Part II

On the third morning, they wash up together at the sink. Their elbows keep knocking together and McCoy stops saying sorry after the second time. Spock is acutely aware of McCoy, of the physicality of him; that he is 1.5 inches shorter than Spock, that he smells of aniseed and mint, and beneath that, of antiseptic. That scent has grown on him, to borrow a human phrase. Now, he associates it with a staff running itself ragged healing the rest of the crew, and with McCoy, with his clean, delicate fingers and oversized scrubs.

Spock is transfixed on McCoy going through his routine. As a child he would look at his mother swab her face with cotton pads, apply eyeshadow and blush and burgundy lipstick. It had seemed a bold glimpse into a forbidden world, into a private and 'grown-up' thing. He did not like it when she kissed him with lipstick on, but once, when she was out shopping, he had clambered up on her bathroom counter and smeared some of it on, first on the back of his hand, then on his mouth. It was greasy and smooth. Against the green tinge of his skin, it looked incongruous. He had known that her makeup was not meant for boys, but until then it had not occurred to him that it was also not meant for Vulcans.

He has no desire to steal any of McCoy's sparse toiletries, but he does look discreetly, while combing his hair, as McCoy rubs shaving cream onto his cheeks in circles, and shaves and washes and dries his face. There is still something embarrassingly voyeuristic about watching someone groom themselves, about seeing them pluck and brush and rinse away their dishevelment. It is like observing someone put on their clothes.

While McCoy is patting on a gentle aftershave, he glances at Spock, his eyes pale and alien and startling in the light, and says with an arched eyebrow, "Want some?"

Spock tries to say, "No, thank you," with great dignity, but what comes out of his mouth is a blabbered, "On Vulcan, blue eyes are usually a sign of blindness or disease."

McCoy raises his eyebrows and purses his lips as if to say, "Do you need a checkup?"

Spock quickly walks back into McCoy's room, his face hot.

Over the next five days, he becomes acquainted with McCoy's idiosyncrasies. Spock realises he had subconsciously expected something else, that if McCoy was intrusive, sarcastic, and brilliant on duty, he would be the same half-asleep in his rumpled standard-issue pajamas. That he would jump out of bed holding a hypospray and skip his way to the bathroom, instead of dragging his feet and scrubbing his eyes, as he actually does, languid and pliant.

His time as a tenant (McCoy uses the term 'freeloader') of McCoy's sofa goes by without commotion. It is an oddly quiet arrangement. They brush their teeth together, and work into the night together, and sometimes eat together. On occasion, they snipe at each other, but it is tempered by lethargy and good humour. The most noteworthy incident involves Spock actually walking in on McCoy in the shower. There is a lot of steam and he cannot see much – not that he wants to, not at all – but McCoy screams murder anyway, and slips and falls and bangs his head against the wall. Spock had not known that McCoy was proficient in so many languages.

It would, Spock thinks, be enjoyable to have his own bed again, and meditate without someone hacking at the incense, and not be mothered every time he skipped a meal. ("Vulcan physiology is different to humans', Doctor, we don't need such frequent nourishment, Doctor, no, please do not shout – ") Yet he has grown comfortable here, and the thought of not being subjected to McCoy's chattiness and insolence and overwhelming humanness is bleak and pale.

The little flip his stomach does becomes more frequent, until it is almost a constant, so Spock thinks his ailment might be quite serious. He suspects it has something to do with McCoy's quarters; he had never felt any such thing before he inhabited them. Perhaps he has developed an allergy. He orders a thorough sweep of McCoy's place, so that it is sterilised. McCoy walks in after his shift, takes one look at the medley of red shirts fiddling with his furniture, and starts sputtering and demanding an explanation.

When Spock reluctantly tells him about his strange symptoms, McCoy squints and then drags him down to sickbay, grumbling the whole time about stubborn, thickheaded Vulcans. He makes Spock sit on a biobed and runs a scanner over him. When that does not yield any results, he pokes and prods at Spock's stomach, which tickles and almost makes him squirm. Finally, he sighs, puts his equipment away, and says, "There's nothing in the world that's wrong with you. Stop cluttering up my sickbay."

"Doctor," says Spock placatingly, because he understands that McCoy is only a country human and can be a bit slow, "the symptoms are – "

"You have a crush, Spock," McCoy grinds out, hands on his skinny hips. Spock finds the gesture endearing, and his stomach flutters again. "That's the only thing that explains all this. Now, I don't know who has the good fortune of being the object of your mathematically perfect desires, but you had better talk to them if you want to receive any closure on this."

Spock considers this. It is a logical conclusion, he concedes. He feels somewhat foolish for not thinking of it himself. He does not, however, have any inclination to immediately express his feelings for McCoy. It would come as a shock, and it would be a good idea to spend more time with McCoy, perhaps signaling his intentions through romantic gestures.

A week after he moves back into his refurbished quarters, he buzzes McCoy's door to ask for more blackberry tea, because the taste is satisfactory and he does not keep any. As McCoy gets his tin of sachets, Spock says, "May I have it in a cup?" because old human courting rituals often include drinking some sort of beverage.

McCoy looks sharply at him, but puts the kettle on. They sit at the desk and McCoy watches warily, like an animal would at a potential trap, as Spock sips his tea. The sensation in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks are uncomfortable, yet he wants to remain in McCoy's silent company. A most intriguing phenomenon. When he finishes his tea and says his thanks, McCoy cannot seem to grab the cup and put it away quickly enough. His face is an interesting shade of pink.

Spock tilts his head to one side. McCoy has never possessed Jim's near-perpetual charm, but he is not this wooden either. "Is there something wrong, Doctor?"

"Get back to duty, Commander."

It is a less enthused response than Spock had hoped for. He comes back the next day and McCoy presses the entire tin in his hands. "So you don't have to keep getting up and coming here," McCoy says, in a tone higher pitched for him than normal.

Spock frowns at the tin. This will pose a problem. Before he can think of what to say, McCoy ushers him out of the room, and the doors shut behind him with a hiss.

Humans enjoy companionship and typically grow more attached when in close proximity to each other, so Spock takes to following McCoy around and walking with him more often than usual. It is nothing Spock has not done before – they already have a reputation as an efficient team – so he estimates that McCoy will not notice.

He is, as chance would have it, wrong. McCoy begins to twitch at the sound of footsteps. If he sees Spock, he scurries around the corner, or turns his heel and scrambles the other way. One day, during Beta shift, he jams the turbolift shut before Spock can get inside. Spock baulks, too taken aback to be affronted. McCoy is sometimes inappropriate, but he is never deliberately rude. (Once, on shore leave, he had held open a door for Spock even while they argued with each other about situational ethics.)

Later that day Spock finds him hovering outside his quarters, scowling at his PADD and scratching his hair with his stylus.

"Doctor."

McCoy jumps a foot in the air. "Jesus Christ, Spock."

"I will never understand the human tendency to invoke a deity when – "

"Save it, I'm an old country doctor from a provincial town in Georgia, I'll invoke whatever god I like whenever I please."

"Indeed, a witch doctor would resort to such illogical behaviour." It is too easy to fall into their familiar banter. Comfortable. Safe. But by McCoy's narrowed eyes, it is not conducive to Spock's intentions, so Spock clears his throat and says, "You have been avoiding me."

McCoy glowers. "I'm the CMO, Spock; I get busy sometimes."

"You have not spoken with me for one week, two days, and four – "

"You've been all but stalking me!"

"I was not," Spock says, indignant and dangerously close to stammering, "stalking you. I was attempting to spend more time in your company."

"More time in my company?" McCoy yells. He is flailing his arms now. It is most unattractive. "Normal people just ask to hang out! But nooo, you have to hound me like some amateur PI instead of actually talking to me! 'How's it going, doc, wanna split a bowl of plomeek?' Not that hard!"

Spock tries to calm him down. He decides that the best policy is to offer full information, and declares, very confidently, "It is unfortunate that I have taken a liking to you."

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED – "

Spock winces at the volume. He wishes humans came with externally adjustable sound systems. "Since we have different styles of communicating – "

"I'll show you communication, you green-blooded compu – "

"It has proven difficult for me to – "

"You don't know the half of difficult!"

"Doctor, please," says Spock, "you are acting more stubborn than Jim when he has a physical."

It turns out to be the wrong thing to say. "Jim? Jim? That boy wouldn't go for a physical if he was bleeding out and had two broken ribs, and I can testify that because I've seen it with my own eyes!" McCoy continues in this vein, pacing back and forth clutching his PADD and fulminating about Jim's numerous near-fatal injuries, Jim's pathetic diet, Jim's looming and violent death at McCoy's hands, and so on.

This is not going according to plan. Spock watches his sparring partner, bathroom mate, fellow science officer, and friend go in frantic circles, and nods resolutely when he makes a decision. It could end with a boot to his nose, but he is certain their friendship will survive it, and it is a risk he is willing to take.

The doctor is still ranting.

"Leonard McCoy," Spock says.

McCoy halts mid-step and turns smartly to him. Before he can say a word, Spock grabs him by the shoulders and plants a kiss full on his mouth. McCoy goes rigid (in all the wrong ways), and Spock is mildly concerned he is going to be the recipient of one of McCoy's surprisingly strong right hooks. It is the most horrifically awkward kiss Spock has ever had, standing there with his lips unmoving over McCoy's, his eyes screwed shut, waiting for McCoy to respond. He does not. After five seconds, Spock pulls back and opens his eyes to find McCoy looking dazed, as if all thought has fled him. The PADD is on the ground by their feet, its screen cracked. "Doctor?"

McCoy sways a bit, like a stalk of grass.

"Are you all right?" Spock pats his cheek the way he has seen Jim do. Still nothing. With growing apprehension, he picks up the PADD and the stylus, holds McCoy's upper arm, and prepares to herd him down to sickbay. McCoy makes a choking sort of sound, so Spock thumps him hard on the back. McCoy splutters and wriggles out of Spock's grasp, taking a few hasty steps away. Spock raises an eyebrow. "Are you well?"

"Uh, no. Yes." He looks down at the floor and whispers, "What the fuck."

"Perhaps you should get Dr. M'Benga to examine you."

McCoy puts his head in his hands and groans. "Did you just...kiss me?"

Spock wonders if McCoy has a concussion. "Affirmative."

McCoy gives a hysterical giggle.

"Was I wrong in believing you would be amenable to a courtshi – "

"Oh my God, shut up," hisses McCoy, looking around sharply, as if he expects a gaggle of ensigns to be eavesdropping. He grips Spock and hauls him inside his quarters. (Or, Spock allows him to; humans are appallingly fragile and even resistance could hurt them.) Once inside, he releases a sharp puff of breath. "Let me get this straight," he says. "You…want to…to…"

"Engage in a courtship."

McCoy nods, puts his hands behind his back, and mutters, "I wish I was still in med school so I could get drunk to solve my problems."

Spock does not understand how alcohol can be a remedy to anything, or what McCoy's problems have to do with Spock's proposal, but that is a discussion they can have later. "I do require an answer, Doctor. Let me assure you that, whatever your decision, it will not affect our working relationship or our friendship." He expects, if the reply is 'no', that their interactions will become stilted for a time; but he also knows that they are, for good or ill, pulled towards each other; they do not, or cannot, stay apart for long. There is no logical reason for such a thought to be comforting, but it is.

McCoy runs his fingers through his hair, messing it so that it sticks up from its usual neat style. It looks soft and feathery. "You're serious," he says, eyes roving over the floor. "Okay, just…give me some time. I need to process this."

Spock nods, thanks McCoy for his time, and leaves. Once outside, he wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers and performs a quick breathing exercise.

Three days later McCoy marches up to him in Lab 5 at 0023 hours. "Yes," he says.

Spock is in the middle of a truly fascinating study on the flora he had acquired on a recent planetside mission, and finds McCoy's statement confusing. He lifts his head from his microscope. "Pardon me?"

"I said yes, you…oblivious…"

Spock suddenly remembers, and straightens in his seat. McCoy is going very red. He has always been amusing, and rather a lot more anxious than he would have people know. Spock feels a wave of warm fondness overcome him. "That is pleasing to know."

"'Pleasing to know,' he says," mutters McCoy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Should've said no. Damn it, should've said – "

Spock puts his chin in his hand and contentedly watches McCoy go on.

-end-