Notes: Hey guys! Sorry for the wait! Ever since publishing for real, I've been a bit caught up in my original work, and I know I've neglected you all in the fanworld lately. Here is my apology: Arc Two of A Temporary Madness, up way earlier than I had planned. Enjoy, and remember to leave feedback ;)


Arc Two, Part One

Orgasm hit him like a freight train. Everything – the world, the universe, his sense of self, his awareness, his cognitive functions and his baser instincts – was blasted apart by a nuclear explosion ripping through him, top to toe, and pausing even time itself. It barrelled through his blood and fried his nerves, shattered his bones and he didn't even care, the overstimulation humming like electricity as he came down from the high, inch by shivering inch, and sank bonelessly into the messy tangle of shaking limbs beneath him.

"Fuck," he breathed the word into a damp, jumping pulse point.

"Indeed," Spock's voice was collected, but his breath was gone, and McCoy smirked into that neck, the aftershocks of sex beginning to rattle away.

"I'm not gettin' the cloth," he mumbled, and grinned when there was a wriggle of movement and the distinct imprint of teeth dug into his shoulder. "Nope. Not movin'."

He slid to the side and the wall when Spock slipped out from under him, curling into sweat-damp, rumpled sheets and dragging them down with his feet until he was shamelessly and obnoxiously naked, taking up eighty percent of Spock's single bed. His nerves were buzzing, almost singing to each other like crystal wine glasses in an echoing room, and flaring in an almost-pain when a cool cloth scraped over his too-sensitive dick. He grumbled around his satisfaction briefly before latching onto the nearest arm and tugging, squirming around until he had both arms latched around Spock's ribs and the brief struggle abated, leaving them crushed together in the narrow space, too hot and too tangled and too uncomfortable, but both too unwilling to separate in the hazy, limited-functionality mindset of the afterglow.

"There's no fuckin' room," he mumbled into the now-accessible dark hair. "Move in with me. I have a double bed."

Spock made a noise that might have been amusement, scepticism, or merely the effort of reaching a comfortable position and throwing the cloth over his shoulder and onto the floor with a wet slap. His hand made a similarly damp sound when it landed squarely on McCoy's chest, curling loosely around the hair and tugging briefly before he settled and relaxed, obviously intending to doze.

This left McCoy jammed between extremely sharp elbows, ribs and shoulders, and a wall. It wasn't the most uncomfortable position he'd ever slept in, but it certainly wasn't making the top ten luxurious moments either – and yet McCoy wouldn't have exchanged it for the world. They were both sweaty, messy and dishevelled; the bed was ruined, the sheets on the floor and one pillow somehow on the windowsill clear across the room. Spock's leg was locked over both of his, and the tangled bottom sheet was threatening to cut off McCoy's circulation. The heat radiating from Spock's ribs and neck was fierce, and the air creeping over McCoy's feet from the draught through the open bedroom door too cool. There was a hand tugging on hair dangerously close to his nipple, and another jammed somewhere under his back, the fingers still curled into bruise-inducing wedges.

And Spock's breathing was slowing against McCoy's collarbone, settling into his usual post-coital coma – and quite suddenly, McCoy wanted to stir him up again and get an answer.

Shifting was a challenge - unhooking Spock's leg from over his produced a low grumble, which turned into a narrow-eyed glower when he shifted above him and hauled him back into the middle of the thin mattress, sliding back over him and burrowing into his neck with his teeth, bestowing another reddening mark onto the jugular. After a moment, Spock's hands came up to cup and turn his head until there was the sharp sting of a bite to his earlobe, and McCoy chuckled breathlessly through the tugging sensation of having the base of his ear sucked.

"Vampire," McCoy accused, tugging free and nipping at Spock's own earlobe before heading for the mouth. Spock had sharp teeth, and he rolled his tongue under them before pressing in and sucking the air out of his lungs and feeling the hollow jump of his chest. He retreated to bite down warningly hard on Spock's lower lip, tugging it out before letting go, and saying, "I meant it."

"You meant what?" Spock murmured, preoccupied with trying to get back into McCoy's mouth. His eyes were slitted in exhaustion, dark pools barely visible between the skin; it was a drunk look, a heady look, and a goddamn should-be-illegal alluring look.

McCoy kissed him until he couldn't breathe, and then kissed him some more for good measure.

"Move in with me. Seriously."

Spock completely ignored him, beginning to lick a path back up to his abused right ear.

"Hey," McCoy pinned him by the shoulders, rising up to press his full weight onto Spock's upper arms. "Seriously. Move in with me."

Spock stared up at him - almost frowning, but not quite - before obstinately pulling him down into another kiss and beginning to shift his knees to bracket McCoy's hips again. "If you must ask seriously, do not ask in bed," he murmured, locking his hand on the back of his neck and arching his head back in blatant invitation.

"Fine," McCoy growled, burying his teeth briefly into the pressure point behind Spock's ear and getting an almost violent shudder. "Best anniversary ever."


The tenth of April until McCoy's break for lunch was a hungover-glazed blur of exhaustion. Their date for their second anniversary - a supposed civil affair of dinner downtown - had ended in running from Spock's apartment at half past eight the next morning to shower and change before dashing into work late for his shift. Dr. Puri, the asshole, had taken the opportunity to notice, and commented on McCoy's apparent change in cologne. He'd been shunted straight into the geriatric ward, and elderly people apparently had nothing better to do than speculate about why the doctor was walking so stiffly and looked tired. He felt like an oversexed teenager, as anybody would after energetic sex with a man who was, quite frankly, ridiculously good-looking, and he was thus so distracted that it was not until he managed to sit down with a tall glass of water, two aspirins, and lunch, that he realised that Spock had never actually given him an answer, the tricky son-of-a-bitch.

Over the past two years, McCoy had gotten increasingly used to the fact that Spock could, would and did run rings around him mentally, and often for his own sadistic foreign amusement. He might have only been mixed race, but the Chinese sadism (Japanese, same thing) had overwhelmed any good American decency in him, and he toyed with McCoy like a cat with a half-dead bird, batting it about the floor without care for decorum or discretion. And McCoy knew that it probably said something odd about him that he enjoyed it. He'd spent two years fighting for every inch of ground he'd gained, arguing and sniping and snapping back and forth in endless circles, and he had loved every last damn minute of it. Last night was nothing new - the sex (thank God), the date, the evasive questioning, none of it. Spock could avoid anything he wanted, unless McCoy went to the effort of pinning him down and screwing the answer out of him - and last night, even that hadn't worked.

And that just wouldn't do.

Spock didn't typically share his lunch break - the labs apparently worked on the more human hour of one o'clock for lunch - and in any case, the labs had the same rules as the hospital regarding cell phones. So McCoy didn't expect a reply, but sent a text anyway to jog his memory when he finally did turn the damn thing on again.

You still didn't give me an answer.

True to form, it was roughly half-past one, just as McCoy was coming off his coffee break (and thus displaying perfect Spockian timing as per fucking usual) when his cell beeped in response - and once again, Spock completely avoided an answer.

An answer to which question?

It was another five hours before he came off-shift entirely, and managed to send a reply, even while knowing Spock would be busy – he was meeting his sponsor tonight, and that usually devolved into a few too many drinks and a cab home. Christopher Pike did not tend to take 'I'm not drinking tonight' for an answer, apparently. (It also marked the one and only time McCoy had seen Spock persuaded into being tipsy rather than choosing to go there independently, and therefore had granted Pike enormous respect and admiration in McCoy's book.)

Move in with me.

He then pushed it to the back of his mind, going through the post-work motions of actually shaving properly instead of the rushed job he'd done that morning, running through the chores he usually did on a Wednesday night, and texting Jim to ask why his car was parked up outside McCoy's house. (Apparently, he was testing whether parking it in the sun killed the pine tree freshener taped to the rear view mirror.) Therefore it was at least a quarter past ten when Spock texted back -

That is a statement, not a question. I doubt your grade point average was maintained by your English lessons.

- being his usual smartassed self.

McCoy gave up the text-chase, and called.

"Hel-"

"Just answer the goddamn question."

Spock paused. McCoy could faintly hear the television in the background. "That was not a question."

"Fine. I'll rephrase it."

"Very well."

"Just answer the goddamn statement."

"How does one answer a statement?"

"Just fucking do it."

Spock paused again, and McCoy just knew that he was being toyed with. Again. Why did he always seem to date people that behaved like cats? Spock toyed with him like he was an almost-dead mouse but a mercy killing would be too fast, and Joss…well. Joss had that yarn thing.

"Perhaps one statement requires another."

"Whatever."

"You have carpets," Spock said - and hung up.

McCoy stared at his cell phone in dumbfounded shock, then hit redial before he could really think too much about it. The phone rang out, and so he thumbed out the fastest text of his life, hoping that he had - suspecting that he had - understood the implications of that reply correctly.

We'll get rid of the carpets.

A moment later: Very well.

He found himself grinning even as he asked, Is that a yes?

It is a very well.

McCoy hadn't been married to a lawyer for nothing. Answer the following question with "yes" or "no." Did you just agree to move in with me?

And he was struck with the violent urge to punch the air like a meatheaded football player (or Jim) when a simple yes was returned.