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“Doctor, is there a problem?”
McCoy wanted to strangle him.
“You’re damn right, there’s a problem,” he hissed, glancing around them to make sure no other partygoers could overhear. “I was just informed you’re plannin’ to gallivant off to Vulcan for a few months for some family thing?”
Spock lifted a brow, unruffled. “Indeed. I fail to see the point of contention.”
“Well, who the hell’s gonna replace you? And just exactly how long are you gonna be gone?“
Spock looked at him for a long moment, inscrutable, as McCoy threw back the rest of his terrifyingly pink drink with extreme irritation.
“My temporary replacement is a man with whom the Captain is more familiar than I, Gary Mitchell. They attended the Academy together. To the best of my knowledge, he is a suitable stand-in. As for the amount of time I will be away, I can only give you an approximate estimation. My mother is…” Spock paused, as if searching for the right word, though his tone and expression didn’t change. “Unpredictable.”
McCoy scowled. “So we’re supposed to carry on without our damn first officer for however long you feel like bein’ on vacation and then swing back around to pick you up again whenever you’re ready? And Jim’s just fine with this?”
“The Captain was not overly pleased, either. He is, however, more understanding,” Spock said pointedly.
“To hell with understanding. This is ridiculous, Spock,” McCoy grumbled, then promptly turned on his heel and left the Vulcan standing there in search of a better form of alcohol.
He could feel Spock’s eyes on him as he retreated.
* * *
Their time on Earth concluded with a brief shore leave, one McCoy spent avoiding Spock. If the green blooded bastard was planning on fucking off for who-knew-how-long, then McCoy certainly wasn’t going to drag out the inevitable.
He had better things to do, anyway. Arguing with a wall held about the same amount of usefulness as arguing with Spock.
Jim caught him at the hotel a few times and they drank till they couldn’t see straight. McCoy didn’t get the feeling Jim was all that enthused with Spock leaving, as Spock had said, but for some reason, seemed less pissed off about it than McCoy himself.
The fond smile Jim gave the doctor when he ranted about the pointy-eared nuisance was entirely too knowing.
Once back on the ship, McCoy avoided him then, too. Spock was only going to be there for a few more days and depart when they reached Vulcan. His most recent physical had been a month ago, so there was no need for McCoy to do a check up again. As such, it should’ve been perfectly easy not to see him.
Of course, the man refused to let it be.
McCoy felt like he was practically sneaking around on his own damn ship, peering around corners, ears listening closely for any hint of that familiar voice, keeping away from the mess hall and the bridge, and trying to make his movements as inconsistent as possible.
It was fine, right up until the day before they were to arrive. His shift was over, but he hadn’t gone to his quarters. Instead, he was on the observation deck with a bottle of brandy and a glass in hand. Spock wasn’t likely to look for him there, if he looked for him at all.
It should’ve worked, but the swishing of the doors and a sinking feeling in the pit of McCoy’s stomach told him it hadn’t.
Soft footfalls came to a halt somewhere to his right. McCoy kept his gaze forward and waited for the Vulcan to speak up.
“Doctor.”
He took another sip of his drink. The planet was still a distant dot out the viewport, but getting closer every hour.
“Doctor,” he repeated quietly. With two more steps, he stood in front of McCoy, blocking the sight.
McCoy stubbornly refused to look him in the eye.
“Doctor, I do not intend to leave this ship without your express acknowledgment of my presence.”
“Wouldn’t have thought you’d give a damn about that sort of thing,” McCoy muttered.
“I take it my temporary leave is the cause of much consternation.”
McCoy snorted. “It’s not the cause of any consternation, Mr. Spock,” he drawled. “I’ve simply begun celebrating your absence a little early.”
Spock slowly unclasped his hands from behind his back and sank into the seat next to him.
“Doctor… Leonard,” Spock amended, “I estimate I will be gone no longer than three months. I would like to keep in contact with you throughout.”
McCoy blinked and glanced at him for the first time. “Pardon?”
“You have my comm number. It seems prudent to use it when not in physical proximity to one another.”
“Oh. Well, if you want, I suppose.”
“Indeed. I would.”
“Right,” McCoy said faintly.
He suddenly got the distinct impression Spock could’ve found him at any time and had simply been giving him space.
“Leonard, I believe the human expression goes, ‘time flies when you are having fun.’ With this in mind, I doubt you will feel it has been very long before I have returned to the ship.”
Fucking hell. Spock was actually trying to comfort him.
McCoy flashed Spock a quick grin, the Vulcan’s dark eyes cataloguing every movement. “Why, Mr. Spock, I do believe you’re right. It’ll be no time at all.”
Spock nodded once, decisively, then stood again. “I will leave you to your thoughts. Farewell, Doctor.”
McCoy nodded back and raised his glass at him. Spock’s departure left the room with an odd feeling of emptiness.
* * *
L.H. McCoy: been 2 weeks pointy
L.H. McCoy: hows the weather
S.T. Spock: As expected, Doctor. I would ask the same question of you, but it is unnecessary considering the Enterprise’s environment is temperature controlled.
L.H. McCoy: its called small talk
S.T. Spock: Extremely small, Doctor.
L.H. McCoy: dont suck the air out of the room or anything
L.H. McCoy: bet ur parents love having u there
S.T. Spock: My mother seems to be appreciative of our time together.
L.H. McCoy: and ur dad
S.T. Spock: Unclear.
S.T. Spock: How have you been?
L.H. McCoy: eh
L.H. McCoy: fine
L.H. McCoy: jim almost died again
L.H. McCoy: normal stuff
L.H. McCoy: some ensign brought a frog abaord by accident
L.H. McCoy: u woulda thought it was egypt in acieng times
S.T. Spock: I assume this is a Biblical reference. I doubt you enjoyed the experience.
L.H. McCoy: i most certainly didnt
L.H. McCoy: jim wasnt too thrilled either
S.T. Spock: The situation has been dealt with?
L.H. McCoy: whatdoya think ive been spendign the last 2 weeks on
* * *
Visiting the bridge just wasn’t the same. The first several times he did, he’d forgotten Spock wasn’t there and had instead been greeted with the sight of another man at the Vulcan’s station.
It was jarring and unsettling, to say the least.
Gary Mitchell didn’t look like he belonged in science blues, but he’d taken on both roles of Spock’s, not just XO. He was a competent enough first officer, able to give and take orders well, but he wasn’t Spock. And he had a bad habit of trying to connect with the rest of the crew through awkward humor. No one really knew what to do with it.
Jim seemed to work with him fine, but it was clearly out of professional obligation. McCoy had heard through the rumor mill that he’d used to be a very good acquaintance of Jim’s, and while the doctor wasn’t necessarily a jealous man by nature, he had eyes and ears that worked just fine. How the hell those two idiots ever got along as friends (much less lovers) with such big personalities made absolutely no sense to him.
Then again, McCoy had a big personality, too. And he and Jim were obviously well suited as best friends.
“Everything quiet in sickbay?” Jim asked as he signed a PADD with his stylus, tone mildly distracted.
McCoy hummed where he leaned against the captain’s chair. “Dead as a door nail, Jim.”
“I thought you preferred death stay away from there, Bones,” Jim chuckled.
“You certainly don’t, with your medical track record.”
“Mitigating circumstances, my friend.”
“You should’ve seen him in the Academy, Doctor,” Gary cut in. McCoy’s gaze snapped to him irritatedly, but Jim kept his focus on the PADD. “He’s the best leader there is, but he’s always the quickest to throw himself into danger.”
Gary’s eyes sparkled with amusement, oblivious to McCoy’s ire.
“Oh, I’m sure,” McCoy muttered. “Well, I’ll be back later.”
He gave Jim a pat on the arm and vacated the premises. All he could think about in the turbo lift was how Spock would’ve made some comment about the phrase “dead as a door nail” being illogical.
He wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself that he actually missed the walking computer, though.
* * *
L.H. McCoy: hey
S.T. Spock: Hello, Doctor.
L.H. McCoy: howre things
S.T. Spock: Progressing.
L.H. McCoy: ……
L.H. McCoy: ????
S.T. Spock: It is difficult to explain at this time.
L.H. McCoy: ur the one who wanted me to message u
S.T. Spock: Indeed. How are you?
L.H. McCoy: im fine
L.H. McCoy: garys doing a much better job than u
L.H. McCoy: we all really like him
L.H. McCoy: were holing he stysa
L.H. McCoy: *stays
L.H. McCoy: *hoping
L.H. McCoy: dammit
S.T. Spock: I am gratified to hear it, though I fear you will soon be subjected to my presence once again due to the fact that Mr. Mitchell has his own responsibilities elsewhere and will need to return to them.
L.H. McCoy: shit ur coming back
L.H. McCoy: i had no idea
L.H. McCoy: i thoghut u were styainb there
L.H. McCoy: how soon is soon
S.T. Spock: Soon.
L.H. McCoy: helpful thansk
S.T. Spock: You are quite welcome, Doctor.
* * *
“Something’s missing without Spock, isn’t there?” Jim observed, swirling the liquid in his glass almost forlornly. “It just doesn’t feel the same.”
McCoy made a noncommittal noise, leaning back in the chair and putting his feet up on the desk, then taking a sip of his drink.
Jim gave him a small smile. “You’ve definitely been different without him.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, Jim? Do enlighten me.”
“You’ve been more sulky than grumpy recently.”
“Sulky? I don’t sulk, Jim.”
“Mm-hm. You two talk at all?”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I’ve checked in once or twice. He wasn’t very forthcoming, but that’s Spock.”
“Yep.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“Have you talked?”
McCoy glared at him. “We may have, here and there.”
Jim’s smile became more of a mischievous grin. “Good, I’m glad to hear that. He asked me about you.”
McCoy’s pulse stuttered, then quickened at the same time he felt his cheeks flush. “Why the hell would he ask about me? What’d he say?”
“Oh, nothing too specific,” Jim said vaguely, waving a hand in the air. “Just a general concern. I mean, he didn’t ask about anyone else, just how the ship was functioning, so make of that what you will.”
McCoy cleared his throat uncomfortably and threw back the rest of the brandy.
“Well, he’s probably just making sure he’s still got someone to argue with when he gets back,” he said hoarsely, the alcohol burning in its wake.
“Oh, yes. I’m sure that’s it.”
“If you’ve got somethin’ to say, then spit it out.”
Jim shrugged. “No, no. Nothing to say.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah, I’m full of it.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m hilarious. You love me.”
McCoy sighed deeply and reached for the bottle.
* * *
Messaging Spock was becoming more and more natural, to the point that McCoy found himself sending him random thoughts, questions, or just checking in during lunch breaks, his morning routine, at night, or really anytime the mood struck.
Spock responded to every single one, sometimes within minutes, other times within hours. Which was understandable, considering he was probably busy, too. McCoy hadn’t asked what the family thing was or why he needed to be there. Some part of him suspected it really was just a vacation for the man and he’d thrown in the words ‘ancient,’ ‘ritual,’ and ‘Vulcan’ just to make sure the request would be approved.
Then again, something had seemed almost reluctant in his posture, in his clipped goodbyes to Jim and McCoy before the transporter beam took him.
McCoy missed his voice, his steady presence, their bickering. Sure, he could argue with Jim any day of the week (and did), but it wasn’t quite the same. He didn’t get infuriated with his captain quite the same way he got infuriated with his first officer.
So one night, he tried calling instead of just messaging before he could overthink it too much and convince himself not to do it.
The comm only rang twice before Spock picked up.
“Doctor.”
“Why, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said, feeling an unreasonable amount of delight in hearing his familiar baritone again. “Fancy this.”
“Are you well, Doctor?”
“Perfectly. How are you?”
“I am…” A short pause, the sound of something shifting. “As well as can be expected.”
McCoy frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you hurt?”
“No,” Spock replied quickly. “I am not hurt.”
“Okay, then,” McCoy said, confused. “What’s up?”
“You called me, Doctor.” Spock’s tone sent an almost welcome irritation racing through him, which in turn sent a thrill of… whatever.
“Well, excuse me for checking in on you. Am I offending your Vulcan sensibilities?”
“There is no offense where none has been taken.”
McCoy rolled his eyes even though Spock couldn’t see it.
“Right, yes, of course, what was I thinking? It’s impossible for you pointy-eared bastards to get offended.”
A longer pause.
At length, he said, “Perhaps not… impossible, exactly.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“Certain family members of mine seem to take great pleasure in frequently and intentionally misinterpreting my speech and actions.”
“Ah. Sorry to hear that, Spock.”
“It is nothing you need concern yourself with, Doctor.”
“So, are you at your parents’ house right now or ya stayin’ somewhere else?”
“I am currently at Shi’Kahr’s General Hospital.”
McCoy sat bolt upright in bed, the covers pooling around his waist. “What? I thought you said you weren’t hurt.”
“I am not. You may recall meeting my family’s matriarch, T’Pau.”
“Yes…” McCoy replied slowly.
“She is ill. That is why I came to Vulcan.”
McCoy’s insides flooded with a sudden rush of guilt. He’d yelled at Spock when he found out he was leaving, been rude to him, then ignored him out of spite.
“I’m so sorry, Spock. I had no idea.”
“It is alright, Doctor. I had not told anyone.”
“What’s she sick with?” McCoy asked, then immediately backtracked with, “Uh, scratch that. I’m bein’ invasive. You don’t have to answer.”
He could almost hear the laughter in Spock’s response: “Yes, quite invasive, Leonard.”
“Well, is there anything I could do to help? From here, anyway,” McCoy said, eyeing his surroundings doubtfully.
“Actually,” Spock began and McCoy blinked in surprise. “If you would be willing, there is an object in my quarters I mistakenly left behind. It would be helpful if you were to find it and send me a digital copy. I can send you the details and my door code via message.”
McCoy narrowed his eyes. Spock didn’t just forget things. But he couldn’t help being curious.
“Alright, sure. When do you need it?”
“Whenever is convenient for you. It is not urgent.”
They spent another hour and a half after that just talking about anything that came to mind. It was the closest thing to right McCoy had felt since before Spock’s trip.
* * *
At least Gary wasn’t using Spock’s quarters. He had his own temporary ones further down the hall.
The awkwardness of waiting until ship’s night to sneak into his superior officer’s living space was palpable, but he did it anyway. Not that he’d really had to wait. Or sneak. However, seeing the CMO entering the XO’s currently vacated personal area with zero explanation or context would be a little odd and McCoy really had no patience for the inevitable rumors and gossip to follow.
He’d been in Spock’s quarters before, of course, almost always in an official capacity. So at the very least, he knew his way around.
The object in question was a journal. Spock had asked him to scan pages fifty-nine and sixty and send him the file. McCoy was expecting scientific notes. Probably, Spock was just getting antsy not being able to work, or he’d solved something impossible and just wanted to admire his own past brilliance.
It didn’t take long to retrieve it, exactly where Spock said it would be on the bedside table. McCoy flopped into the desk chair and flipped through the pages, enjoying the feel of actual paper, dry and well-worn, in his fingers. The handwriting was precise, even and measured, with just hint of flair in it here and there, certain letters formed a little fancier than was probably necessary, but seemingly an unconscious choice.
The sight caused warm affection to bloom in McCoy’s chest.
Much of it was in the Vulcan language, which was unsurprising. What was surprising were the suspicious lack of numbers or anything that looked like equations. There were line after line of unbroken sentences, perfect punctuation, small smudges where the ink hadn’t fully dried before the book had been closed.
McCoy didn’t really know what to make of any of it, but he wasn’t there to interpret or spy. The pages weren’t numbered for whatever reason, so he had to count as he went, absentmindedly reaching for the small tool on the desk that would scan and digitize them.
The sound of rustling paper filled the room, calming, hypnotic.
Then fifty-nine appeared and McCoy froze, snapped out of his mindless reverie. The language had abruptly switched to Standard. Unable to help himself, his eyes flew across the writing, absorbing the information, but hardly comprehending.
He dropped the scanner with a small thud.
Five minutes, three re-reads, and one quick session of furious pacing later, he’d fled Spock’s quarters, having neither scanned the journal nor sent the file.
* * *
A storm was coming, that much was obvious. In the distance, dark thunderclouds, heavy with rain and occasionally illuminated by lightning, were fast approaching on the wings of the wind, whipping through McCoy’s hair and uniform.
They’d have to leave soon or the interference would be too much for the transporter to handle. And he’d really rather not have his atoms scrambled on the way back.
Frankly, McCoy wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been scrambled on the way down, too. Though that feeling could just as easily be attributed to Spock’s influence.
On their return journey to Vulcan, they’d swung by this planet for a quick visit. “A chance to stretch our legs,” Jim had said. Well, McCoy was feeling plenty stretched enough. Overstretched, maybe.
Gary was in the process of rounding everyone up while Jim posed dramatically on the cliff overlooking the dark sea below, admiring the view. McCoy couldn’t deny it was beautiful, but they could’ve chosen a better time for it.
“Jim! Come on, let’s go!” McCoy shouted over the wind, trudging to his captain’s side.
“Isn’t it amazing, Bones?” Jim gestured grandly at the sight before them. “All our technology and we still can’t outdo nature!”
“Yeah, awe-inspiring! Now let’s get the hell outta here before nature decides we can’t!”
Jim threw back his head and laughed, the first drops of rain beginning to patter against their faces. McCoy tugged the sleeve of his uniform and he finally acquiesced, following him, albeit reluctantly, to the beam up spot.
Gary gave them a salute and a lazy grin, then commed the transporter technician. Within moments, the group was re-materializing on the Enterprise.
Jim bounded off the pad with the fervor of a man far too hyperactive for his own good, Gary only moderately less so, the scientists and red-shirts picking up the cheerful conversations they’d paused, and McCoy last, with what felt like lead in his shoes.
Every hour drew them closer to Vulcan. Even now, with the away team back on board, the ship was already returning to its previous course.
He’d actually been looking forward to seeing Spock again before reading the journal a few days prior. Since then, he’d not reached out. It was obvious Spock didn’t actually need him to send any damn files and he’d just wanted McCoy to see what he’d written.
Utter bullshit, the lot of it.
How the hell was McCoy supposed to respond to something like that? Words like ‘treasured,’ ‘precious,’ and ‘beloved’ belonged in a trashy romance novel, not in the secret thoughts of a fucking Vulcan. Sure, ‘irascible,’ ‘pointlessly stubborn,’ and ‘possesses an unrivaled ability to disagree entirely for the purposes of his own amusement’ showed up, too. But still.
And what a ridiculous way to make feelings like that known to someone. Spock didn’t have the gall to tell him face to face, so the first chance he got, he’d thrown what was essentially a ticking time bomb at McCoy from a safe distance.
But McCoy could admit to himself, begrudgingly, that it also wasn’t the worst way to break the news. Spock could’ve announced it in front of the fucking crew. He could’ve used the ship’s PA function. Hell, even worse, he could’ve confessed in front of Jim when it was just the three of them blowing off steam.
He’d known McCoy needed time to think it over, get angry, process it, and come to a conclusion on his own.
So what the hell was his conclusion?
McCoy spent the rest of the day tidying sickbay, filing annual reports, and rearranging one of the storage closets. Chapel checked in a few times, but the doctor knew she could tell he was distracted.
By a pointy-eared bastard, no less. With very nice, soft, kissable lips and lovely long-fingered hands, hair impossibly dark and sleek and soft-looking, warm brown eyes McCoy could stare into all—
He slammed his coffee cup down on the desk hard enough to rattle the other objects residing there and promised himself revenge with the grim satisfaction of a man determined to win an argument at any cost.
* * *
Two days away from Vulcan, McCoy had worked out exactly how he intended to enact his plan. It was, perhaps, very carefully straddling the line between wildly immature behavior and that of an actual adult, but if Spock loved him so much, he’d damn well take it.
McCoy had stolen the journal. Borrowed, really. He was, of course, going to return it.
As many empty pages as used ones filled the book. By the time he was finished (a task that had taken five and a half hours), a good section of the latter half had been used for McCoy’s own thoughts.
Thoughts detailing just exactly where Spock could take his Vulcan logic and shove it. Thoughts pointing out that Spock had, in fact, already shoved his Vulcan logic where Eridani don’t shine if he really did love McCoy, an irrational, emotional, temperamental old man. Thoughts that proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that Spock was just as human as he was Vulcan and if he thought for a second that McCoy wasn’t going to lord it over him for his own fun, then Spock had well and truly lost his mind.
Thoughts revealing how McCoy loved him, fiercely, and that just because he was an ass a lot of the time didn’t mean he wasn’t fucking head over heels and that he wouldn’t hesitate to throw himself in front of phaser fire (or anything else) for Spock.
And other sappy things like that.
McCoy put the journal back where he’d found it mere hours before Spock’s return. Let the bastard stumble onto that with no warning and figure out what the hell to do with it.
* * *
The remainder of his plan consisted mostly of just pretending he was more or less unaffected by anything that had taken place since Spock had left. The searching look on Spock’s face, followed by the faintest hint of confusion, then the masking it behind professionalism was all the confirmation of victory he needed.
It took everything McCoy had in him not to grin with his childish triumph.
“Spock! Glad to have you back aboard,” Jim greeted. “Everything went well, I trust?”
Spock inclined his head and stepped off the transporter pad, luggage in hand.
“Indeed, Captain. I am looking forward to returning to my duties.”
“Excellent. Feel free to get settled in. We’ll be heading to the nearest star base to drop Mr. Mitchell off and get back on course from there.”
Then Jim was gone and it was just Spock and McCoy in the transporter room.
And the technician, who was clearly getting more awkward by the second.
“I’ll walk you to your room, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said in a tone that invited no argument whatsoever.
“Very well, Doctor.”
Normally, the Vulcan would’ve pointed out he didn’t need assistance, that he was perfectly capable of finding his own way, that there was no logical benefit in accompanying him to his quarters, or some variation on that theme. But he must’ve known he was in trouble and wisely kept his mouth shut.
“So,” McCoy began as they left, maybe a little more loudly than he needed to. “How’s your grandmother?”
“T’Pau is improving. She was released into my parents’ care and is now able to move on her own more freely.”
“Happy to hear it.”
They reached the turbo lift and Spock ordered the officers’ deck. For several long moments that felt like an eternity, the hum of the machinery was the only sound between them. McCoy could practically feel Spock’s discomfort increasing by the second. His posture was stiff, his hand white-knuckled as he clutched the strap of his bag, the other gripping the handle on the wall just as tightly.
McCoy suppressed another smile, then pushed aside the guilt over his chosen form of punishment.
Spock knew how to respond to McCoy’s anger, irritation, criticism, and all manner of other things, but he had absolutely no idea how to approach McCoy’s silence. Knowing this fact and using it against Spock was likely the most immature part of the doctor’s plan.
Then again, Spock was in for the surprise of his life and McCoy didn’t want to spoil it.
So he kept up the act.
“You are well yourself?” Spock ventured once they’d stepped out of the turbolift and began walking to his quarters.
“Right as rain, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said brightly.
“I fail to see how rain is right, Doctor.”
Spock’s tone was almost tentative, as if uncertain whether McCoy would engage in their usual banter.
“You know what, Spock? You’re absolutely correct. What a ridiculous expression.”
Having reached his door, Spock froze and went pale as a sheet.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your reading this evening, Mr. Spock.”
Smirking, McCoy spun on his heel and left the Vulcan standing there with a blatant look of shock plastered on his face.
* * *
It was 02:15 when Spock messaged him. McCoy wasn’t usually up so late, but he’d known Spock was going to find McCoy’s writing, read it, re-read it obsessively, meditate on it, overthink, make a decision on what to do, immediately second-guess himself, and so on. Honestly, McCoy was just surprised the whole process hadn’t taken longer.
S.T. Spock: Doctor, are you awake?
L.H. McCoy: yep
S.T. Spock: Would you object to my visiting you now? I am also amenable to scheduling a different time better suited for you.
L.H. McCoy: nows fine
S.T. Spock: I am on my way.
McCoy smiled to himself and set the comm aside.
It was less than three minutes later that the door was chiming.
“Come in.”
It swished open and there stood Spock, brilliantly backlit by the lighting of the ship’s hallway (though it was slightly lowered for the night shift), in his blackshirt (but not his science blues), hair slightly askew, hands clenching and unclenching. Evidently, his choice to see McCoy at such a late hour had been an impulsive one.
“Well, come in,” McCoy drawled, setting down the PADD he’d been reading from, feet propped up on the desk.
Spock took one step, then two, and the door closed behind him.
“Doctor.” His gaze was intense, but tinged with something vulnerable, hopeful.
“What’s on your mind, Spock?” He asked softly.
Spock glanced away.
“I… was hoping for a response after reading what I have written about you. I feel you have given one.”
“I have,” McCoy said simply.
“As such, it seems we should perhaps… discuss our feelings in relation to one another.”
“Sure.”
“To state it plainly, Doctor… Leonard… I want you.”
McCoy swung his feet to the floor, rose, and came to stand in front of Spock. The Vulcan’s gaze was still averted, hands at his sides, fidgeting restlessly.
“Obviously, I feel the same, Spock,” McCoy said gently. “Would ya look at me? Please?”
Spock kissed him instead.
One moment he was just standing there and the next, he’d seized McCoy by the arms and yanked him close, his mouth finding McCoy’s with almost practiced ease. The kiss itself was insistent, warm, consuming, and McCoy gasped into it, delighted to feel Spock’s rough tongue against his own.
He chuckled when the Vulcan moved his kisses from McCoy’s mouth to his cheek, his jaw, his neck, then down to the hollow of his throat, where Spock proceeded to suck, bite and lick with an urgency indicative of his desire.
“Spock, darlin’, ease up. I’ll still be here tomorrow,” McCoy soothed, running a hand through Spock’s silky black hair, mussing it up further.
The Vulcan made a needy sound, hands tightening around McCoy’s arms to the point of bruising before he abruptly let him go and stepped back, panting.
“My apologies, Leonard. I… I seem to be experiencing a loss of control.”
McCoy smiled at him, letting the affection and fondness he felt come across his face. Without a word, he crossed the small distance Spock had put between them and pulled the other man into a hug, reveling in the feeling of Spock’s solidity beneath his hands, how real it all was.
“I love you, Spock,” he whispered.
Spock let out a shaky exhale and brought his own arms around McCoy’s body, tucking his head into the crook of McCoy’s neck.
McCoy hugged him tighter.
“I love you, too, Leonard,” Spock whispered back.
Spock was his now.
They belonged to each other.
And McCoy knew it in his bones.