"A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear." ― Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac

"What d'you wanna bet, nobody kissed anybody?"

"Just take all my credits now, Bones."

This glib exchange did not go over well with the "anybodies" in question.

McCoy held up his hands. "Sorry. But this whole debate about who kissed who first seems beside the point, don't you think? I mean, setting aside the bomb for a second—"

"A goddamned bomb," Kirk repeated for emphasis no one needed.

Uhura glanced at Spock. "Was it bomb though?"

"Not the incendiary type. We were not subject to blast overpressure from a shock wave nor any kind of subsonic explosion."

"Clearly," McCoy said, rolling his eyes, "as neither of you showed any signs of blast injuries. I would have noticed that, even after two days. The only result of this bomb seems to be the belief that one of you planted a big wet one on the other without so much as a by-your-leave—"

"—during a mission, no less," Kirk interjected. "If this had actually occurred, I'm fairly certain one of you would be on report right now—"

"-or having your head examined." McCoy gnawed his lip a second. "Did either of you lose consciousness?"

Spock closed his eyes, shook his head as a shudder coursed through him. Uhura gave a mournful sigh.

"So, you didn't lose consciousness? You're sure?"

"No, I am not sure," Spock snapped. "Whenever we are confronted with the need to recall information about our experience, we—" He broke off, his veneer of composure slipping even further.

Kirk leaned back, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. It was disconcerting to see his first officer untethered from his usual certitude.

Resigned to sparing Spock's delicate sensibilities, Uhura turned to Dr. McCoy. "The first time it happened was here in sickbay, right after you said we needed to attend the debriefing with the captain."

"And again, during the meeting when Sabanci asked you to make a detailed record of events," Kirk offered.

"Yes," she whispered. A soft breath drawn in. Kirk turned his head in time to see the Vulcan's eyes widen. A soft breath out—

"It's happening right now, isn't it?"

"Yes," Spock acknowledged.

McCoy rose hastily from his chair and came around the table, scanner out and a gleam of scientific avarice in his eyes. Part of Spock had the same urge, to gather information, evidence, clues in his own biological reactions. The other part was… having a biological reaction.

"No sooner do I feel myself on the verge of an answer, it dissipates. Every time. And in its place, this overwhelming compulsion to press my mouth to hers, and, also, the conflicting but equally acute certainty that I must not. We must not. This urgency is so compelling that we have sought any form of – of – gratification which does not require kissing on the mouth. It is disturbing and goes against all logic, but that is the gist of it."

The captain leaned forward again. "But only since you've been back on the ship. Not when you were in the detention center?"

Spock hesitated. Uhura smiled unpleasantly. "What with being cuffed and booked and strip-searched—"

"And drugged," Spock added.

"And drugged. It wasn't high of the list of things to discuss, sir."

"We were under surveillance as well."

"I spent a lot the time silently seething."

"Silently?" Spock raised one brow, a signature move that covered many bases - disbelief, confusion, dismissal and currently, mild derision.

"Oh, how would you know? You conveniently meditated through most of it. Two days watching you sit there like some sage on a mountaintop, wondering how long a person could possibly meditate, and could I pee while you were meditating or would you suddenly open your eyes and look… disappointed."

"I advised you to limit your intake of fluids."

"It would have been much worse if I'd eaten the food. Anyway, to sum it up, captain, I was mad. He was mentally elsewhere."

"I was perfectly aware when you kicked me—"

"Accidentally!"

"Twice."

The little medical scanner in McCoy's hand squealed as if tormented. "You're both experiencing hormonal spikes right now." He cocked an eye at them. "And not just adrenaline."

"Arguing is one of the triggers," Spock said.

Not looking up from the readings, McCoy snorted. "Classic." An observation that caused an uptick in general annoyance. "What? It's a common trope in romance fiction. The bickering couple, butting heads, can't agree on anything, but really, it's all just misplaced sexual tension. Soon as they give in to passion and start swapping spit—"

"Read the room, Bones!"

"Hey. Don't crucify me just yet. Think I'm onto something here." The scanner powered down. His eyes lit up. "Kissing ignites our limbic systems, right? A whole volcanic eruption of neurotransmitters and hormones. At the same time, we're also exchanging DNA through saliva. Vital genetic information crosses over, is shared and analyzed for compatibility, mostly working out if this is a good match. Should we mingle genetic material and reproduce, or hook up elsewhere?"

"I think what the doctor is saying in his colorful expository manner is that kissing transmits information."

McCoy snapped his fingers in Spock's direction. "Exactly. No matter how brief the encounter, that genetic information can hang around in your mouth for days, weeks sometimes. So, what if you two are feeling compelled to kiss because that's where the information is stored. Or maybe it's the key to getting at it. And the reason you feel that you shouldn't, is because someone doesn't want you to retrieve that information."

Uhura looked hopeful. Spock not so much.

"It is a reasonable supposition, Doctor, but the reverse could also be true. That if we kiss, we lose any chance of retrieving it." He turned to Uhura. "Perhaps that is why our subconscious minds have endeavored to circumvent the prohibition in other ways."

"Right, of course. Our subconscious minds are trying to help us, eager to get at the truth."

"Eager," he repeated.

"Really eager." They stare at each other for uncomfortably long seconds.

"Oh my god," Kirk muttered. He rubbed at his forehead, exasperated. "Okay. Right. Okay. Let's step back, brainstorm, come up with some solutions that don't involve consensual relationship forms—"

But Spock stood from his chair and stiffened his spine – a man prepared to die on a hill he was still constructing. "I'm afraid the doctor is correct, Captain. To find answers, the Lieutenant and I must activate the same hormones by exchanging our DNA in another manner."

"Hold up now," McCoy said. "That's - that is not what I said. At all. Kissing! Kissing is the answer."

"Besides," Kirk interjected, "from what you've told us, you already tried, uh, other things. Kissing seems like the most reasonable conclusion to be drawn here." Which sounded utterly ridiculous even as it came out of his mouth..

Spock was emphatic. "We cannot risk it. There is only one viable option." He locked gazes with Uhura. "Az'ir'kh'ar etek bolau."

She met his eyes with firm resolve. "Agreed."

The captain didn't need to understand the words to understand what she was agreeing to, but it took him a second to realize they meant right now. Spock was leaving, and she was following.

McCoy's head swiveled from Kirk to Spock to Uhura and back. "Wait now. What's happening?"

"What d'you think?" Kirk said, banging his knee as he scrambled from his seat.

Closer to the door, McCoy rushed ahead of him, following the pair into the sickbay proper. "Hey. Hey! You two get back here. I haven't cleared you to do… anything!"

Spock glanced over his shoulder. But he was only waiting for Uhura to catch up to his longer stride. "We will report our findings to you at the earliest opportunity."

Kirk could have ordered them to stop. Should have, probably. But if he did, and then they didn't it would be a whole disciplinary mishigas.

"I still have tests to run on you," McCoy called after them as they glided out the bay doors and into the corridor. "Tests! Medical – stuff, shit! Dammit!"

They'd already disappeared around the bend when Kirk drew up alongside him.

"Should we go after them?" McCoy asked. "We should go after them."

Kirk crossed his arms over his chest. Orderlies, nurses, and assorted lab technicians were now watching and speculating amongst themselves. The gossip would prove to be juicy. "And do –" He lowered his voice. "And do what?"

"I don't know," McCoy whispered. "Make sure they're… safe, you know. I could set up something here, one of the isolation rooms, a controlled environment so they could be monitored."

"So… you'd… watch them?"

The doctor sighed. "That would be weird."

Kirk uncrossed one arm and used the hand of that arm to gently punch himself in the forehead. After a few thunks, a vague plan fell out.

"Put them on medical leave for the next few days. Get to work on some kind of… remedy. I'll contact Himli Sabanci, let him know about this unknown alien and the bomb."

"Ooh. Know what you should call it? The Kissin' Bomb." This earned the doctor a withering glare. "Fine. I'll start searching for a cure. But it would go a lot faster if I could get a look at that kis— the object in question."

They make it to her quarters. His are too far away and much hotter and she's already so hot.

The door slips shut and she's shoving up his uniform tunic, scrunching the soft black shirt beneath it, brushing up his belly with her bare palms. She presses her mouth to the fabric over a nipple and sucks at it. He utters something incomprehensible. His chest heaves. Her tongue brushes back and forth, hot breath and saliva expanding the wet spot on his shirt. It feels for a moment they will sink boneless to the deck, melt, or dissolve into some rudimentary sexual goo.

But then his hands close around her wrists. The seal of her lips on his chest breaks and he sets her to one side like a trinket on a shelf. She wants explanation but her mouth won't make words.

His gaze darts from one surface to another before three quick strides have him at her desk. Datapadds are knocked about until he finds one of use. His fingers skate over the screen, pluck at data. A brief pause, a forefinger flourish, and he thrusts the padd at her.

"Sign it."

Words from her earlier query finally come out. "What are you… why?"

"Consent."

Right. Of course. A surge of oxytocin grateful for his good sense.

With the tip of her fingernail, she scrawls her name in the space next to his, then lets her finger idle there, thinking about dragging that nail down his bare skin from sternum to cock. He grabs the padd and throws it somewhere behind him. Then they're on each other, both trying to take charge, pushing, pulling, until they tumble sideways onto her bed, face to face. He reaches out, tugs at her lower lip with his thumb, is surprised when she sucks it into her mouth.

"Oh," he says. Draws in a shuddering breath, says "oh" again. It's an epiphany. He takes back his thumb and offers fingers. Their faces are dangerously close. He kisses the top of his own hand, as close as he dares to the pull of her lips.

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching like a dowsing rod toward the liquid heat of her cunt.

A/N: Az'ir'kh'ar etek bolau. - This is me trying to cobble together a sentence in his native language that means "We gotta fuck, baby."