Leonard used to enjoy his alone time. Moments in private when he could unwind with a good glass of scotch and take in the quiet of his quarters were some of his favorites.

At least, they used to be.

In recent days, the cold truth had descended upon him with all its cruelty: bad things happened when one was alone.

A breath of fresh air did nothing to soothe his lungs, which still ached from misusing them the previous night. He had woken with a start, the memories not even giving him a moment of reprieve before flooding his mind.

Breakfast had been a blur, the mere sight of food turning his already nauseous stomach, and very little negotiations had taken place during the meal.

For some reason.

One of the high ministers had suggested taking the discussion outdoors and Leonard had hoped fresh air would do something for his nerves. All the long trek through the gardens had done so far, however, was remind him of his own growing fatigue.

Each time he turned his attention to the small group further ahead on the trail, his hopes that their stay on Cursioa would soon come to an end rose. If Jim wasn't talking about the benefits of the Federation, then Leonard couldn't even begin to guess what had his friend's hands and arms in such a flying passion.

In an ironic twist of events, their security team—the very ones who were supposed to be on alert for any foul play—had elected to remain behind at the Hall.

For some reason, Jim had been fine with that.

Leonard, of course, had not.

Bad things happen when you're alone, which is why he was beyond grateful to have Spock. The Vulcan had also hung back from the main party and while Leonard couldn't figure out why, he couldn't deny the feeling of security that settled over him every time he caught sight of the first officer out of the corner of his eye.

So what if Spock seemed to be studying him even harder than he had yesterday evening? As long as Leonard didn't have to be alone...

And as long as he didn't have to be up there with Jim and that menace who dove into people's minds without permission in the name of "scholarly research."

The shiver that wracked his frame had Spock glancing his way. Great.

Leonard rubbed his hands over his arms. "Chilly out here, isn't it?"

"To a Vulcan, many alien climates could be described as 'chilly,' however, I have perceived this temperature to be one humans normally consider warm and tropical."

Irritation was not something Leonard had to feign to keep Spock off his scent and he gave his eyes a long, hard roll.

"Well, it might seem warm to an Iowa boy like Jim, but I'd take an autumn morning in Georgia over this any day."

Spock had no comeback, or perhaps he just chose not to voice it, and for that, Leonard was grateful. Silence was easier these days. Silence or complaining, and he couldn't seem to find the energy to complain any more than he had to.

It seemed, though, the longer he stayed silent, the deeper Spock's dark gaze studied him, almost as if the Vulcan were peeling back layer upon layer in the hopes of finding the problem.

There's no problem.

And you're gonna have to dig a little deeper than that if you want to find it, Spock.

Keeping his distance while not straying too far away was key. Even so, Leonard had to catch himself every time Spock stopped to inspect a foreign plant. Mowing them both into the ground was the last thing he wanted to do. Talk about being too conspicuous...

At one point, he swore Spock smirked at him, though it was damned near impossible to tell because, in the long run, the Vulcan would deny it.

"To borrow the common human colloquialism, would it be easier if you simply climbed on my back?"

Leonard had come inches from tumbling into Spock at that point and had returned the smirk with a scowl.

"If you'd give me a heads up when you're gonna stop, we wouldn't have so many close calls," he snapped. "And as always, you butchered that expression."

Spock merely lifted a brow. "I wasn't aware there was a right or wrong way to phrase that particular expression."

Now completely done with the conversation, Leonard waved a dismissive hand. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to rush past Spock, but hindsight has always and forever will be 20/20. In his haste to put some space between them, he missed the small hole in the dirt.

His eyes might not have noticed the hole, but his foot found the target with ease.

Mere nanoseconds after Leonard felt himself go down, a steadying hand grabbed his arm and pulled him upward.

"Why did the captain let me live…"

"Your thoughts are my thoughts—"

Leonard yanked his arm out of Spock hold before his brain could convince him of the clear lack of danger.

That this was his Spock, not...

A darkened medbay.

A hand.

Reaching. Grabbing. Holding.

Searching. Probing.

"Why did the captain—"

Leonard couldn't suppress a shiver in time as he shoved the memory back into the depths.

And there was that blasted raised brow again. For a brief moment, Spock's concern was palpable.

Don't touch me, just don't...

"How long has your mind been in such turmoil?"

Don't—

"Doctor," Spock said, clearing his throat and nodding toward the hole, "I have noticed that the Cursioans seem to be in the process of replanting some of their gardens."

Ignoring the pounding in his chest, Leonard let his gaze follow Spock's. A handful of different supplies littered the ground, and near the hole sat a potted plant waiting to sink its roots into the lush earth.

Ah.

He itched to clamp his arms across his chest in a vain attempt to keep his hammering heart at bay, but he knew he had to keep up the appearance of casual.

Who are you trying to fool? A Vulcan scientist with an IQ of two billion? Yeah, great idea, McCoy. one of your best yet.

Still, he kept his arms planted firmly at his sides. "You'd think they'd clean up when they were done, or at least have some sort of sign posted..."

Don't step in this obviously deep hole.

Right. Another brilliant idea.

Leonard could practically see the Doctor, are you all right? sitting on the tip of Spock's tongue.

Don't say it. Don't you dare—

In the end, the most he got was a nod and a longer-than-normal stare.

"Pehaps," Spock began, "we should join the others before they get too far away."

He had almost fogotten the group fading into the distance. One glance at the tall Cursioan strolling off to Minister Aedon side was enough to send Leonard into another series of shivers, but he steeled himself just in time.

A nod was the best he could manage, seeing as he no longer trusted his voice—and he was almost certain it had wavered last time he opened his mouth.

Now, he was careful to keep a large enough gap between him and Spock, and it made the Vulcan—and the rest of the world—seem farther away than ever.

"How long has your mind been in such turmoil…?"

Quiet was not a word Spock would ever use to describe Doctor Leonard McCoy. In the same way, clingy had never been included in that character description.

Until that morning.

Breakfast had been a near repeat of the previous evening's meal, with McCoy sitting silent at his place at the long table. This time, however, that place had been switched from across the table to the chair right next to Spock.

The doctor had been closely following him ever since.

Spock was not the kind to get easily irritated. That would be an unnecessary—and quite frankly, tiring—use of emotion. When it came to the doctor in particular, Spock had gained much practice in keeping his annoyance at bay.

No, this behavior didn't warrant frustration.

It only drew upon Spock's mounting concern.

Morning had drifted into late afternoon and Spock still couldn't banish the incident in the gardens from his mind. That moment of unadulterated fear that had captured McCoy's eyes, however brief, played on an endless loop in his memory.

To come out and blatantly inquire as to the root of the issue would mean getting shot down before he even had a chance to finish his sentence. This attempt would also put McCoy on the defensive, more so than he already seemed to be, and would further minimize Spock's chances of discovering the truth.

He knew the doctor too well.

So, he continued to play along with McCoy's little charade, engaging in their usual banter and responding with logic whenever the doctor complained about wanting to go back to the Enterprise.

Over the years, exercises in logic had increased Spock's ability to solve puzzles. Collecting the important pieces of a problem and putting them together in a timely manner had become almost second-nature.

In all his years, however, he had yet to meet another enigma quite like Doctor McCoy. Even at his most predictable, the man was complex. Spock was certain he would never know what went on inside the doctor's mind. Nothing short of a meld would lend him insight on McCoy's intricately woven nature.

Odd silence, the need to be near Spock—or perhaps, just anyone at all—and a sudden fear of touch…

But no, that couldn't be right. McCoy had accidentally brushed against him several times in this quest of his to invade Spock's personal space.

... Either way, none of it made sense. It wasn't logical. And that, Spock presumed, made perfect sense in regards to the doctor.

Because much of the time, McCoy didn't make sense.

Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to have occurred since their arrival on Corsioa, excluding McCoy's obvious objection to the mental tests of that first morning.

Then again, the more Spock considered the matter, the more he began to realize that McCoy had exhibited some odd behaviors on the ship as well, before they had beamed down. Reclusiveness, abnormal hesitation, more irritation than usual, and signs of overworking had replaced the doctor's usual zest for life.

In fact, Spock couldn't remember the last time he had seen the doctor on the bridge, and McCoy's—usually unnecessary—presence had quickly become a constant during their five year mission.

It was rare to see Kirk in his chair without McCoy hovering close to one side or leaning against its metal backing.

Spock could see the source of the doctor's irriation. Despite his own lack of complaints, he, too, was beginning to wonder when these negotiations would take a more serious turn. For all their talk of joining the Federation, the Cursioans seemed more interested in the thrilling tales of Captain James T. Kirk; of space expeditions and, interestingly, the ways and culture of the human race.

Almost as if they were each studying to write a thesis on the subject upon their guests departure.

With this in mind, Spock couldn't say he was surprised when Minister Aedon clasped his hands together and said, "Negotiations will continue tomorrow, when heads are clearer and emotions more stable."

Perhaps this was a subtle nod to the light argument that had broken out between two of the Cursioans earlier in the discussion…

Jim nodded. "Of course, Minister. Your hospitality has been most appreciated."

Spock watched McCoy visibly deflate at this. As they parted ways with the Cursioans for the night, the doctor's unease only seemed to grow.

"Jim…" His voice was low, lacking its usual bite—the one Spock had come to correlate with McCoy's incessant, illogical need to complain. "How long do we have to stay here?"

The captain clapped his CMO on the shoulder, his smile all-too predictable. "As long as it takes to win them over, Bones."

McCoy frowned, arms crossed tightly across his chest. "And if we don't?"

A thin wire of stress coiled around Jim's grin. "Let's hope we don't get to that point. I feel confident about this one, gentlemen."

Spock watched the doctor shiver, a barely noticeable motion that had him struggling to keep his expression neutral.

The captain retired shortly after that, the circles under his eyes betraying his need for sleep. Once, Jim had confessed that he rarely slept well his first night in a new place, and Spock did not see why this time would have been any different.

Spock was about to take his own leave when McCoy cleared his throat.

"I would say we should grab a drink..." His grin was more forced than natural, though not, it seemed, from lack of trying. "... But I didn't see any bars or clubs in any of our bazillion strolls around town."

Now did not feel like the time to remind the doctor that bazillion was not a real number. Instead, he quirked a brow and indulged in McCoy's banter, if only for a few moments.

"If we were back on the Enterprise, I suppose your solution would be to invite me to your quarters to share a drink, considering much of the ship's alcoholic beverages are stored in yours and Mr. Scott's bathroom cabinet."

McCoy was quick to take the bait, and as he did so, Spock couldn't help but notice some of the tension slide off his shoulders.

"Then you'd probably give me a lecture on the many reasons why alcohol doesn't affect Vulcans and why it would be illogical for you to take even a single drop of whiskey."

"To which you would respond by explaining in exruciating detail all your perceived benefits of the substance."

"And neither of us would end up drinking anyway because Jim would come barging in with something better to do." The ghost of a true smile brushed McCoy's lips and the sight of it got Spock wondering when he had last seen the doctor do anything other than frown.

The dry chuckle echoed off the empty hall walls as McCoy shook his head. "Have we really become that predictable, Mr. Spock?"

"Perhaps a slight change in routine might be in order upon our return."

"Right..." McCoy crossed his arms at this. "Whenever that'll be. Do you get the feeling we're gonna be stuck here way longer than we have to be? Or is that just me...?" He didn't give Spock time to reply, shaking his head and blowing out a sigh. "Knowing my luck," he muttered," it's probably just me… Well, g'night, Spock."

Though Spock returned the farewell, McCoy had already disappeared into his room, the door snapping shut with a chilling air of finality.

Spock was a Vulcan. He didn't get paranoid as humans so often did.

No, he was simply… concerned. And…

And experiencing a heightened sense of wariness for the unknown.

Afterall, he knew something was off about McCoy, he just didn't know what, exactly.

Spock didn't like not knowing.

Settling into the first steps of his evening mediation proved to be the relaxation he needed. The luxary suite they had given him was a bit over the top, but he couldn't deny its beauty. A spacious bed surrounded by silk drapery, windows overlooking the gardens, and more amenedies than Spock knew what to do with, all at his disposal for the duration of their stay.

It was almost overwhelming.

One thing he had noticed, and found rather fascinating, was the lack of locks on the door. Privacy didn't seem to be a thing as highly valued by the Cursioans as it was by other species of the galaxy. Closed doors stood in place of locks, a courtesy humans could do with adapting to, Spock thought as images of Jim bursting into rooms without warning filled his mind.

Logically, he knew the Cursioans would respect his personal space, which is why the sudden swoosh of the door gave him a bit of a start. He pulled himself out of his meditation in time to see none other than McCoy kneel down in front of him, mimicking his posture.

Spock had barely raised both his eyesbrows when McCoy blurted:

"Teach me how to meditate."

"Doctor," Spock replied the second he regained his composure, "I wasn't aware that you—"

"I don't," McCoy snapped. "That's why I need you to show me how. Just give me some basic pointers, or something. Anything, really, just..." The breath he took was nothing less than shuddering; a thin line of perspiration had begun to gather at the doctor's hairline. "Just help me clear my mind. Please, just... I just need to clear my mind..."

Any particular reason why? Jim would have broached this question in a heartbeat, not backing down until he got a full confession out of his friend.

A confession about what, Spock couldn't be sure.

But Spock wasn't Jim. If he battered the doctor with questions, he would only make things worse, of that, he was certain.

Instead, he offered a gentle nod. "As you wish, Leonard."

While he might not have been able to take the direct approach, Spock's determination to discover the truth behind McCoy's veiled eyes only grew with each step in the meditation process. With each shallow breath McCoy inhaled and every time his gaze drifted toward the door, Spock's suspicions solidified.

Something very wrong had occurred, and he was determined to find out what.