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by Jenna Hilary Sinclair

(This story first appeared in First Time 48, although it was left out of the Table of Contents.)

Do not lecture me about the evils of alcohol. I am fully aware of the damage the evil elixir does to your body, specif—specif—I mean, mainly to your liver, not to mention your brain.

I can feel my brain cells dying even as I breathe. Sheesh, my breath stinks. Need a mint.

I’ve got the ol’ alcohol lecture memorized, and I’ve given it more times than I can count. One, two, uh, three, uh, uh, four—geez, I’ll be soundin’ like one of them damn-fool Vulcans before I know it. What I mean is, I re al ize that what I’ve done is not a good idea. I don’t usually, you know, I’m not much of a drinking man, can’t be a good doctor and imbibe. I’ve told yeomen, ensigns, looeys, even a few let-me-salute-you sirs not to fall into this perilous trap.

Never told Jim, ‘course. There’s a man with discipline. Yep. He never done needed that alcohol lecture.

Not Spock, neither. Tight-assed Vulc—Ooops. Didn’t mean to think that.

Here, let me adjust my—umf!—there, that’s better.

So here I am, just as buzzed as any midshipman celebratin’ graduation. Lying flat out on the floor in this bitty room on the observation deck, gettin’ the chance to check out the lines on the underside of this table. The one Ships Stores always sets up with the big tablecloth over it when Penda gets a party into her pretty little head—actually, pretty big head, she’s wearing her hair all puffed out again, besides being smart as a whip, though the medical profession proved ‘long time ago that brain size don’t matter none when it comes to smarts—now, where was I?

I said don’t lecture me about those evils. I know this is not a dignified position for the Chief Medical Officer of the starship Enterprise. Why else do you think I’m still here? I don’t want to go staggering through the halls like this. Jim would have my hide. He runs a tight ship, that man, a tight sh—

Damn it, there I go again. Can’t stop thinking about it. Tight. I’m tight, there’s one for sure. Snockered. The ship is tight, ever since the esteemed James T. Kirk took over three years ago. And my pants sure as hell are tight, let me tell you that. But I’m not gonna think about it, no sirree bob, I’m gonna do something else.

My Bonnie lies over the ocean, my Bonnie lies over the sea….

Ya know, there’s a little knothole-looking thing here under the table, I know it’s simu-cellulose from Centauri, but sure looks like wood to me, and it’s just as round and tight and puckered….

I give up! I surrender. The subconscious rules. No sense suppressing, that’s evident even from the medical literature of the twentieth century. Send yourself to the looney bin if you suppress, that’s what you do.

So. Solution. Let it all out. I like that idea. Lettin’ it all out— Let me adjust this again. Umf!

Okay, so let me start at the beginning. I didn’t know it was the beginning before tonight, but now I do.

The day the Old Man took command. Silly, calling that fresh-faced cherub and Mama Kirk’s little boy The Old Man, but it’s a ‘fleet tradition, and the scrubs down in Bio lab seven are big on tradition. So they started it, I think they meant it as a joke at first, seeing how young Jim is and all, but in just a few weeks they meant it big time. Everybody did.

Yes, sir, no sir, ain’t it good to have somebody in charge who knows what he’s doing, that baby captain of ours sure does know his way around the bridge, have you

heard how he played poker with the head of the First Federation?
That’s what they were all saying.

You see, the Enterprise really needed somebody like Jimbo, ‘cause things had slipped a little ‘round here under Pike. Towards the end Pike got a classic case of depression and that bastard Boyce should have had him relieved of command faster than Spock can lift an eyebrow. But he didn’t, I guess because it woulda looked so bad on his otherwise sterling record. Sterling record, yeah. Hey, my tongue’s a little looser than it was. That’s good.

Anyway, Jim had a way with the crew. Told them to ship up or shape out—wait a minute, I mean shape out—hold on, I’ll get it—told them to shape up or ship out. And they loved it. Loved him. Everything got straighter, neater, faster, better ‘round the Enterprise. Happier, too. People like it when they know they’re excellent, and Jim brought excellence back to the ship.

And Spock just loved ‘im. In his own quiet Vulcan way, you could see it, even on that first day when Jim was touring the decks and Spock was following a half-step behind. Spock at a half-step and Jim with that half-smile of his more powerful than my new laser probe, and Jim turning ‘round every once in a while to aim that smile right at our Vulcan.

Huh. Wasn’t our Vulcan for long, one brandy-haired Iowa boy had that pointy-eared hobgoblin wrapped right around his little finger. So Spock became his Vulcan, right then and there.

Hey, I saw it, I’m not making this up. Well, maybe some. But I really did watch the two of them leave sickbay on that first day, and I really did think they would be able to work together okay. You see, they had their heads bent together, conspirin’, and I heard our baby captain outlining some of his ideas about the crew and discipline to ol’ Granite Face, and Spock was just a-noddin’ and a-noddin’. Spock didn’t seem so stiff, walking there next to James T. Kirk.

Jim has his rules, including no drunks lurching through the halls, and Spock approves, which is nec…neces…tarnation! Which sure is required, the first officer has got to back up the captain, he’s the personnel guy. The big enforcer. ‘Cept that there’s hardly any enforcing needed anymore on the Enterprise. Bunch of professionals, that’s what we got. Anyway, first officer and captain are hand in glove on that. You might say they were tight with each other already that first day.

Except that sometimes even professionals need to let off steam. Things get boring, or things get really tense, or things get uncertain, and Jim understands that. That’s when we head for some nice planet and everybody gets a chance to beam down for a while. Sometimes it’s just to run around on the grass, when it’s an uninhabited planet we’ve found, and sometimes it’s over Wrigley’s and I spend all my time updating the sexually transmitted disease inoculations. And concoctin’ my special recipe for crabs. Jeez, this crew sure can pick up the cooties.

But sometimes there just isn’t a planet to be found, like right now. It’s been one hell of a six months, with one mission after another as if the Enterprise is the only ship in the quadrant, then they send us off to—get this—star map (I thought Jim was gonna tear his hair out after the fist week), then they yank us off that just as we’re getting used to the peace and quiet to put us on—you guessed it—Neutral Zone border patrol.

Now, there is nothing good to be said about the Neutral Zone. Nobody has fond thoughts about the last time we met the Romulans, and even though nobody’s seen a winged ship for months, you never know when those fellows might come boiling over the line. So how does the ship react? I call it the “tip toe” syndrome. Everybody’s walking around quiet-like, and talking with their voices lowered. Jim didn’t say a word, but I noticed that both our brass quartets canceled their practices, and there wasn’t an argument in the mess that I could hear, and the morning exercise class changed to some real smooth low-impact routines.

A recipe for disaster, of course. I didn’t even realize how bad things were until Jim just ‘bout snapped my head off.

I haven’t mentioned that yet, have I? Don’t think so. So there I was, walking on eggshells just like everybody else—hey, not bad for an inebriated sawbones. Eggshells. Maybe I’m a doctor and a storyteller.

Anyway, there I was in the mess, eating dinner late at twenty hundred hours because of an accident down in hydroponics where Grunewald almost drowned in our hybrid soybeans, and Jim was eating there, too. All I said was that Spock should try to put some meat on his bones when Jim gets this real peculiar look on his face, plops his fork down on the table, leans in so I can feel his breath gusting against my chin, and says, “Would you stop it with the unacceptable comments about Spock! I have had it, McCoy!”

Coulda knocked me over with a feather. Unacceptable? I know Spock is a vegetarian and isn’t too fond of the smell of meat, but he wasn’t even there! And everybody’s got bones, it’s not like I was saying something obscene or something….

Oh, wait a minute. Of course. I get it now. Bones. Boner. And meat. Sheesh. That captain of ours sure has one heck of an active association mechanism going on in that brain of his.

But I didn’t know then what I know now, so naturally I was confused. Wonder how far they’d gotten by that time, or if they’d even said anything to each other at all? Maybe Jim was so touchy because he was working up to a quiet declaration over one of their chess games. Or maybe it had all already been said, and they were trying a few things out, and he was dreaming of one big Vulcan….

God, I must be even drunker than I thought. I can’t believe I’m thinking this! Maybe somebody slipped a mickey in that bourbon, ‘cause this is unreal. If anybody had ever told me that Jim Kirk and Spock of Vulcan, two professional spacers and hetero to boot, would be trying to get into each other’s pants, I would have hauled ‘em down for a psycho exam.

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. This is not a drug induced dream, I saw what I saw. And there was a lot more there than Jim Kirk wanting some out-of-the-ordinary sex or Spock satisfying that Vulcan biological urge of his.

There is nothing psycho about love.

Say, it again, Leonard McCoy—love.

All right then.


It happens. It’s been happening right under my nose all this time on the Enterprise, and I’ve just been too uptight and conventional to realize it.


Uh, where was I? Sorry, sometimes I get maudlin when I drink. I remember Carolyn and Joanna and Natira and get all misty-eyed. Not that I feel sorry for myself, no sirree, I’m happy right here on the Enterprise.

Though my current position under the table flat on my back ain’t too desirable. But I’ll fix that soon enough. And just think, if I hadn’t been here, snoozing off a drunk, I never woulda seen…never would have witnessed….

Geez. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way they kissed each other. Jim taking Spock’s face between his hands and looking at him, that smile of his just as soft as can be, and Spock looking back, all desperate light and fervor, sliding his arms under Jim’s and then around his back, to bring their bodies right up against each other, and then their lips touching, not in passion, but in such a soft and gentle way.



Told you I get maudlin. Got a speck here.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to where I was. Oh, yeah, Jim handing me my head on a platter. It happened again the next day. There I was, trying to stay smooth and calm and divert my mind from how we might get blown up into tiny bits if the Romulans showed up. I didn’t really think too much about the captain’s little outburst the night before, figured it was just the same thing buggin’ the rest of the crew, the tippy-toe stuff. So I was working in that small lab I have next to my office. Sickbay was practically empty, nobody hurt, nobody sick ‘cept Delamore getting a treatment for hemorrhoids and Chapel enjoying the hell out it—there I was, piddling with a couple of test tubes and the bio-assay computer, when in walks Jim.

Anybody could see he brought trouble in with him. Jim isn’t a confiding sort of guy, he keeps his problems to himself, but the thing is, you always know when he’s got troubles by the way he looks. He walks faster, and his shoulders are stiff. I’ve found, during my many years as an illustrious practitioner of the medical arts, that you can figure folks out most of the time by looking at one particular revealing part of the body. Or two. With Jim, it’s his chest and his shoulders. With Spock, it’s his arms and his fingers. With Penda, it’s the way she breathes, and ain’t that a pleasure to observe.

Jim stands there, stiffly, and we talk about a few things like how dangerous hydroponics can be if you’re a klutz like Grunewald, and how the last batch of reconstituted soy product did taste a bit off, and I’m just waitin’ to see if my friend and captain’s gonna say why he’s really here. By then it looked like he was more comfortable, and he eases up onto the high stool I keep in the lab. He jerks his head over his shoulder in that way he has, towards the sickbay ward, and asks, “What’s wrong with Delamore?”

He is the guy’s commanding officer, isn’t he? I told him, with a big grin, I guess a smirk, that it was hemorrhoids, and there’d be no being humped for Delamore for quite a while. After all, the fellow’s well-known for his bi-sexual activities. There aren’t many men, nor women either, who haven’t been propositioned by the most sexually active crewmember on board the Enterprise. Including yours truly. I guess I charmed him with my pretty face.

Wow! Jim took off like a rocket from that stool, and reamed me up one side and down the other for unprofessional conduct. Said I needed to respect my patients’ privacy. Said my attitude was unbecoming an officer, not to mention a healer of hurts. Said that no crewmember would come to me for advice and counseling if I weren’t more open-minded than a shut-up oyster.

It hurt. It really hurt. Worse, I think, because he was right. That’s always when a person’s justifications want to be expressed the most, when they need to hang their head in shame. The shame part is always lurking behind the anger, but usually the anger is way out in front, so far that it takes a day or two or three for the real perspective to kick in.

Well, I’m no exception from the rest of the human race, and I said a few choice things back to Jim, which I regret now, and instead of pulling rank on me, which he had every right to do, he gave me a hard look and said “McCoy, I don’t think I want to talk to you right now.” Then he left, and his shoulders were even stiffer than they’d been before. I stared at his back, thinking of what a great doctor and friend I really am, and not knowing what caused the outburst.

‘Course, the last few hours a-settin’ under this table have given me a new outlook.

I went back to my test tubes, feeling righteous, and started to think that maybe Jim was a reflection of the rest of the crew, and that this Neutral Zone patrolling was creating some serious psychological problems. You see what I was doing, don’t you? Proving to myself what a wonderful CMO I am, selfless and all that, while also putting all the blame for that conversation on Jim’s shoulders. So to speak.

Ain’t the human animal a complex wonder? Sometimes I understand myself so well it’s disgustin’.

So later that night I sidled on up to Penda in Rec Room 7, had an unofficial conversation, she went and cleared it with the Old Man, and the next day on the crew message boards we announced the party. A nice little social gathering in the Observation Deck, held over two shifts so everybody could attend, and in such a way that Jim couldn’t holler that it would interfere with Neutral Zone duty. Did it four days in advance, so that the anticipation of the event could be part of the cure. Hey, I’m pretty well trained in psychology, have I mentioned that?

Just by coincidence, Starfleet Command in their infinite wisdom sent in the Kongo to relieve us the day before the party, so there really was a reason to celebrate. I’d take credit for that too, if I could. But the little party turned into a big one, and a lot noisier than we’d planned. But that’s okay, the crew needed it.

Now Jim, he didn’t spend much time trying to make up with me during those four days. And for me, the shame part was just raising its little head so I could barely see it. I wasn’t too interested in playing cozy with Jim. I stayed on my side of the rec room, and he stayed on his, and never the twain did meet. When I did see him across the room, I watched his shoulders, but whatever it was that had been bothering him seemed to have disappeared, ‘cause he was moving real free and easy. It never occurred to me to take a look at Spock, standing next to him like he usually was, or sitting across from him when they put on a public exhibition of chess. If I had, bet you anything I would have seen his fingers nice and relaxed, uncurled, and his arms hanging easy too. Huh. If I’d only known then what I know now.

I did have a chance to look at Spock this morning, the day of the party, when he came to sickbay for our weekly consultation. Medical is technically under the science officer’s jurisdiction, though he lets me alone most of the time. But our Vulcan, I mean Jim’s Vulcan, he’s a stickler for details and routines, so he comes by every Tuesday, oh-nine-hundred, and I let him know how the tampon inventory is goin’. That usually turns him around and gets him out the door in a hurry.

But this time he stayed a spell. Said that he was aware that there was some tension between me and Jim, and was there anything he could do to “alleviate it.”

Second time in a week a moderate breeze would’ve knocked me to the deck. First Jim and his meat and now Spock offering to play go-between. I tried to act coy and asked, “What do you mean, something wrong?”

Spock, he’s always been one for cutting through the crap. “Do not dissemble, doctor,” he says, in that raspy voice of his that would cut through steel, the one he uses when there’s a whole bunch of emotion behind the words. “The captain’s state of mind is important to the functioning of this ship. I am aware that he is disturbed by his lack of communication with you. What do you propose to do to change the situation?”

“Did Jim tell you this, or are you just buttin’ in where you don’t have any business being?” I asked, feeling ornerier than hell. I didn’t take too kindly to an order from Commander Vulcan-Spock to make up, kissy, kissy. Got my back up.

That got him. He half-turned away and looked at the wall. “I have not specifically discussed the situation with the captain. Nevertheless, it is obvi—”

“Then don’t be making emotional intuitive leaps, Spock, you’re not cut out for it. Jim and I’ll handle this on our own, thank you very much.”

He turned to go, then turned back real quick like, as if he’d made up his mind about something that he’d change his mind on, if he gave himself another few seconds. “McCoy. Jim requires—he is…happier when his relationship with you is …pleasant. His state of mind has not been as settled as it might have been. Could you not consider this?”

Wish I coulda seen a picture of myself when Spock said that. I betcha my jaw was hanging open. How emotional could a Vulcan get? “Jim,” not “Captain.” And that very un-Vulcan word, “happier,” not to mention what amounted to an appeal to me. Me! I began to think that the party was only the first line of treatment for a seriously disturbed crew. Spock must be overworking in the extreme for such unguarded words to be coming out of his mouth. And if the hard-nosed Vulcan were affected, the rest of the crew must be loonier than a nutcake. Wait a minute—nuttier than a looncake. Oh, forget it, you know what I mean.

So Spock leaves, but I kept trying to add two and two. I kept coming up with four, since I’m not nearly as deficient with numbers as I like to pretend I am, but I was suspicious of that number, and kept pulling it out and looking at it. Looked like five to me. The one thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t going to be apologizing to Jim on command, like some trained monkey jumping through a hoop. But still, I kept wondering why Spock had come and talked to me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I musta had my suspicions, but still the truth didn’t occur to me. Who woulda guessed? Not me.

The party was a big success, which I knew it would be. Lots of reasons to celebrate, foremost being that we were still alive and kicking, which is always the primary goal for the crew of a starship. The officers, the career scientists, they’ve got other aims, but the red shirts and the lab techs and the cooks, all they want to do is get out of their tour of duty alive.

I was unofficial host, so I was there from the beginning right through to the wee hours of the night when there wasn’t anybody left but me and the half-drunk drinks. And the half-drink drunks, which on this occasion was me too, since I’d imbibed just a teensy more than I’d intended.

Okay, a lot more, let’s not quibble over it.

Even Penda left, with a wave over her shoulder and a promise to send the cleaning crew on through in the morning.

So that left me and the remaining booze. I stood there, drink in hand, all alone in the sudden silence, and looked around at the debris left behind. Most of the party had taken place in the main OD, with tables set up in some of the smaller privacy rooms, doors propped open. We had a couple of vids going in two of the rooms, but they’d run out long ago. It sure was quiet there on the deck. It was the sort of quiet that just seeps right through to your soul. You know what I mean. Depressin’ in the extreme. ‘Course, that was the alcohol talking too.

I debated whether to go to bed like everybody else. The thought of my bunk made me shudder, though. Too lonely after all the talking and the drinking. Too lonely after days of not being free and easy with Jim. The captain’s not the only one whose state of mind hadn’t been as settled as it might have been, as Spock so piss-ant-Vulcan precisely put it. He doesn’t think of me and the functioning of the chief medical officer, does he? Nope, that Vulcan only cares about “the captain this” and “the captain that.” He’s plumb fixated on Jim. Humph!

I wandered—maybe staggered would be a better word—into my favorite privacy room, the one way down on the end, where some of the best bourbon had been laid out on a table. Then real slow-like, I dragged myself on over to the transparent aluminum window that was showing some nebula or other that we were passing, feeling maudlin even in my skin and my hair. I growled at the computer, “Lights down to maintenance.” Sometimes, if the light’s turned down low and you angle yourself just right, you can see yourself in the window like it’s a mirror.

I saw one middle-aged figure in blue barely illuminated in starlight, his shoulders drooping and with big bags under his eyes, and for the first time in my life I wondered what part of my body revealed what I was thinking and feeling, like Jim’s shoulders and Spock’s arms. Funny, that I’d never thought of that before.

So I eased myself down onto a couch, tilted my head so I could still see the reflection, and folded my arms tight over my chest. I kept looking and looking at that slightly spinning image of McCoy, Leonard H. that was traveling through the vacuum of space with the stars. Was it the tension in my jaw that told anybody who cared to look the state of my mind? My spindly ol’ legs? Maybe the way I flourish a hypo? Maybe, nobody knew. Maybe, nobody looked. After a while, I guess I fell asleep.

It was the sound of the door swishing open that woke me up. Into my darkness strode somebody I didn’t particularly want to see, Captain James T. Kirk. I was drunk as a skunk and I knew it. It’s embarrassing. I’d about made up my mind that an apology was in order, but not when I was in that condition, in the middle of the night. If I’d been inclined to make any kind of sound, I would have groaned.

But I was inclined to be quiet. I was off in the corner of the room, and I’d slipped down real low on that dark couch while I’d been sleeping. Besides, there was that table with the tablecloth on it between me and Jim. If I kept still, maybe he wouldn’t notice me at all. I’m familiar with Jim’s habit of wanderin’ at night. There was a good chance he’d be in and out of there in thirty seconds flat.

But tonight he seemed inclined to linger. The seconds ticked by, then the minutes, and I tried real hard not to breathe too loud. Once he stirred and looked over his shoulder towards the door, but mostly he just stood as close to the stars as he could get, his nose almost touching the window, with his hands tucked behind him. I wondered what he was thinkin’.

It couldn’t go on forever, could it? I felt like I was in one of those Rigellian stand-offs in the pop-vids, you know, where nothing happens until somebody’s tail twitches, then all hell breaks loose. If I thought it would be embarrassing to be caught dead drunk by my commanding officer and a friend I wasn’t talking to, it would be worse to reveal that I’d been just sitting there staring at him for the past five minutes. But my fogged mind wasn’t totally dead, no sirree, I was concocting a scheme even as I breathed. I was gonna stretch and yawn real loud, like I’d been asleep and was just waking up, then say hi and saunter out of there as casually as I could. Assuming that I could get up from the couch and walk without falling flat on my face. More surprising things have happened.

Such as what happened next.

The door swished open again. My reflexes weren’t functioning in peak condition, so my head didn’t quite whip around to see who it was. Instead, I got the chance to see Jim’s expression instead.

Damn, whichever one of those ladybirds who are always mooning after Jamie-boy said his smile was “to die for” ain’t seen nothin’. The smile he gave whoever was walking across the room—well, I can’t describe it. Made me kinda tingle, and smile back into the star-struck night, though it wasn’t aimed at me.

It was aimed at Spock.

Spock! Who paused a second to lock the door, then walked straight into Jim Kirk’s outstretched arms. That was when Jim put his hands on his Vulcan’s face, and when Spock wrapped his arms around his captain, and when they kissed.

That was also when I dived under the table.

Yep, ol’ David McCoy’s son is no fool. Knew I’d stepped into something where I had no business being. Besides being shocked out of my regulation Medical Department undershorts. I mean, Jim Kirk and Spock!

I couldn’t help myself, I looked again, just to see whether this was real, or maybe just a boozy-hallucination. There was this little frayed part of the tablecloth that had worn into a tiny hole in just the right spot, so I peeked through there.

Real, definitely real.

They were still kissing, but that sweet greeting I’d seen had changed. This was really kissing. Not the kind of kiss you give your sister or your mother, or even the kind of kiss that you occasionally feel like giving your best friend, be they male or female. Not the kind of grateful kiss I’ve sometimes wanted to give Jim when he shows up alive when I was sure he was dead.

Nope, this wasn’t any of those kinds of kisses, this was the real thing, a passion-laden, dripping with sex, heart-pounding kiss, the kind that starts but doesn’t really end, it just goes on to bigger and better things, you know what I mean? I could hear them breathing heavy even here under the table, you know how great the acoustics are in those private rooms. And Spock was making another sound, a hungry sort of “uh,” as if he were desperately wanting more as he twisted his lips against Jim’s. Every time he did that, Jim moved his arms against Spock’s back and shoulders, pulling him even closer, if that were possible. And then a minute or two later, Jim’s hands slid lower down, to that flat Vulcan butt, which he squeezed with every sound Spock made. It was like Spock was asking a question and Jim was answering it. Enthusiastically.

I didn’t know what to do! No matter what kind of jokes I’ve made about Spock’s fixation on Jim, or Jim’s unusual friendship with that walking computer, I never really thought that they were leading to…uh, leading up to, uh,…sex, you know? I don’t connect sex with Spock at all, at least not normal, healthy, human-type sex, and though I sure do connect sex with Mr. Tomcat Kirk, it wasn’t this kind of sex. To borrow one of Mr. Vulcan’s favorite words, this was fascinating. And shocking. And did I mention arousing?

It was when I saw Jim slip his hand down the back of Spock’s pants that I realized I had an erection. Damn fine one, too. Not that I wanted it, though. Hey, I might be a doctor with all the psychological baggage that comes with it, but I have never witnessed a live sex act I wasn’t involved in myself unless I paid for the viewing. This was sneaky and voyeuristic, and my hard-on accused me of spying on my friends. But whatever was going on between me and Jim would definitely not be made any better by me jumping up right then, saying “Sorry for the interruption, don’t mind me, I’ll be leaving now,” and staggering out of the room with my prick leading the way.

What did you expect me to do? I didn’t have any choice. I stayed where I was. And though I told Mr. One Eye to disappear, naturally he didn’t. Kept me company through the whole thing, God love ‘im.

I laid down flat on the floor under the table and closed my eyes, as any decent human being would do. But I couldn’t close up my ears.

I read somewhere once that when a professional whore wants a client to get on with it, all she has to do is start moaning and groaning, making sexy kinds of noises, and sure enough, he’d finish right up. The point being that sex noises are—well, they’re sexy.

Never thought I’d live to hear them coming from those two, though. Those little huffs of breath you take when you pull back from a kiss before you go right back—well, I could tell the difference between Jim’s and Spock’s. Jim’s were soft and breathy, with a catch on the end like a sigh, and Spock’s were deep and abrupt, like he was pulling in all the air he could, fast, because he didn’t want to waste a second with his lips not on Jim’s skin. And I could tell when they were close-mouthed kissing and when they were sucking each other’s tongues. Do you know how much noise that makes? Wet and slurping and very un-captainly, not to mention un-Vulcanly, and as stimulating as a shot of Cordrazine, let me tell you. My cock was pounding. It wasn’t something I wanted to imagine, whose tongue was in whose mouth, but how could I help it? So I got up on my elbow and looked, and though their arms were wrapped around each other and their mouths were wide open, I couldn’t tell which was where. Shows you how drunk I am. Was. Whatever. Unless you were participating, how could you tell just by looking?

You know what happened next. Yep, I decided maybe I wasn’t such a decent human being after all, and my eye stayed glued on what I shouldn’t be seeing.

It wasn’t hard to tell that this wasn’t the first time they’d—uh, they’d been together. Tarnation, what am I being so shy about? I’m a doctor, aren’t I, not some shy virgin who’s never had a cock up her pussy. Wait a minute, I really haven’t had a cock up my pussy, I don’t have one, but you know what I mean. I mean it’s not that I don’t know what sex is like, I’ve had my share thank you very much.

But this…this really was different. And I’ve never had sex with another man before, though I suppose if I’d ever thought about it, I might have gone with…. Nah, not Jim. He’s so damn hyped on himself, he must be murder in bed. He’s probably hard to calm down, he must be all over his partners. I like it easier. Not that Spock seemed to be having any trouble keeping up with the most dynamic human I’ve ever met. I’d say Spock was as all over Jim as Jim was all over Spock. Their hands and their mouths never stopped moving.

And I definitely would never think of having sex with Spock. He is not my type. Brrrr! Except that Jim seemed to have warmed him up right nicely.

So like I said, this wasn’t their first kiss, but I don’t think they’d done much more than that. My guess is that they’d been meeting in the OD and doing some heavy exploring without hitting the mother lode. Why do I say that? Well, how would you interpret this conversation?

Jim had both hands down the back of Spock’s pants, and Spock had his hands up under the front of Jim’s shirt, and they’re both devouring each other’s mouths like they’re starved, when they each sort of take a huge breath and ease away from each other. Just their upper torsos, though, you couldn’t have gotten a scalpel between them from the waist down. Amazin’ what you can see through a bitty tablecloth hole.

Jim whispered, “You’re driving me crazy.”

Spock nuzzled the side of Jim’s face. “You are exceptionally stimulating. You make it difficult to control—”

“Why should we control? Don’t you think it’s time we moved out of here? I want you in my bed.”

That brought Spock away from his exploration of those silly Starfleet spiked sideburns, so he was face to face with Jim. More like nose to nose, actually. “I thought we had agreed to ‘go slow,’ as you put it. To pursue our relationship in a reasoned, mature fashion, before committing to irrevocable intimacy.”

“Do you feel reasoned and mature?”

Then damned if Jim didn’t take a step back, pull one hand out to brace against Spock’s back, and then slide the other inside and around to the front of the black pants. Good thing that Vulcan wears his sorta loose, ‘cause Spock never would have been able to do the same with those skin-tight things Jim calls a regulation uniform. Anyway, I saw clear as you can through black cloth, Jim Kirk wrapping his fingers around a Big Bulge, and Spock drawing in an equally big breath. My own cock pulsed, and damned if I didn’t have to fight coming right there in my pants, ‘cause I know exactly how that feels, those fingers wrapping around your heat, when you’re just dying to sink into something nice and tight.

So Spock jerks and yelps, “Jim!”

“I’m through with fooling around. I’m not a kid and neither are you, and it’s about time we did something. I don’t want to go to bed alone with blue balls.”

Jim’s hand shifted then, you could see he was getting a better grip on things. Between those fancy twin ridges of Spock’s, maybe? I’ve never thought of it before, but that equipment must be there for a reason. Maybe he gets double the pleasure. Spock and pleasure—what a unique concept! But there it was, right in front of me, pleasure written all over that logical face of his. God, you could tell he loved what was going on, that he just loved Jim touching him like that.

Anyway, Jim musta squeezed a really good one then, ‘cause Spock gulped real loud and grabbed both Jim’s shoulders, up under his shirt. My mouth suddenly went drier than the desert; I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. I was already going crazy with what I was seeing, a little petting, what was I supposed to do if Spock said the hell with it and jumped on Jim and they went down on the deck and…well, you know.

“I thought you had intended to speak to McCoy before we proceeded further. To obtain his advice, and procure the necessary aids.”

“Mainly to let him know what was going on with us. He deserves to know, on a personal and a professional level. But he just got me so mad….”

“And you are still not communicating with him.”

Dangest conversation I’ve ever eavesdropped on, with Jim holding on to Spock’s cock—hey, that has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? Spock’s cock—and Spock standing there panting and holding on to Jim for dear life. And yet both of them still sounding exactly like what they were, the captain of the Enterprise who likes to take charge of things, and the logical Vulcan who can analyze even through his own arousal. Sheesh.

So Jim says, “It doesn’t matter if I talked with Bones or not. I know what I want. You.” He popped a kiss on that dry Vulcan chin, the one I prescribe moisturizer cream for. “I really want to make love with you.”

“Yes,” Spock breathed. “My own desire is— But what of McCoy? He may not wish to speak to you. He—”

“He’s okay. He’ll probably try to apologize to me next shift anyway.”

“And how can you predict this?”

“Didn’t you see him tonight? Popping up and down on his toes like he does? He only does that when he’s happy, or he’s made up his mind about something. Now, if we’re gonna talk with him tomorrow, let’s have something to tell him.”

And darned if Jim Kirk didn’t drop to his knees and pull Spock’s fly open. You know what came out next. Not that you’ve seen it or anything, but I have. Never before seen it big and green and shiny and hard, though. And I sure have never seen Jim Kirk lean forward and caress it with his hands, cradling it between them like it was some tumescent offering to the gods of space, then looking up at Spock with the granddaddy of all smiles.

“I’ve dreamed about what this looks like, you know. It’s beautiful.”

“Jim….” I think Spock had just plumb run out of breath, it sounded like he was being strangled. I can’t blame him, I was breathing pretty heavy myself, and it wasn’t my cock that Jim Kirk was worshipping, running his thumbs over and over the big swollen head.

Jim Kirk will always be Jim Kirk, when have you ever seen him back down from a challenge, or not finish what he started? I should have expected it, I should have known, but blast me if I wasn’t still shocked out of my fully-retracted foreskin when he started licking Spock’s cock.

I think my eyes rolled up into my head. Talk about overload! I collapsed flat on my back again, and I couldn’t help it, I pressed hard against my erection. But at least I had enough decency not to jerk off right here under the table. Hey, I’ve got control, too, better than Spock’s this night.

Instead I just lay there, my heart pounding like a pulsating star, and I listened. You think the sound of them suck-kissing was arousing, you ain’t heard nothing ‘til you get an earful of fel —fellat—the kind of blow job Jim was giving his best friend.

Lots of slurping noises, lots of moans from Spock, some mumbled endearments from Jim—don’t know how he managed, with his mouth full of cock—things like “you taste so good,” and stuff like that.

After a minute or two, there was a sort of thump, and then things got really quiet. Now, I didn’t think that Spock had—er—had—er—I mean, I didn’t think there’d been a conclusion to anything. With all the grunts and groans he was making, I didn’t believe he was going to be a very quiet lover, ever, and especially not, you know, when it ends. What was going on?

So I peeked out of my white cave, and for a second I couldn’t see them at all. Don’t know why, but that panicked me, and a big jolt of fear shot right through my body. Didn’t depress my quivering cock any, though.

Took me a second to spot them again, I had to shift to get a better angle through the tablecloth. Just like I’d feared, Spock had had enough, and he had Jim backed up against the Observation Deck window, his arms forced over his head against the glass, his legs spread-eagled, with Spock pressed full length against him, their gazes riveted together. Motionless. Jim stared fearlessly at his first officer at point blank range, with that little smile that plays about his lips when he’s locked in combat with an enemy, and he knows he’s just made the winning move. Spock looked deadly serious, his eyes would have bored a hole in my head.

Damn, it was about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I grabbed my cock and listened, trying not to breathe so I could hear every word.

“We will retire to your quarters now,” Spock says, in a voice so gravelly and deep, it musta come close to vibrating the bulkheads.


“Where we will initiate reciprocal episodes of intercourse.”


“And a meld.”

“Every time.”

“However, when we speak to McCoy tomorrow, we will not tell him the details of what has transpired here.”

That got a chuckle out of Jim, and I breathed a hopefully-silent sigh of relief. I don’t think our intrepid captain had been afraid for a second—he only uses the adrenaline of fear when he wants to—but I sure had been. Didn’t know if I was gonna witness a rape or what, who understands Vulcan sexuality? But I shouldn’t have bothered, it was obvious Jim knew how to handle Spock.

Handle Spock, hey, get it? He handled him all right. He disentangled himself from the hold Spock had on him, reached down to that exposed green penis and delicately put it back where it belonged, and closed up the fly. Then he wrapped his arms around that Vulcan and they kissed again, real gentle, like the way they had when they first came into the room. And then Jim took Spock’s face between his hands and looked at him for quite a long while.

“I love you,” Jim says, just as loud and clear as if he were giving directions on the bridge.

“T’hy’la, you are my life.”

That’s what Spock said. Dang beautiful, ain’t it? Don’t know what that Vulcan word that Spock used means, but betcha it’s a love word. If Vulcans have any love words, that is. Maybe it means “your circuitry is admirable.”

And the last thing I heard them say, as they walked out the door just as innocent as could be, was Jim saying, “I got some cream for us. In case things are a little tight….”

Well, that was some small time ago. I’ve thought about getting out from under this here table and levering up onto the couch again, but somehow it just seems like too much trouble. Kinda comfortable down here. Good for thinking. This rendition of facts has been good for my soul.

So that day when Jim came to my sickbay lab it was to tell me about him and Spock. To get some advice, maybe, on male to male sex? Shucks, didn’t seem like he needed none, he took to it right natural, from all I could see. But geez, my comment about Delamore couldn’t have been timed worse. No wonder Jim hopped on me like a tick on a hound dog. Me and my big mouth. I really do owe him an apology for that. ‘Cept, I’ll never be able to tell him why my apology is quite so sincere. No sirree bob, no way he’ll ever get the truth of this night from me. My lips are sealed.

Right touchin’, ain’t it, that he noticed that trick I have of bouncin’ on my toes. Don’t know that I do that so often. Do I?

So, that’s the story, I’ve let it all hang out, so to speak. It’s almost oh six hundred, and I’d better be getting on down to sickbay and a soberall pill. Don’t want to be caught here by the cleaning crew. They’ll be here, right on time like Penda said, ‘cause Jim Kirk runs a tight ship. Like I told you.

Yep, the Enterprise has got to be the tightest ship in the Federation. I’m still just a wee bit tight, as Scotty might say. My pants are still tight, Mr. One Eye isn’t forgetting a thing that he, I mean, I saw. The crew is tight, as efficient as ever. Jim and Spock as friends are tight, everybody in Starfleet knows about their friendship.

And I’m still here under the table, not being able to get out of my mind how Jim and Spock have been discovering how really tight they are, these past few hours. The sphincter is one hell of a strong muscle. It looks just like this little whorl in the simu-cellulose under the table. Have I mentioned that before?
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