Title: Impromptu Bondmates
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: R
Feedback: Send it to ParadigmShiftmchsi.com
Author's Note: The notion that McCoy can't swim, and is, in fact, scared of the water, isn't mine, nor is it strictly canon. It was introduced in the Star Trek novel "Ice Trap", and worked well as a plot point for this story.
Disclaimer: They belong to the mountain, and to Corporate America. NASA probably owns a little of them, too. Being that I don't fit under any of these categories, how much, precisely, do you think I own?
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Chapter 4Spock stared at the man hard, trying to concentrate as the splashing and spluttering from the water grew more and more frantic. "I cannot speak to him without touching him. Our bond is still relatively new."
Amos watched him calmly. "I suggest you learn quickly, because I don't imagine he'll stay above the water much longer."
Spock turned, gazing at the struggling human. He knew that time was of the essence, yet also knew what a danger an immediate attempt at the full bond could pose.
Of course, there were no other logical alternatives he could think of, and the danger of inaction was for more clear and present than the danger to McCoy's mind.
Spock turned to gaze at the floundering form of his bondmate. Hoping that McCoy would understand the necessity of this action, Spock opened all of his carefully erected mental barriers, concentrating on that summer almost twenty years ago on Earth. The summer his mother taught him to . . .
'Swim,' he urged.
. . . . . . . .
It was dark and wet, and Leonard McCoy was absolutely certain that he was going to die. He had nightmares about drowning, but the reality was horribly different. There was no control, and no way out. It seemed that the more he struggled, the worse off he was, and it became clear that he was in desperate need of air.
'Swim,' a voice urged in his head, but in his state, he couldn't think who it was. He opened his mouth to respond, only to find it flooded with water. He gasped in horror, and the water started to fill his lungs. He flailed his arms, one of which protested fiercely as his shoulder wound reopened and started staining the water around him red.
'OhGodsocoldsowetcan'tbreathe!'
'Doctor!'
There were no thoughts to describe what it felt like to die, but that didn't mean his mind wasn't trying to come up with them. 'GodpleasenonotlikethisIdon'twanttodie!'
'LEONARD!'
'Spock!' His bondmate, the one man who could save him, if anyone could. Desperately, he reached out physically and mentally, praying for salvation.
And it hit him, knocking him down even deeper. Too many memories to be pertinent, but he knew that somewhere in this delicately ordered chaos there were things he had to know. Something about a summer. Something McCoy, no, Spock had learned one summer . . .
And then, he wasn't honestly sure who the hell he was, but he knew that he should be kicking. With his lungs screaming, and brownish blues and greens swirling in front of his wide eyes, he scissored his legs, breaking the surface. It took all of his flagging strength to kick his way to shore, even with his knowledge. His movements were sluggish and his muscles completely unused to reacting in such a way. He still seemed to be breathing in more water than air, and that was really beginning to worry him.
The bank seemed too far, but he had to get there. There was no way around that. Had to reach . . .
And then there were hands grasping and pulling at him, and he was being lifted out of the small indoor pond. Gently, the hands set him down on the floor.
Lord, the ground had never felt so good. Of course, neither had coughing up everything he had eaten or inhaled in the past twenty-three hours, either. His entire body was chilled and convulsing, and if he had any dignity before, it was as good as gone now.
The real problem currently was that he was still totally confused. There were too many memories that he had the strange feeling weren't his, but if they weren't, then where did they come from?
Jesus, his head ached.
A voice was calling him from somewhere far away. Something whispering at him, telling him that things were all right. That he could inhale now.
He did, and slowly things started to come back into focus. He was Leonard McCoy, ship's surgeon of the U. S. S. Enterprise. And he currently had the worst migraine he'd ever experienced in his life.
Groaning, he opened his eyes, staring at the hands that held his shoulders firmly. Following them with his eyes, he saw wrists leading to arms leading to . . . "Spock," he croaked.
"I'm here, Leonard."
"So'm I, apparently."
"It does seem that you now know how to swim," Spock offered.
"Yes, it does," a voice rang out, and McCoy looked up blearily to stare at Amos. "You passed. Congratulations."
"You son of a bitch," McCoy snapped. "You were willing to kill me just to check that? You could have just asked Spock! Vulcans can't lie! What the hell kind of man do you think you are?!"
"Calm yourself, Leonard," Spock urged.
"Dammit Spock, if you think—"
'He will not hesitate to kill you,' Spock's voice rang out in his head, effectively silencing the doctor.
"As I said," Amos elaborated as if they hadn't even spoken, "you've both passed. You'll be taken, healed, and outfitted, and then you can do as you like. When you're needed, you'll be summoned."
And then, he turned, and left the acquisitions to their own devices.
As soon as he was gone, McCoy started coughing again, shaking in the aftershock of all that had happened, at the terror of the water.
Dimly, he heard Spock request that the others wait outside, and Gessad immediately acquiesced, urging the rest of them out into the hallway. More or less willingly, they all took their leave one by one.
"Goddamn son of a bitch," McCoy growled, commanding his mutinous body to stop this pathetic shaking right now. He was less than successful.
"You must relax," Spock urged. "Your body has just been through a substantial shock. It would be inadvisable to tax it further."
"You telling me you're concerned about me, Spock?" McCoy asked lightly, attempting to tease.
Spock opened his mouth, and then shut it again. 'It's appropriate that I should be, Leonard,' he thought. 'You are my bondmate.'
McCoy gaped. Then, in a moment of pure impulse, he straightened and kissed Spock hard. The Vulcan stiffened in surprise.
'Get used to it, Spock,' McCoy urged. 'You married yourself a human, you should expect certain spontaneous displays of affection.'
'It might be more appropriate if you warned me first.'
'Hmm . . . you're right. Then again, who ever said I concerned myself with 'appropriate'?'
'I would certainly never make that mistake.'
The bond had formed without their notice, which, McCoy thought, was a good sign. The long-range initiation had definitely done him some mental damage, but this contact-link was slowly becoming a familiar feeling, sort of safe and warm. He was well aware that he should be irritated, shocked and scandalized, but it seemed now to be a very small intrusion.
Of course, the moment he thought that, it inevitably grew. The depth of the link began a cascade effect; spiraling into territory he didn't want it, old and painful memories. Nearly drowning as a child while his cousin died only a few feet away, both swept down by the under-tow. His more recent encounter with the water, so deep and cold, with no bottom to hold him up: water filling his lungs and choking off his air. Burning in his head.
Burning. Chara IV, the day he had arrived there. A terrible fire in one of the giant, rickety poor-houses. Hundreds of charred bodies, covered in slick lymph carried in whatever could hold them. How many had died?
Death. Patients lost, friends buried. Acquaintances. Faces in his medical records. Too many people died and, somehow, he had simply grown desensitized. Was that fair? Was it right that something in him no longer cried out softly in agony every time he confirmed a death? Every time he was forced to pull the trigger? Every life he exchanged for another, as if he had that right. As if he had any right.
It was too much. A lifetime's worth of pain, and he just kept diving deeper, and the link was breaking through walls that had been there for a definite purpose. Penetrating his soul, impaling it as it fluttered to escape. He couldn't escape. He was absolutely, totally helpless, and he hated it. He hated it because it seemed to be readily apparent to whatever malicious being that happened along. It took one look at Jim, Spock and him, and always noticed right away who the weak link was. Then, it proceeded to exploit that weakness, using him to get to the others. Making him understand how frail he was, what a liability to the team he posed.
Leonard McCoy suddenly understood very clearly that he was not cut out to be anyone's bondmate. There were places in him, depths and dark corners, that were unexplored for a reason. There was pain and fear and a horrible inadequacy that people could absolutely not see if they were ever to like or even respect him.
It must be genetic. One of those whispered family secrets was that the McCoy's ancestors had been Clansmen. They had hanged people who were different than they were, and though Leonard himself often teased Spock about those attributes he possessed that racially separated them, he was secretly terrified that he might actually mean it. That, somehow, that disease had passed on in the blood, unnoticed until its foolish progeny ventured forth into the stars.
And he had the audacity to think he could handle this?
'You can.'
'No! Spock . . . what I've said . . . what I am . . .'
'You are nothing that you do not choose to be. There is absolutely no logic behind the notion of predestination. What your ancestors were does not affect you.'
'Doesn't it?' McCoy demanded.
'Your words were—'
'Racial slurs.'
'Yes, they were. However, to your credit, I am the only Vulcan you have ever directed such comments towards.'
'Maybe it's because I felt safe venting to you. Maybe it was because I knew you couldn't hurt me, no matter what I said. Spock, God, I was so certain that all I wanted to do was rile you, however I could. I never imagined that—'
'Leonard, do you hate me?'
'Lord, no, Spock!'
'Then your words mean nothing.'
'Too bad you can't convince me of that.'
McCoy felt his entire world trembling. These were the places he had wanted no one to see. The modern humanity stripped away to reveal a man who was still afraid of the unknown. The civilized good in him gone, leaving the ugliness only forgotten with a liberal dose of alcohol.
This was a part of him that Spock should never see. The fact that he was there, that he had punched through McCoy's best defenses made him sick with fear. He had always known, on an instinctual level, that Spock was infinitely stronger, physically and mentally, than he could ever hope to be. Knowing on that level, and knowing it on this primitive level, however, were two completely separate things. It was the caveman meeting the astronaut for the first time, and realizing how tiny and insignificant he really was.
Spock could destroy him now, he knew, with a single thought.
'As could you.'
McCoy was taken aback. However, his mind gasped for that purchase offered, and he began to understand Spock's meaning. While he was so caught up with the fact that he was now raw and exposed, he hadn't noticed that Spock was, as well. That all of Spock's dark corners were suddenly thrown into the light, too, that his own mind had pushed into a territory in which it wasn't entirely welcome.
And he understood.
He understood the rigid code of logic, put in place to control one of the most naturally violent races in the galaxy. They were desert dwellers, a small hairless being with no teeth or claws to speak of. The ears gave them some warnings, but the attacks had been fast and brutal. Soon, so were the Vulcans.
That was what Spock fought. He sometimes feared that he would not be capable, that his logic would fail and that whatever emotions he kept under such tight restraint would simply explode, demolishing the people he cared about.
The people he loved.
And that was the worst part: logic was what held his entire fragmented being together, keeping warring Vulcan and human parts in check. It was the great mutual deterrent. Without it, he was certainly doomed to nothing short of chaos. With it, though . . .
Spock was half-human, and that part of him longed for so many things with a wistfulness that shocked the human doctor.
'You can compromise,' McCoy urged.
'I cannot. My control is not so strong as you assume.'
'There is nothing that you do not choose to be,' McCoy parroted back at Spock. 'Strike a deal with your human half. It might surprise you.'
McCoy felt Spock's resolve weakening. The doctor had been placed in a position that truly affected the Vulcan, truly swayed him. His influences and inputs were far stronger at this level, where he appealed directly to Spock's submerged humanity, than they ever had been from the outside.
He had no idea that he wielded that type of power over his half-Vulcan bondmate.
Sudden resistance. Cold logic slamming into McCoy hard enough to daze. Lord, was Sock actually frightened by McCoy's ability to affect change within him? Was that what this was?
McCoy's mind was forced up, back through layers of consciousness, making the balance uneven, making things fall out of place. Spock still existed within a terribly personal level of the doctor's psyche. He had either forgotten to pull out, or decided not to, but whichever it was, it was frightening McCoy, because it was far too much like another instance two years back.
Spock, but not Spock, the man from the mirror universe, who had felt exactly like his friend, plundering his memories, with no regard to McCoy's desires. There was no control, no permission, only a violation that, by all rights, should have landed McCoy in a psych ward. Instead, it had been weeks of counseling with a very discreet M'Benga.
And now, as it had been then, his head began to fill with excruciating pain and the terror of the truly helpless. He was horribly reminded that he had absolutely no mental training, that, at any given moment, Spock could decide to break the rules and kill him from the inside out.
And he couldn't even scream.
McCoy began to thrash, even as Spock realized his error. He began to try to pull out, but the emptiness, the sudden loss, let the pain rush in even harder, sweeping the human down. For the second time today, McCoy was drowning, only this time there was no one to save him.
His air was gone, and, as he stared up at the light receding from his vision, McCoy lapsed into unconsciousness.
. . . . . . . .
Gessad gazed at the prone figure of the human, marveling that such a physiologically pathetic species could have risen so far in an organization as seemingly vast as the Federation. They had redressed him in a comfortable human suit from his homeland, yet, still, he seemed to Gessad very small and weak.
He informed the impassive Vulcan of that fact.
Spock nodded stiffly. He had seemed doubly so ever since bringing his unconscious bondmate to the Cardassian, hoping for his assistance in healing and reviving Leonard McCoy. He had taken very little time to change into his own Vulcan robes in order to stay with his bondmate and aid in his recovery.
It wasn't a particularly easy task with Kataq and Telara hovering over them, but that couldn't be helped. They were confined to only a small area, and diversions were few and far between. It was only natural that they would develop certain morbid fascinations.
If only they wouldn't press so very close.
It was difficult enough working in such primitive conditions and on a patient whose physiology was determined by guesswork and questions. He could use the dermal regenerator to patch up both the doctor's shoulder and the Vulcan's leg, but beyond that there was little he could do. He had attempted standard procedures such as slapping the poor human, but to no avail. However, the medical tricorder that their captors had left for first aid usage did reveal certain facts that he found greatly disturbing.
There was absolutely no problem, he reminded himself, which could not be solved by a disciplined Cardassian mind.
Unfortunately, his disciplined mind was currently telling him that nothing he could do would be of any use. Others, though . . .
He looked up at the assembled group, gauging the Vulcan's need for privacy. Finally, carefully choosing his words, Gessad looked to Telara and asked, "My dear, can I have a moment alone with Spock, please?"
"It is unnecessary," she told him flatly.
Gessad nearly hissed in frustration. Damn the woman and her uncompromising attitude.
To his surprise, it was Kataq who saved him. "I do not care to stare at an unconscious human. It disgusts me. Come, Telara. We will work on the communications system." Grimacing at Gessad and their two newest companions, Kataq exited. Telara, after a moment to show that this was her choice, and that she did not blindly follow a Klingon's order, followed.
When they were gone, Gessad looked up on the saturnine features of Spock. "Well?" the Cardassian prompted.
Spock looked at him coldly. "I cannot tell what you are asking me simply from one word."
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"That does not clarify the question."
Gessad ran a hand through his hair. "This man is of a race with absolutely no special mental abilities. Am I correct?"
"You are."
"While your race is telepathic."
"Indeed."
"And you decided that it was a good idea to force the custom of a telepathic species on a non-telepathic individual?"
"I did not force the issue, but yes, that is essentially correct."
"Well, if you were trying to kill him, I would say that you're succeeding remarkably."
That got a reaction, albeit a tiny one. For an instant Gessad though he saw fear on that alien's face, but then, all it seemed to be was a lifted eyebrow. "Indeed?" Spock queried, his voice soft.
"His higher brain functions are deteriorating," Gessad explained. "It's been happening for a while now. His physiology isn't familiar to me, so I can't give you a good estimate, but at some time in the not too distant future, he's going to die if he doesn't receive treatment."
"It is treatable, then?"
Gessad shrugged. "If we were on my ship, I could perform an intensive stem- cell treatment to grow the brain cells required to sustain this new mental ability. As is, the . . . bond, is it?" The Vulcan nodded. "The bond is attempting to convert existing brain cells, which is very simply destroying his synaptic pathways."
"This procedure cannot be done here?"
The Cardassian barked in a short, bitter laugh. "Here we're lucky to have a dermal regenerator." He met Spock's eyes. "His only hope of survival is to get him off this backwards rock, and to a hospital that actually has medical equipment."
"I understand."
Gessad stared at the Vulcan, disturbed by the fact that he didn't even bat an eye at the plight of what the Cardassian could only assume was his husband. "May I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"Why aren't you concerned about him?"
"I am Vulcan. Emotions are not indulged in by my people."
That was a fact of which the Cardassian was already aware. In fact, it made this pair even stranger, in Gessad's opinion. Then again, it was the natural norm that opposites attracted. "I am well aware," he said carefully, "that it's not my place to question the nature of another culture. It's one of the primary foundations of xenobiology. However, I can tell you now that this man is dying, and he's frightened. He now possesses neural pathways he can't make any sense of, and, I'm guessing that he's losing other functions he's used to accessing readily. If you can't support him emotionally, it doesn't bode well." Gessad sniffed. "At least, that's my diagnosis."
"I believe we should bring him out of this unconscious state before we concern ourselves with other issues," Spock stated.
Gessad glared at the impassive alien, but shrugged. "Then I recommend you figure out how, because I'm fresh out of ideas."
Spock stepped forward. "Being that he lapsed into this state as a result of a meld, it would seem logical that he could be awoken by similar means."
Gessad rose from the chair he was currently occupying at the human's side, gesturing sweepingly. "Be my guest."
He watched with interest as the Vulcan sat next to the human, placing his finger at points along McCoy's face. Gessad cocked his head in fascination as it seemed that absolutely nothing transpired. And yet, somehow, he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Cardassians were not a telepathic people by nature, but with such high levels of mental training, it was difficult not to sense when mental currents altered in some way.
Then, Spock broke away, rising. "Doctor McCoy should awaken shortly. If you'll excuse me, I will go and offer my assistance to Telara and Kataq."
Before Gessad could so much as voice a protest, Spock was gone, leaving him alone with the human. With a sigh of resignation, he resumed his seat.
Suddenly, McCoy's eyes began to flutter. Gessad reached out, hesitating, and then gently holding his shoulders.
"Spock?" the human doctor rasped.
Gessad's heart went out to the man, it truly did. Still, best to be neutral in such a situation, for his own sake, if not anyone else's. "He's not here, Doctor."
Blue eyes fixed on him and focused. "Where'd he go?'
"He said that he was going to see if Telara and Kataq needed any help with their project."
McCoy closed his eyes. "Of course."
"I'm sorry," Gessad offered.
"My fault, anyway. Pushed him too hard. He likes to make out like he's got no feelings, but he does, and it galls him to all hell. Man thinks he should out-Vulcan the Vulcans, if you catch my meaning."
"Overachiever?"
"You could say that."
"Why did you do it?"
McCoy looked at him quizzically. "Pardon?"
"Why him? Out of an entire galaxy of eligible beings, why him?"
McCoy looked disturbed, and Gessad held up a hand. "I apologize. I'm prying."
"Yeah, you are, but I've been asking myself the same thing." He scratched his head.
"Are you in love with him?"
McCoy smiled. "That, my friend, is the million dollar question."
Gessad wasn't quite sure that that meant, but knew that it wasn't an answer.
McCoy eyed him. "I don't actually know," he restated.
"You must have thought you were to bond with him in the first place."
That made the human distinctly uncomfortable, interestingly enough. "Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?"
""You're not going to tell me what's really going on, are you?" Gessad asked, the corner of his mouth kicking up.
"Doesn't look that way."
The Cardassian nodded his approval. "Very good, Doctor."
"Please, call me Leonard," the human brushed off.
Gessad gave him a slow blink. "I didn't realize you considered us that close."
McCoy looked at him in confusion. "It's common courtesy for new friends to call each other by their given names."
Gessad, realizing his error, relaxed. "I see. On my planet, only your family or . . . very close personal friends address you by your given name."
The human looked embarrassed. "Sorry."
"Quite all right, and if it is your custom, than it's one I in which would be glad to practice." He smiled. "Just don't ask me to tell you my given name."
"Is Gessad all right?'
"Oh, yes, that's fine."
"Wonderful. Gessad, at this moment, I have the headache from hell, and a bondmate I can't make heads or tails of. Now, normally, I'd decide to bury myself in work, but there isn't any work here. Since there's nothing else for me to do, I'm really hoping we've got alcohol here, and you wouldn't mind joining me in a drink."
Gessad brightened at the prospect of an actual conversation, while at the same time feeling wary of what might happen to such a debilitated man if he imbibed. He ran the tricorder over the human again, trying to discern how much damage a drink might do him. However, he stopped, staring at the readings. It wasn't possible . . .
But it would explain certain things, not to mention make the strange relationship between Spock and McCoy quite a bit more understandable.
Gessad smiled brilliantly. "Why, Doctor," he stated, "I would be delighted."
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Next: Realizations are never easy.