Title: Impromptu Bondmates

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: R

Author's Note: So, the cast is assembled, and may I just say hooray for arrogant Romulans, blunt Klingons, and sassy Cardassians! They make such wonderful foils.

Thanks: To Kim! My fantastic beta, who's really helping me out in this first venture into "Star Trek" slash. You're great.

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

. . . . . . . .

Chapter 5

"How is he?"

Spock raised an eyebrow at Telara's blunt question. "He is . . . not well."

"Is he dying?"

"So it seems."

She smiled. "You are an interesting man, Mr. Spock. Were your bondmate an equation, I can almost guarantee that you would be fretting over him as we speak. Yet, being that he's a man, and therefore attention to him might be construed as emotion, you completely ignore him." She turned away, every bit the superior Romulan. "You're worth keeping alive simply for the novelty."

"I believe you oversimplify," Spock stated, remaining neutral.

"And yet," she countered, allowing the words to dangle.

Spock decided that they did not, in fact, need his assistance.

What he had withheld from the Romulan woman was the fact that he also felt that he had been derelict in his duty to his crewmember (to his bondmate). Spock stiffened as guilt hit him hard. He had been able to control his emotions less and less lately, and now, as the reality of McCoy's situation began to sink in, all Spock could think was that he was responsible for what had happened.

The Vulcan desperately sought solitude. He needed to mediate and regain his equilibrium if he had any intention of approaching this issue logically.

Finally, he discovered a small antechamber off the main sitting room that, more than likely, served as a closet. However, its relative isolation made it ideal.

Spock sat on the floor and tried to center himself. That, however, was proving difficult. Every time he closed his eyes, he was reminded that Leonard McCoy had seen parts of him that he had not wished anyone to see. The man had urged Spock to do something that could have disastrous consequences, and, to make matters even worse, Spock had been genuinely tempted.

Because there was a vibrancy to McCoy's mind that had stunned the Vulcan. There was shame and a surprising amount of self-loathing there, yes, but there had also been life. It was illogical and complex, and . . . fascinating.

And, Spock was forced to admit, there was something within him that longed for that with a surprising intensity.

All of which led to his present dilemma. On the one hand there was McCoy, who was most assuredly suffering because of this link, and yet seemed to suffer more when Spock wasn't there to help him, however grudging the doctor would be to admit it.

On the other hand was his own sanity, which dictated that he stay as far away from the human as he was capable, in hopes of minimizing the possible contamination risk his mind posed.

And, on a completely separate and, Spock tried to insist, irrelevant level was the fact that McCoy was his bondmate. Logical or not, that meant something, and the longer they were bonded, the more it meant. It was disturbing to think that there might come a time when being bonded to one another would seem as natural as breath, but it was beginning to appear more and more likely.

Leonard McCoy was, to use the colloquial phrase, well and truly under his skin.

At last, after weighing his options as objectively and rationally as possible, Spock insisted to himself that he had to do what he could to save the doctor's life, or at least ease his suffering.

So, using the vague sense that seemed to linger in the air, drawing a line between them, Spock moved to find his bondmate and attempt to speak with him.

However, it seemed that someone had beaten him to that particular goal. Spock located the human in another small room, but stopped outside the door when he heard the voice of Gessad. "All I'm saying is, it seems odd that you would choose to spend the rest of your life with such a, forgive me, distant fellow."

McCoy chuckled. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"If you say."

McCoy's voice became obstinate. "I do, indeed."

"Would you prefer we move on to a more innocuous subject?" the Cardassian asked with unfailing politeness.

"Was I that transparent?"

"Most aliens are," Gessad assured him. "My people simply observe much more closely."

"Good to know."

"Do you have any hobbies?"

That earned a laugh. "What?"

"A more innocuous subject, Doctor."

"Oh!" There was a pause in which Spock could only imagine McCoy was thinking. "Well, I like to sit and chat with friends, mostly. It's hard to have hobbies when you're CMO of a starship."

"How well I know that."

Spock frowned ever-so-slightly. He was not one to jump to conclusions on the intentions of others, especially when he couldn't even see them, but it sounded like there were certain amorous intentions in Gessad's conversation with the doctor. Given, that could well be the nature of his race, but the attentiveness and the almost teasing humor of his speech all indicated that he was, as Spock's bondmate might put it, making a pass.

Spock was disturbed by that fact that the idea somewhat upset him, because, after carefully weighing the situation, he couldn't understand why. For all accounts and purposes, the notion of Gessad stepping in to fill an emotional void that Spock could not: a romantic capacity, was not only understandable, but logical. And yet, for all that, Spock had the irrational desire to discover some sort of malicious intent behind the alien's actions.

It was most incomprehensible.

McCoy, he realized, was chuckling again and, through that slender thread that still linked them, Spock sensed that his bondmate was feeling slightly . . .

Drunk.

McCoy was drinking. Spock didn't imagine that such an action would help his beleaguered brain in the slightest.

"Sir," the human stated, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

Gessad's reply was pleasant, if a bit arch. "And what, pray tell, makes you think that I'm not? If you'll notice, I've been drinking as much as you have. In all likelihood, my inhibitions have been significantly affected."

"In other words, you're trying to pass the buck."

"Pardon?"

"You're preemptively blaming anything you say on the booze, am I right?"

Gessad laughed softly. "Most definitely."

"Well, I'll have you know that I'm a married man."

Something in Spock was very relieved to hear that.

"Really?" Gessad asked, his voice sibilant and soft. "Forgive the observation, then, but it's never appeared to be so."

Spock stiffened.

McCoy, too, seemed to go on the defensive. "What do you know?"

"Only what I've seen, what the tricorder told me." Gessad's pleasant tone remained. "From the progression of the deterioration, I estimate that you were bonded last night. However, if memory serves, you were here at that time. It seems obvious, then, that the bond was forged to save you from execution."

"So," McCoy rasped, suddenly sounding very cornered, "why is it that you haven't gone and told everyone yet?"

Gessad sounded genuinely hurt. "You think I'm trying to blackmail you."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"I'm not," Gessad assured him. "I simply thought that honesty would be best, under the circumstances."

"So, why have you been playing dumb up until now?"

"Because hearing you lie was most interesting."

"You're a complicated man."

"I am Cardassian."

"Can I assume that it's one in the same?"

"While I normally hate to make generalizations about any given race, I am forced to concede that point."

"Fascinating," McCoy breathed.

Spock felt that same upset rising within him again. It was one thing to know that the Cardassian was testing the waters, but for McCoy to respond was . . .

Completely within his rights, Spock reminded himself. It was not as if he and the doctor had pursued any such avenues themselves, and, as Gessad had pointed out, the bond was a necessity, and nothing more.

That did nothing to quell the upset.

Deciding swiftly and against all logic he knew, Spock keyed the door which slid open to reveal the two men, sipping drinks and leaning toward one another. Whatever Spock had just interrupted, McCoy looked distinctly embarrassed, while Gessad just turned a pleasant smile on the Vulcan.

The Human rose. "Well, thank you for the drink, Gessad. I think I need to . . . check on the others."

"A pleasure, Doctor," the Cardassian purred.

McCoy nodded tersely and moved past Spock, meeting the Vulcan's eyes for a second.

'Nice to know you're still alive,' the sarcastic thought burst in his mind, surprising Spock by its presence without physical contact. In response to that surprise, McCoy snapped, 'Seems there's nowhere I can go that you can't find me.'

'Doctor, I feel it would be appropriate for me to apologize—'

'Appropriate?!' McCoy moved past him, radiating pain and anger at such a level that even Gessad must have felt it. 'Save it for a man who isn't too busy dying.'

With that, the doctor stormed out.

Spock was stunned. The emotions he had just been hit by were dizzying, and the guilt it brought was even more so.

"My, did the temperature drop, or was that just me?" a voice queried behind him.

Spock turned his gaze on the alien, who was pinning him under a stare of incendiary intensity. He was not certain what Gessad meant, but if he was referring to the mood, then, yes, it had been chill, and it just continued to get colder. "What are your intentions toward my bondmate?" he queried as simply as possible.

Gessad rose in a fluid motion. "I take it you heard the entire conversation."

"No. However, I did hear quite a bit."

"Then, I believe you'll have no trouble extrapolating my intentions on your own."

The Cardassian moved for the door, and Spock stepped in front of him. He didn't say a thing, but their eyes locked, struggling silently.

Gessad flashed him a set of gleaming white teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Very well, if you insist I be blunt, I'll be blunt: I am attempting to help an intelligent, attractive, witty man who is currently terrified because his mind is being ripped apart from the inside, and his so-called bondmate is too preoccupied with his cultural heritage to step up to the task." Gessad raised his chin defiantly, "Or do you deny it?"

Spock opened his mouth to respond, but found that he couldn't. The fact was that Gessad was utterly correct. Brutally so, in fact.

"If I thought that this bond was anything more than a sham, if I thought my attentions wouldn't be welcomed with open arms, I wouldn't even bother," Gessad hissed.

Spock was aware that the alien was dangerously close to him. Inches away, in fact. So, when their eyes met again, it was across such a short distance that both the opposition and the intimacy of the moment were stressed.

"I am Vulcan," was the only answer Spock could utter. "To allow my emotions free rein—"

"If Vulcans didn't love their mates, your species would be extinct." Gessad leaned even closer, breathing into Spock's ear, "Union is a natural state for every race. Procreation necessitates it, and loneliness spurs it on, even for those who can't procreate. So, don't even try to . . . pass the buck."

Then, to Spock's great surprise, the Cardassian moved swiftly, pressing his lips to the Vulcan's. Then, as soon as it had happened, he stepped back, smiling enigmatically. "I will yield as soon as you don't."

As the gray-skinned man strolled out, Spock mused that everyone on this planet seemed to take perverse pleasure in believing they were superior to him in some way.

And, in some cases, they were also right.

Spock was in a quandary. He was well aware that bondmates did have intense connections that could only be described as emotional, but his was such a strange and unwanted bonding that to acknowledge it as something of such legitimacy seemed completely inappropriate.

And yet, the prospect of Gessad seducing McCoy had caused him to actually abandon logic and interrupt what was a legitimate and healthy interaction between them, especially considering McCoy's deteriorating condition.

McCoy was dying. He had been reminded of it twice, once by Gessad, and once by McCoy himself. Obviously, the Cardassian had informed the doctor of the fact, when it had been Spock's place to do so. McCoy was understandably hurt. It had, after all, been the bond that had put him in such a position. Then, Spock had abandoned him at a critical moment because he feared what further connection might do to his own mind.

Spock had feared. After years of trying, McCoy had finally provoked profound emotion in the Vulcan completely unintentionally. Whether or not he permitted it, it seemed that this bond would continue to cause Spock's emotions to surge. Already, he had experienced more guilt, upset, fear and general negative emotion than had come up in ten years.

Such a reaction was to be expected if he were in Sarpedion's Ice Age, he mused, but here, with no telepathic or racial prompting . . .

Then, he came to the only conclusion that seemed remotely logical: he had, unbeknownst to himself, fallen in love with the gruff, adversarial human. Do deny that fact would be counter-productive.

Therefore, with that conclusion in mind, Spock realized that he must act without delay to assure that Leonard McCoy understood the shift in their bond. Should he hesitate, then the doctor may well decide to act upon the obvious attraction between himself and the alien xenobiologist. In fact, such an even might well occur even if Spock made his attraction known.

Still, logic dictated that to do nothing would produce nothing, and therefore, he must confront Leonard McCoy in what was assured to be an extremely volatile situation, no matter what the outcome.

Spock, with a purposeful stride, moved off to find the recalcitrant human.

. . . . . . . . .

Meanwhile, Leonard McCoy stood, staring at Kataq's broad back, handing him whatever tool the Klingon might request.

Of course, requesting equipment seemed to be one of the last things on Kataq's mind.

He vastly preferred racist ranting.

"I do not understand why you still live. You are not only a human, but you are a sickly human. You are going to get us killed." He thrust one hand back. "Stem-bolt."

McCoy slapped it into his palm, and sighed as the Klingon resumed his tirade. "Your species is without honor. You will sell us out at the first sign of trouble. Your bodies are fragile, and your demeanor is that of a sniveling child—"

All right, that was it. He was dying and, dammit, he didn't have time for this! The Klingon wanted to hurl insults? He better get ready to scrap with an expert! "You want to know something about my demeanor? How about the fact that my brain's about to go dribbling out of my ears, and I can still make time to knock you around this entire complex."

Kataq whirled. "You challenge me?" he demanded.

McCoy drew himself up stiffly. "If that's what it takes to get you to shut up and work with me, then hell yes, I'm challenging you."

The Klingon stared at him. "You would die in a fight with a Klingon," he summed up.

McCoy snorted. "I'm the CMO of Starfleet's flagship. You think this is the first time I've been in personal combat with a Klingon? Son, I was wiping the floor with your uncles before you were even thinking about a military career."

Kataq lunged, and McCoy, acting more on reflex more than anything else, swung the wrench in his hand, hitting Kataq hard in the side of the skull. The Klingon responded with a brutal punch to his stomach. McCoy dropped to his knees, wheezing in exaggerated pain. He watched the Klingon approach, obviously sure of victory.

The two things the great warrior didn't count on, however, was the fact that Leonard McCoy had no intention of playing fair, and that he had enough alcohol in him to give him a good deal more courage than he ever would have had, otherwise. He was ready to press his advantages.

Like surprise. He suddenly surged to his feet, using his head to knock the wind out of the Klingon. Following up that move without delay, he slammed the winded alien up against a bulkhead, pulled back a hand, and swung, halting it less than a centimeter from Kataq's nose.

"I could have hit your nose with the heel of my hand right there and ended it," he snapped. "Breaking your nose at a certain angle would force the bone into your brain, at the very least making you a vegetable for the rest of your life. Now, you want to get back to work, or does this pathetic human have to repeat this little demonstration?" He really hoped that Kataq passed on a repeat, because McCoy was decently sure that this entire battle had been about luck, and, without it, he would be very dead.

And, suddenly, the Klingon threw his head back and laughed. "You are indeed a worthy opponent, Leonard McCoy! Tiny warrior doctor!"

"Damn straight," McCoy sniffed, using all the bravado he knew.

The Klingon slapped him on the back, knocking the human staggering several steps before he could regain his footing. McCoy glanced up angrily, only to be greeted by a toothy grin.

"So you like me now?" McCoy asked sourly.

"Your courage exceeds your size."

"You keep mentioning my size."

"It is not something I can ignore, but I shall forgive it!"

McCoy sighed, deciding that there were some things that just weren't worth arguing. "Thanks," he muttered.

"You are welcome. Ratchet."

McCoy glumly passed the Klingon the tool.

"So, tiny warrior doctor, what troubles you?" Kataq asked over his shoulder as he worked.

"The name's McCoy, and do you mean aside from the slavery?"

The Klingon barked in laughter. "I mean that you are without your parmaqqay, Tiny McCoy."

"My what?"

"Your beloved."

"Oh . . . him. I'm not sure that's the word I'd use."

Kataq glanced over his shoulder. "He is not your beloved?"

"Do you have any clue how hard it is to love a Vulcan?" McCoy asked evasively.

"Then why did you marry him?"

"You know, I've been asking myself that same question."

Kataq got a strangely thoughtful look on his face. "What has caused your problems?"

McCoy frowned, crossing his arms across his thin chest. "You a marriage counselor?"

Kataq scowled. "No. However, I have given advice to many of my friends, and they now are all happily married."

McCoy shrugged. One willing ear was as good as any. "We're both damaged goods. That's causing problems. The bond is slowly destroying my brain. That causing more. He doesn't want anything to do with me. That's also a problem."

"I suggest you duel."

"What?" McCoy demanded, taken aback.

"I suggest you duel," Kataq repeated, as if it were most obvious. "You can vent your anger, work out these problems, and arouse your passions."

McCoy gaped, not able to correlate Spock and anything remotely having to do with arousing his passions. "He's a little stronger than I am," he reminded the Klingon, trying to stay on neutral ground with this one.

Kataq nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. Perhaps that is not the best idea, then. Broken bones seldom lead to romance in other cultures, I have found."

"Usually not."

"It is a difficult problem."

"You're preaching to the choir." At Kataq's quizzical look, he translated, "It means that I completely agree."

"Ah." Again, Kataq grew pensive. "Then, if you cannot duel, you must think. To me, it seems that you are confused."

"Me?! Why am I the one who's confused?"

"You have forgotten why you have married this man," Kataq answered. "Tell me, what does he make you feel?"

That question, at least, was easy. "Irritation, mostly. Frustration, inferiority, worry, anger, provocation . . . do I need to go on?"

"No. It seems to me that he is an ideal mate."

"He's a what? Those are the qualifiers of a good match in your culture?"

"Tell me, if you did not have him to irritate you, would your life be as stimulating?"

McCoy blinked, opening his mouth and closing it again. Damn the Klingon, but he had a point. The fact was that McCoy liked arguing with Spock. He liked baiting him and being baited back. Sure, there were moments (and more than a few) that he wanted to kill the Vulcan, but he did keep McCoy from going stir crazy on that starship. They kept each other engaged during the long stretches between events, and, though McCoy hated to admit it, Spock had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Those pointed ears and not-quite smiles, the teasing and arched eyebrows sent his way. Those moments of revelation, when something obviously clicked in Spock's mind, and he was off and running.

Suddenly, that same click happened to McCoy, and he was shocked and dismayed.

Clearly, it showed on his face, for Kataq offered him that same toothy smile. "Klingons understand love far better than most," he stated proudly, and went to work again.

"Oh, my God."

Kataq regarded him with bemusement. "Humans use so many words when dancing around what is obvious to all."

In horror, McCoy stared at the Klingon, his mouth hanging open and his eyes filled with disbelief. "I'm in love with him," he gasped.

"Yes."

"I'm in love with Spock!"

"Yes."

McCoy sat down on the floor right where he stood, burying his head in his hands in despair. "I'm going to die."

"It is possible, but it will be a glorious death."

"Jesus."

"Leonard," a voice rang out.

McCoy was on his feet, regarding the Vulcan who seemed to have simply popped up out of nowhere. The doctor found himself staring like he had never seen him before, and he really wasn't sure what was going to happen. "Spock," he breathed, scared out of his mind.

However, that fear immediately made him angry. Why the hell was he afraid of Spock? How could he give him that advantage? "What are you doing here?" he demanded gruffly.

Kataq watched them in bemusement. "I can see where your problems have arisen."

Spock regarded the Klingon quizzically.

"Tiny McCoy is in love with you, and he blusters because of it. You should act on your mutual passions so you can aid in our rescue unhindered by your mutual sexual tension."

He plucked the stem bolt from McCoy's hand as the human gawked at him in utter horror. In response to the shock, Kataq winked at the doctor good- naturedly. "Now, I will leave the two of you alone."

He strolled away, swaggering proudly.

Slowly, McCoy turned to the Vulcan, who gazed at him with two drastically arched eyebrows.

McCoy opened his mouth, closed it, and then managed to say, "Well, this is damn awkward."

"I am forced to agree."

Wracking his brain, McCoy finally blurted, "There is a real good explanation for all this. It's sort of a . . . a long story, so bear with me."

"You are in love with me," Spock summed up.

"Apparently not that long."

"I have come to the conclusion that I am in love with you, as well."

"I—what? You're what? How? When? I mean . . . Jesus!" Spock took a step toward him and McCoy scrambled back. "Whoa, there! Just . . . hold up, 'cause I'm still . . . processing."

Spock cocked an eyebrow at him. "This would not be the first time we have kissed."

"Maybe so, but this is the first time it's all had . . . layers."

"Layers?"

"Meaning, Spock!" McCoy found himself flailing his arms, and quickly pulled them back. "Dammit, this is bizarre."

"I agree," Spock told him, bemusement glimmering in his eyes. "However, being that the attraction seems to be mutual, acknowledgement would seem to be the logical next step to take."

And, oddly enough, that comment seemed to relax McCoy, and he found himself grinning.

"What do you find amusing?" Spock queried.

"You. You just made sex logical."

"I didn't realize I was speaking of sex."

Something seemed to draw McCoy closer, and, suddenly, he found himself greatly enjoying the fact that Spock was definitely sending off some sudden, uncomfortable emanations. That, combined with alcohol, helped the doctor overcome his former squeamishness to a certain degree. "You definitely were, my fine, pointy eared . . ."

"T'hy'la," Spock supplied, and then seemed very startled by what he had just said.

"What did you just call me?"

"T'hy'la," Spock murmured. "It means . . . brother, friend, lover."

McCoy blinked, taken aback. "Um . . . oh. My. That's . . . damn." McCoy seemed to consider, then came to the sudden realization that he didn't need to. Sometime during his mini-breakdown, he had realized that he wanted this. It was not only logical, but, dammit, it was right, in the most gloriously illogical sense of that word. Pulling together his alcohol- bolstered courage, he said, "Lover, huh? Maybe I could do that," he said simply. Thinking over what he had just stated, he revised quickly, "Not, you know, at this very moment, but . . . yeah."

"Soon?" Spock wondered.

"Spock, if you haven't noticed, I'm sort of flying by the seat of my pants, here. I'm making this up as I go."

"Is that a 'no'?"

"It's a 'your guess is as good as mine'."

"I see." Spock seemed to be very confused, not sure what he was supposed to do at that point. Then, surprisingly, he offered two fingers, extended toward the human.

McCoy remembered that gesture. It was something he had seen shared between Spock's parents: a Vulcan embrace, the closest thing to a public display of affection bondmates would permit themselves.

Bondmates.

McCoy breathed, "Well, I'll be damned," and then extended his hand, pressing his index and middle finger to Spock's.

Spock looked up to him, face impassive, even as his eyes were alight in a shy sort of almost-love. McCoy felt that tender part of himself that he really tried to keep under wraps start to rear its head at that moment. Without asking, he knew this sort of thing was not something Spock had ever done before.

McCoy leaned in and planted a quick kiss on the surprised Vulcan's cheek, whispering in his ear, "Don't be nervous."

"I am incapable of being nervous."

"You just keep telling yourself that, T'hy'la."

With his free hand, McCoy reached up, hiding his own nervousness for Spock's benefit. The fact was: Spock wasn't the only one who really hadn't tried anything like this yet. McCoy knew that if he thought about it too much, he would panic, and probably do something humiliating. So, he just dove on the proverbial grenade, moved those few inches, and pressed his lips against Spock's.

The bond flared up, even as McCoy tried to stay in the real world. This was definitely a corporeal matter that needed resolving. Apparently, Spock agreed, because those kisses were getting harder and more urgent with every second.

Maybe 'soon' had been a fine time-frame, after all.

In between kisses, McCoy attempted to convey just that. "We need to find us a room with a bed." Well, that might be problematic. Their room was a fair distance away, and at the rate they were going, they weren't going to make it. Amending, he stated, "Or a couch." Spock slid slender fingers through McCoy's hair, tousling it and causing the human to shiver in delight. "Or a nice patch of floor."

"You are drunk," Spock managed, though McCoy noted with a certain amount of smug pride that it didn't mean Spock stopped kissing him.

"Got a problem with it?"

"Alcohol—" a particularly insistent kiss "—impairs one's logical—" and another kiss "—capacities."

"Spock," McCoy stated, pulling back, and grinning devilishly at the slightly dazed Vulcan, "you honestly think I'd be logical, even if I weren't tipsy?"

"You do have a point. However, it still poses a moral quandary. I cannot determine whether or not you actually would wish this if you had not imbibed."

McCoy was becoming irritated. "So, you're, what? Proposing that we wait until I've sobered up?"

"It would be the correct thing to do."

"Don't you ever get sick of doing the correct thing?"

"No."

McCoy frowned, running his hands through straight, black hair, delighting in the fact that he could make it stand up oddly. His fingers found the oft-mocked pointed ears, and, at that moment, he had to admit a certain aesthetic appreciation. As strange and alien as they were, they could also be called exotic, and it was the word he currently felt obliged to use.

Dimly, McCoy was aware that Spock was correct. He was definitely more than a little tipsy, and it was affecting his behavior. If he were sober, he'd definitely be much more reticent to break their self-imposed distance.

Still, right now, Spock's swift series of blinks and the slight parting of lips that McCoy was causing were more than worth this transgression. After all, wasn't it he who was always encouraging Spock to be more human?

"Do you enjoy mussing my hair, Leonard?" Spock asked, and McCoy was surprised to hear him use such a familiar title with no one else around.

"I do, indeed."

"They will suspect."

"They already do, Honey."

Spock seemed distinctly taken aback. "Honey?" he deadpanned.

"Well, I considered 'Sugar Plum', but you just ain't that sweet."

Spock shifted uncomfortably, and through his hand, McCoy felt nervousness, discomfort, fear.

'I dislike this loss of control,' Spock explained. 'I feel that I will lose my dignity.'

Repressing the urge to tell Spock that losing one's dignity was the point, even though the message was probably still received by the Vulcan, McCoy tried to see things from his perspective. Spock, like any good Vulcan, had limited himself to sex once every seven years, and since his first Pon Farr had been interrupted, that meant . . .

Spock had really never done anything like this before, with men or women.

And there was that tenderness, again, that seemed somehow incongruous when applied to the stoic Vulcan.

Still, he saw past that, just like Spock saw through him. "We'll go as slow as you want," McCoy assured him. "No matter how much it drives me crazy."

"That would be . . . most appreciated."

"But I still retain the right to call you a goddamn pointy-eared tease," McCoy added, enjoying the way Spock blinked in consternation at him as he tweaked the tip of one of the aforementioned ears for emphasis.

"Then, I retain the right to call you an illogical human with no sense of timing as to alcohol consumption."

"Oh, hey, that's not fair. It's not like I knew we were going to try our hands at the fairy-tale romance thing."

"Leonard," Spock sighed. "It is highly unlikely that we could manage a 'fairy-tale romance thing', even if you were not drunk."

"Excuse me? Which one of us is the romantic, here? I'm from the South, dammit! Rhett, Scarlet, "Gone with the Wind", and all that hoo-hah."

Spock arched an eyebrow. "Can I assume that I was not meant to understand that reference?"

McCoy grasped one of Spock's hands in his, conveying the meaning through that. "No, you cannot."

Spock arched an eyebrow, growing cold in his irritation. "I am simply stating that you would expedite matters considerably if you did not use such colloquial phraseology."

McCoy gave as good as he got, glaring angrily at the Vulcan. "You might want to develop an appreciation for my 'colloquial phraseology', cause I'm not changing it on your account."

"You are exceedingly stubborn."

"I ain't the only one!"

They had been pulling closer and closer during the altercation, and McCoy was suddenly aware that their argument was actually turning him on! Immediately he started to step back, but was pushed up against the nearest wall and caught up in a startlingly fierce kiss. After several seconds that were muted for obvious reasons, Spock pulled back, pupils dilated and turning his eyes completely black.

"You having second thoughts about waiting until I'm sober?" McCoy demanded breathlessly. "Or third thoughts?"

"This is morally impermissible," Spock stated, hands moving heatedly across McCoy's torso, eyes troubled.

Grinning, the doctor concurred, "Damn straight."

"It is not logical."

"Hell, no."

"You mentioned a couch?"

"Two doors down, if I'm not mistaken."

Spock set his shoulders and McCoy admired the man's determination. It now seemed rather inevitable that this would be done, and so, he saw no reason to delay it further. McCoy was smiling at the Vulcan like he finally won the argument, which probably troubled Spock to no end, but it didn't actually prompt him to change his course of action, either.

Sliding his arm around McCoy, he moved in the direction the doctor had pointed him.

"You know something, Spock?" McCoy queried, his voice tinged with a hint of wickedness.

"What, Leonard?"

"I think I finally persuaded you to act illogically."

"You have no idea how troubling that fact is, Leonard."

"Really, Honey? 'Cause I thought—"

Suddenly McCoy gasped, staggering. Through the opened link, Sock immediately sensed that something was incredibly wrong. McCoy's breathing was erratic at best, at in his ears, Spock heard McCoy's heart start to beat erratically.

The synaptic pathways controlling his autonomic pulmonary system were being overwritten.

Immediately, Spock pressed into McCoy's brain, forgetting prior concerns about the meld in the desperate necessity to stop the collapse of the doctor's heart. He found the source of the problem easily enough, but not the solution. The telepathic ability was an autonomic function, and, as such, would take root in the brain stem, but the prospect of it overwriting such a vital system was exceedingly dangerous.

He had to reroute the overwrite immediately. Hurriedly, he searched the human's brain stem, at last determining what he considered the least necessary function provided by that area of the brain, and hoped that they would be able to correct the problem should they ever escape and return to the Enterprise.

He felt McCoy's heart rate stabilize, even as the man lurched into his arms, squawking in terror.

Spock pulled out of McCoy's mind as gently as possible, returning to his own body and supporting the human, who clung to him hard.

"Jesus, Spock," McCoy rasped, "the entire world's tilting. What the hell is going on with me?"

"Your cardiopulmonary functions were being overwritten by the bond."

"So that's what a heart attack feels like."

"Indeed. In saving your life, I was forced to reroute the damage to a less vital area of your brain stem. In this case, I chose the centers responsible for your sense of balance."

"My sense of balance?" McCoy demanded, staring at Spock in incredulity. "I don't have a sense of balance now?"

"It was an unfortunate necessity doctor. However, it is not one that we are likely to be afforded again. The next bout will have to be rerouted to a far more damaging area, such as your ability to sleep."

"Jesus."

"It is better than your ability to swallow," Spock offered.

"Jesus," McCoy repeated, looking ill.

"I am sorry, Leonard," Spock said, securing his hold around the slender human, who, in turn, tightened his grip on Spock as if clinging to reality.

"I'm going to die," he intoned, his voice flat and choked. "This bond is gonna kill me, isn't it?"

Spock opened his mouth, but could find no words.

McCoy looked up, the slightest smile curling lips already tightened with badly repressed fear, "Why, Spock, are you actually speechless?"

Spock understood immediately, and countered, "Of course not, Doctor, I was merely attempting to come up with an explanation that you would actually understand." If McCoy needed an argument to keep him going, then Spock was more than willing to oblige him.

"I believe I was just insulted."

"You were."

"Green-blooded son of a bitch," McCoy murmured affectionately.

"Stubborn, illogical human."

McCoy tried to move, but almost toppled over, skewing helplessly back into Spock. His eyes closed as he sagged against the Vulcan. "I can't walk."

"No."

"Spock, how the hell am I gonna get off this rock if I can't walk?"

"The logical answer would be that I shall carry you."

McCoy gazed at him in bemused admiration. "Damn romantic of you."

"Practical, Leonard. Vulcans do not participate in romance."

"Of course they don't, T'hy'la," McCoy drawled, and grinned at Spock in cheeky defiance, while at the same time shaking in fear.

Spock couldn't help but admire the dichotomy of it.

He swept McCoy up into his arms, realizing that this was the same position they had been in at the beginning of this strange situation. McCoy's head thumped gently against his shoulder, even as the doctor groaned and closed his eyes.

"Whoa, there," he warned, "let's take that whole movement bit a little slower from here on out, okay?"

"I am sorry. Did I dizzy you?"

"Honey, right now, looking sideways while breathing 'dizzies me'. That was a bit more like bungee jumping in a hurricane."

"Bungee jumping?"

"You're touching me. You got no excuse not to know what that is."

Spock frowned, but examined the mental images he was being fed through the bond, staring in shock at the human. "That is a custom on Earth?"

"More of a pastime, really."

Spock blinked, reassured that he would never fully understand the human thirst for thrill-seeking, especially in such an extreme form as strapping oneself to an elastic cord and diving off a bridge. "Completely illogical."

"Bungee jumping and sex, huh?"

Spock noted that, yes, he had stated that both were illogical. "Apparently so."

McCoy snorted.

"It would be advisable to find the others and inform them of this new development," Spock suggested after a brief pause.

He glanced down to see the human do a fairly good impression of his eyebrow- lift. "Like I said," he drawled, "some damn honeymoon we're on."

Spock found himself in complete and utter agreement.

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Next: Blowing the Popsicle stand.