#this is not the immunity syndrome coda i wanted to write but i guess it wanted to be written

[lenievi]

12 Days of Spones - ficlet

day 12: creator’s choice

coda to Immunity Syndrome. I’ve been struggling with writing lately, so it’s mostly a rough draft, but I wanted to participate. No particular warnings apply. It’s just a bit melancholy, I guess.

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“You’ve got your Vulcan physiology to thank, but you’re fine.”

“As I repeatedly told you, Doctor.” Spock propped himself up on his elbows, meeting McCoy’s eyes. “You did not need to take twice as much time than required to examine me.”

“I wasn’t aware you got yourself a medical degree.” McCoy glared at Spock.

“No, but I do know my limits.”

“I doubt that, Mr. Spock,” McCoy said and pushed the button to lower the biobed.

Spock straightened, his black undershirt stretching over his chest. McCoy looked away.

“Don’t think I forgot about the botched acetylcholine test,” McCoy added and handed him his uniform.

“I collected other data, Doctor.” Spock held his tunic, looking at his hands. “If you are amenable, we can look at them tomorrow at nine hundred. You should find them interesting.”

“So now you want to let me share in this?” McCoy asked, his voice quiet.

“It was never a competition.” Spock stepped back and got dressed. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “As I said, you would not have survived it. Good night, Doctor.”

McCoy blinked. Before he could react, the door closed behind Spock with a swish. McCoy leaned his hands against the biobed, closing his eyes and letting out a deep sigh.

*

It was late. It wasn’t a good idea, but something pulled him toward Spock’s door. Just five more steps and he would reach his own. Instead, he sounded the chime and clasped his hands behind his back. When the door opened, he rocked on the balls of his feet and flicked his eyes up and down Spock’s body to make sure nothing was amiss.

“Doctor?” Spock was not quick enough to compose his face, and McCoy glimpsed the confusion there. “Is something wrong?”

“Can I come in?”

Spock frowned but stepped aside.

“I won’t…” McCoy started and stopped.

Spock’s meditation mat was in the middle of the room, an asymmetrical candle holder with two burning candles in front of it.

McCoy felt a pang of guilt. “Should I…” He made a vague gesture, looking somewhere above Spock’s shoulder.

“Do not concern yourself, Doctor,” Spock said, not moving away from the door.

McCoy’s nails dug into his palm as he looked around the room. He was familiar with its decorations and red curtains, but it gave him something to do. His eyes stopped on the lute in the corner.

“I haven’t heard you play for some time,” McCoy said, looking back over his shoulder at Spock.

“Doctor, if you came here to discuss something, please proceed.”

McCoy’s shoulders dropped. “Can’t I just visit you?”

Spock straightened, clasping his hands behind the back. “In two years, thirty-six weeks, and two days you’ve never done so.”

McCoy whirled back, eyes narrowed. “I’ve been here before.”

“Yes, and every time you had a purpose.”

McCoy opened his mouth, but no words came out. A few hours earlier, there had been a moment when he— when they had thought Spock had died. He hadn’t wanted to accept it and had hoped and believed until the end, but the heavy guilt he felt after Spock had uttered “tell Doctor McCoy he should have wished me luck” would keep burdening him for days. He should have—

Spock touched his shoulder. McCoy raised his head. Spock’s eyebrows were furrowed and there was an unreadable, heavy expression in his eyes.

McCoy should have told him. Good luck. Two words. So simple, yet damning. Saying them out loud, saying them to Spock’s face would only make Spock’s highly probable death so much more real, and McCoy couldn’t—

Spock narrowed his eyes and his fingers on McCoy’s shoulder tightened.

McCoy sighed.

“If you keep frowning,” McCoy said and reached his fingers toward Spock’s face, “the wrinkles will—”

Before McCoy could touch the space between Spock’s eyebrows, Spock grabbed his wrist and pulled the hand away.

“Doctor, stop avoiding my question.”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?” McCoy’s eyes flickered between Spock’s hand on his shoulder and his grip on McCoy’s wrist.

“Despite what you think, Doctor, I cannot read your mind.”

They watched each other for a while before Spock moved his hand down McCoy’s arm, putting it on McCoy’s waist.

“Would you like to spend the night?” Spock asked.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

Spock pulled him closer.

“No, but it should make it easier to sleep,” Spock said softly, and for a brief moment, McCoy imagined that Spock meant both of them. “I am fine, Leonard.”

A shiver ran down McCoy’s spine, and he pressed his forehead against Spock’s shoulder, placing his free hand on Spock’s heart. The heartbeat was fast. Too fast to count without his instruments, but calming and familiar.

“I know our arrangement—” McCoy started, but Spock increased the pressure of his palm on McCoy’s lower back.

“Stay the night. To sleep.”

McCoy wet his lips. Getting into bed with Spock without the intention to have sex was new and disconcerting. And McCoy craved it. Craved the simple intimacy of it. It has been too damn long. He brushed his lips against Spock’s and whispered, “Okay.”

The lines around Spock’s mouth softened, and McCoy looked away, embarrassed. “Okay,” he repeated and untangled himself from Spock’s half-embrace. “I’ll take a shower.”

Spock pulled out one of his black underwear and handed it over. McCoy nodded his thanks.  

*

When McCoy came back, freshly showered, Spock had already blown out the candles and put the meditation mat away. He stood in front of the window, its screen down and the stars visible. It was unusual.

McCoy joined him, a drop of water trickling down his neck, and for several minutes they watched the dark space in silence.

Spock closed the window screen and turned to look at McCoy. Their eyes met, and McCoy raised his eyebrow in a question.

There was a slight hesitation before Spock answered, “It is… comforting to see the stars again.”

McCoy hummed in agreement. He remembered the darkness when they were inside the organism. And Spock had been all alone in a small shuttlecraft, without any connection to the Enterprise, without power, thinking that was it for him. Thinking that he would die in complete darkness.

McCoy’s stomach felt heavy and he reached out his hand. After a moment, Spock took it, his grasp firm and warm, and McCoy pulled him toward the bed.

In the morning they will have breakfast and go to the lab. They will examine the data Spock had collected and argue for hours. But for now, McCoy allowed himself to forget who they were outside of Spock’s quarters. He allowed himself to pretend this was more than just a moment of weakness. Pretend that what they had was real. That it was more than just an agreement to have casual sex.

That it meant something to Spock.