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Let it be said, Leonard McCoy is not an idiot.
He may not make the wisest of choices at times, and he’s rarely — if ever — logical in his decision making process, but an idiot he is not.
So it’s with full knowledge of the future consequences of his past actions that Leonard groans awake, head pounding, tongue fuzzy, throat bone dry, with an ominous rumbling of his stomach. His eyelids scratch like sandpaper when he blinks back to awareness. The room that’s most definitely not on the Enterprise comes slowly and blearily into focus.
Where the hell are they?
Jim’s snoring, fast asleep next to him; Leonard’s assuming completely naked since the sheet’s draped haphazardly over his lower half. At Leonard’s back, Spock isn’t moving. And while Spock’s absolute and complete stillness during sleep used to freak Leonard the fuck out, he’s gotten inured to it by now. He only checks for Spock’s heartbeat occasionally… Well, often. Okay, most of the time.
He narrows his eyes at the picture of a sun-drenched cornfield on the wall and everything clicks.
Iowa.
They’re in Iowa.
The Enterprise docked at Luna two days ago for repairs, and the entire crew was granted shore leave. Well, the entire crew except Jim and Spock. The captain and chief science officer of Starfleet’s most prominent ship were tasked with evaluating the newest exploratory class vessel being built at the main shipyard — in Riverside.
Jim bitched up a storm (naturally), but followed orders (reluctantly). Spock promised to expedite the process through “concise, definitive, and actionable feedback,” which made Jim smile and Leonard say a silent prayer for the souls of those about to be verbally skewered.
And that was it.
Jim and Spock were headed to Iowa, and Leonard was going to take a few days in Georgia where he could get a real mint julep, walk barefoot in green grass, and ignore every relation in a thousand mile radius.
But no.
Of course, that wouldn’t do.
Jim looked crestfallen, then stricken when Leonard announced his plans; haunted by a past he’d gone into deep space to avoid. Spock pressed into his side as if they were conjoined and separation was a fate worse than death — or maybe that being in Iowa without Leonard as a buffer was a fate worse than death. Either way, Leonard thought about Nero, the warp core, and Altamid, and how much they fought through to make it to an unshakable certainty in each other, and, let it be repeated, Leonard McCoy is not an idiot. He beamed down with them.
So, he got to walk barefoot in real grass (albeit on the Kirk family farm), and had no chance of running into any of his relations, but he didn’t get that mint julep. Which was fine, really, cause for once he didn’t have to breathe recycled air, or worry his head off about the two damn fools who are no good for his sanity (and too good for his foolish heart). He should’ve known then that his peace wouldn’t last.
He groans again then pulls out a pre-loaded hypo from under his pillow and injects himself. Within seconds, he’s inching away from the need to drape himself over the porcelain throne for the rest of the day. Good thing, too. He has the feeling he’s going to be nursing two hungover idiot-geniuses as soon as they stir awake.
“What the fuck?” Jim mumbles into his pillow.
It comes out more like guttural grunts of mashed together syllables than actual words, but this isn’t Leonard’s first rodeo. He learned how to interpret hungover-Jim-speak approximately two weeks after getting to the Academy.
“Mornin’ to you too, sunshine. Still think that taking Spock and me to the Iowa State Fair for ‘cultural enrichment’ was a good idea?”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, me either.” Leonard brushes a kiss on Jim’s shoulder then settles the hypo against Jim’s neck. “Hold still.”
That Jim doesn’t protest the jab or try to swat Leonard’s hand away tells Leonard just about everything he needs to know about Jim’s capacity to be a functioning adult today. The quality of the silence at Leonard’s back tells him that he and Jim aren’t the only ones awake.
“How you feeling, Spock?”
“I am…adequate.”
“Uh-huh.” Leonard dials up a different concoction on the hypo then holds it over his shoulder for Spock to take. “Have at it.”
The hypo hisses in lieu of Spock hissing at him and Leonard stifles a smile. There’s no chance of holding it back when suddenly there’s a Vulcan draping an arm over his waist and glomming onto his back. Spock sure does get cuddly when he feels like shit.
Leonard pulls Jim’s back into his chest, nestling them in like spoons, and careens into sleep again.
***
He comes to with cool lips at his neck and hips lazily thrusting at his ass. Since there’s no fra’als or slick accompanying said thrusting, Leonard can only assume this is one of Spock’s gentle wake up calls. He’s not gonna complain.
He sets his hand over Spock’s and telegraphs, You taking this somewhere?
Against Leonard’s back, Spock shakes his head.
Alright then. Lazy morning (afternoon?) semi-frottage it is.
At least Spock’s feeling better.
At some point during their second sleep, Jim rolled away and he’s laying on his stomach, sheet pulled up around his shoulders, and arms stuffed under his pillow. Leonard doesn’t bother holding back from carding his hand through Jim’s sleep-rumpled hair. Jim groans, low and deep, when Leonard tugs on the strands, and…oh. Okay. Maybe Spock’s not looking for action, but Leonard’s suddenly realizing how much naked skin’s pressed up against his and maybe he should do something about it. Nothing quite like a hearty morning orgasm to shake the cobwebs from the brain.
Quite honestly, he deserves it after putting up with Jim and Spock’s shenanigans last night.
“Am I correct in remembering that we went…flying last night?” Spock whispers into Leonard’s neck.
“If by ‘flying’ you mean those trolley car things that we rode above the fair, then sure. We went flying.”
“Ah.”
“Never thought I’d see you raising hell on an electric scooter though.”
“I…”
“Or you and Jim flailing down a gigantic slide with a stick of fried butter in your hand.”
“…”
Leonard stifles a laugh. “Cow got your tongue there, Spock? You were overly fond of the one that had eyes the same color as mine.”
“Leonard…”
“Vulcan memory not so eidetic today, huh?”
Spock’s affronted huff is a gust against Leonard’s neck. “I was unduly and unfairly compromised.”
“The passive voice is doing a lot of work in that sentence,” Leonard drawls, then isn’t one bit surprised when Spock sinks those Vulcan canines into his shoulder. He may, possibly, have been seeking that reaction. “No biting unless you intend on doing more than rubbing up against me.”
“I wanna bite too,” Jim mumbles into his pillow, because of course that would be what sort of, kind of woke him up.
Leonard hums. “Pretty sure that all you’re gonna be good for today is laying there while Spock and I take advantage of you.”
“I do not believe Jim will deter us from that action, Leonard.”
“Definitely not. One of you is going to have to put me in the middle though. I don’t think —“ Jim tries to push himself up and promptly face plants into the bed again. “Yeah, I’m not going anywhere on my own yet. What the hell did I drink anyway?”
It’s on the tip of Leonard’s tongue to say what didn’t you drink, because, turns out, when the local farm boy turned galactic hero comes home, Iowans roll out the corn husk carpet and throw the Midwestern version of a rager. But a) he should probably save the story about Jim getting kicked out of the beer tent until they’ve all recovered a bit more, and, more importantly, b) Leonard’s lost the ability to speak.
He has no words.
None.
Spock’s pressed so tightly into Leonard that he doesn’t miss the second Leonard freezes. Spock props his chin on Leonard’s shoulder, catches sight of what Leonard’s seeing and raises one shocked brow.
Yep. That’s about where Leonard is too.
Apparently, they’re all missing key information from last night.
“So, uh, Jim?” He traces his fingers down Jim’s spine, to the place where the sheets have pooled at the curve of Jim’s ass. Jim grunts in response. “Why do you have an anal suppository tattooed on your back?”
Jim’s head whips up. “What?!”
“I believe, Leonard, that it is a line art representation of an antiquated menstrual hygiene product.”
Leonard tips his head to study it from a different angle. “Huh. Could be. But if it is, why is that line at the end so straight? Shouldn’t it be —” He barks out a laugh as a fuzzy memory floats to the surface. “My god, Jim. You gave yourself a corndog tramp stamp.”
Jim seems to find that reserve surge of energy he gets in crisis situations and begins haplessly windmilling in the sheets, trying to see his back. Leonard laughs harder (he’s not an idiot, but he can definitely be a dick sometimes).
A pinch to his nipple that sends a jolt of agony through his body cuts off his laughter at the metaphorical knees.
“Ow! What the hell, Spock?”
“It appears Jim isn’t the only one who decided to permanently mark their body last night.”
Leonard takes a gander down his chest, and oh yeah, now he remembers — the tattoo tent at the fair, a spindly wisp of a guy named Zev who was high on something, and him and Jim willingly submitting themselves to Zev’s needle and shaking hands. In hindsight, that the stick coming out of Jim’s tattooed corndog is so straight is a minor miracle.
Leonard huffs. “You wouldn’t let me get the piercings to go with the tattoos though, Spock.”
The exhale that comes out of Spock’s mouth is most definitely a sigh.
“What the fuck, Bones?” That’s from a wide-eyed Jim who’s gone still again. “You got flames tattooed around your nipples?!”
“But Spock wouldn’t let me get the x-shaped barbells so they’d look like two tiny nipple campfires.”
“Oh my god,” Jim says on a breath tinged with laughter. “What is happening right now? Am I still drunk?”
Spock raises a brow. “That is entirely likely. However, the fact remains that you have a deep-fried fair…delicacy tattooed on your lower back, and Leonard has fiery areolas.”
Leonard can’t breathe he’s laughing so hard. “Say ‘fiery areolas’ again. Dear god, this is the best day of my life.”
“Bones! How are you not freaking out right now?”
“Relax. They’re just tattoos, Jim, and I’m not an idiot. I can’t say removing them will be painless, but a few sessions with a laser and dermal should do the trick.”
Jim buries his face in Leonard’s shoulder, so he slings an arm around Jim’s back then kisses the top of his head. If he’s still laughing, well, he’s a dick sometimes.
“Humans,” Spock intones as he pushes out of bed. He wavers a bit once he’s on his feet, Leonard laughs again, and Spock glares at him. “You could have avoided the pain as well as a protracted removal process if you had chosen the henna option as I did.”
“Henna?” Jim mumbles against Leonard’s shoulder.
Leonard taps Jim’s back to coax him to look up. Spock’s standing in front of the hotel mirror, surveying the orange-reddish design on his thigh. Jim cackles.
“Seriously, Spock?” Jim says. “You got that cow’s face as a henna tattoo?”
“It, indeed, had eyes the same color as Leonard’s.”
Leonard smiles. “Sap.”
Spock gives him a withering look.
“So,” Leonard says. “Question for the chief science officer of the fleet flagship. What’s the active chemical agent in henna?”
“It is lawsone — a hennotannic acid that reacts to the protein keratin, undergoing Strecker synthesis to bind to —” Leonard knows Spock’s got the gist of his fuck up when Spock whips his head toward them, eyes wide. “No.”
Leonard grins. “Oh yeah.”
“What?” Jim asks.
“Henna isn’t temporary on Vulcan skin.”
Jim absolutely, positively loses it then. He laughs his way right out of the bed and onto the floor. Spock stands buck naked with his hands on his hips, one judgmental eyebrow raised, and an orange-red cow emblazoned on his thigh.
Leonard props his head on his hand, and grins at both of them.
He’s not an idiot, but the two men he loves the most in the world definitely are.
“Who wants their turn at the laser first?”