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They've been doing this dance for weeks.
The one where he shows up to her quarters at all hours of the night, most nights bottle in hand, looking for her. He wants to drink, unwind, decompress.
It's the one where she starts to expect him, waits for him really, lounging in brand new sleepwear that's decidedly more becoming than the ratty old t-shirts and shorts she's long since thrown out.
This is their new routine, it's the way they let off steam after lengthy, trying shifts and emotional away missions. And it makes sense that they've come to lean on one another. He's the CMO, she's his head nurse and they understand each other in a way that others don't.
Not that it started out that way.
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It's a bit of an understatement to say she wasn't a fan of his management style. On a good day, he was gruff and grouchy and quick with a barb if someone wasn't performing up to par. On a bad day, it was terrible for anyone with the bad luck to be staffed in or even walking by sickbay.
As for her, well, she irritated him right off the bat. With her perfect posture and spotless uniform and her borderline obssessive-compulsive work rituals. With her control issues and her refusal to make a scene that was somehow always in direct opposition with her desire to take him down a peg.
So they worked together. And against each other.
Until that one mission.
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She'd always known he was close with the Captain. They'd apparently been chummy since the academy, and there were countless stories of McCoy saving his ass when he'd bitten off more than he could chew.
But tonight was not one of those nights. The Captain was in serious trouble.
She got a knock on her door in the middle of the night.
"What's going on?"
"Doctor McCoy needs you in surgery, now. It's an emergency."
12 hours into the surgery, everything ached. But McCoy-and God knows he looked tired-didn't stop for anything. He was determined to put Jim Kirk back together and that's exactly what he did.
Christine knew what he needed before he asked for it, handing him tools, using suction to clear out the op space.
He was ragged when it was all over, looking at her from behind swollen hazel eyes and sagging with the effort of it all. She didn't know how she summoned the energy, but she ordered him to leave and get some rest.
So she stayed by the Captain's side when he couldn't be there. And she recognized the thanks in his gaze when she did it.
And after that, things changed.
They fell into an understanding. He knew when to push her and when to back off; when to steer clear because she was handling things. She knew what would set him off and how to talk him down; she could tell at one glance when he was volatile and in no mood to kid around..
They worked together. Now, in every sense of the word.
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Tonight, she's relaxing in her quarters with a book she's been trying to get through for weeks. She can't stay focused on the words on the pages, though, because it's 21:00 hours and she hasn't seen or heard from him.
Most nights, he shows up around 20:00 hours. Sometimes they just drink and talk. Sometimes they don't want to talk, so they share a comfortable silence and watch old 21st century movies.
Tonight, as much as Christine might want to deny it, she's unsettled. She's gotten used to the routine of seeing him. She wonders what he's doing tonight that's keeping him away.
She's reread the same sentence probably twenty times when the door chimes at 23:20.
She jumps up out of bed, smooths down her shirt and shorts and checks her hair in the mirror before answering.
In the back of her mind she thinks, this is pathetic. She's a proud woman, and sitting around waiting to see if he'll show up goes against everything she's ever been brought up to believe. Sad thing is, she thinks, I'm doing it anyway.
He's leaning in the doorway, a bottle of whisky in hand. Not the synthenol stuff, which is usually what he's got his hands on. This is the good stuff. And he's dressed to the nines.
She eyes him up and down.
Crisp shirt, black slacks, fresh hair cut. The scruff Christine has grown accustomed to is gone. And he smells faintly of a cologne that she can't ever remember smelling on him.
He looks different. Just like himself, but better.
And for a quick moment, she deludes herself into believing that he's done this for her. That he came to her like this, tonight, to impress her. But things rarely work out for Christine the way she imagines and tonight is going to be no exception.
"Have a drink with me." She purses her lips into a tight smile and ignores his invitation.
"Nice getup."
He smiles, lazy and sheepish.
"This? Nah, it's nothing," he says, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.
She folds her arms across her chest.
"I wouldn't say it's nothing, Len. I don't believe I've ever seen you look so...put together."
Her compliment seems to catch him off guard. He looks off into the void of the room behind her.
"So what's the occasion?"
He looks down at his feet and is he blushing?
"Blind date. M'Benga asked me to be presentable, so..."
Now she's glad he isn't looking at her because when he says blind date he might as well have said fuck you. She feels the sting of it and a blush creeps into her cheeks.
He clears his throat, shifts his weight back and forth on his feet.
"So...have a drink with me?" he asks again, finally meeting her stare.
Her mouth is dry, like it's full of chalk, but she manages.
"Tonight, I'm real tired, Len. Maybe another time."
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That's the night Christine decides she's never going to wait on anyone ever again.
She spent years waiting on Roger and she'll be damned if she wastes any more of her precious time waiting on Doctor McCoy.
She makes damn sure to fill her dance card with activities-drinks with Nyota, workouts with Janice, anything to keep from lying around in her quarters and moping and letting him think she's got nothing better to do than sit at home and wait for him flit in and out of her life.
And she pulls back at work, keeping their conversations limited to shop talk; making sure not to meet his eyes when she's sure he's trying to meet hers.
She's in the midst of studiously ignoring him in Sickbay when the sad realization strikes. She's being ridiculous. Whatever spark she imagined just didn't exist.
So being so wounded, so angry with him over something that never was-is pointless.
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Her complete 180 damn sure doesn't go unnoticed by McCoy.
She's been off since that night. Leonard can't claim to be some kind of woman whisperer, God knows he has a lot to learn about how to make a woman happy (as his ex will gladly tell anyone who listens), but he knows he's screwed up with Christine, big time.
And despite his limited knowledge of the intricacies of the fairer sex, he's pretty sure he knows why.
It felt so awkward to tell her he'd been on a blind date. But she asked, and when he answered he felt a knot in his throat. Christine's face conveyed a displeasure that her words didn't.
And now he's bugged by it all. She comes to work every day and acts as though nothing is wrong, but he knows better. She's professional and cool and calm as always, but she's distant. And he doesn't like it.
Today, he finds her organizing supply drawers.
"Christine."
"Yes, Doctor?"
She doesn't even look at him.
"Christine, are you okay? I mean, have I done something...?"
She turns to him, stares up at him with a blank face.
"Not at all, Doctor McCoy. Is there something I can help you with?"
His brows knit together when he scowls. Yeah, he thinks. You can talk to me like this isn't a goddamn business transaction. And since when are we back to Doctor McCoy all the time?
"Nope, I'm good. Any chance you would..." he clears his throat-it's always a tell that he's nervous. "...wanna watch a movie tonight?"
She brushes back stray bangs that have wiggled their way out of her perfect ponytail and gives him a half-hearted smile. "Can't. I've got plans."
Ouch.
"Alright. Take a rain check?"
She's already back to her labels. She shrugs.
"Sure."
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Her plans, as it were, are to get shitfaced. Christine has never been a huge drinker, although for medical reasons unknown she can toss back more than a few without losing her mind. Tonight, however, she intends to lose her mind.
Nyota's got a shipment of wine that she's been bragging about for weeks and she's asked Christine to come over and polish off a few glasses. Christine is more than happy to oblige.
"This...just tastes so good," Nyota giggles. She's had two glasses and Christine can tell she's already feeling the buzz.
Christine lays back on the couch, points her feet in the air, examines them. She's warm from head to toe. Her face feels flush.
"It is good, Ny. Thanks for sharing the bounty."
Nyota groans and rolls over on her side.
"Least I can do. You seemed like you needed to enjoy a drink tonight," she says, with a lilt in her voice that immediately signals to Christine that she's trying to get her to open up. Christine ignores it.
"Yeah, it's been a tough few days in Sickbay. Couple of ensigns were burned pretty badly in that Engineering accident, you know."
"Yeah, Spock told me about it," she says. She runs her fingers through her hair.
"Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"What's going on between you and Bones?"
Christine sits upright so fast her head starts to spin. She scrambles for an answer.
"Nothing. What do you mean? There's nothing. Why...have you heard something?"
Nyota smiles and lets her arm dangle off of the couch. She manages to keep the wine glass in her other hand balanced and Christine wonders how much longer she can keep that up.
"Just curious. I've always thought he had a crush on you. You two used to fight like cats and dogs and since you called the truce...I don't know," she's starting to slur just a bit. "Just seems like there's a lot of flirtation going on."
Christine would cry if she didn't have to laugh at that statement. She stands to walk into the kitchenette and pours herself another glass, walks to the couch to top Nyota's glass off.
"You're drunk," Christine jokes. "You must have just been misreading things."
In her own head she realizes she's really talking to herself more than she is to Ny. She takes another swig of wine and realizes that the more she drinks, the more it starts to taste like water.
That can't be a good sign.
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Head nurse Christine Chapel is nothing if not a creature of habit. Every day she shows up like clockwork, five minutes early. Today, she's late.
McCoy is frustrated. He's frustrated because they aren't getting along, frustrated because she's shutting him out and she's making plans and with who? Doing what? It's eating at him, picking at him and making him prickly and insufferable and fucking crazy.
She walks into Sickbay exactly two minutes past her shift time, hair pulled back haphazardly, and looking a little worse for the wear.
"Can't. I've got plans."
The words clang around in his head and all of a sudden he's mad. Over-the-top, nonsensically mad. She says nothing, just signs in and gets right to work and that makes him even madder.
He's got the patience of a toddler and the authority of the CMO. Dangerous combination.
"Nurse Chapel, your watch broken?"
She looks a little gray when she turns to face him.
"No, sir."
She doesn't even fight back-doesn't even point out that she's been late exactly once since he's known her. She doesn't throw her perfect record in his face and dress him down in front of the entire medical team like he expected she would.
Like she should.
Her submission doesn't make the situation any better. He slams his PADD down on the table.
"My office, Chapel. Now."
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"Do you need to be relieved?"
Her head is throbbing. What she'd really like is to hit him in the head with a blunt object. When he goes down, she goes back to her quarters and sleeps off the wicked wine hangover she's nursing right now.
But she's not the type who would do well in the brig and he's pushing her and making her mad as hell. She ignores the insistent thumping inside her head, and takes the bait.
"I need to be left alone to do my job, Doctor McCoy. I apologize for not being punctual, but shit happens," she hisses.
Anger flares in his face and he stands up from his desk.
"You're being insubordinate."
"And you're being an asshole. Just shut up about it and let me do my job," she challenges, heart pounding.
"Part of doing your job is not letting your personal life affect your work, Chapel. Whatever you got into last night is affecting your work. And that's not going to work for me."
Her jaw drops and she gapes at him.
For a second, she entertains the thought of throwing every time she's saved his ass-including days when he's stalked into work hungover as hell-in his face. But her brain is muddled and she's mad and she's mad that he's mad and tired and feeling like hell.
So what should have been an intelligent argument boils down to two words.
"Screw you."
"Go home," he says bluntly, grabbing a PADD off his desk and pushing past her in the small space of his office.
He looks over his shoulder. "That's an order."
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To say she's furious would be kind. She's downright apoplectic when she storms out of Sickbay. How dare he do something like this to her? She's the best damn nurse on his staff, hangover or not.
She can't even remember the walk back to her quarters. Over and over again, she hears him dismissing her, treating her like every other goddamn person on staff. Which, clearly, she isn't.
It ends up being a blessing in disguise, really. She burns some water credits on a steaming hot shower, injects a painkiller hypo and slips right into sleep.
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Her door chimes at 21:11. She frowns at the time display.
She's not tired, after all, she slept away the entire afternoon. But she has a pretty good idea of what's waiting for her on the other side of that door and she'd rather not deal. She ignores it.
It chimes again.
I'm asleep, she thinks to herself. Go away.
And for a few minutes, it does.
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Leonard McCoy, CMO of the USS Starship Enterprise, has a serious moral dilemma on his hands. His head nurse has her head up her ass. And he has to remove it.
But that isn't his dilemma. He knows exactly what Chapel needs. But she won't answer the goddamn door and he's getting more pissed off every moment he stands in the hall waiting for her to give in and let him in.
They did it her way. He backed off when she made it clear she wanted space. He let her push him away and freeze him out and now he's over it.
So now, they're going to do this his way.
Dilemma solved.
He punches in his override code.
She's practically at the door when he barges his way in.
Hair loose, falling over her shoulders, wearing a tank top and a microscopic pair of shorts that barely leave room for the Holy Ghost. It's more of her skin than he's ever seen, and for a second, just a second, he forgets that he's here to give her a piece of his mind.
"You are out of line, McCoy," she hisses at him, eyes flashing.
"And you need an attitude adjustment, Chapel," he counters evenly.
They stand in front of one another, locked in a silent face-off for what feels like eternity.
Finally, it's Christine that breaks the silence. He's too busy looking at her legs, the soft skin that disappears under those shorts. Those ridiculous, impractical, fascinating shorts.
"You had no right to do what you did today," she says quietly. She's not yelling, but the undercurrent of anger can't be missed.
He shrugs.
"You didn't give me a choice."
"Bullshit."
"You wanna fight with me again?" he challenges, walking closer. She backs up, trying to maintain the space between them.
"I want you to get lost," she says, practically spitting the words at him and he stops moving, cocks his head to the side.
He licks his lips.
"No you don't," he says, closing the space between them again.
He grabs a handful of her hair when he smashes his mouth to hers, kisses her hard. She makes a weak sound of protest that gets lost in furious mashing of their mouths.
She smells so damn good, he thinks, but loses his train of thought when she puts both hands on his chest and shoves him back.
He stares at her, breathing hard, chest heaving. She's breathing hard, too-skin flushed, cheeks pink, pupils wide.
"You can't just come in here and do that," she says, angrily. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"At least I'm doing something, sweetheart. 'Cause If it were up to you, we'd be getting nowhere right now."
"Shut up!" she yells, pointing a finger at him. "This is ridiculous. You just show up here and expect me take my clothes off for you? You think I've got nothing better to do than wait around for you to drop into my life?"
"Wait around?" he's incredulous, raising his voice now. "Are you insane? You want to talk about waiting, Christine?'
He's so mad he can't stand still, instead he paces the floor and gestures wildly as he rants at her.
"I can tell you all about waiting, Chris. Try coming here every night hoping that you'll give me a goddamn sign, anything to show me that you wanted something more. Wishing that you would make a move because I can't, because it's against every regulation in the goddamn book and I could be committing career suicide without ever knowing how you feel. I've been at this for months, Chris, so you're bitching at the wrong man if you want to talk about waiting."
She looks stunned for a moment when he's done ranting but recovers. She's on the last legs of what's turning out to be a pretty weak argument, but she can't let this part go. She lifts her head high and looks at him straight on.
"Yeah, well I'm not the one going out on dates. That seemed like a pretty clear sign to me."
He groans.
"Christine, listen to me. It was just a favor for M'Benga. She's a friend of his, she was visiting, he thought we might...have some chemistry."
"So did you?"
He takes her hand in his and she stares at where they are joined because somehow, it's easier than looking at him directly.
"I came here after that date because it's was where I'd rather be. And that's what I would have told you if you'd let me in that night."
She gives him a long look from behind those long, blonde lashes.
He exhales deeply. "Christine, dammit, say something."
"I...I just don't know what to say. I don't even know what to do," she says, lamely.
"Like hell you don't," he growls, putting his hands on her face and taking her in for another kiss.
He can feel, literally feel, her giving in. Her mouth opens for him and he presses into her with his tongue, against her with his hips, feels the blood rush to his groin.
She shudders.
His mouth wanders from hers to the column of her throat.
"Why now?" she sighs. He can feel the vibration against his lips.
"I couldn't let you push me away like this," he admits, grinding into her, forcing her to feel his arousal. "And I didn't take too kindly to the thought of you spending time with another man."
She wants to say what other man? but she's so lost in the feeling of his body against hers she doesn't say a thing. She just keeps moving against him.
"Christine," he groans. It's been so long since he's felt a woman like this-and this woman, finally-it's almost more than he can take.
Her hands slide under his shirt, exploring his skin and hair and she moans into his mouth. Now, it's his turn to shudder.
He tears his mouth away, pulls his shirt over his head. He's self-aware enough to realize that he's baring himself to her in more ways than one.
Don't run.
"Tell me you don't want me to stop, Chris," he says, slowly. "Because if you don't stop me, right now, I don't know if I can."
She pulls her tank top over her head and lets it fall to the floor.
"I don't want you to stop."
And that's all the invitation he needs.
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Her hangover is long gone, healed by painkillers and sleep-but right now, Christine's head is spinning. Dr. Leonard McCoy is in her quarters, kissing her thoroughly. Whispering into her ear about all the things he'd like to do to her, things she's secretly fantasized about for so long.
He seems content with the slow pace he's set for them, but she isn't. She wants this now-because at any moment she knows it's all going to disappear. She's going to wake up.
When he lays her down on the bed, she makes sure to get a good look at him: broad chest sprinkled with hair, trim waist, defined arms. She commits every inch of him to memory.
He does away with his pants and climbs over her and she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. His mouth closes in on one nipple and she jerks at the sensation.
"Len," she moans, twining her fingers into his hair but he doesn't answer, his lips and tongue are too busy teasing, licking, sucking at her.
She arches her back up to meet his mouth, lets her head fall back. This-what they're doing right now-is a million times more intense than she's imagined. It's too good to be true.
He works his mouth up the swell of her breasts, skates it across her collarbone, reaches her ear.
"Dammit, Chris," he whispers. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "I've wanted this for so long."
She moans and slips a hand between them, under the waistband of his boxers. Wraps her fingers around his hot, pulsing shaft. Christine Chapel hasn't been in the personal presence of a lot of penises, but she's pretty sure she's just hit the jackpot.
He hisses when pulls her hand away to push his boxers down and off his hips. Then he's pressing against her again, and she can feel him, heavy against her thigh. He drops his head down and buries his face in her chest. She runs her fingers through his hair.
"I want you so much," she admits, finally. She says it into the space between them and hearing it out loud is a relied she didn't know she needed.
"I'll give you anything you want," he says into her skin. His hands find the waistband of her panties, and he hooks a finger into them. Drags them off her hips.
She realizes that for the first time since she's known him, his hands are trembling. She's seen those same hands steady through grueling surgeries and hours-long procedures and she's never seen even the slightest tremor. Tonight, with his hands reaching for her clit she feels the quiver in his touch and she's humbled.
And she cries out when she finally feels his fingers. She's wet, wetter than she thinks she's ever been in her entire life and she closes her eyes bucks against his hand. She's not making any sense, just murmuring broken phrases and variations on his name.
His fingers delve in and out of her over and over and feels him shift and then the warmth of his breath blowing against her. Inside her head, an alarm sounds.
"Wait," she says breathlessly, getting up on her elbows. "I don't want to come like this."
He looks up at her, mouth half-open in a grin. "You're going to come like this, sweetheart, and in so many other ways tonight."
She laughs, drops back onto the pillows and happily lets him get back to work.
He strokes her clit with the rough of his tongue over and over and she's incoherent, nonsensical.
She comes so hard her hips jerk off the bed and he doesn't stop stroking her until she rides out every last wave. He doesn't take his mouth off of her until he's certain he's savored all remnants of her orgasm.
"You taste so sweet, Chris," he says, leaning back, panting.
Christine feels a sudden surge of confidence and gets up on her knees, pushes him down with her hands.
"Now how about you?" she asks, crawling down the bed to take him in her mouth.
"Oh god..."
That's all he can manage when Christine bends over him, runs her tongue across the rigid lines of his cock. She grips him with her hand, sucks hard on the engorged head. His eyes roll back.
"Shit, Chris...ugh..."
His voice is strangled and he makes no sense and it is the most rewarding praise she's ever heard. She shifts so that she can look him in the eye while taking all of him into her mouth.
That seems to do it for him.
"No more, Chris," he says, pulling her off. "You'll ruin me for tonight and that's not how this is going to go down."
She's about to fight back when he sits up, pulls her into him for another kiss. She breaks it off.
"So don't make me wait any longer, Len," she whispers. "Fuck me."
"Christ, woman," he groans, backing up to get support from the wall. "C'mere."
She follows, straddling him as he positions himself at her wet opening. He angles up, pushing into her slowly.
She savors every inch, lets her head fall back and answers each pump of his hips with her own. His lips find her exposed neck, sucking, biting, licking at her. His hands are large and warm against her back and keep her anchored in place at at time when she feels like a collapse could come at any second.
"That's it, Christine," he growls, "Take it, take all of me."
She can only moan in response.
He draws his knees up, feet flat against the bed and, impossibly, that gets him deeper. The groan he emits starts low in his chest and is smothered when she leans forward and he catches her nipple in his mouth.
"Oh god, Len...I can't...I'm not...I mean, I'm going to come," she cries. The rushing in her ears goes from a muted thrum to a pounding. He reaches between them to run his thumb against her clit, dragging against it over and over and watching her thrash on the end of his cock.
Then she does come and this one makes the first of the night seem inconsequential. She grasps his shoulders to steady herself as she rides him through it.
"That's it, sweetheart, god yes..." he yells, hands gripping her hips so hard she lets out a surprised yelp.
In those last moments, he slams himself into her, angling to get as deep into her as he can.
And then he empties himself inside of her.
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She opens her eyes and against all belief he is still there, hand draped possessively over her. He's sleeping, really he fell right into it after he came with her name on his lips.
She lets her hands skate across the lines of his face, his jaw.
This man, she thinks, is definitely worth the wait.
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