When he entered his quarters and the light came on, Leonard McCoy noticed something he had never noticed before: everything he owned on this ship had been given to him. There was nothing he had that he'd sought to acquire. Anything that was not Starfleet issue was a gift, from some grateful person on a strange world, or an appreciative colleague. The room was clearly divided into utilitarian necessities, which he tended to loathe the sight of, and frivolous ornaments, which he would never have bought for himself to clutter a room but which he gladly accepted from others and displayed with some measure of pride.

As his eyes fell on each of these objects in turn - a set of books, a small statue, an ornamental box - he had a sudden desire to purchase or otherwise acquire an item. Any kind would do. Just to be able to look at it and say, I saw that, I wanted it, and I took it. And now I have it.

But then again, that probably wouldn't happen. He was just not that sort of person. He knew himself well enough to understand that this desire was fleeting, and though he would go on desiring things, he would most likely wait until things were presented to him, even if they weren't the same things.

His eyes were drawn now to the bed. That was what he desired most of all, at this moment. He'd just come off duty, his brains were scrambled, and his feet ached. McCoy knew to always take care of personal things - correspondence, reading - just after waking, before he headed for sickbay, because once his shift ended, it was quite likely he would only want to crawl right into his bunk.

But exhausted as he was, he could not fall asleep. He could only lie there in bed, waiting for his brain to stop buzzing. His body'd had it, but his mind wasn't finished yet. Lying in the dark, he couldn't think straight, couldn't relax. This was common, and he had his way of dealing with it.

While he waited for his brain to shut down, he cupped his soft genitals in one hand, rubbing gently. It was just a pleasant, comforting little thing, very non-committal. After a time, he released himself, and instead lightly caressed his sack, only brushing the fine hairs with his fingertips. Sometimes these things served merely to lull him to sleep, confirming that his body was truly exhausted and was only waiting for his mind to catch up. Other times, this ritual was a way to get past his buzzing brain, so that his body could tell him what it wanted. Tonight, he was not soothed into sleep. He rubbed, and his penis stood up.

All day long, McCoy spared no thoughts for himself. That's what being a doctor was about. But no matter who you were, sooner or later you would have to listen to your own body. And not with a tricorder. And so the next part of the ritual was simple, as McCoy had no exotic tastes or techniques. Sometimes it would take longer than other times, because he was still be getting distracted by his thoughts. A hundred things might still gallop through his mind: the day's patients, a vial broken in a fit of clumsiness, a harsh word uttered or received.

He used one hand to slide his foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock, and the moisture produced a tiny wet noise, soft as a whisper. With the other hand he rolled his balls between thumb and forefinger. Also, the little spot behind them; the first time he would rub and press it, he always grunted softly with pleasure and a little surprise, and then each time after, he was silent.

All this time, McCoy pondered the H5N1 strain of influenza that had been going around in Engineering. One case yesterday, and three today. Perhaps it had reached its zenith already, but perhaps not. He considered which measures he ought to take if it continued to escalate. Then he realized that, though his hands had never broken their rhythm, he was going soft. Well, do you want to, or don't you? he admonished himself. He tried to blank his mind and get back on track, speeding his strokes a little, as if to convince his body that he meant business. But then he began to think about what Spock's reaction to H5N1 might be. Last year Spock had contracted H1N3, a strain which in humans is a harmless "twenty-four hour bug." But Spock was ill for weeks with it, and McCoy had feared that the virus, unsure of how to cooperate with its strange new host, would kill Spock.

For half a second McCoy reprimanded himself. Surely, thinking about Spock's body was not going to help him towards his goal. But then he realized that he was not only hard, he was quite close to orgasm. And when a human being is close to orgasm, he may well drift toward thoughts that he would normally be too embarrassed to entertain.

McCoy resumed his musing on Spock, on the tension he'd felt in Spock the night they had discussed love and its foibles. The way he had clutched his data slate. He thought about Spock's body. What it looked like. What it might look like entirely unclothed. What it could do for him. To him. He tightened his grip in an attempt to mimic Spock's superior strength. But he needed an image to get himself all the way there.

In his mind's eye, he conjured the Vulcan doing something ridiculously expressive: emitting a tiny sigh of pleasure.

It was only after an unusually powerful orgasm that McCoy realized how absurd that fantasy had been. That damned Vulcan, he thought. He did this to me. It was that teasing little conversation they'd had, that put these thoughts in McCoy's head. He felt like a fool for contemplating even the remotest possibility that Spock had truly enjoyed their working so closely together during the Telep incident. That he might desire to spend more time in McCoy's presence. That he might desire more, even, than that.

McCoy could feel it happening, now, the same way he could feel a cold coming on: He might know someone for years without incident, but as soon as he got it into his head that that someone was attracted to him, in the least little bit, he fell for them hard, whether it was a good idea or not.

And now, just like all those times in the past, he ceased to be influenced by reason. He cursed himself for the stupid things he'd said that day, when Spock had visited him. Surely he could have come up with something better than what he had said. He was loath to leave Spock with the same low opinion of love with which he'd begun. Perhaps even lower. McCoy briefly imagined a world where he had actually thought of something to say which convinced Spock that love was something worth trying.

There had to be a way to change Spock's mind. Swimming in endorphins and unburdened by common sense in the wake of his orgasm, McCoy tried to devise ways to flirt - no, not flirt, that's what kids did - ways to get Spock's attention. He could not employ the usual techniques. For instance, he could not casually brush Spock's hand with his own, because for Vulcans there was no such thing as "casual" touching. He could not lean over and get close to Spock to instruct him or guide him a task, firstly because Spock was taller than him, and secondly because Spock never seemed to need guidance or instruction. A mischievous smile would probably be lost on Spock. Do Vulcans flirt? he wondered. But he quashed that thought immediately. Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid...

Enough time had passed since he'd had a lover that he was just starting to not miss it anymore. But then, it always felt that way. The time from one lover to the next varied, but no matter how long it was (and for McCoy it was usually a matter of years), it always seemed like he'd only just gotten over being lonely, only just at that moment become satisfied with being by himself after the last lover, when a new one came along. Is that really what's happening now? he wondered. Is this another lover?

McCoy changed his routine, that night. After he cleaned himself up, he did not curl up and fall right asleep, as usual. Instead, he stayed awake and replayed his fantasy. Spock sighed, over and over.