Chapter Text
His mind emptied suddenly. It was hollow, cavernous without Spock. This shouldn’t feel wrong — being alone in his mind — but it did. He ached for the cruel man to climb back inside.
McCoy canted forwards, groaning. “Oh, damn,” he gasped. Spock caught him and pushed him back, steel-strong fingers against his face and rough on his wrist. McCoy’s eyes flared open as he hit the wall.
Spock was as serious as he’d been since they’d met, eyebrows pitched in and beard betraying the frowning pull of his mouth. His hand lowered from McCoy’s face, fingers digging into McCoy’s shoulder and neck confidently. “That was not what I expected,” he croaked.
Every inch of McCoy’s body shivered. He stayed still, keenly aware that he was still in danger. It didn’t feel like danger, though. What had they been doing? He felt so fucking alive.
“Get what you were lookin’ for?” McCoy breathed.
Spock let go of his wrist, pressing his hand to McCoy’s chest instead. It spread wide, bullying him against the wall. “You’ve known sorrow, I assumed you all unbothered by the darkness of life.”
“Foolish assumption,” McCoy said despite the smarter part of him that told him to shut his mouth and get out after Jim. “We’re as much people as you.” He glanced down, he hadn’t really had a chance to review how well his medical intervention had worked. “Are you feelin’ better?”
“You’ve been tortured,” Spock said. His hand lowered from McCoy’s neck, both of them spread wide across his chest now, tips of his fingers digging into the sinew at his ribs.
“Not often,” McCoy grunted. Those fingers were starting to hurt in a way that felt more devilish than cruel. He’d stopped being reminded of his own Spock — the moment of shared minds and the sharp ringing pain that remained had dashed the similarities. There was a hardness in his eyes and a pure lack of smile lines that made this man quite unique. But, somehow, not frightening. Hot, though. Definitely, alarmingly hot.
Spock’s eyes now were half-shut, heavily lidded like he was drunk or fucked-out. He tilted his head in closer, beard nearly scratching McCoy's cheek. His voice was low. McCoy’s focus cleared, pulled in by the vibration in his tone. “You feel pleasure despite the memory of your torture.” One of his hands tracked down McCoy’s chest. “You are not consumed by the memory of your pain.”
The way he touched McCoy was dizzying. McCoy swallowed, throat thick. “Are you— ?” he swallowed, keeping his voice quiet to hide his tone. “— consumed?”
Damn, he might not want this touch but he liked it. He wasn’t taken advantage of often, which while respectful could leave a man feeling undesirable. And while this certainly wasn’t safe by any sane assessment he could just feel that the memory of Spock’s hands confidently running down his sides would come back to him late at night.
“I will show you.” One of Spock’s hands rested under his ribcage, against the dip of his stomach. His other raised, pressing into McCoy’s throat, catching on his pulse. “Let me have you again.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. McCoy glanced over at the door across the room. “I need to leave,” he whispered weakly. Time was passing, Jim wouldn’t just wait forever. There was a damned timer on him.
Spock’s fingers touched McCoy’s lips, slipping briefly into his mouth. His touch was gentle but his fingertips rough against McCoy’s gums. McCoy was salivating. “I’ll make it feel good for you,” Spock whispered. He dragged his fingers up, leaving a trail of spit across McCoy’s cheek as his fingers found familiar, foreboding purchase.
“God, Spock, I— ” McCoy’s words devolved into a moan as Spock fell into his mind again. He panted, holding onto anything he could get a purchase on, but his sense of self disappeared fast.
It hadn’t been like this the first time, the first time had been invasive, a parasite as large as him exploring his body, traipsing through his memory with disregard. This time McCoy was within Spock too, with no firm connection to himself. He floated, unable to move as he simmered a millimeter behind Spock’s skin and across his entire body. It was hot — heated and erotic — the sensation sparking through him and all consuming.
There was no investigation this time, no rifling through his mind. Just intimacy and overwhelming contact.
He was served memories, not living them but recalling them as if they were his own; bare-handed battled with pointed-eared men far older and stronger than he, his mother’s sickbed, the sight of stars and the wonder they evoked in him, the condescension within him as he viewed Terrans perform their inefficient habits, and the rare beauty of a moment of kindness given freely.
With a jolt McCoy recognised himself in that last memory. As he did he slipped, stomach lurching, and tightened his grip to keep himself up. The amorphous attachment between them relaxed but didn’t entirely leave, returning them to the strangely-lit medbay. He leant on Spock, reaching for him, sympathy and gratitude in him.
The air was kind for a moment. Warm and calm and intimate. He gasped shakily, cheek scratching against Spock’s beard.
The fingers on his face pressed again. The electricity that ran his body changed frequency and he was flooded with pleasure.
He opened his eyes to find Spock’s face against his, foreheads pressed together. He held Spock close, hands balled into his shirt to keep him. Their breath mingled, both of them breathing heavily. The hot air tasted of blood.
Spock’s hand trailed lazily around the side of his face, exploring him gently. McCoy’s mind throbbed, like a headache without pain. Spock stepped closer, thigh slipping between McCoy’s legs and — like a switch being flicked — McCoy cried out. He heard himself before he realised he was moaning, loud and needy to the point of being pornographic.
He came against Spock’s thigh, overwhelmed by it. Between breaths he could head Spock’s voice, wordless and groaning, mouth open and goatee itching against McCoy’s ear. McCoy ran his hand up Spock’s chest to grip the back of his neck as rapturous aftershocks ran through him. Spock thrust unevenly against McCoy, calming steadily.
They cooled. McCoy let go of him, hesitatingly uncomfortable. His pants were wet and his heart beat hard. “Fuck,” McCoy sighed. What the fuck had happened? He rest his forehead on Spock’s shoulder, taking the company for what it could be. Spock’s thumb moved fondly against his temple, which brought him some relief. “I need to leave.”
“Of course,” Spock said softly.
It was just the post-orgasmic endorphins, but McCoy wanted him. Strong arms around him, attention so absolute. And these hints of curiosity and kindness. To have any kindness left in him in this universe was admirable.
And that attention on him, like he was something worth the time it’d take to learn. Like he was something that’d take learning. Fucking intoxicating.
Not that he had the time to explore his interest. And Spock hadn’t been all kind, perhaps a feeling of violation would overwhelm McCoy as soon as he had a mote of distance. But in this moment… McCoy leaned forwards and pressed his lips to the side of Spock’s bearded jaw in a gentle farewell.
Spock allowed the kiss, then lowered his hand and pushed against McCoy’s chest to stand back. His colour was high, cheeks dark and hair messed. His eyes were sparkling.
McCoy raised his eyebrows and Spock took another step back and raised his arm, indicating for McCoy to leave. Shaky on his feet, McCoy stumbled out. He looked back at the door but Spock hadn’t turned to watch him go.
He fixed his damp pants, slung his medkit over his shoulder, and tried to flatten his hair. As he got his bearings the medbay door opened behind him and his heart froze. He was sure Spock would restrain him, keep him here somehow.
Spock walked past McCoy quickly and grabbed at his arm as he went, determination splashed across his face. McCoy jerked, stumbled, and kept up.
“Hey, I ain’t gonna fight you, but— ”
“Oh, you could not. But no, we spent too long. You’re late.”
They turned a corner. Spock’s grip on McCoy’s upper arm was bruisingly tight. They reached a jeffries tube and Spock stopped, let go of McCoy, and deftly removed a cover.
Against his better judgment McCoy stopped with him. “What’re you— ?”
“Would you stay?” Spock asked tersely. He had his hands in the open panel, reaching deep into the ship’s wall.
Damn. There was something here, something serious and mutual. McCoy leaned against the wall, giving Spock the attention he deserved. “Does what I want make a difference to you, then?”
“I’ll have you willing.”
McCoy’s throat was dry. Felt like a damned profession of love, here. Respecting boundaries. He licked his lips. “Then, no,” McCoy breathed.
Spock frowned. His eyes darkened slightly. He leant deep into the wall and pulled at something. The lights flickered. “We go,” he snapped, taking McCoy by the arm again.
The walked quickly, smartly. Spock glared at a pair already in the turbolift who immediately got out, leaving them alone. Spock directed the lift, then ran his hand from McCoy’s shoulder up to his neck. He didn’t look, but held McCoy tightly, fingers splayed across his throat and into his hair. His thumb pressed under McCoy’s chin, forcing him to raise his head slightly.
The lift shuddered. McCoy didn’t resist Spock’s manipulation, standing as he was held. “I don’t get you,” McCoy breathed.
Spock laughed lightly. Which was a wild sound to hear from him, but it kind of fit. Thrilled McCoy a bit. Spock turned and looked at him. “Likewise.”
It was so fucking magnetic. His mind was empty, and his skin only warm where Spock touched him. Otherwise he was cold.
He just wanted to climb back in.
Spock blinked slowly at him. Something in the back of McCoy’s mind throbbed again.
The lift arrived. Spock hesitated for a moment, but sniffed sharply and led McCoy out. It was a short, tense walk to the transporter room.
Scotty, Uhura, Jim, and the woman Jim had gotten friendly with, Marlena, turned to look at him. Well, at least they were all alive still. And waiting for him, praise be.
“I cut the transporter power,” Spock said. “It was necessary to delay your beam out until I could arrive.” He pushed McCoy away, into the room. McCoy stumbled slightly and threw him a glare.
Spock met his gaze evenly. “Take him,” he said, frowning.
It shouldn’t feel like rejection, but for some reason it smarted the same way. Spock went to the transporter and called through to someone. McCoy stood next to Scotty, nodding at Uhura to confirm her wellbeing.
“You’re a man of integrity in both universes, Mister Spock,” Jim said.
“You must return to your universe,” Spock said. McCoy sighed, put the confusion and strange disappointment aside for the moment, and tuned him out. He slipped easily into conversation with Scotty to get caught up.
Scotty made it perfectly clear they were short on time. After a minute, and Scotty growing increasingly stressed, Scotty stepped past McCoy and spoke uncharacteristically rudely. “Captain, get in the chamber!”
Jim was leaning against the transporter controls, deep in conversation with Spock. “What about it, Spock?”
Was Jim inviting Spock along? McCoy wasn’t sure he couldn’t manage that; one Spock he was friendly and antagonistic with, another he wanted to be a part of? That would be far too confusing.
Spock looked up across the room, meeting McCoy’s eyes.
No, he wasn’t coming. That was certain. McCoy’s mind throbbed again.
It wasn’t entirely natural, this consuming desire. He knew that but it didn’t seem to matter. That last spark of self respect and decency kept him on the transporter pad, feeling quite sure that if he stepped off and got closer to Spock he’d be on his knees with his tongue out in moments.
Damn, it was hot in this room.
“A man must also have the power,” Spock said, gaze still heavy on McCoy.
Jim nodded, still not on the damned transporter. “In my cabin there is a device that will make you invincible.”
Spock’s eyebrow raised. He looked away from McCoy, attention on Jim again. “Indeed?”
“What will it be?” Jim asked. “Past or future? Tyranny or freedom? It’s up to you.”
“Jim,” McCoy breathed, trying to hurry him along. Spock turned to him again. A headache blossomed into cruel being, the lights bright and hurting.
“It is time,” Spock said, and nodded at Jim to step up on the transporter.
Jim, finally, did. He spoke as he went. “In every revolution, there’s one man with a vision.”
Spock’s eyes were on McCoy, dark and inviting, drawing McCoy in with the same doubtlessness of gravity. McCoy solidified his stance, but the strange and bizarre admiration and fondness he felt, the thrumming desire, he put in his expression.
Spock blinked, and McCoy felt that he understood it. The headache eased, like a grip being relaxed. It was light and mournful.
“Captain Kirk,” Spock said clearly, “I shall consider it.”
And the transporter took them.