Work Text:
Spock arrives precisely on time for his appointment. He climbs onto the examination table, preemptively removes his shirt, and allows Dr. McCoy to run all manner of unnecessary tests. The sweeping tricorder, he understands, the reflexology, he does not. The screen above his padded seat whirs through a plethora of results that Dr. McCoy scrawls down with, of all things, a wooden pencil. Sometimes Spock finds it difficult to understand how their sickbay functions at all.
After a number of unproductive minutes spent in the confines of Dr. McCoy’s private office, Dr. McCoy sets his clipboard down on the counter and reports, “You’re fine.”
Spock nods, having expected as much. He reaches for his discarded shirt, but Dr. McCoy continues, “Except for your blood sugar. You’re not feeding regularly enough.”
Spock glances at Dr. McCoy. That’s a matter he doesn’t care to discuss with humans, but unfortunately, Vulcan is too far away to conduct the Starfleet mandated checkups. Despite his instinctive resistance, he explains, “It is difficult to find donours.”
Dr. McCoy snorts. “What, no one’s into those pointy ears? C’mon, Spock. You’re young and fit; you should have an easy time finding someone.”
Spock’s now been around humans long enough to read between the lines. He’s just been paid a complement: Dr. McCoy has basically called Spock attractive.
But Spock reminds him, “Contrary to popular belief, it is not an intimate relationship. I have no intention of seducing anyone in order to drink their blood.”
Dr. McCoy stares at him, frowning. Spock asks, “Can I go now?”
He can tell from the long sigh that the answer’s ‘no.’ Then Dr. McCoy starts rolling up his right sleeve, and Spock watches the blue fabric’s scrunch up around his elbow. He thrusts his arm out, fist closed. He brings his wrist right up to Spock’s face, and Spock’s breath hitches—the intention is obvious.
His eyes flicker to Dr. McCoy’s. He needs to ask, but even saying those words would be too presumptuous. Dr. McCoy gestures forward and insists, “Go ahead. Take a bite.”
Spock’s tongue traces his lips before he realizes that it’s happening. He tries to rein his visceral reaction back, but he’s only half Vulcan, and it’s hard. He can hear Dr. McCoy’s blood coursing through red veins. He can see the blue lines streaming Dr. McCoy’s wrist. The flesh looks so tender there, so soft and delicate. Spock could pierce it easily.
Spock forces out: “That is not necessary.”
“Shut up and do it before I change my mind.”
Spock closes his eyes. He wants to resist. He needs to. But it’s been too long between feedings, and ultimately, he surrenders to his doctor’s orders. He wraps his fingers gently around the back of Dr. McCoy’s knuckles, fingers stroking them soothingly. He’s been taught all the proper techniques to take the pain away. He waits until he can see that Dr. McCoy’s stopped tensing up. Then he leans in and opens wide. He latches on with a sickening crunch that makes Dr. McCoy grunt in discomfort, but Spock massages the area until he relaxes again.
Then Spock starts drinking. He sucks Dr. McCoy’s delicious blood up into his mouth. Terran blood shouldn’t taste so good, but it does. Maybe it’s Spock’s own heritage. Maybe it’s that Dr. McCoy is a handsome man in perfect health. Spock indulges longer than he means to.
He stops when Dr. McCoy’s other hand nudges his shoulder. Dr. McCoy breathes, “That’s enough, Spock.”
Begrudgingly, Spock opens his mouth. The enzymes in his saliva are already stitching the wound back together, but he licks over it anyway, making sure to heal the damage that he caused. The salty taste of Dr. McCoy’s skin is a pleasant dessert. When Spock is finished, he releases a long breath and says, “Thank you.”
Dr. McCoy’s eyes are half-lidded and hazy. That’s a common side effect. He takes a minute to pull himself out of Spock’s grip. Then he mutters, “Not intimate, my ass.”
Spock lifts a brow. He doesn’t understand. But he does know his appointment’s over, and he slips back into his tunic. Dr. McCoy turns away, cheeks flushed and lips frowning. Spock doesn’t dare ask if they can do this again.
He just leaves, satisfied.