"Spock, for the last time, we are not getting a cat." McCoy, older now, managed to grind out from between his naturally yellowed—and not artificially whitened, thank you—teeth. He peeks his eyes out from between his fingers to find, sure enough, Spock's expression as distressed as he's ever seen it. That is, his brows were furrowed with eyes cinching together, and lips minimally down-turned with teeth clearly touching one against the other beneath them.

So McCoy isn't surprised when Spock utters the damning refrain, "I do not see the logic behind your reluctance."

"For the thousandth—" McCoy sees Spock out of the corner of his eyes, not caring to look directly at his long-time on-again/off-again lover, getting ready to provide him oh-so-helpfully with the current count of how many dozens of times he actually has listed his reasons—"Don't you dare. For the one thousandth and one time: first, we are not a week retired from the fleet yet and haven't even left temporary housing—meaning we don't even live together yet. How can we get a cat?" Spock, adamant on this, opens his mouth again—"Second, Mister, if this keeps up we might not even live together. I mean, we're not even married." Leonard has stopped walking and by now has just been shouting at the other man in the middle of a neighborhood, and very public, street. As the words die down he continues glaring at the other, waiting for the inevitable refutation.

And here it comes. "We are not married because it was against regulations and you wish for a large ceremony that is taking an inordinate amount of time to prepare—"

"An` it would be done by now if your ethics hadn`t prevented me planning sooner, say on that boring trip back from space. "

"—and despite that we are nearly engaged, if this continues, we may not become married." McCoy huffs out a puff of air and crosses his arms tighter around himself, pretending not to notice a face that is now peering out from behind flower patterned blinds not even two houses down the block. If Spock wants play at this game, well, so will he. "As well, your argument is weekend substantially when you leave out the fact of your being allergic to them."

"Yeah, well," McCoy starts sauntering after Spock as the vulcan starts moving, but pauses as he takes note of where they're moving; they're heading up the steps of the Antebellum house Spock had paused in-front of. "Hobgoblin, are we visiting someone?" If so, McCoy likes whoever has the guts to place and old southern style house smack-dab in the middle of 23rd century San Francisco.

Spock, already up the three steps leading to the rustic white wooden door, calls down. "In a manner of speaking, we are visiting, yes." He twists on the handle, and is through the front entrance before McCoy is even halfway off the sidewalk, leaving the older of the two to swear and stutter as he races after the inhuman son-of-a-. . ..

When McCoy enters the house, he's shell shocked to see Spock standing there, an older cat with a shaved patch on its tail in his arms, mewling and twisting slightly. And on that's cats collar two plain silver rings are dangling in place of a more traditional bell. "You ain't even on your knees. And we're getting rid of the cat!"

It is then that the cat twists out of Spock's arms, able to—apparently—best vulcan strength. Spock, posture calm and unquestionable military command, "I take it that that was a yes?"

McCoy, after a brief pause (because this really really doesn't come close to the worst thing Spock's done to him) "It comes with the house?"

"Yes. It also comes with the cat. She was, after all, living here when I bought the place."

. . .

"I'm gonna enjoy feeding the thing steaks."