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He hadn’t been able to duck out of the invitation. And, truth damn well be told, Leonard McCoy hadn’t squirmed too much to avoid it. An orgy at the Lewis family’s old plantation house (dating right back to the old Earth Civil War, Eugene Lewis said but Leonard had his doubts) might not be what he had planned, but it sure beat another weekend alone in his apartment.

Not that he couldn’t go pick up some pretty piece. But he was behaving.

In as much as he ever fucking behaved, that was. They'd just been watching him out of the corners of their eyes around the shitting morgue - he could see them doing it every time he brought a body down and lingered for even a few extra seconds. Assholes didn't want to share.

But providing discreet medical service for a bunch of goddamn over-enthusiastic swingers would put him in Eugene's good books and he'd make a spare hundred credits or so. And the pussy would find him; it always did at these events.

He packed his medical bag: hypos, bottled water, prophylactic barriers for a variety of species - you never knew what kind of slaves Eugene was going to import - and a whole box of gloves. He'd be fucked - more metaphorically than literally since he sure as hell planned to get fucked at some point - if he was going to catch some two-bit, cheap-ass crotch fungus just because he stuck his hand in the wrong orifice while looking to fix some party-goer up.

Fucking sex party weekends.

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