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When all is said and done, McCoy forgets about his brush with death until Chapel tries to heal the bruises on his throat.
"I'll fix 'em," McCoy grunts, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. Starbase Twelve and the Starfleet inquiry will soon be upon them, for better or for worse, and he doesn't need his staff to see him smarting over this Khan carbuncle any more than they already have.
And besides, he wouldn't be up to snuff if he couldn't handle some simple first aid. Having to conduct it on himself is utterly besides the point. He has been eating and drinking just fine since Khan threatened to skewer him with a scalpel, of all things, so he already knows the damage is largely superficial. Even Chapel is overqualified to tell him that.
He tells his staff to get on and leave him. Starbase Twelve will be some much needed downtime and they might as well make a head start on it. Sickbay doesn't have a single patient. Some folk would call that a miracle. McCoy considers it an omen. He can pack up shop just fine on his own.
Something is amiss. He hasn't served on this ship for twelve long months not to sense a shift in the crew. His staff bid him goodnight with varying degrees of reluctance – he would appreciate the dedication to their work on a day he actually needed it – and anybody else that drops into Sickbay while he's stripping sheets and programming the biobeds to clean themselves is quick to falter and quicker to leave.
McCoy hadn't realised he was so damn frightening. It's as though they think he has gobbled up his staff.
Still, Sickbay isn't some circus show to goggle at. The next crewman who steps in to waste his time is having their annual physical moved to the top of the list, intentions be damned. McCoy is about ready to bite somebody's head off when the doors whoosh open one final time and permit Spock, of all people, who is far too unflappable to baulk when McCoy slams his hands down onto a bed and cries:
"What in god's green earth is it now?"
Spock comes to a stop in his own time, as usual, ignoring the jibe, then examines McCoy and the empty sickbay, and then McCoy again, and says, "Your shift ended precisely one point two five hours ago, Doctor."
"Yeah, well, I'm busy, aren't I?"
"Quite," Spock says, utterly stone-faced. He looks around again as though expecting McCoy's staff to jump out of hiding, and then says, "May I be of assistance?"
"I think I can fold some sheets," McCoy replies, going back to doing just that. He doesn't need Spock watching him go stir-crazy either, or whatever it is that is making him want to simultaneously hit something and cry. Lack of sleep, maybe. Twelve months of putting up with Jim's fiascos, perhaps. Worrying about Khan.
"Then you shall permit me to employ the use of a dermal regenerator whilst you continue," Spock says, in a tone that brooks no argument. His usual one, then, because god forbid a Vulcan express even a hint of concern.
"On what?" McCoy asks, before once again remembering the bruises. He touches his throat and feels the tender inflammation for the first time – it must be a mottling of green and purple by now, a light show of it, dangerous colours, and when he swallows against his fingertips, the pain is a throbbing, living thing.
Maybe he should have taken Chapel up on her offer. He feels ridiculous all of a sudden, standing there, holding his throat. He is a doctor for chrissake. And a good one at that. He returns to the task at hand: winding Sickbay down in preparation for – preparation for –
Jesus, he's been running around with these bruises all day. No wonder the crew's been looking at him funny. They must think someone tried to kill him. McCoy isn't sure Khan was all that, but.
There's always a but to these things, isn't there? Join Starfleet. Deploy on a five-year mission. Lighten up, Bones. Khan was just a nutcase with a scalpel, but.
"Doctor," Spock says gently, regenerator in hand. He manipulates the bedsheet from McCoy's grasp and then sets it aside. "You are distressed."
"I'm not –" He jumps as Spock's nosy fingers curl over the collar of his shirt. His heart jackrabbits. Spock must be able to feel it even without that Vulcan voodoo. "Get your hands off me. It's just a few bruises, nothing to get so worked up about."
"It is not I who is 'worked up', Doctor."
"You can lie better than that, Spock," McCoy snaps, waving him off. "I can heal myself just fine."
"And yet, you have chosen not to," Spock says, lowering the regenerator but continuing with the ridiculous questions. "For what purpose? While I am aware that Humans are among many species that assign honour to particular instances of physical trauma based upon universal, but arbitrary, factors, until this moment, you have never shown an inclination towards –"
"Give me that."
McCoy snatches the regenerator and flips it on himself. His neck tingles as the bruises start to fade. See, nothing emblematic going on here. It's only speeding up a process that would have taken a handful of days to achieve on its own, clout or no clout. His body isn't so old and weary that it can't even handle that.
"You just gonna watch me?"
"Until you have adequately attended to yourself, yes."
"Adequately," McCoy mutters, half wishing Khan had indeed crushed his throat, if only so he didn't have to listen to Spock insulting him all afternoon.
He knows that's their gig, as Jim would put it. The bickering. The back chat. The never-ending snark remarks. Spock is a droll son-of-a-gun underneath that perfect Vulcan logic and riling him up is McCoy's god given right. Hell, it might very well be the reason the powers that be plucked him from his simple life and dropped him onto the Enterprise in the first place. Who else knows how to pull Spock's pigtails on the Bridge and in his bed?
No one – that's why McCoy's the one doing it. Spock gives as good as he gets, of course. It wouldn't be half as fun if he didn't enjoy throwing that superhuman Vulcan strength and stamina around. No refractory period. Not many people in McCoy's life that make that claim. Hell, he can count them on one hand.
Khan had a similar sort of strength, didn't he? Superior. He could have dug his fingers right through the muscles of McCoy's neck and torn open his jugular, all without that scalpel. He could have squashed McCoy's trachea in his hand.
Those would have been some bruises. McCoy feels lightheaded just thinking about it. He's lucky he had the breath to tell Khan to put his back into it. Ha. McCoy is a lot of the damnedest things in life, but he sure as hell ain't lucky.
He wouldn't need to tell Spock to put his back into it, now, would he? That Vulcan magic of his is never far removed from McCoy's mind. It makes the sex more interesting, it's true. McCoy's cock stiffens in his pants.
"Doctor, you appear faint."
He jerks away before Spock can take the regenerator back – or worse, put that touch telepathy to use. Spock can be a right bastard about it when he is trying to get something he wants. And right now, the things they want probably ain't gonna be marrying up.
"It's been a long day," McCoy hedges.
He really should've taken Chapel up on her offer. If he had, he would be back in his quarters by now, brandy in hand and the lights down low, music or an old audiobook humming from the computer. Spock might could've come found him anywho, but in Sickbay, McCoy can't turn him away. Some nights are better spent in his own company, half-naked and brandy-drunk, with the non-judgemental strokes of his hand.
Spock's damn good at sex, it's true. And he's the darnedest pissy bastard about it, too. Vulcans.
Spock inclines his head. It can be difficult, sometimes, figuring out whether he's agreeing or regarding McCoy like a small and stupid animal. Hell, sometimes it's even both at the same time!
"I would prefer not to relieve you from duty, Doctor."
McCoy scoffs. "And here I thought you Vulcans didn't lie. Give the damn regenerator a chance, would ya? It'll only take a minute."
Spock nods. Then, he resumes McCoy's task of folding the dirty bedsheets and stacking them for Housekeeping to collect, all without a word. He strips two biobeds and initiates their cleaning programs before McCoy can't take the indignation of it all anymore, and interjects with a flap of his hands:
"For Christ's sake, fine! I'm done! I'm off-duty! God forbid a doctor stick around an' ensure his Medbay is squeaky-clean! Get over here. And don't give me that look."
A final bedsheet folds once, twice, three times and is added to the pile. Even at a glance, it is obvious which ones McCoy has thrown down and which ones Spock has laid in perfect, off-white squares. Housekeeping might even put them straight back onto those beds if they're not careful. McCoy grits his teeth hard enough to add a new ring of bruises to his jaw.
Goddamn Vulcans. Sickbay is McCoy's space – his territory! The crew knows it. Jim knows it. Heck, even Khan knew it. Spock has no right sauntering in like he owns the place and bossing McCoy around. It's insulting, that's what it is. Humiliating. And Sweet Mary and Joseph, if it ain't hot.
Forget the brandy and his own hand – that won't cut it tonight. McCoy knocks his chin up in challenge as Spock strides on back over, baring the unscathed skin of his neck. Khan was all big words and big intentions, but he fled with his tail between his legs all the same. God knows if they'll ever see hide nor hair of him again. Maybe when they do, he'll be quicker with that scalpel and rid McCoy of these thoughts.
Spock's gaze is clinical. "Adequate."
"Anything else?" McCoy goads, wondering when Jesus will finally answers his prayers.
"Your collar is askew."
Vulcans. McCoy does love this one at least ninety percent of the time. "That's 'cause you were poking around on it. You'd think having one bastard manhandle me today would be more than enough. But no." He fixes his stupid shirt. "How about that, then? Satisfied?"
"There is –" And by god, he must not be satisfied after all, for he smooths the edge of McCoy's collar down with his thumb. "He drew blood."
Fantastic. Let's just strip off this shirt and leave it for Housekeeping, too, while they're at it. What's one blue shirt in with all of those whites? Take the black undershirt as well, why not? Half the ship already thinks he's been somebody's punching bag today. Might as well let the other half know he'd damn well rather there was sex involved.
"He pulled a scalpel on me, Spock, what did you expect?"
"Is the Captain aware of this?"
"Darlin', what Jim does or doesn't know ain't my concern right now. I'm off-duty, remember? He'll get that report from me in the mornin'."
Spock's mouth flattens into a thin line. Good. He can stew on that one overnight while McCoy has an ice-cold shower and a red-hot dream. It ain't like he'll be getting any from Mister Spock over here any time soon, now is it? At least, not the kind McCoy's cock is trying to get all interested about.
Inviting Spock 'round to his quarters is difficult enough. It pays to be overt in the face of Vulcan sensibilities – Spock sure can pussyfoot around a proposition if there's room for interpretation – but there's only so many words McCoy is willing to use. He has cycled through every euphemism for sex he can think of twice already and he still isn't about to lean on over Spock's station and ask for anything rougher than a dick up his ass.
Maybe that's his problem: Human sensibilities. Besides, it ain't like he's moping for it once they do get down and dirty. It's just in the between times that he imagines what it might be like if Spock let loose a little. In every one of his fantasies they've already skipped the awkward asking and negotiating phase and gotten right down to it.
What's the point of Vulcan voodoo, honestly, if Spock can't just pick up on those sorts of things? He's got no qualms against putting his own fantasises into McCoy's mind while they're fucking like rabbits: desert sands and skimpy clothing, jewels and restraints and delicate golden chains, that kind of thing.
And they're – they're nice fantasies. Appealing, even. McCoy can be into it if a shore leave ever takes them to a beach resort instead of another rusting starbase floating around fuck-all.
Hell, now he's thinking about that inquiry. Jim's gonna want him sharp and caffeinated as soon as they reach Starbase Twelve, and a busy night with Spock and Spock's Vulcan tea certainly won't help. No, best to let sleeping dogs lie. McCoy's own hand it is.
He can't resist a last once-over of Sickbay before dismissing himself for the evening. It is his realm after all, his baby, and he'll be damned if it isn't in tip-top shape. Spock watching him the entire time is a smudge on that otherwise perfect image, and McCoy resigns himself to another one of those overt conversations in order to finally make him scram.
"Surely you ain't ignoring your duties just to watch me toddle off to bed now are you, Mister Spock?"
"My other duties are fulfilled for the evening."
Of course they are. McCoy rolls his eyes.
"Well, allrighty, if that's the case –"
"Should you –"
They speak at once. Spock stops himself, mouth turning down. He indicates for McCoy to continue.
McCoy recognises the expression, one of few Spock permits himself: considering his words. It normally only appears in the privacy of his own quarters after McCoy has said or done something particularly vexing – particularly Human – and he wants to enquire about it without offending. It's almost funny, really. He has no such regard for any offence he might cause on the Bridge, but a spade is a spade.
Poor bastard. He doesn't look at all like himself standing there in McCoy's Sickbay. Despite himself, McCoy feels a rush of gratitude that Spock even bothered to come down here and check on him. Then he tries to stomp that emotion down.
"Look, Spock, whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait. I've got a glass of brandy calling my name."
And a bottle of lube. He can feel his dick pressing against the inside of his boxers as he maneuvers around the biobeds and he hopes it isn't too obvious. Spock has seen him in all states of undress, of course, but there is a time and a place for canoodling and Sickbay is not it.
Spock catches his elbow as McCoy tries to steer towards the door. "Doctor," he says, barely a start, and then, "Leonard. Would you be opposed to my company tonight?"
McCoy could groan. "I think I'm better off entertaining myself this time, Spock." He attempts to peel him off. "But –"
"You are attempting to conceal other injuries."
Vulcans and their leaps of logic. My god.
"I'm not concealing anything, you lug. Don't you use those mind tricks on me."
"Mind tricks are unnecessary, Doctor."
"Oh, so it's back to Doctor now, is it?"
Spock's face twitches with frustration. Good. It's hardly fair that McCoy's the only one not getting what he wants tonight. That's how they work, the two of them, their give and take. They take and take and take until there ain't no choice but to give. Then they have their fun and start the whole kerfuffle all over again.
McCoy meant what he said earlier: it's been a long day. God forbid he isn't up for this whole song and dance for once in his damn life. Spock's just gonna have to up and deal with it in any darned way he likes.
"The form of address I choose to employ has little bearing on the state of your wellbeing," Spock says, finally releasing McCoy's elbow from his damn Vulcan grip and grabbing a tricorder instead. "You will permit me to conduct a brief medical examination to ensure –"
"Oh for the love of god, Spock, just read my mind!" He snatches the tricorder and throws it at the pile of bedding. Housekeeping can catch the flack for laundering that. "Just get it over with! Do your crazy touchy-feely thing and figure it out!"
Spock is not often unsettled. In fact, unsettled probably doesn't exist in the dictionary of First Officer Mister Amazing Spock, but that is how he regards McCoy in the moment, viewing him, seemingly, for the first time that evening beyond the aftermath of Khan and the concealment of bruises.
His eyes move only once, down the entirety of McCoy's body and then up again; and if he has any concerns over McCoy throwing Starfleet property about then all he has to say about it in his effable wisdom is:
"You are aroused."
"Give the man a medal," McCoy drawls. He grabs Spock's hand and slaps it against his own arm. "What else you picking up in there?"
"It would hardly be appropriate –"
Khan. The scalpel. Hands at his throat. McCoy thinks these things. Remembers them. He pushes them at Spock. A dangerous look. That dangerous shirt. Spock's Vulcan grip. An indistinct bed.
"Like it's just the damn bruises."
Fantasy and memory blurring together. How this Vulcan voodoo works, he doesn't know. The rustle of sheets. The pound of sex. His own voice, gasping. Make up your mind!
Spock's fingers dig into McCoy's skin. His superior Vulcan controls slips just enough for it to hurt. McCoy's whole body jumps in anticipation, his chin jutting in challenge, rocking onto his toes. He swallows with an abruptly dry throat and feels a phantom pain all around his neck in the shape of Khan's hands.
Spock's voice does not waver. "I will not render you unconscious. You will allow a surface level connection between our minds."
Saliva wets McCoy's mouth. "You ain't foolin'?"
An image of himself plants in McCoy's mind: half-naked on a biobed, two hands tight around his throat. His stomach is smeared with semen. His face is red, eyes on the edge of closing. A cock slams into his ass.
McCoy yanks Spock in for a kiss. The image tilts as their thoughts crash together; and it's Spock mounted on the biobed holding him down, grunting with effort, his lok swollen to take what it needs.
"The crew, dammit," McCoy gasps, between bites to his throat. His fingers tangled in Spock's hair, keeping him close. He blinks at the white lights on Sickbay's ceiling, knowing full well they could be the lights of his quarters if he wanted that.
"I will hear them," says Spock.
His hands work open McCoy's pants and push them down. He passes the bulge in McCoy's boxers without comment, instead tipping them against the biobed. McCoy has to catch himself on his elbows, almost on his toes. Spock's hands drift under his shirt to trace the curve of his spine – the strain. Then, with only a hint of that Vulcan strength, he pins McCoy flat against the bed with the palm of his hand.
McCoy's heart skips. He tries to right his feet but fails. It is hardly the best angle for a rough round of procreation unless his back has all the say, but when the dark look in Spock's eyes promises of more to come, for once in his life, McCoy bites his tongue.
A feeling that isn't his own dusts across his mind: amusement, he thinks, with the pitter-patter of an animal playing in the sun.
"Satisfactory," Spock says. His vice-like hand rubs the hard plate of McCoy's sternum, no doubt feeling the pounding heartbeat underneath. His other hand grabs under McCoy's knee and lifts him – hauls him – onto the bed.
That's more like it. McCoy shimmies out of his boxers to pick up the pace. He kicks them somewhere out of sight along with his pants and boots. A grumbling look is all it takes for Spock to helpfully whisk off his socks.
Watching them fly across Sickbay makes McCoy's stomach flips with anxious arousal. Someone's gonna find those and knows what went down. By god, he's never been so indecent at a workplace. Anyone could walk in.
He closes his eyes and listens to Spock's zipper come down. Here he is, half-naked on one of his own goddamn biobeds. And he already cleaned it. Ha! It's had worse things than McCoy's bare ass on it, that's for certain, and it barely even creaks as Spock braces himself upon it with one knee.
Lord. This is happening. McCoy's actually going to spread his legs where damn near anyone could see. He clings to the edge of the bed, more aware of Spock's hand on his chest than of anything before. He already feels lightheaded. He blinks his eyes open to make sure he hasn't passed out, and he's just in time to see Spock finish sucking on two of his own fingers.
Sweet Jesus. If McCoy's cock wasn't already standing at attention…
He catches Spock's eyes. "Darlin', I can do that."
Spock's lok is hanging over the teeth of his zipper. It looks huge. But he hardly seems to notice his own arousal as he manipulates McCoy's legs into the air.
"You will do nothing," Spock says, regarding the sheen of pre-cum wetting McCoy's abdomen with efficient disinterest. Yet, he betrays himself by lifting McCoy's shirt away from the smear, sliding it up and over his nipples, which he tweaks.
McCoy hisses, hips rolling into the air. The first of Spock's hands close around his throat before he can find the breath to argue, and immediately, he goes still. Sickbay blurs all around them, leaving McCoy wide-eyed and seeing only Spock.
The fantasy returns to his mind: bruises. He grips the bed tighter and sends a thought right back: bruises all over his thighs and bites on his chest, and himself, crying; a need he hesitates to push along to Spock.
He senses Spock's deliberation in that not-gap between their minds. No words are said. There's that perk of Vulcan voodoo at work. It's about damn time.
Two long fingers slip into McCoy's ass. It stings without lube, and makes him close his legs. Spock presses his thumb right into McCoy's larynx until he gasps and jerks them back open; and his fingers go in easier as McCoy stares at the black spots in front of his eyes.
"Be still," says Spock.
As though McCoy has a choice. A few pumps of those fingers are all he gets before Spock pulls out and grips his thigh hard enough to mark. McCoy tries to dig his heel into whatever part of Spock he can reach and earns a hard pinch to the inside of his thigh.
The pain is a surprise more than anything, swift and sharp and sore. Spock does it twice more in quick succession, twisting the flesh and dark hairs on McCoy's leg between his thumb and forefinger, and then he releases McCoy's throat to blemish both legs at the same time.
"Hell –!" McCoy gasps, a ringing in his ears. "Ah–"
"Be still."
Two fingers pinch daringly close to McCoy's balls, ceasing his thrashing all at once. He almost tears off a panel from the bed as Spock lingers for a tortuous moment before continuing with the abuse of his legs – not his balls, thank the lord, which have tightened in terrified arousal of that excruciating pain. He doesn't even need Spock's hands at his throat to hold his breath!
Jesus. Jesus. Toyed with in his own goddamn Sickbay He tries to stay still but the pain leaves him shaking. Spock's hands work up his hips and waist, pinching and twisting until there are marks all over his body as pink as his nipples. McCoy loses count. Mindless, he reaches down to fist himself – it'll barely take a stroke – but Spock grabs his wrist before he can take his cock into his hand.
"That will not be necessary."
"Damn straight it will. Let –"
Spock's hand seizes his face, long fingers digging into McCoy's cheeks. McCoy yelps as his head is thrown back, ceiling lights streaking white before his eyes. He grabs Spock's arm as the edge of the bed tips beneath him. The shock of vertigo makes his stomach flip. The room spinning gives him a good excuse not to glance down at his raging erection, which he can feel wobbling in the air.
He half expects Spock to repeat his order for a third time – be still – but it doesn't come. Instead, the wet head of his lok probes between McCoy's ass, pushing in. McCoy winces and inhales, struggling for clean, Sickbay air. Spock's hand muffles his protesting moan.
"Mhm –!"
His chest tightens as Spock's fingers spear deeper into his face. His jaw hurts. His teeth hurt. Tears wet his eyelashes as he watches Spock's utter concentration; it's exhilarating, that focus. And to think, all McCoy had to do was almost get himself skewered by a superhuman in order to put it to good use.
Now, if only Spock would hurry up. McCoy rocks his hips to try and encourage a little action with a helluva lot more oomph, but this only serves to make his body sting.
Not that he's complaining. His toes curl in pleasure-pain, his balls drawn tight. Every shallow breath pulls on the spread of bruises across his body. He feels sore, and vulnerable, and there is nothing he can do but wait in forceful silence for Spock's hips to start swinging, and then there's no coming back. The anticipation is almost worse than the thought of someone walking in. McCoy won't care once they're fucking nasty with it. Jim could saunter in. Hell, Khan.
Desert heat rolls across his mind again, red and broiling. McCoy's eyes roll back as Spock cants his hips and starts to thrust. Sickbay's white lights become an alien sun: Risa, maybe, or Vulcan, someplace where jealousy runs hot.
He tugs Spock's hand away from his mouth and guides it lower, to his throat. Forget the Vulcan voodoo. Forget making a fool of himself tryna put this needy hoo-ha into words. McCoy locks his ankles around Spock's waist and decides the next time the Enterprise circles back to Ceti Alpha V, he'll do a damned good job in thanking Khan.
Spock's lok slips out on the next thrust, smearing the sweat-slick hair on McCoy's groin. He ignores it, the bastard, instead mesmerised by the soft give of McCoy's throat as he swipes his thumb across it – one, then two, then closing both hands around his pounding jugular veins. McCoy strokes one of those blasted pointy ears and watches him shiver, Spock's eyes half-closing, his voodoo head tilting gently into McCoy's hand.
McCoy ain't here for gentle. His body sings as Spock shoves his lok back inside. Open-mouthed, he groans at the punishing pace – the sl-slap-slap of their sex and his own pleasured moans echoing around Sickbay. Skin smacks skin as Spock drives him into the bed. He twists his hands into Spock's shirt, holding on. The open flap of Spock's pants catches on his skin. The soft kiss of underwear at the end of every thrust makes McCoy's head spin.
"Ah, ha – God –"
Spock finally gives in, squeezing McCoy's throat. He manages one, last panting breath before panic blurs his vision all at once. Instinctively, he bucks and tries to throw Spock off. His crossed ankles nudge Spock deeper inside, lok sliding into his prostrate, cock spurting across his stomach. Sickbay vanishes from the corner of McCoy's eyes. He comes in a long stripe, kicking the bed and staining their clothes. Spock's open pants splatter white. McCoy's shirt feels like a vice across his chest as his lungs burn and burn and –
Sweat-wicked air floods back in; Spock's hands slide away. The ringing in McCoy's ears persists, as does the slap of their bodies in the throes of sex. He tastes dry heat in his mouth: Vulcan sand. He can't speak. He doesn't want to. He turns his face into Spock's palm and thinks beautiful things across their minds.
Spock leans down to kiss him. McCoy can barely move his lips, let alone his tongue; his neck prickles with pain and blood rush, and tears coat his lashes. When Spock's hands find his throat again, all he can do is flutter his eyes.
The second time is closer – daring. Spock grinds his hips in a needy circle as McCoy's heart jackrabbits under his hands. He comes just like that, the first time, shooting hot into the swell of McCoy's ass. He grunts just once, restrained, a man of few words even in the midst of orgasm, and then rapture spills between that surface-link of their minds. He thrusts out of McCoy and back in again with frenzy, erect and dripping, and slamming a new spread of bruises onto McCoy's thighs.
McCoy can't come again. He can't. But god, does his cock give it a valiant go, bobbing up to wobble with the mad pace of Spock's thrusts. Tears slip down his cheeks as Spock chokes him for the third time – and though he hadn't wanted gentle, it almost is, coaxing him up and out of his body and then holding him there on the edge, his toes curled and his balls swinging and his heart thundering in his ears.
"Sp – Ah, ah –"
He feels Spock orgasm. Semen dribbles between his legs. McCoy's ankles unlock from around Spock's waist and collapse against the biobed, thump-thump. The rush of feeling back into his legs is worse than the beating his ass took, and McCoy groans, too overwhelmed to do anything but lie there and breathe.
A moment passes in unblushing bliss. McCoy forgets Sickbay, the Enterprise, Khan, and the crew. He forgets even Spock, for a second or two, content to float in the fuzziness of his high.
There's some work to be done if they do this again. McCoy could climb higher, drop further. Spock could really be mean. But the bruises start to ache again, slowly, and his neck is a lump of pain. Sickbay's biobeds weren't designed with sexual activity in mind and his back will punish him for it tomorrow. Housekeeping mind punish him for it tonight if McCoy doesn't re-clean this bed before drifting off to laa-laa land.
"Sp'ck."
Sweet Mary, give him strength. He needs a lozenge and a tricorder, stat.
"I am here," replies Spock. That's the most he's said in a mighty while, now, and the pitter-patter of his amusement returns to McCoy's mind.
Hell, they're still linked, are they? McCoy doesn't have it in him to protest anymore, and mark that down as the only time.
Duly noted, says a Spock-like voice in his mind.
Careful hands wipe and redress him. McCoy stares unseeingly at the ceiling as a tricorder passes over his face. Distantly, he tries to touch his throat and check for inflammation, but his elbow has seized up from gripping onto Spock so tight and he only succeeds in dragging it up to his chest.
Oh god. The comedown can wait. Since Spock kept his promise and didn't choke him to death, he can probably be trusted to walk McCoy jelly-legged back to his room.
"My quarters are marginally closer," Spock says, still reading half of the conversation from McCoy's mind.
That's true. But McCoy feels altogether unlike himself at the moment – too like himself, perhaps, his cantankerous walls crumbling down – and he aches for a place to be vulnerable: his own quarters, his shower, his bed. There is still a glass of brandy with his name on it. Perhaps not that bottle of lube.
A warm feeling brushes his thoughts: understanding. Then an image pokes through the fogginess – no, a question: himself in a robe and slippers, the lights low, and Spock meditating on one side of his bed, the other flipped open and waiting. McCoy sees himself sink into that bed, and there is only the memory of bruises to be seen.
Hell, they can keep the ones on his thighs. Ain't nobody but Spock gonna know they're there, anywho, and maybe tomorrow they can add some palm prints onto his ass. He thinks that back at Spock with the last of his energy, and then senses the connection fade from his mind.
Oblivion may be creeping in at the edges of McCoy's eyes, but there's no missing Spock's blush. Spock takes him under the arm like a lady, which is frankly laughable given all of the things McCoy wants him to do. It's mighty sweet though, and more importantly, mighty appreciated as McCoy's whole body lists to the side.
"Lean on me, Doctor."
"Like hell."
When they do, eventually, make it to McCoy's quarters, it is with an ungracious and thoroughly fucked-out limp, although Spock does put those super sensitive ears to good use, too, and ensures that not one single crewman encounters them on the way.