Title: What Do Little Boys Play With?
Rating: R, for certain fetish content
Summary: The reason why Doctor McCoy always compares Spock to a computer is revealed; and it’s not what
most people think.
I don't own TOS. I never have, and I never will. Star Trek and all of its relations are property of Paramount
and Viacom. I only own this story. Anybody who has a problem with the thought of men in homosexual relationships with each
other, please stay away. Flames and feedback are welcome. Please ask before putting this anywhere.
Notes: This isn’t dirty, but it is kind of deranged. I don’t have a specific warning for this per se, so let’s
blanket it under “fetish” and see what happens, deal? With my apologies to everybody on the EMCSA.
What Do Little
Boys Play With?
“You pointy-eared, walking computer! You don’t have one goddamned feeling
in those copper-plated circuits you call veins, do you? How could you even suggest such a heartless endeavor-” McCoy’s
rant would have continued indefinitely, had Kirk not cut him off with a sharp, “Bones! That’s enough.”
McCoy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry,” he said, and
looked as though he had something else to say, but had decided against it. The doctor took his seat, but his irritation was
obvious to everybody present in the conference room, most of all, Spock.
The Vulcan chose to ignore the outburst for the time being and turned back to Kirk.
“If the Doctor’s has finished with his emotionalism, I think you should heavily consider my proposal. Although
the risk of injury to that party that goes down to the planet to the collect the specimens is 42.6%, fatal injury has only
a risk of 7.9% and the specimens collected could lead to a vaccination for Deltan Plague, which would eventually lead to saving
the lives of approximately 1,876,432,980 humanoids across the galaxy, not to mention the future generations throughout the
Federation. The risk is justified.”
Kirk could see the vein in McCoy’s cheek begin to pulsate, and he put a hand
out to stop a further outburst. “Spock, if you consider the risk justified, would you be willing to accompany the landing
The Vulcan inclined his head, “I would, Captain.”
Kirk shrugged slightly, an indication that he had reached a decision and did not
want an argument, from anybody. “Then we have it. Spock, put together the team, take two security guards, one from medical
personnel, and as many from your department that you think will be necessary for this endeavor, and beam down at 1400 hours
McCoy stood up to protest, but Kirk cut him off preemptively. “I don’t
want to hear it, Bones. I’ve made my decision and unless you can think of something medically unsound, you’ll
just have to live with it.”
McCoy sighed and simply gave a, “Yes, Captain.” He would have a talk
with the Vulcan after the mission, if he managed to come back uninjured. The doctor was unusually silent for the remainder
of the staff meeting.
As Murphy would have it, the landing party came back with enough
of the specimen for the medical teams to begin experimenting and synthesizing that very week. They also returned without a
scratch, with one exception.
Spock stared up at the ceiling while McCoy examined him. He would have asked, for
personal reasons, long ago, that the doctor no longer be his primary caregiver, but that would have left him with Chapel,
and that situation would have been twice as awkward.
As a result, he had to listen to McCoy’s lecture while he got his shoulder
and leg treated from the fall he did off the hill.
“-You think you’re invincible. Just because you think like a machine
doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt. Flesh and blood, Spock, you’re still just flesh and blood.” Was that
a note of regret in the Doctor’s voice? Spock was unsure and simply moved his leg to allow McCoy better access for treatment.
“Stop fidgeting,” McCoy ordered sternly, “You’ll still be
able to get your job done even if you’re in a sling for a day or so and you can play the ship in chess from your quarters.”
“I am not fidgeting, Doctor, I am actually attempting to assist you,”
Spock replied, but he stopped moving.
“There, is it really that hard to follow orders?” McCoy’s question
was a whisper, in a voice that was not quite sarcastic.
Spock chose not to respond to the comment, finding it somewhat out of character and
simply laid back for the duration of the treatment.
McCoy seemed to calm down somewhat as Spock’s treatment progressed, and as
he finished with the final regeneration of a scratch on Spock’s arm, he sighed softly. “Spock, I’m sorry
if I seem to be more crabby than usual. I think I’m just tired.”
Spock nodded as he listened. He could certainly believe that. Although their relationship
was not exactly new, they had only recently progressed past the “dating stage” as McCoy had referred to it indirectly,
to the “sexual stage.” And the expression of their combined pent up tension was more addictive than Cordrazine.
Neither had been sleeping much, however, McCoy was not, as he so often pointed out, Vulcan, as Spock was.
“We do not have to engage tonight,” Spock offered.
McCoy shut the dermal regenerator off, disposed of the remaining gel, and placed
the tool back on its shelf. “How romantic you are, Spock. Cold and logical, just like a computer.”
“I did not mean it in that way, Leonard and you are quite aware. We can still
meet, but I will endeavor to not keep you up so late as I have been.”
McCoy smiled at him. It was difficult to remain cranky when Spock was so sincere.
“Deal. Come over when you finish your shift. I’ll be off about 2000 tonight. Just be forewarned, I haven’t
been able to clean up the place for a couple of days.”
They usually met in Spock’s cabin. It was larger, more soundproofed, and the
environmental settings were more easily adjustable to accommodate both of them. But Spock was not about to refuse an open
invitation to the Doctor’s bed. “I shall meet you in your cabin then, when I get off shift.”
McCoy smiled softly and patted Spock on the shoulder. “Great. And you’re
done. I’ve done as much body work as I can do. If you’re still sore later, just tell me and you’ll get the
massage of your life.”
Spock nodded slightly and rose. The faint blush to his ear tips was thankfully not
noticeable to anybody but McCoy. “I shall see you later,” he said as he left the sickbay, to finish his report
for the Captain and to take a half shift on the bridge.
Spock entered the turbolift with Kirk as the shift came to
an end. Kirk put in an order for their deck and Spock overrode it with a “Deck 3.”
Kirk looked somewhat curious. “Spending the night with Bones?”
“You could say that, Captain,” Spock replied, looking calm as he always
Kirk’s face curved into a devious smirk. “You two have been hitting it
a lot lately, haven’t you? The bed, I mean.”
Spock’s face managed to grow even more impassive, although a hint of indignation
was evident in his eyes, “That, Jim, is not really any of your business.”
“Want to rephrase that answer, Spock? I can play the friend card or the Captain
card; it’s your choice.”
Fortunately for Spock, the door to the turbolift opened on Deck three before he had
to respond and he stepped off with a “Good night, Jim.”
Kirk said something in response, but the turbolift’s closing doors cut him
off mid-sentence. Spock was thankful for that.
The Vulcan walked down the corridor at a somewhat quickened pace, careful, however,
to not be too obvious about what he was doing. He nodded greetings at a passing crewman and arrived outside McCoy’s
He pressed his hand to the door coder and his handprint was scanned. The door opened
for him and he stepped inside, warmed somewhat by what it meant to be allowed such access without his override.
The lights were ordered to a higher level, and the temperature was raised to more
tolerable conditions. He looked around the room. McCoy had not been exaggerating; it was quite disorganized.
The bed was not made, although Spock understood why. The last night McCoy had slept
here, he had been awakened in the early morning for a medical emergency, as he had been on call.
The hamper had clothing on and around it, scattered also on the floor. The doctor’s
desk was covered in medical padds and diskettes. And the nightstand and floor surrounding it had other tapes and papers around
Spock decided he would help by cleaning McCoy’s cabin to make the environment
more tolerable. A quick glance at the chronometer told him he had twenty-five minutes to clean.
The Vulcan went over to McCoy’s hamper, picked up the clothing and placed them
inside the chute, so that the laundry services could tend to the cleaning. He then sat himself down at McCoy’s desk
and began to organize the padds and disks. It was the most time consuming of the tasks. He managed to sort most of them, and
put the rest into more manageable piles.
He went back into the living area and made the bed, fluffing the pillows the way
his mother had taught him, and the way he knew McCoy enjoyed. He also set up some towels on the edge of the bed, along with
a bottle of oil that could be used as both a massage aid as well as lubrication, just in case.
All that remained was for him to sort through the materials on the nightstand. The
papers, some of them bound in book or magazine form, were obviously not regulation. Spock picked up a few of the disks. One
was labeled, “The Perfect Guy.” His curiosity got the best of him, and he inserted it into the nearby disk viewer.
Immediately on screen appeared the images of a young man, with a second man. This man, however, was obviously not humanoid,
or even a biological life form. It was an android. Spock watched with some curiosity as the young man proceeded to order the
android into a sexual position, and then he quickly popped the disk out.
The Vulcan put the disk back down and picked up the next one, entitled, cleverly,
“Bi, Robot,” Spock had an idea of what this disk contained and chose not to test his theory. Other disks were
picked up, read, and sorted, “Puppet of His Master,” “The Pleasure Toy,” “Project Sexbot,”
Spock idly wondered how the purveyors of such material could make sales with such titles. Deciding that sorting the papers
might be a less disturbing task, he picked up one of the bound papers and glanced at the cover, “Love in a Silver Socket,
a magazine for techno-sexual fetishists.”
Spock dropped the magazine. The words McCoy had spoken to him so often began to run
through his mind. “You walking computer...circuits you call veins...motherboard of a brain you have...I’ll bet
you think in binary...what are you man or machine?” Something clicked in his mind. McCoy had never been insulting him.
He was trying to live out a fantasy.
Suddenly Spock began to feel quite uncomfortable, and he rose from the corner of
the bedroom, making a quick move for the door. Just as he reached it, the door slid open to reveal McCoy, a smile on his face.
“Going somewhere, Big Guy?”
Spock said nothing in response, not feeling quite comfortable in the situation, considering
what he had just discovered.
McCoy seemed oblivious to Spock’s condition as he stepped inside, looking around.
“Made yourself at home, I see. I’m glad we can compromise on the temperature. Much hotter and I might melt.”
“I doubt it, your skin has the capability of retaining its solidity at much
higher temperatures than my preference.”
McCoy’s smile widened, “Taking things literally as always. God sometimes
I wonder if your daddy wasn’t a computer after all.”
Those words brought the images from the video back to Spock’s mind, and he
was forced to look away from McCoy, unable to meet his face.
The doctor took a closer look around the room, going past the divider to change into
something more comfortable. “You even cleaned up the place, Spock? You didn’t need to do that. I would have gotten
around to it,” McCoy said as he took his shirt off, putting it in the laundry chute. His eyes wandered to the bed, “Either
you really want that massage or you’re planning on breaking that promise you made.”
“I was simply attempting to make things more comfortable for you,” the
“We’re in my damn quarters, Spock, I’m more concerned about your
comfort. Is everything all right?” McCoy seemed to notice Spock’s discomfort for the first time as he came back
out into the main area of the room.
Spock realized that he would not be able
to leave without either lying, which was not in his nature, or informing McCoy that his personal taste made him extremely
uncomfortable, which would not serve to aid their ever-budding relationship. “I am fine, Leonard.”
McCoy nodded and went to clean up his nightstand. As he put some of the disks away,
he spoke over his shoulder to the Vulcan, “Hey, maybe we could watch a movie before going to bed.”
Spock’s response was quick and more emotional than he would have liked, “No!”
McCoy turned around to face him, “You’re sure you’re all right,
The Vulcan nodded and went to stand in the divide in the room, not wanting to go
closer to McCoy and let the doctor grow uncomfortable by the thought he might know his secret.
McCoy was finished with his task after a few more minutes and rose, turning around
to look at Spock. He opened his arms, indicating he wanted to embrace.
Spock stepped towards him, obliging him, and then kissed the side of his neck. They
stood together for many long moments, before Spock led McCoy to bed. He pulled off his own shirt trousers and boots, so he
lay only in his standard issue briefs, and lay down on McCoy’s bed, McCoy lying next to him.
He managed to direct the conversation for the evening, so he was able to keep the
talk on topics he was comfortable with. Ship’s assignments, plans for upcoming shore leave, Kirk’s exploits, news
from Terra and Vulcan, recent medical and scientific experiments, and even how long it would take Uhura to make her mind up
about which of the junior officers she was going to date.
Eventually, McCoy grew tired, the exhaustion from the duty of the day and the recent
activities of the night taking its toll on his body. Spock stroked his hair and kissed his forehead as the human drifted off
The Vulcan, however, remained awake, not experiencing the same need for rest. He
stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought. He would be able to live with McCoy’s fantasies, of course, for he knew it
was not the fantasies that made the man. And he desired that man very much. However, he was found himself unable to broach
the issue with McCoy, and so he decided to simply keep the secret of his knowledge to himself, and allow McCoy to keep his
secret as well, undisturbed. Unless, of course, a better solution would come his way. The chances of that were slim, of course,
approximately 1,948,245,842 to 1...however those were not the calculations of a robot, but of a Vulcan.