Had Jim happened to stroll into Spock's suite that night, barging into rooms as he was often wont to do, he might have been tempted to jump to a few strange conclusions about a certain doctor and a certain Vulcan.

Conclusions that would most certainly be wrong.

For the first time, he found a part of him missing the security of a lock, so the fact that his door remained firmly closed gave Spock immeasurable relief.

And it gave him more time to focus on Doctor McCoy.

He had known something was wrong from the very start, and now McCoy appeared to be at the proverbial breaking point. That, Spock had come to understand, was when humans were most apt to confess. To share their sorrows with someone they trust.

To admit that he didn't feel even the least bit honored by this unspoken trust would have been a dismal lie.

And Spock had always striven not to make a habit out of lying to himself.

As he watched the doctor steady his breathing, his fingers still clutching at his forehead, Spock found himself working double-time to exercise patience. What normally came second nature to him was quickly turning into an active chore.

Time passed, the night wore on, and McCoy still had yet to open his eyes. He knew sleep hadn't claimed the doctor, though the dark blotches under McCoy's eyes made that a possibility. No, Spock had never seen anyone sleep while trembling so, nor while flexing their fingers in an almost erratic pattern.

Yet, Spock kept to his silence.

When McCoy was ready, he would speak. Of that, he had no doubt.

Eventually, the doctor stole a shaky breath, his lips moving without sound for a brief moment. Then, he offered an utterly drained, "Sorry for waking you."

"I hadn't yet fallen asleep."

"Liar."

Spock supposed that was, indeed, a lie, or a half-truth at least. Vulcans were naturally light sleepers, however, and in light of everything, he didn't consider McCoy's abrupt entrance to be any sort of disturbance or burden.

Not in the slightest.

"Believe what you wish, Doctor." The dash of humor in his tone was added for McCoy's benefit alone. Even so, it lent a touch of relief to Spock's ever-tightening stomach.

"I always do." Another shuddering sigh had McCoy opening his eyes, though just barely. "I suppose I owe you some sort of explanation."

"You don't owe me anything, Doctor."

"All the same… It's the least I can do for barging in here like that and taking up half your bed."

"It's a very large bed."

This earned Spock a half-hearted chuckle—one that could have very easily been confused with a sob. "You're telling me."

Again, Spock waited as McCoy ran a hand across his face, settling it limply on his pillow.

"They're not..." As McCoy sucked in a breath, Spock readied himself. "They're not just curious, Spock. They're... They're powerful. They can… They can control things with their mind. Hell, they could probably move a mountain just by thinking about it."

There was no need to inquire as to the who of Doctor McCoy's disclosure.

Spock swallowed, biting his tongue to keep from interrupting.

It seemed, however, that McCoy didn't intend to continue.

For the first time since they set foot on Cursioa, Spock broached the question that had been burning wildfires in the back of his mind.

"Leonard." His voice was so low, so hesitant to inquire that Spock himself could barely hear the words. "What happened?"

"What didn't?" McCoy shook his head, looking as though he had to work up the courage not only to tell the tale to Spock but to himself.

Once, his mother had told him that saying things out loud, particularly when talking about harder subjects, made it seem all the more real. In his younger days, Spock had not understood how something that was already very real could be made more real simply by speaking about it.

His friends on the Enterprise had done good work in solidifying the lesson his mother had tried to teach him so many years ago.

A lesson mainly taught by example.

"You..." McCoy was choosing his words carefully, that much was clear. As he lay there in silence, Spock was beginning to understand the human expression "waiting on pins and needles," if the prickling of his skin and sudden loss of airflow was anything to judge by. "You probably realized I would've rather jumped off a cliff than let those pale fingers touch my head. I've never been a fan of that stuff, all that telepathy and mind-reading magic… I should've trusted my gut from the very start of all this insanity…"

As Leonard spoke, Spock listened, waiting patiently when his companion had to pause every now and then to collect his thoughts. To catch his breath. To chase away the lingering hysteria.

Spock had always tried to see the logic in everything. To understand why certain beings did certain things. To not merely look at the action, but to examine the motivation behind it.

To approach with logic rather than emotion.

When Leonard's story drew to a close, however, Spock found himself engaged in a fierce battle: a battle to keep his rising outrage at bay.

Because how dare they? What sort of abominable being would dare to—?

"It…" Leonard appeared to be doing his best to blink away the thin layer of glaze trying to capture his eyes. Another half-sob, half-chuckle cut through the air, piercing Spock's very soul. "Gosh, Spock, you could've mentioned touch-telepathy was so painful."

This was new information. In the doctor's story, Spock sensed traces of fear, confusion, apprehension, and helplessness. Physical pain had not even been on his radar.

"Pain is not a factor in touch telepathy," he stated, hoping simplicity would aid him in regaining emotional detachment.

Leonard's expression shattered this hope instantly.

"Then," he asked in a hoarse whisper, "why did it hurt so much…?"

"I… I don't know."

And it pained him to say it, to admit that not only did he have any answers for his friend, but that Spock didn't know how to help him either.

"Are you certain you've told me everything? Perhaps there is something we're missing. Perhaps—"

But McCoy was already shaking his head. Having rolled onto his back, he fixed his dulled eyes on the ceiling. "Forget it. It's not important." The doctor's very presence there begged to differ. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"There has to be a logical reason for the pain you experienced, Doctor," Spock pressed. "Perhaps there's a piece of the story you missed when you—"

"That's all of it, Spock." And he couldn't remember ever hearing the man sound so utterly drained. "There's nothing more to tell."

Nor could Spock recall ever hearing a more blatant lie slip out of Doctor McCoy's mouth.

But he refused to pry. He refused to be Jim, and while the captain was always noble in his efforts to get his friends to open up about their pain, McCoy had clearly come to him for a reason.

Perhaps because he knew Spock wouldn't press, wouldn't push.

So, he tightened his jaw, willing it to remain shut.

"You…" McCoy cleared his throat after a long stretch of silence, giving Spock a quick glance. "You won't tell Jim about this? It would… It'll just mess everything up."

"Yours is not my story to tell."

Relief eased some of the deep stress lines on the doctor's face. "Just making sure."

Another silence stretched between them, one Spock was surprised to call comfortable.

Just when he had begun to suspect McCoy had fallen asleep at long last, a soft thank you broke the silence.

Spock blinked, sparing a moment to study the doctor. Though still a bit tense, he seemed on the verge of a complete shutdown, his body finally forcing sleep upon him.

"Of course, Leonard," Spock whispered, not quite sure McCoy even heard it. "Always."

When morning dawned, neither spoke of what had occurred mere hours ago.

Had it truly only been hours? Spock couldn't recall falling asleep, but the doctor certainly had, judging by the tired fog clouding his eyes.

McCoy made no mention of his inner turmoil and Spock joined in this performance of normality. Though the doctor left briefly to don a fresh uniform, Spock soon found his shadow following close behind once more, trailing him on the way to the main dining hall.

Neither made any attempt at conversation, simply clinging to the sweet silence and comfort of each other's company.

Spock still had many questions, all of which he knew would have to wait until the Enterprise had left Cursioa far behind.

The one he could not understand was the pain factor. Curisoan telepathy was a brief brush of the mind, a minuscule intrusion compared to the Vulcan mind meld. Even a deeper meld should not have caused pain, whether Cusioan, Vulcan, or anything of the like.

Spock had not experienced even the slightest discomfort during their first encounter with the Cursioans.

McCoy's plight was a puzzle.

It was highly, highly illogical.

In hindsight, perhaps he should have paid better attention to the morning greetings of their hosts, or to Jim's bright smiles, or perhaps even the darkening sky out the windows.

At that moment, however, Spock had tunnel vision for McCoy, his mind going faster than warp ten in a vain effort to make a solution materialize.

Everything seemed like a repeat of the past few days. McCoy settling into a disquieting silence as he poked around at his breakfast, Spock doing his best to observe him without being conspicuous. The true change came in Jim's insistence on resuming the previous evening's conversation.

That, Spock supposed, is when everything went to hell, to quote a certain doctor.

One of the Cursioans rose with such suddenness, his chair grated backward against the floor with a sharp screech.

"In the best interest of Cursioa," he began, eyes fixed on the captain, "I must bring these negotiations to a halt."

The High Minister seemed quite taken aback at this, looking frantically between Jim and the speaker, as if suspecting some sort of secret conference. "Theon, what is the meaning of this?"

Spock did his best to focus on the unraveling situation and not the way McCoy appeared to be slowly killing Theon with his eyes.

"There is a traitor among the Federation, one who is not who he claims to be." The Cursioan narrowed his stare at Jim. "If you have such little control over your own people, how can you expect us to fully put our trust in your organization?"

Jim's confusion was palpable. "I'm… sorry? I'm afraid I might have missed something…"

"If one of your own can cause such pain without your knowledge, how many others in your Federation are capable of such treachery? And how can you allow such travesties to go on right under your nose, Captain Kirk?"

The laugh that bubbled beside Spock felt akin to a swift punch to the gut. He sucked in a steadying breath through his nose before turning to McCoy, who, by all appearances, had lost it completely.

Jim's expression flickered between confusion, apprehension, and irritation. And yet, McCoy's laughter only grew until he was forced to wipe tears from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, clearly not meaning a word of it. Though his laughter, which bordered on hysterical, had died down, Spock knew the doctor had only just begun. "I'm sorry, but that's rich coming from you… Theon, is it? Good to know, good to know." Another chuckle tore from his throat, sounding too much like the ones that had filled Spock's quarters last night. "Puts a name to a face. Finally."

Spock couldn't remember the last time he had felt his blood freeze.

"Bones," Jim hissed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just stating the obvious, Jim! I mean, someone has to, right? They're a race of hypocrites, I'm just pointing that out. I mean, I wasn't going to, but he opened his big mouth first, so I asked myself, why the hell not?"

Now, Minister Aedon was standing, followed quickly by Jim, whose muscles were beyond tense.

"Theon, speak plainly! Make yourself clear before you cause damage none of us can undo!"

Beside him, McCoy still chuckled, his laughter now barely rising above a whisper, but Spock was focused on Theon and the long finger he had stretched out.

The one pointing directly at Spock's chest.

"Your First Officer Spock," Theon accused, "is a traitor to the goodness and loyalty your Federation claims to hold so highly."

McCoy's laughter stifled at this, choked back by a strangled gasp. When Spock spared a fleeting glance at the doctor, he found a pale face and distant eyes.

"What?" Jim shook his head. "That's impossible. You don't know what you're talking about."

Minster Aedon spluttered, making it the first time Spock had seen the Cursioan exhibit anything but composure. "What is the basis for such heavy accusations? Where is your proof?"

Had McCoy been in a far different mood, Spock supposed he might have made some sort of comment about not being able to slice the silence with a knife, but as it were, the doctor slammed his palm on the table, shattering the quiet tension.

"Go ahead!" As he shot to his feet, Spock caved under the overwhelming urge to follow suit. "Tell them! Give them your proof and tell them what you saw! Admit that you're no better than he was! That you're worse! Tell them, damn it!"

Doctor Leonard McCoy was not crazy, Spock knew this. He trusted in the truth of it implicitly.

The determination hiding the pain in McCoy's blue eyes just made this fact a bit difficult to believe.

Theon's lips pursed as he locked glares with McCoy.

"Tell them," the doctor goaded, voice sharp and jagged as a Klingon dagger. "I dare you."

Before anyone could utter another word, the ground quaked, throwing several beings off their feet.

And the ceiling tore open under the strain, revealing a dark, angry sky.