Drunken Len

Setting: McCoy and Spock are sharing a room on leave, while the ship
gets a maintenance overhaul. Pre-slash.
McCoy leaned against the wall, and tried again to punch the code into
the room lock. Redlight, <blink> <blink>.
The door opened. Spock stood looking at him.
"Damn thing wouldn't open!"
Spock's face registered restrained disapproval (not that ol' Len
noticed...or cared. Much.)
"You are inebriated."
" 'Course I am. What's it to you? I'm on leave."
Len walked past Spock (well, he did seem to be having trouble keeping
steady--he aimed carefully with each foot, but managed to run into
Spock anyway. There! He was past. Dang, his bed was a long way away,
with nothing to hang onto....)
Spock took his elbow, and maneuvered him across the room.  Len's knees
ran into the edge of the mattress, and he turned as he fell over,
meaning to end up sitting but finding to his surprise that he was
looking up at the ceiling. Too much energy to sit up now.... He felt
his left leg being lifted. Spock was taking off his boot for him.
"Spock-boy, you are a prince."
Spock didn't answer, merely lifted the other foot to remove the second
"Prince Spock-Charmin'." Len grinned, picturing Spock in a fairy-tale
prince get-up, face stony. "Freezin' dragons to death with his
eyebrow, an' leavin' the girls to cry.... The big green Vulcan
Frog-Prince, just needin' a kiss...." He was rambling, knew it, didn't
care. It was too hard to keep his eyes open, he was talking to the
insides of his eyelids.
Suddenly strong hands and arms were roughly hoisting him, dropping him
unceremoniously in the middle of the bed, head on the pillow. He
opened his eyes, and found himself looking into a sternly-annoyed (but
in a very controlled way!) face. The next thing just came out,
straight from his id, no editing.
"Fuck me."
He closed his eyes, the look on Spock's face clear in his mind. Well.
*That* didn't go well. He was too drunk to feel anything right now,
but not too drunk to know that tomorrow, and for many days after, he
was going to be very, very sorry that that moment just happened.
"Shoo-fly, you bother me."
After a moment or two, the insides of his eyes went from red to black.
He opened them. The overhead light was off. He looked toward the one
source of soft illumination. Spock was at his computer, reading from
the screen. Len sighed, clumsily grabbed part of the overhanging
blanket at the side of the bed, pulled it over him and turned onto his
side facing away from Spock. He let the feeling of floating dizziness
pull him into sleep.
An hour later Spock finished reading and making notes on the research
files he'd downloaded from the station's library. He glanced over at
the second bed, where soft snores could be heard. He could see one
foot in a black sock sticking out below the edge of the blanket the
doctor had rolled himself in. The head of the bed lay in deeper
shadows, he could just see the outline of shoulder and head.
He heard again the doctor's voice, saw his wide blue gaze.
"Fuck me."
His eyes traveled to the lumpy outline of blanket where the doctor's
hips would be. Then back to the exposed foot. The sock was tight,
showing the long, strong shape of it clearly. After a bit he turned
back to his computer screen. He looked at it a moment, mind elsewhere.
Then rose and walked past the beds (not looking at the second one as
he passed) and into the bathroom.
Spock emerged fifteen minutes later, showered, brushed, and attired
for bed. His eyes were still adjusting to the dimness of the room as
he let himself look over at the doctor on his way past. He could see
the doctor's face in the shadows, relaxed and heavy with sleep. He
kept walking, paused to turn off the computer screen, and slid
gracefully and efficiently beneath the covers of his own bed. He
arranged his body in the familiar meditational pose, and slowed his
breathing. He fell into sleep, the sound of the doctor's breaths in
his ears.