The BLTS Archive - The Other One by Greywolf the Wanderer --- OK now listen up. This is a bit different from the usual Greywolf fare, ya dig it? If the mere concept of S/Mc makes ye go "Ewwww" -- ye're not gonna want to read this one. Ye are fair warned. This is kind of a challenge story, I guess; couple different folks challenged me to try this, so I did. You'll haveta tell me if it works or not. ObDisclaim: ParaBorg owns 'em. I'm just playin' with 'em. No money's bein' made off of this. Archive is fine, just keep my name and disclaimer attached. Contains m/m sex. Also: WARNING: some non-consensual activities described; if you are one for whom such things are a problem, then perhaps ye won't want to read this. Summary: After the encounter with the Mirror universe, both men have some problems they have to deal with. OK. 'Nuff blather. On wid de show... --- For the first time in his life, Dr. Leonard McCoy was eager to feel the transporter effect. They couldn't get out of this snake pit fast enough for him. He wasn't really in pain any more; the lidacin had taken care of that. But he was dizzy and disoriented, worried that he was going to collapse if he relaxed even the tiniest bit. He was afraid he was going to be sick right here on the transporter pad. His vision was blurring in and out of focus, and he was still in shock from the forced meld. He hadn't dared take a stimulant -- his hold on consciousness was fragile enough now, without adding that to the mix. From behind the transporter console, the Vulcan regarded him coldly, speculatively. McCoy bit down on the inside of his lip and forced himself to act as if nothing was wrong. Somehow, he kept his hate from showing. *Just a little longer,* he told himself. *You can do this. You have to.* Jim was still talking, trying to persuade this bearded, bloodthirsty pirate of a Spock of the illogic of Empire. Bones could have told him he was wasting his time -- except that he couldn't. Spock had covered that possibility, too. Every time he tried to speak to Jim, his throat seemed to close around the words. He'd given up after his third failure in as many minims. Black eyes glittered evilly at him, from the corners of his mind. No. *Just let me get back home again, and I'll be all right.* All he had to do was hold on. It wasn't anything that bad -- some bruises, a bit of torn skin, a little bleeding -- easy enough to fix, if only they could get the hell out of this place. Even his head didn't feel too bad -- he'd felt worse after many an evening spent pub-crawling with Scotty and Jim. He'd treated much worse than this, before -- just, not on himself. It didn't matter. If he could just get out of here, he'd be fine... Finally, it was time. The Vulcan manipulated the transporter controls with the same easy grace as his counterpart. And Bones had never been so grateful in his life as he was to feel a moment of nauseated confusion, and see the welcome sight of his own Enterprise taking shape around him. Gone were the knives at their belts, gone, the overly theatrical uniforms. All of it. Gone. The sight of Spock at the transporter controls sent an involuntary shiver down his spine -- but this was the Spock he knew, not that bearded madman they'd left behind. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to meet the Vulcan's eyes for more than an instant. As soon as was practical he headed for Sickbay, thankful that Spock and Jim were still deep in conversation. In *this* Sickbay he would be safe. In this one, he could take refuge from the thought of what had happened to him on that other Enterprise. At least, that was the plan. But when he finally sagged forward onto his desk, the last of the bourbon dripping unnoticed from his overturned glass, all his dreams were full of hot dry fingers burning his face, touching his neck -- of being paralyzed, unable to move or speak. Of burning black eyes, locked on to his -- and that other mind, filling his skull, smothering him, those hands pulling him down into darkness and pain. He moaned, and tried to escape, but he couldn't wake up. He couldn't get away. He couldn't keep the other out of his head. Leonard McCoy was finally sleeping, safe at home -- but he found no peace there. None at all. --- At last, it was quiet. The USS Enterprise sped on through the night, an island of warmth and light and safety in the endless sea of darkness that separates the stars. All who belonged aboard her were safely home once more, and the ...others... had been sent back from whence they'd come. The Captain had finally headed for bed, drained and exhausted, but very happy to be home. Uhura and Scotty had vanished to their respective lairs some hours ago, neither being bound by the necessities of command. Spock had not seen McCoy since they'd left the transporter room -- and although he would have been ashamed to publicly admit to such a feeling, he was actually rather grateful for that. It had been hard enough maintaining his control in front of Jim's searching hazel eyes; the doctor would have seen through him in an instant. As he always did. Spock knew, intellectually, that *this* McCoy was not his enemy. This man had saved his life more times than either could remember; this man was one of the two real friends he had. One of the few people whose touch he could stand. Only this one, and Jim.... For a moment, he wished that Jim's nature was different. Given that the existence of other universes was now proven, somewhere that was undoubtedly the case. Somewhere, the one he wanted was his. Not here, no. But somewhere. Here, he was fortunate to have discovered the truth before he had spoken of anything so personal. Jim did not know his feelings, and never would. It was enough to be near him, even in silence. Enough, to be his friend. But right now, though the doctor was also a friend, he did not wish to see McCoy. Not now, not with his control still so precarious. Not with those memories still so sharp, so strong. He needed time. He needed to meditate, to ground himself, to accept and pass beyond what had happened to him. And until then, Spock thought it best for all concerned that the two of them simply did not meet. In any case, he did not require the services of a physician. All he needed was a dermal regenerator and a few moments of privacy, and he would be well. His ribs would knit soon enough; he'd had broken ribs before, he knew what to do until they healed. He was lucky in a way -- his injuries were actually quite minor; had he dared to use the healing trance, they would already be gone. But the trance required the help of another, to bring him out of it, and that in turn would mean explaining -- no. It was out of the question. Once again he found himself wishing that things had gone otherwise. Had he been in the transporter room when they returned, as he'd intended, he thought that surely he would have noticed there was something odd about the landing party. About Jim, if no-one else... But he had already been in Sickbay, unconscious, knocked off his station on the bridge by a power surge during the ion storm. By the time he'd awakened, it was too late. That other McCoy was there with him, and had sent all the staff away. He'd tried to rise, and found himself hardly able to move. The doctor had injected him with something, while he was out. The standard Sickbay restraints, which he should have been able to snap like spidersilk, might as well have been chains made of battlesteel. That other McCoy had laughed, as he locked the door to the examining room... Spock shivered, frowned, stopping himself from remembering it yet again. It would serve no purpose. No one but he and that other knew of it, and that one was gone, now. He had awakened, dizzy, nauseated, in pain and alone, down on Deck 18 in one of the cargo holds. It had been necessary to replicate another uniform before he could leave the hold, as what was left of his own was in tatters. An empty laundry hamper near him gave mute testimony as to how he might have arrived there unseen. Not daring to wait and treat his injuries, he'd dressed, and made his way back to the bridge. He had been quite relieved to find that Mr. Sulu, who had taken over the conn when he was injured, had subsequently thrown the impostors in the brig. The other Captain Kirk had given him an order to begin orbital bombardment of the largest Halkan cities, and that was when Sulu had put out the silent Security alert. Given that all four imposters were safely imprisoned, Spock saw no reason to mention what had happened to him. Nor to mention what he'd seen in his assailant's mind. No. Instead, he'd busied himself with calculations, plans, theories on how to reverse the switch. Sulu had not asked him where he'd been. In truth, he thought it best to act as if his assault had simply never happened. He was determined that he would make it so. And in fact, once the switch back proved successful, he said nothing of it to anyone. What purpose would it serve? The monster was a universe away, hopefully forever, and now no-one but he knew what had occurred. He could maintain his Privacy. Spock already knew that Sickbay was empty tonight, no patients in residence. He had checked. That being so, he expected that no-one would be on duty there during the night shift, since the physician on call could be reached any time there was need. With Sickbay empty, he could hopefully get what he needed without any questions, or unnecessary fuss. As he walked down the deserted, dimly-lit corridor, he repeated to himself phrases from the Tradition: 'What is done to the flesh is of no importance. No physical harm can touch the mind, if I do not permit it. I am a Vulcan; there is no pain.' Somehow, it didn't seem to be helping much. Whatever that one had injected him with had been making him dizzy and nauseous ever since. Every time he'd tried to meditate, he had been forced to stop, his mind reeling, his stomach in rebellion. He hadn't eaten anything yet; he hadn't dared to try. It had taken all of his energy simply to act as if nothing was wrong. No matter. He had survived the day. He was here, now, and that other was not. He stopped in front of the door to Sickbay, fighting to reassert his control. Only when his pulse and breathing were once more as they should be did he permit himself to go within. Even so, he was distracted. He did not smell the bourbon right away. The soft sounds of a human in uneasy dream-haunted sleep never penetrated his awareness. He was intent upon his goal. He walked across the darkened room, focused entirely on the surgical supply cabinet. He knew exactly what he wanted. It was a matter of mere moments to open the locked cabinet, and pocket what he needed. He ignored the waves of dizziness that still plagued him; it would be some hours yet before his body could purge itself of the last of the drugs that other had used. Finally he turned, ready to leave -- and that was when he saw McCoy. The human was slumped over his desk, unconscious; an empty bottle and an overturned glass beside him. A jolt of pure adrenaline fizzed through Spock's bloodstream, even as he realized who it was. Illogical, to be so affected by such a thing. This was not *him* -- this was Bones. Spock stood motionless, deep in thought, until he was once more calm and in control. Then he turned, intending to leave as quietly as he'd come. That was when he heard it... The doctor moaned, very softly. His fists were clenched; his face was a grimace of pain, and he whispered brokenly, "Ah! No... Spock, no -- *please*... don't..." Spock froze, unwanted knowledge suddenly made painfully clear. *Truly a mirror; more so than any of us knew...* All that he wanted to do was complete his turn, and leave as he'd intended. But he couldn't do that. Not if what he suspected was true. If he was right, the doctor would need his help. Whether Spock could give it, and whether McCoy would accept it from him, were completely different matters. But Spock was currently the only telepath on board. He was no Adept, of course -- years since, he had chosen the Outer Path, rather than the Inner; the stars, rather than the temple. It did not matter. There was no-one else. Only him. And he owed this man his life, many times over. He stood quietly for a time, as McCoy fought, without success, to escape from the nightmare. Finally, Spock sighed, and came to a decision. He sat down across the table from the doctor, very careful not to touch him. Keeping his voice low, and as non-threatening as he could, he said, "Dr. McCoy -- Leonard -- wake up..." He had to repeat himself a few times, but finally the human snorted, blinked a couple of times -- and then froze, the blue eyes wide with shock and fear. Spock held up a hand. "Leonard, please -- relax. I am not *him*. That one is gone. You are home now." McCoy frowned, shook his head, blinked again. He had gone very pale, but he didn't bolt, as Spock had half feared he might. "Oh, man," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "You gave me a helluva start there, Spock. Like to have scared me half to death." Spock lowered his eyes for a moment. When he looked up again, he willed his face to be open, not cold and still as was his usual habit. "My apologies, Doctor," he murmured. "I did not wish to alarm you. But we must speak." McCoy looked as if he'd rather have been almost anywhere but here. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and winced. "Um... Yeah. OK, sure, Spock. Um... what can I do for you?" Spock took a deep breath, concentrated on calmness. He would have greatly preferred not to say what he was about to -- but it was the only way he could think of to convince McCoy of the fact that his intentions were benign -- and why. He looked into the wounded blue eyes, and wondered if his own expression was as revealing as McCoy's. "Doctor -- I need... to have you scan me. There is something I must... discuss with you, in confidence." There. He had said it. At least, as much as he could bring himself to say. The human rubbed at his eyes. He scratched his already disheveled hair, until it stuck out wildly in all directions. He found a hypo and gave himself an alcohol antidote, and waited, shivering, until it had done its work. Finally he nodded sharply, once, visibly assuming his on-duty manner. "OK, Spock. Gimme a second, here..." He rummaged in the cupboard until he found what he wanted. "Right. Now, let's see..." He ran the scanner back and forth over the Vulcan a few times. Then he frowned, recalibrated it, and scanned some more. And sat down abruptly, gone pale all over again. "Oh, shit." He looked over at Spock, the blue eyes hot with outrage. "Who did this to you? *When*? What *happened*?" Spock took a deep breath. He noticed that his hands had curled themselves into fists, and made them relax, lie flat on the table once more. He looked up, and forced himself to meet the doctor's eyes. "It was while the landing parties were transposed. It was your counterpart, Doctor..." The human winced. The Vulcan continued, his dry tone giving little clue to the turmoil within. But the doctor could see it -- he'd spent so long watching this man, he could read him like a book... Spock's voice was as calm and even as ever, but McCoy knew better. "Once the initial switch occurred, there was a period of approximately two hours, before the switch was detected, Security was notified, and the impostors were put in the brig. "I was injured during the storm, and taken to Sickbay. Mr. Sulu had the conn when the landing party returned. It was not until what he thought was the Captain gave him orders to begin destroying Halkan cities that we discovered what had happened. "In the meantime, when I regained consciousness, I was alone in Sickbay, except for..." He stopped. Even now, he could not bring himself to say it. It was highly illogical, he knew. But he simply could not do it. McCoy grimaced, all too aware. "Ah, that's all right, Spock. I, ah, I can figure out the rest, from reading this." He held up the scanner. Then he looked up, his face full of nothing but concern. "How do you feel now?" Spock spread his fingers in the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug. "The residual effects of the drugs are somewhat... troublesome, but they are fading." He reached into his pocket, showed McCoy the dermal regenerator. "With this, I believe I can manage..." McCoy nodded. "Yeah -- tell you what, though -- it'd be a good idea if I set those ribs for you. It'd be safer that way -- you never know what's gonna happen next, around here." Unwelcome and illogical, to feel such unease at the thought of this man touching him. The doctor was correct. And this was Bones, not the other one. Finally he nodded. "Very well. That is a logical precaution. I will accept it." McCoy got the bone stimulator out and began to run it over the fractured ribs, very careful how he touched them. "God, Spock, I'm sorry. He's a filthy *bastard* -- you should've seen what Sickbay was like, over there. Torquemada himself couldn't have done any better." He scowled. "I'm a *doctor*, goddamnit, not a cheap stand-in for the Marquis de Sade. I don't give a damn if he is me. I wish he was here right now, I'd give him a damn good dose of what-for!" Hot sparks of anger flashed in the blue eyes. Then he thought of something, and he looked at Spock again, as he finished setting the Vulcan's ribs. "Uh, Spock -- was *that* what you wanted to talk to me about? Because I can promise you, this won't go in your records. I'd like to follow you up in a day or two, make sure there's no problems -- but there's no need of writin' it down, if that's what you're concerned about." The Vulcan permitted himself a small sigh. He did feel better, with his ribs set. And what the human was offering was what he would have asked for, if he could have brought himself to say it... That still left, however, one other matter which they needed to discuss. "I am... grateful, Doctor. You were right, to do this. "However, I must also apologize to you. I did not intend to overhear you. But when I first arrived here I was... somewhat distracted. You were asleep, and I did not see you. As I turned to leave, you spoke. You were dreaming. You said... my name." He paused, drew another deep breath, made himself continue. "I am... concerned, Leonard. Did my counterpart force you to meld with him? For if so, there are certain dangers..." He stopped. McCoy had gone as white as a sheet. Now the human covered his face with his hands, shaking. "Oh, god," he whispered, his voice suddenly rough, "god... I don't know what to *do*, Spock. It's like -- it's like he's still in my head -- I can't get it to *stop*..." He let his hands fall to the desk, and tried, without much success, to smile. "Ah, hell. We make quite a pair, don't we?" The Vulcan nodded. "Indeed, we do..." Both of them fell silent for a time. Then Spock cleared his throat, and spoke, somewhat hesitantly. "Leonard -- if you are willing, perhaps I can be of some assistance. What my ..counterpart... did to you goes against all modern Vulcan traditions; any Vulcan who follows the Way of Surak would feel obliged to offer aid." He paused, noting that McCoy was still very pale. Very quietly, he added, "if you would prefer, I could arrange for a Healer, in strictest confidence..." To himself, he could not help wondering what sort of place Vulcan must be, in that universe. It was a grim thought indeed. McCoy shook his head. "No... no, Spock, that's all right. I've trusted you for years. I *know* it wasn't you that did this. And to tell you the truth, I'd just as soon not involve anyone else, you know?" "I believe so -- in truth, that is also my own preference. Very well. I would advise not waiting; the longer this is left uncorrected, the more difficult it will be to put right." The Vulcan braced his hands on his knees. There. That was better; it was easier to stay upright, so. The human gulped. "That makes sense. But Spock -- are you up to doing this, so soon? The scan showed..." "I am aware." Spock winced a little as he moved. His control was still not what it should have been. It could not be helped. "I believe I can compensate, Doctor. I will not maintain the link if either of us has difficulty. But the dangers of waiting are quite real." The human swallowed again. "Yeah, I guess so... OK. Well, there's no time like the present, my grand-daddy always said. What do I need to do, to help?" "Only relax, as best you can, Leonard. I shall not force the link, if you find yourself unwilling..." The human nodded, and Spock lowered his eyes. --- "It will take me some moments to prepare." Spock closed his eyes and bowed his head over his folded hands, reciting to himself from Tradition. Slow the breathing. Steady the hands. Find the light within, the calmness that is the eye of the storm, and stand there. Gather the power in the palm of your hand. Lower the shields, slowly, carefully... There. He was ready. He opened his eyes, and saw McCoy nod. "Go ahead, Spock..." The doctor's face was pale, but he looked determined. Very gently, Spock rose, and knelt beside him. Placed his fingers on the meld points of the human's face. Very softly, he recited the ancient words, unchanged since long before Surak was born... Darkness, at first. Then the memory of heat -- hot, dry fingers, pressed against his face. Fear, anger -- how it felt to be powerless against the intruder. One touch, and he couldn't move. The contempt in that other's mind, as he brushed aside all of the human's defenses. Pain, as the searching mind tore roughly through his memories, and seized the information he wanted. Slow dawning of horror, as the human learned what they were to one another, in *that* world, as he felt the heat gathering in the other's body and mind, as he realized that he was helpless in every way... He couldn't even cry out; that, too, was taken from him. Spock winced, and nearly lost the link, seeing again the truth of what he'd felt when the other McCoy had touched him, earlier; the mirror of that other Spock's thoughts, reflected now in the mind of his friend. He kept them joined by main force of will, and slowly he drew Leonard's awareness back to the present. <> Very carefully, he found the places where that other had forced his way through McCoy's defenses. With a slow, delicate touch of thought, he began to reweave, to rebuild what had been torn apart. In the process, a certain amount of knowledge was shared, both ways -- now, both of them knew exactly what had been done to the other. It couldn't be helped, and it didn't matter. Instead, Spock poured himself into the link, gave McCoy whatever was needed to repair the damage that other had left behind. The first oath a young Vulcan swears, after the oath to his House, is to touch no other mind unwilling. That he will use everything in his power to prevent such abuse of the Gift. That if he cannot prevent it, he will do whatever he can to make amends... The thought that in some other world, he, Spock, was such a man as could willfully do this thing to another, was... disquieting. Bad enough, to physically assault McCoy, given his superior strength. But then to force him into a meld unwilling; to use the mind arts for violence against another... To keep a man paralyzed and conscious while doing to him what was done to his friend... Surak must have died young and unknown, in that place. By comparison, Spock thought, what had been done to him was relatively minor. His ills were purely of the flesh. When at last he allowed the meld to end, he found it was more than he could do at first, to rise. He stayed where he was, kneeling, leaning on his hands, catching his breath, and watched as McCoy shook himself, blinked, and came back to full awareness once more. He was relieved when the human met his eyes and smiled, albeit somewhat shakily. "Is it well with you, now?" Spock asked him. McCoy nodded. "Yeah, Spock. I think it is." The doctor closed his eyes in thought for a moment. "Oh yeah. It's ...better, now... Thank you kindly, my friend." The meld had left a mild euphoria; Bones knew it would fade soon enough. But for now, he was well. Spock looked away. "It was necessary. I could not let such damage pass, when it was one of my people who did this." *when it was me* "No Vulcan could, who honoured our Traditions." Both of them knew there was more to it than that, but neither spoke of it. McCoy leaned back in his chair, and stretched. "Damn, what a difference. I hadn't realized just how bad it was, until you made it stop..." He turned, and met the Vulcan's eyes. "Now, I have a suggestion for *you*. Why don't I go ahead and treat your injuries? We both know you could do it yourself -- but some of that would be a lot easier for me to reach, don't you think? Besides, Spock -- I owe you one." *it was me that did this to you* Spock thought about it. His first impulse was to refuse -- but that was an illogical reaction. Finally he nodded. "You are correct, Doctor. Very well -- I will allow it." Gathering what remained of his strength, he managed to rise to his feet and stand there. His vision blurred for a moment, but he didn't fall. "Better sit down first," said McCoy. "It's not like either one of us has to go anyplace right now." He took out his scanner again, turned it on for a minim. "I can help git that damned drug out of your bloodstream, for starters. I'd guess it's makin' you feel pretty sick right about now." "This is true." Moving carefully, Spock lowered himself into a chair. McCoy dug a hypo out of his pouch and fiddled with it, briefly, then gave him a shot. A few moments passed; then the lean form shivered for an instant. McCoy nodded, once. "There you go, that ought to help some..." He waited, saw that the Vulcan agreed. "All right. If you can get on the table, that'd probably be the easiest." Spock reached down, slowly pushed himself upright. He had given up on trying to pretend he was unharmed. He had done so all day, and he was tired. Exhausted. Now that he was no longer nauseated, he could barely keep his eyes open. It didn't matter. It was the same for McCoy -- he had just Seen it, in the healing meld. "I believe I can manage, Doctor." He would greatly have preferred to do no such thing, but again, that was an illogical reaction. He had just touched this man's thoughts; he *knew* the human meant him no harm. Even so, it was harder than he thought it should be, to climb on that table, and sit. *at least it is not the same table* He supposed it was illogical, to find comfort in that fact. He was too tired to care. "You warm enough?" McCoy asked him. "Not entirely, no..." In truth he felt quite chilled, more so than usual. The doctor spoke. "Computer -- close doors, do not lock. Raise temperature in here 15 degrees. Authorization McCoy M-1-Alpha." The computer chirped, "Working." "Whenever you're ready, Spock." The Vulcan shrugged, and pulled off his shirt. The doctor muttered curses under his breath. There were angry green abrasions around Spock's wrists, across his shoulders and back. Turquoise and indigo bruises. His whole back was bruised and scratched -- and bitten, in several places. There were small burns scattered amongst the other damage. The backs of his thighs were in much the same condition, once McCoy got that far. The doctor scowled. His perverted asshole of a counterpart must've spent quite a while enjoying himself, at Spock's expense. Dear god; this made what that other Spock had done to *him* look like nothing. McCoy just sighed. He took out his medkit, started at his friend's neck, and worked his way down from there. After a while, he asked Spock to just lie down on his stomach, offering him a blanket. The Vulcan did so, carefully expressionless. By the time the doctor had finished and brought him a clean uniform, Spock was having serious trouble keeping his eyes open. He wavered when he reached for his boots, and decided to sit down for a moment. "Hey," McCoy said, very quietly, "if you're too tired to walk to your quarters, you can sack out in my office for a while. I keep a cot in there." It wasn't a very comfortable cot, though. Most often, when he didn't feel like leaving, he just climbed onto one of the biobeds and slept. He could feel the other's response to the welcome suggestion. Dark eyes lifted to his, and Spock asked, "And where, then, will you sleep, Leonard?" He did not wish to impose... McCoy just grinned. "Oh, on a biobed, like I usually end up doin'. I guess I'm about the only one on this crew that doesn't hate those things. I don't see my quarters twice in three days. Chris is always yellin' at me to go on and git out." He sighed. "I dunno, Spock -- seems like, I just sleep better here, than I do there." "Perhaps so." An eyebrow lifted partway, bemused. "I must admit that I do not find the biobeds particularly comfortable." He had always preferred to convalesce in his own quarters, in private. "Ah. Well, y'see, Spock, it's different, if someone's *ordered* you to stay there, or if you're just catching a nap. Can't tell you quite how -- but it's different." "I... see." He didn't, and Bones knew that he didn't -- but it didn't matter. Spock thought about accepting the offer, but in the end, the deep Vulcan need for solitude and privacy kept him from doing so. "Your offer is... kind, Leonard. But I believe I will rest better in my quarters." McCoy tried to keep his relief from showing on his face, not noticing that Spock's expression was the same. He waved a hand in the Vulcan's direction. "Go on, then, Spock -- get some sleep, before you drop." "I shall -- but you should do likewise, Leonard. Your need is surely as great as mine." And with that, he took his leave of the doctor, and padded quietly down the hall. "Huh... yeah, I guess it is, at that." McCoy walked out into Sickbay, made himself at home in a biobed, told it to shut up, told the computer to put out the lights. Soon enough, the doctor was asleep. It really had been one king hell mother of a day. --- Morning, on the bridge of the Enterprise. Outbound from the Halkan system, on course for the Neutral Zone. Spock was bent over his viewer, hands racing across the keyboard. He was deep in calculations. Were the existence of the mirror universe not certain to be declared restricted information, it would have made an interesting paper for the Journal of Temporal Physics. Instead, his results would rest in the Fleet Archives, and the Restricted-to-Instructors files at the Vulcan Science Academy. Rather a pity, in Spock's opinion. The equations were elegantly simple... On the other hand, were it not for his service in StarFleet, he might never have had the chance to make these observations at all. They were, in the abstract, quite fascinating. In this way, he had already filled several hours. Just keep busy, and the time will pass. He had not slept well, even safe in his quarters. After a few hours he had given up, and simply tried to meditate. He had not succeeded in completely clearing his mind, but he had at least reached the second meditative level, managed to restore some of his strength. For now, that would have to suffice. "...said, are you listening, Mr. Spock?" Spock blinked. Obviously, he had not been. "I beg your pardon, Captain -- I was... distracted. What did you say?" "Oh, that's all right. Nothing important. But you've been very quiet today. Anything I need to know about?" There was only concern on that face, in that voice. That was Jim. He didn't miss much. Spock only just managed not to flinch, at the question. Instead he forced his voice and face into careful neutrality. Forced his mind away from the memory of this face, screaming obscenities at him through the force field in the brig. "No, sir. I am merely completing my calculations, for my report on your... displacement." The human nodded, smiling, diverted -- for now. "Ah, well. In that case, carry on, Science Officer." "Yes, Captain." Spock bent over his viewer again, resisting the impulse to turn, and see whether Jim was still watching him. *control... i am vulcan...* Ordinarily, he would have confided in this man. But he could not imagine sitting down and explaining, even to *Jim*, what had happened. What had been done to himself, and also to Leonard. Far less could he imagine telling anyone else. No. He appreciated Jim's concern, even though Vulcan tradition meant he could not say it. But he couldn't tell him about *that*. Spock immersed himself in his work again. *control* It took all the control he had not to jump when the turbolift opened and McCoy sauntered onto the bridge. Never mind that it was the doctor's routine to visit the bridge at least once in a shift. Even so, it was hard to look at him. Hard not to look at him. Distracted again, he miskeyed a command, and the computer beeped at him to back up and try it again... Unwanted memories kept trying to surface, as he struggled to maintain his control. It was the first time he'd seen the doctor since he'd used the meld to help heal the damage that the other Spock had caused. It was illogical, that he should be so affected, now -- but it was true, nonetheless. Bones fidgeted nervously, standing next to the command chair. Though his back was turned, he was intensely aware of Spock's brooding presence at the Science station. *sorry, spock -- i won't be long, i hope...* He'd debated not coming up here today -- he knew it would be hard on Spock, as well as himself. But in the end, he'd decided that was too likely to arouse Jim's suspicions. Jim Kirk had mighty sharp instincts, and it wouldn't do, to set 'em off right now. No sir, it wouldn't do at all. *He* sure didn't want to be the one who had to explain all this. "...Earth to Bones -- anybody there?" *oh, yeah -- way to go, mccoy. real smooth...* "What? Oh, sorry, Jim -- guess I was woolgatherin' there, for a minim or two." Kirk grinned. "Huh. You and Spock -- must be the day for that. It'd better not be anything catching, Doctor." But he smiled, to remove any sting from the words. Bones shook his head. "No, no. Nothin' like that. I just... didn't sleep real well, last night." He frowned, looked at his friend's concerned hazel eyes. "I dunno -- did you ever get *too* tired to sleep, Jim? Like that. Some of what I saw on that ship..." He shivered; so did Jim. "Yeah. I, ah, think I know what you mean, Bones." Once more Kirk saw the other Chekov, so like their own, screaming in the agony booth. Saw the sleepy, sated look of pleasure on the mirror Spock's bearded face, as he watched. *there, but for the grace of god...* Jim shivered. "Let's just say, it's *good* to be home." "Oh, yeah. I'll second that, any time." There. Now that hadn't been too bad, Bones thought. Pretty soon now he could make his excuses and leave, routine having been satisfied. Spock had finally unfrozen and was once more busy at his computer. Nope. That really hadn't been too bad at all. Of course, if he really wanted to do this right, Bones knew, he ought to go over and hassle Spock for a while. But if he tried, he knew the panic would overwhelm him. God only knew what would happen then. Just being in the same room with the Vulcan, even this far away, was intensely disturbing. No. Some other time, maybe. But not today. Spock allowed his eyes to close for a moment, in relief, when the doctor turned to enter the turbolift. He'd been hoping McCoy wouldn't come and speak to him; in all honesty he was not at all sure what he might do -- assault the man, flee, stand his ground... The hot rage of his warrior ancestors still roiled within him, shaming him. He feared that he might simply snap, and strike the doctor -- and if he did, he would almost certainly kill him. Even though he knew that *this* man was not his assailant. It didn't seem to matter. The face was the same. The voice was the same. Even the scent of him was the same. Spock had never experienced actual hatred before. He found it most distasteful, as well as alarming, to be so surrendered to his emotions. *no. i am a vulcan. i must... control* And somehow, in the end, he managed. He never knew how. But he managed. --- The next two days were fairly uneventful. They were still in transit; it would be another day yet before they actually reached the Neutral Zone. In the meantime, those who'd been involved in the incident wrote and filed their reports, while the rest used the time to catch up on routine maintenance. Kirk had ordered full readiness by the time they reached their destination, so there was no shortage of work to be done. Both Spock and McCoy still flinched, internally, when they met by chance in the messhall or on the bridge. But it was gradually getting easier for both men to remember, *no. this isn't -him-. that was the -other- one* And so far, to both men's relief, no-one else seemed to have noticed that anything was wrong. They were slowly becoming more comfortable around each other. It was just going to take some time, in Bones' opinion. Inwardly, Spock was not so sure. He still had not been able to clear and order his thoughts. He sat each night in front of the Watcher, trying to meditate -- but clarity continued to elude him. Plus, he was having bad dreams. On awakening he could not recall them, only the emotions the dreams had left behind. Finally he decided to give up on meditating and try the gym instead. That evening, after a very light supper, he made his way down there and put himself through a grueling 2G workout. And it did help, a little. Just the same, if he could not resolve this unaided, he would have to take some leave time and go to Vulcan, to consult a Healer. To continue on as he had been doing was unacceptable. McCoy was somewhat more fortunate. Whatever Spock had done for him in the healing meld had made all the difference. He had an odd, almost empty feeling, from time to time, but nothing he did seemed to make any difference, either in bringing it on, or dispelling it, afterwards. Bones refused to dwell on it. He was a doctor, not a psych case. He had too much work to do, to fool around sitting in front of some counselor half his age. After his workout, Spock showered and accepted Jim's invitation to a game of chess. Playing chess with Jim was always satisfying. The grateful Vulcan was able to fill several more hours, quite pleasantly. Hopefully he had not given the Captain too much cause for concern, with his recent behaviour on the bridge. The human was his best friend, though as a rule, Vulcans did not use that particular phrase. It was simply the closest he could come, in Standard, to naming what the other meant to him. But to have to explain, even to Jim, what he had experienced... No. He did not want to do that. Hence his presence here tonight -- chess was almost a nightly routine, for these two. And in truth, it was good to see him, as it always was. The chess games were a familiar thing, a comfort. Here alone, nothing had changed. He could indulge himself in the illusion that he was unaffected. That it had never happened... Spock had only made one visit to the brig, after Sulu had discovered and imprisoned the impostors. It had been... unnerving. His control had not failed him, but he had found the impostors disconcerting. Not just McCoy, either. The look on that Kirk's face, the things he had said... Most unpleasant. A great relief, to see, tonight, that *this* friend, at least, was unharmed, unchanged. The problem came when it was time to bid the Captain a good night, and return to his own quarters. Here, in the dimly-lit warmth, he tried once more to compose himself for meditation. He showered, and donned a soft black robe. It seemed so strange, standing in the fresher, looking down at his unmarked skin. Somehow it seemed as though what had happened to him should be visible -- but it was not. Spock sat cross-legged, in front of the Watcher, for hours that night, but he still was not able to properly order his thoughts. When he finally gave up and went to bed, his sleep was restless, haunted once more by nightmares. Try though he might to forget, in his dreams, he *remembered*. --- He is lying on his stomach, and he cannot move. Straps, tight-cinched, hold him down, hold his wrists at his sides, his legs apart. He is in Sickbay, in one of the examining rooms. He tries to break the straps, as he knows he has done before -- and he finds that his strength is gone. He is as weak as any kitten. He does not understand what is happening to him, why this has been done. He does not remember coming here. He was on the bridge... The ion storm -- the alert! He wills adrenaline to pour into his bloodstream -- but it has no effect. He hears the door swish open behind him. With some effort he manages to turn his head -- and sees McCoy, leaning against the now-closed door. Smiling at him. It is not a smile he has ever seen on the doctor's face before. "So, you're awake now, huh? *Good*. That saves some time, don't you think?" That flat, cold voice is not one he's heard, either. Not from McCoy. Not before. "Dr. McCoy?" he asks. "I do not understand..." "Oh, I think you'll figure it out, Spock. You always were a bright boy." And the doctor laughs, a cold, hard laugh unlike any Spock has ever heard him use. There is cold fear, now, in the pit of his belly. He ignores it, and tries again, to snap even one of the restraints -- and he cannot. Dizziness flares, tries to sweep him away. He feels as if he is going to be sick... That other laughs again. Fingers run lightly down the Vulcan's back; he has to force himself not to flinch. "You gettin' the idea now, my too-proud friend? I love this. This is *great*. Back home, *my* Spock would have *killed* me by now." The doctor sniggers. "Hey, what do you know, for once Kirk was right. You're all nothing but sheep, on this side. Even *you*." Spock says nothing. It does not seem as though it would help, and he does not wish to give this creature the satisfaction. He still does not understand why this is happening. What does the other mean, 'back home', 'on this side'? 'This side' of what? With an effort, he turns his thoughts aside, concentrates on his breathing, his pulse. Slow. Steady. *hold on. wait...* Blue eyes flash contemptuously. "You think I don't know what's goin' on in that head of yours right now? Hah!" Hands grip his face on either side. Spock is still only half awake, still unshielded -- and his Gift throws him, unguarded, into the abyss. He is unprepared for the contact, for the rough intrusion of that other's thoughts and wants. He cannot help the sound that escapes him. Were he free, he would throw this monster from him. For it *is* McCoy -- and it is not. He has touched the doctor's mind, before. He has never touched this mind, though it seems to know his all too well. This one, and himself, are bonded... Only, it is not *he* who is the doctor's bondmate... There is another Spock. Another Enterprise. Another universe, like to theirs, but different. So very different. And what he sees, in this man's mind... He shivers, slightly, unable to control. The room seems almost to be spinning, though he knows that it is not. "El'n kha-etakh..." he whispers... *Delighter-in-pain* "Ah khir t'chah-ikhol'iyous..." *Poisoner-of-wells* The words are ancient, Old High Vulcan, from before the Reformation. Modern Vulcan does not contain the concepts. But this one knows what he means. The monster simply laughs. "Oh, you better *believe* it, Spock. But hell, I couldn't resist. I'm never gonna get a better chance to pay you back, you bastard." Spock is silent again. He knows, as the other knows, that it is not him this man would punish, if he could. But it makes no difference to this one. An available target is just as good as the desired one. Small metallic noises, the clinking of instruments on a cloth-covered tray. Tap of fingers on keypad, as he locks and encrypts the exam-room door. Then the tiniest touch of cold steel at the back of Spock's neck. Tuneless whistling, the way Chekov does when he's hunting down a sensor ghost. A giggle. "Now, don't move. I'd hate to cut you too soon..." Spock holds himself still, as very delicately his tunic is cut from him, his trousers cut open, pulled away. Then he feels those cool fingers once more, against his bare skin, and this time he cannot keep himself from shivering. He feels dizzy, disoriented. Weak. He knows he has been drugged. His efforts to control prove futile. Touching him, feeling his reactions, the human laughs again. "Mmm, boy -- you just can't wait, can you?" Spock closes his eyes, tries to pull his mind away. "What is done to the flesh is unimportant" -- these are the words of Tradition. He holds to that, as this twisted mockery of his friend lays hands upon him once more... *...no...* "Spock -- wake up! You hear me? Wake up, right *now*! None of this is real -- you're dreamin', man. Now wake *up*, dammit!" Spock gasped; his eyes flew open even as his hands assumed charash'va'at, the posture for defense. For one dizzying moment of pain and confusion, he could not tell where he was, or who was speaking to him. His heart hammered madly in his side. He could hardly breathe... And then he realized. He was in his quarters. It was Bones talking to him -- and not the monster. This man, he knew. This one was his friend. He drew a deep breath, and somehow schooled his face to calmness once more. "Thank you..." he managed to say, in something close to his normal tones. What was Bones doing here, in his quarters? He did not understand, and he thought that he should. "Ah, don't worry about it, Spock. I, ah..." and here the human looked away, seeming embarrassed. "I, um -- well, I was dreaming with you, I think. I don't know how, but I was..." He didn't describe his frantic race to get here, from Sickbay. Somehow, he had *known* Spock needed him. It had surprised him that the door just opened at his approach. He hadn't known that Spock didn't lock his quarters, but it was just as well. It had saved him using his over-ride code, which would have shown up in the Operations log in the morning, inviting questions he didn't think either of them would want to answer. Spock shivered; though it was not particularly cold in here, his control seemed to have deserted him again. Slowly, he gathered his composure. "It is... a remnant, I believe," he said, very quietly, "an artifact... of the meld we shared in Sickbay after your return. He lowered his eyes, fought for control. "I must apologize, Leonard. I did not intend --" "Aw, hell, Spock, ain't nothin' needin' an apology. You're the one always tellin' *me* not to worry. So, it's my turn now." The doctor ran the ubiquitous scanner over him for a moment, frowned at the readout. "Hmm. Well, that's a bit better. Looks like your system finally threw off the last of that witches' brew he gave you. Ribs look good. How do you feel?" "I am... better. Thank you." There did not seem to be much else he could say. He found himself oddly grateful for the friendship he could feel in every touch, every word. He could not find words for it, but the gratitude was real. That other had touched him too -- but there had been only hate and triumph in that one's mind, a twisted joy at the chance for revenge. He had seen, in that one's thoughts, what the two of them were to one another, on *that* Enterprise. How, when his Time had come upon him, that other Spock had simply reached out and *taken* what he needed, had bound that universe's McCoy to him, in hatred and in pain. Even now, the memory of it made him feel ill, ashamed. To bind oneself forever to one who hated you, who would kill you if he could... On Vulcan, no-one had done such a thing for more than three thousand years -- at least, not on the Vulcan that *he* knew. But this man here now was not his enemy. In this one's hands was only concern, caring, a certain, rather wistful, curiosity. And above all else, respect. The anger in this man's mind was not for him, but for his assailant, who was now a universe away. To his relief, Spock realized that he could no longer feel the monster in his mind. The other was really and truly *gone*. The gap between their worlds must have finally closed. He bowed his head, grateful that he was not standing, for he did not know if he could have kept his feet unaided. "Hey," came the soft voice again, "don't worry about it, Spock. The bastard's *gone*. With any luck at all we'll never see any of those assholes again." The Vulcan looked up, and saw in the mournful blue eyes the mirror of his own confusion, his own pain. Somehow he managed to sit up straight. To hold up his head again, tired and shaken though he still was. When the human reached out, it seemed only natural to return the gesture, to draw that thin blue-clad form closer; to accept the comfort the other was offering. To offer the same, in return. Yes. For once, he could admit this need, for it was fully echoed in the mind of his friend. Both of them had been affected -- wounded inside, where it didn't show, by the mirror universe encounter -- and no-one else could possibly understand how it felt, what it had been like. He could never have explained this to someone who hadn't been through it. He could never have found the right words. But with this man, no explanations were necessary. They sat quietly together, each feeling safer, more comfortable, than he had alone. Slowly, the dream-brought fear dissolved. Slowly, Vulcan and human heartbeats slowed, grew steadier. Sweat dried on skin, the salts of two very different oceans, somehow all the same. Together, they were at peace, as neither had been since the nightmare first began, 3 days before. It was Leonard who finally blinked and sat up. "Listen, Spock -- I wanted to thank you, for what you did for me. You helped me out a lot, you know." As he spoke, his hands kept moving, as they had been, softly tracing the bones of the Vulcan's back and shoulders. So thin, this friend of his. So tense... *so warm* Another shiver ran through the thin, hot frame. "Spock? What's wrong? Are you all right?" The sound of a swallow, in a dry, dry throat. Then... "I am... well enough, Leonard." The Vulcan sighed, very softly, then continued. "No thanks are needed. I could not let that pass, what he did to you. I *could not*. And you... have also been helpful... to me. It is I who should thank you, perhaps..." And he allowed his hands to return the other's touches, very gently, saying in that way what he did not have the words to express. *please... don't go* It was the first time since the incident that he'd actually been comfortable touching anyone, much less allowing himself to be touched. If the truth were known, it was the first time in years. There was silence, again, for a time. Then the sound of a throat being cleared; a nervous human chuckle. "Ah, Spock -- mebbe I should -- ah, that is, maybe it'd be better if I..." Bones stopped, seemingly unable to finish the sentence, or to still his hands, now moving even more softly. Circling the straight spare form of his friend. Savouring the warmth of Vulcan skin... Slender warm fingers under his chin, tilting his face so those bottomless black eyes could see him more clearly. And in those eyes, there was only warmth. Acceptance. What could almost be called a smile, on that lean face. "Leonard -- you are not disturbing me. You do not have to leave, if you do not wish to." Silence, again. *Did he mean what I think he meant?* McCoy's pulse skipped, started to race again. No. Surely, he was confused. This was *Spock*, for god's sake -- That warm, deep voice, right beside his ear. "Yes. This is me. And you. And I am not confused, Leonard. Not any more. Nor are you." Warm hands wrapped themselves around him, drawing him in close. Warm skin, close to his. Bones sighed, feeling the last of his tension and fear trickle away. Of all the possible consequences to that day, he hadn't guessed at this one. But oh, how very much he wanted this to be true. He'd finally realized it, over there, in that madman's grasp. He'd understood, to his dismay, that what had made this so much harder to for him to bear was the knowledge, never before admitted, of just how deeply he cared for his friend, whose face his enemy had worn. Remembering that, his breath caught in his throat. "Shh," came Spock's voice again, softer than ever. "I know... It was the same... for me." The Vulcan blinked in surprise at himself, as he said it. But it was no less than the truth, after all. There would be no logic in pretending otherwise. He had simply never considered it before. He had been too busy watching Jim, and dreaming... Only here, now, the body he held was not his enemy's. Not the monster. This was Bones, who knew him better than anyone, except possibly Jim. And in this human's warm touch and open thoughts, he saw only his own thoughts reflected, his own wants, mirrored. And accepted. And welcomed... *oh yes* He sighed, very faintly, and allowed himself to relax further into those arms, allowed his head to find the other's shoulder. He settled, until the two of them sat curled together, like cats on a hot sunny window-ledge. Ahh... It came to him then that he could sit like this for a very long time, and not grow tired of it. "Mmm..." murmured the human. "Mmmm. This is nice..." "Indeed..." His voice was only a hoarse whisper -- but the other understood. "Uh-huh -- it's the same for you, isn't it?" Spock made no answer beyond that which his hands had already expressed; he could feel, somehow, that none was needed. He was not surprised, a short time later, to feel soft lips nibbling gently at the side of his neck -- but the jolt of electricity he felt then ran through them both. Both froze, for a time. Then the caress began again, and this time he relaxed into it, stretched his neck to allow the other greater freedom. He bent to brush his cheek against that soft dark hair, so like and yet unlike his own. He lifted his hand, traced the smooth rounded curve of one ear. Also like, and unlike, his own. He reached out, to taste the salt-sharp tang of human skin. "Mmmm..." came the soft voice against his cheek. And Spock could feel the other's thoughts, the same as his own -- welcome, and peace, a stirring of something more than that. Although the actual healing meld had been some days ago, some lingering trace of contact yet connected them. And so he knew, as he reached to turn that other face toward him, that this was something both of them wanted -- no; *needed*. Blue eyes met his; bottomless, guileless, familiar blue eyes. Eyes which held no harm nor hate; the same eyes he had seen smiling down at him so many times, when he awakened in Sickbay -- eyes always warm with concern, or bright with joy. Greeting him, whenever he came back from the darkness. Warm slender fingers met shorter cooler ones, twined together. Somewhere between worlds, McCoy's beard repressor had worn off. Now a stubbled human cheek rubbed against a smoother Vulcan one. "Ahh..." Neither knew which one had sighed. It didn't matter. What each felt, now, both felt; the contact between them was opening up again, as they touched and held one another. Bones reached over and fumbled for a moment, until he found and unsealed the seam in the blue Science tunic, helped the other shrug it off. Pale olive skin, once more unmarked; tangle of soft black fur on the lean chest, surrounding the darker bronze-green of small flat nipples. *oh my god. he's gorgeous -- I never noticed...* He leaned down and took one in his mouth, and was rewarded with a soft gasp, and a shiver. He nibbled on it, sucked it, brought it to an aching hardness that he could feel within his own flesh. Then he took the other warm green nub, and did likewise. Spock's hands tightened on his shoulders -- he might have bruises there, by morning. He didn't care. Then those hands -- *so warm* -- were pulling at him, lifting him into a fierce warm hug, sliding up under his shirt to pinch and caress at his own nipples... "...oh..." Spock's tongue was *hot*! That tongue, licking at the side of his neck; stopping to taste behind his ear... Finally those marvellous hands drew him in close, wrapped around him, stroking him, petting him... Soft brush of lips against lips, and again that jolt, that spark leapt between them -- and this time it did not subside. "...ahh..." The deep voice was almost purring, now. Bones opened his eyes, and was struck silent by what he saw -- that lean angular face, black eyes hooded, smouldering; a faint flush of green on those cheekbones, those ears. *for me. it's me, i brought him to this...* He bent to taste that mouth again -- salty, like his own, but sweet, too. Different. Not human -- but a brother, just the same. No. Closer than a brother. Spock. *oh yes... oh, please* *please, make the shadows go away* With all that other had done to him, only this man had thought to kiss him. "...Ahhh..." Now it was his turn to moan, as warm Vulcan hands eased his shirt from him, drew him down to lie beside the slim, furred body. He could feel his own arousal growing; the tight uniform pants merely adding to the pleasant ache between his legs. He sent one hand casually wandering, to find and cup the other, to stroke the growing length -- and smiled, to feel it pulse against his hand, to see the black eyes slitted closed in pleasure for a moment. That face -- so close, unguarded now, open to him, even as he was in return. He reached for another kiss, and this time found the other just as hungry and as eager as himself. "Mmmm...." *so good...* *so warm* Held like this, he felt safe, protected. Held like this, he was free to just let it all go, for a while, to relax... Sharp white teeth nipped at a cool human ear. McCoy groaned, and lifted his hips. He rolled over, pulling the Vulcan with him, till he lay on his back, with Spock draped over him like a blanket. They kissed, again, and time went away for a while. They moved together, rubbed against one another, skin against skin, cloth-bound flesh against cloth-bound flesh. Agile human fingers worked between them, unsnapping, unfastening. Soft voice, against his ear. "Spock..." "Yes... ah!" Those hands, about his waist, loosening, sliding the tight cloth downward. "...Leonard..." Brushing against him again... "...ahh!" Two sets of hands, now, working together, until finally they could push the cloth aside, turn, and slide out of its confining grasp. Those cool human hands again, about his waist, stroking his ass, pulling him close until they lay side by side, their cocks pressed together. It was exquisite. That voice again, so warm. So very different, from the other one... "Mmm... you're *warm*, Spock. You feel *good*." He bent his head, for another kiss. "You, also, my friend. You are cool." He took one of those skilled, clever hands in his own; bent, and licked the salt from the human's palm. The other gasped, and arched against him, his erection sliding across Spock's belly... "To touch you..." the Vulcan purred, "to touch you, is like a drink of cool water, in the heat of the desert..." He looked up, then, and what he saw in the familiar blue eyes nearly took his breath away. "Spock... please, let me..." And those hands reached down to touch him, to stroke him, to press the two of them together, length for length. "...ahh..." He couldn't speak. And it didn't matter -- they both knew. They both felt it. Hot electric tingles ran through them both, a pleasant aching tightness, in bellies and in balls. Spock was lost, and he didn't care at all. So different, this, from what he had imagined. From what that other had done to him. This -- ah, this felt good. It felt *right*... He turned his head again, to kiss the other, to lick and suck at the side of his neck, his ear. And all the while, those cool human hands were wrapped around him, squeezing and stroking, holding them both together, working them as one. He lifted his hips, thrust himself deeper into that tight, smooth grasp. Felt himself beginning to slick, to slide even more easily. *so good* And then Leonard reached out, took Spock's hand and drew it to his face. Pressed it to his temples, to the meld points there. "...please, Spock. Touch me again... please..." Spock could feel the human's desire, the mirror of his own. Very gently, his mouth curling up in just the faintest hint of a smile, he spread his fingers out. Lowered his shields; opened up his mind, and gathered his lover in... Sensations doubled, now. He could feel the tension building, inside them both; his body settling into an ancient, instinctive rhythm. Both of them, moving together. Those hands on his cock, the slick silken feel of them sliding together, rubbing against each other. Both of them wet, now. Gasping for air. Trembling, whimpering, hard as silk-covered steel... *so good* "...ah! Ahh... *yes*..." Faster, now. A moan. He didn't know whose. It didn't matter. They were between each other's legs, now, pressed tightly between dark-furred thighs, hands desperately grasping at each other's hips. Sliding, rubbing, thrusting together... *oh yes -- so hot; so _good_* Faster, harder... Building inside them both, that tightness, that tension. Breathless, tingling, electric anticipation... And suddenly, it took him. Gasping, shuddering, head thrown back, teeth clenched, Spock came, a hot flood of seed pouring from his flesh, bathing them both. And he felt it, felt the echo in himself, as the human writhed and bucked against him; more wetness, more heat, splashing over them both... Waves of pleasure, pouring through them; they were tossed and shaken, wrung dry by the force of it. When at last it began to subside, it left them exhausted, trembling -- but contented. Sated. All tangled up, together. Human, Vulcan, furred skin, less furred -- it made no difference. They lay there like that, in silence, wrapped around each other, body and mind. Together. Only when Spock began to shiver did either of them move. They pulled the blankets up to cover their shoulders, and McCoy scooted down to spoon himself against the Vulcan's back, hands about the slim, furred waist, chin tucked under one elegantly pointed, green-flushed ear. Under his hands, he could feel Spock's heart racing, almost too fast to count. "Spock," he whispered, very softly. "What is 't'hy'la'?" Warm, slender hands clasped about his own. "Where... did you hear that word?" "I saw it in your mind..." His hand was drawn up, kissed. "T'hy'la -- is a Vulcan word. It means... it means lover, brother, friend -- all three." And Spock turned, then, reached hungrily for the human's mouth. Devoured him in a kiss. Only then, as he leaned back for air, did he say the rest of it. "It means... you, t'hy'la. What you are, now, to me. With me..." "Mmmm... I like that. 'T'hy'la'..." "Yes. You." More kisses, then, sleepy and relaxed. No shadows, now. No fear. Only this; the two of them, and the pleasure they had found together. The healing... "Mmmm... Spock -- you sleepy?" "I -- yes." Surprise, in that deep velvet voice. Bones laughed, gently. "Well, hell, what do you expect?" One last kiss. "We really should try and get some sleep. Can I stay with you?" "Yes. Please, stay -- I do not wish you to leave." "Mmm. That settles that. I don't wanna leave you, either." One more last kiss. A stretch, a sigh. "Computer: lock this door, my voice only, or Commander Spock's. Lights out. Set alarm for 0530. Execute." A certain quiet interval, then, of gentle touching. Sated smiles. Wriggles, adjustments. Contented sighs... And finally, sleep came, and took them both. No dreams, this time. No nightmares. Just two dark heads, nestled together on a pillow. Two lean forms, curled up together. Peace. --- The End