The BLTS Archive - Cataclysmic Binaries
by Nemo the Everbeing (paradigm_shift@mchsi.com)

---

Answer to the Ninth Wave challenge: "Write a story that involves a
disability." As close to PWP as I'll come.

Author's Note: My God! Has Nemo finally written smut? Are the skies
falling? Does her smut suck as much as she thinks it does? Only
reviewers will tell . . . Readers of my plot-driven stories will find
this to be a bit different. Is their plot? Yes, I can't do a story
without at least some. However, is the plot mostly a vehicle for the
sex? Yup. There is a time and place for happy, mindless smut, and I do
believe that time has come!

Oh, and sticklers will notice that I did change one tiny detail as to
the design of the Enterprise: the sonic showers are now water. This
story just wouldn't have worked with sonics. So, prior apologies to
the detail-oriented. Be aware that I knew what I was doing when I
tampered, and know that I had good reason to do so. Hopefully, after
reading this, you'll agree that this change works.

Thanks: To Tony, who probably never knew that his astronomical studies
into the nature of binary star systems would go to such an interesting
use. Love ya, buddy.

Disclaimer: No, they're still not mine.

---

According to the blunt wit of one Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, Spock looked
like an overly-large, dour lobster. It was, in Spock's opinion, not an
altogether erroneous claim, although most such crustaceans have full
use of their pincers, whereas Spock did not. It was, in fact, safe to
say that the three-inch-thick wraps around his hands and wrists
rendered him completely incapacitated, instead of aiding in day-to-day
activities.

Originally, it had not seemed such a detriment to lose the use of both
hands. That thought alone had prompted Spock to cooperate with this
course of treatment.

He swiftly discovered how wrong he had been in that assumption.

The fact was that Spock's life was practically lived through his
hands. His job on the ship required him to manipulate a console. This,
however, was impossible in his current condition, as the best he could
do was prod at things with the tip of the bandaging. He also found
that, without hands or a wrist, sitting up became a much more
laborious process, as did eating, performing any form of ablutions, as
well as other, more personal tasks. In the end, Spock found that his
greatest talent in this state was lying on his bed and waiting for his
hands to heal.

It was an extremely tedious business, even for a man who prided
himself on his patience.

It had all started with Klingons, as most things do. More
specifically, it had started with some rather dubious negotiations
with the Klingons over a parcel of space of no strategic importance to
either side. It had simply been, as McCoy had so eloquently put it, a
pissing contest.

To ensure that they won said contest, the captain had sent Spock in to
perform initial talks, in what had seemed a rational maneuver at the
time. His idea had been that the Vulcan might have some slim chance of
getting through to the Klingons by forcing them to see the logic of
the situation. Spock, of course, had readily agreed with this plan, as
he was never one to pass up an opportunity to make other think
rationally.

Of course, Klingons are not known for their strengths in that area.

Their plan had, of course, gone rather spectacularly awry when one of
the Klingon negotiators took offense at Spock's tone and demanded
retribution. Before anything could be amended or explained, the
hapless first officer had found himself overwhelmed, and hip-deep in
angry Klingons. Even with his prodigious Vulcan strength, he was
completely unable to extricate himself from the situation.

Once subdued, Spock had been beamed over to the Klingons ship and
'interrogated'. For these particular Klingons, however, interrogation
did not so much involve questioning as it did torture of a singularly
sadistic nature.

Spock, despite a deep faith in his crew, began to believe that he
would not survive the ordeal.

At that time, when it seemed logical that he should think any thoughts
he might wish to think before he was dispatched, had, oddly enough,
thought of his irate human nemesis with those last, precious moments.
What, he wondered, would Doctor McCoy do without Spock to irritate?
And why, at a time like this, was that of utmost importance?

Having no answers, Spock prepared to be executed, and all the while he
thought of Leonard McCoy.

However, as he should have come to expect from a long and illustrious
association with James Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise, the
captain had arrived just in time, and had dispatched Spock's would-be
murderers with incredible flair and several well-timed quips (most
often from the doctor, who moved to Spock as soon as he was able).

And the last thing Spock saw before the emergency medical beam-out
snagged them both was McCoy attempting not to look concerned.

Back on the Enterprise, Spock had found himself rushed to one of his
least favorite locations: Sickbay. There, the object of his previous
musings hovered over him, poking and prodding with his instruments and
looking very stern.

Luckily, many of Spock's injuries had been easily repaired. Broken
blood vessels were effortlessly mended, and the various cuts he had
suffered were taken care of in seconds thanks to the dermal
regenerator. However, Spock's hands, which had been particularly
targeted by his torturers, were of a different ilk. Every one of his
phalanges and metacarpals had been broken, and several of them had
been shattered. Slashes across his palms had detached many delicate
muscles and ligaments.

However, the worst injuries had been inflicted upon the very tips of
each of his fingers: every one of his fingernails had been
systematically ripped off.

Even the doctor was unable to quell his revulsion and fury on Spock's
part, an emotion which surprised his Vulcan rival, especially when the
pacifistic doctor had advocated pursuing and attacking the treacherous
Klingons. Spock pointed out that an attack of that magnitude, however
justified, would be a definitive act of war. He did not wish to be the
cause of such widespread bloodshed. The Captain had protested,
insisting that not responding would be inevitably construed as
weakness on his part.

It had been a long and laborious discussion, which had only been cut
off when McCoy, upon seeing through Spock's attempts to conceal his
fatigue, had sent Kirk from Sickbay and ordered the Vulcan to sleep.

They had then heatedly argued over where Spock was to sleep. The
Vulcan insisted that the climate of his own room, as well as its
solitude, was far more conducive to his recuperation, and his healing
trance. McCoy had argued that he would be unable to monitor Spock's
progress.

After nearly an hour of discussion, insults, and name-calling, it had
been agreed upon that Spock would return to his room, but that McCoy
would use his medical override to check on him every half-hour. It was
not, Spock mused, the ideal arrangement, what with McCoy constantly
barging in, but it had been the only compromise which the irate doctor
would accede to.

After four days of such conditions, Spock found that it had not been
nearly as objectionable as he had assumed. On the contrary, it had
resurrected Spock's previous line of thought, and he began to wonder
why it had been McCoy who had occupied his potentially dying thoughts.

The more he saw of the human, the more he began to understand.

It had been strange at first, seeing the doctor so frequently and so
privately. Jim, of course, had been forced to spend almost all his
time dealing with the Klingons, and so could only stop by for brief
visits to check on his friend and first officer's recovery. The person
Spock spent almost every waking hour with became Leonard McCoy by
default.

Spock realized that such occurrences were very rare for the two of
them. They argued all the time, true, but in terms of actual instances
spent alone together he was forced to admit that the tally was
negligible.

Now, with Spock incapable of much of his basic care, McCoy had become
a surrogate pair of hands for the Vulcan, bringing him meals (mostly
in a liquid form, so they would be easily digestible and Spock could
clutch the glass between his bandages and consume his meals through a
straw). It was a less than satisfactory way of consuming nutrients,
but it was better than being spoon-fed.

Other problems were more difficult to overcome. Spock wore his robes
during his recovery, so eliminating waste was at least something the
Vulcan could manage on his own, even if it took a while. Bathing,
however, was not nearly so uncomplicated. Even with the easily-shed
clothing, the bandaging had to be kept out of the water. After one
incredibly awkward ten minutes of consideration, the two of them had
come up with a solution: plastic covers would be placed over both of
Spock's bandages, as well as scrubbing mitts over top of the plastic.
Drying, however, became the doctor's task, as Spock's mitts were
sopping wet by that point, not to mention that he was incapable of
grasping the towel. So, when he finished with his shower, McCoy would
be waiting calmly with one in his hands.

Every night, the doctor was utterly professional, but it did not
lessen the awareness of what, precisely, they were doing.

Spock became increasingly aware of a subtle shift occurring in their
relationship. The tension that had existed for so long between them
had tightened exponentially during the past few days. Spock felt that
they were a cataclysmic binary star system, orbiting so close that
they would inevitably collide, either merging or utterly annihilating
each other. Either way, the impact was bound to be extreme.

So, Spock woke in the morning of that fourth day of his convalescence,
it was with a sharp sense of anticipation. He was not sure what would
happen that day, but he truly believed that something would, and such
an event would change the nature of their relationship permanently, no
matter how things turned out.

After four days of inaction, he could actually be called eager for the
coming storm.

Just then, the gruff voice of the doctor preceded his physical
appearance, snapping out the medical override that gained him entrance
to any quarters he desired. Spock schooled himself into his usual
impassivity, well aware that any sudden moves could destroy the
opportunity.

The door, as it was programmed to do, opened, and McCoy moved in
briskly. "And how are we today?" he asked.

Spock understood his role in this charade, and played along with ease.
Adding an edge of ever-so-slight irritation to his voice, the Vulcan
stated, "Being that I have not left the room, it is logical to
conclude that I am much the same as I was six hours ago when you last
asked me that question. It is also highly probable that I shall be in
a similar state when you ask that question a half-hour from now, and
the half-hour after that."

And, just as Spock had known he would, McCoy frowned at him, arching
an eyebrow in a decidedly Vulcan manner. "Jesus," he snapped in an
un-Vulcan grumble, "what got into you?"

"I am," Spock stated, in a much more level, if stiff, tone, "merely
concerned with the state of affairs in my absence."

McCoy brought over a tall glass of blended fruit and nutrient
fortifications, set it at Spock's bedside, and slid an arm under the
Vulcan's shoulders. "You mean you're bored," the doctor stated as he
pulled Spock into a sitting position. "You're sitting in here without
a thing to do but talk to me, and you're gettin' the jitters. You want
to be where the action is, with Jim on that bridge."

Spock narrowly watched McCoy as the doctor pulled back with more
alacrity than was normal. Apparently, they were both aware of the
unspoken understanding that something was occurring which was out of
the ordinary. "I serve no purpose remaining here," Spock replied,
acting as if the conversation was of some sort of import, which, of
course, it was not.

McCoy's eyes met his own, questioning and accusing. "You serve no
purpose anywhere, at the moment. Not with those lobster-claws of
yours."

"I must point out that you put them there, doctor. The fault does not
lie with me."

McCoy nodded and raised the glass, which Spock was able to hold by
pressing it between his wrapped hands. Angling the straw protruding
from the thick concoction, the doctor shot back, "And they're doing
their jobs mighty well, I must say. You haven't taken any stupid risks
or tried to go back to duty while they're there. I'm thinking of
making them standard treatment for all my difficult patients."

Spock glared coldly at the doctor, but it was not an easy task with a
straw in his mouth. Of course, the glare was for show. The entire
argument was, and they both knew it.

As he drank, McCoy ran his tricorder over the wrappings, checking and
nodding. "Things are going pretty well, considering the amount of
damage you came in with. The bone-knitters have almost finished their
job, and they've completely absorbed whatever splintered fragments
were floating around and damaging tissues." He adjusted the settings,
nodding again. "Ligaments are connecting nicely, and muscular
structure is almost healed." As he glanced up, Spock couldn't help but
notice how very serious the human's blue eyes were. This part of their
speech, at least, was important. Spock readjusted his focus and
listened to the physician's words. "You're going to have to undergo
some serious physical therapy before you're back up to your usual
one-hundred-ten percent, Mister Spock."

Spock nodded. "I was aware of the possibility."

"Well, now it's a necessity. And we're going to have to do some
treatments on your new fingernails, too. They'll be there when these
bandages come off, but they're going to be weak as newborn kittens."

Due to the undercurrents of their conversation, Spock had nearly
forgotten the reason for it, and the reason for their repeated
solitary interactions. The memory of his injuries and the fact that he
was, for lack of a better term, utterly useless, suddenly eclipsed
even his keen interest in the tension warring between the doctor and
himself.

The Vulcan found his emotional control waning dangerously at the
thought that he could be so unproductive. For a man who defined
himself through his work and his ability to come up with the perfect
solution for almost any problem, this sort of debility was not only
galling, but threatened to undermine his very being Staring resolutely
at absolutely nothing, Spock felt his muscles tense and tremble.

McCoy frowned. "Christ almighty, you've got to relax, Spock! If you
tense up, your muscles are gonna knit wrong."

It was easiest to snap at the doctor. It would give him something else
to think about. "It is highly difficult to relax, Doctor, with you
hovering over me."

"This is the thanks I get . . ." McCoy growled, grabbing Spock's arm.
The Vulcan was going to voice some sort of appropriate protest, but he
didn't get anything out before McCoy had his sleeve rolled up and his
cool human fingers began pressing and rubbing against the skin of
Spock's inner arm.

Spock's mind, thankfully, returned to his previous thoughts, and he
even mused that his emotional slip could have possibly been more
beneficial than detrimental. It seemed, at least, to have brought them
in much closer physical proximity. He hated to admit that any sort of
productivity could be had from illogic, but in this case there was
simply no way to deny it. After all, Leonard McCoy, as an irrational
being, would respond best to irrational actions.

And now he was standing over Spock with those surgeon's hands running
across overly-warm Vulcan flesh.

Even with this rapid progress, there was a fine line to be walked
here, and appearances to maintain. McCoy could still be easily
frightened away. "Doctor," Spock therefore snapped, "this is highly
inappropriate."

"As you so rightly pointed out, I am a Doctor, and you're my patient,
Spock," McCoy stated, in a tone that was stiff with unexpressed
emotions. "It's a standard medical procedure."

He knew, Spock understood. McCoy knew as well as he did what was
happening in these moments. "So are muscle relaxants," Spock snapped.

McCoy's expression was a challenge. "Now, you listen here, Spock. You
have enough chemicals in your system already. Now, I am the CMO, here,
and I'll determine the proper medical treatment. You got it?"

The Vulcan attempted to skim McCoy's thoughts unobtrusively, but
gleaned very little of use. The doctor was stubbornly clinging to his
profession and endeavoring to distance himself from his actions. It
was odd, Spock mused, that he would be the one so interested in an
emotional confrontation, while McCoy shied from it.

Most unusual.

Attempting to divine the deeper subtext in the human's actions, Spock
took to watching him. McCoy, however, was staring intently at the
Vulcan's arm, giving nothing away but a frown of concentration as his
fingers kneaded away.

Spock, unable to obtain the desired information from the doctor's
normally expressive face, found himself pondering McCoy as a person,
as well as considering their long acquaintance. Was it possible that
they knew before these few days that their relationship would
inevitably arrive at this conclusion?

It was a distinct possibility.

What a strange man he'd always found Leonard McCoy to be. Very few
humans he knew had the spit-fire quality he'd come to associate with
this doctor. Especially in Starfleet, the human race had schooled
itself to remain calm. Terrans were never Vulcan in their tranquility,
but they were professional and courteous at all times.

They were nothing like Leonard McCoy.

Spock had once heard the doctor shout at an admiral when the man had
threatened to cut off medical aid to a colony opposed to the
Federation's war with the Klingons. Spock had feared that the doctor
would earn himself a court-martial, but, somehow, Kirk had managed to
get him out of the fire one more time. And, in the end, the medical
aid had continued to flow. Spock could not understand it, but McCoy
was somehow effective in his bluster and loud injunctions.

Musing on the doctor's voice, Spock found himself turning off his
universal translator with a slight movement of his head. He didn't use
it much around humans anymore, but sometimes it was simply comforting
to hear his fellow officers' voices speaking in Vulcan. Of course,
Vulcan never sounded quite right in McCoy's voice. His euphemisms
became even more garbled when translated to Spock's native language.

In English, though, there was a strange eloquence to the harsh voice
of Leonard McCoy. His phraseology was odd, but it had a rhythm and
cadence that was uniquely his own.

McCoy looked up, blinking in confusion at Spock's close inspection.
"What?" he demanded. "Do I have something on my face?"

Spock didn't answer. He needed to draw a more indicative response from
McCoy, and so he remained silent. Because of this, something in his
mind informed him that his actions were becoming increasingly
illogical, and yet he could not bring himself to care. Logic had never
worked very well on the irrational human, anyway. Ironically, it was
then logical to be illogical.

As Spock anticipated, McCoy became increasingly irritated. "Spock? You
planning on answering me?" Emphasizing his annoyance, he leaned over
Spock.

It was the cue that Spock had been awaiting. Without a word, he
reached over and slid one of his awkwardly-wrapped hands behind
McCoy's neck, effectively stopping the doctor's rant in mid-word.

McCoy stared at the Vulcan, his mouth working soundlessly, trying to
conjure words that just wouldn't come. Their gazes met, and Spock felt
an inevitability in the gesture. They understood this moment, even if
they did not understand what would come next. It should be obvious,
Spock mused, but it was as if each second were electric, unexpected,
and so powerful that it absolutely obliterated all concerns for past
or future.

"Spock, what in the name of all that's holy are you doing?" McCoy
whispered, making one last attempt to halt their forward momentum.
However, Spock understood gravity, and he knew that they were far too
close and orbiting far too fast for anything other than a collision to
occur. Physics simply would not permit it.

Not one to disagree with the rules of science, Spock pulled the human
hard. McCoy was jerked down so that he was leaning over the Vulcan,
their mouths inches apart.

Those remarkable blue eyes were wide. "Spock . . ." he ventured, voice
barely above a breath. "What are you . . ?"

"That, Doctor," Spock murmured, "should be obvious, even to you."

And then, he pulled McCoy the rest of the way down. The kiss was
awkward, what with the human as tense as possible, and Spock unable to
maneuver. Still, for all the apparent inelegance, the simmering heat
which had been brewing between them for so long came to a screaming
boil.

Suddenly, McCoy tilted his head, adjusting the angle of contact for
the both of them. Mouths opened and the doctor's hand landed on the
Vulcan's shoulder. Spock wished he had his own hands free, so that he
could meld with the human who was currently struggling to get closer,
making urgent noises in the back of his throat.

And then, suddenly, McCoy jerked himself away, gaping at Spock. The
human's face was flushed and his hand went to his lips. He shook his
head, but everything that had just happened seemed to overwhelm him.
For the first time in their long acquaintance, Spock had well and
truly rendered the doctor incapable of speech.

And then, with his spine stiff and his cheeks crimson, Leonard McCoy
left his quarters with as much expediency as his dignity would permit.

Spock arched an eyebrow.

Apparently this collision would take longer than he had originally
anticipated.

Upset or no, Doctor McCoy had a job to do, and, despite the fact he
did not check on Spock for the rest of the day, and only stopped in
briefly to deliver his lunch, not meeting the Vulcan's steady gaze the
entire time, he did arrive promptly at seven with his dinner.

Spock did not feel it necessary to remind the skittish human that they
were scheduled for a shower after the meal. The Vulcan had determined
that such an event would be an appropriate moment to directly address
their situation, but not before.

So, for the moment he remained innocuous. "How go the negotiations?"
Spock asked politely.

McCoy looked up sharply, as if surprised by the simple act of speech
after such a cataclysmic occurrence. "All right, I guess," he
ventured, his tone guarded. "Jim'll get 'em in the end. He always
does."

"Do you intend to give me specifics as to how he intends to get them,
or shall I press you?"

That choice of wording made McCoy's cheeks redden and his voice turn
even more gruff than usual. "I'm not sure," he snapped. "I haven't
gotten around to pestering him about it."

"That is unlike you, Leonard."

McCoy's gaze sharpened at the name, and he said, "Well, I've had other
things on my mind."

"Indeed."

Running a shaking hand through his hair, McCoy said, "Seems to me that
he's trying to avoid an armed confrontation, you know? Jim's been
dancing around them with pretty phrases and a whole lot of bluster for
the past four days." Their eyes met for a brief second. "I think he's
actually trying to follow your instructions, for once. Not a shot
fired."

"That is laudable in such a tense situation," Spock said.

"That's what I told him this afternoon."

So, the meal passed with strained attempts at small talk, but the
undercurrent of something much more pressing and important ran
throughout the entire interchange. In fact, it would be accurate to
say that not even Spock could recall what they had discussed. By the
time he finished the blended vegetable concoction the doctor had
brought him, he was not certain that they were even attempting to make
sense.

The first words that had any real import that entire evening were
Spock's statement: "I believe we should prepare for the shower."

It was McCoy's turn to grow tense, but he nodded tersely and stood up,
a man mentally girding himself for battle.

Spock rose with a much more fluid elegance, despite being unable to
push himself with his hands. He, unlike the doctor, had already
resigned himself to that which would certainly occur before the night
was over. It was the reason he had dressed himself that day in the
robe which buttoned down. It had taken the Vulcan two hours of awkward
fumbling and creative maneuvering to do up the twenty-three small
fasteners, but once he was set upon a course of action, Spock would
not be deterred.

His hands were wrapped in plastic without a word, and when it was
done, McCoy stepped back and waited for Spock to retreat to the
bathroom.

The Vulcan did not move.

"I believe I shall require a bit more assistance," he stated as he
glanced down, indicating the buttons of his robe with his eyes. Spock
distantly wondered if this was what it was to seduce a person. Having
never done such a thing, he could not be certain, but from McCoy's
shocked expression and short breath, Spock believed that it was
probable.

And the fact did not disturb him. His logic and detachment had, very
simply, taken a sabbatical in all matters concerning Leonard McCoy.

Spock decided that it was a decidedly beneficial turn of events.

Eyebrows contracting in a familiar expression of worry, McCoy stepped
quietly closer and reached up, twisting the first button out of its
slot. "How the hell'd you even get into this?" he asked, his voice
hoarse.

Spock didn't bother to answer. Both of them knew that the 'how' was
unimportant. What mattered was the 'why', and that was already known
by all concerned parties.

McCoy was moving from button to button in fits and starts, as if
uncertain whether working quickly and risking the appearance of
eagerness or moving slowly and drawing out the event would be more
damning.

The final button was located in a place which, at any other time,
would have proved remarkably awkward for both of them. As it was,
Spock was far more fascinated by McCoy's flustered trepidation than he
was with modesty, and simply gazed at the doctor with a steady
scrutiny. The human's fingers hesitated, and then flashed out, working
swiftly and jerking away as soon as the task was done. Slowly, blue
eyes trailed up and met black, worried and excited and terrified all
in a glance.

Spock quirked an eyebrow.

McCoy set his jaw, reached up and parted the fabric, fingertips
ghosting across Spock's clavicles, across his shoulders, and then down
his arms as he pushed the robe off. The human did not dare look down,
but met Spock's gaze with a fixed terror.

"I believe," Spock stated, deciding that it was time to make his
intentions and their collision abundantly clear, "that I should invite
you to join me in the shower."

"Wh—what?" McCoy gasped.

"I said that I desired your company in the shower," Spock confirmed,
far past hesitation.

That, however, did not seem to be the case for McCoy. The doctor
vehemently shook his head. "No. This sort of thing doesn't happen to
me." His voice rose in anger and denial. "The man I've—hell. The man
I've lusted after for four damn years does not ask me to shower with
him."

Even Spock was surprised by that confession. Apparently, the doctor
was more skilled in deception than the Vulcan had given him credit
for. In the future, Spock would observe him with far more care. "And
why is that?" he asked mildly.

"Because!" McCoy exclaimed, obviously distressed. "The universe
doesn't work like that! It doesn't . . . people don't . . . good
things don't just happen!"

"I believe I have adequately demonstrated that they do, Doctor."

McCoy held up a hand. "Spock, you better stick to calling me Leonard.
You invite someone for sex in the shower, and titles just don't seem
to work anymore."

Spock nodded, moving close so that McCoy's nervous hands slid around
him. He brought his own bandaged appendages to rest in the small of
the human's back and brushing the base of his scalp.

Voice once more breathless, lending an acute sense of déjà vu to the
moment, McCoy managed to whisper, "Spock . . ."

And, just as he had the last time Leonard McCoy had addressed him in
such a manner, the Vulcan pulled the human doctor toward him, though
this time he had the advantage of standing, and so could adjust the
angle of the kiss before it occurred.

And that, interestingly enough, seemed to resolve things for Leonard,
whose hands moved suddenly, one pressing across Spock's shoulders and
the other grasping the back of his head.

Kissing the human turned out to be a singular experience, leaving
Spock dizzy without even moving. Physiological differences, he
supposed, were to thank for that. Leonard's tongue was surprisingly
cool against his own, and decidedly more soft. The doctor himself
seemed to have no objections to Spock, and hummed in appreciation.

When they drew away for breath, the Vulcan couldn't help but say,
"Leonard, I distinctly hope that you do not intend to leave this
time."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Now he asks." Then he demanded, "You goddamn
tease, how long did you know I wanted you?"

"I assure you that I was unaware of the fact until the point at which
you chose to inform me."

"Damn lucky timing, is what that is."

"Indeed. Might I say that you are severely overdressed?"

McCoy canted his head. "Planning on doing somethin' about it?"

Spock slid his bandages across the human's torso. "I seem rather
unable at the moment."

The doctor looked momentarily surprised, and then he seemed simply
embarrassed. "Sorry."

"I am not offended." Feeling a need for haste, Spock added, "May I
suggest you undress with some alacrity, as there are other activities
I would prefer over conversation at this moment?"

Stepping back, McCoy gave him a cheeky grin. "Pushy, pushy, pushy," he
called, even as he pulled his uniform tunic and undershirt off.

Spock surveyed the exposed expanse of skin and murmured, "Indeed."

McCoy gave him a glare. "Now, you stop looking so appealing before I
forget what I'm doing."

Spock arched an eyebrow.

McCoy managed to slip out of his pants and kick off his boots, which
left both of them in their underwear. Grinning, he moved back to
Spock. "Now then," he practically purred, "where were we?"

"Moving toward the shower, I believe."

"Easy there. There's a thing called foreplay, you know."

A tiny smile tugged at Spock's lips. "I have heard of such a thing in
theory, but I may require a demonstration."

McCoy returned Spock's smile with a large grin of his own. "Always
willing to contribute to the furthering of scientific knowledge."

And with that, Leonard reapplied himself to kissing Spock. However,
this time his lips seemed determined to wander, and they traced a line
across the Vulcan's jaw and to his ear. Spock found that his eyes
closed of their own volition when that cool tongue traced the shell of
his ear, and a shudder actually moved through him when the doctor
gently nibbled on his earlobe.

A low voice sounded, "The first thing you need to learn about foreplay
is that there are a helluva lot more erogenous zones on a person's
body than just the one between your legs."

"So I had gathered," Spock managed, surprising even himself by the
drop in his voice.

Leonard chuckled before moving his lips down Spock's neck and chest.
When he reached one dusky nipple, he paused and glanced up in
calculation, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Then, without
a word (a rare occurrence, indeed), he flicked that now-famous tongue
over it before sucking firmly.

Spock had to fight to keep from doubling over the human, and settled
with planting his hands firmly on the doctor's shoulders. "Leonard,
you have . . . many underrated talents."

His breath against Spock's wet nipple shooting an urgency through the
Vulcan, the human took just enough time away from his ministrations to
reply, "You're damn right I do."

That mouth moved to the other nipple, plying it with equal attention,
and soon Spock was actually shaking. Certainly there was something to
be said for the doctor's foreplay. Spock couldn't remember ever having
been so aroused.

And Leonard seemed nowhere near done with him, either. The sucking,
nibbling, licking kisses were moving lower still, making the muscles
of Spock's stomach shiver in appreciation. The doctor's tongue swirled
around his belly-button before stabbing in swiftly, making Spock's
hips buck involuntarily and one of his bandaged hands land on the
human's head. Then, that mouth moved lower still.

And then stopped.

And Leonard stood up, stepping back to survey his handiwork.

"Your term 'tease' is suddenly coming to mind," Spock growled.

"Spock, my dear," McCoy drawled, "forgive me if I want to savor the
moment. Christ Almighty, but I had no idea how responsive you'd be."

Spock was forced to accede the point, knowing that he was hardly the
composed and untouchable picture of a man he usually appeared to be.
From the warmth in his face, he estimated that he would be flushed
green; his nipples, responding to the combination of saliva and cool
air, were erect and aching, as was another part of his anatomy. That,
combined with the wet spot on his underwear, certainly made him a
sight.

Not that he was the only one.

Leonard's hair was tousled, and the blue in his eyes had been almost
completely eradicated by the black of his dilated pupils. He, too,
seemed to be in a state of urgent erection, and his hands clutched and
unclutched at his sides.

"Doctor," Spock stated, "if we wish to continue this in the shower, I
suggest we proceed there now, because I, for one, shall be unable to
stand much more foreplay."

"What?" McCoy murmured, "Vulcans not big on that?"

"Do you require a demonstration of how Vulcans copulate?"

"Only if you never call it that again."

Boldly sliding a hand between Leonard's thighs and palming the hot
bulge he found there, Spock asked, "And what, precisely, would you
like me to call it?"

The human's eyes fluttered closed as he whispered, "Not rightly sure.
What's the context? Are we gonna be doing this again?"

"I would certainly hope so."

"Am I allowed to be a sentimental human, here?"

"In this instance, that is certainly permitted."

"Then I'd term it 'making love'."

"How very romantic of you."

Leonard's eyes opened and he glared at Spock. "Well, it's a damn sight
better than 'copulating'. You make it sound like some damn nature
documentary!"

Spock found himself smiling slightly, reassured that they could still
argue, despite their changing relationship. "Leonard, I am not
objecting to the term."

Without warning, the doctor's palm connected with his own arousal,
making Spock jerk helplessly. "Good, then."

Spock retained enough control to look up and snap out a curt,
"Shower."

"Sounds good to me."

They stumbled toward the bathroom, but it became a difficult task, as
both were attempting to disrobe the other fully, and Spock's own
incapacitation made that action rather more difficult than it should
have been. How, precisely, they got out of their underwear, turned on
the shower to a temperature acceptable to both parties, and got into
the little stall was beyond Spock, but his next coherent moment found
them both standing beneath a spray of water.

"You were saying something about Vulcan sex?" Leonard gasped, hands
moving restlessly across Spock's chest and stomach.

"It is quite a bit more straightforward than the human variant," Spock
explained, and turned the doctor smartly towards the wall.

"Spock," Leonard warned, "it's been a damn long while for me, here. If
you're thinking about going in without a lubricant, you better think
again."

Spock pressed up against his soon-to-be lover's back, "May I remind
you that we are in a shower?" he asked, reaching around the human and
gesturing at the soap. "Unfortunately, in my current condition . . ."

"This one falls to me, huh?"

"Regrettably."

McCoy leaned his head back against Spock's shoulder and gave him a
glance that could melt metal. "Then I suggest you take a good look,
here, Spock."

The doctor reached out and snatched the bottle of soap, squeezing some
out onto his fingers before moving them between their bodies, the back
of his hand nudging Spock's penis suggestively as it moved, slipping
an unknown quantity of digits into the opening of that slender body.

However many it was, it was enough to make Leonard's eyes close. He
sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down gently.

Spock was positively mesmerized by the sight, and slipped one of his
arms around the human to press a bandaged hand against Leonard's
chest.

The doctor readjusted, the back of his hand creating a maddening
almost-friction against Spock as he did so. The human's breath, so
obvious to the Vulcan, as he could hear it in his ear and see it as
his hand rose and fell, became shorter and more erratic, his penis
jerking slightly.

"Hot damn," he breathed, "I forgot just how . . . Jesus H."

"Leonard," Spock whispered in his ear, "you are making very little
sense."

Once more, the human's eyes opened and met his own. Leonard's free
hand executed a surprisingly agile move which turned the bottle of
soap and squeezed a sizable amount into his palm before he dropped it,
and then the hand disappeared between them.

And closed over Spock's shaft.

The Vulcan's head fell forward, and the doctor's mouth was in direct
parallel with his ear. Though it was difficult to remember that
Leonard was even speaking while his hand worked over the sensitive
skin of Spock's penis, he heard the human hiss, "How's this for sense?
You. In me. Now."

For once, Spock was completely willing to follow the doctor's orders.

Bandaged hands moved to press against slender hip-bones, and the first
push forced both of their eyes open. Black met blue in a bubble of
erotic sensation. Leonard's expression was dazed, shocked, amazed, and
thoroughly pleasured, and his parted lips offered a most tempting
target.

Especially when they uttered, "You gonna get yourself the rest of the
way in, or do you plan to make me beg?"

Holding off the urge to kiss him, Spock pulled Leonard backwards even
as he thrust forward, watching in satisfaction as the human's mouth
opened wider and emitted a strangled moan.

Not wanting to stop such noises, Spock settled for returning the
doctor's previous attentions to his ear, and he withdrew slightly,
only to thrust forward.

Leonard's hand came up to clutch at the back of Spock's head and he
moaned again, more assuredly. Soon, they had established a swiftly
increasing tempo, and moans were rising in pitch and volume
accordingly. Each such noise seemed to go straight to Spock's
erection, causing him to thrust harder and faster. His mind attempted
to say something about 'vicious cycles', but he could see absolutely
nothing vicious about this, and so forced any such thoughts down where
they belonged.

And, suddenly, Leonard let out a sharp cry and his body seized about
Spock, clutching tightly. The additional friction proved too much for
the Vulcan, and, with a sharp gasp, he found himself spilling into the
human's body.

For several moments, Spock found himself completely incapable of any
thought.

At last, the world returned. He felt the spray of the shower hitting
him, and the slight tremors which even now shook Leonard stilling bit
by bit. Spock's own ragged breathing filled his ears, and he marveled
at how such a thing could have happened.

His first true thought was that he understood cataclysmic binaries far
better now than he had even an hour before.

His second was that he was still inside Leonard.

He shared that observation with his lover.

Leonard, whose head was still pillowed on Spock's shoulder, was
staring almost tranquilly at the ceiling. "You noticed that too, huh?"

"Yes."

"I can't honestly bring myself to move."

So, it was the Vulcan who finally pulled away from the embrace.
Leonard turned, and promptly kissed him with all the fire that Spock
had come to expect from him. For long moments, all they could do was
cling to one another and press lips in brief, almost sweet kisses. And
then, the human stepped back, smiling fondly as he reached for the
shampoo.

As thrilling as it had been to 'make love' to Leonard, as the human
had put it, it was equally thrilling simply to stand and feel the
doctor's fingers work through his hair, lathering the shampoo in a way
of which Spock had not be capable for four days.

The Vulcan sighed in content.

As he worked, Leonard inquired, "I take it that I'm invited to
tomorrow night's shower, too?"

"If only to do this," Spock answered.

"Oh, this isn't the only thing I'm planning on doing, or didn't you
think I intended to return the favor?"

Spock sighed in agreement with Leonard's proposal. After all,
cataclysmic binaries were meant to merge in such ways. That was simple
physics.

---

The (shamelessly smutty) End