Title: Gratitude
By: opheliafiction
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Fandom: Star Trek: TOS
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Context: Right after the events of The Galileo Seven.***
Dr. McCoy wasn't sure what, exactly, had possessed him to get out of bed, get dressed and head down the Enterprise's long and empty corridors, but there he was.
The ship seemed almost foreign at night; its hallways were either empty or occupied by one or two members of the overnight crew. McCoy felt mildly awkward as he walked by them, half-thinking he should really know their names. Another part of him wondered what, if anything, they thought about the chief medical officer roaming the halls in the middle of the night. If they even noticed him. Wait — was he being too noticeable?
Dammit. He was overthinking this.
He'd walked past the door three times, not wanting to knock because someone was in the vicinity. He didn't really know any of those people and while he was certain the details of the day's events — the crew of the Galileo Seven shuttlecraft just narrowly made it back onto the Enterprise as the craft burned up on reentry, all because Spock had thrown logic to the wind (though the green-blooded hobgoblin denied it) — had spread like wildfire amongst the entire crew, he wasn't sure what these people he didn't know would make of him knocking on another crew member's door at this time of night.
The logical thing to do would be to pretend he'd just gotten up for a quick walk, possibly because he couldn't sleep, and return to his own quarters. He put the thought out of his mind almost as quickly as it came in. Logic was Spock's department. Leonard H. McCoy, MD, prided himself on doing the occasionally illogical thing. More specifically, he prided himself on not being Spock.
And so, filled with confidence brought on by the realization that this was not at all a logical thing to do, he knocked on the door.
He'd decided, even before he reached this particular hallway, to give him 10 seconds; if he didn't get a response, he'd go back to bed and pretend nothing had happened. After four seconds had passed, he began to wonder what he'd just done. At the five-second mark, he started desperately hoping that nothing was going to happen. At six seconds, he became acutely aware of the fact that blood was rushing to his head.
At seven, Spock opened the door.
"Yes, doctor?"
McCoy had not counted on this. And he had not come up with an opening line. His pulse was quickening; Spock's raised eyebrow did not help matters.
"Is something the matter?"
Oh good, a question. He could answer a question, especially when the question wasn't one he didn't have an answer to. Like "What are you doing here?"
"Not... really," he said. He looked out towards the hallway, in both directions. All was clear. He lowered his voice. "May I come in?"
If the first officer was surprised, he didn't show it. He moved away from the doorway, giving the doctor room to enter, and shut the door behind him.
"Yes?"
All right, he thought. You're here, you might as well say it.
"Spock, I..." he began, staring down at the floor. He'd half-expected to find him in some ridiculous Vulcan dressing gown or in his uniform, which he was beginning to think he lived in. His use of the regulation Starfleet pajamas had come as a surprise. "First of all, I'm sorry if I woke you."
"That's quite all right, doctor."
McCoy nodded. This was throwing him off.
"I, well," he began again, "In all the excitement and confusion, I felt like I didn't really convey my gratitude for the way you... kept things from going to blazes out there."
The eyebrow was arched again. "I'm not sure I understand, doctor."
"God, Spock," he hissed. He regretted raising his voice immediately and calmed down. "I came here to thank you. For saving my life."
"You're welcome, doctor."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Is that it?"
"Is what it?"
"A man comes to you in the middle of the night to thank you for saving his life, and all you've got to say is 'You're welcome?'"
"Is there some other preferable response?"
McCoy stared at him incredulously for a few seconds. Maybe he should have stayed in bed and just shown his gratitude by keeping some of his wisecracks to himself the next day.
"Forget it, Spock." He turned to go.
"Doctor?"
He turned to face him again. He scanned the room for something else to focus on. He couldn't take the pajamas seriously.
"You came to my quarters in the middle of the night to express your gratitude for the action I took earlier, which enabled the crew of the Enterprise to beam us back onto the ship in time to avoid certain death. I have conveyed that I accept your gratitude. You appear to be dissatisfied with my response, which I believe to be the logical one given the circumstances. Unless I am misreading what you intended to tell me, I am at a loss as to how my response—"
Maybe Spock had hit the nail on the head with all that talk about how he hadn't quite said what he'd intended to. Maybe the doctor just wanted to shut him up. He'd probably try to tell himself the latter in the morning, but all that mattered at that moment was that McCoy had moved right in and pressed his mouth against Spock's, and that Spock hadn't stopped him.
The Vulcan could have resisted; he could have stopped himself from weaving his hands around the doctor's waist. He could have kept himself from closing his eyes and kissing him back, from pulling the doctor's body closer to him, from letting some force of gravity push them both towards the wall.
He could have resisted the urge to do all of those things, but one illogical act was enough for one day.***
Next story in series - Spock Tease.