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The Vulcan that beams onto the Enterprise is not quite what Spock expects. He is certain that neither Lt. Riley–the only other person in the transporter room at the moment–nor any of the other human crew members onboard would understand the cultural nuances, but to the trained Vulcan eye, there are several tells that would mark him as aberrant in polite Vulcan society. He is young–perhaps 30 years old. His hair stops five inches down his back below what would generally be considered appropriate. A small piercing, inlaid with vokaya, is nestled into the narrow space between cartilage in the pointed tip of his left ear. His robes stop half a foot off the ground, revealing his ankles.
On Vulcan, he would be considered downright punk. It is a surprising presentation for a professional of his standing. Spock notes the observation neutrally and then sets the fact to the back of his mind for use later, if ever. He, too, is a professional, after all, and his job is to make this guest feel comfortable and welcome onboard the ship. And even if it weren’t, few know better than Spock than to judge anyone based on Vulcan standards of propriety.
“Dr. Tolek,” Spock greets, throwing up the ta’al. “I welcome you to the U.S.S. Enterprise . I trust your journey was safe?”
“Commander Spock.” Tolek returns the salute, then looks askance down the length of his own body. “All of my molecules do appear to be in the correct place.”
Spock cannot help a surprised blink. Was that a joke?
He wills himself not to dwell on it. “I am pleased to hear it,” he continues on. “Unless there is anywhere else you would like to see first, I would like to show you to your quarters for the next seven days.”
Tolek gestures with one hand in front of him. “Please, Commander. Lead on.”
Spock wordlessly nods his head and strikes up a path through the labyrinthine corridors of the Enterprise . Tolek’s temporary quarters are not so far from Spock’s own, near the labs and medical rooms where he will be spending most of his time during his residency.
“On behalf of our crew, and particularly our medical staff, I would like to express our gratitude for you agreeing to this program,” Spock says as Tolek perfectly matches his strides. “It is a great privilege for our doctors and nurses to learn from a physician of your expertise.”
Tolek tilts his head minutely to the side. “I would say the privilege is mine, in this case.”
“How so?”
“The Enterprise boasts some of the most recognized medical minds in the galaxy. Dr. M’Benga is the first non-Vulcan to have ever graduated from the Vulcan Science Academy, and Dr. McCoy-” Tolek clears his throat; Spock notes a darkening green on the ridges of his cheekbones. “Well, Dr. McCoy’s curriculum vitae is too long to discuss all his accomplishments, but suffice to say–as I am sure you are well aware–that he has been on the frontlines of xenobiological research for the better part of two decades, and has the accolades to show for it.”
Spock feels a warm glow of what he will not dare name as pride rise up from his chest. He has never once regretted his choice to enter Starfleet, and at 36 he has already received significant interplanetary recognition for his work. Much of his success is thanks to the Enterprise being a remarkably capable ship staffed by a remarkably talented crew, but it is so rare to have that fact acknowledged by other Vulcans.
“I am not sure the Council would agree with you,” is all that Spock says in response.
Tolek raises an eyebrow. “As it happens, Commander, I do not put much weight into the opinion of the Council.” He lifts his chin towards the ceiling. “I assure you the feeling is mutual.”
Spock mulls this information over as they turn towards the turbolift. He gestures Tolek inside.
“You came highly recommended,” Spock says as he wraps his fingers around the turbolift’s control handle. “Councilor N’Livek wrote a personal referral for you.”
Tolek shocks Spock by snorting. “I am sure she did.” He glances at Spock from the corner of his eyes; there is something deeply knowing about the look. “There comes a point, if one is successful enough, where one’s achievements are impossible to ignore, no matter what other . . . detractions one may have. I do not mean to assume, but I gather you are not unfamiliar with the phenomenon?”
Ah, Spock thinks. A kindred spirit.
“The Council and I have had several disagreements,” Spock acknowledges. Mostly he means with Sarek, who may not be an official member of the Council, but has provided them with advice for decades as an ambassador for the planet. On the other hand, Spock’s accomplished career is a feather the Council loves to pin in their hats, whether or not he has given them permission to do so. (He has not.) Spock did not need T’Pring to remind him of his legendary status, for better or for worse, on his home planet; most days, he meets the simple fact of his prominence in Vulcan history with chagrin.
It is better, Spock thinks, to have his work exploited by others trying to improve their own stations within the Federation than to have it relegated to obscurity by those too apathetic to care about it at all.
He wonders how much of this must show in his expression, particularly when Tolek says, “So you see my position.”
Indeed, it would be hard for Spock not to. Even so, he cannot help but press. “One might still say it is illogical to go against the Council’s wishes, as they ultimately decide what research is awarded support.”
“One might,” Tolek agrees. “Personally, I do not find it illogical to follow my principles, even when they differ from the majority’s. The Council believes it is not logical for me to focus my studies on what they consider unsavory practices learned from other species, which is a reasonable enough argument. However, I believe it is not logical to allow xenophobia to hinder our progress as a people, particularly when it would put us at an intellectual disadvantage both with other Federation races and our enemies.”
“Unsavory practices?”
The turbolift opens. Again, Spock waves a hand to have Tolek exit in front of him.
As he steps out into the corridor, one corner of Tolek’s mouth twitches. “Tell me, Commander, are you familiar with the specific techniques I specialize in?”
“I am afraid I am not.” Spock fights down a wave of shame. He is XO; there are many duties he has to attend to, and learning the details of this one guest has not been a priority. This whole residency came from McCoy, anyway; Spock is just here to make Tolek feel more comfortable. It was a rare show of consideration for Vulcan culture that led McCoy to suggest Spock be the one to greet Tolek, and Kirk had agreed. At that point, who was Spock to say no?
“Ah, I see,” Tolek replies, but Spock hears no judgment in his tone. “That does explain some of your confusion. I believe you would understand the Council’s objections to my doctoring if you were to see me work.”
“I am glad to have the chance to observe, then,” Spock says, and he means it. He is always intrigued by Vulcans who pursue projects that ruffle the Council’s feathers. “In the meantime, here are your quarters. My own are three doors down, connected to the Captain’s. Dr. McCoy’s are just beyond that.”
Something flashes in Tolek’s eyes at that and his nostrils flare wide on his next inhale. Spock again notes the reaction neutrally, then continues, “The Sickbay, where you will be giving your lectures, is eight doors down from there, and Dr. M’Benga’s quarters are just on the other side of that. Is there anything else you need at this time?”
“No, Commander, this is quite sufficient.” Tolek leans against the doorframe of his room, but his gaze is focused down the hallway. If Spock didn’t know better, he would call him distracted. “I hope to see you at the demonstration tomorrow?”
“I look forward to observing.”
Tolek dips his head. “Good evening.” The door to his room closes behind him, and Spock makes his way to the Bridge to start his shift.
Day One
While McCoy, M’Benga, and Chapel are the only full-time medical staff members aboard the Enterprise, they pick up a rotating cast of students, interns, and established professionals at every stop to a Federation base. A group of eight of them have assembled in the Sickbay’s operating theater when Spock makes his way through the doors. M’Benga and Chapel linger by the wall. In the center of the semi-circle formed by the students stand McCoy and Tolek, the former nodding to something the latter is whispering into his ear. Spock notes the lack of distance between them as he takes a position next to Chapel.
“Mr. Spock,” she greets with a shy smile. While Spock is both aware of Chapel’s feelings for him and the fact that he cannot return them, he is always warmed by the geniality that colors their interactions. “I’m glad you could make it. We were just about to get started.”
She nods her head toward McCoy and Tolek and the operating table bookended between them. Except, no- that’s not the operating table at all. It has been replaced by a different table, upholstered in plush fabric and ending with a ring jutting off of its end, just about the size of an average humanoid head.
Spock’s brow furrows. A massage table?
“Appreciate all of you being here promptly,” McCoy starts speaking before Spock can think more about it. “You’re in for a special treat. Dr. Tolek has kindly agreed to this weeklong residency to help get us back to basics. Don’t let his looks fool you, folks; despite his youth, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone with a greater depth of expertise in Federation space.”
“The honor is all mine,” says Tolek. His expression doesn’t change, but he projects contentment so fiercely Spock feels it on the other side of the room. He blinks at the force of Tolek’s feelings, shocked at the lack of reaction from anyone else, and has to remind himself that most of the other attendees are completely psi-null. Still . . .
It does not take a telepath to read the delight in McCoy’s answering, gap-toothed smile. “Anyone who has worked with me for any amount of time knows how glad I am to be living in an enlightened age of medical practice.” He gestures to the wall behind the students’ heads, where his case of scalpels hangs, the bottom one still missing since his run in with Khan. “We don’t need to resort to crude methods like leeches or blades or drills. None of our current equipment would have been at home in the Spanish Inquisition.” He pauses when that raises a chuckle out of a couple of the attendees. “The advances made in medical technology mean that we can be both more efficient and humane in our doctoring, but there is one ancient tool that we would all do well to remember how to properly use–one tool that will never become obsolete. Anyone have any idea of what that might be?”
A murmur goes through the collected audience, but no one offers any answer.
McCoy holds his arms up and spreads his fingers. He says, “It’s your own two hands.”
As a sigh of understanding flows through the students, Tolek takes one step forward. “It pleases me immensely to be here with you all and to share my knowledge. Dr. McCoy exaggerates my prowess, I assure you.”
“I’ve seen your resume,” McCoy laughs.
“And I, yours,” Tolek counters.
Banter. This is banter. And it is so easy for the two of them. Spock glances between McCoy and Tolek. Something unsettled starts to form in the pit of his stomach. He acknowledges the feeling and quickly sequesters it away to be pondered at a later meditation.
“In any case,” Tolek continues, “it is indeed true that I have devoted my studies to discovering how best we can use the tools with which we are all born. I look forward to teaching you what I have learned, and learning from you all in return.”
A dull thud grabs Spock’s attention; it is McCoy, heaving a practice dummy onto the massage table. He grins at Tolek. The corner of Tolek’s mouth tilts upwards. He circles around the massage table until he stands above the dummy’s torso, with McCoy almost shoulder-to-shoulder beside him.
“While internal arrangements of organs differ quite significantly between Federation races, musculature remains largely the same. Humans, Vulcans, Trill, Betazoids, and Andorians are among those who have analogous muscle structure, and the same can be assumed for most species who share our relative bipedal silhouette. The techniques I will be passing onto you over the next six days should be appropriate for any body with the same basic structural layout.”
“The key to good muscle health is blood flow,” McCoy cuts in. “Contracted muscles restrict blood flow, so when we sit in the same position for too long or otherwise tense up without relief, waste starts to accumulate in our muscle fibers, and that’s what starts to cause pain.”
Tolek nods. There is a very non-Vulcan bounce to his movements. “Very succinctly put, Dr. McCoy, thank you. I am sure this is all basic information to you, but the primary goal of massage therapy is to increase circulation and release the buildup of impurities. Today I will be demonstrating three techniques to start us off, and then observing your practice of these on each other.”
He leans over the dummy, but before he can put his hands on it, McCoy rushes to pull something from his back pocket and shove it towards Tolek. “Here,” says McCoy, revealing a pair of latex surgical gloves, “for your . . .”
Tolek stares almost sluggishly at the pair. “That will not be necessary.”
McCoy rocks back on his heels–a nervous version of this particular habit of his, Spock knows, rather than a giddy one. “But-”
“I understand your reasoning, and your cultural sensitivity is quite appreciated,” says Tolek. “However, using gloves for this would be no more logical than attempting to use a hypospray that has not had its cap removed or a medical scanner that has not been sufficiently charged. My hands are my instruments; I have no desire to blunt them.”
The look on McCoy’s face suggests he is not convinced. “If you say so,” he says, a wary note in his tone.
“I do.” Tolek rolls up his sleeves and sets his hands on the dummy’s shoulder blades.
McCoy clears his throat, rocks once more, and takes a step back.
“The first technique is a gliding, full hand contact sweep.” Tolek’s hands are broad on the dummy’s back, spanning the width of its shoulders. He presses them flat against its synthetic skin and then pushes out, sliding them down toward the base of its spine. “Ideally, with a patient, you would also use an oil, cream, or other medical lubricant to help ease the way.”
A flush of heat graces Spock’s cheeks as he watches the interplay between Tolek’s fingers and the artificial flesh of the practice dummy and conjures up thoughts of moistened limbs shifting against one another. He understands with sudden clarity the objections the Vulcan Council would have to such practices. He reminds himself that erogenous zones need medical care as well, and that Dr. Tolek’s demonstration is no more inherently pornographic than a root canal or a mammogram or a prostate exam.
The dummy’s rubber skin squeaks as Tolek’s hands stroke over it. Spock inhales sharply.
Tolek switches the position of his hands so that they are layered on top of each other. “The second technique is a basic compression,” he says. “Imagine that you are pushing down on a saturated sponge, squeezing the water out. I find it helpful to imagine the water flowing over your fingers.” The heel of his bottom palm kneads sharply into the dummy’s scapula.
Spock may not be a medical professional, but surely, he thinks, the metaphor for flowing water is not necessary. Even with the great human propensity for visual learning, that particular choice of mental image seems unduly erotic.
He looks at the rest of the room’s occupants. No one else so much as blinks.
Tolek sighs loudly enough to pull Spock from his musing. “Dr. McCoy, I do hate to trouble you, but would you happen to have some oil I could use? I am afraid I have underestimated the challenge of working with this test subject’s epidermis.” The corner of his mouth twitches again.
“Oh!” McCoy’s eyes flit around the room, landing on a set of bedside drawers. “Of course,” he says as he trots over to them, opens the top drawers, and pulls out a capped tube. He jaunts back over to Tolek’s side. “Will this do?”
As McCoy passes the tube to Tolek, the tips of Tolek’s fingers slip on top of his and then linger there. Spock’s eyes narrow to the places where their hands touch. The contact is not so long that it would seem odd to a human, but certainly lasts longer than most Vulcans would find appropriate between casual acquaintances. “This will do perfectly,” Tolek purrs–quite literally, Spock can hear the subharmonic frequencies underlying his words–as he pulls away.
McCoy just smiles at Tolek in response, demonstrating remarkable naivety.
The snk of the tube’s cap opening sounds thunderous in the relative silence of the Sickbay, but even that pales in comparison to squelching of the lubricant as Tolek spreads it liberally across his hands. His inner eyelids flutter for half a second, invisible to everyone in the room except Spock, who feels the beginnings of distaste rising up in his throat like bile.
“Ah, yes, that’s much better,” says Tolek, returning his now glossy-slick hands to the dummy’s back. “Last technique for the time being. This one combines a kneading and compression motion to reach deep tissue.” He spreads the fore and middle fingers of both his hands into v’s on the dummy’s deltoids and then slowly brings them together, the rest of his fingers following the middle’s path a few moments later. The motion–made much easier, Spock must admit, by the addition of the lubricant–rolls the dummy’s artificial skin and musculature away from its body, and then drops it back down again. Even Spock, who has no experience in such matters, can tell that it is a complicated procedure that has been mastered well enough to appear effortless, but he is too distracted by the oily streaks left behind on the dummy’s flesh to admire Tolek’s talent.
McCoy puts his hands on his hips and looks into the faces of his students. “I hope everyone was paying attention and taking notes, because you’re all up now.”
“As we said earlier, you will be pairing off to practice on each other. Although . . .” Tolek looks at the dummy with an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression. “I do find it helpful, before moving on to working with living subjects, to use a living subject as a reference guide. Dr. McCoy, could I trouble you to remove your shirt?”
Spock coughs.
Chapel and M’Benga both turn to look at him. “You alright, Commander?” asks the latter.
“Yes, Doctor, I am fine,” Spock says quickly. “Sickbay is kept at a temperature lower than that which I am used to, is all.”
All three of them turn back to the demonstration, where McCoy’s fingertips are running along the edge of his scrubs’ hem. “Really, Dr. Tolek,” he demures, “I’m too old for this.”
“Too old for science?” There is a brightness in Tolek’s eyes that belies his humor. “Besides, I can promise that you appear, to me, to be in the prime of your life. I am sure your students would agree.”
Sure enough, a murmur of assent goes through the audience. One of them even lets out a whoop of encouragement.
“Oh, fine,” McCoy assents with a roll of his eyes, and a moment later he is holding his scrubs crumpled in hands. Unlike the standard Starfleet uniform, the short sleeves of the scrubs leave limited room for undergarments, and so once the outer layer is removed, McCoy is left standing with his naked torso exposed.
Tolek’s hands move towards the sharp, jutting edges of McCoy’s shoulder blades, and something ugly and unkind, akin to rage, flares up suddenly from Spock’s core. Tolek whips his head around to stare at Spock.
Spock knows it is thanks only to his lack of control that Tolek felt that emotion at all, but he refuses to balk at being called out for it. They maintain eye contact for several long, interminable seconds, until the corners of Tolek’s eyes scrunch up. It is an expression Spock has seen often on his human crewmates, but rarely on a Vulcan.
It is laughter.
“As Dr. McCoy is so kindly demonstrating,” Tolek says, turning back to the group, “the muscles of the back can be grouped into four main areas: the deltoids, the trapezius, the dorsi, and the obliques. These can, of course, be broken down further: the rhomboids can be found in the trapezius, for example . . .” His fingertips just brush against the light freckled skin of McCoy’s back.
Spock turns neatly on his heels and heads for the Sickbay’s door.
“Mr. Spock?” Chapel asks, her mouth curved into a confused moue at his sudden movement.
“I am needed on the Bridge,” and leaves before she can ask any follow up questions.
He ignores the weight of Tolek’s eyes on his back as he goes.
Day Two
Spock does not attend the lecture on the second day. He has other duties he must attend to. Well, must might be a strong word; none of the other matters currently requiring his attention are urgent, necessarily, but they do need to get done at some point, and this lull in the Enterprise ’s exploration duties seems as good a time as any. It is not . . . the most appropriately he has behaved toward a visitor to the ship, but McCoy is a senior enough officer that his attentions should be sufficient to avoid any insult to Tolek.
McCoy’s attentions. Hm.
Spock spends the morning mired in his work and manages to spend very little brainpower at all, actually, thinking about the CMO or his guest. He avoids any thought of them whatsoever until the time for his midday meal comes around he enters the Mess Hall to find the two of them already there, engaged in animated discussion.
Or, at least, McCoy is animated, gesturing with his long hands and expressions flickering between emotions almost faster than they can register. Tolek sits still and almost coy, but he watches McCoy with a single-minded focus.
The ugly feeling bursts to life again. Tolek does not move his head even a fraction of an inch, but his pupils shoot to the corner of his eyes to look right at Spock as he gets a handle on his emotions.
Before he can embarrass himself, Spock realizes that they are not alone. On the other side of their table sits Kirk, one elbow resting on the tabletop and his head leaning against his fist, a sandwich stuffed full of a remarkable amount of greens with a single bite taken out of it lying abandoned in front of him. Immediately, Spock begins to feel his heartbeat slow; Kirk always has a calming effect on him.
Although Tolek knew the moment Spock stepped into the room, McCoy is the first to acknowledge his presence. “Spock!” he greets brightly, and Spock does not think about the warmth that spreads in his chest as McCoy grins at him. Kirk turns around to look at him and the warmth moves up his neck into his head. “C’mere, c’mere, we were just talking about the differences between Starfleet med school and the VSA’s.”
After replicating a bowl of pok tar for his own meal, Spock makes his way over to the table and takes his seat next to Kirk. There is a familiarity to this, the sensation that Spock is exactly where he belongs. Kirk smiles at him wordlessly, eyelids crinkling, and for a brief moment Spock forgets that he has anything to worry about at all.
“So?” McCoy asks, pulling Spock’s thoughts back to reality. Spock just raises an eyebrow and McCoy, predictably, rolls his eyes in response. “What do you think about the med schools? Seems to me you might be uniquely qualified to comment on them.”
“I am not sure what would give you that impression,” Spock says blithely as he slides into his chair, “given that, as you are well aware, I declined to enroll at the VSA and have never attended any of Starfleet’s medical educational institutions.” It is so easy to slide into arguing with McCoy; Spock settles into this comfortable space.
“Well, sure, but you’re the only one here who has worked with both organizations.”
“Ah, I see.” Spock nods. “I am surprised you have not brought up your mastery of electrical engineering before, Doctor.”
McCoy’s face falls. “What are you talking about?”
“I am aware you spent a semester as a visiting professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” Spock says with a tilt of his head, “and so, using the same logic you just applied to myself, I would assume you gained expertise in a subject area for which the university is most well-known.”
McCoy’s features twist into an expression that is not quite him sticking his tongue out, but is only about one step removed. “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. You gotta be so annoying about it?”
“You don’t have anyone to blame but yourself for that one, Bones,” Kirk says. A current of laughter underlies his words. “You know what they say about assuming; it makes an ass-”
“Out of you and me.” McCoy waves him off with one dismissive hand. “Don’t you get started on heckling me now, too.”
“Actually, Commander, I am glad you brought up Dr. McCoy’s other previous experience at academic institutions,” Tolek cuts in. “I have been trying to convince him that he would thrive as a faculty member of the VSA, but he remains skeptical of his ability to adapt to our Vulcan customs. What say you? Surely, you would agree with me that Dr. McCoy’s pedigree would adequately overcome any other struggles he would be met with there.”
This, too, is a test; Spock knows it by the challenge in Tolek’s eyes, but he does not know what the right answer is. What he settles on is, “I think it is fortunate that we need not worry about how Dr. McCoy would adjust to a Vulcan lifestyle, seeing as he will be remaining in Starfleet’s service for the foreseeable future.”
Something lights up in the depths of Tolek’s dark pupils. “Perhaps you are right.” Before Spock has a chance to explore what that might mean, the other Vulcan has already moved on, back to McCoy. “We would have to do something about the model you set for students, of course. You have, I must admit, shockingly bad posture for an acting physician.”
Spock braces himself for the biting comeback, the snarling defense from McCoy of both his capabilities as a doctor and his right to stand as he pleases. It never comes. Instead, he laughs again.
“You caught me,” McCoy says gaily. “It’s one of my worst habits–just ask any of my nurses–but I’ve always lived by the credo of ‘do what I say, not what I do,’ as both a practitioner and a teacher.”
“Certainly, you are aware of the damage you are doing to your musculature by not correcting your stance,” Tolek says with a frown that would look strained on human features and does look outright petulant of Tolek’s Vulcan ones. “I could, perhaps, offer my services, if you would be interested?”
To Spock’s side, Kirk lets out a sound somewhere between a cough and a snort as he takes another bite of his sandwich. When Spock meets his eyes, he does not need his telepathy to hear the clear get a load of this guy running through Kirk’s head. Spock lowers his chin just slightly, both an acknowledgment and an agreement.
“That’s very kind of you, Dr. Tolek, but frankly I don’t think I can afford your services,” says McCoy.
“Oh, do not say that! We are friends, are we not? It would be–what is the Earth phrase?--on the house.” Tolek leans closer, breaching McCoy’s personal space. “And please, no need for such formalities. Just ‘Tolek’ is fine.”
“Huh,” McCoy says. “That’s mighty kind of you. I’ll think about it, truly. And if that’s the way you’re going to be, I insist you call me Leonard.”
There is a squeak of straining polymers as Spock’s grip on his spoon tightens enough to start to bend it. McCoy has never offered his first name as an option to Spock.
“Bones,” Kirk says quickly, and while he addresses McCoy, Spock can feel his attention on him. “I just remembered–didn’t you say I was due for my next round of vaccinations? Do you have a minute, think we could maybe get those taken care of?”
McCoy’s jaw actually drops. “Who are you and what have you done with James Tiberius Kirk?”
“Come off it, I’m not that bad. Anyway, I got some time now and I want to get it over with, so can we?”
For a moment longer, McCoy watches Kirk, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Spock can see the moment he relents in the relaxation of his shoulders. “Oh, fine. Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Come on, then, before you change your mind.” He stands from his seat, eyeing Kirk warily. The expression remains on his face as he follows Kirk out of the Mess Hall, in stark contrast to the innocent smile on Kirk’s lips.
The peace Spock feels watching their retreating backs is only interrupted when Tolek says, “It seems we are more alike than even I first realized.”
Spock forces down his annoyance and looks back at Tolek. “Explain.”
“You have been courteous to me, so I shall do as you ask, sa-kai .” Spock clenches his jaw at the overly familiar term, but Tolek moves on without missing a beat. “At the end of this week, as you know, I will be returning to my post at the Vulcan Science Academy. And when I do . . .”
The challenge comes back to Tolek’s eyes, magnified many times over.
“. . . I fully intend to have Dr. McCoy come with me.”
He stands, too, and makes his way out of the Mess Hall, stepping close enough to Spock that they brush against each other as he goes. Spock, speechless, stares into his bowl and tries to silence the screaming thoughts rattling around his brain.
Day Three
Spock waffles for an embarrassing amount of time before deciding that he cannot leave McCoy in Tolek’s presence unsupervised for an extended period of time. It is with that determination in mind that he finds himself rearranging his duties and schedule to ensure he can be present for the entirety of Tolek’s lecture on the third day.
Even with his careful planning, last minute emergencies pop up that force him to arrive exactly 12.17 minutes late. When the doors to Sickbay slide open to admit him, he is wholly unprepared for the sight that greets him.
The students are lined up on the same semi-circle as the first day, this time around one of the biobeds. On the biobed is McCoy. Next to the biobed is Tolek. And in Tolek’s hands-
In Tolek’s hands is McCoy’s hand, fingers spread wide and open.
“Admittedly,” Tolek says to the assembled class, “human hands and that of many other races are not as sensitive as those of Vulcans; our complicated psychometric system provides heightened sensory feedback that makes this a much more involved process. However, nervous systems in general tend to be more interconnected than many people realize. Observe.”
Tolek cradles the back of McCoy’s hand with one of his, while the thumb of his other hand digs into the meat at the base of McCoy’s palm. That thumb rotates circles around the perimeter of McCoy’s palm, applying pressure in short, caterpillar-like movements.
“Today, for example, Dr. McCoy is suffering from some minor, but distracting lower back pain.”
“How do you know that?” McCoy asks.
Tolek looks pointedly to their joined hands.
“Right,” McCoy says, “Vulcan Voodoo.”
“Nothing so mystical as that, I assure you.” Tolek turns to the students. “On the surface, it may appear as though hands have very little to do with the lumbar. However . . .”
He turns McCoy’s hand over so his thumbs can press at his knuckles. Tolek’s fingers push skin and muscle and cartilage towards McCoy’s wrist and forearm. For a moment nothing happens, but then McCoy lurches forward very suddenly.
“What-” he gasps. He shoves his hand more firmly against Tolek’s fingers, perhaps, Spock thinks, without even realizing he is doing so. “That’s- how are you-”
McCoy moans. That is the only way to describe the sound. Spock closes his eyes, just for a second.
“Oh, wow,” McCoy is saying when Spock opens them again. “That’s really- that’s remarkable.” He sighs airily, his eyes going heavy-lidded. “I had no idea you could relieve pain like that through reflexology.”
The students type away at their PADDs, taking notes, while McCoy stares stupidly at his own fingers, and Tolek working over them. With everyone else’s attentions elsewhere, Tolek finally deigns to acknowledge Spock’s presence.
It takes but an instant for Spock to understand that McCoy is incorrect: no simple massage could provide the kind of relief that McCoy is experiencing. Tolek is receiving–Spock winces internally to think of the word– gratification from servicing McCoy this way, and he is pushing that gratification back into McCoy, dulling his pain. The only question now is whether Spock will call him on it.
Spock purses his lips.
Tolek bares his teeth in what one might generously call a smile. Spock does not feel particularly generous at the moment.
The visiting Vulcan releases McCoy’s hand and takes a step back. McCoy snaps back to awareness slowly, almost as if coming out of the trance. If Spock’s suspicions are correct, that is not so far from the truth.
“So you can see, the nervous system is one, synchronized system, rather than a number of disparate parts,” Tolek says after a moment. “Your homework for tomorrow is to memorize the nerve pathways of the human body. Until then.” He nods his head once, jerkily, and turns towards the exit.
McCoy blinks slowly, still somewhat dazed. “Right, you heard Dr. Tolek,” he says, but Spock is not paying attention anymore because Tolek is coming straight for him.
Like the day before, Tolek passes just by the side of him. At the exact moment Tolek’s mouth aligns with Spock’s ear, he says–just audibly enough for Spock to hear him: “He has marvelous hands,” and Spock feels a rage so sharply and so quickly that for a brief, absurd moment he fears he has fallen unexpectedly into the plak tow again. He gives into his instincts and turns to growl at Tolek.
But Tolek is already gone.
Day Four
“He is doing this on purpose,” Spock announces as he keys in the code to Kirk’s quarters and storms over the threshold.
Kirk is laying on his bed, just having come from the gym if the red workout pants on his legs and the light sheen of sweat on his torso are anything to go by. He has his head pillowed on one of his arms and a PADD clutched loosely in the other. “Hi, Spock,” he says, barely looking up, “good to see you, Spock, I’m doing great, Spock, thanks for asking.”
Two things abruptly register for Spock: 1) He has just barged into his superior officer’s room without so much as knocking, and 2) Said superior officer is in a state of undress that one could graciously describe as “disheveled” and would more accurately be described as-
Well.
“I will return later,” says Spock, turning to leave the way he came.
“Computer, belay that request.” The lights above the door blink red as it locks. Kirk rolls off the bed in a smooth movement, shrugging a lazy shoulder. “You’re already here, you may as well get whatever you need to talk about off your chest.”
At the mention of the word “chest,” Spock’s eyes drop to Kirk’s exposed pectorals. He forces them away just as quickly. When they make it back to Kirk’s face, Kirk is watching him with that curious expression he sometimes gets when faced with a puzzle that needs to be solved.
“King to G7, by the way,” Kirk says.
Spock glances at the 3D chessboard set up on Kirk’s living room table. Spock understands this for what it is: a gift from Kirk, a distraction to help break the ice and make Spock more comfortable before what will surely be an immensely uncomfortable conversation.
Spock observes the animation of the chessboard placidly. “You have taken my bishop,” he says.
“I’m sure you’ll get me back soon enough. So what’s up?”
Spock sits in one of the chairs in front of the chessboard and folds his hands in front of himself. “I have come to discuss Dr. Tolek with you.”
“Oh.” Kirk’s lips curl into a smirk. “Kind of a sanctimonious prick, ain’t he?”
“You . . . do not care for him,” Spock says slowly. It is not a question.
“Now, Mr. Spock, I never said that. That would be unprofessional of me.” Kirk slides into the chair opposite Spock and taps his fingers against his thigh. “What’s he done to piss you off?”
“Vulcans do not get ‘pissed off.’” Kirk snorts a laugh at that and Spock sighs; his captain has always had the uncanny ability to read straight through to his true feelings. “Very well. I am concerned about his behavior towards Dr. McCoy. Tolek has been making . . . overtures towards him, and I am not sure Dr. McCoy understands the true nature of these- these flirtations.” In fact, quite to the contrary, Spock feels a certainty that McCoy remains completely oblivious to Tolek’s attempts at seduction.
“I was wondering about that. I’m no expert on Vulcan cultural norms, but it seems to me that he hasn’t been particularly subtle.”
“He has not,” Spock agrees.
“Right.” Kirk shoots Spock a level look. “So what do you want me to do about it?”
“I-” Spock cuts himself off. With embarrassment, he realizes he had not thought ahead to this point when he made the decision to come to Kirk with this problem. “I do not know. Surely there is something in your power to do to make him stop?”
“Hard to see what.” Kirk shrugs a shoulder. “We don’t have to like the guy, but he hasn’t done anything actually objectionable, never mind citable.” His tone is dismissive, but there is that look in his eyes again, that sharp curiosity. Spock knows Kirk is trying to push him towards an answer, but for the life of him cannot imagine what that answer might be.
Frustration swells in Spock like a wave. “Dr. Tolek’s behavior is wholly inappropriate for a Vulcan, and would be censured on the planet.”
“This isn’t a Vulcan vessel nor are we a Vulcan crew,” Kirk shoots back. “Those standards don’t apply here.”
Spock sucks in a breath of air through his teeth. His tight grip on his emotions is slipping and he is powerless to do anything to stop it. “I have reason to believe he is manipulating Dr. McCoy’s emotions.”
“Really, Spock?” Kirk raises an eyebrow. “You think Bones would fall just for a pretty face and some sucking up?”
Spock’s brow furrows at the thought of Tolek being ‘pretty.’ He moves past it, concentrating on the real problem at hand. “You misunderstand me,” he says, shaking his head. “I observed Dr. Tolek performing a pain-relieving technique on Dr. McCoy at yesterday’s lecture, but physical means alone could not have as strong an effect as they seem to have. I am certain he used telepathy to help block Dr. McCoy’s pain receptors.”
“So he’s a quack.” Kirk rubs his chin in thought. “Or at least, desperate enough to make a good impression that he’s willing to forsake his actual skills and use cheap tricks to make himself more appealing. Not ideal, but my hands are still tied unless you can provide hard evidence that he’s causing harm or doing anything that hasn’t been consented to. What else you got?”
Spock blinks at Kirk, uncomprehending. How can he be so calm about this? Spock’s own fury feels like rocks in his pockets, pulling him under until he can no longer keep his head above it. “He has intimated to me that he intends to convince Dr. McCoy to come with him when he leaves three days hence!”
“Bones is free to make his own decisions,” Kirk replies, though a grim emotion twists his features into something dark and foreboding as he says it. When he shakes himself out of it, he asks, quite pointedly, “Spock, why do you even care so much about this?”
Spock’s anger reaches a boiling point; it launches him to his feet. “ Because he is ours! ” he yells, slamming a fist into the wall. The metal buckles beneath. He and Kirk both stare at the new dent under Spock’s palm, and Spock rushes to regain control of the situation. “That is to say, Dr. McCoy belongs to the Enterprise . What I mean is that he has made an oath to see this five-year mission through to the end, and he should be held to that.”
Kirk eyes him unblinkingly. “No,” he says, drawing the syllable out, “no, I don’t think that’s what you meant at all.”
“Jim,” Spock says helplessly.
“Hey, Spock?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Stop talking.”
“Yes, Captain.” Spock’s teeth click as his jaw snaps shut.
Kirk stands from his chair. His eyes flit between the impression in his wall and the heavy breaths that expand and constrict Spock’s chest. He says, “Spock, I’m going to kiss you.”
Spock freezes. “Oh,” he says dumbly, “alright.”
And then Kirk’s lips are on his, nipping at his mouth. Spock makes a questioning sound and Kirk presses his advantage, sliding his tongue into the gap made by the noise. Spock moans, feeling pieces of a puzzle he didn’t even know existed click into place. He breathes in the traces of oxygen that linger on Kirk’s exhales; Spock is no poet, but the symbolism of their lives entwining so literally is not lost on him. When Kirk twines his tongue with Spock’s in an impressive display of oral dexterity, Spock feels the beginning embers of arousal spark low in his gut. If only he could isolate this one moment in time, and live in it forever-
Kirk backs away. He cradles Spock’s face with both hands, smiling softly at him. “We always work best together when we start on the same page, don’t we?”
Spock raises a hand to cover one of Kirk’s and leans his cheek into it. “Always.”
“So!” Kirk abruptly takes another step back, just enough that he can place his fists on his hips triumphantly. He looks remarkably like the cover of a mid-20th century comic, beaming and heroic; in another life, Spock thinks, Kirk could have been an invaluable model for propaganda posters. “You’re worried that Bones is going to leave us high and dry to run off with this hot young thing and I think it’s pretty clear that neither of us are interested in that, so it appears we have a conundrum on our hands. And what do we do with conundrums?”
“We . . .” Spock’s brow furrows. “Solve them?”
Kirk shoots a double finger gun at him. “That we do! Would you do the honor of breaking it down?”
Spock clasps his hands behind his back as his brain shifts into a strategic space. It seems so obvious now, but Spock cannot believe he never once considered approaching the situation as an objective challenge to be overcome as opposed to a personal conflict he was failing. This is so much easier. Everything is so much easier with Kirk.
“The facts are as follows,” says Spock, clearing his throat. “One: Dr. Tolek has been aggressively pursuing Dr. McCoy from the moment he stepped on this ship. Two: he departs in less than 72 hours. Three: he has explicitly stated to me his intent to bring Dr. McCoy with him when he goes. Four . . . neither of us know at this time what Dr. McCoy feels about any of this, or even how aware he is of some of these points.”
Kirk huffs a little sigh at that, just a puff of air barely breaking through the barrier of his lips. “Well, there’s that. How pissed do you think Bones would be if he found out we were making these grand schemes about him for something that he didn’t even care about?”
“I dread to think,” Spock says dryly. “Our goal is obvious. We wish for Dr. McCoy to stay with us. Absent further information regarding the aforementioned point four, we must also assume the worst-case scenario for us achieving that goal. In this case, that would be that Dr. McCoy is both aware of and compelled by Tolek’s offer to join the VSA.”
“Okay, so we’ve identified the problem. Now, what do you propose we do about it?”
“We must convince Dr. McCoy that following Tolek is not in his best interests.”
Kirk steeples his fingers. His eyes sparkle. “How?”
Spock tilts his head to the side, considering the man in front of him. “You have a plan.” Again it is a statement, not a question.
“When do I not?”
Spock refrains from grimacing just barely. Kirk’s plans are almost always successful, but seldom come without a fair share of embarrassment. “Queen to G4,” he sighs after a moment, and then, as the chessboard flickers in movement to his side, “check.”
Day Five
Kirk and Spock walk into Sickbay as a single, synchronized unit, and Spock has rarely felt so self-assured and powerful. It seems unfathomable that anything would be able to faze him when he is working so well-aligned with his beloved captain.
So it does come somewhat as a surprise to be very fazed, indeed, by the scene they walk into the middle of when they enter the room. McCoy has his back pressed against the wall that separates the bio-beds from his personal office, and Tolek is leaning far enough into his personal space that it would be considered deeply intimate by Vulcan standards. By Human standards, too. By Betazoid standards. He is close enough to McCoy to be whispering into his ear, low enough that not even Spock’s enhanced hearing can pick up the words. But there is no missing the blush on McCoy’s cheeks or the twitching of his fingers, where he holds his hands uselessly in the air.
Kirk clears his throat, a sharp and purposeful sound. His eyes have narrowed into a distinctly displeased expression. “Bones,” he says simply and quietly, but it may as well be a bomb going off for the way it makes the other occupants of the room jump.
“Jim!” McCoy straightens from his hunch, which puts him taller than Tolek and out from under the Vulcan’s metaphorical thumb. It is hard to call who looks more surprised at the interlopers between him and Tolek, who–and Spock allows himself the rare indulgence of delight in another’s displeasure–looks a little like he just bit into a lemon.
Did not account for two of us, did you? Spock thinks viciously.
“What are you doing here?” McCoy asks. His voice comes out high and tight and strained.
“Spock’s been telling me a lot about Dr. Tolek’s seminars,” Kirk says with an air of affected casualness that would be lost on most strangers but is unmistakably conscious to Spock’s trained ears. By the way McCoy’s breath stutters, Spock surmises that he has noticed it, too. “I figure, hey, I’m the captain here, right? I’d be remiss if I didn’t drop by for at least one, to see what the hubbub is all about.”
Tolek smiles; it looks pained to Spock’s eyes. “I am thrilled to see your interest in my work, Captain,” Tolek says, regardless. “Is there anything specific you’d like to observe?”
“Call me curious.” Kirk walks toward the two doctors with the prowl of a big cat. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m pretty useless when it comes to medical matters. Just ask Bones.” He crooks his neck to look straight at McCoy; Spock hears another hitch in McCoy’s breath. “I was hoping you might give me a general overview? You know, layman’s terms, just so I can get a handle on your, hm, technique.”
“I . . .” Tolek hedges, eyes shifting between Kirk and Spock behind him. “It would be my pleasure. But I will need a patient to demonstrate on. If you wouldn’t mind, Dr. McCoy-”
“Actually,” Kirk cuts in, “I thought I’d volunteer. I’m a, how do you say it, a hands-on learner?”
Tolek takes one look down at Kirk’s rough, calloused hands and sneers before he can catch himself. Spock sees and relishes the moment he realizes his slip. Kirk just keeps smiling vacuously through the whole exchange.
“Of course, Captain,” Tolek acquiesces. If looks could kill, Spock would have him in the brig by now.
Kirk shuffles towards Tolek, giving McCoy the opportunity to duck away from Tolek’s wandering fingers as the two of them switch places. He slinks next to Spock, their shoulders just barely not touching, and Spock clenches his fists until bright spots of pain blossom under his fingernails to resist the urge to sling his arm around McCoy’s hunched shoulders and secret him away to somewhere private, away from Tolek’s prying eyes.
As Tolek–seemingly very reluctantly–gets to kneading Kirk’s hands, McCoy stands up a little straighter. Spock glances down at him and raises an eyebrow.
“I haven’t actually gotten a good chance to watch him work,” McCoy says quietly, “since I’ve for the most part been the one he’s been working on.”
Spock hums in acknowledgment. “And what do you think, now that you can observe it properly?”
“It’s,” McCoy tries, but he cuts himself off. His eyes dart between Spock and Tolek, lingering on the vokaya piercing in the latter’s ear.
Then, rather than continue his answer, he shocks Spock by lowering his hand and entangling their fingers together.
Immediately, a frisson of pleasure jolts up Spock’s arm. “Doctor-?” he stutters, eyes glued to where their palms touch. Before he can form a more coherent sentence, he hears a voice directly in his brain.
This. Enough?
Spock blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. He pushes his thoughts towards McCoy. You are asking if this is sufficient contact for us to meld?
McCoy nods.
Not in a true sense. I will only be able to gather surface level emotions from you, and you will find it difficult to communicate complex thoughts to me. It will be enough for a simple conversation, Spock transmits to him, but-
Simple fine.
Spock blinks again, more slowly and purposefully this time. This is unlike you, Doctor. May I ask why you have asked for this?
McCoy licks his lips; Spock follows the movement of his tongue with a laser focus. Out loud, says McCoy in his head, he hear.
A matter of privacy, then. Spock clamps down tightly on his own emotions at that, afraid that he will accidentally leak how pleased he is to a) be trusted enough by McCoy to be seen as a confidante and b) be privy to information McCoy specifically wishes to hide from Tolek.
Another nod.
He different. With Jim.
Spock makes an affirming noise low in his throat, observing Kirk and Tolek. Although Tolek’s fingers work as deftly–if more begrudgingly–on Kirk’s wrist and forearm (although Spock notes with some amusement that he seems to be avoiding the more sensitive areas of Kirk’s hand) as they had on McCoy, Kirk’s reaction is much more subdued. His expression looks pleased enough, and it is clear Tolek’s ministrations are having some positive effect, but it is a far cry from the bliss that Spock saw wrack McCoy’s body two days ago.
His eyes drop back to McCoy. And what do you make of this difference?
All at once, McCoy pulls his hand back to himself; Spock misses the connection between them immediately. McCoy crosses his arms and jams his hands into his armpits and stays silent with a heaviness Spock can feel.
The one who ends up breaking the sudden oppressive mood is Tolek. “Does that satisfy your curiosity, Captain?” he asks, disdain bleeding into his voice as he drops Kirk’s hand without ceremony.
“Sure does,” Kirk answers chipperly, but his eyes are narrowed and steely. “I would say this whole residency program has been quite the educational experience. Good job arranging it, Bones.”
McCoy eyes Kirk warily. “Thanks.”
“In fact, I think we should debrief the whole thing in detail, you, me, and Spock. In-person, so we can think about how we might replicate it.” Kirk makes his way over to where Spock and McCoy are standing and puts a hand each on one of their shoulders. “My quarters, tomorrow evening. 2000 hours. Don’t be late.” He says the last part specifically to McCoy, staring him dead in the eyes.
“Okay, Jim,” McCoy murmurs.
When Kirk leaves without another word, Spock is right on his tail. And if he stays a little closer than professionalism necessitates, well, that is nobody’s business but Spock’s own.
Day Six
“He is not coming,” Spock says at 20:05.
“Oh, he’ll come alright,” Kirk mutters darkly in response.
Spock would charitably describe the current state of Kirk’s quarters as “organized chaos.” There is clearly some pattern to the way he has laid out plates and cups but no silverware on the dining table, an assortment of his personal affects and tchotchkes on the shelves that separate the living area from the bedroom, and–speaking of the bedroom–a truly remarkable number of pillows on the bed. For the life of him, Spock could not say what that pattern is .
Kirk adjusts a statue of a horse for the- well, Spock does not actually know what time this is. He has lost count. “What do you think of this angle?” Kirk asks him.
Before Spock can answer, the door slides open, revealing McCoy. “Hey,” is all he offers by way of introduction. Even from a distance, Spock can see his eyes are bleary with exhaustion. The stringent scent of antiseptic perfumes the air, speaking to the long shift McCoy has just come from. “Sorry, I was held up longer than I planned. Cases have backed up while I’ve been managing Dr. Tolek’s residency.”
“Don’t worry about it, you’re right on time,” Kirk assures him. Spock opens his mouth to argue the point, but closes it again at the sharp look Kirk shoots at him. “Take a seat, you look like hell. Can I get you a drink?”
“You’re a godsend. Please.” McCoy slumps heavily into one of the seats at the partially set dining room table. Before his elbows have even had a chance to come to rest on the table, Kirk has filled the glass in front of him with–Spock squints his eyes at the label– Surak's grace , Cardassian tequila? Where did he even get a bottle of that? McCoy, in his usual fashion, does not hesitate to take a sizable pull from it. “Oh, that’s the good stuff. This, Jimmy, is why you’re my favorite.”
Kirk hums, pleased, and fills his own glass. “You know that’s what I like to hear.”
Spock is no expert in human emotions, but that sounded a bit more sincere than it maybe should have.
McCoy looks right at Spock. “You planning on joining us, or you just gonna gawk silently all night?”
“Alcohol brings me no pleasure.”
“And what do you know about pleasure?” McCoy chuckles.
“Oh, I don’t know, Bones,” Kirk says breezily, “he may surprise you.”
McCoy falls silent at that, peering over the edge of his glass at Kirk and Spock in turn.
“But the good doctor does have a point. Spock, drink or don’t, but at least join us at the table, won’t you?”
As Spock complies with Kirk’s request, his movements are stilted. Kirk seldom divulges all of the details of his plans with Spock–although, admittedly, it is often because he comes up with those details on the fly–but just this once Spock really wishes he had. To borrow a human idiom, he feels distinctly like a third wheel, intruding on the common ritual between Kirk and McCoy of a post-shift drink.
McCoy has obviously noticed the anomaly of his presence as well. “Alright, Jim, enough with the small talk. Why am I really here?”
Kirk pauses, swallowing a significant gulp from his own glass. “As I said before, I wanted to congratulate you on the success of your residency program.”
“Yeah.”
Kirk waits again, obviously expecting McCoy to continue, but when nothing more is forthcoming, he adds, “This is the kind of thing the brass at HQ eat up. Cross-cultural exchange, and all that.”
“Well, that’s good.” McCoy’s shoulders drop as some of his tension leaves them. “I think the students learned a lot.”
“Not just the students! The program made a big impact on all of us. That’s why I asked you here tonight–so Spock and I could show you.”
McCoy returns his glass slowly and delicately to the table. “What game are you playing at?”
Spock cocks his head to the side to examine Kirk and mentally repeats the question. Again, he wishes he knew better what Kirk is thinking.
“No game,” says Kirk. “I’m dead serious. Spock, show him.”
“What?” McCoy sputters.
“Mm, but here is no good,” Kirk mows right over him. “Let’s move to the bed, shall we?” He stands from the table and heads to the bedroom without waiting to see if either of the others follows him.
“ What, ” McCoy repeats.
Spock may not know what Kirk has planned, but he trusts him enough to follow his lead and move things along. “Come, Doctor,” he says as he stands from his own seat and squeezes a hand around McCoy’s elbow, lifting him from his. McCoy looks at him with a heady mix of hesitation and anticipation, and Spock just barely restrains himself from sliding his hand down McCoy’s forearm until they link fingers again.
They stay frozen in that moment for what feels like hours, and by the time Spock has enough presence of mind to break the tension and guide McCoy towards the bedroom, Kirk has arranged himself haphazardly across the mountain of pillows that tops the bed. He props himself up on an elbow and raises an expectant eyebrow at the two of them.
McCoy freezes in his tracks. “You can’t be serious.”
“You want me to sit in the cuck chair? In my own room?” At McCoy’s stony silence, Kirk rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, I won’t be able to see from over there. This is all in the name of my scientific progress, right? I didn’t get to see as much as either of you two when Dr. Tolek was teaching, so if I’m going to get caught up to speed, now’s my chance.”
He looks meaningfully at Spock and Spock sighs internally. “Jim is unlikely to change his mind.”
McCoy crosses his arms and taps his foot, glancing between Spock and Kirk once again. “Fine,” he says finally, throwing up his hands, “fine! Let’s just . . . get whatever this is over with it.” He yanks his elbow out of Spock’s grasp and sits on the edge of the bed as far away from Kirk as he can feasibly manage.
Spock gingerly takes his seat next him, maintaining what he hopes is a respectable distance. He holds out a hand. “If you would, Leonard,” he says, and immediately bites his tongue. Leonard. Where had that come from? And why here, on this bed-?
The slip does not go unnoticed by McCoy, either, if the way he pauses before presenting his own hand to Spock is anything to go by. Spock grabs it before McCoy has a chance to think more about it. The same electrical current of pleasure travels up Spock’s spine as before and he concentrates on schooling his expression so no reaction shows on his face. There is something about melds with McCoy that feels like coming home, like putting on a familiar robe. He very purposefully does not dwell on why that may be, as he has many times before.
McCoy grunts when their hands meet. “Feels weird,” he says.
“Is it an unpleasant sensation?” Spock is not sure what he will do if the answer is yes.
“No, it’s not bad, it’s just-” McCoy’s brow furrows. “Never mind. You’re doing fine.”
“Very well.” Spock kills any other comment that wants to make itself known. “I will commence with replicating Dr. Tolek’s techniques.”
Spock’s long and nimble fingers fan over the expanse of the back of McCoy’s hand. He opens up his mind, keeping it distinctly one-way, and just enough that he can catalogue McCoy’s physical feelings. He is not surprised to find the same lower back pain Tolek mentioned a couple of days ago, and says as much.
“Well, he wasn’t wrong,” McCoy says to that. “My posture is terrible.”
Spock nods silently and moves on. He keeps his focus on maintaining professionalism, on approaching this as any man of science worth his salt would in any similar medical context, even if it involved certain erogenous zones. His thumbs dig into the plush, fleshy part of the base of McCoy’s palm. McCoy exhales softly. Spock allows his mind to expand a little further and is shocked to discover that, while the lower back is the most intensely painful area, most of McCoy’s entire body radiates a minor, but certainly not nonexistent, ache. He is a man for whom soreness is a default setting; it certainly explains some of his less-than-sunny disposition on occasion.
More than anything, Spock does not want to add to that pain. He keeps tight control over the amount of pressure he uses, well aware that he could crush the fine bones of McCoy’s hand if the mood took him. Perhaps he is being overly cautious, however, if McCoy’s whine of impatience is anything to go by.
“You find my ministrations unsatisfactory?”
“No!” McCoy protests, “no, it feels fine. Good even, really good. It’s-” He bites his lip for a moment. “Listen, this is going to sound ridiculous, but with Dr. Tolek the whole thing just felt much more, uh, intense.”
“Ah.” Spock pauses, cradling McCoy’s hand loosely in his own. “About that. I must confess something to you. I have what I believe is reasonable suspicion that Dr. Tolek was telepathically manipulating you. I know he is a skilled physician, but the responses he elicited from you were more extreme than could be achieved through purely physical means.”
“Ugh,” says McCoy. “I had a feeling something like that was going on. I don’t know why he felt the need; he’s obviously a very capable doctor, he didn’t have to go out of his way to impress me. I would have left him a strong letter of recommendation for any future ventures, regardless.”
Spock opens and closes his mouth several times before very slowly asking, “Are you joking?”
“What? No, why would you say that?”
“Because he’s been coming onto you the whole time he’s been here,” Kirk says from behind them, making himself known for the first time in several minutes.
McCoy twists his neck to look at Kirk. “Now you’re the one having me on,” he says with a scowl. “I’m old enough to be his father.”
“Seventeen years older,” says Spock. “Quite a young father.”
“I wasn’t that much older when I had Joanna,” McCoy admits, and then immediately looks annoyed at himself for revealing that information.
Spock forces himself not to pry further. The moments when McCoy feels comfortable revealing anything about his life prior to Starfleet have always been few and far between, and this feels like the wrong place and time for Spock to try to push his luck. Instead he says, “While I do not approve of Tolek concealing his actions from you, and regardless of his reasons for doing so, it is clear that he was receiving better results through the supplementing of physical technique with telepathic encouragement. I could try to replicate that as well, if you would wish?”
McCoy stares down at their hands, layered one on top of the other. “Sure. Let’s try it.”
Spock grasps him more firmly and opens the floodgates of his Vulcan extrasensory perception for exactly one, perfect second.
McCoy gasps, flinches, and tries to pull his hand away.
Spock pales.
“Are you harmed?”
“I’m fine,” McCoy croaks out. He swallows hard. “I certainly felt that.”
“If you are hurt-”
“I’m not hurt, Spock. It’s- it’s not pain. I was just surprised.”
Spock observes him doubtfully. McCoy stares right on back, unwavering. When Spock feels they have reached an impasse, he says, “I linked our minds loosely just now. It was not a complete meld, but was strong enough to pass full sensation back and forth. The experience lasted one second. If you would like to try again, we could attempt three.”
“Make it ten.” McCoy pushes his hand into Spock’s grasp in clear invitation. “Like I said, I was just caught off guard the first time. I’m good for it.”
Spock’s thoughts catch on McCoy saying “I’m good,” and he pushes the moment to the back of his brain.
There is a sudden wildness to the doctor, just from that brief connection. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks are ruddy with blood, sweat clings to his hairline. He is not only tolerating, but actively encouraging Spock to deepen their intimacy, and his mind has never been more open to Spock’s explorations. Spock feels the coiling of his arousal deep in the pit of his stomach and clamps down on it quickly before it can externalize.
He yanks McCoy’s hand towards him. Let them see just how good McCoy could be, then .
Spock once again opens his neural pathways. He resumes his work on McCoy’s hand, and this time allows himself to feel the gratification such an intimate act pulls from him. And unlike before, he does not bother to hold back that feeling from McCoy’s senses.
The effect is immediate. McCoy’s eyes shoot open wider than Spock has ever seen them, an impressive feat for a man known for the power of his imposing stare. Spock can feel the ache grow in his jaw through their connection when it locks, McCoy’s teeth grinding together. Then come the noises: pathetic, needy whimpers that just barely make it through the barrier of McCoy’s sealed mouth, and right on their heels is the unfettered, pure force of McCoy’s answering desire. The head of Spock’s cock slides out of his prepuce unbidden. The rest will follow shortly if he cannot get control of his own reactions-
A chin lands on McCoy’s shoulder. Spock cuts the connection.
McCoy wheezes through several juddering breaths, the sudden disconnect from Spock’s telepathic feedback loop likely as jarring to him as it is to Spock, himself. “What,” he gasps as he presses his cheek against Kirk’s, “do you think you’re doing?”
“Looked like you were having fun and I wanted to see better.” Kirk shrugs, not that McCoy can see it–particularly when Kirk hooks his chin further into the crook of McCoy’s neck. The two of them slide into place like puzzle pieces fitting together. One of Kirk’s hands comes from around McCoy’s back to graze its knuckles against the front of his trousers. Kirk grins like a shark. “And we are having fun, aren’t we!”
McCoy grunts, but does not deny it. Not for the first time, Spock wonders about the history between the two of them. He knows for a fact that they are not currently sleeping with one another, but McCoy allows Kirk to get away with touching him in ways that suggest a certain . . . comfort with intimacy.
“Was that more similar to your previous experiences?” Spock asks.
The half-hearted glare McCoy sends his way is no less satisfying for its predictability. “Why don’t you tell me? I know you’re feeling everything I’m feeling. You think that what you’re doing to me right now is anything close to what Tolek was-?”
The mention of Tolek’s name makes Spock growl. He opens the connection again.
As intended, this one takes McCoy off-guard. His hand shakes very appealing in Spock’s grasp as spasms rock his body and make his eyes roll back into his head.
Kirk smiles delightedly. “Hell yeah, now we’re talking.” Even as Spock concentrates on wracking McCoy’s body with as much pleasure as he can muster, Kirk shifts his position to accommodate it. He spreads his thighs wide and manipulates McCoy’s trembling form until it is sat comfortably between the V of his legs. Wrapped around McCoy like an octopus, Spock thinks Kirk has never looked more beautiful.
Spock cuts the connection. McCoy inhales audibly through his nose. “Spock-”
He cannot help himself. Spock floods McCoy’s brain with serotonin and endorphins again, just to see him succumb to desire. The surprise of it makes McCoy jolt in Kirk’s arms.
Not that there was much pretense to begin with, but any reasonable excuse that this could be anything other than sex has clearly flown out the window at this point. Spock wonders at the sight of McCoy handing himself over to it so readily. The doctor has always been wary of telepaths; to see him submit so easily to Spock’s manipulations makes the fire at the base of his spine burn all the brighter.
“Aw, Bones,” says Kirk when Spock allows McCoy’s body to go lax once more, bringing the hand that isn’t over McCoy’s groin–not doing anything, just resting there–to McCoy’s face to wipe at his cheek, “you’re crying.”
Spock glances up to see that there are, indeed, tracks of moisture making their way down both of McCoy’s cheeks. Curious; he does not sense any distress from him. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“Fuck off,” McCoy replies back, though without much heart. “Let’s see you get psychically oversensitized and see how well you fare.”
“Not that that doesn’t sound fun, but I bet I wouldn’t look as pretty as you do.”
McCoy rolls his eyes. “Pretty. Sure.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t know how you look. Being hard enough to threaten the seams of your pants is a good look on you.”
Like a siren’s call, Kirk’s words make Spock drop his eyes to the alluring space between McCoy’s thighs, where the hard line of his erection strains against the teeth of his trousers’ fly. The starched fabric scrunches up around it to accommodate its irregular shape. It makes Spock’s mouth water.
He brings McCoy’s hand to his lips.
McCoy stares at him and he stares back. Kirk’s eyes land on him, too, but he barely registers it over the sudden, single-minded focus he has to bring McCoy to completion like this.
“Yes?” he asks.
McCoy searches his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay.”
Spock sucks McCoy’s middle finger into his mouth and opens the connection between the two of them one last time. This time, he does not bother counting the seconds; he will continue until he sees McCoy completely overcome by his pleasure.
It does not take long. Caught between two worlds–the physical and the mental–and overstimulated by both, Spock just barely remembers how to breathe as he watches McCoy buckle under the intensity of their shared desire. McCoy convulses, and only Kirk’s steady embrace prevents his limbs from flying out in uncontrollable directions. He whines and whimpers and twitches and then his hips stutter until a wet stain spreads across the fabric at the front of his pants. Spock feels the whole thing like an electric current, zipping between McCoy’s fingertip and his tongue.
“Damn,” says Kirk, petting his hands over McCoy’s trembling thighs. It seems as adequate a sentiment for the situation as any.
Spock releases McCoy’s hand and places it gently back down on the bed’s comforter. His heartbeat races in his lower abdomen. McCoy blink up at him, slowly.
“So,” McCoy says after a beat. His voice is hoarse with use, more than it frankly ought to be, like he has just gone several with Spock in one of their famous arguments. “What’s your analysis of the medical benefits of Dr. Tolek’s technique?”
Spock snaps back to himself so quickly it almost gives him physical whiplash. “I overstepped. You . . . you did not ask for any of this. I apologize.”
“Oh, for the love of- like hell you do!” McCoy goes loose, sagging against the wall of Kirk’s body behind him. “I know what sorry looks like on you and this ain’t it. And even if it were, you’re being ridiculous. Jim, tell him he’s being ridiculous.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Jim says with the same benign smile.
Seeing that neither Kirk nor McCoy seem distressed by the preceding events, Spock switches tactics. “I hope that this demonstration provided enough evidence to convince you to stay on the Enterprise?
“Stay on the Enterprise? ” McCoy tilts his head back far enough to turn his questioning gaze to Kirk. “What’s he talking about?”
“Hmm, I wonder.”
McCoy squints at Spock. “This is going to be really stupid, isn’t it.”
Spock laces his fingers together, trying not to think about the way they were entangled with McCoy’s just moments before. “I am aware that Dr. Tolek has been attempting to recruit you to the Vulcan Science Academy. He has been quite explicit with me about his intentions.”
“Really?” Again, McCoy glances back at Kirk and repeats, “ Really? That’s what this is about?”
Kirk shrugs.
“So what? You thought I’d just abandon my crewmates and hop off with the first person to offer me a job?” McCoy’s tone does not change, but Spock can feel a twinge of sadness and disappoint emanate from him. “Didn’t realize you thought so little of my commitment to this ship.”
“I do not think that at all.” Spock forces himself to take a breath and choose his words carefully. “What I think is that Dr. Tolek has shown a notable appreciation for your talents. An appreciation that is, perhaps, not matched as often or intensely by certain members of this crew. I can see how the offer of more of that recognition would be a compelling one.”
To Spock’s surprise, but delight, this makes McCoy burst into laughter.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says through giddy hiccoughs, his fingertips wiping at a new wave of tears in his eyes, “it’s just, that was almost a compliment.”
Spock frowns. “It was a compliment.” This time Kirk snorts, and even as he buries his own laughter in the curve of McCoy’s shoulder, his body shakes silently with it.
“Hoooo, boy.” McCoy manages to get his good humor back under control long enough to get his breathing back to normal. “Spock if you’re worried that you’ve been, aha, neglecting me, then I guess you’ll just have to show your appreciation more often, hm? Seems to me like you’ve figured out a pretty good way to do it.”
“So you would rate the experience positively?” Spock knows better than to doubt McCoy on his feelings. If he is implying that no boundaries were crossed by engaging in intercourse this way, then Spock is hardly one to question it.
“I wouldn’t mind a repeat, if that’s what you’re asking. Though maybe next time, in more comfortable circumstances.” McCoy starts to bat at Kirk’s clinging hands. “On that note, get off me, I’m disgusting. I’m using your sonics, Jim, since you made me make a mess of myself in my pants like some kind of teenager. I hope you’re proud of yourself, by the way.”
As McCoy manages to free himself from the knot of Kirk’s limbs enough to roll out of the bed and head towards the shower, Kirk beams after his retreating back. “As punch!” the captain shouts. He gives Spock a thumb’s up and waggles his eyebrows.
In all honesty, Spock is not a hundred percent sure of what just happened. It does, however, feel good.
Day Seven
Spock should not feel such satisfaction at the way Tolek unsubtly seethes at him at the entrance to his shuttle home, but cannot quite bring himself to care.
“I do hope you will reconsider,” Tolek says, redirecting his attention towards McCoy. He takes McCoy’s hand in his own in what would maybe pass as a professional handshake goodbye if Tolek weren’t using two hands to do it and had not spent much of the last week trying to directly stimulate McCoy’s brain through that point of contact.
McCoy stares at Tolek’s fingers, clutched around his wrist, for a long moment before sharing a look with Spock. Eventually, he replies, “I’m honored for the offer, but I have a five-year mission I need to close out first. After that, though, who knows?”
Tolek’s eyes light up at that. “Yes, indeed. I understand. I’m sure we can keep a place open for you. You would always be . . . most welcome.”
“The gesture is appreciated.” McCoy smiles tightly.
Tolek very reluctantly lets him go and climbs into the shuttle. As its thrusters fire up and begin to rocket him away from the Enterprise –with any hope, Spock thinks, forever–Spock makes his way closer to stand shoulder to shoulder with McCoy.
“Giving him false hope, Doctor?”
“Eh, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?” McCoy elbows Spock in the ribs. “Besides, who says it’s false? You better make it worth my while if you want me to stick around after this mission is done.”
Spock raises an eyebrow in response to McCoy’s provocation the exact same way he has done a million times before, and its familiarity has never been more welcome. “And how do you propose I do that?”
“Well, I’ve been making serious headway with the gene therapy to restore sight to the Aenar, if they ever decide they do in fact want to rejoin the majority of Andorian society. I was thinking you could look over my work and tell me how smart I am and then- how did you phrase it? ‘Appreciate my talents?’ I’ve already told Jim, too, so I expect he may stop by to congratulate me as well at some point. If you know what I mean.”
McCoy loops his arm around Spock’s and starts leading them off toward the labs. Spock’s mouth goes dry at both the enticing image this impish version of McCoy makes, but also the remarkable medical breakthrough that he has achieved. “If my input is needed,” he says with wonder in his voice, and he allows himself to marvel at the fact that he will be allowed to put his overly sensitive hands all over both.