A Temporary Madness: A1, P30
Title: A Temporary Madness
Summary: The story of two lives becoming one - which is easier said than done when one's divorced, the other's neurotic, and both suffer from the unfortunate malady of being friends with James T. Kirk.
Overall Rating: NC17.
Overall Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content, moderate violence.
Chapter Specifics:
- 2,000 words.
- Rated R.
- Rating is for strong references to sex; no warnings.
Arc One, Part Thirty
"How much do you get paid?"
The movie playing on the box was irrelevant - or at least no contest given that Spock was mostly naked, warm under McCoy's body on the couch, and nuzzling tiredly at his jaw. They had burst into the apartment an hour earlier, scattering their clothes liberally all over the living room, and hadn't yet mustered up the energy to get dressed again. Spock had found enough modesty (misplaced, given that ass) to wriggle back into his boxers, but McCoy remained obnoxiously naked.
And paying lazy homage to Spock's ear and the surrounding skin.
"Mm?"
"How much do you get paid?" McCoy repeated.
"Enough."
"This tax year?"
"Approximately half of your own wage," Spock said, pressing back into the cushions to eye McCoy's face. "Why?"
McCoy grunted, exploring the hollow behind that ear.
"Why?"
"Wonderin'. Hold still."
Spock obediently stilled, fingers scratching lightly at McCoy's elbow as McCoy continued his ministrations. "Wondering what?"
"Why you live in a shoebox when you get a decent salary."
"Health insurance," Spock said flatly, rubbing his cheek against McCoy's and feeling the rasp of invisible stubble. McCoy's beard was tenacious. "The company's package is...limited."
McCoy made a low grumbling noise and scraped his teeth idly over the earlobe.
"And my apartment is not a shoebox."
"Looks like a shoebox to me."
"Then your shoes must be excessively large," Spock said dryly.
"Well, you know what they say about guys with big shoes," McCoy snickered, shifting his hands to stroke over Spock's ribs and leaning more of his body weight forward. The pressure was warm and secure, and Spock wriggled into it, rubbing his cheek against that stubble again. "Huh. S'rainin' again."
The first fat drops had begun to paint the open window above the sink; the sun had long since dropped out of the sky, and the neon orange of the city lights were blurring under the water.
"Close the window," Spock murmured. "And put something on."
"Why?" McCoy asked, even as he heaved himself off the couch - and the body on it - and padded to the window, everything on bold and unashamed display.
"Because I do not have the energy for you without anything on."
McCoy snorted as his slammed the window, and toed his jeans over on the floor to find his boxers. "I'm fine with going down the corner store and buying a six pack of sports drinks to give you enough energy for me."
"No thank you."
"Or I could handle things so you don't need any energy," McCoy offered, slipping his underwear back on and slithering back onto the couch over Spock again. "Mm, that's quite the bite mark."
"Indeed," Spock rolled his shoulder up into McCoy's probing fingers, and blinked open dark eyes when they tracked over his pectoral. "Leonard?"
McCoy found the longest of the little scars on Spock's torso - a thin white line maybe three inches across, stretching from his sternum up towards his collarbone - and licked along its path.
"How'd you get this?"
"Apparently, I fell on broken glass as a toddler. I cannot remember; we still lived in Singapore at the time."
"Huh," McCoy kissed it firmly and sat back on his heels to straddle Spock's hips and find the others. There were about five in total, mostly thin and white with the exception of a blunt, dark mark over the abdominal wall. "That," McCoy said, prodding it firmly, "was an appendectomy."
"Yes," Spock blinked sleepily at him. "I was nine."
"What about these?" he traced two twinned lines, straight as railroad tracks, over the lowest ribs. They were small and fine, but felt savage under his fingertips, and he bent to kiss those too. They felt old, but the flesh was still torn in two; they had been deep injuries.
"An explosion in the lab when I was studying for my degree," Spock stroked through his hair. "They were - are - not so bad as they looked."
McCoy hummed and imprinted a light bruise over them with his teeth before moving to the final visible scar, a very thin line, not quite white but paler than the surrounding skin, embedded into the skin in the hollow of his left shoulder, tiny and barely-there. It felt, to his lips, like normal, smooth skin, and he lapped at it briefly before kissing up to the long neck and burying his nose there, testing the pulse and warmth of him.
"My mother's cat."
"Your mom's cat?"
Spock flushed. "She did not like me. Unfortunately, my mother could not drive, so I had to take the cat to the vet for her shots."
"Probably why she didn't like you."
"Indeed," Spock breathed as McCoy settled properly and decided to pay attention to the other ear. "You are particularly tactile tonight."
"That's your fault," McCoy said, ducking to kiss the collarbone as Spock shifted, and grinning into the skin when his head was trapped by Spock's arms, folding him into that pale chest, and the hypocritical bastard began to kiss his hair. "No energy, my ass. I - what?"
Spock abruptly let go and relaxed back into the cushions, but when McCoy looked up, he didn't look relaxed. In fact, as he sat back on his haunches (and Spock's hips), the ribs under his hands were taut, and Spock's face even tighter.
"Spock?"
Spock opened his mouth soundlessly for a moment, and then suddenly a shallow, hoarse rasp escaped and his lungs jumped.
"Bedside table?" McCoy demanded, and when Spock nodded, he was up and gone in an instant, his medical training taking over. He knew the noises, he knew the colours - hell, he could probably guess at the exact dosage in the immediate reliever - and his training brutally forced out any personal anxiety and hesitance.
The bedside drawer rattled when he jerked it open, and three different coloured inhalers lay neatly side by side on top of two packets of pills, a bottle of iron supplements (go figure) and a tray of vials for the nebuliser that he wasn't yet allowed to see. He seized the immediate, shook the canister sharply to listen to the room inside, and slammed the drawer again, turning on his heel.
Spock had sat up, and was sitting rigidly on the couch, back moulded to the cushions and face tight and strained as he breathed - shallow, rasping and thin - through clenched teeth. He wordlessly wrapped his fingers around the presented inhaler and brought it to his lips, and McCoy settled beside him to squeeze his other hand and rub at his shoulder.
"Relax," he coaxed. "Just try and relax, sweetheart. Don't clench up so bad, you'll only make it worse."
Spock's fingers were trembling in his, and McCoy frowned. He hadn't been deprived that long, and - the exhale, when it came, was long, slow and smooth.
His face, though, was a picture of pure misery.
"It's alright," McCoy murmured, kissing his temple as he brought the inhaler up for the second dose. "Relax. It's just me."
"I am...aware..." he rasped, his throat seizing.
"So why're you so tense?"
Spock's jaw tightened and he finally took that second dose, the inhalation sounding almost angry.
"What set you off? My hair?"
A tense nod.
"Huh. Musta been the shampoo." McCoy worked an arm around Spock's lower back and rubbed at his side. His breathing had eased, though the muscular tension was still there. "I'll grab a shower in a minute and overlay it with yours. Then we can get back on track."
"Then go."
"Not until you relax," he returned tartly, still rubbing his fingers in circles. "You're fine. And you can wipe that self-disgust off your face, too, you ain't got nothing to be ashamed of."
Spock pursed his lips momentarily, and McCoy squeezed his hand. After a moment, the pressure was returned, and the tension began to finally inch out of his frame. His breaths were shallow, but steady, and the wheezing had tapered off entirely after a further ten seconds or so.
"There y'go," McCoy murmured, and leaned over to kiss him. He tasted of stale medication and the apple he'd been eating when McCoy had picked him up from the gym earlier in the evening. "Right, I'm gonna jump in your shower. And at some point, you're gonna have to feed me. It's gettin' late."
Spock nodded, and caught McCoy's hand again as he moved to rise.
"Thank you," he said.
McCoy squeezed his fingers, and smiled.
In the middle of December, and on one of his Fridays both jobless and Jo-less, Spock texted in the morning with the news that there had been a chemical leak at work and so they had all been told to stay at home until Monday morning, so would McCoy like to spend the day together?
'The day together' turned, by one o'clock that afternoon, into a half-doze in McCoy's bed, curled together in rumpled sheets and sexual exhaustion. Spock had come over by way of his bike and leathers, and when McCoy had unzipped him in the hall, had been so cold that McCoy had proposed life-saving techniques and warmed him up. Thoroughly. Twice.
What had McCoy's attention as Spock dozed on his shoulder, however, was the crumpled and abandoned pair of slacks that he'd stripped off Spock's hips in the bedroom doorway. They had fallen in a flat heap, and the pale plastic of one of the inhalers had rolled free onto the carpet.
He should - he really should - pry himself free and hide it again and pretend like he'd never seen it. Spock did so much better when McCoy didn't notice - or didn't let slip that he had - and yet...McCoy liked the lazy proof. He liked the slip on Spock's part, because he would never do it if McCoy didn't know, and if he didn't...
Perhaps trust was too strong, just yet, but it was maybe getting there. Slowly.
Spock stirred sleepily when McCoy kissed his hair, and made a questioning grumble.
"We should go shopping this afternoon," McCoy insisted quietly. "If I don't get a good quality bottle for Joss for Christmas, Jo'll harp on at me about it until Valentine's Day, and I won't get a moment's peace."
"I was having a moment's peace," Spock grumbled, digging his nose briefly into McCoy's armpit in stubborn resistance before allowing McCoy to peel him off and kiss him. "Why must I go?" he asked petulantly as McCoy slid from the warmth and reached for his jeans. He had a scratch on his thigh, and gave Spock a dirty look at the discovery.
"Because I like hanging you off my arm and parading that nobody else can have what I've got," McCoy replied, throwing his shirt at him. "Put your clothes on and move, you lazy bastard."
He picked up the inhaler; Spock moved like lightning to take it back and don his slacks again and hide it, tucking it away in the darkness like a secret - but when McCoy reached to kiss him again, the attention was returned, and when he tapped the plastic and murmured an approval, Spock almost smiled.
Next: Arc One, Part Thirty-One
Summary: The story of two lives becoming one - which is easier said than done when one's divorced, the other's neurotic, and both suffer from the unfortunate malady of being friends with James T. Kirk.
Overall Rating: NC17.
Overall Warnings: strong language, explicit sexual content, moderate violence.
Chapter Specifics:
- 2,000 words.
- Rated R.
- Rating is for strong references to sex; no warnings.
Arc One, Part Thirty
"How much do you get paid?"
The movie playing on the box was irrelevant - or at least no contest given that Spock was mostly naked, warm under McCoy's body on the couch, and nuzzling tiredly at his jaw. They had burst into the apartment an hour earlier, scattering their clothes liberally all over the living room, and hadn't yet mustered up the energy to get dressed again. Spock had found enough modesty (misplaced, given that ass) to wriggle back into his boxers, but McCoy remained obnoxiously naked.
And paying lazy homage to Spock's ear and the surrounding skin.
"Mm?"
"How much do you get paid?" McCoy repeated.
"Enough."
"This tax year?"
"Approximately half of your own wage," Spock said, pressing back into the cushions to eye McCoy's face. "Why?"
McCoy grunted, exploring the hollow behind that ear.
"Why?"
"Wonderin'. Hold still."
Spock obediently stilled, fingers scratching lightly at McCoy's elbow as McCoy continued his ministrations. "Wondering what?"
"Why you live in a shoebox when you get a decent salary."
"Health insurance," Spock said flatly, rubbing his cheek against McCoy's and feeling the rasp of invisible stubble. McCoy's beard was tenacious. "The company's package is...limited."
McCoy made a low grumbling noise and scraped his teeth idly over the earlobe.
"And my apartment is not a shoebox."
"Looks like a shoebox to me."
"Then your shoes must be excessively large," Spock said dryly.
"Well, you know what they say about guys with big shoes," McCoy snickered, shifting his hands to stroke over Spock's ribs and leaning more of his body weight forward. The pressure was warm and secure, and Spock wriggled into it, rubbing his cheek against that stubble again. "Huh. S'rainin' again."
The first fat drops had begun to paint the open window above the sink; the sun had long since dropped out of the sky, and the neon orange of the city lights were blurring under the water.
"Close the window," Spock murmured. "And put something on."
"Why?" McCoy asked, even as he heaved himself off the couch - and the body on it - and padded to the window, everything on bold and unashamed display.
"Because I do not have the energy for you without anything on."
McCoy snorted as his slammed the window, and toed his jeans over on the floor to find his boxers. "I'm fine with going down the corner store and buying a six pack of sports drinks to give you enough energy for me."
"No thank you."
"Or I could handle things so you don't need any energy," McCoy offered, slipping his underwear back on and slithering back onto the couch over Spock again. "Mm, that's quite the bite mark."
"Indeed," Spock rolled his shoulder up into McCoy's probing fingers, and blinked open dark eyes when they tracked over his pectoral. "Leonard?"
McCoy found the longest of the little scars on Spock's torso - a thin white line maybe three inches across, stretching from his sternum up towards his collarbone - and licked along its path.
"How'd you get this?"
"Apparently, I fell on broken glass as a toddler. I cannot remember; we still lived in Singapore at the time."
"Huh," McCoy kissed it firmly and sat back on his heels to straddle Spock's hips and find the others. There were about five in total, mostly thin and white with the exception of a blunt, dark mark over the abdominal wall. "That," McCoy said, prodding it firmly, "was an appendectomy."
"Yes," Spock blinked sleepily at him. "I was nine."
"What about these?" he traced two twinned lines, straight as railroad tracks, over the lowest ribs. They were small and fine, but felt savage under his fingertips, and he bent to kiss those too. They felt old, but the flesh was still torn in two; they had been deep injuries.
"An explosion in the lab when I was studying for my degree," Spock stroked through his hair. "They were - are - not so bad as they looked."
McCoy hummed and imprinted a light bruise over them with his teeth before moving to the final visible scar, a very thin line, not quite white but paler than the surrounding skin, embedded into the skin in the hollow of his left shoulder, tiny and barely-there. It felt, to his lips, like normal, smooth skin, and he lapped at it briefly before kissing up to the long neck and burying his nose there, testing the pulse and warmth of him.
"My mother's cat."
"Your mom's cat?"
Spock flushed. "She did not like me. Unfortunately, my mother could not drive, so I had to take the cat to the vet for her shots."
"Probably why she didn't like you."
"Indeed," Spock breathed as McCoy settled properly and decided to pay attention to the other ear. "You are particularly tactile tonight."
"That's your fault," McCoy said, ducking to kiss the collarbone as Spock shifted, and grinning into the skin when his head was trapped by Spock's arms, folding him into that pale chest, and the hypocritical bastard began to kiss his hair. "No energy, my ass. I - what?"
Spock abruptly let go and relaxed back into the cushions, but when McCoy looked up, he didn't look relaxed. In fact, as he sat back on his haunches (and Spock's hips), the ribs under his hands were taut, and Spock's face even tighter.
"Spock?"
Spock opened his mouth soundlessly for a moment, and then suddenly a shallow, hoarse rasp escaped and his lungs jumped.
"Bedside table?" McCoy demanded, and when Spock nodded, he was up and gone in an instant, his medical training taking over. He knew the noises, he knew the colours - hell, he could probably guess at the exact dosage in the immediate reliever - and his training brutally forced out any personal anxiety and hesitance.
The bedside drawer rattled when he jerked it open, and three different coloured inhalers lay neatly side by side on top of two packets of pills, a bottle of iron supplements (go figure) and a tray of vials for the nebuliser that he wasn't yet allowed to see. He seized the immediate, shook the canister sharply to listen to the room inside, and slammed the drawer again, turning on his heel.
Spock had sat up, and was sitting rigidly on the couch, back moulded to the cushions and face tight and strained as he breathed - shallow, rasping and thin - through clenched teeth. He wordlessly wrapped his fingers around the presented inhaler and brought it to his lips, and McCoy settled beside him to squeeze his other hand and rub at his shoulder.
"Relax," he coaxed. "Just try and relax, sweetheart. Don't clench up so bad, you'll only make it worse."
Spock's fingers were trembling in his, and McCoy frowned. He hadn't been deprived that long, and - the exhale, when it came, was long, slow and smooth.
His face, though, was a picture of pure misery.
"It's alright," McCoy murmured, kissing his temple as he brought the inhaler up for the second dose. "Relax. It's just me."
"I am...aware..." he rasped, his throat seizing.
"So why're you so tense?"
Spock's jaw tightened and he finally took that second dose, the inhalation sounding almost angry.
"What set you off? My hair?"
A tense nod.
"Huh. Musta been the shampoo." McCoy worked an arm around Spock's lower back and rubbed at his side. His breathing had eased, though the muscular tension was still there. "I'll grab a shower in a minute and overlay it with yours. Then we can get back on track."
"Then go."
"Not until you relax," he returned tartly, still rubbing his fingers in circles. "You're fine. And you can wipe that self-disgust off your face, too, you ain't got nothing to be ashamed of."
Spock pursed his lips momentarily, and McCoy squeezed his hand. After a moment, the pressure was returned, and the tension began to finally inch out of his frame. His breaths were shallow, but steady, and the wheezing had tapered off entirely after a further ten seconds or so.
"There y'go," McCoy murmured, and leaned over to kiss him. He tasted of stale medication and the apple he'd been eating when McCoy had picked him up from the gym earlier in the evening. "Right, I'm gonna jump in your shower. And at some point, you're gonna have to feed me. It's gettin' late."
Spock nodded, and caught McCoy's hand again as he moved to rise.
"Thank you," he said.
McCoy squeezed his fingers, and smiled.
In the middle of December, and on one of his Fridays both jobless and Jo-less, Spock texted in the morning with the news that there had been a chemical leak at work and so they had all been told to stay at home until Monday morning, so would McCoy like to spend the day together?
'The day together' turned, by one o'clock that afternoon, into a half-doze in McCoy's bed, curled together in rumpled sheets and sexual exhaustion. Spock had come over by way of his bike and leathers, and when McCoy had unzipped him in the hall, had been so cold that McCoy had proposed life-saving techniques and warmed him up. Thoroughly. Twice.
What had McCoy's attention as Spock dozed on his shoulder, however, was the crumpled and abandoned pair of slacks that he'd stripped off Spock's hips in the bedroom doorway. They had fallen in a flat heap, and the pale plastic of one of the inhalers had rolled free onto the carpet.
He should - he really should - pry himself free and hide it again and pretend like he'd never seen it. Spock did so much better when McCoy didn't notice - or didn't let slip that he had - and yet...McCoy liked the lazy proof. He liked the slip on Spock's part, because he would never do it if McCoy didn't know, and if he didn't...
Perhaps trust was too strong, just yet, but it was maybe getting there. Slowly.
Spock stirred sleepily when McCoy kissed his hair, and made a questioning grumble.
"We should go shopping this afternoon," McCoy insisted quietly. "If I don't get a good quality bottle for Joss for Christmas, Jo'll harp on at me about it until Valentine's Day, and I won't get a moment's peace."
"I was having a moment's peace," Spock grumbled, digging his nose briefly into McCoy's armpit in stubborn resistance before allowing McCoy to peel him off and kiss him. "Why must I go?" he asked petulantly as McCoy slid from the warmth and reached for his jeans. He had a scratch on his thigh, and gave Spock a dirty look at the discovery.
"Because I like hanging you off my arm and parading that nobody else can have what I've got," McCoy replied, throwing his shirt at him. "Put your clothes on and move, you lazy bastard."
He picked up the inhaler; Spock moved like lightning to take it back and don his slacks again and hide it, tucking it away in the darkness like a secret - but when McCoy reached to kiss him again, the attention was returned, and when he tapped the plastic and murmured an approval, Spock almost smiled.
Next: Arc One, Part Thirty-One