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“It isn't better, is it?” Jim asked, concerned, through the bathroom door. Spock had been in there for ten minutes.
“It . . . may yet improve on its own,” came Spock's voice tightly.
“You promised,” said Jim. “You have to go to Bones.”
A silence. “I . . . I cannot.”
“That was fine when you weren't hurt,” said Jim. “But desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“It is hardly desperate.”
“Let's put it this way. We're not having sex again till it's better.”
Another long pause. “Kaiidth,” said Spock faintly.
They had just wrapped up their first pon farr together the night before. Jim had been nervous and Spock had been downright terrified, especially as his control started to collapse. But once it got going, they'd both seen there was nothing to worry about. Spock was himself, if unrestrained and horny as hell. They'd had massive amounts of sex for about 36 hours.
And Spock . . . Jim had thought, with how easily he climaxed and how many of them he had, it couldn't get much better than that. But it had. Early on Jim had tried to count, but after the first hour and 25 orgasms—all of which were shared through their bond—it all got kind of fuzzy.
It hadn’t been rough, exactly, most of the time. Spock had just been more demanding than ever. Manhandling him like a rag doll, which was hot as hell. Or, when he bottomed, begging and pleading for more, harder, faster. It had been all Jim could do to keep up with him, even with bottles of electrolytes to chug and a number of hypos Bones had prescribed. But he was well rewarded by the noises Spock made. Completely unrestrained, unlike any time they had ever been together. Jim was going to be playing a soundtrack of moans, growls, and needy whimpers in the back of his head for the next year.
Jim wasn't sure which one of them was responsible for Spock's injury. He suspected Spock, because it was toward the end, when he was too exhausted to participate much. Spock had ridden him hard—his cock as long as he could get it up, his thigh when he couldn't.
But after Spock had finally gotten off him to snatch a little rest, Jim had seen green blood spotting himself and the sheets and, to put it mildly, freaked. Spock had groggily sat up to see and, for a confused moment, had thought it was Jim's. Which showed he was, perhaps, not one hundred percent his usual brilliant self.
Jim had wanted to call Bones immediately. Spock was still in the throes of pon farr terriorialism and had categorically refused to let anyone near them. In the end they compromised on no more penetration and seeing Bones if it wasn't better soon. Fortunately Spock's exhaustion turned out to be the sign that pon farr was about over. He slept for 13 hours.
Jim had spent the night and half the morning waiting to see if it got better, and it hadn't. Spock wasn't bleeding hard, but he was still bleeding, and it was coming from somewhere inside him.
Normal for a human woman. Absolutely should not be happening to a man whose vagina dead-ended about eight inches in.
And the worst thing that could possibly happen to a man who was terrified of doctors, medical procedures, and anybody but Jim seeing him naked. If the Vulcan doctors of his childhood had treated him like a person instead of a lab rat, there would have been no question. They would have gone straight to sickbay without a second thought. But Spock's deal with Bones was that he would show up for genuinely necessary medical care on the condition that he never had to take his underwear off, and so far he'd never had to. He even did his cancer swabs himself.
The bathroom door remained stubbornly shut. Jim sighed. “Here's what I'll do. I'll go to Bones and talk to him. He'll almost certainly say you should come in, but at least that way I can do the explaining.”
“. . . Very well.”
“Oh, thank god,” Bones said, when Jim came into his office, shutting the door carefully behind him. “I can finally stop worrying he’s beating you to a pulp in there. You’re even ambulatory.”
“I told you he wouldn’t hurt me, because of the bond.”
“That’s all very well in theory. But when last time he slammed you into a firepit and choked you half to death, can you blame me for worrying? He’s so much stronger than you, it wouldn’t have to be on purpose.” He squinted at Jim’s clothes. Jim was wearing a black hoodie, the hood pulled up. “Which, I assume, is why you’re here.”
“I’m not hurt,” Jim said. But he pulled off the hoodie and the shirt underneath.
Bones whistled. “Been a long time since you’ve asked me to regen even a hickey. Now you’re all one big hickey.”
That was not strictly true. Some of them were bites. There were a set of teeth marks on his shoulder, one over his left nipple, and one on his upper thigh, which he didn’t mean to show. Also a few finger marks on his hips. “Just get the ones that are going to show in my uniform, okay?”
It didn’t take long for Bones to erase all the evidence above the neck. “You sure this is all?” he asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to see your ass.”
Jim sighed. The times Spock had fucked him with the strap had all been very gentle. Which made him feel so much worse. “I—” he began. And then, “Spock—”
“All right, siddown, take off your pants.”
“Why do you just jump to conclusions that that’s what it is?”
“Um, because he's three times your strength and was out of his mind with lust for 36 hours? Whereas I doubt you could hurt him if you tried.”
Jim stood there awkwardly, rubbing his chin, staring at the floor.
“Oh lord, you did,” said Bones. “What did you do?”
“You know what we were doing,” said Jim with asperity. “It's in both of our medical records what we were doing. We got three days’ medical leave to do it in.”
“Okay, calm down, cranky. Is that a pon farr thing? Post pon farr bitchiness?”
Jim hung his head again, rubbing his forehead. “I'm just worried, that's all. He barely let me come tell you. How the hell is he going to let you look at him?”
Bones sobered up, considering. “Would he consider sedation?”
“Absolutely not,” said Jim firmly. “Being unconscious while things are done to him is one of his main fears.”
Bones grimaced. “What else? Can you give me a list of things to avoid?”
Jim closed his eyes, trying to sift through the scattered memories he had from Spock's mind over the years. Most of them were good; those were the ones Spock had wanted to share. But sometimes, especially early on, Jim had gotten a flash of bright lights, cold metal. “No stirrups,” he said after a minute. “He's terrified of speculums but I don't know if that could be helped.”
“Metal ones?” Jim nodded. Bones looked thoughtful. “We've got plastic here. I can put them in a warmer before we start.”
Jim felt a lot better. This was Bones. Bones would bitch, but he could be trusted to go the extra mile for his patients. “No bright lights,” he added. “Can he be covered up? So he's not naked to the whole room?”
Bones looked disturbed. “Jim, that's standard, always. Bunch of heartless Vulcan quacks.”
“You can’t make him feel babied,” Jim said. “Or mention his feelings. Or use any words that make him feel less manly. Or—”
Bones silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re looking at the only doctor in twenty years who’s been able to get Spock to come to regular checkups. Trust me, I know how to do this.”
Jim looked out the window of Bones’ office, out into sickbay proper. It was as cozy as a sickbay could be, given the carts of gadgets and the beeping biobeds. He'd been here loads of times, either to wait for Spock to wake up after some horrible injury gotten saving him, or the other way around. But still. It wasn't a place Spock had ever been comfortable. “Do you do house calls?”
“No,” said Bones, “I absolutely do not.” He turned, dug around in a cabinet, and came out with a battered black bag. “I do emergency calls, but anybody who's not currently bleeding out gets to come here to my turf.” He opened a drawer, packed his medical tricorder and a dermal regenerator. “Go on, tell him I'll be there in twenty.”
“Bones, you're a saint,” said Jim, squeezing his shoulder.
“Don't I know it. One of the martyrs, probably. I hear suffering makes you a shoo-in.”
Spock was sitting up in bed, looking mournful, when Jim returned. “From the look on your face, he did not tell you it was nothing to worry about and there is no need to come in.”
“No,” Jim admitted. “But he agreed to come here to check you out.”
Spock looked around him. “Our bed does not have stirrups.”
“That's one of the reasons, yeah.”
Spock raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. “I see.”
“I know you're—” Jim stopped himself from saying scared. Spock refused to allow anyone to cater to his emotions. To his stubbornness, sure, to his bitchiness, always, but never to his fear. Hence all the stubbornness and bitchiness that he covered up his feelings with. “I know this isn't easy for you,” he said instead.
“It is illogical to mind,” said Spock. Oh goodie, here came the shame as always. “Dr. McCoy is a capable physician who has never mistreated me.”
“Focusing on what we wish the universe to be distracts from what is,” quoted Jim. It was a Vulcan proverb.
Spock sighed. “We should change the sheets. They are a disgrace.”
“I will change the sheets,” corrected Jim. “You relax.”
They were absolutely a disgrace. Not made less embarrassing by the knowledge that, except the bloodstains, all the mess had come from Jim. Spock's body was very tidy.
But they had the bed made up fresh by the time Bones got there. “Everyone decent?” Bones asked as he came in, his hand over his eyes.
“We had warning that you were coming,” said Spock acerbically. “And I believed you were a professional.”
“Charming as always.” Bones uncovered his face. “The way Jim was panicking, I expected to find you passed out on the floor.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “I cannot say I am surprised.”
Jim rolled his eyes. He knew what they were doing. Making Spock comfortable by making him the butt of the joke. He'd just have to put up with it.
Bones set his bag down at the foot of the bed and stole Jim's desk chair. “So what are we talking, anyway? Your blushing bride here wouldn't do more than imply it was below the belt.”
Spock sat on the edge of the bed, spine rigid. “Extremely mild vaginal bleeding,” he said.
“Bright green, dark green, brown?”
“Bright green.”
“Any pain?”
“Not at the time.”
“Course not, you'd have been high on endorphins. But now?”
“Very slight. I cannot pinpoint the location.” He said it like it was a grievous failing on this point.
“I wouldn't expect you to be able to,” said Bones. “The nerves in there aren't for that. I'm just going to have to examine you.” He opened a small warming box and showed Spock the speculum. “Can’t help using one of these little deals, but it’s warm at least.”
The tension emanating from Spock ramped up, hitting Jim's mind over the bond. “How shall we proceed?”
Bones walked over to the bed. “Easiest thing, I think, is if you get by the edge of the bed like this.” He demonstrated, lying on the bed with his knees up, legs apart, and heels by the edge. Spotting Jim smirking at him, he stabbed a finger at him. “Don't you dare, Jim.”
“I didn't say anything!” Jim protested. “Should I leave the room?”
“No,” said Bones, at the same time as Spock said, “Unnecessary.” But the tone of it through the bond sounded more like don't leave me.
Jim raised his hands. “Okay, okay, I'll stay.”
Bones climbed off the bed and stacked both the bed’s pillows near the foot. “You can put your butt here, and cover yourself up with this.” He picked up the navy blanket folded at the foot, the one Spock spread over himself when he got cold at night.
Spock looked confused. “But you will need to see.”
“That's no reason to air your giblets to the whole room,” said Bones. He dug in his bag and produced an antique-looking headlamp.
“You look like you're going spelunking,” said Jim.
“You say that like I'm not.”
Nervously, Spock pulled the blanket over himself and arranged himself near the edge of the bed. There was a rustle as he undressed under the blanket.
“You won't be comfortable sitting up like that,” said Bones, as he ran his hands through the steri-light and put on a pair of gray telepathy-blocking medical gloves. “Don't you want to lie back?”
“No,” said Spock sharply.
“Here.” Jim climbed onto the bed and sat behind him, pulling Spock's head and shoulders against his chest. “Better?”
“Acceptable.”
Bones kept up a good-natured grumbling as he gathered his tools. “Don't tell anyone I did this. If word gets out, everybody's gonna want a house call and I'll be run off my feet.”
“And why do I rate the special treatment?” asked Spock peevishly.
“Cats and dogs go to the vet, but when it's a big stubborn horse that bites, the vet goes to them,” said Bones.
“Very wise. Perhaps you missed your true calling.”
“Ha ha,” said Bones sarcastically. “Always a laugh a minute with you.” He raised the bottom edge of the blanket and stuck his head and shoulders under. “Your legs are kinda . . . closing in, Spock, can you angle your knees outward a bit?”
Spock tensed. Panic spilled over the bond. “Hang on a sec, Bones,” Jim said. An image was blasting into his mind, clearer than he’d ever had without a meld.
He was lying on a bed in a bright room, feet in cold metal stirrups, knees squeezed together protectively. The legs in front of him were hairless and skinny—Spock couldn’t have been above fourteen.
“He always does this,” said a cold male voice out of sight.
A woman beside the bed grabbed his knees and yanked them painfully open. “Control yourself,” she said. “You are too old to be this uncooperative.”
It all dumped into his mind in a second or two, but it hung there, as if the whole moment was a single image paused on a screen. Spock was rigid in his arms.
Jim took a deep breath, gently breathing on the back of Spock’s neck, holding him tightly around the chest. This is how we were the first time I fingered you, he suggested. Me behind you, holding onto you.
He could feel Spock struggling to replace the flashback with that better memory, and failing. This was not like that time. The doctor was here.
I’m just saying. That time was okay because you were in control. You’re in control now. Bones won’t move forward until you say. He brushed his hand over Spock’s psi points, focusing hard on hot tea, warm blankets, the smell of old books.
Deliberately, Spock took control of his breathing. In, hold. Out, hold. In. His knees tipped outward. “You may proceed, Doctor.”
Bones, bless him, didn’t say a word but, “Okay to put the speculum in?”
“I am ready.” A tangible tension let Jim know Bones had done it.
There was the click of a pen light and silence. Jim rubbed his cheek against the back of Spock’s neck. Is it so bad, love?
Yes. Spock’s mental voice was surly.
And yet, you’re doing it. We’ll be done soon.
You do not know that.
“I see it,” said Bones abruptly. “Little tear about six inches in, right anterior. Not serious, but I’ll want to regenerate it. Might be slow to heal otherwise, in the absence of estrogen.”
“Proceed,” said Spock tightly.
More tension in his body, and the mosquito drone of the regenerator. “Jim,” said Bones conversationally, “remember what I told you when this whole thing started out?”
“You said,” Jim said accusingly, “I wasn’t big enough to hurt him.”
“I also said to use lube, Jim. A lot of lube. This isn’t a human woman you’re dealing with, this is a Vulcan man, and he doesn’t make much himself.”
“We went through like a quart of it,” Jim protested. He could feel Spock relaxing slightly, with the spotlight off him a little, with Jim taking the blame. Jim felt terrible though. It was true that, at the tail end of it all, he’d been too exhausted to take as much care as usual. He honestly could not remember the details, only the sight of Spock’s face as he came, the squeeze of his powerful thighs around Jim’s hips.
“Should’ve been two quarts,” said Bones. The regenerator clicked off. “We’re talking a 36-hour sex marathon, that’s pretty rough on the body. Both bodies, really, but this time Spock took the brunt of it.” He backed out from under the blanket and pulled it back down to cover Spock completely. “That’s it, you’re done. Leave that area alone for, oh, a week I would say, to be sure. There’s a lot of inflammation there besides the tear. This’ll happen again next time, if both of you are too out of your heads to keep up on it.”
Jim sighed. “No, I think I can. Just . . . got carried away.”
Spock was sitting up now, legs crossed in front of him. “Thank you, Doctor. I realize this was . . . an additional effort.”
“Don’t you get mushy on me,” said Bones. “It’s all in a day’s work.” He peeled off his gloves and put everything into a biohazard case inside his bag. “If it happens again, it still hurts at all by tomorrow, you’re worried, Jim’s worried—call me. Not gonna say I’m not busy, but if either of you hides things from me so as not to ‘be a bother,’ so help me, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Don’t worry, Bones,” said Jim. “You’ve got me to mother hen for you fulltime.”
“As if I needed more of that,” said Spock dryly.
Jim breathed easier, hearing the return of the sass. “C’mon. If we weren’t annoying Bones, he’d be bored.”
“Mm, boredom,” said Bones. “Bored on a beach on Risa, with a mint julep in my hand. Sounds terrible.”
“I’ll make sure you get it sometime soon,” said Jim.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Bones picked up his bag and left.
Jim moved around to sit next to Spock on the edge of the bed, leaning into him. “I’m so sorry. I promised I’d take care of you. And here I ruined our first pon farr with my carelessness.”
“Arguably it was equally my responsibility to remember.”
“Nope. You get the pon farr excuse. Your job was to focus on that, mine was to focus on you.”
Spock pressed his forehead into Jim’s. “And you did. Admirably. It is not your fault my body is—”
“No,” Jim interrupted, putting a finger over Spock’s mouth. “Absolutely not. You are not apologizing for your beautiful cunt, not now, when I spent the last two days coming in it over and over and over because it’s glorious and so are you.”
Spock huffed slightly through his nose, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “A shame I must deny it to you for the next week. But there are other things . . . ?”
Jim flopped backward onto the bed. “Spock, I never thought I would say this. But I think, for the present, I have had enough sex. I’m empty.”
Spock lay down beside him, curling toward him to nuzzle his neck. “It was . . . very good. I thought.”
“You blew my mind,” said Jim contentedly. “So you don’t think it was ruined, because of that little hiccup?”
“I barely remember it,” said Spock. “It is overshadowed by the memory of your face in ecstasy.”
Jim thought of Spock’s face, above him and under him and beside him, overtaken by pleasure, the sounds he had made. His exhausted dick didn’t so much as twitch, but his face flushed and he closed his eyes. “No regrets, then?”
“None.” Spock burrowed into him more tightly. The blanket slid off him as one bare leg draped over Jim. “I find I am looking forward to the next occurrence.”