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Leonard H. McCoy, M.D.
That’s what his many certificates, awards, diplomas, his personnel file, and his citizen’s I.D. said.
They most certainly did not say (not a single one of them), “friendly neighborhood advice-giver for whomever felt like waltzing up to him at any given moment to chat about dumb relationship questions.”
He made damn well sure the look on his face didn’t say that either.
But if there was one thing green-blooded, pointy-eared bastards were good at, it was subverting every damn rule McCoy had ever laid out for good reason, dammit. All it took was a brief moment alone in the same room, a perfectly placed comment designed both to get McCoy’s attention and get under his skin, then a well-timed, slightly intrusive question and Spock had somehow expertly maneuvered the entire conversation onto the topic he’d wanted all along.
McCoy never had any choice but to answer honestly if he hoped to be left alone.
Spock and Uhura’s relationship had absolutely nothing to do with McCoy. He didn’t want to know about it and he didn’t want to be involved with it in any capacity. But the Vulcan was an endless fount of inquiries concerning the intricacies of romantic involvement with a human partner and apparently, McCoy was the guy for the job.
The job of being Spock’s resident expert on relationships.
A divorced, middle-aged doctor.
The logical choice, apparently.
One of their recent conversations was by far the most irritating to date, what with Spock practically cornering McCoy in an abandoned hallway to ask the all-too-critical question:
“Do you plan to attend the Captain’s annual Valentines celebration?”
McCoy had already felt himself scowling even as he tried to sidestep Spock, but the Vulcan seemed dead set on being a wall instead of polite.
“Maybe. I dunno. Aren’t you and Uhura going?”
Spock tilted his head, as if considering. McCoy quit trying to get around him and crossed his arms with a glare that could scare the ever-loving shit out of even the most seasoned officers.
With the exception of Spock, of course.
“I had not broached the topic with Nyota.”
“Well, you might wanna get on that or she’ll start to think you don’t wanna go with her at all,” McCoy said sarcastically.
One of Spock’s eyebrows jumped to the top of his forehead with an expression McCoy couldn’t help mentally comparing to the faint confusion of a small kitten learning how things worked in a world full of older cats.
It was almost cute.
McCoy shook his head to clear those ridiculous thoughts away.
“Doctor, I—”
“Look, Spock, I’m kinda late for something, so if you wouldn’t mind…” McCoy gestured meaningfully at the blessedly empty hallway behind Spock.
Luckily, the Vulcan took the hint and stepped aside.
“Then I hope to confer with you again at a later time.”
“Great, looking forward to it.”
McCoy was pretty sure he must’ve set a new record for speed walking.
* * *
“Bones!”
“For fuck’s sake. What?”
“Spock’s all worried you’re not coming to the party. Well, for Spock, anyway.”
“Oh, I bet,” McCoy muttered darkly, shoving a box of hypos back into their shelf space before emerging from the storage room, PADD in hand.
Jim was sitting on a biobed wearing a bubblegum pink suit and tie. McCoy would’ve laughed, except it actually looked really good on him and brought out the intense blue of his eyes. He'd even combed his hair.
“So?”
“Is this some elaborate set up to get me to go out with someone you’ve hand-picked? ‘Cause just bein’ honest, Jim, that’s the last thing I wanna do.”
Jim shrugged. “I’m not trying to interfere with how you live your life, Bones. I’m just asking if you’re coming to a party. That’s all.”
At McCoy’s doubtful look, Jim rolled his eyes. “Promise. If you don’t wanna go, I’m not gonna push you, okay?”
“Fine. I’ll go. One hour. But you’re not getting me to wear…” McCoy waved a hand vaguely at Jim’s person. “That.”
Jim grinned. “Don’t worry, Bones, I’ve got something picked out for you already. Besides, you could never pull this off.”
That, at least, they agreed on.
* * *
McCoy was expecting the worst, but Jim had actually chosen a fairly classy cut of suit in a dark red he didn't hate. However (according to his best friend), their outfits clashed horribly, so McCoy was forbidden from standing next to him at any point during the actual party.
Which was typical, really, and McCoy should’ve seen it coming. Now, instead of pretending to socialize with Jim, he’d either have to talk to other people (drunk, flirty, uninhibited people who would probably throw up on him), or he’d slink off to a corner with a beer and hope no one thought he looked lonely enough to try and engage him in conversation. Option number two was the clear winner.
He put on his best scowl to go with the suit and intentionally arrived half an hour late.
Jim had requisitioned the use of one of the larger rec rooms on the ship, employed Scotty’s help to get some alcohol aboard without having to log it with Starfleet, and left the majority of the decorating, planning, and invitations in the capable hands of Uhura, Chekov, and Sulu, along with a few ensigns.
All this meant the room was garishly filled to the brim with balloon hearts, little cupids on the walls, too many kinds of candy, and other things Valentines related in every shade of pink and red known to the fucking universe.
The party was already in full swing by the time McCoy got there, music blaring loudly, lights lowered and flashing like some disco club, crew members dancing and drinking and talking too loudly. He was getting far too old for shit like this.
Thankfully, the temporary bar was easy to spot and McCoy made a beeline for it, dodging flailing limbs and half-drunk kids fresh out of the Academy who somehow still had no idea to handle their liquor.
After a solid five minutes of attempting to get the bartender’s attention (Lieutenant Romin, his brain supplied), he finally got his drink and made his way to the nearest unoccupied space of wall to lean against and observe the goings-on.
In one corner of the room, Chekov was filling the role of DJ while Sulu danced nearby with all the fervor of a high schooler who’d just found out he had the house to himself for the weekend. The sight made McCoy smile for a moment, just a little.
Jim was having shots with Scotty and Keenser at a table with a few other officers. His brilliantly (blindingly) pink suit reflected the lights and somehow contrasted with his hair to make it look even more blonde. No doubt all the girls and boys with puppy crushes on him would be swarming as soon as they caught him alone, but one thing McCoy could grudgingly admit in his best friend’s favor was that he never abused his power that way.
Spock was nowhere to be seen.
“Leonard!”
McCoy glanced away from Jim to see Uhura clad in a red cocktail dress, ponytail swishing as she skipped the rest of the way to his side and immediately linked his free arm with one of her own.
“Leonard!” She shouted again, this time in his ear, and McCoy suppressed a wince. “You have to try this new drink, Chekov came up with it, it’s so good! Come on!”
And with that, Nyota was pulling him back to the bar through a sea of people. McCoy let himself be led, tried (and failed) to hide his smile at her new increase in extroversion with the obvious aid of alcohol, and finished his beer on the way.
“What’s in it?” He yelled back, but she didn’t respond, likely because a new song was starting and it felt like Chekov had upped the volume by about five or ten notches.
After another harrowing minute of near-misses and Uhura almost letting go of McCoy’s arm (the true terror of losing one of the few people he actually knew at a party was something he hadn’t felt in a long time), she’d finally dragged him successfully back to the bar.
It was only a moment later McCoy found himself holding a glass with a decidedly disturbing shade of fizzy pink liquid, swirly straw and all, and Uhura with one of her own. She took the straw in delicate fingers, drew several long sips, then laughed loudly and started bobbing her head to the music.
“Leonard, try it!”
“Yeah, okay! I’m trying it!”
* * *
Later, the only explanation McCoy had for everything that’d happened was how drunk he’d been. It wasn’t an excuse, but it sure as hell was a reason.
Jim’s damn party had turned out to be more of a banger for him than he’d meant it to. He’d agreed to go for an hour, stayed for three, had way more alcohol than he’d intended (whatever the hell Romin put in those horrifyingly pink drinks Chekov invented had apparently been more than McCoy could handle), and later, somehow, ended up in his room alone, loudly yelling his personal log at the computer. After that, it got hazy.
But, no harm, no foul. No one else had seen or heard it and the hangover hypo was kicking in nicely. All in all, not the worst night McCoy could’ve had.
Twenty minutes after his shift started, he headed to the bridge to give Jim a little surprise present. Many (though not all) of the people he passed along the way were clearly in need of some hypos of their own and he advised them to head to sickbay, particularly the engineers before they accidentally blew up the ship and everyone on it.
It’d been a long time since McCoy had seen the crew let loose so much. Hell, it’d been a long time since he’d let loose so much.
Once he’d eventually reached the bridge, McCoy found his eyes automatically drawn to the lone Vulcan aboard, sitting there at his station, eyes glued to his PADD so intensely the poor device was probably going to burst in flames. Nyota, at her own station, noticed him peering in their general direction and gave him a small smile and a nod. She looked as though she hadn’t even had a drop of alcohol the night before.
McCoy returned the nod, ignored the odd feeling of hollowness in his chest at the sight of the two lovebirds sitting mere feet away from each other, and strode to the captain’s chair.
Jim glanced up from a PADD of his own and flashed him a grin, albeit one with slightly less wattage than usual.
“Hey, Bones. Watcha doin’ up here so early?”
McCoy gave him a wicked grin back, unleashed the hypo he’d hidden in his pocket, and stabbed the unsuspecting bastard in the neck with it.
“Ow! Bones, what the hell?” Jim rubbed the tender spot on his neck with a palm and glared.
“You’re welcome, genius. Nobody needs a hungover Captain.”
“Oh, please. I handle my hangovers way better than you ever ha—”
“Captain.”
McCoy nearly jumped out of his skin as Spock materialized by Jim’s chair, hands behind his back, posture stiff, and expression unreadable.
Jim, for his part, looked absolutely unperturbed. Maybe Spock did this sort of thing multiple times a day.
“Geez, man, warn a guy,” McCoy grumbled.
“What’s up, Spock?”
“Could I speak with you in your ready room?”
“Sure.” Jim stood and clapped McCoy on the arm. “Alright, I’ll see you later for lunch, yeah?”
“Yeah. See you later.” McCoy watched the two morons walk away, then called, “And you’re welcome!”
A snort, followed by some indiscreet giggling came from the navigator’s station. McCoy rolled his eyes and headed back to the turbolift.
* * *
That night after shift’s end, McCoy gathered his courage and took a look at his personal log from the evening before.
Jim and his antics featured prominently for the first several minutes, which was unsurprising. The ship’s computer, as advanced as it was, still had some difficulty picking up and understanding every muttered or slurred word, so occasionally, he ran into typos and found himself fixing them on the PADD. The sections where he yelled were translated perfectly fine.
After Jim, drunk McCoy had apparently decided his future self needed reminding to do several tasks in sickbay he’d already completed, and thus, lots of rambling about checking inventory and assigning some unintelligible task to Chapel followed. McCoy couldn’t help but laugh at himself where he sat at his desk.
But it was the last minute and a half that really caught his attention.
When Spock’s name appeared on the screen, he sat up straight so fast, the PADD nearly fell to the floor. His eyes jumped from line to line, slowly widening in horror until at the very end, he clapped a hand over his mouth with a whispered, “Oh, fuck.”
He’d actually sent that small section of his log to Spock, anonymously. While drunk.
Maybe that’s what Spock had been reading on the bridge. Hell, that might’ve even been what he’d wanted to talk to Jim about.
McCoy groaned and dropped his head in his hands, elbows propped on the desk. The whole thing sounded like it’d been written by some pissed off ensign with a grudge against their commanding officer and the stick up his ass. He’d just been venting, but now Spock had read it and probably wanted to launch a whole investigation into who’d sent him the damn thing.
He was so fucked.
Either he needed to come clean or someone who wasn’t even at fault was going to get the blame.
* * *
“Jim!” McCoy jogged up to the man where he'd stopped in the hallway. “Jim, I gotta talk to ya.”
Jim’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? You okay?”
“Yeah, fine. It’s just… I might’ve, y’know…” McCoy sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Done something I kinda regret and I need your advice.”
Jim’s expression turned utterly incredulous. “Me? You want my advice?”
“Yes, Jim. It’s important. When can we talk?”
“Well, I have a few minutes right now. Spock’s watching the bridge for me. Why don’t we walk and you tell me what’s going on?”
McCoy could’ve sagged in relief. “Great, yeah, let’s do that.”
* * *
Jim couldn’t stop laughing. McCoy waited impatiently, arms crossed, gaze trained on the ceiling. At the very least, the hallway they were standing in was all-but abandoned aside from the two of them.
After several minutes of Jim clutching his stomach in an attempt to catch his breath, his laughter finally turned more to the occasional giggle and/or hiccup.
“Oh my god. I’m crying, that’s so funny.”
“For fuck’s sake, Jim. What the hell am I gonna do?”
“Send him another one,” Jim wheezed, then stumbled back against the wall and slid to the floor in a heap. McCoy was really, really glad nobody else was seeing their Captain like this.
“I’m serious, Jim. I can’t just send shit like that to people, much less Spock.” McCoy shifted his hands to his hips and looked down his nose at the complete mess of a man in front of him. “I have to confess, right?”
“No! Bones, you can’t do that.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“‘Cause you have the perfect opportunity to fuck with Spock here!” Jim said, gesticulating wildly with both hands, cheeks still wet from his tears of mirth. “Come on, it’ll be so great.”
“So you’re saying he didn’t tell you about the message he got from me, which he doesn’t actually know is from me?”
“No, he has no idea. He just wanted to talk about officer transfers and admin stuff.”
“…Shit. Jim, I can’t fuck with him like that. I’m not that guy.”
“Bones, come on. Even Spock would think it’s funny.”
“Spock doesn’t think anything’s funny!”
“Oh, please. You know that’s not true. You two joke with each other all the time.”
McCoy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This is so fucked up.”
“Bones, it’d just be a prank. You wouldn’t even have to say anything you actually mean.”
“Just ‘cause I sent it anonymously doesn’t mean he can’t just do some fancy code hacking thing and figure out it was me.”
Jim brightened considerably and sat up straighter. “Well, I can help you with that. I’ll just keep him off the trail and write some special code for you that’ll take forever to track back to its source. It’ll be easy.”
“Well, why don’t you just pull some stupid prank on him?”
“It’d be way funnier if you do it.”
“Bullshit. I’m not doin’ this to Spock. I’ll just confess and we’ll get this whole thing out’a the way.”
Jim shrugged. “Alright, if that’s what you want. But if you change your mind, it’d be hilarious.”
“Whatever. Thanks for the advice, even though it’s stupid. See ya later.”
Jim started laughing again as McCoy walked away, the sound echoing after him even as he turned out of Jim’s sight.
* * *
For a few days, McCoy’s mind was made up. No, he was not going to send what essentially amounted to hate notes to both his friend (sort of) and commanding officer as some kind of weird prank. And eventually, he’d find the right time to confess that the anonymous message had been from him.
But Spock really didn’t make it easy to stick to that decision.
At seemingly every opportunity, he was there in McCoy’s space, hovering, following him around, sometimes even just sitting on a biobed with his PADD while McCoy worked. It was irritating, to say the least.
Spock was there when McCoy ate lunch in the mess, he came to stand next to the captain’s chair every time McCoy went up to the bridge to check on things, he walked with McCoy to his quarters any time their shift ends coincided.
McCoy felt like he was slowly losing his sanity with a Vulcan shadow.
On top of that, their conversations were always cryptic, weird, and left him feeling more annoyed no matter how hard he tried to engage Spock in something even close to resembling their normal banter.
“So, I didn’t see you at the Valentines party. Just Nyota,” he observed one afternoon in sickbay, having decided to conduct Spock’s physical since the damn Vulcan had basically decided to move in anyway.
Spock’s expression was completely blank. “I chose not to attend.”
McCoy resisted the urge to sigh loudly as he ran a scanner over him. “No shit. I’m just curious why that is.”
“I took the opportunity to meditate.”
“As far as I know, you meditate all the fucking time anyway.”
One of Spock’s hands twitched in his lap, so subtly McCoy almost didn’t notice it. “My previous shift had been somewhat more strenuous than usual.”
“Strenuous how?” McCoy set aside the scanner and moved to look at the data on a nearby computer.
“There were multiple different crises to manage regarding various ongoing experiments of mine, as well as one incident in Engineering that required my supervision.”
McCoy snorted, scrolling through the readouts from the scanner. “Incident? From what I heard, all that happened was Scotty almost ruining his distillery with an accidental temperature imbalance.”
“Yes.”
McCoy rolled his eyes and saved the data to Spock’s file. “Well, I got good news and I got bad news.” He turned back to Spock, arms crossed. “Which do you wanna hear first?”
“Either, Doctor. It makes no difference to me,” Spock said blandly.
“Great,” McCoy deadpanned. “Good news is, everything looks normal. Bad news is, you’re still half-Vulcan.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “And yet, I find being half-Vulcan infinitely preferable to the alternative of being entirely human.”
“Oh, do ya now?”
“Indeed, Doctor. The practice of controlling one’s emotions comes naturally to me, whereas to you, it must seem an impossible feat.”
McCoy couldn’t help cracking a smile. “Bullshit. You’re so fucking emotional, you probably don’t even know what to do with it all.”
Spock’s expression (though fairly unreadable before) completely shuttered and he suddenly stood. “Good day, Doctor.”
McCoy blinked. “What, you’re leaving?”
“Your examination has concluded, I assumed.”
“Well, yeah. I guess. And it was just a joke, Spock, I’m not actually—”
Without another word, Spock turned his back on him and left. Stunned, McCoy just stared after the retreating Vulcan. Spock could be rude sometimes, but he wasn’t “leave in the middle of a conversation” rude.
Even more surprising was that McCoy actually felt a little hurt by it.
* * *
The second time it happened, alcohol was a significant aid once again. McCoy found himself alone in his office, tired, irritated, and grumpy. None of those things were exactly unusual, but the fact that all three of them had to do with Spock somehow made it worse.
He drank until he couldn’t hold it back anymore, then vented his frustration onto his PADD with quick fingers.
Sometimes, I think it’d be easier working with a wall than with you. The only difference is that it would be an inanimate object.
The brandy was good. Somehow, the bottle seemed to be emptying faster than he was actually drinking it. Or maybe it was just his imagination.
And you’re so full of shit. No one actually believes you when you talk about all that Vulcan control. You choked the Captain out on the bridge and I’m always sure you’re about two seconds away from doing it to someone else… well, not just anyone else.
Was he pouring the last of the stuff already? It burned when he threw it back, but the haze it produced was almost a sweet relief.
You’re so fucking condescending, I can’t believe you deigned to come work on a ship full of humans at all. If we’re so fucking irrational, how the hell do you explain the logic in working with us?
With his glass emptied, he stared at the screen blankly. The words were swimming a little. Again, probably just his imagination.
It’d be a great idea to send it to Spock. McCoy could just think of the look on his face, how funny it’d be to see it.
But Jim! Jim had promised to give him some code thing so Spock wouldn’t figure out who’d written it. With some difficulty, McCoy had to tap the screen three times (or was it four?) until the damn thing actually responded, bringing up Jim’s contact.
L.H. McCoy: hey genuis
L.H. McCoy: worte another note
L.H. McCoy: wanna send it to spock without him knownit was me
Within moments, Jim responded.
J.T. Kirk: Send what you’ve written to me first.
J.T. Kirk: And are you drunk?
L.H. McCoy: yeah
After figuring out which buttons he needed to press in his inebriated state, he finally managed to send the damn thing to Jim. Again, it hardly seemed like any time at all had passed before Jim’s response appeared on the screen.
J.T. Kirk: Okay, that’s good. I fixed all the typos and the grammar stuff or he’d guess it was you right away.
J.T. Kirk: I sent it to him already with my coding, so he won’t be able to follow it back to the source.
J.T. Kirk: You need help getting to bed?
But McCoy had already passed out at his desk.
* * *
“Doctor? Doctor, are you alright?”
A sudden influx of noise and light brought a stabbing pain to McCoy’s slowly reawakening brain, which prompted a groan and some unintelligible mumbling.
A warm hand came to rest on his upper arm.
“Doctor? Should I call nurse Chapel?”
“Nnhg,” McCoy said, with all the eloquence of someone barely alive.
“Doctor.” The hand shook his arm gently, but insistently. A moment later it was gone, leaving behind a cold space where he’d been touched.
Soft footsteps faded away, then came close again, followed by the hiss of a hypo spray and the unpleasant sensation of its contents flowing through his bloodstream.
“Ugh.” McCoy’s mind began to clear just enough to lift his head and see who’d borne witness to his shame.
Spock, of course. Standing there with his usual stiffness and a vaguely… concerned look? That couldn’t be right. The hangover hypo must’ve not fully kicked in yet.
McCoy glanced away and sat up straight in the chair, hand rubbing the back of his aching neck awkwardly.
“Hey, Spock. How’re things?” God, his voice sounded way too hoarse.
Spock tilted his head. “I would ask you the same question, Doctor. You seem… out of sorts.”
“You could say that. What brings you here at…” McCoy blearily peered at his desk chronometer. “06:03? Your shift hasn’t even started yet.”
“I was hoping to discuss a personal matter with you, but you were not in your quarters. If this is an inconvenient time, however, I will take my leave.”
McCoy suppressed another groan. Couldn’t Spock work out his problems with his girlfriend like a normal person?
“Okay,” he said reluctantly, seeing no realistic way of getting out of the conversation and having absolutely no desire to push it off till later. “What’s on your mind?”
Spock opened his mouth, closed it, then sat rather abruptly in the opposite chair. It was several long seconds more until he’d opened his mouth again.
“Doctor, I am sure you recall many instances in which I have sought your… wisdom, so to speak, on interpersonal relationships, particularly as it came to romantic ones.” Spock’s tone was almost uncertain, the rhythm of his speech halting.
McCoy shrugged as if indifferent. “Yep. Lots of ‘em.”
“These questions have had… personal significance. It would be remiss of me not to properly express my gratitude for your willingness to answer them to the best of your ability, even when it made you uncomfortable.”
“Well, thanks, but I’m sure that’s not the only thing you wanted to talk about.”
“True. I find myself experiencing a… particular set of emotions for not only one individual.”
McCoy rubbed both hands down his face. It was far too early in the day to be interpreting Spock-speak.
“What kinda emotions are we talking about? And what do you mean, not just one individual?”
“I believe I am feeling romantically towards two different people simultaneously. This is not a phenomenon I have encountered before and I suspect it stems more from my human half than my Vulcan half.”
“Probably,” McCoy agreed. “So I assume Nyota is one of those people you’re feeling things towards, obviously?”
Spock blinked. “Leonard, Nyota and I are platonic.”
McCoy snorted. “Very funny. Everybody knows you’ve been dating for ages.”
“I am being entirely serious. We ended our romantic relationship three years, two months, and fifteen days ago.”
Now it was McCoy’s turn to be surprised. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Spock. I didn’t know.”
That explained a few things, at least. Some traitorous part of him deep down inside made its pleasure about this new fact known and McCoy ruthlessly shoved it out of mind.
“Thank you, Doctor. But I still wanted your opinion.”
Spock’s hands were folded on the desk. McCoy wondered what it would be like to reach out and touch them, if his skin would feel smooth and soft, or if he’d—
Shit.
“Right. So you’re feeling attracted to two different people. Have you figured out what’s drawing you to either or both of them yet?”
Spock looked down, his expression measured as he contemplated the question. “I believe in both cases it has something to do with their assertiveness, as well as a… distinct lack of interest in keeping their thoughts to themselves.”
McCoy nodded. Those did seem like qualities Spock would have been initially unconsciously attracted to.
“And I assume both these people work on the Enterprise?”
“I believe so.”
“What do you mean, you believe so?”
“One of them I have not yet fully established the identity of.”
McCoy raised a dubious eyebrow. “Care to explain?”
Spock let a quick puff of air that could’ve almost been an exasperated sigh. “I have been receiving communications from someone anonymously. Despite my best attempts, I have not been able to identify the sender.”
Vague, blurry memories from the night before suddenly made an appearance in McCoy’s head, prompting a sinking suspicion to go along with equally rising horror.
“Uh. What kind of communications are we talking about here, Spock, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Spock shifted in his seat. “Ones of a… critical nature.”
Oh, fuck. Not only had McCoy sent him another anonymous note, but Spock was actually starting to develop a crush on him because of it? How could he even confess he’d been the one to send them now?
“Okay. But you know who the other person is, right? I mean, you must’ve actually had a conversation with them,” McCoy said, attempting to salvage the situation by turning Spock’s attention more towards whoever his second crush was.
“Indeed. They are someone I have known a significant length of time.”
Well, that sounded promising, at least.
“Good, that’s a start. Have you thought about telling them how you feel yet?”
“Many times,” Spock answered quickly. “I find it frequently occupies my thoughts.”
“Well, what’s holding you back?”
“I am not certain this individual would respond positively, or even neutrally, to my regard for them. Their…” Spock paused, as if searching for the best word. “Companionship,” he landed on, “Is of great importance to me. I do not want to lose my current dynamic with them even if they do not feel the same, yet I also do not know how to approach them to tell the truth.”
McCoy sighed, more out of sympathy than anything else. “I understand the difficulties of that sort of situation, Spock, and I get why you’re hesitant. But it’s not fair to that person to be kept in the dark. You need to give them the opportunity to make up their own mind about how they feel. And who knows? They might even be on the same page as you. At some point, you just gotta find the courage and admit what you really want. There’s no such thing as perfect timing.”
It occurred to McCoy some of his advice, particularly as it came to confessing, might actually apply to himself just as much as to Spock.
Spock nodded slowly. “Thank you, Doctor. This conversation has been helpful.”
“Yep. Now, go on and get. I gotta take a shower.”
* * *
“Jim, if you ever let me get away with doing anything like that when I’m drunk again, I’m setting up daily appointments for you to be hypo’ed with random shit, got it?”
“So, Spock’s got the hots for you, huh? Wanna talk about it?”
“Absolutely not. And besides, he’s into somebody else already. Let’s hope that works out so I don’t die of embarrassment.”
“Uh-huh. Have any guesses who it is?”
“Fucking hell, Jim,” McCoy complained, letting himself sink deeper into the couch. “It’s none of our business. Just let the Vulcan crush on people in peace.”
Jim just laughed, sprawled where he was on his bed. “I bet it’s you.”
“Yeah, we’ve established that. I meant the other person.”
“No, really. I think it’s you.”
McCoy paused for a moment and let the implications sink in. “Why?”
“Just ‘cause. When he’s not on the bridge or in his quarters, he’s almost always with you, right?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“Right. He actually seeks out your opinion on things. He likes knowing what you think and how you feel. Hell, even Uhura approves.”
Shockingly, what Jim was saying made some sense. McCoy must’ve been losing his grip on reality.
“Fuck.”
Jim snorted. “Who do you think is gonna come out with it first, you or him?”
“No one!”
“Aw, come on, Bones. I’m betting on Spock, but you could probably pull through last minute.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” McCoy grabbed one of the pillows on the couch and held it against his face, not sure yet if he wanted to scream into it or try to suffocate himself with it.
* * *
Outside the view port, the nebula the Enterprise was slowly passing reflected brilliantly into the darkness of the observation deck. It was so blue, McCoy almost felt as though he were standing in an aquarium and any moment some large sea creature was about to float lazily past the glass.
It was mesmerizing.
Even the doors behind him opening and closing didn’t prompt McCoy to look away, nor the quiet presence of the Vulcan who came to stand beside him. After a moment, he spoke.
“It was my understanding you did not appreciate reminders of the fact that we are in space, Doctor,” he said softly.
“Usually, I don’t. But this is kinda nice.”
“Indeed. It is aesthetically pleasing.”
“You come here a lot?”
“Occasionally.”
“What are you doing here now?”
“I wanted to commend you on your recently published paper. I found your arguments both compelling and informative.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Thanking me is not necessary. It was your own—”
“Hey, Spock?”
“Yes, Leonard?”
“Just relax and enjoy the silence for a minute, would ya?”
“Very well, Leonard.”
So they stood together for some length of time McCoy didn’t bother trying to track, but was sure Spock knew down to the millisecond. It wasn’t long until the rate of their breathing seemed to align, inhaling and exhaling on the same beat, which was a little odd considering Spock’s lung capacity was different compared to his own. He must’ve been doing it on purpose.
It was almost meditative. McCoy found the weight of stress and anxiety he so often carried with him melting away in the quiet of the room, relaxing with the sight of the beauty before him and Spock beside him.
He liked the peace of the moment. And then Spock had to ruin it.
“I think I may be falling in love with you.”
The words dropped like a stone into the silence.
McCoy stayed exactly where he was, completely still, brain stalling out.
Just as he’d opened his mouth to respond with something borderline useful like, “Sorry, what the fuck?”, Spock had turned and left, taking all the peace with him. The ghost of the Vulcan seemed to echo in the space.
* * *
The third time it happened was more or less an accident and most definitely Jim’s fault. An away mission gone wrong, Spock in a Vulcan healing trance for twelve hours straight, and several sleepless nights for McCoy later, he’d hit his breaking point.
The bastard shouldn’t have jumped in front of him to take the hit. He’d nearly died. McCoy would’ve been fine. His heart wasn’t located in the same place as Spock’s.
And he’d barely even had a chance to think about what Spock had told him on the observation deck, much less figure out if the Vulcan had even meant what he said.
Something McCoy had learned over the years of working with injury-prone idiots like Jim and Spock was how to write an official complaint about their behavior, then leave it in a locked file on his PADD and never send it. Compared to the few notes he’d sent Spock while drunk, this one was far more formal, professional.
And never meant to be seen.
But Jim had found the damn thing anyway.
“Don’t you dare fucking send that. I’ve got loads of those things written up for you two. It’s just venting.”
“Yeah, but it’s perfect for Spock. He’ll love it. You even used the word negligent! He’ll print it out and frame the damn thing on his wall.”
“Jim, he’ll know it’s from me even if he can’t prove it. He’s read my reports before.”
“All the better!”
“Jim,” McCoy said warningly. “Give me the damn PADD.”
“Nope.” He practically danced away from McCoy, fingers flying across the screen.
“Jim, I’m serious. He can’t know.” McCoy inched a little closer, hoping to snatch the device away from him before he could react.
“What, can’t know that you totally like him back?”
“What? No, I don’t. Give me that.”
Jim looked up and smiled, something in his expression actually genuine and fond. “Bones, you’re hopeless. Just let me do this for you.”
“Do what?”
“Annnd… finished!”
McCoy panicked. “You sent it already? Jim!”
“Don’t worry. Like I said, he’ll love it.” And with that, Jim held out the PADD with a look of pure triumph on his face.
As if McCoy even needed the PADD back now that he was totally screwed. He took it anyway, glaring bloody murder at his best friend.
* * *
“I’m so glad you and Spock are close,” Nyota said cheerfully one day after a session of decontamination following another away mission.
McCoy raised a surprised eyebrow as he glanced up from the readings on his tricorder.
“How do ya figure?”
She shrugged as she zipped a boot up. “He talks about you a lot. I think he feels safe with you. And I can tell you feel the same, too.”
“Huh. Could’a fooled me. But thanks anyway.”
“All good?”
“Yep, you’re cleared for duty.”
“Great!” Nyota stood, gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then called on her way out the door, “You two would be good together, by the way!”
McCoy stood there for about another minute, stunned, hand idly tracing the spot she’d kissed as her words repeated themselves in his head on a loop.
* * *
The full realization wasn’t gradual. In fact, it hit him with both the speed and strength of a hoverbus with the brake lines cut.
Jim had been right and Spock hadn’t been fucking with him.
All it took was for McCoy to notice one fleeting glance sent his way, the Vulcan’s big brown eyes heavy with want, his hands briefly clenching into fists, footsteps stuttering for what could’ve only been a few seconds, before he was striding across the mess hall to a replicator, totally normal again.
McCoy tried to rationalize it. Spock might’ve been looking at someone else. Hell, he might’ve been thinking about someone else. But his gut feelings never lied and McCoy just knew with absolute certainty Spock’s confession on the observation deck weeks before really had been real.
And something inside him snapped.
He shoved his seat away from the table, prompting confused looks from Jim, Chekov, and Sulu, and made his way to Spock. The Vulcan was turned away from him.
McCoy planted his feet, crossed his arms, and cleared his throat. Spock looked behind him, surprise quickly flashing across his features, and fully turned to face McCoy.
“Doctor. May I help you?”
“I’m the one who’s been sending you those damn messages anonymously.”
Spock just looked at him. Suddenly, time stood still.
Voices around them faded into the background. The tension between them was thick and suffocating. They were the only two people in the entire universe.
Then Spock shattered it by grabbing one of McCoy’s arms with bruising strength and practically hauling him out of the mess hall. McCoy could feel dozens of eyes looking to them just before the door swished closed, but Spock didn’t stop in the hallway.
“What the hell, Spock? You know I can walk on my own, right?” McCoy tried in vain to wriggle free, but Spock only moved faster, gaze forward.
“Look, if you wanna kick my ass for it, fine, but don’t—”
Spock yanked him into the open turbo lift so fast he nearly fell.
“Officer’s quarters,” Spock ordered, voice cold and commanding. McCoy suppressed a shiver at the sound.
Spock still hadn’t let him go and he didn’t bother trying to protest it again.
The silence felt like the calm before a storm, dangerous and unpredictable.
Moments later Spock was leading him (dragging, almost) out of the turbolift, down the hallway, where they came to a stop in front of his quarters and he keyed them in.
“Lights, fifty percent.”
Finally, Spock released him. With a wince, McCoy rubbed his bruised arm and looked around. Spock’s living space was pristine. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d visited here.
“Leonard.”
McCoy quickly brought his attention back to the Vulcan looming over him, somehow transformed within the past few minutes into a force of pure energy and emotion and practically vibrating with it.
“Spock.”
Spock took two steps forward and McCoy automatically moved away, back hitting the wall. Spock’s hands came up to cage him on either side, eyes dark and searching.
“Why did you send those things?“
“‘Cause you piss me off,” McCoy replied, hating the slight tremor in his voice.
“Why anonymously?”
“I dunno. I was drunk the first two times and the last one, you’d almost gotten yourself fucking killed.”
“Tell. Me.”
McCoy swallowed, feeling hopelessly trapped and somehow almost liking it.
“You’re a bastard and completely full of yourself. I thought someone should take you down a peg or fifty.”
“Then say exactly what you mean directly to my face.”
“I just did.”
“Leonard.”
“What, you want me to lay out in detail how much of a stuck-up, arrogant, condescending, son of a—“
“I want you to tell me how you feel. Not what you think.”
Without stopping to consider it, McCoy balled his hands in Spock’s shirt, bringing them even closer together, noses touching.
“Fine. I feel angry that you dumped a damn love confession on me and then fucking walked away. I feel upset that you constantly throw yourself into the line of fire for me, literally, and I just have to fucking take it. I feel frustrated that I might be falling in love with you and you’re one of the most irritating people I’ve ever fucking met.”
Spock let out a shaky exhale, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against McCoy’s.
“I hoped it was you,” Spock said softly. “I knew it was you.”
“What, the damn messages?”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking crazy, Spock.”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Fine, you total—”
Then Spock’s mouth was covering his, warm, safe like home, and McCoy was completely lost to reality.
* * *
“What’s that I hear? The sound of wedding bells?”
“Fuck off, Jim. We’re just sitting next to each other.”
Jim crouched down between them, slinging one arm over Spock’s shoulders and the other over McCoy’s.
“My two best friends love each other. What could be better?”
“Are you asking rhetorically or do you want a real answer, Jim?” Spock said borderline sarcastically.
McCoy laughed before he could stop himself. “Good question. Answer the man, Jim.”
“It was rhetorical. There isn’t anything better,” Jim said simply, then squeezed them in a hug, which they both bodily resisted. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone now.”
After he’d left, McCoy scooted closer to Spock where they sat on the floor in front of the view port.
“We should probably prank him back at some point, just to give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“Yes, I believe that is the only logical choice when addressing Jim’s antics.”
“And look, Spock. I know you’re not big on touch all that often and frankly, neither am I, so it’s totally okay if—”
Spock shifted just enough to snake both arms around his waist and easily dragged McCoy into his lap with a surprised yelp. McCoy huffed, then gradually sank into his hold, head falling back against Spock’s chest, enjoying the warmth of Spock’s body all around him.
“Did you want to finish what you were saying?”
“No. Shut up.”
“I love you, Leonard.”
“I love you, too, Spock. Sorry I’m an ass.”
“I quite enjoy your posterior.”
“Okay, now you’re being an ass.”
“I am only following the example you have set.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. There’s no winning with you, is there?”
Spock just hummed contemplatively in lieu of response and pressed a kiss to the top of McCoy’s head as he wrapped his arms around him tighter. McCoy smiled to himself.
Maybe the green-blooded, pointy-eared bastard wasn’t so bad after all.