"You're doing it wrong. It ain't gonna work."

Spock attempts to hold back a sigh. At least, McCoy thinks he's attempting. And failing.

"I am adopting the exact protocol described in the manuscript."

"It was described wrong, then. You need more reagent."

"Scientific advancement is based on replicability on experimental findings—"

"Just add the reagent, Spock."

"—which can only be ensured by careful reproduction—"

"I'm telling you, you need more reagent."

"—of research practices. To the letter. Doctor."

McCoy throws his hand in the air. "Oh sure, what do I know? I only wrote the original paper your precious manuscript was based on."

"My precious manuscript, as you refer to it, sought to rectify several of the limitations inherent to your study, and was a marked improvement—"

"I was derivative. At best."

"Scientific rigor is of paramount importance in biomedical research."

"Spock, if you like scientific rigor so much why don't you take it and shove it—"

Something hits the floor of the lab and makes a metallic, jarring sound a few feet away from them. Spock and McCoy both fall silent and turn to examine the disturbance. Every single person in the lab (seven… no, eight of Spock's minions, all junior science officers, all wearing blue uniforms) has stopped working in favor of staring at them, eyes stupidly wide, jaws dropping as they stand uselessly with equipment in their hands.

"What?" McCoy barks at them, at the same time as Spock's cool, "Is there anything you require to complete your work?"

They all drop their gazes and turn away, making a show of fiddling furiously with the materials on their benches.

...

Sometimes in the past few weeks, never openly discussing it, he and Spock both trained they quarters' doors to recognize the other. McCoy did it to spare his neighbors the sight of Spock waiting outside of his cabin a couple of times per week, hand raised to the chime, as well as to spare himself from unwanted questions. Spock did it because… who knows why Spock does anything?

When McCoy enters Spock's quarters, he's standing in front of his desk, back as straight as rule, staring at a PADD with the pinched expression he usually reserves for very aggravating and unfathomable things, like birthday parties, or meatloaf, or people who use the word theory and hypothesis interchangeably.

"I will be with you shortly," Spock tells him absentmindedly, and McCoy rolls his eyes, a little because of the store clerk attitude, but mainly because Spock's quarters are not exactly full of entertainment possibilities. If one doesn't count Spock himself, of course, who has definitely been providing McCoy with countless hours of high quality entertainment.

He tries to amuse himself by studying the Vulcan landscape, but there's only so much time one wants to spend staring at pictures of a planet they saw fold into itself without being able to do anything about it. When he turns to check on Spock he's still scowling, his neck is bent into the PADD.

It beckons to him, that neck. The soft, black hair at the nape. The shoulders, broad and tapered. If someone did this to him while he's working he'd chew their head off, but before he can think better of it he finds himself standing behind Spock, arms looping around the Vulcan's torso to press his front to his back. He can't help but taking a bite of the soft skin at the base of throat.

Spock's breathing itches, but he doesn't protest. "Don't mind me. Finish whatever you're doing," McCoy tells him, his breath fanning the crook of Spock's shoulder. He licks the spot he just talked into, just for fun, and slides his hand underneath Spock's uniform, selfishly palming the swells and lines of his abs. Spock's skin flutters in response to his touch, and his knuckles tense white around the PADD.

Like that, McCoy thinks.

A few encounters ago, four or five, or six, hard to say now that this thing they're doing is regular enough that McCoy can't measure days by the number of times they've done this anymore, he caught himself running his hands over Spock's limbs in a way that could only be described as possessive. Not that he's possessive about Spock. That would be ridiculous. Spock's body, though… McCoy is reasonably sure Spock's not having sex with anyone else, so who cares if he feels like a child who called dibs when Spock is naked in front of him.

"It is impossible to continue my work when you do that."

"Will you look at that." McCoy's words are muffled into Spock's shoulder. "Commander Spock. Unable to do work."

"An increasingly frequent occurrence—" McCoy moves his hips against Spock's ass, letting him feel his erection "—since you persist in distracting me." The last few words are significantly hoarser than the beginning of the sentence.

McCoy's hands slides up further, touches Spock's nipples. Surprisingly sensitive, he has learned. Spock doesn't disappoint and whimpers faintly. "You know, if you didn't want that damn blow job, you could have just walked out of the storage room." And to prove his point, he lets his fingers stray downwards and cup Spock's already hard cock.

Spock is an insufferable pain in the ass, but at least he knows when he lost.

It goes pretty quickly after that, like it always does, and McCoy loses himself a little, like he always does. He puts his hand on Spock's lower back and presses until he's angled just perfect, and then unfastens both their pants and brings himself off between Spock's cheeks, leisurely, sweetly, while Spock's heart beats solid under his right hand, and Spock's cock seeps come on his fingers for a long time.

It's right there, an unsaid that lives in Spock's moans, in the way McCoy draws blood when he bites Spock's shoulder next to his uniform, the knowledge that McCoy wants to fuck Spock to the point that he thinks about little else, and that Spock wants McCoy to fuck him just as much. But that would require a more frank conversation than they're probably equipped to have, and what they just did… it's enough. It really, really is enough.

When they're both done, McCoy sighs between Spock's shoulder blades, reluctant to let him go. "That was nice."

Spock doesn't reply, but he drops his chin and folds his arms around his torso, effectively trapping McCoy to himself. As if he wanted to let go.

"If you come to sickbay I can help you with this," McCoy says, licking and savoring the spot where he bit Spock, and then two inches to the side, and two inches further, until he's kissing the back of Spock's ear.

"It will not be necessary," Spock answers, lifting a hand to protectively cover the bite.

"Don't come crying to me if it gets infects and your arm falls off," McCoy replies him without much heat. His cock, sandwiched between his own stomach and Spock's lower back, feels snug and safe. Fantastic. This is fantastic. He doesn't particularly want move. Maybe he can outsource his standing-up to Spock for the rest of his life. He's Vulcan and all, it's no biggie for him. "Did you get come on you PADD?"

"Negative." A pause. "Although very nearly."

McCoy smiles against the base of Spock's neck. "Please, tell me it's not one of the shared ones."

"It is my personal PADD." Spock is leaning back into McCoy a little more.

"At least there's that. What were you working on? It sure looked like it was ruffling your feathers."

"Doctor, I do not have feathers to be ruffled."

McCoy just sight theatrically and tightens his arms around Spock's torso. Spock relents.

"Feedback forms for the junior science officers. They are due tomorrow." As if on cue, he wriggles free of McCoy and takes off his uniform jersey, using it to wipe first himself and then McCoy, who tries hard to block out the domesticity of the whole thing.

McCoy's face is artful surprise as he refastens his uniform pants. "And here I was, thinking that you loved telling people that they're bad at their job."

"I merely state the facts, Doctor." He looks squarely at McCoy.

"Next time you can regrow your bronchial tissue on your own, then."

"I look forward to the challenge," Spock tells him, but his eyes stray to the PADD.

McCoy's curiosity is piqued. "So, what's the big deal with the evaluations?"

"There is no deal of any dimension involved, Doctor."

"For the love of god, Spock." McCoy crosses his hands over his chest and leans his hip into Spock's desk.

Spock hesitates, and then tells him, without taking his eyes off PADD, "Usually Nyota proofreads the forms before I submit them, but today it is hers and Jim's sixth month anniversary and I do not wish to disturb her."

McCoy frowns. "Has it been six months already?" Holy Christ, has it been six months? Since he and Spock… he dismisses the thought.

"It has. Today on the bridge Jim shared with me his plans for the night in graphic details." If Spock could cringes, he'd be doing it. McCoy sure is.

"So, what does she do? Check your spelling? Comma usage?"

Spock gives him one of his looks. "In the past, there have been instances in which my feedback was received with… distress by my subordinates."

McCoy tries not to laugh. "You made them cry."

Spock sighs. "In multiple occasions."

"What did you say?" McCoy is enjoying himself a lot.

"As I explained earlier, I merely stated the facts. However, it has been indicated to me that the language I used might have made the feedback I offered…"

"Savage? Vicious? Harrowing?"

"…insensitive."

No shit. "I bet. You know what I do? I dilute the criticism with some praising. One good thing for every bad one. That's what my mama did with me and my siblings, and look how great we all turned out."

Spock doesn't seem convinced. "Praising is illogical."

"Oh boy, you'll be a wonderful parent."

Spock ignores him and moves to walk around the desk. "If you'll excuse me, I will have to go back to my evaluations."

McCoy shakes his head, still smiling. Since when does he smile this much? And in Spock's company. Hell must be getting chilly. "Hey. I'll help you."

"Pardon?"

McCoy shrugs. "I can do whatever it is that Nyota usually does. My medical staff ain't crying in the bathroom the day after evaluations." That he knows of, at least. "And I'm not doing it for you, I'm doing it for your myself, so my Med Bay doesn't get crowded with science officers with post-evaluation PTSD. Or with Vulcans who got their kneecaps shattered by their subordinates."

Spock just looks at him suspiciously. McCoy raises his eyebrows. "Unless it bothers you to get help from me."

"Why should it bother me?"

"The hell if I know. You are bothered by weird things."

"I am not."

"Spock, I've seen you lose it over double negations or the misuse of 'whom.'" Or me standing two feet away from you.

For a second Spock looks like he's going to deny it, but then he just says, "Very well."

McCoy grabs the PADD and goes to sit on the couch with a sly smile, where Spock joins him a few moments later with a mixture of apprehension and resignation in his eyes.

It's the most fun McCoy has had in ages.

...

"Spock, I swear to god, if you try to leave this Med Bay I will sedate you myself, and I will enjoy every second on it."

Spock, damn him to hell, does not look in any way deterred and continues tying the laces of his boots. "I have no doubt you would, Doctor, but you have nothing that would have such an effect on Vulcan physiology at hand, and I am confident that by the time you obtain it I will be long gone."

McCoy steps closer, thinking that maybe he just hasn't been yelling enough. Maybe Spock developed a hearing impairment down on the planet. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind? We have no idea what they shot you with. It could be any kind of slow acting substance. You could drop dead three hours from now, and I swear I will dance on your grave."

Spock is unfazed. "Then being in the Med Bay would not prevent my death, and the only change will be that the experiment I must check on immediately will not have been supervised. I see no incentive to remain."

For a split second, McCoy is sure that he's going forcibly push Spock down the bed and restrain him. He opens his mouth, ready, to bark at the orderlies to get here stat, and then his anger dissolves in his worry for Spock's wellbeing.

He sighs heavily. "Chapel, can you leave us for a minute." It's not a question, and he waits until her steps sound far enough.

McCoy stares at Spock irritably for five, ten seconds, trying not grind his teeth. "You are the most stubborn son of bitch I've ever met." His voice is pitched low, mindful of the medical staff milling around the Med Bay.

Spock's eyebrow climbs over to his bangs. "I will not deign that statement with an answer." His tone matches McCoy.

"You must have finally driven me crazy, because I'll cut you a deal. I'll let you go, to the nonnegotiable condition that you spend the night in my quarters tonight. So that I can keep you under observation."

It's clearly not what Spock was expecting hear, based on how his eyes widens and he suddenly looks up from adjusting his uniform. Truth be told, it's also not what McCoy was expecting to say. But he's not about to let Spock, or anyone else for the matter, leave his Med Bay when the risk of complications is unknown. Spock studies him for so long that McCoy starts feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny, as if he were the unreasonable one.

"I can sleep on the couch, it that's the issue."

Spock wets his lips, still chapped from the freezing temperature of the planet. "That seems pointless, at this juncture."

"Then just get the hell out of here, get someone to take care of your experiment, stop by your quarters to pick up the work you need to do so badly that it's worth endangering your Vulcan life, and go to mine. I'll be off in forty minutes."

Spock looks at McCoy searchingly. "Very well," he says at long last, and is out of the Med Bay before McCoy can change his mind and hypo him unconscious.

McCoy just stands in front of the now-empty biobed, wiping at his face.

Messy.

That's what this whole thing is becoming.

Messy. Never hook up with the Vulcan first officer of the goddamn ship you're stationed on, or your life will become as sticky as molasses. A cautionary tale by Leonard H. McCoy, MD.

When he gets to his quarters it's actually two hours after that, thanks to that mousetrap that Scotty calls Engineering, and Spock has taken over his desk, pouring over PADDs as if he hadn't spent most of the day unconscious. The first thing McCoy does is raising the temperature by ten degrees, and then he turns to Spock.

"Up," he barks, waving a tricorder, and quite uncharacteristically Spock stands and lets McCoy collect his data, keeping the whining to a minimum.

"Glad to find you still alive. Despite you very best efforts, I might add."

Spock gives him a long-sufering look. "Doctor, may I—"

"No, you can't go back to your cabin."

"I meant to ask whether I may I use your replicator." Spock's tone is dry.

"I don't believe you for a second, but sure. Make yourself at home and use whatever you need. Except for the door. Consider yourself a prisoner."

Spock walks to the replicator and produces two mugs of tea, handing one to McCoy.

"Ain't this cozy?" He nods in thanks and accepts it, only to splutter after the first sip. Goddamn Vulcan tea. From back at the desk, Spock can't quite successfully hide a smile.

They spend the next hour ignoring each other, Spock's hands flying over his PADDs as he probably does something relaxing like answering the mystery of black holes, and McCoy writing up the report over the engineering shitshow while trying not give away that maybe fifteen percent of Engineering, tops, hasn't been drastically and illegally modified by Scotty. It's tricky enough that he barely notices when Spock stands and changes into his pajama, which sports what has got to be seven different Starfleet insignia. Talk about organizational commitment. As Spock takes off his pants, McCoy pointedly doesn't let his gaze stray to his ass. Spock's not here to hang out, but as a patient. The most obstinate, bothersome, pain-in-the-neck patient McCoy's ever had and probably he'll ever have, and yes, he's excluding Jim, but still, only a patient.

Without saying a word, and with considerably less awkwardness and uncertainty McCoy would have predicted, Spock walks to McCoy's bed and lies down as close to the wall as possible, unmistakably leaving enough room for someone else to lay down.

All in all, tonight could have been way worse. And not only because Spock's still alive. Neither of them has died of awkwardness, either. McCoy congratulates himself on his plan being successful thirty minutes later, while he changes into sweats and a t-shirt, lowers the lights to fifteen percent and gets into bed.

"A Batman t-shirt, Doctor?"

McCoy startles when he hears Spock's voice. "If you tell anyone, I'll categorically deny it."

"I doubt anyone would believe me, anyway."

They are silent for a second.

"It's a present. From my nieces," McCoy offers defensively.

"I see."

"Why do you even know about Batman?" McCoy turns on his side, facing Spock, who is lying neatly on his back. It's not on purpose. This is just the position he falls asleep in, every night. A simple coincidence. "Did you have a BatVulcan growing up?"

"I am half human, Doctor. I erroneously assumed it would be in my medical file," Spock deadpans.

"Oh, it is. And also that you have a Ph.D. in advanced smartass sciences."

Spock's eyes remain closed. "My are in Astrophisics, Molecular Biology—"

"Spock," McCoy interrupts him, but his tone not snappish for once. He feels remarkably less annoyed than usual at Spock, lying next to him like this. Hard to be confrontational when one is cozy in bed, with someone emanating pleasant warmth not one foot away. "When did you read Batman?"

"My mother," Spock starts, and then falters, and McCoy wishes he didn't know how to interpret that. "When I was a child, she would bring back old comic books whenever she and my father would go to Earth on ambassadorial duty."

"I bet they must have seemed pretty illogical to you. What with the capes and the hair gel and glasses disguise."

The corner of Spock's mouth lifts a millimeter or two. Enough for McCoy to notice from his position. "Quite so. Although I must say, Superman was far more illogical than Batman."

McCoy thinks it through for a minute. It's weird to think of Spock as a child, and yet it renders him oddly more approachable than the impenetrable, pedantic, workaholic image he usually projects. It makes McCoy actually stop and think how hard it must have been, to be from two different planets at once, especially when they pretty much as different as two planets can be. Plus, McCoy has always had a soft spot for kids, and the idea of small Spock reading comic books, all eyes and pointed ears, is unbearably…cute. Christ, he just used the word cute.

"The idea of an off-worlder all by himself on earth has got to be scary, if you're young and Vulcan."

Spock shifts until he's on his side, mirroring McCoy's position. He tucks his head against the pillow.

"Indeed. I found it most disturbing, Doctor."

Spock's t-shirt has shifted up at his hip, revealing a smooth slice of pale skin. McCoy tries to not look at it.

"You don't have to call me doctor, you know. I mean, we're…" In bed. Right now. But also, generally, doing this thing. Where I make you come and then you make me come, and then we talk or we meet in other places and we argue, and yes, sometimes I genuinely want to strangle you, but all the time I just really what to… McCoy is relieved he didn't even attempt to finish that sentence.

Spock looks at him with uncertainty. Like this, with his hair falling away from his forehead, deep shadows playing around his features, he's ridiculously handsome. No wonder Chapel, and Ensign Whatshername, and McCoy himself spend all that time staring at him. No wonder whatsoever.

"Would you prefer I use you first name?"

Not really. No one calls him Leonard. Actually, not true. Plenty of his female acquaintances and friends call him Leonard. His ex wife, and Christine and most of the other nurses when they're not on shift, and Nyota sometimes. His sisters and mother. Thing is, to his male friends he always been McCoy, not that he's sure Spock really qualifies. Hell, he thinks of himself as McCoy. 'Bones' has, unfortunately, stuck and spread more than he considers ideal, but he's not about to suggest people call him that.

Ah, well.

"Sure," he says, shrugging clumsily from his position.

"Very well."

McCoy briefly wonders if Spock is just not going to call him ever again.

Spock looks really sleepy, and McCoy has been yawning for hours. It would be the perfect opportunity to say goodnight, and close his eyes so that the creamy skin of Spock's hip is not in his field of view anymore, and ignore Spock for the next six hours or so, and yet… McCoy is reluctant to fall asleep. This is nice. Something he hasn't done in… ever, probably. Jocelyn wasn't exactly the whisper-before-bedtime type.

"So, did any of your minions try to break you kneecaps?"

Spock is basically smiling, though his eyes are closed. "The have not. Although they might turn against you when I inform them that you've been referring to them as my minions."

"I'll just disclose that I'm the only reason why phrases like 'severely lacking' got switched into 'room for improvement'."

"I am still fascinated by the fact that two expressions carrying the same meaning can have such different effects on people."

McCoy smiles. "Illogical humans. Take us or leave us."

It's probably because Spock still has that little smile of his. Or because it was a long day, and everyone seemed to need medical attention of some type. Or maybe it's the relative darkness. Fact is, McCoy can't really think anymore of a reason why he shouldn't be touching the Vulcan's skin, since he's displaying it so… tantalizingly. And once his fingers are there, swirling on Spock's hip, Spock doesn't seem to mind, not at all, and so why should McCoy stop?

"I believe I shall take you," Spock answers softly after a few moments, and before McCoy knows it, they're both asleep.

...

He wakes up unsure of where his body ends and Spock's begins, and if either of them is surprised about it after the heat they have generated every time they so much as looked at each other in the past few months… well, they're both fools.

Spock is awake, too, and judging from the poke McCoy can feel on his hip, and the way his tongue his making his way McCoy's mouth, remarkably turned on.

Good.

McCoy palms his ass and turns them so that he's on top of Spock, who whimpers in acceptance. He takes Spock's hands in his own and pins them to each side of his hand, then thinks better of it and slides one between their bodies, freeing both their cocks and stroking them at the same time with his hand, one against the other. Spock lets his head fall back on the pillow. McCoy can relate. The pleasure is sublime.

"Can you come like this?" He husks, sucking at a spot on Spock's chin.

"Yes." Spock's voice is about an octave lower than usual.

"Do you want to?" McCoy's voice falters infinitesimally and he swirls a thumb over both their heads, smearing their fluids together. "Because if you're not dead set on it, I could fuck you."

He doesn't think for a second that Spock is going to say no, and he's not disappointed. Spock's eyes widen and his free hand wraps around McCoy's nape to press his head lower and deliver a kiss that screams please, please do. McCoy pulls back and looks into Spock's eyes searchingly, and then nods. "Clothes off."

McCoy's quicker that Spock, which is perfect, because it leaves him just enough time to get the lube he brought back from Med Bay some time ago out of the bedside drawer.

Not that he's been consumed with thought of coming inside Spock for weeks.

"Come here," he tells Spock when they're both naked, and Spock does until they're kneeling in front of each other, eyes already hazy, hands running over McCoy's chest and back, uncaring of the fact that he's human and has already broken a sweat.

As soon as the first digit slides inside Spock, McCoy needs to grab the base of his cock to avoid making a mess of Spock's abs. Spock bites his collarbone and whimpers, either in pain or in pleasure. McCoy knows he needs to be paying attention to this, to be able to tell them apart, but at the moment his tunnel vision is leaving little room for thoughts that are not about the tingling in his balls.

Spock's tight. Tight good, because it's gonna feel fantastic once McCoy's in. And tight bad, because it's gonna feel fantastic once McCoy's in, and he was ready to come five minutes ago. McCoy's busy wondering exactly how terrible an idea this was, and whether they should just stop and put it off, when Spock pushes against his finger and suddenly his index is almost completely inside.

They are definitely not stopping.

If there is something McCoy knows how to do, it's finding a prostate. Which comes in handy, judging from the way Spock's breath speeds up and his grip around McCoy's bicep intensifies until it must be leaving bruises, as it allows McCoy to open him up with little discomfort.

"I," Spock moans, and McCoy would chuckle if he could remember how to.

"Just one more minu—"

Spock's hand squeezes his balls, and McCoy dislodges his fingers, throwing him a dirty look. "Fucking impatient Vulcans."

He doesn't insult Spock's intelligence by pretending not to know that he's never done this. Instead, he puts a medically ridiculous amount of lube on his dick and then sits at the top of the bed and leans back against the wall, legs slightly wide, his cock an angry shade of pink.

"Let's do it this way. So you'll be able to control…"

Spock understands instantly and straddles him, knees around his hips. In this position, Spock is maybe two or three inches taller than McCoy, who has to arch up to kiss him. McCoy doesn't mind. Really, he doubts he could mind anything at this point. He angles his head up and licks Spock's throat, trying unsuccessfully to keep his hands to himself.

To be honest, he's not quite sure whether this particular position is better that any other, but the access it gives him to Spock's shoulders, and chest, and the way he can see that his greenish cock is already leaking on McCoy's stomach, before they have even gotten started, makes him pretty fucking proud of his choice.

Spock holds his eyes for a moment, and then positions himself, bearing down on McCoy's dick. The pressure is immediate, and frankly alarming, and the most erotic thing McCoy has ever felt in his life.

He's going to come, like this, after less than five seconds of fucking. He's going to come, or he's going to thrust up and hurt Spock, which will mean no sex with him ever again, and that's the worst possible outcome he can imagine, even worse than the Romulans overtaking the Federation. He grits his teeth, and clutches his hands in the sheets, until he's calmed down and the air feels marginally less thin.

He doesn't slide inside smoothly at all, which is not surprising, not just because McCoy's big, but because this is Spock, and why would anything be easy with Spock? His body seems confused, simultaneously diffident and eager, clasping desperately at him but also resisting McCoy's entrance as if it were an hostile invasion, and it's more minutes and sweat than McCoy could have imagined before he's finally nested inside.

But. Once he's there.

Spock gasps against his lips, and they are looking into each other's eyes, and…okay. They're okay.

They're both as hard as a nail, and when Spock starts rocking McCoy let's out a laugh, dumbfounded by the pleasure.

"This is," he gasps in Spock's ears, abs rippling with the effort of keeping still. "I should have fucked you a long time ago."

"You shoul ha—ah." McCoy's hips flex just right, if involuntarily, and he hits what he clearly needed to hit. He fists Spock's dick. The amount of precome trickling down is nothing but flattering.

"Well," he forces out, still smiling, "how do you like having my cock up your ass?" Spock moans, arms around McCoy's shoulders. "Satisfactory? Fascinating? Logical?"

They've barely begun, and Spock's movements are getting more and more frantic. Every time McCoy's cockhead bumps against that spot deep inside Spock's body, the Vulcan clenches around him, forcing him to squeeze the base of cock. Spock sure looks wrecked. Utterly lost to sensation. He wonders if he's even aware that he's currently redefining sex for McCoy.

"You," Spock pants in McCoy's ear, and then falls silent, mouth partially open, eyes shut.

"This feels pretty—logical to me," McCoy breaths out, words choppy, his hand on Spock's dick becoming more and more insistent and his thrusts become deeper. McCoy's not even pretending not to move anymore. He's never figured himself for much of a dirty talked, but this… this is taking every single filthy thought he's had about Spock and putting it right in his frontal lobe. "You know what I love?" He is palming Spock's ass, spreading it open, touching the rim of Spock's hole and feeling himself slide in and out. It's out of this world. Spock is biting his throat, a hairbreadth away from losing it completely. "That I'm gonna come inside you so deep that it'll take you so much work to get me out—"

They shatter at the same time, the force of McCoy's orgasm so overwhelming that for a long time he's sure he'll never be able to come down from it. When he does, eventually, his mind has been wiped clean, and the only thing he can focus on is Spock, twitching in his arms, murmuring, "Leonard," in his ear.

...

What exasperates McCoy the most is not that he has to accompany Jim bar hopping during shore leave because Uhura needed to stay on the ship for one thing or another.

Not precisely.

No, what makes him really, really mad is the fact that he keeps thinking about how he'd rather be on the stinking ship, fucking Spock.

It's unacceptable.

And Jim's not helping. Not with the way he talks about missing the hook-up scene (which is far-fetched, given that only yesterday McCoy saw him looking at Nyota like the sun rises from her head), and wants to try to live vicariously through McCoy by getting him to make a pass at anything that breaths and that is even remotely good looking.

"What about the Andorian? She looks pretty hot for being from an ice planet." He's wiggling his eyebrows, looking inexcusably pleased of his own pun. He's wiggling his freaking eyebrows.

"Jim, for the last time. No. Quit it. I'm thirty-five, and I just got off a double shift. I ain't going to hit on anyone."

"If you don't, you're gonna regret it when we're back on board," Jim scolds him.

"I doubt it," McCoy mutters sourly.

"Hey. The human over there. Come on, she's your type."

McCoy sighs. "First, I don't have a type. Second, what would it take to get you to drop it, Jim?"

Jim looks into his drink pensively. "Mmm… How about you never stab me with a hypo again?"

"Sure. I'll just let you die of tetanus next time you get chased and bitten by an alien flower."

"Ok," Jim concedes, angling his head, "How about you hand me over your whiskey stash?"

McCoy pins Jim with a flat look. "Ain't happening. We both now that I would have to pump you stomach two hours later."

Jim nods. "True, true. Ok, you know what? I have another idea." He leans into McCoy, his weight on his elbows. "How about you just admit to me that you've been fucking Spock, and I let the whole thing go."

It's not precisely like the feeling of a bucket of ice being poured over his head, but… not that dissimilar, either. McCoy leans back in his chair, turns to stare at the crowded bar counter for a couple of seconds, willing Jim away from his table and, possibly, his life, and then just turns to face his best friend.

"How long have you known?"

Jim shakes his head. He's smiling, but it's not his usual carefree grin. It's tense, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "Wrong question, Bones."

McCoy is taken aback for a minute, and then it dawns on him. "How long has Nyota known?" he amends.

"A few weeks. I have to say, once she pointed out all the little signs to me, I felt pretty stupid." McCoy can relate. He's feeling a little stupid, too. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Why didn't he tell Jim? The thing is, the idea of telling Jim, or Nyota, or anyone else on the ship, has never even brushed against his mind. Which doesn't make him feel proud at all, especially now that he can see the flicker of hurt poorly hidden behind Jim's cornering tactics.

"Because it's not—we're just…"

"Oh, come on, Bones. I know the both of you. If you're fucking, you're not just anything."

"We are. We are just fucking. And we work together. You would have made a big deal out it, and made it damned uncomfortable for everybody in the process. I mean, look at how well this conversation is going, it's shocking that I didn't wanna have it before, right?"

Jim doesn't rise to the bait. He takes a sip of drink, then another, and then just asks, "Why are you fucking him?"

McCoy huffs a silent laugh. "Well, I'll be. I never thought the day would come for me to have to explain sex to James T. Kirk," he replies, all artful surprise.

"Come on, Bones. Humor me. Why?" Jim's tone is edgy.

McCoy shrugs. "I don't know. Have you looked at him recently? Why wouldn't I?"

"I asked you why you would," Jim insists.

"Because." McCoy throws his hand up. "Because I'm horny, and I followed my idiot of a best friend on a spaceship so that I could save his harebrained ass every two days, and I can't be choosy? That a good enough reason for you?"

Jim nods, clearly unconvinced. Of course, they both know that about half of what he said is lies. McCoy's never been that horny, and there are five-hundred people on the Enterprise. Jim doesn't pick this particular battle, though. "Ok. Why do you think he's fucking you?"

"You know, Spock and I don't exactly have weekly relationship talks. As this is not a relationship."

"Try and guess, then," Jim says sweetly.

McCoy wouldn't take this shit from anyone else. He needs to stop making exceptions for Jim. "Beats me. Misery loves company? He thinks I'm hot? To get access to the medicine cabinet?"

"Yeah, they all sound logical reasons Spock would have to screw you." McCoy just shrugs again, unsure what to say. "You've been fucking him for months and you don't know him at all, do you?" Jim's tone is starting to really annoy him.

McCoy leans forward, holding his best friend's eyes. "Jim. Stop being a jerk. What do you want from me?"

Jim sighs, and then wipes his face, looking defeated. "Nothing. Nothing, I just don't want this to end with hurt feelings and bitterness. For you. Or for him."

"Spock's Vulcan, he doesn't—"

"He doesn't what?" Jim interjects immediately. "I think we've all had abundant proof that whatever you're thinking of saying it not true." They have. And McCoy's not sure why he even started the sentence, aside from a half-hearted need to contradict Jim. His best friend shakes his head. "You know what, it's not my business. This whole thing is fucked up enough that I don't need to play marriage counselor between my best friend and my wife's ex. Just... just think about it. That's all I ask."

McCoy nods, at a loss for words.

It's not as if he doesn't think about it all the time anyway.

They stay like that, silent, sullenly nursing their drinks for at least five minutes. And then it hits McCoy.

"I can't believe you just lectured me about relationship stuff," he mutters in his bourbon.

Jim ducks his chin to hide his smile, but the line of his shoulders is shaking with laughter. "Yep. Me, giving you an earful. We've both seen it all now."

"I've got half a mind of letting Uhura know how many STDs I've had to treat you for, and just get popcorn and observe her wrath." But he's smiling, and so is Jim. With his eyes, too, this time.

Jim's laughter takes some time to die down. "So," he tells McCoy, still smiling, "you like Spock."

McCoy doesn't say anything for a beat. "This is the most I've ever liked him, for sure," he mutters. This is quite a bit of liking, too, he has to admit. Since he's a little drunk, and since Jim asked him to think about, and since he's being a little honest with himself.

"Maybe we can go on double dates."

McCoy cringes visibly, and goes to get them another round, the sound of Jim snickering following him all the way.

...

Not twenty-four hours later, McCoy's hands are in Jim's thoracic cavity, where they stay for six hours.

Jim flatlines once. Then twice. The third time it happens, McCoy thinks, for the first time, that he might not be able to bring him back.

By the time surgery is over, Jim's not out of the woods by a long shot. McCoy stands by his biobed, beside Uhura's chair, focusing on her dry eyes and thin, mashed lips. The sight of Jim's unconscious form is unbearable.

He notices Spock's presence from the window in the private room and excuses himself, ordering a nurse to keep her eyes on Jim.

"The admiralty wishes to talk with you. You will receive a subspace communication in your office in ten minutes. The are likely to ask questions about the outcome of the surgery, so make sure that all the relevant recordings are available." Spock's tone is level. Half a year ago, McCoy would have thought him completely unaffected.

Half a year ago, McCoy was a fool.

McCoy nods. "Uhura is…"

Spock closes his eyes for a moment, and then he nods too.

They stand like that, just looking at each other, without knowing what to say, for a second and for an hour. Then, McCoy grabs Spock's nape and kisses him. A hard, sweet, desperate kiss.

When he pulls back, Spock's forehead falls against his own.

"He'll be fine. He'll be fine."

"I believe you, Leonard."

...

It's weeks before Jim recovers fully, though he goes back to pre-injury pain in the ass levels long before then. McCoy wonders constantly what it says of his life that having his best friend permanently stationed in his Med Bay makes for one of the worst professional experiences he's ever had.

"This is what I have to deal with every day," Uhura tells him, her expression delighted.

Spock is Acting Captain, of course. While remaining Science Officer and, to all intents and purposes, First, because Scotty's not about to emerge out of his steel cave to produce a duty roster, or to write reports about systems allocation.

McCoy barely sees him for two, then three weeks, and… yeah. It's not helping his mood, for sure. Though he does get a lot of time to think.

Which, to his own surprise, he uses.

The day Jim is discharged, McCoy's enormously pleased to find that Spock's quarters still recognize him, and even more pleased when Spock arrives from his shift after only thirty minutes.

He had expected to wait longer. Brought a work PADD, just in case.

When he sees McCoy sitting at his desk, Spock looks surprised, but pleasantly so, and McCoy feels a heartbeat skip, a little because of Spock's expression, a little because he's pretty sure there are only two other people on this ship who would be able to read Spock as well as he can. It's a warm, woolly sensation.

"Hey." He smiles at Spock as he stands. "Jim's discharged."

"I have heard. He stopped by the bridge to let Lieutenant Uhura know of his plans for the night in graphic details." Spock winces a little at the memory. "He was not considerate of my Vulcan hearing, or of the proximity of my work station."

McCoy rolls his eyes. "He probably wanted you hear. Damn infant." His tone is fond, despite his best efforts.

Spock nods. "Your logic is sound. I will need a shower, if you are amenable to wait."

It takes a second to hit home, the reason Spock thinks that he would need a shower to be in McCoy's company. Not that it doesn't make perfect sense, considering their past. Still, it stings.

"No, I… I don't want you to shower." He notices Spock's confusion. "Or do, dammit, I couldn't care less. I just—" He has thought about this. He has had weeks to carefully choose the best words, and yet all that comes out is, "Is that all it is? Is that what…What do you think we are doing?" He is waiving his hand between the two of them, in what is probably an obscenely vague gesture for a Vulcan.

Though, to his credit, for once Spock doesn't pretend not to understand. He hesitates, eyes fixed on McCoy's, and then says cautiously, "We occasionally engage in acts of sexual nature."

Right.

McCoy lowers his chin, and swallows around his constricting throat. "Right," he says. He did ask. "You know what? I just got off a double shift and discharging Jim was almost as exhausting as having him in the sickbay. I'm gonna turn in." He heads for the entrance, casually placing his hand on Spock's shoulder as he walks past him. "Have a good night, Spock."

He's almost engaged the doors' sensors when he hears Spock's voice. "I...Doct—Leonard. I…" Spock is… stammering. And then he goes completely quiet. McCoy turns to look at him, mildly worried, and Spock continues, "I think of you often. And I experience feelings. Towards you. When we are together. And… and when we are not." By the end of the sentence, his cheeks are as green as McCoy has ever seen them. His eyes, however, are calm, if tentative. "I have for a long time. Is this an appropriate moment to inform you?"

It takes a minute for McCoy to realize that he's been standing there, by the door, with his mouth open. "I... yes. Yes, it is." His voice is inexplicably hoarse. He clears his throat. "Well, that, um… It definitely sounds like… yeah. Since you… you know. I mean, even if you are, um, Vulcan…"

All these choppy, unfinished sentences. Again. They had been doing so well.

The corner of Spock's mouth lifts in an indulgent smile. "Leonard, I have listened to you use the word 'Vulcan' in several conversations over the years, and I can say with certainty that it does not mean what you think it means."

Mccoy laughs. They have somehow ended up standing in front of each other, and his head is spinning a little, even as he feels more grounded than he has in years. He wants to say something to Spock, racks his brain to find the words.

And comes up short.

Though Spock doesn't seem to care, since he takes McCoy's hand and envelopes it in his own, turning it until their palms are pressing together. And so McCoy thinks it, thinks it very hard, and very loud, hoping that Spock will hear it.

It has got to be the one perk of having a Vulcan boyfriend.

"There is no way in hell this is gonna work," McCoy says, still smiling.

"Agreed." They are both smiling. At each other. It's unprecedented, it must be. Paradigm-shifting.

"I asked you not to agree with me, Spock. It makes uncomfortable." McCoy dips his chin, and then looks up again. "Tell you what. Prove me wrong, instead."

Spock's eyes twinkle, and he does.