This fic picks up directly after McCoy visits Kirk for his birthday. While it's not made clear whether Spock knew of the fal-tor-pan, it is established in III that Sarek did. Despite their feud, I think that Sarek would have imparted this knowledge to Spock at some point, as he is protective of him. The lullaby McCoy sings is something I left up to interpretation, as I try not to add song lyrics into my fanfics. His singing is a reference to the fact that DeForest Kelley began his life in show business as a singer.

I hope this does not come off as me bashing Saavik. I very much like her, actually. I just interpret her relationship with Spock as platonic. (clears throat) Plus, I think she and Xon make a cute couple, though he is only found in non-canon works.


An arm shifted against Spock's side, and he stirred, blinking blearily.

His apartment was quiet, albeit not very inhabited, his time more spent upon the Enterprise. Earth, in many ways, was still quite alien to him. While not an oddity in Starfleet, he found the culture of humanity too jarring, and indeed, in his past, worthy of ridicule (and he still did, somewhat, now). After all, he did have an alien with him in his bed.

"Oh, sorry," McCoy murmured drowsily, feeling him moving against him, "Didn't mean to wake you. We've got a few hours left, if you want to go back to sleep."

Spock threaded his fingers through McCoy's hair, and placed his mouth near his mate's ear. "What is bothering you?"

"It shouldn't be difficult to figure out," he replied, his tone breathy from having Spock so close to him.

"The admiral," Spock commented.

"What the hell was Jim thinking," McCoy muttered, "He's a baby compared to me."

"That is reaching, Len," Spock corrected.

"Figure of speech," McCoy grumbled.

"Nevertheless, it does bother him, although it is unavoidable."

McCoy shrugged. "There's nothing really wrong with old age. It just is. We just don't like to look forward to it."

"That was contradictory," Spock pointed out.

McCoy groaned, and was silent for a moment before continuing. "At the risk of being corrected once more, I'd like to make a point."

"I am merely offering a counter to your argument," Spock replied helpfully. McCoy half-heartedly swiped at the air, being too tired to connect his arm with a body part. The Vulcan caught it and placed a kiss to the back of it before allowing McCoy to drop it.

Coyly, the doctor tugged the sheet more tightly about his naked body, swaddling himself further from Spock. With an amused grunt, Spock sat up, and tugged his mate's lithe form into his lap. There was something sensual about being separated from his naked body by only thin fabric. McCoy, sensing his arousal, lowered his head to kiss along Spock's collar bone. Spock held the bundle close, his grip tightening once at a memory, buried by years of time.

There was Kirk, much-aged, his hair prematurely gray, calling Spock a traitor after the competency hearing. While their rapidly-aging conditions from the away mission on Gamma Hydra IV had been temporary, they had still revealed more about themselves than they had desired. In Kirk's case, it was his fear of helplessness, brought about by age. McCoy had a suspicion about that, especially after Anton Karidian's tour of Macbeth had brought him to Planet Q, and back into Kirk's life.

Spock's hand tightened on his shoulder, and McCoy sighed, leaning his head against his shoulder. "I know." And the point didn't have to be made. What was it for Spock, he wondered from time to time, to know that he would outlive them?

Spock's answer came in the form of a slight tug on the bond, which caused McCoy to glance up. Warm brown eyes stared into his. Clichés about the end of time drifted away, as he stared into the younger man's eyes. Of course, either of them could be lost tomorrow, given how out of balance the universe was, but that was always a factor. Spock's logic considering that factor occasionally slipped. As such, he utterly adored his mate for his devotion to preserving life, though it was tempered with his frustration over how it led him to indulge in his emotions too often. And occasionally, Spock wondered, how did it not kill this human, to be as driven by them as he was? Then again, McCoy had a similar thought process about him, considering his adherence to logic. They were not diametrically opposed, as they had once thought themselves to be, but their dissimilarities were easy to see. It was easy for outsiders, for example, to think that there was nothing between them but bad blood.

Spock slowly leaned back against the pillow. He needed to stop that train of thought. There were cases of lovers who had shared a mind far too much, conjoining each other. It seemed the longer the life he had with Leonard, the more difficult that line was becoming to walk. The idea of the two of them, hopelessly combined, was the stuff of nightmares. McCoy stroked along his hairline. "Shhh…" Spock swallowed, and Leonard realized that he was baring his fear of the opposite occurring, that his desire to keep him would lead to a dark distortion of mind, if not of body. Spock wanted to let him go, rather than forcing his consciousness to remain, when it was his time. Though it was easier to say than to do, given his attachment. His mate was taken aback by this gift, but utterly grateful for it.

McCoy sat up, the sheet sliding down to his hips. He crawled on top of Spock, who sat up slightly. Spock ran his fingers down McCoy's sides, causing his mate to groan, and arch slightly in pleasure. It was partly out of affection, but also out of covetousness. He had felt McCoy's possessiveness of him, upon noticing his protégé Saavik's glances at him. Tracing his thumbs inward, he ran them over the grayed hairs on McCoy's chest, and sunk them into the skin. He had aged, as Spock himself had, but his husband's desire for him had not waned. Rather, the fire continued to burn for him, more fiercely than he would ever mention in polite company, with his gaze occasionally drifting to the doctor on the bridge, or within sickbay. Saavik was, admittedly, quite lovely, but he did not share with her the raw years he had with the doctor. They had had their quarrels, some rather harsh, yes. But there had also been discoveries and ecstasies. While there had been volatility, there had also been peace. Saavik was similar to Zarabeth in that regard. A good friend to have, but a stranger to him. For all that he had felt lonely, he was now joined inexorably with his doctor through their shared history.

McCoy smirked, sensing his thoughts. "Cut the bullshit, Spock. You just want me to warm your bed."

"I see no problem with this," he replied.

McCoy snorted. "There's one: you steal the covers."

"I am accustomed to a warmer climate. It is logical," he replied, though his husband noted, with a touch of humor, his slight hesitation, as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

McCoy's hand, calloused from years of work, bearing scars and scrapes from missions, and the skin cracked from the use of chemicals, lowered toward Spock's cheek. Extending his fingers, he threaded them through Spock's hair, and combed it. Spock closed his eyes and let out a relaxed breath. He leaned forward, and kissed his forehead, his lips lingering upon it. He kissed Spock's lips, and felt Spock's hand on his back, drawing him gently into his mouth. Breaking off the kiss, Leonard asked, "You all right, love?"

"Yes," he replied, "We are currently Earth-bound. There is little need for concern." It was a gentle brush, and Leonard realized that he needed to back off a step. Occasionally, McCoy made the mistake of underestimating Spock's resilience, and there was also a shade of fear from his previous failed marriage due to neglect. Spock, however, called to his attention whenever he was beginning to hover.

McCoy, however, shrugged it off. "Depends upon what you mean by 'little need.' You tend to stretch the meaning, as well." There were subtle instances of this, with Spock standing slightly before him, when interacting with unknown individuals. On other occasions, with a hand possessively wrapped about his waist, notably after an encounter with the Romulans, or when he had overheard the critical words of other Vulcans.

The Romulan commander detected something, all those years ago, during her mind meld with Spock. He'd hidden McCoy from her, but she could tell his emotions had been diverted. With a knowing smile, she told him that she would keep his secret. Silence had fallen between Spock and McCoy for the remainder of that day, mostly due to Spock having to speak with Jim about their undercover mission. That following night, however, lowering his head before McCoy, he entreated, "Forgive me."

And McCoy, for all the anger he felt against him, for the deception, and putting him through this, merely replied, "You're home, Spock." He extended two fingers toward him, and Spock, in silence, touched his own fingers to them. Nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

"Perhaps," he admitted, "However, exploration tends to pose the higher amount of hazards."

McCoy shrugged as he lay up against him. "Especially considering all these pesky kids running around the ship." Spock raised an eyebrow, and McCoy felt his amusement flickering over to him. He groaned in annoyance. "Well, I guess they're all right. They haven't broken anything yet."

McCoy didn't want children of his own again, despite how he adored Joanna, and her own child. Spock hadn't given much of a mind to them, either, as they each had their work. Still, he could not help but feel a tenderness when he watched McCoy rock his infant grandson to sleep, singing softly to him. Noticing the Vulcan in the nursery's doorway, McCoy had explained, after tucking the young one into his crib, that it had been a lullaby he used to sing to Joanna, when he was able to see her. He'd sung for Spock on a few occasions before, when they were alone, and when his husband asked, being embarrassed by the sound of his own voice. Spock moved forward from the doorway, and felt, as he did so, as if another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. McCoy sheepishly looked in the crib, where the infant slept, and Spock asked, "Will you to teach it to me, sometime?"

McCoy shrugged. "It's just a nursery rhyme. Not very intellectually stimulating."

Spock gave him the barest hint of a smile. "That is immaterial. It means something to you. I would also like to hear you sing again."

McCoy smiled up at him. "Sorry it won't be an opera."

"It does not matter," Spock replied, gesturing to catch McCoy's attention. His grandson had slipped out from under his blanket and was going to get cold. Reaching in, Leonard carefully tugged it back onto him. "Rather," he continued, "I desire to see you, as you are, when you do."

McCoy grinned, and Spock could see a blush dusting his cheeks as he shook his head. Remarkable, his husband was. He'd been shamelessly stark naked with Spock, and in all manner of compromising positions, over the years, but when it came to singing, he was utterly abashed. "You could've just said you liked it." He rolled his eyes. "Vulcans. They always have to overly complicate things." Spock didn't trust himself with touching a human baby, but he was content to hear him again as he sang.

In their own way, they were leaving behind a legacy, but Spock wished to strive further, in his lifetime. His mate had that passion reflected in him, though in a manner toward the field of medicine itself, in helping others to live well. Despite the complaints that he had about space, McCoy's own drive made him return to the stars. And then, the moment would change, perhaps it was a touch of the hand, a lean on an arm, or a word passed, and the conversation would shift. Star charts and medical data would drift aside, and a house, one inherited by McCoy, would be thought of, if only for a moment. They would return there, together.

McCoy stroked along his captain's jaw and kissed him. Spock protectively placed an arm about him and relaxed as the doctor caressed him with his hands and his lips. For a moment, he considered the benefits of working himself into the ground, if it meant that his mate would pamper him. At McCoy's annoyed grunt, Spock gave a slight smile, indicating that it was a joke. "Spoiled hobgoblin," McCoy muttered with a shake of the head before tugging him back in for another kiss.

XXXXXX

If Spock could give Khan one thing, it was his persistence. Even when the former dictator had lost, he would still rather attempt to go out in a bang, quite literally, in fact. David was too focused upon his screen to stop him and alert the others on the bridge.

He strode briskly down the corridor. There was no time to think, now. Too many lives would be lost, if he hesitated. Goodbyes would have to wait. Jim had the bridge. Scott was likely facing more losses, and a complete breakdown of his life's work. Uhura's ear was likely threatening to bleed from the interference caused by the opposing ship's destruction. Sulu was handling the Enterprise carefully, trying to minimize whatever damage was incoming. Chekov was fighting back against his tormentor, on the phaser torpedoes.

Leonard…He would be there. Spock already began building his mental wall, encasing himself further inside with each step he took. His mate wouldn't know his intentions and could only sense him within the ship. He didn't dare reach out to him now, masking himself with his concentration upon the situation. For all that McCoy knew, he was focused upon Khan, himself, which wasn't far off from the truth.

The service way lit his face a bright red. He knew this ship well and considered it home for several years. It was not his ship, now. It was Kirk's, and he would do what he could to save it. Engineering was in chaos, with several crew members hurrying about. The bond tightened, with McCoy's stress spilling into it. Spock glanced about for a moment, and his vision locked onto him. There he was, attending to a fallen engineer. Spock decided that he had to be quick, if he wanted to slip by, as the doctor was quite close to the radiation chamber.

McCoy's white coat whipped as he sped over to him. Stopping before him, his one hand tight about a pillar, and the other still clutching a hypo, he growled, "Are you out of your Vulcan mind?! No human can tolerate the radiation that's in there!"

Spock elected to throw his own words back at him. "As you are so fond of observing, doctor, I am not human." He felt a sense of anger course through him. McCoy felt it, as well, and defiantly held his ground. Despite their deaths hanging over them, Leonard wouldn't let him go. The fool hadn't learned a thing from the Guardian of Forever, and he was about to get everyone killed.

McCoy's grip on his shoulder was firm. "You're not going in there!" The doctor had to feel his anger at him, but still he remained defiant. He wasn't going to allow Spock to pass, despite how he very well knew that the Vulcan could pick him up or shove him out of the way. But then the tactic wouldn't work, as McCoy would be ready for it, and would side step it. Spock thought on his feet, and turned to look at Scott, as if he was bowing to his mate's argument. McCoy's relief, as well as his concern for the engineer, was the signal Spock needed. He abhorred the idea of abusing his mate, especially after shoving McCoy against a cave wall in a primal rage all those years ago on Sarpeidon. But this was not harm, rather it was a method of coaxing. And that was what caught McCoy off guard.

The doctor struggled in his grip to stay awake, and Spock soothed him to rest. It was a reverse of a signature move employed by the doctor, in disabling assailants, or, at times, wayward patients. Spock gently lowered McCoy to the floor. His mate looked utterly beautiful, and he wished to hold him for longer. They'd had their time to do so, with shore leaves and nights off duty. It had been a good marriage. He grabbed Scott's gloves. Little time was to be wasted now. He knew Kirk would understand and give him his proper burial. Sarek wouldn't have his body. He had made his choice, and his father could disapprove of him to his grave. Their feud would not be completed, and Sarek would not receive closure. Much like a scorned child, he took satisfaction in his small victory over his father.

But turning back to glance at Leonard, he knew he couldn't do it. There wasn't enough time to break the bond, and it would damage his concentration, which now was needed. McCoy would survive for maybe a couple of months after his death, but then the strain of the broken bond would be too much. He didn't wish to deny Leonard the rest of his life. And with that sentiment came more doubts, his decision, once one he was resolute in holding, twisting itself out of his hands. Ultimately, he found that, despite it all, he was afraid. Spock did not desire to back down and did not consider that an option. He would let down too many people who depended on him that way. Yet, cessation of existence towered above him. He would not have cared, had he not found company here. Had his mother not sat with him, his head in her chest after he'd been bullied again, had he not played chess with Kirk, had Saavik not taken him as her mentor, and had McCoy not refused to leave him on Makus III, it would not have mattered. The living clung too tightly to each other, it seemed.

"Remember."

Leonard would be safe. Once Spock's katra was carried to Mount Seleya, the doctor would be free of their bond to live a full life in peace. Spock didn't dare think of a possible secondary option and give himself false hope. Sarek had told him, when the lights of the lamps had been turned down, of an ancient and obscure practice, the fal-tor-pan. But it could not possibly work here. His body would be far too damaged by radiation for that to occur. And yet, he was tempted by the prospect of being able to spend his life with his husband again. Really, his human side had to fight with him now? It didn't matter, he would die too, locked in an embrace with the half of him that was Vulcan. Tugging on the gloves, he stood on the rotating platform attached to the door. Further reflection was not necessary. It was time to work.

McCoy gasped, his hands scrabbling along the floor as he sat up. Spock, where was he? Swinging around, his eyes widened at the sight of Spock inside that room. His stomach dropped, and his first instinct was to dart in there after him, grab him by one of his pointed ears, and drag him out.

But it was too late for that, now. He little cared for what it would do to his own body, but opening the door, now that Spock was working on the core, would kill Scotty and other engineers by exposing them to deadly levels of radiation. He couldn't do it, although the temptation was high. Had it been his life, he would have thrown it away, willingly, for him. He thought was going to be sick as Spock stuck his head right into the smoke of released radiation. He beat furiously upon the glass, screaming at Spock to get out. It was out of frustration more than much else, as well as a release of pain. He could feel it, through their link, as the antimatter radiation slowly cooked his husband alive. McCoy begged and pleaded through his thoughts for Spock to stop and leave it alone. It was as useless as it was to bang on the thick glass, however, as engrossed Spock was in his task, his mental calculations forming a second wall between them. It was one of Spock's endearing traits, his engrossed curiosity. He could feel tears trailing down his cheeks but had no mind to wipe them off. He just couldn't tear his vision away from the harrowing scene.

Spock collapsed against the glass wall. It was finished, at last, his mental wall falling. McCoy, however, caught himself, as he couldn't hit Spock with a barrage of anger. It would be kicking him while he was down. He wasn't cruel. Rather, he held out his arms to Spock's consciousness, deeply wounded as it was. Spock fell into him, and McCoy caught him. Channeling his energy into something constructive, however small, he sent a message to Jim to come down immediately.

Spock was whispering to Kirk through the glass wall, but mentally, McCoy could hear him on a different plane.

"T'hy'la." The greeting sent a shudder down his spine, the voice so weak from their connection fading.

McCoy stood utterly still, in the silence of that room. Kirk, Scotty, and the others were, for all intents and purposes, not there, in their private discussion. "Love," he replied, his own mental voice weakening, in the effect of a reverse ripple. Caught off guard by how weak it sounded, he tried again, "All right, you win."

A soft chuckle answered him, and McCoy physically raised a hand to wipe at his eyes. It was a rich sound, one that he so seldom genuinely heard, rather than the tortured version the Platonians had extracted from him. It was a private sound between them, though one more associated with contentment than pleasure. While there was certainly a sense of excitement in catching the Vulcan in his bed, the doctor had found there was something else that was greater in simply being able to live his life with this man. That laugh nearly made him fall to his knees.

It was that anguish that prompted Spock to whisper gravely, "I am sorry, Ashayam."

"No!" He cried out, his hand twisting at his side, "I can fix you! Just—just let me think, damn it!"

"Leonard," Spock's voice was firm, and McCoy's hand released.

He didn't care that his days were numbered now, because of the broken meld. He hadn't been expecting to live past the next few minutes. He wanted to fight once more with Spock, and he knew that his husband could feel his rage, but he kept it contained. He didn't want to poison their last moments together. He'd thought he'd never get another chance when the Vians had taken him away to torture him. Now he realized how much of a mirror that was.

He could feel Spock's presence gently drifting over him in an intimate caress. Gooseflesh rose on him. He wanted to seize that touch, and perhaps it would keep him there. Medically, however, it was impossible, and he felt embarrassed for his mind's throwing years of study out the window. McCoy felt a sensation akin to Spock running the pad of his thumb over his lips. It was reminiscent of the sensation that preceded their first kiss. McCoy bit back a cry. "I love you."

And Spock seized him then, grasping onto him as a man overboard clutched a lifeline. McCoy welcomed his dying presence, perfectly willing to allow Spock to drown in him, if only to keep him near. He decided that he had lost his mind, at that point, but didn't much care. "I will be with you," Spock whispered, "You will not walk alone." It was a nice sentiment, a good sendoff. Something to give a smile to before McCoy laid on a knife. "Please," Spock entreated, catching him off guard with his utterly startled reaction, "listen to me."

The importance of it, however, became slack as their bond's last strands broke. Spock realized the futility of a full explanation. There was simply not enough energy for too large a task, and the instructions he'd left buried within McCoy's mind had to be enough. Frustrated as he was by it, similarly to a pianist with a broken wrist, or a toolmaker without a stone, Spock found he could not alter the situation this time. And he found kinship with Kirk, in realizing how utterly powerless he felt. It wasn't about him, now. But perhaps a bookend, to the doctor's near loss on Minara II, and the barest hint of a clue, one that ran the risk of misinterpretation, or misguidance, would help. He'd take it. "Come find me."

"Darling…" Kirk collapsed at the side of the glass wall dividing him from his friend's corpse. McCoy took a heavy breath. "Wait for me."