I've been lurking in this fandom for too long! I'm not sure on my characterizations in this, though, so I'd appreciate any constructive criticism (or any type of feedback, really).

Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to a bunch of people who are, unfortunately, not me.

Diagnostic Error

Or, "Is That What It's Called?"

"As much as you bully the crew into eating healthy, Leonard, you sure seem to drink a lot of that poison on your own," Chapel pointed out at the monthly Medical dinner. It wasn't anything fancy, just an opportunity to get together and talk over plates of food instead of bleeding patients for a change.

McCoy took a moment to appraise the glass in his hand, contemplating the truth in Chapel's statement before gulping down some of the liquid in it. "You have a point. Good thing I'm allowed to be a hypocrite."

"What is that stuff, anyway? It doesn't look like Saurian brandy." Chapel leaned forward curiously, trying to get a closer look at the dark orange drink.

"No idea. Keenser made some for me and Scotty, said it's from his planet. You want some?"

M'Benga's voice cut across Chapel's response, saying, "If new drinks are all we have to deal with from him, we should consider ourselves lucky. Usually there are all sorts of medical complications that come from having a mixed-species crew, so I'll be glad if he isn't involved in any crises. Remember the Orion medicine mix-up?"

McCoy groaned and shook away the memory of the problems with the pheromone suppressants. Those seven hours of trying to get the right dosage had been stressful as hell. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Right. And I guess the Commander isn't affected by that Vulcan cycle, so we're lucky there, too."

Two calming breaths later, McCoy was able to push away his irritation at being left out of the loop by the Vulcan medical files—again. "Jabilo? What cycle are you talking about?"

Shrugging, M'Benga began peeling the orange on his plate. "I don't fully understand, myself. All those years training with the Vulcan doctors, and all they told me was that it's a cyclic hormonal imbalance of sorts. Their 'Time,' they called it."

"Never heard of it," McCoy said, frowning.

Damn files.

The next day, McCoy appeared outside Spock's room. "Is Jim in here?" he asked, sounding hopeful.

"He is," Spock replied, stepping back to allow McCoy entrance to the room. He nodded towards the desk, where Jim was midway through reading the latest upgrade report from Engineering.

"Hey Bones!" Jim called, setting aside the report. "Need something?"

"Yeah, that supplies request I gave you yesterday. Did you get a chance to sign off on it?" The vaguely desperate look on the doctor's face gave Spock the impression that he might threaten violence if Jim answered negatively.

Standing, Jim shuffled through the pile of PADDs on the desk and groaned. "I did it, I swear, it's just somewhere in my room. Give me a second to find it?"

Some of the tension in McCoy's shoulders relaxed away, and Jim gave him a small smile as he disappeared through the connecting bathroom into his own room. The silence that followed his exit was so uncomfortable that even Spock was able to pick up on it easily.

"So Jabilo told me something interesting yesterday," McCoy began in a conversational tone. "He said Vulcans go through this hormonal change every once in a while, and that was all he was ever able to find out. Did you ever have that?"

The doctor was unaware of the serious breach of privacy that he had committed by asking about that, so Spock limited his reaction to a nearly-imperceptible stiffening of his spine. "It is not spoken of," he stated flatly, voice sounding more emotionless than usual.

McCoy snorted. "It will be if it ever affects your health," he said, and Spock clearly heard the threat beneath the words.

"Found it! It was—" Jim paused in the doorway, about to enter. "How are you two fighting after less than a minute by yourselves?"

"We are not fighting, Captain. I was merely about to inform the doctor that discussion of one's Time is strictly prohibited due to Vulcan custom."

Apparently realizing he'd have to work around that argument at another time, McCoy backed off his point. "I'm just trying to make sure you stay healthy and sane, Spock," he said. "That ever changes because of that hormonal thing, you can come to me and I won't tell anyone you broke custom."

"Yes, doctor. I will do so," Spock replied, nodding stiffly.

Jim grinned. "See, playing nice is good! Here's your request, Bones, signed and all."

"I'd tell you you're a godsend, but it would go to your head," McCoy grumbled, accepting the PADD and moving towards the door with a wave. "I have to get this in, so I'll see you next shift."

Once McCoy had left, Jim turned to Spock and asked, "What hormonal thing?"

Avoiding Jim's eyes made it easier to speak on the subject. While he had been trained to never speak of it, particularly to one of another species, Jim certainly had a right to know about that aspect of his bondmate. "My Pon Farr. Do you recall my fever last year?"

"You had a fever a few times—oh. Is that what it's called?" Jim slipped an arm around Spock's waist and attempted to hide his growing grin in the blue shirt. Apparently he forgot Spock could feel the amusement creeping through their contact.

"Yes, that one. Once every seven years, Vulcans experience a biological need to mate repeatedly in an attempt to procreate. It results in worsening irrationality as the blood fever associated with it progresses, so its discussion is considered a taboo in our culture. However, as you were instrumental in helping it pass I believe you are entitled to the information."

"And Bones?"

"Dr. McCoy does not need to know the particulars of it," Spock replied, keeping his voice carefully level. "I am aware that the lack of medical knowledge regarding it disconcerts him, but as it will not affect my health he does not need to know about it. As long as I am with you and we are able to retreat when it begins, I will be able to remain 'healthy and sane.'"

Jim shrugged. "I'll trust you on this, as long as it really won't affect your health."

They were both quiet for a minute, as Spock tentatively rested his arm across Jim's shoulders so he would be more comfortable. Finally, the inevitable:

"Seven years, you said? So a little less than six years left until the next one?"

Spock exhaled forcefully, and it was not a sigh. "Correct."

"Damn."

Spock had to agree.