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When Spock first met doctor Leonard McCoy, he was swept off his feet with the intensity of his stare. Even to himself, he couldn't say it was only the human part of him that was affected. After all, Vulcans didn't lie.
The doctor was prickly, easily agitated, and Spock found immense pleasure in baiting him, setting off sputtering rants fueled with McCoy's indignation at whatever Vulcan ideas Spock threw at him. During these times, passion radiated off the doctor, hot waves of it hitting Spock's chest and inexplicably making him feel warm. It took some time for Spock to realize he was actively seeking McCoy's company, and by that time, he had been hooked.
He started to notice how delicate McCoy looked. How gentle he was behind that veneer of sarcasm (Spock lost count of how many times he looked at the doctor only to be met with a mirror image of his own raised eyebrow - which was highly uncharacteristic in and of itself). He would find himself staring at McCoy's birdlike wrists, hiding his gaze behind his lashes, thinking of pressing his thumbs to the doctor's pulse points, running his fingers along his palms and kissing the knuckles. Routine health check-ups for Spock revealed that the doctor's hands smelled of disinfectant and latex, and were quite steady. Spock concluded that these were the hands of a professional, and it was logical to admire them.
Some unplanned visits to sickbay showed that the good doctor could also be very authoritative. Neither rank nor physical power fazed him as he barked orders at Jim or Spock, and both somehow found themselves obeying. It was fascinating to watch this man, grumpy and full of nervous energy, become so commanding in an instant. McCoy would plant his feet firmly on the floor, straighten his spine, and puff out his chest. It was endearing. It was awe-inspiring. It was unquestionably and undeniably hot.
Spock wasn't sure what to do about that last piece of information.
At the same time, the doctor was so... soft. Spock never felt as protected, as cared for, as in the sickbay. The way McCoy worried about his patients, the very amount of attention he gave, made Spock feel like the most shameful, despicable parts of him, the longing for safety and stability he had forbidden himself to feel since he was a child, were seen and touched and gently wrapped in a blanket.
The only problem was, Spock was getting sentimental, and he couldn't exactly afford that. He wielded his sarcasm like a shield, he teased the doctor mercilessly about his human traits, their gazes locked onto each other. And he made a fool of himself, forgetting his snide remarks, losing the will to fight, drowning, sinking deeper into the heat at the root of almost all their altercations.
He was stuck.
And then they were stuck together in a turbolift, and Spock was telling McCoy worrying was illogical, and McCoy was angrily grabbing his shirt collar, and then, inexplicably, illogically, they were kissing, and Leonard's eyelashes were wet, and Spock clutched his hand tight, not letting him go, never letting him go again.
Sweet. The doctor was also very, very sweet.