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Title: Spiral
Rating: Adult
Pairng: Spock/McCoy
Word Count: 3500, including both endings
Warnings: Depression, mentions of suicide, and depending on the ending you chose, character death.
Author's Note: Unbetaed rough draft, written for a couple of prompts on the kink meme, but particularly this one.
It isn’t the first time they’ve done this, McCoy on his hands and knees, Spock behind him, pushing in with carefully calculated pressure.
The first time, he’d had his eyes closed, head tipped back, bracing himself against the wall, Spock’s hands pinning him in place when they hadn’t been able to make it to the bed. Well, he hadn’t been able to make it to the bed. Spock could probably have managed, walked over cool as a cucumber, even with his cock swollen in too tight pants and McCoy’s mouth latched to his. Instead, he had made it clear that he wanted Spock right then, no more waiting. He’d wanted it since their first kiss.
Strangely for him, that had been Spock. At least he tells himself that it was Spock. They’d been arguing, not angrily, not really, just arguing. He couldn’t even remember what it was about: ethics, logic, emotion, policy, science. It could have been anything. His memory really started at the heated look in Spock’s eyes, the green flush of his cheeks, and then the firm pressure of his mouth meeting McCoy’s.
Somehow during that kiss, he'd fallen in to his first relationship, of sorts, since the divorce. And it had all led to this moment, the first time he realizes that he can’t look the man he is fucking in the eyes while they do this.
He can stand the silence, the lack of moans, groans, gasps or panting. He's had quiet lovers before, people who would barely make a sound. It’s the face that he can’t stand to look at, that impenetrable wall of Vulcan placidity that never seems to crack, not even when McCoy is coming against the other man’s stomach, clenched around the hot cock that had fucked him with relentless precision until he felt shattered, broken open and exposed.
He knows Spock has emotions. He’d seen it when Vulcan had been lost, when Uhura was being hit on by some persistent official with an eye for the ladies, times when Jim was hurt. When he and Spock were fighting. But not when they’re together like this. Never like this.
Spock’s face never moves, never changes, the only indication that they’re fucking and not chatting about the precise dimensions of the bridge is the slightly unfocused look in his eyes. He wonders then, wonders if Spock even sees who he’s with, if that unfocused look is his escape to something else, someone else.
It isn’t surprising. Why wouldn’t Spock want to be with someone else, someone better, smarter, less used up?
He stopped looking then. He remembered this from Jocelyn, towards the end. She never looked at him, unless they were fighting. He could tell with her, the calm indifference when he worked another shift at the hospital, when he didn’t come home at night, when he didn’t come home at all. She didn’t care anymore. She’d left even if she was still there. The only time she was really present, when he actually had her attention, had a fraction of the passion she used to have for him, was when they fought. It was never even about anything important. He’d left his towel on the bathroom floor. She’d had the last of his scotch. He’d starting finding things to fight about, anything to get her attention back, anything to make her think about him.
He’d done that the first time. He couldn’t do it again.
Instead, he turns away, keeps his eyes closed. If he doesn’t look he can pretend that Spock’s face is open, that his eyes are heated with passion, soft with affection, his mouth slack with pleasure, that he is there with him and it’s the only place he wants to be.
The first time Spock had asked to meld with him, he’d barely controlled his panic. He couldn’t let Spock in, not like that. He couldn’t be more vulnerable, couldn’t reveal any more of himself, couldn’t let another chunk of his pieced together self be taken from him. It was bad enough that he suspected Spock knew more about his feelings than he was letting on, his own fault for getting involved with a touch telepath.
Spock never said anything. He isn’t sure if Spock doesn’t understand what he picks up from him when they’re fucking, or if it doesn’t matter, if he’s just a convenient partner, a logical means of satisfying physical needs.
They don’t talk about what they’re doing. There hadn’t been any dramatic confessions of overwhelming passion, just that one kiss that had led to one fuck, that had led to Spock showing up for a second, a third, until he had stopped counting. He supposes that if he thinks about it, he could find the pattern, the perfect stream of logic that chose each seemingly random appearance of Spock at his door.
He closes his eyes and waits. The even rhythm of Spock’s thrusts never wavers, perfect as the ticking of a clock, until he stops. Just stops. He doesn’t move away, and this is a first. Spock leans over, draping his body over him until Spock’s mouth is brushing against his ear, each breath even like nothing had been happening.
“Why’d you stop,” he asks, confused by this change in pattern, wondering if this is it, the last time before Spock leaves him too.
“You are unhappy,” Spock says, still so close, his skin hot and dry against him. He is twining their hands together, the way he did sometimes when they were kissing, when they were fucking. He has never understood why – why bother with this illusion of intimacy?
He shifts, trying to move away, but Spock holds him in place. “Get out of my head,” he growls, struggling against Spock’s greater strength. Spock doesn’t need to know, doesn’t need to know how he feels.
“I am not ‘in your head’. I am merely stating an obvious fact that you do not wish to acknowledge. You are unhappy.” Spock pulls out and away then, moving to sit at the edge of the bed. He can see, even in the dark, the rigid posture, spine ramrod straight. The shoulders though, that’s new – the slight inward curve that he can’t remember seeing before, like an indication of a hunch.
“It is illogical to continue to perform acts that make you unhappy.” Spock pauses. “If I make you unhappy.”
It’s the moment that he has been waiting for, but somehow it isn’t happening like he expected. He’d expected Spock’s voice to be its usual calm, even tone when the time came, if Spock had even bothered to tell him at all. Not this quiet sound that almost seems…sad.
He isn’t thinking when he reaches out, touches Spock’s shoulder. Spock looks at him then, and he can see Spock’s eyes, shiny in the low light. His first instinct is to comfort, and that’s a laugh – comfort Spock for leaving him. He understands though. He wouldn’t want to be with himself either. Even in this, he’s a disappointment. It’s not like this meant anything, but he still couldn’t manage to make it work. Another failure in a long line of failures.
The contact only lasts a moment before Spock stiffens, stands, dresses and leaves. That’s it. It ends with a whimper, and it should feel better than the screaming misery of his divorce, but it doesn’t. He still ends up alone.
**
It’s harder to get out of bed in the morning, even though he’s been sleeping more than usual. He still has his job though, and he needs it, needs to have some purpose, so he drags himself out of bed, cleans himself up, and works his shifts with a single minded intensity that would have made his father proud.
His father had taught him that: the medicine comes first. The patients are the most important thing, whether it is patching up a broken finger or dealing with some exotic alien disease. When things are bad everywhere else, there are always patients to focus on. It’s the one place where he isn’t a failure.
Except for his dad. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about him. He hasn’t for awhile, for a long while, but it’s still there in his mind, fresh as the day it happened. He feels himself worrying it over like a loose tooth, remembering everything he could have done differently. He should have convinced his father to wait, to hold out a little longer. He should have found the cure himself, if he’d had to. He never should have agreed.
Spock would have told him that regretting events that can’t be changed is illogical. He isn’t sure how Vulcans felt about euthanasia, but he suspects that they would find the prolonging of suffering illogical as well. It must be easy for them, without all their emotions getting in the way, no regrets, not haunted by all their failures.
He clears another patient and hands them over to a nurse.
**
He’s never been the most social person, even before the divorce. He’d always been too busy, first with school and studying, then with patients and work. It had never really been an issue. He’d had a few friends, some colleagues from work that he liked, and his wife. He hadn’t been lonely.
He’d lost touch with them now, although he could never pinpoint exactly when. It would be easy to say it happened after the divorce, but he doesn’t think that’s right. Most of the time between his father’s death and the death of his marriage is a blur of faceless patients, exam rooms, and long periods of silence punctuated by fights with Jocelyn, back when he still had the energy to fight.
He has never managed to get even that small circle of friends on the Enterprise. He has colleagues that he likes, but he’d been smart this time. He kept them at arm’s length, doesn’t socialize with them, keeps their interactions professional. It’s easier in the long run.
Outside the med bay, he just hadn’t bothered. Everyone is so young, still so excited about their mission. Even after the Narada, they hadn’t had the feeling of invincibility beaten out of them. Nothing since had managed either. He has Jim, and that’s enough heedless danger for any man to deal with.
They haven’t seen much of each other lately. He is busy. Jim is always busy, and when he isn’t, he’s with Spock. Since he and Spock had ended whatever arrangement they had, it seems like Jim and Spock are always together. He wonders if it is physical yet.
It is his own fault he knows. He’d backed off. Who was he to argue with destiny?
He’d heard all about the older Spock, and the friendship of legends. Jim had seemed amused back when he’d first told him about it, but now that they were nearly two years into a five year mission, it doesn’t seem as ridiculous as it had seemed then. So many things have changed.
**
It had been a rough mission. Jim had been injured, and it had been all he could do to put him back together again. He doesn’t want to think about what he would have done if he’d failed. It’s bad enough losing patients, that’s inevitable, but losing Jim, losing the captain. He doesn’t even want to think about it.
Spock had been there, not the whole time, but sometimes he’d looked up and seen the Vulcan standing there, watching him. His expression was the same as it always was, impenetrable, stoic, even with Jim lying there, seconds from bleeding out. He’d just watched.
He could remember a time when he would have shouted at Spock, told him off for hovering, for not caring enough, for letting Jim get himself into this mess. There didn’t seem to be any point now. Spock would come and go as he pleased, and Jim would find danger no matter what anyone with sense tried to tell him.
He rubs his face, and feels the couple days of beard growth on his jaw. Had he shaved before his shift? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter anyway. He was a doctor, not some Starfleet poster boy.
He cleans himself up a bit, and goes back to his quarters. He just wants to sleep. Jim will be fine. The rest of the medical staff can watch him, and Spock will probably be there when Jim wakes up. He doesn’t need to be there for him anymore.
**
He sends a message to the med bay telling them that he’s ill, that he won’t be in for his shift. They’re just cruising now, on their way to some other mission. He’s sure that Jim had said something, but he hadn’t really paid attention. It doesn’t really matter. They don’t really need him.
He sleeps. He gets out of bed long enough to use the facilities, and that’s all. He dreams sometimes, dreams about what his life would be like if his father hadn’t died, if he had been there for Jocelyn, if Spock had returned his feelings, if Jim had still needed him. It was nicer, dreaming, than dealing with reality.
**
Eventually, he has to get up. He has to go back to work. They don’t really need him, they’re capable of working without him, but he’s still the CMO. He drags himself out of bed, grabs a crumpled uniform from the floor and staggers down to the med bay.
He can hear them whispering. They think he’s a drunk. Maybe it would be better if he was. That’s a weakness that people can understand, better than this anyway, better than admitting that he just can’t hack it.
He hides in his office, pretends he’s catching up on paperwork. When he leaves, he stops by the storage area where all the meds are kept. It would be so easy, to just take a couple hyposprays worth, to help him sleep.
He thinks about finding Jim, just to catch up. He can’t remember the last time they just talked, shared a drink. He should do that.
He thinks about finding Spock. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like Spock cares about him, has ever cared about him, but he thinks he’d been happy at first. It might be nice to feel that again, to feel wanted somehow, even if it was just physical.
He sneaks in to the storage area, and pockets a couple vials. Just in case.
**
He has to go on an away mission. Some medical crisis, another disease, another planet stricken with some sort of plague, it doesn’t really matter. It’s all the same, and even if he helps here, there’s always another planet, another plague, another crisis.
Jim is staring at him when they go to be beamed down. He just raises an eyebrow at him, until Jim shrugs and doesn’t comment. Probably doesn’t want to accuse him of having a drinking problem in front of the rest of the crew. He doesn’t, but Jim has to have heard the rumors by now. He can hardly blame him for believing them.
He works hard, loses more people than he’d like before they figure something out. Spock figures something out, performs some Vulcan science voodoo and finds something that the planet’s doctors had missed. It’s nice actually, knowing that he wasn’t really needed, that someone else could save the day during a medical disaster.
When they get back, he heads to his quarters, somehow managing to dodge Jim, who’s distracted by the fact that his crew are heroes again. The last thing he hears is Jim congratulating Spock.
He pulls the vials out when he gets to his room, just stares at them. He could end it now. Go out on a high note. He knows they’d be okay, Jim, his staff, the Enterprise. They’re in good hands. They don’t need his anymore.
Choose your ending:
Sad Ending
Happy Ending
Rating: Adult
Pairng: Spock/McCoy
Word Count: 3500, including both endings
Warnings: Depression, mentions of suicide, and depending on the ending you chose, character death.
Author's Note: Unbetaed rough draft, written for a couple of prompts on the kink meme, but particularly this one.
It isn’t the first time they’ve done this, McCoy on his hands and knees, Spock behind him, pushing in with carefully calculated pressure.
The first time, he’d had his eyes closed, head tipped back, bracing himself against the wall, Spock’s hands pinning him in place when they hadn’t been able to make it to the bed. Well, he hadn’t been able to make it to the bed. Spock could probably have managed, walked over cool as a cucumber, even with his cock swollen in too tight pants and McCoy’s mouth latched to his. Instead, he had made it clear that he wanted Spock right then, no more waiting. He’d wanted it since their first kiss.
Strangely for him, that had been Spock. At least he tells himself that it was Spock. They’d been arguing, not angrily, not really, just arguing. He couldn’t even remember what it was about: ethics, logic, emotion, policy, science. It could have been anything. His memory really started at the heated look in Spock’s eyes, the green flush of his cheeks, and then the firm pressure of his mouth meeting McCoy’s.
Somehow during that kiss, he'd fallen in to his first relationship, of sorts, since the divorce. And it had all led to this moment, the first time he realizes that he can’t look the man he is fucking in the eyes while they do this.
He can stand the silence, the lack of moans, groans, gasps or panting. He's had quiet lovers before, people who would barely make a sound. It’s the face that he can’t stand to look at, that impenetrable wall of Vulcan placidity that never seems to crack, not even when McCoy is coming against the other man’s stomach, clenched around the hot cock that had fucked him with relentless precision until he felt shattered, broken open and exposed.
He knows Spock has emotions. He’d seen it when Vulcan had been lost, when Uhura was being hit on by some persistent official with an eye for the ladies, times when Jim was hurt. When he and Spock were fighting. But not when they’re together like this. Never like this.
Spock’s face never moves, never changes, the only indication that they’re fucking and not chatting about the precise dimensions of the bridge is the slightly unfocused look in his eyes. He wonders then, wonders if Spock even sees who he’s with, if that unfocused look is his escape to something else, someone else.
It isn’t surprising. Why wouldn’t Spock want to be with someone else, someone better, smarter, less used up?
He stopped looking then. He remembered this from Jocelyn, towards the end. She never looked at him, unless they were fighting. He could tell with her, the calm indifference when he worked another shift at the hospital, when he didn’t come home at night, when he didn’t come home at all. She didn’t care anymore. She’d left even if she was still there. The only time she was really present, when he actually had her attention, had a fraction of the passion she used to have for him, was when they fought. It was never even about anything important. He’d left his towel on the bathroom floor. She’d had the last of his scotch. He’d starting finding things to fight about, anything to get her attention back, anything to make her think about him.
He’d done that the first time. He couldn’t do it again.
Instead, he turns away, keeps his eyes closed. If he doesn’t look he can pretend that Spock’s face is open, that his eyes are heated with passion, soft with affection, his mouth slack with pleasure, that he is there with him and it’s the only place he wants to be.
The first time Spock had asked to meld with him, he’d barely controlled his panic. He couldn’t let Spock in, not like that. He couldn’t be more vulnerable, couldn’t reveal any more of himself, couldn’t let another chunk of his pieced together self be taken from him. It was bad enough that he suspected Spock knew more about his feelings than he was letting on, his own fault for getting involved with a touch telepath.
Spock never said anything. He isn’t sure if Spock doesn’t understand what he picks up from him when they’re fucking, or if it doesn’t matter, if he’s just a convenient partner, a logical means of satisfying physical needs.
They don’t talk about what they’re doing. There hadn’t been any dramatic confessions of overwhelming passion, just that one kiss that had led to one fuck, that had led to Spock showing up for a second, a third, until he had stopped counting. He supposes that if he thinks about it, he could find the pattern, the perfect stream of logic that chose each seemingly random appearance of Spock at his door.
He closes his eyes and waits. The even rhythm of Spock’s thrusts never wavers, perfect as the ticking of a clock, until he stops. Just stops. He doesn’t move away, and this is a first. Spock leans over, draping his body over him until Spock’s mouth is brushing against his ear, each breath even like nothing had been happening.
“Why’d you stop,” he asks, confused by this change in pattern, wondering if this is it, the last time before Spock leaves him too.
“You are unhappy,” Spock says, still so close, his skin hot and dry against him. He is twining their hands together, the way he did sometimes when they were kissing, when they were fucking. He has never understood why – why bother with this illusion of intimacy?
He shifts, trying to move away, but Spock holds him in place. “Get out of my head,” he growls, struggling against Spock’s greater strength. Spock doesn’t need to know, doesn’t need to know how he feels.
“I am not ‘in your head’. I am merely stating an obvious fact that you do not wish to acknowledge. You are unhappy.” Spock pulls out and away then, moving to sit at the edge of the bed. He can see, even in the dark, the rigid posture, spine ramrod straight. The shoulders though, that’s new – the slight inward curve that he can’t remember seeing before, like an indication of a hunch.
“It is illogical to continue to perform acts that make you unhappy.” Spock pauses. “If I make you unhappy.”
It’s the moment that he has been waiting for, but somehow it isn’t happening like he expected. He’d expected Spock’s voice to be its usual calm, even tone when the time came, if Spock had even bothered to tell him at all. Not this quiet sound that almost seems…sad.
He isn’t thinking when he reaches out, touches Spock’s shoulder. Spock looks at him then, and he can see Spock’s eyes, shiny in the low light. His first instinct is to comfort, and that’s a laugh – comfort Spock for leaving him. He understands though. He wouldn’t want to be with himself either. Even in this, he’s a disappointment. It’s not like this meant anything, but he still couldn’t manage to make it work. Another failure in a long line of failures.
The contact only lasts a moment before Spock stiffens, stands, dresses and leaves. That’s it. It ends with a whimper, and it should feel better than the screaming misery of his divorce, but it doesn’t. He still ends up alone.
**
It’s harder to get out of bed in the morning, even though he’s been sleeping more than usual. He still has his job though, and he needs it, needs to have some purpose, so he drags himself out of bed, cleans himself up, and works his shifts with a single minded intensity that would have made his father proud.
His father had taught him that: the medicine comes first. The patients are the most important thing, whether it is patching up a broken finger or dealing with some exotic alien disease. When things are bad everywhere else, there are always patients to focus on. It’s the one place where he isn’t a failure.
Except for his dad. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about him. He hasn’t for awhile, for a long while, but it’s still there in his mind, fresh as the day it happened. He feels himself worrying it over like a loose tooth, remembering everything he could have done differently. He should have convinced his father to wait, to hold out a little longer. He should have found the cure himself, if he’d had to. He never should have agreed.
Spock would have told him that regretting events that can’t be changed is illogical. He isn’t sure how Vulcans felt about euthanasia, but he suspects that they would find the prolonging of suffering illogical as well. It must be easy for them, without all their emotions getting in the way, no regrets, not haunted by all their failures.
He clears another patient and hands them over to a nurse.
**
He’s never been the most social person, even before the divorce. He’d always been too busy, first with school and studying, then with patients and work. It had never really been an issue. He’d had a few friends, some colleagues from work that he liked, and his wife. He hadn’t been lonely.
He’d lost touch with them now, although he could never pinpoint exactly when. It would be easy to say it happened after the divorce, but he doesn’t think that’s right. Most of the time between his father’s death and the death of his marriage is a blur of faceless patients, exam rooms, and long periods of silence punctuated by fights with Jocelyn, back when he still had the energy to fight.
He has never managed to get even that small circle of friends on the Enterprise. He has colleagues that he likes, but he’d been smart this time. He kept them at arm’s length, doesn’t socialize with them, keeps their interactions professional. It’s easier in the long run.
Outside the med bay, he just hadn’t bothered. Everyone is so young, still so excited about their mission. Even after the Narada, they hadn’t had the feeling of invincibility beaten out of them. Nothing since had managed either. He has Jim, and that’s enough heedless danger for any man to deal with.
They haven’t seen much of each other lately. He is busy. Jim is always busy, and when he isn’t, he’s with Spock. Since he and Spock had ended whatever arrangement they had, it seems like Jim and Spock are always together. He wonders if it is physical yet.
It is his own fault he knows. He’d backed off. Who was he to argue with destiny?
He’d heard all about the older Spock, and the friendship of legends. Jim had seemed amused back when he’d first told him about it, but now that they were nearly two years into a five year mission, it doesn’t seem as ridiculous as it had seemed then. So many things have changed.
**
It had been a rough mission. Jim had been injured, and it had been all he could do to put him back together again. He doesn’t want to think about what he would have done if he’d failed. It’s bad enough losing patients, that’s inevitable, but losing Jim, losing the captain. He doesn’t even want to think about it.
Spock had been there, not the whole time, but sometimes he’d looked up and seen the Vulcan standing there, watching him. His expression was the same as it always was, impenetrable, stoic, even with Jim lying there, seconds from bleeding out. He’d just watched.
He could remember a time when he would have shouted at Spock, told him off for hovering, for not caring enough, for letting Jim get himself into this mess. There didn’t seem to be any point now. Spock would come and go as he pleased, and Jim would find danger no matter what anyone with sense tried to tell him.
He rubs his face, and feels the couple days of beard growth on his jaw. Had he shaved before his shift? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter anyway. He was a doctor, not some Starfleet poster boy.
He cleans himself up a bit, and goes back to his quarters. He just wants to sleep. Jim will be fine. The rest of the medical staff can watch him, and Spock will probably be there when Jim wakes up. He doesn’t need to be there for him anymore.
**
He sends a message to the med bay telling them that he’s ill, that he won’t be in for his shift. They’re just cruising now, on their way to some other mission. He’s sure that Jim had said something, but he hadn’t really paid attention. It doesn’t really matter. They don’t really need him.
He sleeps. He gets out of bed long enough to use the facilities, and that’s all. He dreams sometimes, dreams about what his life would be like if his father hadn’t died, if he had been there for Jocelyn, if Spock had returned his feelings, if Jim had still needed him. It was nicer, dreaming, than dealing with reality.
**
Eventually, he has to get up. He has to go back to work. They don’t really need him, they’re capable of working without him, but he’s still the CMO. He drags himself out of bed, grabs a crumpled uniform from the floor and staggers down to the med bay.
He can hear them whispering. They think he’s a drunk. Maybe it would be better if he was. That’s a weakness that people can understand, better than this anyway, better than admitting that he just can’t hack it.
He hides in his office, pretends he’s catching up on paperwork. When he leaves, he stops by the storage area where all the meds are kept. It would be so easy, to just take a couple hyposprays worth, to help him sleep.
He thinks about finding Jim, just to catch up. He can’t remember the last time they just talked, shared a drink. He should do that.
He thinks about finding Spock. He doesn’t know why. It’s not like Spock cares about him, has ever cared about him, but he thinks he’d been happy at first. It might be nice to feel that again, to feel wanted somehow, even if it was just physical.
He sneaks in to the storage area, and pockets a couple vials. Just in case.
**
He has to go on an away mission. Some medical crisis, another disease, another planet stricken with some sort of plague, it doesn’t really matter. It’s all the same, and even if he helps here, there’s always another planet, another plague, another crisis.
Jim is staring at him when they go to be beamed down. He just raises an eyebrow at him, until Jim shrugs and doesn’t comment. Probably doesn’t want to accuse him of having a drinking problem in front of the rest of the crew. He doesn’t, but Jim has to have heard the rumors by now. He can hardly blame him for believing them.
He works hard, loses more people than he’d like before they figure something out. Spock figures something out, performs some Vulcan science voodoo and finds something that the planet’s doctors had missed. It’s nice actually, knowing that he wasn’t really needed, that someone else could save the day during a medical disaster.
When they get back, he heads to his quarters, somehow managing to dodge Jim, who’s distracted by the fact that his crew are heroes again. The last thing he hears is Jim congratulating Spock.
He pulls the vials out when he gets to his room, just stares at them. He could end it now. Go out on a high note. He knows they’d be okay, Jim, his staff, the Enterprise. They’re in good hands. They don’t need his anymore.
Choose your ending:
Sad Ending
Happy Ending
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