those lips! – against his and those hands – those hands! – on his sides. Spock was going to have to be the one to break off this kiss, because as far as McCoy was concerned, it could go on forever. He felt the Vulcan rise to his feet without breaking the kiss and swooned against him, dignity be damned. He fully expected Spock to push him away – perhaps even slap him on the face – but instead he nudged the chair aside, pulled the doctor closer to him and stood with his back pressed against the wall. Intoxicated by lust, McCoy deepened the kiss and found no resistance. And now Spock's fingers were carding through the soft hair on the back of McCoy's head, and the front of Spock's shirt was balled up in McCoy's fist, and it seemed like the dam that had held back their mutual desire for who knew how long had suddenly and irrevocably broken.
Abruptly, Spock pulled away and cast a startled look towards the open doorway to the main medbay area. His acute ears had picked up a faint sound, probably just a stray drip from the tap. The two men froze in position for a second, hearts hammering. It was almost certain that nobody else would come here at this time of night when there were no in-patients in sickbay. Almost certain was not good enough, though. They made brief eye contact and Spock cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should relocate to a more... suitable location."
"My quarters?" McCoy's voice was thick and dazed, and it mimicked Spock's hushed tone.
Spock nodded once in assent and the two men strode off together along the dimmed corridors, their boots echoing in the silence of the night. They both tried not to appear hurried. McCoy fought the impulse to clutch Spock's arm. The cold space between them felt wrong.
Arrived at McCoy's quarters, the doctor firmly double-locked the door behind them. They looked at each other hesitantly for a second. Suddenly experiencing cold feet, McCoy wondered wildly if he should offer Spock some tea. This whole situation was so unplanned and had escalated so quickly... were they doing the right thing? But Spock looked nervously expectant, in his subtle way – definitely expectant of something other than tea. Emboldened once more, McCoy took two paces to stand directly in front of him. This time, the Vulcan took the initiative. Gently grasping the doctor's shoulders, he pressed his lips to the corner of McCoy's mouth, then along his jaw, as though drinking him in, and McCoy quietly lost his mind once more.
Afterwards, McCoy could give no estimate of how long they stood there, wrapped up in each other both mentally and physically. Bliss is not scientifically quantifiable, as he sometimes said. Each move they made seemed to open a new world of possibilities. He nibbled hungrily at Spock's neck and Spock let out some stuttering gasps that made his abdomen pool with heat. "God, I always wanted to do that." Spock quirked an eyebrow at him, exhibiting apparent surprise, which seemed rather silly under the circumstances. McCoy continued, "I never thought– I mean, I guess I always reckoned that, you know, you and Jim...?"
A pause. "I assure you, the captain and I have never... indulged in this way."
"Well, he's missing out."
Their mouths crashed eagerly together again. McCoy was desperately hard by this point. In what he hoped was a subtle attempt to gauge Spock's level of arousal, he palmed the Vulcan's crotch. Unfortunately, Vulcan anatomy does not reveal its secrets any more willingly than Vulcan culture. Stupid baculum. What did they need a penis bone for, anyway? (Actually, in a calmer frame of mind, McCoy would freely admit that there are several evolutionary advantages.) Spock had noticed McCoy's action and opened his mouth to explain. McCoy, who could read him like a book, cut him off, "I know, I know, it's a bone." Again, Spock looked needlessly surprised. "Spock, I've x-rayed you more times than I can count."
"You cannot count to four?"
God, he hated that man.
After a few more minutes of neck-nuzzling (McCoy was sorely tempted to go for the ears, too, but decided not to risk it), Spock involuntarily shot a pointed glance at the alcove that served as a bedroom.
"Spock, do you– do you wanna take this to the bed?" He couldn't believe he was asking this, couldn't believe they'd reached this point, felt certain that everything was about to fall apart at any moment.
Eyes on McCoy's mouth, Spock chewed his lip in the characteristic way he always did when making calculations, then looked steadily into McCoy's eyes. "Yes."
Trying to appear calm (while his inner self repeatedly mouthed "how the heck is this really happening? what is going on?"), McCoy dragged Spock by the arm to the bedroom alcove. "I'll just go and replicate the, uh, necessaries, shall I?" Without answering, Spock stood politely beside the bed, hands folded behind his back. "Well, go on, take your boots off," grumbled McCoy, turning to the replicator, plugging in a request for two condoms and some lube, and trying to moderate his breathing.
Spock sat on the side of the bed, removed his boots, and placed them neatly beside each other. He looked at them thoughtfully for a second, then removed his socks and tucked each one neatly inside its corresponding boot, before raising his gaze to the doctor once more. He looked for all the world as though he was attending a regular medical check-up.
The replicator hummed. "At this point, you're supposed to ask me if I'm clean," said McCoy, wagging his finger crossly. The amount of sexual health advice he had given to this crew, and nobody ever listened! Not even Spock, apparently.
"I know you well enough to be quite sure that you are fully acquainted with your own health status and would never enter a situation that risked the spread of infection," replied Spock, implacably.
"You're still supposed to ask."
"You have not asked me."
McCoy looked at him like he was an idiot. "I'm your doctor!" He made his way over to the bed. "Computer, lights to 20%!" He tossed aside his boots and socks, pulled back the blanket, gestured to Spock to get in the bed, then hesitated. He wanted this so badly, but on some level, it seemed absurd. He and Spock were colleagues and reluctant friends, how could this be a good idea? If things got awkward between them as a result, there was no way for them to avoid each other. Worse still, it was quite obvious that this whole situation was just the release of pent-up sexual tension. There was no way that Spock had romantic feelings for him or any notion of a serious relationship. This thought sent a chilling ache to McCoy's core, but he pushed it aside. He knew he had it bad, knew he was just setting himself up for pain, but he couldn't stop now. He had to take what he could get and deal with the aftermath in the cold light of day.
He climbed into the small bed, half on top of Spock. The Vulcan looked a shade apprehensive now. "You sure about this, Spock?"
"Doctor, I should inform you that – I have never had sexual intercourse with a male before."
McCoy chuckled to himself. "Well, do you know, as it happens – neither have I. But I, ah, know the theory all right." He gave a broad grin that was somehow both devilishly cheeky and a little abashed. "If it's OK with you, we don't have to do anything that's, y'know, penetrative." He slipped his hand teasingly under Spock's undershirt and claimed his mouth again. The pool of fire in his belly shot to his groin.
"Indeed," said Spock, in a breathy imitation of his usual neutral tone, "I suspect that penetration will not be – necessary–"
* * *
[It wasn't.]
* * *
Later – much later – again, all sense of time had been lost – McCoy lay dreamily on top of Spock, trying to commit this moment to memory. Spock did not seem to find this position uncomfortable. (Something about the Vulcan diaphragm not requiring expansion of the ribcage to allow breathing? McCoy hadn't really been listening.) Both men were totally nude and utterly sated. McCoy's now flaccid cock was still wedged snugly in the hot gap between Spock's thighs. He was too comfortable to move, even with a certain baculum poking against his hip.
"I have never had sex while of sound mind before, Doctor." said Spock, in a conversational tone.
McCoy raised his head in astonishment. "What, never?"
"No."
"Well, I hope it...lived up to expectations?"
Spock sidestepped the question, probably out of sheer orneriness. "Doctor, I never expected to have the opportunity to share such an intimacy with you. Indeed, I thought that you were physically repulsed by me."
"Well, you got that wrong, didn't you?" McCoy planted a kiss on Spock's throat, to prove his point, and felt him shiver beneath him. He wondered idly when Spock had had a roll in the hay while of unsound mind. It wasn't with T'Pring, he suspected. Probably with Leila in that incident with the spores. There hadn't really been time in the cave with Zarabeth. It didn't matter, anyway. He wasn't jealous. The past was the past. All that mattered was the present. ("And the future..." said a little voice in the back of his mind. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...") He swallowed painfully. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.
* * *
Eventually, McCoy fetched some damp cloths and together they cleaned themselves up and changed the sheets. The doctor bounced back into bed, but Spock hovered awkwardly. "Do you wish me to leave, Doctor, or shall I sleep here?"
The chill returned to McCoy's heart. "Well, you'd better not leave now, you ungrateful little–"
"Very well. I have no objection, I was simply ascertaining your preference." Spock climbed back into the bed.
Maybe Spock didn't like cuddling. Maybe he was just humouring him. But the way he wrapped his arms around him, it felt as though he liked it. Almost as though– but no, it was dangerous to think like that. "Computer, lights to 2%," said McCoy.
"I have never slept with anyone before," murmured Spock.
"It's the best part!" whispered McCoy, conspiratorially.
A pause.
"Doctor – I highly doubt that."
McCoy chuckled. God, he loved that man.