Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shore leave is, in Spock’s opinion, best spent on the Enterprise. He prefers the quiet of a mostly empty ship, void of distractions. Some would accuse him of being a ‘workaholic’, but Spock relaxes best when he dedicates himself to a scientific task.

With these facts in mind, it is difficult to resign himself to his current situation.

At least he is not alone in his dislike of crowded bars and loud music. His unexpected ally is one Doctor McCoy, who stands shoulder to shoulder with him, sipping a dark blue drink and scowling at the dance floor.

They do not speak.

Spock does not mind. He would not enjoy straining his voice to be heard over the drums and bass of the live band playing on the scene, nor would he particularly enjoy listening to the doctor’s complaints, which had been many and colorful on their way to the bar.

Regardless of the silence, McCoy’s thoughts are written over his expressive face. Irritation, unease, unhappiness. His shoulders are stiff, hunched over, and the fingers holding his glass are clenched tightly around the stem. Spock had been somewhat surprised by the doctor’s sour mood. Following his gaze to the dance floor, he understands perhaps part of his emotions.

Jim is in the middle of the floor, body moving fluidly to the rhythm of the music. In his arms dances Carol Marcus, skirt flaring around her hips as Jim spins her around.

She laughs.

McCoy’s scowl deepens.

Spock tastes his drink, finds it milk-y and with a strange aftertaste that reminds him of some alien herbs grown in the labs aboard the ship.

He considers McCoy. Reads the gritted teeth and flared nostrils. He leans closer.

“Doctor,” he says, and McCoy almost spills his drink as he jumps at the sound. “I believe the correct phrase is, ‘would you like to get out of here’?”

The doctor turns to him, then, all previous emotions washed away to be replaced by incredulity.

“What?”

The sound barely reaches Spock’s ears, but the syllables are easily read on his lips. He motions towards the exit with the glass in his hand. McCoy stares a moment longer, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. Then he shrugs.

Spock takes it for agreement and does not look behind himself as he leaves the establishment. The air is sticky and humid outside, warm but not comfortably dry. Vulcans may not sweat but the humidity still seems to cling to him. An unfortunate consequence of the space station’s climate controls being out of order, and the reason the Enterprise had stopped by. Jim had ordered shore leave for everyone not strictly necessary to assist the engineering crew with repairs. Spock could not argue over Mr. Scott’s suitability to oversee the task.

“Were you serious back there?”

It’s McCoy, fingers pulling at his collar. His shirt is short-sleeved but tight, a dark patch forming between his pectorals as they walk along the busy street, evidence of the heat affecting him.

“In my request to leave? As we are already outside, one would assume I was serious, yes.”

McCoy rolls his eyes, as he often does. Most of the time directed at Jim.

“In your use of a goddamn euphemism for sex, Spock.”

Spock blinks once, twice. It appears he has once again misjudged an expression, or perhaps its context. However, McCoy walks beside him, the frown on his face not suggesting disagreement with Spock’s suggestion but rather with the climate on the station.

“Fascinating. You are questioning my meaning, however you followed me outside rather than ascertaining my motive first.”

Groaning, McCoy wipes a hand over his face, dragging it slowly down until it drops by his side again.

“Do you have to talk like everything in life is a science experiment to you?”

“Doctor,” Spock says, clasping his hands behind himself and dismissing his elevated heart rate as a consequence of the humid air. “Am I correct to assume, then, that you are amenable to engaging in sexual intercourse with me?”

“Jesus,” McCoy mutters. “I didn’t drink enough for this.”

He continues before Spock can reassure him that he does not expect an affirmative answer.

“You got a hotel room?”

Spock pauses, considering him. They stand in the middle of the street, annoyed visitors veering around them.

“The captain was rather adamant that I do not return to the ship until the day after tomorrow. He expressed disbelief that I would leave the ship tomorrow morning should he allow me to return aboard tonight.”

“Yeah,” McCoy snorts. “And don’t tell me he’s wrong to think that.”

“If you say so. To answer your question, yes, I have acquired a hotel room.”

In the dark of the night, neon signs flashing around them, McCoy’s eyes are a deep brown, as is his hair. Spock allows himself to consider sifting his fingers through that hair, cupping the back of that neck, going so far as to wonder what his lips taste like.

“Wow,” McCoy says, running his own fingers through dark strands the same way Spock had just imagined. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

“Only if you are amenable.”

“You’re making it sound like a science experiment again. Hang on. Is it a science experiment?”

Spock does not sigh, but he finds that McCoy has a tendency to inspire such urges in him.

“It is not. Unless you wish to propose a hypothesis for us to research?”

A shake of the head, then a quick laugh. The earlier tension seems to have given way to curiosity, perhaps even amusement. There’s a curl to McCoy’s mouth that suggests he is thinking of them, conducting the kind of experiments that are best kept unpublished.

“I’m pretty sure whatever we’re going to come up with will be inadvisable, anyway. Come on.”

With a tilt of his head, McCoy sets off down the street. He leads the way despite not knowing the location of Spock’s hotel, which is, while illogical, somewhat arousing.

Unsure of the sudden discovery of his attraction to McCoy, Spock follows until they need to turn, wrapping a hand around McCoy’s elbow to steer him in the correct direction. His hand is not shaken off, nor is it encouraged as McCoy purses his lips and allows Spock to walk alongside him the rest of the way.

The hotel is located in a calmer part of the station not far from the entertainment district. While Starfleet regulations do not dictate that all personnel must spend time together during shore leave, Jim had been rather clear that he expected some show of camaraderie between the senior officers for the crew’s benefit.

Perhaps that is why he danced so close to Ms. Marcus. Perhaps not. He does not bring it up with McCoy.

They reach the hotel in silence and continue the same way in the elevator, McCoy gnawing on his lips once they go through the door and stop in the narrow hallway inside Spock’s room. Spock carefully takes off his shoes and places them neatly by the door. McCoy stares at him while he does it, then keeps his eyes on Spock’s shoes for another minute.

“Doctor, are you well?”

His head snaps up, lips parting before his teeth click together again. Rather than answer he bends down to take off his own shoes, pushing them haphazardly towards the side. Spock draws in a breath, then picks them up and places them neatly beside his own.

“This is a terrible idea,” McCoy says, face reddening.

Spock dismisses disappointment as mere irritation that the doctor would follow him to the hotel only to immediately leave.

“You are, of course, free to leave.”

His gaze turns to Spock’s face, eyes wide and unreadable.

“It’s just sex, right?” McCoy asks. “You’re not, like, expecting us to go on a date or anything… I mean…”

He trails off, shifting to his heels and back to his soles. His feet are clad in black regulation socks.

“I am not expecting a romantic relationship, Doctor.”

“Oh. Good. Alright.”

McCoy draws in a deep breath, fingers clenching and unclenching. He looks at Spock, then averts his eyes, scanning the room before returning to meet Spock’s gaze. He takes two swift steps forward, hands lifting to land on Spock’s shoulders.

They feel warm to the touch.

“It would help if you looked a little less like that,” McCoy mumbles.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, that.”

He sounds frustrated, scowling at Spock’s lifted eyebrow.

“I cannot change my face, Doctor.”

Fingers tighten over his shoulders, then twist in the fabric of his shirt. He had chosen a looser style, the fabric easy to grip in order to pull him closer, which is precisely what McCoy does.

His lips taste like the drink he’d had at the bar, pressing too loosely against his own. Spock applies more pressure, places one hand behind McCoy’s neck and sucks on his bottom lip. McCoy makes a choked noise, pulling at his shirt before pushing him away.

“Dammit, Spock, you don’t have to bite me.”

Spock raises an eyebrow.

“Let’s try again,” McCoy mutters.

They do. Spock shifts his fingers through the ends of McCoy’s hair above an ear and McCoy tugs his shirt out of his pants and places his warm palms on the small of Spock’s back. It’s decent. It’s better than the overstimulation of the bar, at least.

When he pulls away to begin unclasping his shirt, McCoy’s frown remains.

“At least you’re not too bad to look at,” he says, when Spock’s shirt falls open at the front before he shrugs it off.

“Please undress.”

There’s a heavy sigh accompanying McCoy’s hands as he pulls his t-shirt off. His chest is covered in dark hair, just like his arms. With his broad shoulders and soft hands he is rather appealing.

“Well?” McCoy asks, impatient.

He’s been caught staring, but Spock does not understand the irritation.

“I asked you to undress.”

“You could help.”

They look at each other for a long moment. When Spock steps closer and takes hold of the hem of McCoy’s jeans it is impossible to miss the slight flinch in the other man.

“Are you uncomfortable, Doctor?”

“No. Maybe. How do you want to do this, anyway?”

Spock makes sure his eyebrow is angled to inspire the doctor’s ire.

“You require instruction?”

“Oh, screw you, Spock. I’m not letting you fuck me anyway. We can do blowjobs.”

“Very well.” Spock pops the top button on the jeans, then the second. It at least brings McCoy’s attention down to his hands. “I am amenable to fellatio.”

“And don’t bite my dick,” McCoy warns as his jeans fall down to his ankles, Spock following them to kneel in front of him.

“I will make no such promises,” Spock says.

☆☆☆

Spock awakens early in the morning, at the same time he always rises. This morning McCoy lies draped across his chest and hip. While he is not particularly heavy, his skin feels slightly sticky and his nose is digging into Spock’s shoulder.

“Doctor,” he tries, placing a hand on the doctor’s bicep.

There is no immediate response. He decides to meditate until McCoy wakes up naturally.

Two point three hours later he stirs into wakefulness, rubbing at his eyes and rolling over onto his back.

“What the hell,” McCoy says, voice rough with sleep. “That sucked. Let’s never have sex again.”

Spock is not disappointed.

“Agreed. It was unsatisfactory.”

There’s a deep chuckle, McCoy lifting a hand again to cover his face. There’s soft morning light seeping through the curtains, bathing his naked chest and hair in dapples of artificial sunlight.

“Great. We finally agree on something. If you tell Jim I’m going to kill you.”

“There is no need for dramatics. Although, regulations state that the captain needs to know about liaisons between senior crew members that may affect performance and objectivity.”

There’s a deadpan look on McCoy’s face when he rolls over to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. It is not an unappealing sight, despite the harsh judgment of the previous night.

“I don’t think Jim has to know about one night of crappy sex. I mean, it was barely sex.”

Spock turns on his side, too, mirroring McCoy. He wonders if engaging in so called ‘pillow talk’ with McCoy falls under the need-to-know category for captains.

“If I may remind you, Doctor, you ejaculated in my mouth.”

“Don’t,” McCoy says with a shudder.

Despite his apparent aversion, Spock does not pick up on any true unease.

“I’m taking first shower.”

McCoy does not wait for an answer, merely moves out of bed and picks up his clothes from the floor. The morning light falls in intriguing patterns down the side of his body, and Spock traces it with his gaze until the bathroom door closes behind him.

Some minutes later, McCoy sticks his head out through the door.

“Get in here, Spock. We might as well get some bad morning-after sex out of the whole deal while we’re at it.”

“I am not fond of water showers.”

McCoy scowls.

“Just get in the shower, you princess.”

He leaves the door open. Spock pinches his lips, considers the state of his body. The station they’re visiting offers little else in the form of entertainment.

The shower starts running, and Spock does not linger long on his decision. He finds McCoy under the spray of water, eyes closed and water cascading down his face and along his body. The shower is walled in on two sides, the third side a mere glass pane. Water splashes onto the floor, droplets reaching Spock’s toes.

The view is at least pleasing, he thinks. McCoy’s lean body invites touch, and when he ducks his head out from underneath the spray with a small gasp and runs his hands through wet strands of hair, Spock decides that water is a small price to pay for another attempt at reaching mutual satisfaction.

“You need to work on your kissing,” McCoy mutters as he joins him, arms wrapping around Spock’s middle, pulling their bodies flush together. “At least you’re a good height.”

“Thank you, Doct–“

McCoy does not allow him to finish the sentence. His lips brush softly over Spock’s, close-mouthed kisses along the seam of his lips and pressed to each corner. It is frustratingly slow. Abandoning the kiss, Spock moves to nip at McCoy’s neck instead. He tugs at McCoy’s hair to tilt his head aside, tasting his wet skin while McCoy mutters something underneath his breath. Hands grip at his posterior as if in retaliation, though Spock does not mind being pushed backwards to press against the side wall.

“It’s not that I want to think about what you and Uhura got up to,” McCoy says, causing Spock to still for a moment. “But I can’t help but wonder if you guys just didn’t have any romance in your life.”

“Elaborate,” Spock says, despite his better judgment.

He kisses along McCoy’s shoulder, bites into his collarbone while McCoy hisses at him.

“That,” McCoy tells him. “That right there. Why are you biting me.”

Spock shoves a hand between their bodies, pressing the flat of his palm against McCoy’s penis. It has the desired effect – McCoy groans, forehead falling to Spock’s shoulder.

“I am aroused by it.”

The groan takes on a suffering note.

“A Vulcan turned on by biting,” McCoy huffs. “I don’t like it.”

Taking a firm grip around McCoy’s length, Spock rubs his thumb over the head. Neither of them are fully erect yet, but McCoy’s breathing increases as Spock works on him.

“The concept or the biting itself?”

“Both,” McCoy snaps. “Ever heard of lube?”

“You would do well to remember there is none present, Doctor.”

McCoy grips his wrist, firmly pushing his hand away.

“Water’s not doing it for me right now. Let’s work up to it.”

He presses Spock back into the wall, kissing him again. Spock endures it for a while, turning focus on their bodies instead. He finds that linking his fingers with McCoy’s has some effect on him, the slide of wet fingers over knuckles at least succeeding in stiffening his own penis. McCoy grinds against him, tongue gently dipping into Spock’s mouth to caress the inside of it.

The water stays warm, no doubt due to the powerful energy systems on the space station unlike the Enterprise’s more limited supply. Spock at last is allowed to comb the fingers of one hand through McCoy’s hair, silky smooth when soaked.

“This is taking forever,” McCoy complains.

“I was not aware we were on a time schedule.”

He earns a scowl and a huff, McCoy resting an arm bent at the elbow beside Spock’s head, leaning his weight onto it, Spock’s hand still entangled with thick strands of dark hair.

“My fingers are starting to prune, look.”

He holds his fingers up, releasing the loose grip he had on Spock’s other hand. Indeed, the tips of his fingers are starting to prune, and he flexes them with a frown. Then he rubs them together in irritation.

“Is it just me or do we suck at having sex?”

Spock, who had been busy considering the feel of those fingertips rubbing up against his own, coupled with the titillating glide of shower-wet hair already affecting him, unfortunately achieves orgasm.

Were it not for the slight hitch to his breath and the string of semen released from his penis, McCoy may not have noticed. The frown between his brows deepens, his fingers pressing together tightly, the sight of which makes Spock bite back a moan.

“What,” McCoy asks, voice flat.

“If I may, Doctor.”

Spock sinks to his knees and swiftly swallows McCoy’s penis as far down as he can take it. Which, considering Vulcan muscle control, is far enough for his nose to brush against the coarse pubic hair surrounding the base.

It is, also, far enough to put his face underneath the spray of water as McCoy straightens up, his body no longer shielding it.

He inhales water through his nose and promptly chokes on it.

“Good lord, Spock,” McCoy grumbles, turning off the water and sinking down next to him. “That’s not what choke on it means.”

“I find I am quite averse to shower sex.”

McCoy wipes water off Spock’s face, a rather difficult feat seeing as his hands are wet. Still, the gesture is appreciated, and Spock says as much.

“Don’t go flattering me now, Spock, I almost got you killed. Besides, few things ruin an erection faster than seeing someone get water in their lungs.”

“I do not believe I was in any real danger of suffocation, Doctor.”

They stand, McCoy grimacing.

“Whatever. Let’s get the showering over and done with, I need to go find a place that serves drinks twenty-four/seven.”

“As you wish.”

He reaches for the shampoo dispenser on the wall, past McCoy. He finds his eyes wide as Spock begins to work the shampoo into his short hair, massaging his scalp with sure movements.

“You’re–“ McCoy clears his throat, hands lifting by his sides before falling down again. “You’re going to wash my hair for me?”

His voice is slightly broken with disbelief. Spock does not understand why.

“I had thought it a common courtesy to aid your partner in this after engaging in sexual intercourse.”

McCoy continues making strange, half-choked noises as Spock makes sure his hair is properly lathered. The act in itself is far more arousing to him than performing fellatio on McCoy had been the previous night.

“Sure, but… Well, I’ll be damned. You’re not bad at that.”

“Please turn around, Doctor.”

Spock washes McCoy’s hair and achieves a second, slower orgasm. McCoy steps on his foot and calls him a selfish asshole, which results in Spock clenching his fingers in McCoy’s hair and tugging too hard.

“Not only are you a real piece of work, Spock, you also almost ripped the hair off my head,” McCoy complains as they dry off.

“I advise you not to dig your heel into my toes if you wish to avoid such consequences in the future.”

“You came from washing my hair! I feel violated.”

“Hyperbole, Doctor? I expected better of you.”

Despite his irritation McCoy had returned the favor, his expert fingers seeking out several knots in Spock’s neck that now smart from the massage.

“Well, that’s your own fault for havin’ expectations.”

McCoy pulls on yesterday’s clothes with a scowl on his face. The scowl deepens as he pulls on his shirt, tilting his head to sniff at his armpit.

“Dammit, I need to change my shirt,” he mutters.

“Is your hotel not nearby?”

The socks are pulled on with vigor, stiff irritation present in every line of his body.

“Something like that. I just want a large drink and a memory wipe.”

Spock considers him. The doctor often engages in exaggeration, although it is possible that their less than satisfactory copulation was indeed cause enough to request having one’s memory cleansed.

“I may provide a memory wipe, should you wish. However, if you are satisfied with simply a shirt, I shall retrieve one for you.”

Mouth falling open, McCoy pauses with one foot in the air, sock halfway on.

“You can wipe people’s memories?” he splutters, hopping on one foot for balance before managing to properly dress himself. “I didn’t know that. Does Jim know that? What kind of Vulcan voodoo are you hiding in that thick head of yours, anyway?”

Spock does not satisfy the doctor with an answer, merely finds a simple black shirt among his unpacked possessions and hands it to him.

“Aren’t we cozy,” McCoy mumbles, but tugs off his own shirt before replacing it with Spock’s.

It is Vulcan in style, with sharp shoulders and a bit of collar that opens with a slit at the front of the throat. On McCoy it looks odd, though not unappealing.

“God almighty,” McCoy curses. “I might as well wear a sign sayin’ we got down and dirty last night.”

Spock hesitates. McCoy does not remove the shirt. Instead he leaves his own where he threw it on the bed and heads for the door to pick up his shoes.

“I’ll be sweating buckets in it, too.”

“It is made of a lighter fabric so as not to draw heat.”

Strangely enough, the reassurance only serves to make McCoy let out a heavy sigh.

“I’ll see you on the ship, Spock.”

“Very well. Enjoy the rest of shore leave, Doctor.”

“Sure. Thanks. You too, if that’s not too illogical.”

He does not explain that their copulation has so far been the only part of shore leave he did not mind, and that he expects it will remain so. He watches in silence as McCoy exits through the door, folding his hands behind his back and contemplating his current situation. Perhaps meditation will provide some explanation for why he had invited the doctor to share his bed, as it had certainly proved an unfruitful experience, if at least providing some distraction from the order to remain on board the station.

His communicator chirps with an incoming message. As he reads it, he considers whether or not it can truly constitute within the captain’s mandate to order the senior crew to report to him in the same bar at 2100 hours this evening.

A minute later, a second message arrives.

>>>Is he fucking serious?

Pressing his lips together, Spock wonders at the Human psyche and its penchant for contradiction. McCoy had seemed adamant on their activities not changing things between them, and yet, this message is both personal and the first he has received from the doctor aside from the occasional reminder for physical examinations in the Sickbay.

>>>Never mind, we’re not going

>>>I’ll tell him we both got acute xenocyloitis

Spock raises an eyebrow.

<<<I do not believe acute xenocyloitis exists, Doctor.

>>>Do you want an out or not??!!

>>>You come up with something better if you’re so smart

>>>I’ll give you another shot at sucking my dick so long as I don’t have to spend my evening in that godforsaken bar

He allows himself to consider the haunted look in McCoy’s eyes as he observed the dance floor the previous night, and concludes that perhaps it is within his power to do McCoy a favor.

<<<I suggest we avoid the captain’s ire by attending for a short time first, rather than upset him by faking illness, especially one which he may easily discover does not exist.

The reply is less swift this time. Spock puts the communicator away and dresses in his meditation robes, lighting some incense. By the time his meditation is concluded, McCoy has replied.

>>>Fine

>>>But you’re buying me a drink first

☆☆☆

One drink was apparently not sufficient to erase the memory of Jim sneaking his arm around Carol Marcus’ back, grin wide enough that not even Spock could misinterpret it. Spock does not appreciate how heavily McCoy leans on him on the way back to the hotel, but he bears it without complaint.

The doctor, for his part, does not spare Spock’s ears.

“–and did you see the look on her face? Smug, that’s what it was. I save his goddamn life and he–“

Abruptly, the complaints die down. McCoy pauses, forcing Spock to pause with him lest he carry the man in his arms instead.

“Doctor?”

“It’s not that I…”

The words trail off into a mumble, then becomes a sharp inhale.

“I’m bein’ real awful about it, aren’t I?”

“You are certainly vocal, Doctor, however I am uncertain if the word ‘awful’ accurately describes your current behavior.”

It makes McCoy laugh, to his surprise.

“The kid deserves to be happy,” he says, squeezing Spock’s shoulder. “I don’t begrudge him that, y’know? It just feels an awful lot like he’s forgotten about me.”

Quietly, Spock agrees. He is not fond of Doctor Marcus. Her appearance had been rather abrupt, and then she had visited Jim at the hospital, even following him onto the ship. Perhaps McCoy is not the only one who has been ill at ease by her entrance into Jim’s life.

“What’s with that look on your face, huh, Spock? Jim’s been canceling your chess games, hasn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

McCoy snorts. His breath is heavy with the scent of alcohol.

“Let’s get to the hotel. You’ve got a mediocre blowjob to make good on.”

“As I have yet to deliver, you cannot say for certain that it will be mediocre.”

Another laugh, less self-deprecating this time. Spock prefers this lighter version.

“You’ll be lucky if it stays at mediocre, Spock. C’mon.”

Once they arrive, McCoy sits on the bed and Spock kneels before him, watching expectantly as McCoy opens up his pants and pushes them down his thighs. He is still wearing the same shirt Spock had lent him in the morning, the sight having distracted Spock all night. This time there is no water threatening to enter his nostrils, and McCoy combs his fingers through Spock’s hair, gently nudging him closer between his legs.

“Think you can handle it?” he asks, fingertips brushing down the back of his neck, making the skin there prickle from the light touch.

“If you are inquiring as to whether or not I will ‘choke on it’, then I assure you it is unlikely to happen.”

The way McCoy’s lips tug up at the corners suggests poorly restrained amusement.

“What, you calculate the odds or somethin’?”

“Please cease speaking.”

Spock takes him in hand, leans in to lick a long stripe up the soft length. McCoy’s mouth parts into a grin, his fingers twitching in Spock’s hair. When Spock sends him an admonishing look he licks his lips, teeth still visible.

“Sorry,” he says, “it’s just…”

When Spock sucks the head into his mouth, McCoy’s thighs twitch in tune with his fingers. His teeth dig into his lower lip, the arm he braces his weight with on the bed sinking lower as his elbow bends further.

“It’s just kind of weird, isn’t it?”

Spock leans back, McCoy’s hand falling from his head just like his penis falls from Spock’s lips. He rolls his eyes at Spock’s expression, then falls back on the bed with a huff.

“Maybe we should try something else,” McCoy offers, when Spock has had time to consider asking him to leave. “Maybe you on your knees is just too weird for me.”

He resists the urge to sigh.

“And what do you suggest, Doctor?”

McCoy waves his hand sloppily, then pats the bed.

“Come here.”

As Spock climbs onto the bed, McCoy moves further up towards the pillow. He turns on his side, Spock fitting his own body along the length of McCoy’s back. His nose brushes the short hairs at the nape of McCoy’s neck sticking up over the collar, inhaling his scent.

“Hand,” McCoy orders.

Spock puts his arm over his hip, allowing McCoy to intertwine their fingers before wrapping both their hands around his semi-erect cock. Shifting to a better position, Spock nudges McCoy’s head so that it rests on the pillow, Spock’s arm below it.

“Won’t your arm fall asleep?”

“I am Vulcan, Doctor.”

While he cannot see it, the eyeroll is present in McCoy’s voice.

“How could I forget.”

Relaxing his body, Spock focuses on the sensation of his hand guided by another’s. McCoy’s hands are soft but sturdy, sure in both pressure and movement. Slow is what he seems to prefer, with a slight twist at the top. Spock commits it to memory, though he finds the pace uninspiring.

He kisses McCoy’s neck, tastes his skin with his tongue, bends his arm at the elbow to reach back and swipe a thumb over McCoy’s lips.

“Hmm, that’s better.”

The words are mumbled against the pad of his thumb, teasing him. When he reaches the lobe on McCoy’s rounded ear he bites down, eliciting a sharp hiss from the doctor.

“Why are you biting me, Spock? Damn vampire Vulcan.”

“Apologies.” Spock is not truly repentant, though. “I was under the impression Humans enjoy such things.”

“I think you’re confusing it with your own likes,” McCoy mutters. He squeezes Spock’s hand, a pleasurable sensation that ends too soon. “Keep your teeth out of it, alright?”

“Very well.”

He returns to simple kisses, though McCoy does not seem to mind a few laps of the tongue over his pulse point. He also doesn’t seem to mind that Spock touches his lips and chin and traces the bridge of his nose, though he makes no move to draw Spock’s fingers into his mouth.

“Doctor, you are quite aesthetically pleasing.”

The hand over McCoy’s penis stops, then reluctantly begins moving again.

“Don’t. Just, please, Spock, don’t try dirty talk with me, alright?”

“It was merely statement of fact.”

Warm air washes over Spock’s fingers as McCoy sighs.

“Well don’t do any statements of fact, then, okay? You sound like you’re reciting plant samples to me.”

Spock pushes a finger into McCoy’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue.

“Perhaps neither of us should talk, Doctor.”

There’s a muffled noise, close enough to a moan that Spock adds a second finger. The wet heat of McCoy’s mouth is far more pleasurable than the simple act of caressing his rather dry length. His breathing grows heavier, the knob at the top of McCoy’s spine – while covered by Spock’s shirt –proving an inviting bump that his mouth must pass over rather than mark.

Another muffled noise, McCoy swallowing around his fingers, and Spock cannot resist the allure of biting into soft skin under McCoy’s jaw as he shudders with release.

“You’re the worst,” McCoy says, spitting his fingers out. “You seriously suck at getting another man off.”

“Perhaps you are simply a difficult subject to work on, Doctor.”

“Why, you–“

McCoy turns around, throwing a leg across Spock’s hips and straddling him. While Spock steadies him by grasping his thighs, McCoy spits again, this time in one of his palms.

“No lube,” he grumbles, gripping his own penis again. “And no damn manners, either. This is gonna be the least satisfying orgasm of my life, Spock, and I’m divorced for fuck’s sake.”

Even so, with just his hand and a heavy glare down at Spock, it takes him no more than two minutes and twenty-one seconds to reach completion. He spills over Spock’s mid-riff, soiling his clothes, and looks rather pleased with himself.

“I believe I need a change of clothes,” Spock remarks, raising an eyebrow at the way McCoy grins.

“Serves you right. Just get naked and we can sleep it off, I don’t have the energy for a shower.”

With such a demand, McCoy pulls the shirt off and then rolls off Spock before making himself comfortable under the covers. His gaze is expectant when it lands on Spock, which brings forth a tick of irritation that Spock does not manage to catch in time. He proceeds as ordered, however, placing his clothes beside his empty suitcase and drying himself off in the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, considers asking McCoy to do the same. However, there is no spare toothbrush, and he does not believe the doctor wishes to move.

Joining him in bed, Spock does not comment as McCoy rolls into him in clear invitation to spoon. This, at least, he has in common with Nyota, although she had a smaller build and thus did not require him to share quite so much of the blanket and pillow.

“If I may, Doctor.”

Spock tugs at the covers, until they at least do not leave a gap between his back and the mattress.

“Hey, give that back!”

When Spock feels with his hand, he finds that McCoy has a decent amount of coverage and certainly does not need more. He says as much, which is, unsurprisingly, met with scorn.

“This blanket’s way too small,” McCoy tells him, shifting around and tugging at it. “What kind of hotel room did you get, anyway? One for aliens half our size?”

“The bed is adequate for one person.”

“Yeah, well, you’re sharin’. So stop being so stingy.”

McCoy tugs again, with more strength, and Spock finds the situation rather unnecessary. He turns onto his back and moves McCoy with him, until he is in a similar position as in the early morning. With McCoy half on top of him, the blanket easily covers them both.

“No,” McCoy snaps. “No way in hell am I sleeping like this.”

“You had no trouble this morning.”

“Yeah, because I was asleep and didn’t know any better!”

Spock takes hold of the back of his head and presses him into the juncture between chest and shoulder, holding him there until he feels his limbs relax in defeat.

“Un-fucking-believable,” McCoy says.

“Sleep, Doctor.”

“If you tell Jim you’re a dead man. Vulcan. Whatever.”

The petulant tone is reminiscent of a small child, loath to admit acquiescence to their circumstances. Spock does not reply despite the repeat of the threat from earlier that day, and eventually the doctor settles, hand loosely resting over Spock’s ribcage, body warm against him.

They sleep. Spock tells himself it will be the last time, and brushes aside the notion that he feels disappointment for it.

☆☆☆

Breakfast on the Enterprise the day after shore leave ended is a lively affair.

Most of the crew had returned to the ship during the previous day, some later than others. The engineering crew was still working on the station’s climate controls but were expected to finish before lunch time.

Spock sits next to Doctor Marcus, Jim opposite of her, with McCoy opposite of Spock. The conversation is rather one-sided, with Jim and Marcus reciting their shore leave activities while Spock politely listens. McCoy appears obviously bored, staring into his coffee with a slight frown between his brows.

When Jim’s attention focuses solely on Marcus, Spock reaches out to nudge McCoy’s arm. He looks up, a question in his eyes.

“Doctor, are you available after shift to go through the schedule changes to the bio-labs? With our upcoming mission to Endrejna I it is my understanding that the medical staff will require additional use of the lab stations.”

“Sure,” McCoy says, then glances at Jim. “I’ve got a couple of hours.”

Spock considers the lackluster response, but cannot interpret its cause. The previous night had been spent in meditation, analyzing his unanticipated copulation with the doctor. He feels no regret, despite the doctor’s insistence of both their lackluster performances.

“I shall meet you in the labs, then.”

McCoy nods, swallows the rest of his coffee and leaves without another word. Jim does not appear to notice. While Spock is not prone to jealousy or other such emotions, it is clear that the captain’s interest in Ms. Marcus is affecting at least one of the senior crew. He resolves to monitor the doctor more closely.

After shift, he does not need to wait long for McCoy to join him in the labs. They go over the schedule changes, and McCoy shares some of his team’s hypotheses for the elusive illness that appears to ail the population on Endrejna. They are not yet members of the Federation, but negotiations had been ongoing, if sparse, and Starfleet had been asked to aid in determining the cause and possible cure.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and McCoy glances at the chronometer by one wall in the lab.

“You know, I was supposed to meet up with Jim five minutes ago.”

Spock straightens, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I apologize for keeping you, Doctor.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He shakes his head slowly, then rubs a hand over his face. “I’m pretty sure he forgot all about it.”

“If the captain suffers from lapses in memory, surely that is cause for concern.”

A wry smile widens McCoy’s mouth.

“He suffers from something called the honeymoon phase, I’m afraid. No known cure to that. It was just dinner and drinks, anyway.”

Despite the dismissive statement, McCoy does not appear unaffected. Perhaps his evening is as void of activity as Spock’s. Before he ended his relationship with Nyota most of his free time would be spent with her, often practicing music together.

“Perhaps my company will suffice?” he offers.

McCoy looks surprised, turning to lean against the lab desk they are standing by.

“You’ll do dinner and drinks with me? Careful, Spock, I might start thinking you like me.”

“I am not adverse to your company, if that is what you are asking. However, I understand if you wish to partake in some other activity as the captain is seemingly unavailable.”

“Not adverse,” McCoy repeats slowly. His hands are gripping the edges of the desk, knuckles standing out sharply. “Just how bored are you now that you and Uhura broke up?”

Spock straightens further.

“Vulcans do not experience boredom, Doctor.”

“Yeah, well. I’m bored. Come on, Jim and I usually grab something light from the mess and eat in one of the rec rooms.”

Once their food is retrieved, they find that the small bar where Jim and McCoy usually meet is empty.

“I guess people know the captain likes to hang out here and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” McCoy mumbles, settling into one of the bar stools.

“Indeed.”

They have dinner. Quietly, at first, then louder as they fill the room with familiar arguing. McCoy ingests three separate alcoholic drinks, and afterwards suggests they relocate to his quarters.

“I’ll show you how a real blowjob’s done,” he says, poking Spock in the middle of the chest.

Spock does not decline the offer, and soon finds himself sat on McCoy’s bed, McCoy in the same position Spock had attempted previously. McCoy’s lips are soft, as is his tongue. Too soft, perhaps, as Spock finds he requires one finger alongside his cock inside McCoy’s mouth and his other hand stroking through his hair in order to achieve orgasm.

“I don’t get it,” McCoy says after swallowing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You literally came from shampooing my hair, but when I go down on you–“ He pauses, abruptly. “It’s the hands, isn’t it? Your hands are more sensitive than your dick, is that right?”

Spock considers arguing.

“If you had applied yourself with more vigor,” he starts, McCoy letting out an indignant noise.

“You tellin’ me you like it rough?” he asks, a look of disbelief on his face. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but…”

“Are you amenable?”

McCoy sighs, running a hand through the hairs that Spock had tousled.

“I dunno.” He sits on his haunches, looking up at Spock with narrowed eyes. “Do no harm, and all that. Might have to work up to it. My ex-wife…”

He trails off, and Spock doesn’t pry.

“Similarly, your desire for light touches and a slow pace is unappealing to me.”

They stare at each other. McCoy’s lips twitch into a wry smile.

“We shouldn’t be fucking, is what you’re saying,” he concludes, standing up to stretch out a kink in his back. “Well, alright. Experiment over.”

While he finds himself reluctant to agree, Spock nods.

“So it seems.”

☆☆☆

“This is a terrible idea,” McCoy groans as Spock lifts him onto the lab desk.

His hands are buried in Spock’s hair, holding but not pulling, his head thrown back as Spock drags teeth over his Adam’s apple.

“You have expressed that sentiment before,” Spock reminds him, bruising McCoy’s hips with his hands and biting at his jaw despite knowing it annoys him.

“That’s because I’m right and you know it.”

Even so, McCoy widens his legs, pulls Spock in by folding them across his lower back. Spock is beginning to see a trend. Jim had been by some minutes prior, declaring himself too busy for dinner with a wink, missing the way the doctor’s mood instantly soured. Once Jim had left, McCoy turned to him with that hard look in his eyes that Spock has come to associate with bad decisions.

There’s a trend, though it’s more linked to McCoy’s moods than Jim specifically. Jim simply happens to inspire his moods more often than not.

“I do not believe there is lubricant nearby,” Spock says, pushing his hands up underneath McCoy’s uniform shirt, touching skin and brushing through the hair covering his chest.

McCoy reaches for the small bag containing his personal lab equipment, almost succeeding in pushing it off the desk before managing to pull it closer.

“Not a single comment from you, mister,” he warns as he retrieves a small tube which Spock presumes contains the substance they need.

“If you insist.”

He takes the tube from McCoy, allows him to turn over and lean over the desk instead. He makes quick work of preparations, mindful of the semi-public area, though only the captain’s override would manage to open the locked door. And with the captain otherwise engaged it is unlikely they will be disturbed.

“Come on, Spock, get inside me already.”

The complaint is not unusual. A strange combination of impatience and a preference for slow lovemaking, as the doctor had confided in him one evening after one too many drinks – their latest shore leave, which once again had been spent partly in bars of their captain’s choosing.

More often than not, if the doctor was annoyed or angry he would come rant at Spock and they would end up concluding the rant with various sexual acts. If the doctor was in a more morose mood he would sit on Spock’s small couch and sip at tea before slipping into Spock’s lap to kiss him, tasting of Earl Grey and emotion tinged with sadness.

And if a mission had gone sideways, as McCoy often referred to it, he’d point Spock toward either of their quarters and demand to be fucked as slow as Spock could bear it.

He pushes inside slowly now, breathing through his nose as McCoy clenches around him. The position allows for McCoy to take care of his own penis, leaving Spock free to roam his hands all over McCoy’s body and comb through his hair, a compromise where the doctor doesn’t mind a rough caress but prefers not to get his dick bruised, as he’d explained it.

“That’s it,” McCoy sighs, Spock pressing his nose to his hairline above his temple.

It is tempting to bite down on his ear. He refrains. Another compromise – Spock could bite him once each time, and had to choose his moment carefully. In turn, McCoy would suck on his fingers harder than he’d prefer, but with the kind of pressure that drove Spock to orgasm fast and easy to make up for the slow pace with which he moved his hips.

“May I?” Spock asks, fingertips circling McCoy’s nipples before dragging down his stomach, massaging the inside of his thighs near where McCoy’s hand is stroking, the movement evident in the way his arm brushes against Spock’s.

“Yeah,” McCoy pants, holding himself up on the desk with his unoccupied arm, muscles tensed for Spock to appreciate. “Yeah, go on, fuck me.”

Spock moves his hands up over McCoy’s back, thumb tracing the knobs on his spine. He’s found, through trial and error, that the slow pace McCoy prefers works better for both of them if Spock can press his fingertips into bare skin, can prod at bones and tug at hairs to keep himself aroused.

He pulls out slowly, grabs two handfuls of McCoy’s butt cheeks to spread them wide, enjoying the sight of his lubricated penis stretching him open. Four months of practice has given McCoy ample time to get used to his double ridges and internal testes – once resulting in a back massage that had Spock growling into a pillow.

A roll of his hips, McCoy’s body accepting the intrusion, low groan sounding deep in his chest. This, the moaning and gasping, is another thing that Spock has learnt to appreciate. He still would have liked to see how the doctor fared under a rougher, harder pace, but…

He licks over McCoy’s pulse point, squeezing the flesh in his hands and using it as leverage to push in a little deeper, grinding into him until McCoy gasps from being filled.

“Keep going,” he urges Spock on, voice strained with pleasure, and Spock revels in the fact that he caused it. “Just like that, slow as you can.”

Spock huffs, because surely he is already going as slow as possible. Pull out, push in. McCoy trembles underneath him, fist moving just as slow over his penis, as if to test Spock’s patience with every thrust.

McCoy lasts only a few more minutes, obediently takes Spock’s fingers in his mouth and bites down until Spock groans in his ear and spills inside him.

“Fuck,” McCoy mutters as he spits Spock’s fingers out. “I’m gonna have to walk back to my quarters like this.”

Wise from experience, Spock does not comment. He tucks himself back inside his uniform pants and retrieves tissues for McCoy. Once cleaned up, McCoy gives their research an unhappy look.

“I s’pose we can finish tomorrow,” he says.

“Indeed. It is not time sensitive.”

With a grimace and a discreet adjustment of his pants, McCoy waves at him to go ahead. To his surprise – though perhaps he shouldn’t be – McCoy joins him in his quarters soon after.

“Sometimes Jim just pisses me off,” he starts, and Spock lifts a brow at him.

Usually, the ranting comes before the sex, not the other way around.

“He said he was going to take being captain more seriously from now on, and he is! But Carol isn’t going to stick around forever!”

He starts to pace the length of Spock’s quarters, which is by no means a long walk. Before he can work himself into a frenzy, Spock steps into his path, steadying him by the arms.

“It is not your responsibility, Doctor,” he says, which is entirely the wrong thing to say.

“Not my responsibility? Not my– Dammit Spock, she’s got him wrapped around her little finger and he can’t see further than the size of her chest!”

“He is completing his duties satisfactorily.”

“He’s being an ass to his friends!”

McCoy glares at him, though Spock knows he is not the one his ire is directed at.

“Get in the bed,” McCoy snaps, which is not what Spock expected.

“Doctor?”

“I said get in the bed, Spock. It’s either fuck me or listen to me rant about things I can’t change for the rest of the night.”

“We have not yet had dinner.”

“Do I look like I give a damn?”

Spock concludes that no, he does not.

“As you wish,” he acquiesces, and adds, privately, that it seems he is becoming increasingly receptive to the doctor’s wishes.

☆☆☆

Jim and Carol Marcus break up four weeks and three days later.

“This fucking sucks,” Jim says, head in one hand and drink in the other, elbows on the bar counter in the rec room where he used to have twice-weekly dinners with McCoy, which have turned into twice-weekly dinners for McCoy and Spock.

“Yep,” McCoy agrees, taking a sip of what is most likely replicated bourbon.

He had apologized to Jim that he’d run out of non-replicated alcohol, a fact which Spock knows to be a lie and which he surmises is some form of punishment for Jim’s relationship with Doctor Marcus.

“I thought she was serious about me.”

Spock takes a hesitant sip of the drink McCoy had replicated for him. It turns out to be his usual tea poured into a martini glass. He spares a grateful glance at the doctor, which is received and just as quickly ignored with a cleared throat.

“I guess her career was more important,” McCoy says, not without sympathy. “Not unusual in Starfleet.”

“Yeah.” Jim knocks back his drink, letting out a heavy sigh. “At least you two are as single as me.”

“Right,” McCoy says, fingers twitching around his tumbler, though he won’t look at Spock. “Sure. Absolutely. Of course we are.”

Jim doesn’t seem to notice the exaggeratedness of his agreement.

“Good. Next shore leave, I’m getting us all drinks and the most beautiful girls the planet can offer.”

As if Doctor Marcus is forgotten, or perhaps merely pushed down deep and ignored, Jim proceeds to describe their next destination for shore leave in detail. A detail which Spock barely listens to as he watches McCoy, whose eyes are glued to Jim with stubborn determination.

It’s late when Jim decides he’s taken up enough of their time to mope over his ex-girlfriend. He claps them both on the shoulder as they leave him outside his quarters.

“He’s gonna cry himself to sleep,” McCoy states, whether from previous experience or guesswork Spock does not know.

“I doubt he wishes for us to observe him doing so.”

“No, of course not.” McCoy gnaws on his lower lip, rolling back and forth on the soles of his feet. “Walk me to my quarters.”

Spock proceeds to do a lot more than that.

☆☆☆

“What about that one?” Jim asks. McCoy shakes his head with a grimace. “That one? Come on, that girl over there has to be at least a little interesting to you.”

“I told you, Jim, I’m not in the mood.”

They glare at each other across the booth. Spock sips at his drink, something spicy that he finds acceptable. The stalemate has gone on for the better part of half an hour, ever since Jim chose a bar for them to, in his words, find some hot legs to drown their sorrows between.

McCoy had tried to avoid shore leave altogether. Jim had metaphorically wrestled him into one night off the ship, an argument Spock had borne unfortunate witness to. So far Jim has spent most of his time attempting to convince McCoy of trying his luck, suggesting he get out there and stop being a grumpy old man.

“You’re a workaholic,” Jim accuses him of. “This can’t be healthy.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like fucking some random girl on a random planet on shore leave.”

Jim narrows his eyes, glass pressed to his bottom lip as he scrutinizes McCoy.

“You’re being awfully defensive about it, Bones. Anyone special in your life I should know about?”

McCoy’s leg twitches under the table, knee knocking into Spock’s. He considers informing Jim of their sexual relationship – as the captain, he may reasonably have a need to know. McCoy’s knee knocks into him harder.

“You’re the only special person in my life,” McCoy says, flashing a one-second smile that more resembles a grimace. “Special pain in the ass.”

Jim sighs.

“Well, if you’re gonna be like that.”

He drains his glass and places it back down on the table with exaggerated force, boring his eyes into McCoy’s for a moment before standing from his seat. He disappears into the mass of dancing people, and they both stare after him until he is out of sight.

“Doctor,” Spock starts.

“Don’t. We’re not telling him. If you tell him I’ll never suck your dick again.”

“You hardly perform fellatio on me often enough to warrant the threat.”

McCoy turns to him, both eyebrows raised in challenge.

“Oh? Are you complaining? Is your dick feeling sad and lonely without my mouth on it?”

Frowning, Spock attempts to discern the doctor’s mood. He seems both annoyed and amused.

“My penis does not have feelings.”

Sliding closer on the bench they’re on, McCoy’s hand falls to Spock’s thigh. He stares at him, still with that challenging look, hand travelling closer to Spock’s groin.

“And now?” he asks, dipping it lower, in the tight gap between Spock’s thighs.

It drags over his penis, deliberately.

“I maintain that it does not have feelings,” Spock insists, clearing his throat. “However, if your aim is to make me erect, I will admit you are beginning to succeed.”

The grin McCoy gives him is more genuine than the previous one. His fingers twist to press more firmly against Spock, uncaring of their public setting.

“Would this be an appropriate moment to–“

“Ask if I wanna get out of here?” McCoy gives one final, teasing squeeze, then removes his hand. “C’mon, Spock. One blowjob ordered, I hear you.”

Spock follows McCoy, feels his breath hitch as their hands latch together to avoid being separated in the crowd.

“It was not an order,” he says into McCoy’s ear as they wait to pass a few overly intoxicated people milling about.

The look McCoy gives him over the shoulder is something akin to fond.

“I know,” he mouths back, then leans in for a quick kiss.

It is their first kiss outside closed quarters. Spock notes it down, swallows against the slight dryness in his throat. It is unlikely that Jim is near enough to witness it. The rest of the crew had chosen other places of entertainment, only strangers surrounding them. Spock finds himself overly conscious of their closeness all the same, McCoy’s fingers burning hot against his.

Only when McCoy enters the restrooms and pushes him into a stall does Spock realize they are not heading back to the ship.

“Doctor, this is highly inappropriate,” he says, even as McCoy sinks to his knees and starts working on the front of Spock’s pants.

“Want me to stop?”

He opens his mouth, then pinches his lips shut again. McCoy grins, victorious. His smiles have increased by several percent since the start of their five-year-mission, though the exact numbers fail him as McCoy swallows him down.

Allowing his head to fall back against the stall’s door, Spock breathes through his nose and dares not point out that McCoy sucks him harder than usual. Perhaps it means something, that McCoy goes out of his way to perform the act in a way more pleasurable for Spock than for himself.

He closes his eyes and decides it is a problem best solved tomorrow.

☆☆☆

If Jim’s ended relationship with Carol Marcus leads to one thing, it is that he starts seeking out both Spock and McCoy to spend more time with them. Spock is not averse to resuming their chess games, however, he does feel slightly perturbed over the sudden end to his and McCoy’s weekly dinners.

“You have to rearrange your schedule,” McCoy says by way of greeting when Spock enters the labs.

“Do I? I was not aware of such a…” He trails off, somehow recognizing the warning signs in McCoy’s eyes.

He is a highly expressive Human, Spock has found. Knew, already, but knows more intimately now. It is evident in the minute narrowing of his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders.

“Of course,” he says. “Though perhaps you would care to inform me of your preferred changes.”

McCoy relaxes, becoming instead slightly more nervous, judging by the way he crosses his arms and looks aside.

“I know you and Jim play chess on Mondays, and then Jim and I do our dinners on Wednesday and Fridays. But on Tuesdays you practice music with Uhura and Thursdays we’re both in the labs late. So.”

Spock waits.

“And then the weekends, which aren’t really weekends on tin cans in space, there’s the senior crew gathering up, and it’s not like we get a lot of time to ourselves, anyway.”

“Doctor,” Spock tries, “are you suggesting that you wish to resume having dinner with me?”

“What, do you not want to have dinner with me?”

“I admit I am somewhat perturbed by the captain replacing me for our scheduled evening meals.”

“Perturbed,” McCoy mutters, seemingly to himself. “Perturbed.”

In the shadow of an impending emotional outburst, Spock considers honesty.

“I wish to resume our dinners, yes.”

McCoy eyes him, a little warily. He weighs on his heels, gnaws on his lower lip. Spock folds his hands behind his back and does not think about the previous evening, during which he replicated a light dinner and caught up on reports while McCoy had dinner with Jim. McCoy had still joined him afterwards, late enough that the doctor should be getting ready for sleep.

He had slept in Spock’s quarters.

“Hmm.” McCoy leans against the lab desk, similar to some weeks prior, when Spock had been invited to step in between his legs. “I’ll tell Jim he can find someone else to commiserate with on Wednesdays.”

Raising a questioning eyebrow, Spock nods.

“That is acceptable, though that would rearrange the captain’s schedule, not mine.”

Huffing, McCoy lets his arms fall to his sides, bracing his weight against the desk’s edge instead. In his short-sleeved scrubs it makes the tendons in his arms stand out. Spock finds himself trailing his gaze down and back up over naked skin, remembering how he had traced the veins on the inside of McCoy’s wrist earlier that morning as he slept.

"Jim can deal. He’ll be annoying about it, but he can deal.”

There’s a lift to McCoy’s chin, a come-hither sign that pulls Spock in. He puts his mouth to the skin underneath McCoy’s jaw, brushing his lips over his pulse point until McCoy sighs and relaxes against him.

“Mm,” McCoy hums, softly, one hand rising to tangle in Spock’s hair. “Maybe it’s unproductive to share the lab on Thursdays.”

Spock licks a stripe up his neck, then kisses up the side of his face before resting their temples together. It is intimate, to feel McCoy's mind so near his own. There’s a faint tingle, their psi points almost in contact. It has been three weeks since their last shared, unhurried meal. Between missions and Jim’s newfound need for his friends there has been little time for evenings in simple shared company.

“You are welcome to share my quarters more often, should you so wish.”

He feels more than hears the sound of McCoy swallowing. On average, McCoy spends the night once or twice a week, though on some occasions it is Spock staying in his quarters. He wishes to increase the average. He does not expect his suggestion to be accepted.

Rather than reply, McCoy nudges his head until he moves back, enough for McCoy to kiss him. Spock bites his lower lip only to see that irritated frown between his brows before he bites back in retaliation, Spock suppressing a shudder at the zing of pleasure from his lips.

“Stop tricking me into biting you,” McCoy complains, tugging at his hair.

“I am doing no such thing.”

“We agreed on once per day.”

“I believe that was once per session.”

“Oh, you’re callin’ it sessions now?”

Spock bites his lip again. It is worth the look of absolute rage on McCoy’s face.

☆☆☆

Jim was bound to find out about them at some point.

Spock is surprised it does not happen sooner. They are in McCoy’s quarters, Spock on the couch and McCoy on his lap, hands under shirts and hips grinding, a pleasant flush to McCoy’s face that makes Spock press his palms flat to the small of McCoy’s back in order to pull him closer.

“Hurry up,” McCoy tells him, hands dragging up Spock’s chest to cup his face. “We haven’t fucked in–“

He cuts off on a moan, friction between their groins as McCoy grinds down under Spock’s guidance. His breaths are becoming labored, mouth open as he swears into Spock’s mouth.

“Fuck, it’s been–“ Another moan from deep in his chest, increasing Spock’s need for him. “Four goddamned days, and we didn’t even get to–“

Spock kisses him, shoving his tongue between his lips to taste him. Their latest mission had dragged on, kept them working, barely a moment alone and even then there wasn’t time for anything but full focus on the mission. Spock hadn’t slept at all.

He makes up for it now by holding McCoy in a tight grip, keeping his teeth out of it. He wants McCoy to relax, to ease the stress of the past few days, the lack of sleep. He wants to take him to bed and kiss every inch of his body, wants to take his time so well that McCoy has nothing to complain about.

“C’mon, Spock,” McCoy mumbles into the kiss, grabbing his uniform shirt by the neck to pull it off.

Spock aids him with it, gets it as far off as catching around his elbows when the door to McCoy’s quarters slides open.

“Bones, I need–“

Jim pauses mid-sentence, as well as mid-step. The door closes behind him with a quiet hiss, leaving the three of them frozen. True to his natural command instincts, Jim recovers first.

“So, uh. I’m gonna step out for three seconds and when I come back in I want you dressed so we can finish up the report.”

He turns on his heels, walking back out. Spock slowly lowers McCoy’s shirt over his arms again.

“Why the fuck do we need to work on the report,” McCoy gripes, tugging the shirt down and scowling as he runs a hand through his hair. “What is his problem.”

It takes Spock a moment to recognize the anger that McCoy bristles with. While he himself is not pleased with the captain interrupting them, it is only logical to prioritize work if Jim has need of them. The door opens again, McCoy having barely slid off his lap to stand beside the couch instead. Before Jim has time to so much as open his mouth, McCoy is already striding over to him, waving a hand in his face.

“Say we have to finish the report one more time and I swear I’ll fling myself out the nearest airlock!”

Jim looks taken aback. Spock stands, unsure of the cause for the doctor’s unusually harsh voice.

“Bones, if we don’t finish it tonight–“

“You can’t just ignore us whenever you like for some pretty girl and then waltz in waving your captain privileges around like we’re not your friends too and barely even slept the past four days!”

The resulting silence settles between them, only interrupted by McCoy’s heavy breathing. His shoulders are raised high, and while Spock can’t see his expression, he can see Jim’s hurt one.

“Friends,” Jim repeats, the word sharp. “Is that why you didn’t tell me you and Spock are – whatever it is you’re doing? Because we’re friends?”

“Because you’ve been a shit friend.”

“I haven’t–“

Jim seems to catch himself, swallowing down the next words.

“Fine, I’ve been a shit friend. We still have to finish the report and send it over to the brass before they start hounding my ass over it!”

“I’m this close to–!”

He pauses as Spock’s hand gently lands on his arm, just above his elbow. He recognizes now the culmination of every glare, every disappointed expression, every forced silence in the wake of Jim’s relationship with Carol Marcus. He may not understand why the doctor has chosen this precise moment to let it all out, but he does know that Humans have a tendency to express hurtful things they do not mean in the midst of an argument.

“I will finish the report,” he says, leaving no room for argument. “I am quite familiar with the details and have no imminent need for sleep.”

McCoy grinds his teeth, still scowling at Jim as if readying himself for a physical altercation. Jim, for his part, is defensively tense.

“Fine,” Jim clips, handing Spock the PADD he holds.

He turns without another word and leaves. The door closes behind him softly.

“Fuck,” McCoy mutters.

“You require rest. I suggest you–“

“Don’t you go suggesting–“

“Leonard.”

McCoy stiffens further but falls silent. His pulse is elevated under Spock’s touch, his jaw tight enough to hurt.

“Fine,” he huffs, mimicking the captain. “Have fun with the report.”

He stalks off towards his bed, throwing his shirt off along the way. Spock listens to him muttering to himself beyond the partition wall, fatigue causing his resolve to waver for a moment. He can join McCoy after the report is submitted.

An hour later he sends the report off, closing his eyes for a moment to sort through his thoughts. He is unsure if his presence is still welcome in McCoy’s bed. It is not the first time McCoy has been upset and still expected Spock to join him. The mission had been…

Strenuous.

He sighs, quiet enough that McCoy would not hear, should he still be awake. His breathing is not yet so even that Spock believes he has managed to find rest. Regardless, he finds himself reluctant to leave. In a few quick strides he passes the partition wall, McCoy curled up in bed with his back towards Spock. He shifts, clearly awake.

Spock undresses, taking his time. He slips underneath the covers, places a hesitant hand over McCoy’s hip. It takes a moment, but then McCoy reaches for him, pulls him closer. He settles against his back, buries his nose in McCoy’s hair, breathing in his familiar scent. Their fingers tangle together, a reassuring grip that allows McCoy’s body to gradually relax.

“I’m not mad at you,” McCoy mumbles, thumb brushing back and forth over Spock’s.

Spock kisses his neck in acknowledgement.

☆☆☆

The morning after, Spock signs McCoy off for some mandatory off-duty rest while he’s still asleep. He knows it won’t please him but after the previous night he will not hesitate to argue its necessity.

Jim is a different matter. He catches up with Spock just outside the turbolift, dark circles under his eyes as he steps in beside him, despite Spock’s written recommendation to take the day off.

“So,” Jim says, rolling his shoulders. “This thing between you and Bones… It’s not going to affect your work, is it?”

“Correct, Captain.”

“But you’re dating.”

Spock turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Unclear.”

“Unclear? What do you mean unclear?”

They reach the bridge. Spock exits, heads for his station. Their relationship status has not been a topic of discussion. It is not a necessary discussion, either. McCoy’s habits and Spock’s response to them is not affecting their work performance and is certainly not a cause for concern, despite the captain’s facial expression as he looms beside Spock’s station.

“Just how long has this been unclear?” Jim whispers between clenched teeth.

“Six months and eleven days.”

Jim’s expression turns incredulous.

“Captain, I would prefer not to have this discussion on the bridge.”

Eyes narrowing, Jim hits his arm with a closed fist. It is not hard enough to cause pain, but it does convey the captain’s ire.

“You’re on thin ice, Mr. Spock.”

“There is no ice presently on the Enterprise.”

It does not ease Jim’s anger. He gives Spock another close-fisted punch in the arm, then stalks off to his chair while grumbling underneath his breath. Nearby, Nyota swivels around in her chair and bores her eyes into him. Spock does not acknowledge her.

His communicator chirps with an incoming message. It is from the doctor, who must have just woken up.

>>>Well, NOW I’m mad at you

>>>Fuck you very kindly

Spock’s mouth does a little twitch, too quick for him to suppress. The doctor rarely responds well to orders of rest.

<<<You have always fucked me kindly, Doctor.

The resulting spluttering replies are rather satisfying.

☆☆☆

Spock makes his way down to the Sickbay via the labs after a calm Alpha shift. Everything is progressing as expected despite the mission interrupting most regular duties, and he is only momentarily held up by one of his ensigns requiring additional aid. However, as he enters the Sickbay he is met by Nurse Chapel, her face twisted in a regretful grimace.

“I’m afraid Doctor McCoy is busy with the captain,” she says, biting into her lower lip. “I think they’re finally making up.”

Three days have passed since the altercation in McCoy’s quarters. Spock nods, thanking her for the information. He has not appreciated the resulting tension between the two. He returns instead to his quarters, expecting that the captain may be slightly late to their weekly chess game. He had hoped to share a quick dinner with McCoy first.

Jim is on time, appearing thoughtful as he takes his usual chair by the chess board.

“I didn’t realize I’d been neglecting the two of you,” he starts, as Spock prepares to make the first move. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

Spock watches him for a few seconds, then tilts his head down in acknowledgement.

“Apology accepted.”

“I guess I just got caught up in it.” He leans an elbow on the table, cheek in hand. “I don’t know how you two manage to be in love without anyone even noticing.”

Spock’s hand stills above the board.

“Simple,” he replies. “We are not in love.”

“Hmm.”

Jim looks down at the board, follows the line of Spock’s hand as he moves the first piece. Spock’s heartbeat has increased its speed for no discernible reason.

“I guess I can’t tell you what to do,” Jim finally says, after some minutes spent playing in silence. “As long as you don’t break up. I need both of you onboard.”

He pauses, then continues.

“Though I guess you and Uhura still work together.”

“The doctor and I technically cannot break up as we are not currently in a relationship.”

Jim sighs.

“Okay,” he says. “Alright.”

☆☆☆

The prison cell is damp, smelling of mold and other unpleasant things that tickle at Spock’s nose. His fingers search the walls, testing the strength of solid rock. Behind him, McCoy sits in silence, knees held up against his chest.

“You are unusually quiet, Doctor,” Spock feels compelled to comment after half an hour has passed.

A small, dismissive noise. Spock turns around to look at him. He is uninjured but roughened up, uniform shirt torn at the shoulder and dirt streaks across his cheek and clothes.

“I’m out of complaints and insults, I guess.”

There’s a crooked smile at the end of his words, a somewhat reassuring gesture.

“Certainly unusual.”

The smile widens minutely before dropping.

“Haven’t you combed every inch of this cell five times over already? Either Jim will come for us or we’re stuck here indefinitely.”

Spock frowns.

“It is too early to give up.”

“Not giving up.” McCoy shifts, grimacing. “You might have had a better chance if you’d left me, though.”

The planet was supposed to be uninhabited. Unfortunately, Starfleet technology does not yet account for all infinite possibilities of intelligent life, and so the beings inhabiting Theta Auris V appeared just non-humanoid enough to avoid being picked up by their scanners. The end result was McCoy and Spock being shoved into this cave-like prison cell, with only a few ventilation holes high up in the ceiling bringing in fresh air and light.

“I would not leave you, Doctor.”

It is fact. He would not, could not, allow the doctor to be carried off by what appeared to be shapes of mud and sticks to some unknown fate and location. The rock, of course, blocked their communicators by way of the same magnetic components that Spock had found fascinating upon beaming down. His tricorder lies forgotten on the ground where the beings had surrounded them.

“You could have called for help. Followed us. Literally anything besides letting yourself get captured, too, Spock.”

McCoy sounds tired, a hand dragging wearily over his mouth. His gaze is stuck to the side, avoiding Spock’s. Logically, the doctor makes a sound argument. Spock, perhaps, had not listened to logic in the moment.

He sits down beside McCoy, shoulder to shoulder. It is cold in the cell, dampness creeping underneath his uniform. McCoy sighs, sinking lower to lean his head onto Spock’s shoulder.

“New species made of mud,” he mutters under his breath. “Marvelous. Just marvelous.”

“It would be interesting to study them,” Spock notes. “Presumably their cover of mud contains enough of the magnetic components prevalent in the soil and rock to confuse our scanners.”

“Just how one is supposed to perform surgery on mud-creatures is what I’d like to know.”

“Perhaps you will not need to find out.”

McCoy closes his eyes, releasing a slow breath. He does not object when Spock links their hands together.

“Jim’s gonna be real mad at us when he finds us.”

“That is likely.”

“’S all my fault, anyway. Shouldn’t have wandered off.”

Spock places his cheek on top of McCoy’s head. He smells of dirt, and damp, and the product he insists on putting in his hair.

“The planet was, to our knowledge, uninhabited and void of danger.”

“No planet is ever uninhabited if there’s water and plants on it.” McCoy snorts, but at least some of the tension in his body releases. “They need to rewrite those safety guidelines.”

“Perhaps.”

They sit in silence for some time. There is no noise from outside, no change of light to suggest the passage of time. Eventually, McCoy huffs in annoyance. He lets go of Spock’s hand, unfolds his legs only to move one across Spock’s until he’s straddled on his lap.

“I’m going to die of boredom just sittin’ on my ass in this damp as hell cave,” he announces, hands cupping the back of Spock’s neck. “Why don’t you kiss me for a bit?”

“The odds of dying of boredom rather than–“

McCoy shuts him up with his mouth.

They kiss, Spock’s hands tracing McCoy’s spine, his shoulder blades, hipbones. He holds him steady over the waist, deepens the kiss. McCoy’s breaths turn shallow, his hands tugging at Spock’s hair, thumbs stroking the tips of his ears.

It is, perhaps, their best kiss to date.

He mouths at McCoy’s jaw, tastes his pulse point and listens to his choked noises and quiet little gasps until the urge to fill him becomes almost overwhelming. McCoy grinds against him, palms his chest and mumbles broken encouragements into Spock’s ear as he sucks a mark into his throat.

The loud screech of protesting rock interrupts them, similar to the sound made when the cave opened to let them in.

“Fuck,” McCoy mutters, out of breath.

He stands, wipes his mouth and tugs at his clothes, only succeeding to rip the shirt further over his shoulder. Jim’s relief upon finding them alive transforms into exasperation as he takes note of their disheveled state.

“You know, if you needed a private little get away you could have just asked,” he says, mouth pulling up at the corners.

“You took too long,” McCoy grumbles, striding past him.

Spock rises, pats down his uniform in dignified silence.

“Or not long enough!” Jim calls after McCoy, turning back to Spock with raised eyebrows. “You got something to say, Spock?”

“Negative, Captain.”

He follows McCoy, hears Jim’s barely suppressed laughter behind him.

Back on the ship, McCoy wastes no time cornering Spock in his quarters.

“You could have used your superior Vulcan hearing to tell me Jim was about to arrive! That’s twice he’s walked in on us now!”

Spock folds his hands behind his back, tilting his head to the side.

“Thank you, Doctor. However, even my superior hearing was unable to pick up sound outside the cell.”

McCoy scowls at him, then shucks off his torn shirt.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” he says, pushing Spock towards the couch.

They resume where they left off.

☆☆☆

Spock does not consider Jim’s suggestion that he and McCoy are in love. He does not avoid it, precisely, but he gives it no thought – not until the evidence both metaphorically and literally hits him in the face.

He closes his eyes as sweet, syrupy pink dribbles down his cheeks to slip underneath the collar of his dress shirt. Beside him, McCoy explodes in howling laughter as the Peralian ambassador stomps away. Spock wipes at his eyes, seeing Jim hurry after the ambassador for damage control through the liquid clinging to his lashes.

“Oh, Jesus,” McCoy wheezes.

Opposite him, Nyota grins openly.

“That was hardly necessary,” Spock says.

“Well-deserved,” Nyota disagrees, humor in her voice. “I’m sure if you re-read the brief you’ll understand why.”

McCoy grabs his arm, still shaking with laughter.

“Come on, darlin’, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Nyota gives him a look, then shakes her head as she leaves them for different company. He follows McCoy through the ship towards his quarters. Every time McCoy’s laughter dies down he only has to glance at Spock’s face to start back up again. It is quite undignified.

In the relative safety of his quarters, McCoy unzips his shirt for him. He still succumbs to amusement here and there, eyes glittering with mirth. It only underlines the point Spock had made to the ambassador.

“I do not understand her offense,” he says as McCoy pulls the undershirt over his arms as well.

“’Course you don’t.” McCoy pulls him towards the bathroom. “I’ll admit she was beginning to annoy me, but you didn’t need to go and insult her like that.”

“It was not an insult,” Spock insists. He had informed the ambassador of the same before she poured her drink over him. “It was honesty.”

McCoy pats his arm, condescendingly.

“That famous Vulcan honesty, love it or hate it. I think the ambassador decided to hate it.”

He watches as McCoy wets a towel under the sink, then uses it to clean Spock’s face even though Spock has both arms fully functional and would have easily succeeded at the task without aid. There’s a fond, soft expression on McCoy’s face that keeps Spock from suggesting it.

“She asked me a question. I replied.”

“Uhura was right about the brief. You should have read it.”

“I did read it.”

“Alright, but I’m not sure you understood it.”

McCoy finishes wiping down his neck and chest, biting his lip against more laughter. Perhaps at the sight of Spock’s affronted look.

“It was nice of you, though.” When Spock tilts his head in question he elaborates. “Saying that about my eyes, I mean. Even if you just said it to annoy her.”

He leans back against the sink, holding the towel in his hands as he eyes Spock, a little unsure now. Spock frowns. The ambassador had asked if he found her eyes the most compelling and beautiful in the room. Perhaps the brief had suggested lying.

“It was an accurate statement,” Spock tells him. “Whether it annoyed the ambassador or not is inconsequential.”

McCoy goes quiet, hands squeezing the towel tighter. Spock’s gaze flicks down to the tendons showing in his hands, the dark hairs disappearing into the arms of his dress uniform. More compelling than McCoy’s eyes are his hands. His mouth. His touch.

He blinks, raises his eyes up to meet McCoy’s startled look.

“Oh,” McCoy says in some form of realization. He drops the towel on the floor. Hooks his fingers over the hem of Spock’s uniform pants. “I think this is the part where you kiss me.”

Spock does.

He does it slow. Wanting. They have time, he thinks, before Jim expects them to return. The Enterprise is playing host to several ambassadors and their entourages, something which has proven to test the crew’s patience for several days. The Peralian ambassador, in particular, has been cornering Spock every chance she got, causing McCoy to voice a complaint to Jim earlier this evening that he must have thought Spock could not overhear.

Perhaps his reply to the ambassador had been deliberate, after all.

His hands find McCoy’s hips, his tongue finds McCoy’s teeth, and for a long minute all is lost to him except McCoy’s touch, taste, smell… His presence within Spock’s arms is most welcome. He does not wish to be without it. He has no interest in the ambassador, despite McCoy’s worried eyes following her just as she followed Spock.

“Doctor,” he says, brushing his lips along the line of McCoy’s jaw. “I assure you I am not interested in Ambassador Li’Wrina.”

McCoy huffs, leans his head back to give Spock room to lick at his throat over the collar of his dress uniform.

“I figured,” he mutters. “I just didn’t think…”

He trails off, a pause significant enough for Spock to cease his ministrations and look up. There’s a hint of red on McCoy’s cheeks now, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“We never talked about it,” he forces out, clearing his throat awkwardly. The way he avoids Spock’s gaze is telling. “You told me that first time you weren’t expecting a romantic relationship. I s’pose I figured you’d tell me if you changed your mind.”

Spock considers it. He is unsure of when that expectation ceased to be true.

“I assumed similarly.”

McCoy nods, huffs out a breath.

“Guess we were wrong, huh?”

“You are often wrong, Doctor.”

McCoy slaps him in the chest.

“Am not. And call me Leonard, dammit. I know you know it’s my name.”

“I shall consider it.”

When McCoy opens his mouth to argue, Spock kisses him again. Once the doctor is sufficiently breathless, he raises a hand between them, folds his fingers until only his pointer and middle finger are stretched out.

“What’s this?”

“It is how Vulcans kiss.”

McCoy gives him an incredulous look, darting between his face and hand.

“You kiss with your hands?”

“It should not surprise you.”

Hesitant, McCoy mimics the gesture. Their fingertips meet, a pleasant sensation shared between them at the touch.

“There’s a lot of Vulcan stuff I don’t know,” McCoy says, licking his lips. “I’ll probably stick my foot in my mouth more than once.”

Spock caresses down the length of McCoy’s fingers, over the gentle curve of his palm. Perhaps in this he, too, prefers the slow pace McCoy always favors.

“That is to be expected.”

“Oh, aren’t you just the worst,” McCoy grumbles, mouth softening into a smile. “Dunno what I see in you.”

His free hand comes up to comb through Spock’s hair, thumb brushing along the length of his ear until Spock feels desire twist in his gut.

“I believe I am expected to apologize to the ambassador before the evening ends.”

McCoy’s smile turns into something a little more wicked, as compelling as ever.

“I don’t think we need to hurry,” he says, lifting their joined hands towards his mouth.

Spock finds it in his best interests to agree with him.

☆☆☆

The bridge is quiet when McCoy arrives.

The doctor is typically not needed on the bridge, but he likes to do his ‘rounds’, as he calls it, checking up on the bridge crew. Spock lifts his head and meets his eyes in a quick gesture of acknowledgement, then returns to his readings. The space anomaly they are currently researching is constantly changing. Slippery, Jim had called it.

“So, how bad is it?”

McCoy sits on the panel beside Spock, barely avoiding pressing several important buttons with his behind. He is a distraction, one which Spock finds not unwelcome but arriving at an inappropriate time.

“Bad is not an apt description, Doctor.”

“Then what is?”

“I am currently preoccupied.”

McCoy leans closer, certainly aware of Spock’s irritation and doing nothing to ease it. Rather, he seems amused by Spock’s clipped tone.

“I like to know if I’m about to suffer a gruesome death by way of space anomalies that look like floating ducks, Mr. Spock.”

He suppresses a sigh.

“Our chances of survival are 98.7%, Doctor, if that reassures you enough to return to your Sickbay.”

Humming, McCoy stares over at the viewscreen.

“They’re kinda pretty, aren’t they? Little ducks in a row. What makes them look like that?”

“I do not yet know.”

“Oh, you’ll figure it out.” McCoy discreetly lifts a hand to run a finger briefly down the back of his hand, where it holds a PADD near McCoy’s thigh. “Got that Vulcan computer brain after all.”

Spock turns from the readings to give McCoy a deadpan look, eyebrow raised, which does not deter him in the slightest. Instead he grins, whistles a short tune. Spock considers lifting him off the panel he sits on and requesting Jim to order his removal.

“This is not the time for compliments,” he says.

He hears a whisper from where Chekov sits beside Sulu.

“Did he say compliment?” their young Russian navigator asks.

Spock ignores them.

“Leonard,” he warns, warmth filling McCoy’s eyes at the sound of his name.

“Who, me?” The sudden faux innocence on McCoy’s face makes Spock’s eyebrow twitch. “Don’t mind me, I won’t be a bother. I’m just here for moral support.”

Jim sighs heavily in the captain’s chair. He does not turn around.

“While your good mood is of course a welcome change from your usual fussing and whining over the dangers of space, Doctor, I must ask that you–“

“Whining?” McCoy protests, narrowing his eyes dangerously. “It’s not whining if it’s true!”

“Doctor, regardless of how you call it, it is rather repetitive and unproductive, both of which are hindering in my current work. I must insist that you leave the bridge before your commentary returns to such unfounded complaints.”

“Why, you–!”

Jim groans out loud, then swivels around before McCoy can finish.

“Gentlemen, please. This isn’t the time.”

Spock returns to his readings, though not before catching the familiar way McCoy pushes down a smile.

“Well, I won’t stay and get insulted,” McCoy huffs, hopping down from his makeshift seat. “And you’d best not be late tonight, Spock, space ducks or not!”

With such a threat McCoy makes his way off the bridge, even the turbolift doors closing behind him managing to convey his exaggerated offense.

“Did you really have to escalate things like that?” Jim asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“On the contrary, Captain, I believe I did. The doctor was looking for an argument and would likely not have left before achieving his objective. Therefore escalating things, as you say, was the logical alternative.”

Jim stares at him for a long moment, then rolls his eyes hard.

“I am never going to understand you two.”

“What happens tonight?” Sulu asks, and though his tone is hushed and likely meant for Chekov, Spock still turns to him with the answer.

“Tonight is our anniversary, Mr. Sulu.”

He turns back. The bridge falls silent again, though unlike the previous quiet of intense work, this silence is of the startled variety. Spock tells himself he had merely made the logical decision to respond to a curious question. Whether the crew found their relationship surprising or not was hardly relevant.

Jim glances back at him, the look in his eyes pained and long-suffering. A moment later the bridge erupts in questions and voiced surprise. Spock is content to ignore the commotion. He does, after all, have a deadline to meet.

His communicator chirps.

>>>Asshole

Then, a few seconds later:

>>>You’re lucky I like you

>>>Good luck with the ducks

Spock allows himself a private little smile.