"I'm not sure this is working out..."

"No shit it's not working out. I should have confined him to sickbay days ago. Actually, how do you let him get away with half the shit he does, under normal circumstances? All he does is bullshit his way out of following orders..." The rant subsided quickly, fading into a quiet grumble, for which Jim was thankful.

He made to assist McCoy in lifting Spock to lay down on his own bed. Another awkward transport request had to be sent down to Scotty. At this rate, there'd be rumors of a threesome by 19:00 that evening. Bending down, he no sooner had a hand under a shoulder when McCoy swept the unconscious First Officer into his arms as if he were a fair maiden. He smirked at McCoy's seemingly effortless and unlimited strength, watching the brow crinkle a little deeper when the extra weight had been situated in his arms. Who was he to doubt Bones' manliness?

He had just arrived at the perfect Old South reference, possibly his best to date, when he was interrupted: "You know, I really do hate grits?"

Jim merely smiled at the slumped shoulders that obscured Spock for the moment. He pretended not to notice the large hand that palmed the back of Spock's neck once he was laid out on his bed. He wandered toward Spock's living area while the sound of McCoy's medical scanner worked its magic.

Spock's quarters had changed significantly over the months since Jim had taken the role of captain aboard the Enterprise. The main living space was quite military and very tidy, however if you looked hard enough you would see specks of personality, fragments of a life being rebuilt. The meditation area was almost shrine-like with large, plush cushions and thick folded fabrics, all in various hues of red and brown. It was warm and inviting, and there was a lingering smell of wax and spicy incense clinging to every soft surface. He manoeuvred himself into the space and plopped himself down on the squishy floor. Sighing, he let his eyes roam over the neat arrangement of trinkets, artifacts, and memories.

He reached out and snagged a refurbished, old-world science fiction journal from a small book case to his left. Holding the item in his lap, he ran his fingers along and around the cover and spine, smiling at the creativity of the era. He sought out the date of publication and felt a little overwhelmed to read the date '1950'.

Paper reminded him of a lot of things. He remembered being a child and his mother giving him an old colouring book and coloured wax crayons to amuse himself with. She was early enough in the century to remember the time before PADDS and tricorders became standard issue. Paper also reminded him of Bones, as the man was somewhat of a traditionalist in their time. Bones often joked about finding the anomaly that would transport him back a few centuries on Earth, even saying he would 'settle for the 21st'.

Hearing the occupant of his thoughts padding toward him, he moved over to make room.

It was with a heavy sigh that McCoy sank down next to him, immediately laying himself out flat on the warm, plush of the floor. He situated himself with the top of his head brushing Jim's right knee and scrubbed his eyes.

"I have so much work to do, I can't even think." Jim heard a slight wavering in the raspy voice, a wavering that signalled a Bones Breakdown.

Keeping a hand on the worn journal, he turned himself so he was facing along McCoy's form. Reaching forward he tangled both hands in the messy, brown hair. The hair was thick and soft around his fingers as he rubbed his friend's scalp, seeking to alleviate some tension.

A few moments of silence ticked by as McCoy let his eyelids flutter closed at the gentle but firm sensation of Jim's fingertips. Realizing this was the closest thing he had to physical intimacy in such a long time, he was loathe to interrupt Jim's ministrations. He would count the fleeting, strange encounter with Spock as intimacy, however he still struggled to even comprehend what exactly had occurred between them. He felt a tightness in his throat, a tightness he had been failing to swallow down and away since they left Jim's quarters. Bringing a hand up, he pressed his fingers into his eyelids once more, trying to quell the tears that stung and threatened to fall.

Never missing a beat, Jim kept kneading away the tension in his head, subtly thumbing away any stray tears that may have escaped.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed; it could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour. All he knew was the brief loss of consciousness was deep enough for him to forget where he was for a quick minute. He didn't recall doing anything other than laying with Jim, having his hair played with. That had felt nice. However, he was currently being crushed against the wall with Spock's back curved and pressed against his chest.

He gripped the back of Spock's upper arms and tried in vain to push him forward and off of him. Coughing out a breath, he attempted to speak, "-at, wh-at..."

Abandoning the struggle, as it only seemed to push Spock against him harder, he craned his head to see Jim crouched against the opposite wall with his hands held out on either side of him.

"Spock, it's not what you think, seriously." The expression he wore was worried, the brow drawn and his lips parted in panting. Were they fighting? He pressed himself back against the wall as hard as he could and tried again to force Spock off of him with his hands pressing into the pointy shoulder blades. Straining, he could feel the other man effortlessly keeping himself in place, moving with his hands every time he tried to pull a fast one and sneak right or left. The eventual compression against his front was immediate and violent, knocking his skull back against a tapestry-laden part of the wall.

He could hear Jim trying to negotiate for his lungs with Spock, but the close confines and Spock's spiked body heat was getting to him. Struggling for small gulps of air, he felt his eyes close slightly. He was inches from the bright skin of Spock's neck, peeking out between the black hair and the regulation shirt. He left his face rest against the nape of nude skin, closing his eyes. Feeling the lightening quick beat of Spock's heart and the slow, lazy rate of his own was oddly calming; even if he was being crushed to death.

"Spock, look at him. You're hurting him."

There was a deep growling that vibrated through the side of his face that was pressed against the other man. "No, I'm not. Why would you touch him like that?"

"Spock, it's not like that, you know we're only friends. It was just comfort, that's all-"

"You can't touch him like that, he gets hurt."

McCoy chalked up Spock's childish speech patterns to the lingering trauma, and he was both slightly embarrassed and overly warmed by the Vulcan's sentiments toward him. Or maybe it was just the lack of air and influx of heat.

Bringing up his hands, he gripped either side of Spock's chest in a tender manner and, although oxygen deprived, tried his best to whisper, "Spock, I can't breathe."

His voice seemed to snap Spock out of his feral haze, and he immediately tried to stand and stumbled forward onto his hands and knees. Unable, or unwilling, to lift his head, he covered his face and curled himself into a foetal position among the rustled blankets.

Still catching his breath, he rubbed at his chest while he watched Jim try to comfort the distraught man on the floor. He wasn't sure if Spock registered the hand that tentatively carded through his hair, dishevelling it further. Jim was a good head massager.

McCoy was sweltering, and the uniform he wore was slick with sweat. All he could think of was peeling-

"Please, cease that line of thought, Doctor." The clinical tone was spoken through a long hand that covered his face. Though slightly muffled, he was overjoyed to hear the clipped words. And slightly irritated.

"Yeah? Well, I'm sweatin' like a whore in church cause of you. Christ."

"Oh, that's a good one!" Jim's smile was nervous and wide, the kind of smile he used when trying to make light and make right. His hand didn't stop its stroking and Spock didn't stop his hiding. He watched his superior officer, watched every movement. The shoulders shivered slightly, suggesting he was cold. Perhaps it was just shock, there was no way he could be anything but content with the thick waves of heat that radiated off of him. He let his head fall back and he studied and studied, faintly recalling Jim saying he was going to retrieve tea and water.

Alone now, he felt the throb of guilt in his chest over the words he had hurled at Spock before sedating him. Slurring, he beckoned Spock over to him, "C'mere..."

He watched a finger twitch, the only indicator that Spock had wanted to comply but decided otherwise. Stretching out one of his legs, he nuzzled a black-clad foot with his own. "Hey."

There was a slight exhale before he finally pushed himself up to come and sit facing McCoy. Crinkling his brow, he watched Spock as he did nothing but cradle his head between pale hands. The heat was back, like a fog enveloping him; every breath was unrefreshing and thick. He counted every bead of sweat that rolled down the back of his neck and the crevice of his chest, reminding him once again of hot Jackson summers.

He leaned forward and grasped the hot, dry wrists and pulled the other man back with him. He was surprised Spock didn't protest, but his train of thought ended when the face was pressed into his neck and the hands gripped his shoulders. He breathed deep and exhaled a quiet moan of content. Uncaring, he slid his hands underneath the hem of Spock's shirt and rested his palms on either side of the man's spine. Turning his face, he mumbled against the black hair.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I just wanted..." He struggled with an explanation as he felt the distinct sensation of a pair of lips parting against his skin. Every breath Spock took swept the small area of skin with cool air, leaving him fighting a slight shiver.

"Something has gone wrong inside me."

Slightly dazed, it took a moment for McCoy to recall the proper words to speak. He pulled a hand away from the skin of Spock's back and brought it up higher to rest behind the fluttering heart beat. "There's nothin' wrong with you; you're just off your game. It's to be expected."

"Sexual assault is not-"

"You're not entirely Vulcan. What your Vulcan conscious would dismiss, your Human one will cling to. It's Human nature, it's what we do." Flexing his fingertips back and forth over Spock's back, he craned his head as best he could to stare down at the partly hidden face buried into his neck. Lowering his voice, he spoke gently, "You got hurt. Real bad." Fighting yet another damned lump, he let his head fall back against the wall and glared across the room. His vision was hazy with heat and he arched his body slightly, trying to appease the discomfort of clinging fabric against his back. He was content that Spock did not stir. In fact, the fingers seemed to dig deeper into his shoulder, like a cat afraid of being overturned.

"As I embraced the Vulcan way of life, I must ask you to assist me in a method of...treatment." McCoy could hear the hesitance in the voice and he could almost pick out the overtones of guilt that radiated from the word treatment. He somehow had an idea of where this was going, and he wasn't sure if it was the heat or his heart, but he found himself mentally fumbling to answer quickly enough, should the request suddenly be revoked.

"Whatever it is, I'll do it.

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