It must have been hours, McCoy couldn't tell. All he knew was that his head hurt and his mouth felt dry when he finally woke up, classic signs of dehydration. Bright, tiny green lights flashed from his wrist cuff, slicing into the darkness with an almost comforting rhythm. These lights, and the feel of heavy metal pressing into his arm reminded him of Spock, but he thought of the one he left behind, rather than the one that would come back for him soon.
It made him feel stupid and foolish, but his thoughts wandered in a depressing way. His fingers traced the edges of the cuff idly as he tried to hang onto the last memories he had of the Spock he knew, those moments before he got on that transporter.
McCoy had harbored feelings for his superior officer almost as soon as he checked on board for the first time. True, those feelings at first centered around playful heckling, sometimes to the point of bullying, but there was always something else there.
He didn't come to the Enterprise expecting any kind of love life, in fact he was hoping to cleanse himself of the need of that. It wouldn't do to get his heart broken again while on an assignment he could excel at. From the beginning, he had allowed himself to look at anyone he liked, he even allowed the occasional, harmless fantasy, but never expected anything more than that.
With a soft, dry laugh, he remembered how at one time the ship was convinced he and Christine had been dating. That would have been a rather convenient hook up, wouldn't it? He even considered it, but only for a while. She just wouldn't be...enough, he knew.
It was hard even now to put these vague feelings into actual thoughts, because in all this time he'd never really thought about it. He'd always relished time spent with Spock, even when the Vulcan made him genuinely furious, but as soon as he was alone, he didn't think about it, not really. He knew there was something there, but he never really considered doing anything about it.
He wiped at his eyes now. Above his own safety or the desire to see anyone else, he missed Spock, his Spock, and there was nothing he could do about it.
With a light mental scold, McCoy started to get up. He didn't make it all the way standing before he was yanked back, an arm pressed into his throat. A body pressed into his back, and he could feel the softness of hair across his cheek as a face leaned closer. McCoy froze and had an idea who it was, but didn't say anything. He did manage to gasp, however, when he felt the sharp edge of a blade slowly replace the arm on his throat. The person gripped his arm at the same time.
"Christine?" he whispered. Her height was what tipped him off; he could feel edges of her face higher on his own than if it had been some other woman, and it was easy to tell it was a woman holding him, from the feel of her body against his. It did throw him off, however, that this woman was wearing such a pungent cologne that the Christine Chapel he knew would never dream of touching.
"Leonard," she said in mock greeting, and then laughed softly. "Really, Doctor, this isn't even a challenge anymore! You know that door doesn't lock." She started walking him away from the desk, pulling his arm further back. She pressed the knife harder into his throat. It didn't cut the skin, but it was pressing painfully nonetheless.
Trying to control his breathing, McCoy fought for ideas. "Let me go, Christine," he ventured, forcing his voice steady. She kept walking him back, so he did not have the stability to try anything yet. When he raised his free hand to touch her, she only pressed the blade harder against his throat, and would only let up when he put his hand down.
"Christine," she purred, her lips brushing his ear. Her breath was warm, and when she inhaled, that spot on his ear went tantalizingly cold. "It's been a while since you've called me that."
McCoy's breath came out in a quick, sharp pant as he paid attention to her steps, seeing if he could walk in time with her. He licked his lips and forced calm into his voice. "It's a nice name."
She slowed to a stop and traced the blade edge over his jaw, then settled it back on the side of his neck. In one quick motion, she could open his throat. Her deep, soft chuckling filled his ear and gave him hope. "This is just like you," she cooed.
McCoy slid his free hand up from his thigh to the level of his belt. If he could grab her hand before she could detect his movements, he could disarm her. He'd have to distract her attention from his body. "Like what?"
"Just like you to turn up the charm when you've got a knife to your throat," she chuckled darkly. As her chest trembled with her laughter against his back, he used that distraction to slide his hand further, almost to her hand.
But she pushed the knife harder against his throat, forcing his head back. McCoy was amazed that he hadn't been cut yet, although if the angle were slightly off, she would have nicked his jugular by now. It was clear that she knew what she was doing, even if her movements seemed random. McCoy wondered, had she done this before?
His voice betrayed fear, as hard as he tried to hide it, when he answered, "You know how this kind of thing excites me." His heart slammed even harder. He expected her to either be charmed by his comment, or enraged.
But she only laughed, heartier this time, and slid her hand from his arm to his hip. McCoy flung his own arm back to his side so she wouldn't feel it creeping up to her knife. Before he realized what she was doing, she had her hand on his crotch. He hadn't even noticed that he was hard until she closed her long fingers over it.
"I can tell."
As she alternatively squeezed and loosened, McCoy had to fight to keep focused. The jolts she sent up his body with every squeeze were far more intense than even the fear she had him under. She was laughing at his attempts to keep quiet.
"If you ask me nicely, I'll let you come before I kill you," she purred, giving him an extra hard squeeze.
McCoy found the strength to throw his hand to hers and take hold. With a pained grunt he yanked her hand, and thus the knife, away and turned around to face her, her hand still in his. She yelled out, and what little light was offered in that room sparkled off her earrings. He could not see her face.
He twisted her wrist, having to use both hands. She scratched at his shirt and neck and anything she could reach while trying to keep hold of that knife. Soon he had her crashed over the desk. Random things smashed to the floor, and McCoy tripped over something bulky just as he got a grip on the knife handle. His ankle jerked in a sudden, snapping motion that took him down. Chapel reached for him as he tried to crawl away in the darkness.
She drove the heel of her hand against his mouth as they both fought over the knife. Right now it was in McCoy's hand, but she was winning. A few more minutes of this and they both froze when the lights snapped on. The nurse was sitting on top of McCoy, who was on his back with his knees drawn up against her back. Panting heavily, sweat on her brow, Chapel turned to see Spock at the door, phaser pointed at her.
"It is not set at maximum," he said in a low, but calm growl.
Chapel screwed her face into a sour grimace and slid herself off McCoy's body, but not without slapping him hard across the face first.
"Hand me the weapon," he ordered Chapel, who glared at first, then picked it up from right next to McCoy's face. She very slowly raised herself back up, giving McCoy a sneer, and then walked slowly to Spock.
McCoy sat up and leaned against the desk as Spock holstered his phaser, took the knife, and grabbed a fistful of the woman's hair, yanking her close. McCoy couldn't see her face, but her body language itself was uncaring, lazy. Defiant.
His shoulders shook involuntarily at the intense expression on his face as he jerked her head and hissed at her. He could tell that he was holding so much back, even though he was revealing more emotion than his Spock would dare indulge in outside a Pon Farr. He had just saved him from Christine, but McCoy didn't feel saved.
"You do not touch him," Spock told her.
"I don't need to touch him to kill him," she said flatly, but with a twinge of amusement in her voice.
Spock let go of her hair to slap her. From her waist up she was driven to the side, but she raised herself back up as if nothing happened. "You forget that any advancement orders must pass my approval first as the Executive Officer of this--" he started to lecture.
"Then I'll kill you too!" she yelled. "Or I'll go to Kirk--"
Spock went to the wall communicator, pulling her along by the wrist, and snapped on a button. "Security to Sickbay. Repeat, security to Sickbay." Now his face was expressionless as he pulled her hand to himself and turned her arm to expose the soft, hairless skin beneath. He drew a large, deep gash down her forearm with the knife. Christine whimpered and her knees buckled as she leaned forward. Spock kept hold of her wrist as she tried to pull it free, cold against her soft, barely withheld whines. As blood poured down the sides of her arm and onto the floor and down to pool in her palm, McCoy struggled to control his urge to help her.
Soon the security team was there, all of them Vulcans, McCoy noticed. At least he assumed so; the way they jeered at Christine and behaved as freely with their expressions and body language as any human baffled him.
"Escort her to her quarters," he told them, and McCoy detected a trace of disgust in his voice. When they were gone, he turned on McCoy, who struggled to his feet. Only when he tried to step on it did he realize how hurt his ankle was; he had to grab the sides of the desk for support. He couldn't help but cower as Spock approached him; he looked even angrier than when he was confronting Christine. His teeth baring slightly, Spock grabbed McCoy by the throat and practically lifted him effortlessly to pin him to the wall, while the human clawed at his hands. The pain in his ankle was forgotten as Spock squeezed. He got some of Christine's blood on McCoy's neck.
"What you did earlier was unacceptable," he snarled.
McCoy stared back, wondering if he would apologize if he had the air to do so. He gulped greedily when Spock let go just enough to let him breathe and decided to keep quiet, more out of fear than dignity.
"By invading my mind as you did," he said through gritted teeth. "You have betrayed my trust. I do not wish to remain shielded around you at all times, as if you are merely an enemy."
"But you..." he wheezed. "Can force...yourself on me?" He forced out the words.
Spock squeezed harder, pushing McCoy even harder against the wall, and leaned in close. "That is different and you know it. Do not insult your own dignity by forcing me to explain it to you."
"Let...go..." he croaked. He was tempted to try to launch another mental assault, but couldn't bring himself to do it, not with Spock's hand on his throat. Anyway, he could hardly focus on drawing in enough breath, let alone focus his thoughts into a weapon. "Please..."
Spock gave him some air, but placed his other hand on McCoy's head. The doctor squirmed, terrified of what might happen, but Spock's mere touch soon paralyzed him. "I want to trust you, Leonard," Spock said quietly. "But stunts like that make it difficult."
"I'm...sorry..." he grunted, but wasn't sure if he meant it. He had the vague feeling that the words had been forced out of him. The details of the room began to fade. Soon the only sounds he became aware of were that of his own labored breathing. Every pain in his body flared up at once, all magnified, and yet he could no longer feel the wall at his back. He was able to smell Spock's musky scent, and felt he could smell the blood itself, although that could have just been memories of the times he'd smelled Spock's blood in his own past.
He felt he was going into a trance. He felt his chest rise and fall, and yet could no longer control his own breathing. The sudden, obtrusive thought that it was Spock controlling his breathing sent him into a panic he could not control. His body was completely paralyzed, even his lips were tightly shut, while his mind screamed.
"Sorry's not enough, and you know that," Spock said, soothing now. "But we will make sure you never disrespect me like that again. I will help you know your place."
McCoy was overwhelmed with despair, and even in the midst of it, he could tell it was only partly his own. The dark, deep depression that weighed him down hurt as immediately as any physical injury, or more.
"You will learn better than to challenge a Vulcan," he said, but McCoy felt as if he heard those words inside his mind rather than out. "From now on, everything will come from me, your greatest pain--"
Suddenly the distress lifted, and while he could not describe it as happiness, he was filled with a strange sort of calm. Every trace of pain was gone from his body, and his mind was empty, save for a few vague thoughts that skittered away when he tried to focus on them. He didn't even have the mental capacity to think until Spock released his influence. Physical and emotional feeling of all kinds came crashing back into his focus when Spock's mind let go.
As he wheezed and gasped, he realized he could move again, and his first movement was to grab Spock's shirt. He couldn't lift his head to face him. Soon he was leaning against Spock's shoulder, his mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut. He clawed at Spock and was once again paralyzed as what felt like an orgasm tore through him.
"--and your greatest pleasure." Spock pushed McCoy's head back against the wall and gazed at him, the corner of his lips twitching upwards. "You must learn to embrace it," he whispered, and brought his face closer to a panting and drained McCoy. Now their lips were just barely touching. "Submit."
McCoy leaned closer to Spock's lips, but Spock yanked himself away with a smirk. "Good night, Doctor," he said in an overly friendly manner, and let McCoy go. McCoy watched dumbly, powerless, as Spock left the office and entered in a command at the door's control panel on the other side. When it closed, he was sure that it would remain locked this time.