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See Warnings in first part.
He’s interrupted by someone at his door. He debates answering it. It’s probably Jim, coming to have a chat with him about his ‘problem’. If it is, Jim could just use his override. There wasn’t any need to get up. He puts the vials away, hiding them, just in case.
He’s surprised to look up and see Spock there.
Spock doesn’t say anything for a moment, and neither does he.
“Did Jim send you down here,” he sighs.
“While the captain is concerned, I am here of my own volition.”
He is startled when Spock sits on the bed next to him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off the Vulcan. He’d forgotten how that felt, how warm it was next to Spock, and he can’t help but enjoy it a little, the reminder that there is something out here beside the empty vastness of space.
“I would like your permission to meld with you,” Spock says, and his voice is quiet, softer than he remembers.
He nods. It doesn’t matter now, but he might as well give Spock what he wants while he has the chance.
Spock’s hands find their way, brushing across his cheek before settling into position. He can’t figure out why they’re doing this now, and then he feels it, the subtle press of Spock into his head.
It’s unreal. The bleakness that has haunted him for months now has faded into the background and he is awash in Spock’s thoughts, Spock’s feelings, the crisp, logical order of Spock’s mind.
He can feel Spock pushing him, guiding him really, showing him the way and there he is. He can see himself through Spock’s eyes: watching over Spock when he’d been injured on an away mission, with hollow eyes after losing a patient, laughing with Jim at some shared joke, head bowed over a slide that could be the cure he’s looking for. Over and over, memories of him with patients, on good days when he’d succeeded, on bad days when failure was draped over him like a cloak. All the recent ones looked like bad days, and McCoy hadn’t noticed really. Spock had though, had seen the circles under his eyes from not sleeping or sleeping too much, the stubble when shaving had felt like too much work, the weight he’d lost when remembering to eat had required too much effort. He felt what Spock had felt, respect, affection, and then the worry, the nagging worry and the uncertainty what to do about it.
He sees himself answering his door, rumpled from sleep, hair sticking up wildly. I look ridiculous, he thinks, and he can hear Spock correcting him in his own head. ‘Beautiful.’
It’s shifting again, moving forward a little, and all he feels is overwhelming pleasure. It’s that first time, and he feels it, feels how hard it is to maintain control, feels the lust, desire, affection cascading through him, feels it as Spock feels it, bleeding off his skin, feeding Spock’s desire until it crashes over him, and he’s coming or Spock’s coming, but it’s all secondary to this – this emotional resonance chamber he’s found himself in. He can’t remember feeling like this; it’s been so long since he’d felt anything good.
He feels the hurt when he’d rejected the meld that first time Spock had offered. The hurt when he turned away. The hurt when he’s pulled his hands free.
He’s sorry. I didn’t know, he thinks, and he can feel the bleakness moving in again. He’d failed. He hadn’t been good enough. He should have understood. Spock had never said anything.
He can feel it now, this strange embarrassment from Spock. I didn’t know what to say, and it’s a confession and it hits him with the force of a kick in the stomach.
For all his teasing, he never really thought about Spock being different. He’d just bought into the calm exterior, the half-human heritage, the former relationship, and he’d assumed that Spock knew what he was doing. It’s like being let in on the biggest secret ever, that Spock doesn’t know everything, and it’s enough.
McCoy lets him in, let him see everything he’s spent all this time trying to hide: the growing love, the worry, the insecurity, the confusion, the hopelessness, the feelings of failure, the loneliness, the pain and the plan, the vials stashed away just waiting for the right moment. He can feel Spock’s shock, but it’s all out there for once, everything and it’s liberating, sharing it with someone.
They come out of the meld, separate again, although McCoy has this faint awareness of Spock, like a tingle in his brain, and for the first time he feels like he understands and is understood. It might not be enough in the long run, but it’s enough for now.
He’s interrupted by someone at his door. He debates answering it. It’s probably Jim, coming to have a chat with him about his ‘problem’. If it is, Jim could just use his override. There wasn’t any need to get up. He puts the vials away, hiding them, just in case.
He’s surprised to look up and see Spock there.
Spock doesn’t say anything for a moment, and neither does he.
“Did Jim send you down here,” he sighs.
“While the captain is concerned, I am here of my own volition.”
He is startled when Spock sits on the bed next to him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off the Vulcan. He’d forgotten how that felt, how warm it was next to Spock, and he can’t help but enjoy it a little, the reminder that there is something out here beside the empty vastness of space.
“I would like your permission to meld with you,” Spock says, and his voice is quiet, softer than he remembers.
He nods. It doesn’t matter now, but he might as well give Spock what he wants while he has the chance.
Spock’s hands find their way, brushing across his cheek before settling into position. He can’t figure out why they’re doing this now, and then he feels it, the subtle press of Spock into his head.
It’s unreal. The bleakness that has haunted him for months now has faded into the background and he is awash in Spock’s thoughts, Spock’s feelings, the crisp, logical order of Spock’s mind.
He can feel Spock pushing him, guiding him really, showing him the way and there he is. He can see himself through Spock’s eyes: watching over Spock when he’d been injured on an away mission, with hollow eyes after losing a patient, laughing with Jim at some shared joke, head bowed over a slide that could be the cure he’s looking for. Over and over, memories of him with patients, on good days when he’d succeeded, on bad days when failure was draped over him like a cloak. All the recent ones looked like bad days, and McCoy hadn’t noticed really. Spock had though, had seen the circles under his eyes from not sleeping or sleeping too much, the stubble when shaving had felt like too much work, the weight he’d lost when remembering to eat had required too much effort. He felt what Spock had felt, respect, affection, and then the worry, the nagging worry and the uncertainty what to do about it.
He sees himself answering his door, rumpled from sleep, hair sticking up wildly. I look ridiculous, he thinks, and he can hear Spock correcting him in his own head. ‘Beautiful.’
It’s shifting again, moving forward a little, and all he feels is overwhelming pleasure. It’s that first time, and he feels it, feels how hard it is to maintain control, feels the lust, desire, affection cascading through him, feels it as Spock feels it, bleeding off his skin, feeding Spock’s desire until it crashes over him, and he’s coming or Spock’s coming, but it’s all secondary to this – this emotional resonance chamber he’s found himself in. He can’t remember feeling like this; it’s been so long since he’d felt anything good.
He feels the hurt when he’d rejected the meld that first time Spock had offered. The hurt when he turned away. The hurt when he’s pulled his hands free.
He’s sorry. I didn’t know, he thinks, and he can feel the bleakness moving in again. He’d failed. He hadn’t been good enough. He should have understood. Spock had never said anything.
He can feel it now, this strange embarrassment from Spock. I didn’t know what to say, and it’s a confession and it hits him with the force of a kick in the stomach.
For all his teasing, he never really thought about Spock being different. He’d just bought into the calm exterior, the half-human heritage, the former relationship, and he’d assumed that Spock knew what he was doing. It’s like being let in on the biggest secret ever, that Spock doesn’t know everything, and it’s enough.
McCoy lets him in, let him see everything he’s spent all this time trying to hide: the growing love, the worry, the insecurity, the confusion, the hopelessness, the feelings of failure, the loneliness, the pain and the plan, the vials stashed away just waiting for the right moment. He can feel Spock’s shock, but it’s all out there for once, everything and it’s liberating, sharing it with someone.
They come out of the meld, separate again, although McCoy has this faint awareness of Spock, like a tingle in his brain, and for the first time he feels like he understands and is understood. It might not be enough in the long run, but it’s enough for now.
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