damalurbackup | [fic] stxi

TITLE: Bedside Manner
CHARACTERS: Spock/McCoy
RATING: R for sexuality
NOTES: Apparently someone needed to write new!Spock/new!McCoy. And apparently that someone was me. Written for the ST XI Kink Meme.
SUMMARY: Bones has no idea how the hell he keeps ending up in bed with Spock.

*THIS IS A VERY IMPORTANT NOTE* *SORT OF* I'm still offering to write fic for anyone who writes me or directs me to new!Spock/new!McCoy fic, for what it's worth. (At the very least, you'd win my eternal love and devotion, homg!)

BEDSIDE MANNER

There are two things in life that Bones McCoy is dead sure he did right: His medical degree, and his daughter. Most other things, good or bad, happen to him by accident, his enlistment in Starfleet being a prime example. He still doesn't know what business a man scared half shitless of space has working on the Federation's flagship, but he's learned that when things go haywire they usually do so the worst possible way.

This latest development is as haywire as it gets, and while he hasn't sussed out if it's good, for once he's pretty damn sure it's not bad. By all accounts, he shouldn't be the one tumbling into bed with the first officer. Jim, maybe, that he'd understand — Jim with his pretty mouth and brash courage — or Uhura, slender and competent; but if he doesn't know why hell he's in Starfleet, he sure as hell doesn't know why he's sleeping with Spock.

This is the third day in a row he has, though — slept with Spock, that is — so obviously there's something he's doing. Or something Spock's doing, or that both of them are doing, because no matter how he works this mess he can't figure a way to make it Jim's fault.

Today they'd been arguing. (Well, Christ, that's nothing new, they're always arguing.) It had started when Spock suggested that perhaps, judging by the storage method of the dermal regenerator, the Doctor hadn't read the latest research on the dissemination of Andorian bacterial infections. Bones would shave his eyebrows and sheer his ears into points before he let the copper-blooded bastard tell him how to run his sickbay, and he'd responded accordingly. The discussion had only escalated after that; for a supposedly logical being, Spock had a remarkable ability to wander from the point, and they'd hashed out Spock's parentage, Bones's education, the effects of cordrazine on silicon-based lifeforms, the senselessness of a variety of phobias, and the wisdom of the Captain's continuing resolution to place himself in the way of every Gorn, Klingon, and con man in this quadrant of the galaxy, all between the science labs and the turbolift.

They'd actually agreed on the last point, but by the time they reached Bones's quarters he'd been raging at a volume just below a low roar anyway. It'd only seemed natural for Spock to follow him inside to continue the — "debate" was such a benign word — the dustup, and of course Bones had stripped off his shirt, since it was covered in effluvia from three separate species. There must have been a clearer progression between ranting at Spock and being pinned under seventy-odd kilos of Vulcan commander, but Bones sure as fuck can't make heads or tails of it.

Spock's got five long fingers wrapped around his cock, though, and not a whole lot seems important in the face of that.

Bones bites Spock's shoulder when he climaxes; Spock's breath hitches, is all, but then he shudders and falls against Bones, their come mingled and sticky between their bodies. A heartbeat later Spock rolls away, and they lie side by side, staring up at the ceiling, the silence a tangible presence in the three feet of space between them.

"And another thing," Bones says. "Do you realize how many times the damn transporter's malfunctioned in the past six months? For Christ's sake, Jim got split into two people. Don't tell me the transporter's safe. If God had intended to shoot me through space, he'd have made me a comet."

"The transporter malfunctions aboard the Enterprise are aberrations, Doctor, brought on by the high number of unusual incidences the ship encounters," Spock says. Bones can't see his face, but he'd lay money that Spock's mouth is set in a straight line and that his eyebrows are climbing for his bowl cut. "Statistically speaking, transporter is the safest way to travel."

"Like arguing with a fence post," Bones complains, but without any real energy. Without any real dignity, either, since he's sprawled naked across his bed with alien semen cooling on his stomach. "You ever hear of an airplane? Back on Earth they used to say that about those, too, but it didn't stop one of 'em from crashing to the ground in a fiery ball every so often."

"Doctor," Spock says, "your attitude is irrational and your arguments are not mathematically sound."

"Now you're tryin' to make trouble," Bones says, and digs his shoulders into the mattress. The action jars one of his hands; his fingers brush against Spock, but he doesn't move again. "And you know, after...well, you don't have to call me 'Doctor.'"

There's a pause, and then Spock says, "I believe I would find it — incongruous, to call you by a nickname fabricated by the Captain."

Spock's sense of humor is as dry as — well, dry as bones, but it's comforting to know he has one. "Yeah," Bones says, and listens to the soft breathing of the body behind him. Spock's respiration is subtly different from a human's, the intervals between his breaths longer — a result of growing up in a thinner atmosphere, no doubt.

"You could," Bones says, at length, "call me Leonard. Or Len." Which is what my wife called me, he doesn't add, because this thing between them, this whatever, is still seven kinds of fragile.

Another pause, and Spock says, "I believe I would find that acceptable...Leonard."

Hell, Bones thinks. It's a start.

But if the sand-guzzling hobgoblin thinks he can tell Bones how to run sick bay again, he'll have another thing coming.