Title: Bones and The Hobgoblin part 9
Fandom: Star Trek, TOS
A/N: This is A/U, setting is 23rd century San Francisco. Features some 21st century-isms. Public Sex kink. Somewhat farcical.
see part 1 for warnings, disclaimer, etc.
BONES AND THE HOBGOBLIN PART 9
San Francisco municipal court-precisely 10:00 am. Pacific time.
He sits on a wooden bench awaiting his turn for his trial amongst all of the others gathered in this dingy walled, dirty, malodorous corridor. (Undoubtedly his stay in San Francisco has involved a certain amount of waiting in suspect hallways.) His appointment had supposedly been for precisely 8am. Evidently a great many others had also received this identical date and time for their court appearances as well, as great many waited here with him, staring at him, in all style of formality of attire. There are not many from other planets amongst the Humans, certainly not another Vulcan to be seen. He ignores the curious stares and closes his eyes for a brief, light meditation.
He had left McCoy asleep in bed early that morning. Their bed, he muses, though it feels odd to think of it as theirs, but it is, is it not? He had woken up exactly 34 seconds before his alarm, quietly rising and shutting it off as not to disturb the other. He had stopped himself from indulging in an odd temptation to touch McCoy's sleep tousled, wavy hair, appearing darker in the morning light, nor did he trace a finger down the cheek (growing more bearded by the day). Nor did he trace the sleep lines etched into the man's smooth, slender back, nor would he grant himself a kiss onto the man's head. He had performed his ablutions quickly before leaving as silently as possible, wanting to be certain he had departed early enough to make it in time to the courthouse downtown.
San Francisco's quick, efficient, but very crowded mode of public transport, known as 'MUNI', was comprised of a monorail above the city, a series of ground hover buses, some older streetcars and an underground. Traveling on MUNI had proven to be an exercise in patience and restraint. Public transport is an activity he had rarely participated in on Vulcan, having owned his own flitter. (Being the son of an Ambassador affords such luxury.) Everywhere was crowded: The streets, the station, the buses, the trains.
He was moved to tweet: 'chaotic streets. full of disconnection. marvel at our potential. alarmed by our collective tendency toward unconsciousness. build a bridge. LLAP'
Other morning rush hour commuters and some tourists were pressed up against him in a tightly packed carriage, neither he or any others saying a word, nor meeting the other's eyes. He, of course, could read the bulk of their feelings loud and clear- uncomfortable sensations from such close proximity.
Exiting at Civic Center station, he found that he had arrived at the courthouse with approximately one standard hour and ten point two minutes to spare. He spent that time at the coffee house across the street, nursing an herbal tea.
He and McCoy had had a very restful night. Their bed was comfortable and McCoy's exhaustion, as was expected, was palatable. Despite the Human's protestations to the contrary, McCoy was out nearly before his head had hit the pillow. So far, McCoy had shown no evidence of any lasting emotional trauma due to his hospital stay, but granted it was early days...and Spock was not a psychiatrist...
They had managed to find a much nicer lodging house run by another older woman, (a much friendlier version than the last) a Mrs. C. Meagher. The lodging house, located near 18th and Castro Streets, had a sign on the outside proclaiming itself: 'The Bradbury Apartments'. McCoy had said one of his favorite authors was Ray Bradbury, so the place was calling out to them. Whatever that meant.
Their top floor 'apartment' was known as an efficiency, which was a combined single bedroom/living quarters, equipped with an ensuite bathroom and a small kitchen. The main room featured a 'queen sized bed', a fireplace and a flat screened television. McCoy had been pleased at the kitchen but Spock had to confess he did not know how to cook. Mother always performed those household tasks. Failing that, the duties fell to the kitchen Major Domo, (the atel'ame, as one would say on Vulcan) or another kitchen servant when Mother was off-planet.
McCoy had been highly amused by a bowl provided on the nightstand filled with condoms and single-use packets of lube. He had actually spent three point seven two minutes chuckling about the contents of said bowl. Such a thing on Vulcan would be deemed an egregious violation of privacy, but at any rate, it was gratifying to see McCoy currently in so pleasant a mood.
"Case number 23455."
That was his case number. Time now to plead as logically and rationally as he has been rehearsing in his head all morning. As soon as the judge heard his defense, the case would immediately be dismissed, he was confident of that.
Were he human, he would admit to being profoundly…disgusted by the California justice system.
He had received an extraordinarily large fine. Staggering-he might say, were he Human. He had begun his protest to the judge regarding the amount but she had hit her gravel. He was notified by the very large bailiff that his turn was ended. There was simply nothing else he could do but pay up or face being sent to the city lockup once again.
Reporting to the payment office as commanded and begrudgingly handing over his card to be debited accordingly, he never in his life would fathom that his hard won earnings from driving a semi truck coast to coast would eventually be nearly wiped out to pay a minor citation fine to the City of San Francisco, such an extortionate rate indeed.
Departing MUNI at Castro Station, he makes the short walk down to 18th Street to the "Bradbury Apartments". He pauses to snap a pic of a squirrel outside his building. The animal is in a decidedly unusual position, sprawled out onto its abdomen and thoracic region. He raises an eyebrow at the iPhone, then at the live squirrel, wonders if in fact the squirrel is in serious distress. The animal is now up on its feet, swishing its fluffy tail, creeping towards him, hungrily. He quickly enters the building, walks through the main door, acknowledges Mrs. Meagher then climbs the four flights of stairs to his and McCoy's abode.
He can detect the faint smells of food preparation. Ah, perhaps a wife in one of these other apartment units is engaged in cooking duties for her family. How he wishes Mother was here to prepare a meal, she has always been a very talented cook. Perhaps he and McCoy might have an early dinner in one of the various 'dives' (as McCoy deems them to be) located in the Castro district.
He slips his key into the slot and opens the door.
Fascinating. The odor of food being prepared is very strong in here.
McCoy is obviously not in bed. (though, why should he be, it is the afternoon.)
From the kitchen there is a sound of clattering pots and pans. Old fashioned music is also audible which sounds very much like it is 'Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young'. A voice is singing along to the music: McCoy's.
Spock comes over to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, hesitates before he enters, setting his trilby onto the table which has a place setting for two. He studies this tableau for a moment and then turns his attention to the man obviously quite engaged in proceedings involving the stove. He clears his throat.
McCoy spins around, surprised, a large, wooden stirring spoon clutched tightly in his hand. "Oh! Hi, Hobgoblin! I didn't hear you come in!"
"Evidently." He directs his gaze towards the iPod.
McCoy reaches over and waves the loud music off. "Sorry. That better?"
Spock regards his hat, then his hands, says nothing.
"Sit down, Hobgoblin. Loosen that damned tie," McCoy commands. Spock sits, but does not loosen his tie.
A long pause ensues.
"So, uh, how was your day in court?" McCoy asks, breaking the silence conversationally as he lightly lays his hand on Spock's shoulder. Spock finds himself resisting the contact. McCoy appears to get the message and quickly removes his hand. Spock does not answer the posed query so McCoy goes on, in spite of him, rather excitedly: "I sure hope you're hungry. I'm fixin' vegetable soup and some bread. I baked the bread myself from scratch. Hope you like it. And I even got you some Diet Coke, entirely against your Doctor's orders...Me," he says entirely unnecessarily, "but hey... I'm not employed as a doctor right now... so...you can live a little..." McCoy laughs slightly, but it sounds awkward. "So...how 'bout that, huh?"
Ah, he had thought he could smell freshly baking bread when he was traversing the flights of stairs. (The scent of the soup and the fresh bread does not make his mouth water and the idea of sipping a glass of Diet Coke does not sound at all appealing. Not at all.) He notices his duffle bag on the kitchen floor, opened and nearly empty. "Where are my clothes?"
"Yeah, uh well, you don't have anything clean for us to wear and well, uh...since we're both sharing 'em, and I was getting sick of wearing scrubs and they were getting a little ripe..." McCoy breaks off his explanation with a small giggle.
"You did the laundry," Spock discerns. "Why, thank you, Doctor."
"I have to head down to the basement in about twenty minutes and fetch it out of the dryer. Bet you'll be glad to get out of that suit." McCoy now is busying himself with the task of slicing a large oblong shaped fruit that possesses a hard green shell on the outside and soft red innards with a huge butcher style knife. Spock is not quite certain what the fruit is called, nor has he seen it before, till the man offers him a piece: "Have some watermelon for Christ's sake, stop sitting there like a bump on a log." Spock shakes his head to decline the fruit, McCoy shrugs and takes a huge bite of it himself, spitting out the seeds into his hand. "You ever seen a watermelon before?"
"Negative." He continues his attention over to the large covered metal pot on the stove. Steam streams out of a vent from the lid. Again, it might smell delectable...however- "How did you acquire all of this food?"
McCoy takes another bite of watermelon and spits out another seed. "I stole it." Spock cannot help but visibly startle at that, he opens his mouth to begin a long lecture... but McCoy barks out a laugh, obviously pleased he got a reaction. "I didn't steal anything. Okay? I woke up, went over this morning across the street to the 'jobcorp' agency. Now that I have a home address I can use, I checked out some work leads, there was nothing, so then I picked up some unemployment credits." McCoy holds up a plastic card and triumphantly waves it in front of Spock's face. "No sense in you always having to pay my way. Then, I was hungry and I figured you'd be too when you came home so I went to the grocery store."
Apparently this lodging in which they are staying is considered by McCoy to be their 'home'. Fascinating. He mulls it over. Home. Perhaps he should tweet some thoughts about it... "What time did you awaken?" he eventually asks of McCoy.
"After you left, I couldn't sleep anymore." McCoy pulls out two bowls, places plates underneath them, picks up a metal soup ladle and starts portioning out the soup. "Needed something to occupy me."
"Where did you acquire these kitchen utensils and serving-ware?" Spock asks tightly.
"This kitchen is all furnished. It's got everything we need. As long as we don't destroy it, I guess. Home sweet home."
Home. Spock nods solemnly, again, says nothing.
"Spock?" It is now evident in the way McCoy's demeanor has fallen, the smile has faded, he has picked up on something being off. "Something the matter?"
Spock hesitates. He should be more appreciative of what McCoy is doing, however the preparation of food, in this way, in this 'home-like' setting, (home) cannot be allowed. "You are not my mate," he declares.
"Yeah." McCoy gives him an odd look. "I know that."
"You are also not my mother nor are you an employed servant. Therefore, I cannot allow you to wait on me in this manner."
"In what manner?"
"Preparing food for me."
"For us," McCoy corrects, then sits the soup ladle down very deliberately. "Kindly tell me, what the hell are you on about?"
"On Vulcan, food preparation at home and the serving of it to others is performed by a servant, spouse or parent."
"Since you do not fit the criteria, you are violating a Vulcan taboo."
"A Vulcan taboo?" McCoy immediately breaks into laughter. "Now you're being-"
He stands. "Doctor, I would appreciate it if you did not mock me."
McCoy stops his laughing to gape at him. "Are you serious?"
"Now, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. We're on Earth and this is the 23rd century! And neither one of us has a mommy or wifey to wait on us right now, nor should we expect 'em to in this day and age!"
"Nevertheless, I am a Vulcan."
"So you're not going to eat it?"
"What? I can't believe it! Shoulda told me that before I slaved away at this stove..." McCoy is now moving various objects around the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors shut (now entirely too emotional), he hisses: "So...you'll let me suck you off, but I'm not allowed to cook for you?"
"Please do not be vulgar. A sexual act and food preparation are two entirely different things."
"The hell they are!"
"And you are the one who instigated the sexual acts. Not I."
"Fine. Won't being doing it again, then. That make you happy?" McCoy slams a lid down onto the counter. "We can't afford a Goddamned servant, much less anything! Just how in the hell are we supposed to eat then, huh? You tell me that!"
"There are restaurants in the vicinity," Spock points out.
McCoy is now seething. "Oh, so that's okay, huh? Oh, waiters and cooks, they fall into the servant category, I guess. You want to blow all your credits on restaurant food? That's what you want to do, huh? Eat that shit every day, instead of some good old fashioned home cooking?"
McCoy then stalks out of the kitchen, still grumbling to himself regarding the ridiculousness of which he deems this. Spock does wish to make the man understand. He finds himself following McCoy to the bathroom, he stands at the doorway, because the door is of course still open as the Human lifts the lid on the toilet to commence urinating. (Evidently privacy while one takes care of intimate functions and ablutions regarding one's person in the bathroom is unnecessary when one is at 'home'.)
"Get out of here. Quit watching me, pervert!" McCoy snarls at him.
"I have seen you perform this action many a time."
"Yeah well, not anymore. You're not my spouse so you can't come in," McCoy snaps.
Ah...the infantile reaction. "If you do not wish me to enter the bathroom, then shut the door."
"Fine." McCoy yanks his scrubs back up, marches over to the door, slams it in Spock's face.
"You shall annoy our neighbors," Spock says to the closed door.
"I don't give a fuck!"
Now there is only the sound of urinating, so to grant McCoy some privacy at this time, he makes his way, patiently, to the bedroom cum living area, sits down at the small desk and pulls his iPhone off his hip, checks his emails.
The bathroom door is open again and McCoy is now shouting at him, as the water is running: "You know what? You are being contradictory, do you understand me, you greed blooded pain in the ass? You make absolutely no sense and it's driving me crazy! And I still haven't seen you pee. I'm beginning to think you're a robot or something!"
Spock is immersed in his phone, does not respond.
McCoy continues his rant: "And you know what else? I don't care... Don't even eat the damned soup!"
Odd. There is still no response from Starfleet academy. He shall phone them, to discover what the delay might be.
McCoy appears in front of him, wiping his hands on his scrubs. "Will you listen to me?"
"What did I just say?"
"You instructed me not to eat the food, Dr. McCoy." McCoy, in a fit of pique, plucks the iPhone out of his hand. "Return my phone." McCoy, to be expected, does not. "Return it, please.
"Not until you listen to me. I cooked for you...Spock look at me. I cooked for you... because I'm concerned you're not eating enough. You're too thin. I worry about your health. I-"
"I am aware. You obsess over my wellbeing."
McCoy finally slams the iPhone onto the table. "Not anymore."
"Doctor, please have more respect for one's possessions."
"Sure." McCoy turns on his heel, opens up the front door. "I'll just go fold the laundry. Or is THAT not allowed?"
"That is entirely acceptable." Spock picks up the mistreated iPhone.
"Now, how is that different?"
"How is...doing the laundry different, than cooking for you? They're both household tasks. Why is me doing the laundry okay?" McCoy is still talking when he should have been leaving and will the man go or be silent so that he may phone Starfleet Academy? McCoy slams a hand onto the nearest wooden object that will presumably make the loudest noise. "Spock."
His head snaps up. "I am listening to you, Doctor, but please be brief."
"I can't even have a conversation with you without you tweeting all the damned time!" McCoy snaps. "Stupid, obstinate, contradictory, Diet Coke drinking, tweeting Vulcans!" The door slams hard behind the man leaving Spock in blissful silence.
One standard hour later...
He should have been able to phone Starfleet in relative peace. Instead, he had merely placed his iPhone onto his hip. He will do so later this afternoon. For now he is too concerned about Bones' whereabouts.
(and he can still smell the soup.)
It is too quiet. (where is he?) Perhaps, upon further consideration, he had been a little too abrupt with the man, who was only attempting to do him a favor. He should not have reacted in such a...childish, selfish, petty manner. (Perhaps, he misses his mother.) Perhaps more of an indication he is becoming a barbarian. Perhaps, when the Human returns, he shall apologize.
He checks his iPhone. The time has now gone past one hour and ten point three two minutes.
He slowly heads into the kitchen, pulls out the chair, drops down at the table still set for two. He takes a bite of a slice of bread that McCoy had baked. It is quite good. Very good. And the soup, although now cooled, is also...delicious. And the Diet Coke...with a lemon. Exactly how he prefers it.
After he finishes the soup, he rinses out the bowl, puts the plate and bowl into the sink. He touches the pot of soup on the stove. It is still too warm to place into the refrigerator. He instead walks into the main room. "TV on," he commands. The television immediately responds.
There nothing worth watching as he flips through the various channels, however on 5 San Francisco News, there is now a bulletin:
"...escaped from Mercy hospital's protective custody in the early hours of yesterday morning. If you have any information as to the whereabouts of this man please call the San Francisco police department...there is a warrant for his arrest." An image of Leonard McCoy flashes onto the screen.
He utters a curse and heads immediately out the door, down the five flights of stairs and into the ground floor laundry room.
McCoy is not in the laundry room.
He is a fool. McCoy has most likely fled this boarding house by now. He could not have gotten far but he will surely now be recognized as soon as he hits the streets. Spock cannot believe the he has virtually thrown the Human out to the proverbial Earth "wolves". He must search for him, before it is too late. (Damn his obstinacy). Spock reaches the front door-
"Looking for somebody?" It is Mrs. Meagher. Spock turns around. "Your boyfriend's in here."
"My boyfriend..." he whispers.
Mrs. Meagher beckons him back to her office. Bones is sitting at a table and consuming something on a delicate China plate which appears to be blueberry pie, (the blueberries are huge) there is a scoop of Vanilla ice cream on top, melting onto the warm crust. This is accompanied by a cup of coffee served in an equally delicate China cup on a saucer.
McCoy, of course, is glaring at him.
"Nice suit," Mrs. Meagher says.
"Thank you," Spock replies politely.
"Would you like a piece of pie, Spock?" Mrs. Meagher offers.
"No, sorry, he can't," McCoy cuts in before Spock is able to respond . "Taboo."
"Ooh!" Mrs. Meagher exclaims. "I didn't know that."
"Yeah...dates all the way back to Surak," McCoy says. "Right Spock?"
He gives McCoy a look. Blueberries are his favorite. "Right."
"Too bad," McCoy says and takes a huge forkful of pie, the ice cream up along with it, shoving the entirety into his mouth. "Hmmm, just like Momma used to make. 'Cept with peaches..."
"A word, Dr. McCoy." Spock motions towards the laundry room.
"Dr. McCoy?" Mrs. Meagher wonders out loud. "You have to call your boyfriend by his title?"
"Yep," McCoy replies. "We're formal like that." He takes a long sip of coffee, still scowling at Spock.
"I wish to speak with you in the laundry room," Spock finds himself hissing through clenched teeth.
McCoy stands up, rather reluctantly. "Excuse me, Mrs. Meagher, and thanks for the pie." She smiles back at him, nodding.
"What's the matter?" McCoy asks with more patented sarcasm as soon as they enter the laundry room. "Can't take your own clothes upstairs?"
Spock grabs onto McCoy's arm and spins him around, a little harder than he intended to (and McCoy making a slight grunt at the shock). "You are a wanted man."
"Are you attempting to say, in that Vulcan way of yours, that you're sorry?"
"Your image has been broadcast on television."
"Hmph," McCoy scoffs: "Must be a slow news day."
"The authorities seem rather intent on apprehending you."
"Bench warrant?" Spock nods. "I was really on TV? You want my autograph?" McCoy, unbelievably, laughs.
Spock holds onto the man's arm, much tighter. "I fail to see the humor in this situation."
"You fail to see the humor in anything. Doesn't mean it's not funny. And oww...let go."
"You fail to understand." Still grasping McCoy, he shakes the arm a little. "You are in serious trouble."
"And you're a drama queen. Why don't you go somewhere and tweet about it?"
He tightens his grip even further. "Doctor," he warns.
"Spock, listen, uh, it's just sensationalized TV bullshit, most likely instigated by that quack Dr. Rachett."
At the mention of that psychiatrist's name, Spock looks away.
"Hey." McCoy places a hand on him. "I'm fine, you hear? As long as we keep arguing like this, I know everything's okay."
Spock raises an incredulous eyebrow at him.
"Besides, there's too many people in the city...the cops'll never find me."
"That is incorrect and you know it. You filed for unemployment this morning. You can be traced to this address." He gives McCoy a wry glance. "Being as you knew you would have a warrant issued against you, it is perhaps not the most intelligent thing you have done."
"We needed the money...You're nearly broke, aren't you."
"It is in our best interests to depart San Francisco, immediately."
McCoy manages to pull out of Spock's grasp and rubs his own arm. "I'm the one who's leaving. I've decided I'm going back to Georgia."
"How? You would immediately be arrested."
"No...I'll find a way back."
"I will drive back to Georgia and conceal you."
"Are you out of your Vulcan mind? You need to stay right here in town to wait for Starfleet to beckon."
"I will not allow harm to come to you. If I must forego the opportunity to enter, I will. We..." He rations it out for a moment. "We will travel to Vulcan. I can get a passport for you under diplomatic immunity."
"Diplomatic immunity? What... get Daddy involved?"
Spock hesitates. "Yes." (Father would help, albeit reluctantly...and he would never hear the end of it. But perhaps some things are unavoidable.)
"Then what...are we just gonna get married and set up home together on Vulcan?" McCoy furiously shakes his head. "No way."
McCoy is of course absolutely correct, as emotional as the man is. As to why he even thought up such a plan is beyond him, however...
McCoy takes the opportunity to attempt an exit and Spock grabs onto his arm once again to deny him egress. At that very instant, Spock's iPhone rings from his waist.
"Nice ringtone," McCoy quips, rolling his eyes at the Rachmaninoff.
Spock holds it up, notes the number. It is Mrs. Meagher calling from her office just ten feet away. He answers it. "Hello?"
"Uh... Hi there...uh... Spock?"
"It's Mrs. Meagher. I was...uh...just watching the news..."
"Of course." His hand slides off of McCoy's arm.
"I see Leonard's in some trouble."
"Yes...I do apologize. We shall be moving out immediately."
"Under no circumstances are you going to do that."
"Listen, you two are nice boys. Good boys. I trust my intuition. And I'm not about to let a little bit of crap on the news or some issue with the cops, hurt you two. So, Leonard's safe here. We'll need to disguise him a little bit from the average passer-by but he'll be okay. Any cops stoppin' by, I'll take care of 'em." She sounds rather... ominous, and extremely genuine.
Nevertheless, Spock raises a skeptical eyebrow into the phone. "You would do that for us?"
"Well... I need the rent, too."
He allows himself a faint smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Meagher. I...we appreciate that."
He ends the call, places the phone back at his waist and turns to McCoy, bemused. "Apparently you have a safe haven here at the Bradbury Apartments."
"I could HEAR her talking." McCoy grins as he opens up the dryer, feels the clothes to ascertain if they are in fact dry, aparently they are still damp so he closes the dryer, slides his debit card into the slot and quickly removes it. The LED flashes '10 min' and the dryer resumes. "Her office is right over there." McCoy is now in subdued hysterics. "Couldn't she just walk the ten feet to talk to us?"
Spock grabs McCoy's arm again, spins him around, pushes him against the warm, engaged dryer which nips the man's silly laughter in the bud. "Perhaps she was concerned that you and I would be engaged in...what is the human custom? Ah yes...make-up sex."
"In the laundry room?" McCoy's demeanor changes to a status of being rather coy. "Don't you think that's a little..." Spock pushes his pelvis into him and Bones' eyes flutter closed, (Spock can feel the vibration of the dryer through McCoy.) "Do we trust her?" Bones manages. "What if..." He swallows and Spock watches the movement of the man's Adam's apple. (known as a ple'tie on Vulcan) "Spock...What if...she decides to turn me in?"
"I trust her. We must. It is either stay here or attempt to find a new place to live and risk you being caught or us separating. What would you prefer?"
"I prefer to...stay here...with you… till you get into Starfleet at least. That's all I want, okay?"
"Then what will you do?"
"Talk about it later. Not when your hands are on me," Bones whispers.
Taking that as his cue, Spock reaches over, splayes his hand on the other's face. Bones' scruff is soft under his fingers. Bones leans forward, pushing their mouths together. Bones tastes of blueberries. Ah that reminds him...
"The meal you prepared...I enjoyed it a great deal." He looks down, then up again into the doctor's eyes.
"You broke down and ate it?"
"And the universe didn't self destruct? How'bout that?"
Now he rolls his eyes. His hand shifts to the back of McCoy's neck and he kisses him again. The slim hips grind against him. "Fascinating," he notes once they part for air. "I note you are currently having no difficulty sustaining an-"
"Not at all..." McCoy murmurs into Spock's neck. "Crazy meds have cycled out of my system..."
Spock reaches down and slides a finger into the green waistband. "Fortuitous." Bones is, of course, wearing no underwear. (All, but the pair Spock is wearing, are currently in the dryer.) He tugs and pulls the waistband down just enough to expose the light brown pubic hair and the light pink genitals.
He has seen McCoy's flaccid penis plenty of times by this point, but never has actually witnessed the actual naked organ erect. However, he has previously viewed enough clothing tented in the mornings since they have made their acquaintence, noted what Human males are afflicted with (something described as 'morning wood'). McCoy had performed felatio on him, but he has never recripocated, certainly he has never touched any other naked penis besides his own in this condition. He explores McCoy's engorged organ, sliding a finger along the shaft. It is very smooth, adequately sized, featuring a foreskin that alternately retracts and exposes the head as he gently strokes. By the hooded look in McCoy's eyes, he can ascertain if he is performing the action properly-
"Stop analysing it so much...I'm not a scientific experiment... dammit..." Spock shuts the man up by increasing his stroke. McCoy's breath is heavy as he jerks slightly with the sensations. "We really should...take this upstairs...someone can come in here..."
"Shhh..." Spock kneels down then briefly flicks a glance upward, sees McCoy licking his lips watching Spock take him into his mouth.
Spock opens his eyes, lays there in bed for a moment, blinks in the darkness, then sits up on his elbows.
McCoy, curled up next to him, on his side, awakens at Spock's movement. He flips over onto his back, listens to the voices as he pushes the coverlet down to his waist.
"What the hell?" McCoy mutters.
Someone next door is actively, noisily engaged in a sexual act. These apartments require soundproofing.
McCoy twists his body to pick up the LED chrono on the nightstand, groans at the time, slamming it back down. "Six o'clock in the mornin'. Damn animals."
They listen to the onslaught for a few more moments. "Are all Humans this loud?"
"Depends." McCoy snorts. "Sounds like someone's getting it in the ass good and proper. I'm sure they'll be done in a couple minutes."
However, the sounds do not abate, they continue on for nearly forty five point three two minutes. Bones is ammused at first then growing increasingly annoyed. "Jesus Christ. You know...There might be children in here!" he shouts.
"There are not," Spock corrects.
McCoy grabs Spock's pillow and pulls it over his head around his ears. Spock immediately reclaims his pillow so then McCoy raises his hand as to smack it against the wall.
Spock catches onto the hand and with a smooth movement pulls McCoy over on top of him. He begins by touching McCoy's forehead, then runs a hand down the bearded face, caresses the lips, cups the man's neck, runs a hand down the man's smooth skin to the small of the back, then rests the hand on the curve of the buttocks.
He and McCoy had fallen asleep nude in bed together, but that was mostly to save on the use of clean laundry which is at a premium, rather than any sexual contact they might have done or intended to do in bed, which up to now has been entirely oral copulation.
"Don't tell me those idiots next door are turning you on?" The doctor is of course just as aroused as he and does not appear to mind... so Spock continues his exploratory touching. Then, being the more experienced of this particular coupling, Bones becomes the leader and Spock can merely hang on for the ride, as it were. (to the soundtrack of the antics next door)
There is a hand between them, stroking both of their organs together. Now Spock finds himself flipped over onto his stomach, his hips pulled back so that he creeps up onto all fours and there is Bones' slick tongue running from the back of his neck (which creates an unbelievable shutter from him) making a wet trail down his back, into the cleft of his buttocks, now it is circling his anus and now finally entering said orifice. McCoy makes a pleased sound, heady and illicit. Now there is a finger exploring him, entering him, touching him there and a sharp gasp is released from his own mouth and Bones makes another pleased murmur regarding Vulcans possessing a prostate gland.
Spock stiffens at this and not with arousal. McCoy already knows why and slithers his body up alongside and nudges Spock to roll over onto his back. Now McCoy is straddling him, kissing him deeply (with the same tongue that was in his anus he cannot help but think but he does not care at this point), McCoy is running a finger along the tips of his ears, now sucking on them, a noted Vulcan erogenous zone. (and who is making that noise? him?) His left hand rests on McCoy's hip and the right is tangled in McCoy's hair... the…the...fear...of the unknown is being slowly, wonderfully soothed away...everything will be fine...
As soon is he is relaxed, somewhat, Bones is reaching over, fishing out by touch, for a few packets of the lube in the bowl next to the bed. Yes, yes...this is good... to err on the side of caution, they should use a generous amount, as it is there, for free, for their exclusive use and it might as well be utilized for the purpose of which-
"Sweetheart..." Bones' voice is slightly higher and softer, the sound of it is unusual, lilting as he whispers this endearment, as he his ripping open the packets, pouring out the oil into his hand, soothes: "It'll be alright."
He is of course, not concerned, not anymore. McCoy is now sitting between his legs (he never thought he would be on display like this for another) kissing one thigh and the other, now biting where he has kissed, now licking and sucking, at the same time a finger is working it's way inside of him. He makes a reach for McCoy's other hand, intertwining their fingers. Much better. Their fingers are still grasping when McCoy adds another digit from the other hand inside him, then another. They only briefly let go when McCoy flips Spock legs up and he places them onto the shoulders. When their fingers finally reconnect he feels the delight (and an undercurrent of nervousness) radiating from Bones.
The sensation of anal sex is, admittedly, slightly uncomfortable at first, but then... "Okay?" McCoy pauses briefly.
It is now quiet next door, but they do not notice.
Later on they do it again... in the shower, then once again in bed...
Spock exits their apartment a few hours later, leaving McCoy still in bed, on his way to fetch the pair of them some much needed breakfast. At the same time their next door neighbor walks out of his door.
"Good Morning." Spock nods at the man, politely.
"It certainly is," the man replies back with a knowing smirk, before heading down the stairs.
Continued in Part 10. Thanks for reading.