More and more, as he got older, McCoy treasured each morning that he woke up next to Spock. Spock's diplomatic errands took him away from home for weeks at a time, sometimes months, and these days McCoy had begun to think about mortality, and acknowledged that his days with Spock were finite.

As this zeal for spending time with his mate had asserted itself lately, little things began to change. Until recently, McCoy had made a habit of closing the curtains before bedtime, so that the morning light would not disturb him. But last night, he'd pushed the curtains wide open. He wanted that sun to come in the east window and shine right in his face and wake him up bright and early, so he wouldn't waste a single minute of the day, now that Spock was home.

To his dismay, he awoke at six-fifteen to find Spock still asleep. Come to think of it, Spock had intended to stay up rather late last night, to put the finishing touches on his paper documenting the active mining transactions on post-Khitomer Klingon colonies. Perhaps Spock had only just gone to bed. McCoy could not know, and hadn't the heart to wake him. Spock looked so peaceful when he was asleep, and sometimes it was downright adorable, if McCoy caught sight of the utterly dignified Vulcan snoozing with a slightly open mouth.

Well, hell, McCoy thought, if that lazy Vulcan wants to catch some shut-eye rather than have breakfast with me, I can hardly drag him to the table. Of course, if Spock would not be joining him for breakfast, that meant McCoy could make what he wanted: eggs, ham, home fries, sausage, coffee, all those things that Spock never touched. McCoy could even cook on the old-fashioned wood-burning stove he'd had installed, which Spock eschewed on the grounds that it was inefficient and wasteful.

McCoy opened the front door and let the breeze blow in. It was just a bit chilly yet, but by ten it would be a different story. Today was going to be a scorcher, he could tell. One day Spock would probably convince him to move back to San Francisco, but for now McCoy had his way, and he proudly stood by Georgia's muggy summers and formidable insect population. Here in their seaside cottage on Tybee Island, he could watch the egrets and herons out the window as he cooked, and the oystercatchers, as they hopped in the sand and used their flat red bills to earn their name. And, you could actually swim in the ocean here in Georgia. McCoy would be damned if he was going to jump into the freezing, foggy San Francisco Bay.

While McCoy ate his breakfast, he considered disconnecting the comlinks, just for today, so he and Spock could have uninterrupted privacy. Then, having inspired himself, he started brainstorming other ways to block out the rest of civilization. Just for today, honest. The galaxy could have Spock back tomorrow, if they needed him so damn badly.

He was glad, now, that Spock was still asleep. If he could disconnect the comlinks now, perhaps Spock wouldn't notice. He tiptoed from room to room, pushing buttons here and there, securing their solitude. For good measure, he switched off clocks and chronometers, as well.

Now he was impatient, and wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He decided that Spock had had plenty of time to sleep, and went back upstairs.

He was not worried about making noise now. He did not cringe at the click of the door opening. He marched right over to the windows and opened them so the breeze would blow in. His anticipation of what the morning would bring was a little presumptuous; he opened the window because he liked feeling the air caress his body when he and Spock made love. He did close the gauzy white curtains, to keep the pathologically private Spock from protesting ridiculously that someone might see them though the second story window. A man riding on the back of a hummingbird, perhaps?

Spock was covered only by a sheet, and covered quite delectably, McCoy thought. The sheet was so thin, it clung to every inch of him. The outline of his soft genitals was clearly visible. McCoy stared for a good minute at this subtle rise under the sheet. No doubt the sight of Spock fully aroused could put him in a frenzy, but he positively adored even the incidental sight of it, beneath some fabric or other, dormant, uninvolved in the situation at hand. He never mentioned this, not even to Spock, though Spock must have felt it sometimes: on the bridge of the Enterprise, or at a social event, McCoy would look over at Spock a few meters off, and as Spock turned or bent, the fabric of his trousers would cling in such a way, and McCoy had to do his best not to be caught getting a good look. It was juvenile and voyeuristic, he knew, but he was after all a human male, and prone to such weaknesses.

McCoy pushed his pajama bottoms, the only thing he'd bothered to put on that morning, down and away, and climbed onto the bed. He crouched at Spock's hip and played with him a bit, over the sheet, pushing the fabric about to make the definition even more pronounced. Then he caressed the sheet like it was Spock's skin, and traced the creases in the fabric with his fingertip. After a while, he tired of this touching. He wanted to see, now. "Well," he said, knowing perfectly well that his mate was awake, "are you just going to lie there like a pointy-eared log?" When he yanked the sheet away, Spock finally sighed and stretched, and sat up a little against the headboard. Satisfied, McCoy crawled on top of him.

Spock was not pleased to be greeted in the morning by the taste of caffeine and animal flesh in McCoy's mouth, but when he put his hands on McCoy's body, that unpleasant sensory input was drowned out by the human's emotional state, which was tender and amorous. Spock also sensed some kind of protectiveness or defensiveness, but he could not determine the cause or nature of it. He absorbed these feeling nonetheless, and became somewhat protective, himself, pulling his mate more closely to him. He was in an ideal position to caress the small of McCoy's back, and tickle it a little bit, which never failed to delight the human. To avoid (or perhaps, to seek) the tickles, he would squirm and roll his hips from side to side. His laughter made Spock feel warm. But Spock was puzzled when he realized that for all this tickling and rubbing and squirming, McCoy had not yet achieved an erection.

With a big grin still lingering on his face, McCoy got his knees under him and pushed himself up. When he saw Spock's expression, the grin went away, he looked down to see what Spock was looking at. "Oh, don't worry about that," he said sheepishly. "You know, it just takes the ol' fella a little longer these days."

Spock put his hands on McCoy's hips and urged him forward. He brought his mate close to him, and nuzzled the salt-and-pepper patch of hair over McCoy's pubis. His tongue darted out into the crease of skin where limb met trunk. McCoy had not showered that morning, and his musk was heavy. Spock growled softly as he pushed his nose against McCoy's skin.

But the heat of Spock's breath, the incidental caresses of his lower lip, were not enough. "Spock, please. Touch it. Put it in your mouth." Spock obeyed, dutifully kissing the head of McCoy's penis and then allowing a short thrust of McCoy's hips to push it between his lips.

"Ooh, that's it," McCoy sighed. "That's what I need." Maybe he'd slowed down a little, but he'd have to be dead not to respond to what Spock was doing to him now. He stayed still, letting Spock work on it until it was hard, let himself come to full arousal while inside Spock's mouth. Then the hollow in the small of his back deepened as he pulled out, and he looked down to watch himself moving between Spock's lips.

It was a cruel aspect of Terran culture, Spock thought, that what was regarded as the most important of masculine functions was also the most fragile. McCoy's erection had not grown as large or as solid as it used to, ten years ago, twenty years ago, and Spock did not expect it, this morning, to improve any more. When it was in his mouth, Spock could feel that it did not throb as insistently. Most human males would be anxious about the situation, and Spock knew that McCoy was. But if all that needed to be done to preserve the enjoyment was to make some adjustments to their lovemaking routine, then the anxiety was counterproductive, illogical.

Now that Spock had him in a state, he picked up the pace. But suddenly McCoy put his hand on Spock's head, his thumb between the saturnine eyebrows, and gently pushed Spock's head back. "No," he whispered, "I want to come while you're inside me." He looked down to watch himself emerging from Spock's mouth. And paused. He slipped back in a fraction, muttering, "Maybe just a little more…No, no, I can't." Spock held still and waited patiently while McCoy made up his mind to scoot back and take out their bottle of oil and make Spock ready.

His mate's vulnerable state must have been affecting him, because Spock couldn't help but make a little noise and rock his hips as McCoy rubbed the oil over the most sensitive parts of his penis. McCoy was being far more attentive and detail-oriented than he needed to be, at this task, running a slippery finger around and around the crown. Behind him, the curtains billowed, and a bit of dandelion fluff wafted in. When it came into his line of vision, McCoy froze and watched the tiny seed as it drifted over the bed. Not until he lost sight of it entirely did he return his attention to Spock.

Astride was not McCoy's preferred position, but he seemed to want to be on top this morning. To facilitate the process, Spock raised both hands, palms up, and McCoy entwined his fingers in Spock's so he could support himself without having to lean over and give himself a backache.

McCoy was, mentally, well-entrenched in the act, but Spock lingered at the edges, watching McCoy's body, and thinking about it. He gripped his mates sides, and with both thumbs pressed into two of the spaces between his ribs. It was not until recently that McCoy had grown so thin that some of his ribs had become visible, if only slightly. Humans spent their entire lives succumbing to the aging process, but there was a point where one suddenly becomes frail and old, and thinking back, you can't quite remember when it happened, or how. Spock did remember, years ago, he had sometimes been a little rough during acts of love. But he could never bring himself to treat his mate that way now.

At this moment, McCoy was not thinking of himself as frail. His body might have changed, but in his mind, things were was the same as they'd always been. Even after all these years, he could still feel his consciousness and Spock's intertwining ever more tightly, as they shared all their thoughts and feelings. McCoy wanted to prove to Spock that age would not slow his pursuit of pleasure. A rush of sexual and emotional exhilaration energized him, and for a short while he moved with the speed and power of a man twenty years younger, pushing himself toward orgasm, unburdened by age. He released one of Spock's hands so he could touch himself. Sometimes Spock did the touching, but when he was on top, it excited McCoy more to have Spock look at him. And he was so close now...

Spock felt McCoy's orgasm through the link, not intense but sweet, and his own orgasm, which followed closely, was a reflection of that, a distillation of the tenderness he felt for his mate, the joy of being with him, and the sorrow that one day, mortality would steal it all away from them.

And then McCoy collapsed next to Spock, groaning, heated and spent. "My knees are killing me," he said hoarsely. "I'm gettin' to old to be ridin' you like I'm a goddamn cowboy."

Goddamn. Spock had noticed that, as the years went by, that word sprang more and more frequently from McCoy's lips. Spock had studied the vernacular of the region in which McCoy had been born. Like all Earth enclaves, it had its own unwritten code of verbal expression. In this case, the code could be traced back six hundred years. A Southern gentleman would never "cuss" in front of a lady, but in the company of other gentlemen, and when roused, he was allowed a sparing use of mild expletives, such as "hell" or "damn." Boys might try out fouler words amongst themselves, but young men restrained themselves, because restraint was the measure of a gentleman's worth. (The Southern standard of "restraint" differed substantially from the Vulcan standard.) However, Spock had noted that as these Southern gentlemen aged, they were more susceptible to outbursts which used the aforementioned expletives, sometimes even in front of the "womenfolk." This behavior was frowned-upon, but tolerated.

As McCoy lay prone, one arm still flung across Spock's chest, Spock pondered the allowances made for the use of the word "goddamn." He thought to himself that it was hypocritical of McCoy to deride the elaborate social rituals of Vulcan, when Earth customs were just as complex and impenetrable, to an outsider. To make Terran customs more difficult, almost nothing was published about them that was of any practical use. Books of etiquette would never admit that the word "goddamn" was permissible under any circumstances, and yet, according to the dramatic literature and film depicting the history of the region, there were certain times when its use was acceptable. And for McCoy's ancestors, old age was a time when one could employ it with impunity.

Spock pondered all this in silence. The breeze had died down; not even the rustle of the curtains reached his ears. Spock predicted that McCoy would convince him later today to go on a picnic lunch. Life near the beach was a windy affair, and not suitable for the consumption of foods, unless you liked sand in your sandwiches. After they'd first moved here, McCoy had waited six months for a day with no wind, so they could lay down a blanket and eat on the beach, watching the waves. McCoy had tried to convince Spock to follow him (and the blanket) into the tall grass, to make love, but Spock had refused.

There was something unusual about the silence this morning, and for a while Spock attributed it to the lack of a breeze. Now he realized that the breeze had little to do with it. This silence was not in the lack of noise that one hears with one's ears, but rather in the lack of noise that one is able to feel physically, the noise of idle electronic devices that penetrates one's body and subconscious. Spock concentrated for a minute, then observed aloud, "You have turned off the comlinks and chronometers in the house."

"You bet I did," McCoy said. His voice, muffled by the pillow, was thin and fatigued, but proud.

Spock let some time go by, feeling the silence, before he said, "Thank you."