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“I still admit to some reservation over the current circumstances,” Spock announces to the projected image of Doctor McCoy on his view screen, feeling the faint sensation of annoyance spread when the familiar face splits into an even more familiar smirk of amusement.

“Why Spock, you could just say you miss me like a normal fellow,” Leonard replies, and Spock finds the digital crackle underlying the transmission of those words to be deeply unsatisfying. When Spock just stares in stony silence, the Doctor chuckles and relaxes back into his chair, slender arms folding across his chest.

“You know we had no choice, Spock. You, me. Hell, even Jim knew it was hopeless trying to convince me to leave the Albanonians for what will probably amount to a false alarm.”

Spock knows Leonard is correct. He also knows Leonard probably guessed that Spock has run through a hundred minutely varied scenarios in his head and is frustrated that they all result in the same conclusion: McCoy had to stay and the Enterprise had to leave. They had been sent to Albanon VI to investigate reports of a plague sweeping through the local population. Since Starfleet wants to have the Albanonians as part of the Federation in order to gain regular access to their dilithium mines, it obviously behooved them to make sure there were actually some Albanonians around that were capable of negotiating the treaty.

All of this had been quite routine, right down to the CMO’s insistence that he beam down personally to inspect and treat the ailing population. It turns out to be completely treatable, but time consuming, and further complicated by the fact that the Enterprise received orders only a few days into their stay on Albanon VI that a distress beacon has been activated on a nearby Federation research base and they were the only ones close enough to respond in a timely manner.

Spock had expected McCoy to refuse to leave his sick patients. What he hadn’t expected is his additional unwillingness to retain any of his medical or security personnel while he is essentially abandoned to his own devices on an unfamiliar planet. If there were truly cause for alarm at the research station then the Enterprise would need every medical and security officer it had at its disposal, especially if its CMO is currently detained, or at least that is McCoy’s logic when he insists upon sending every single crew member back to the ship.

“The Albanonians are a peaceful people. Statistically, I’m much safer on this planet than all of you are out in space heading towards an unspecified danger,” McCoy sighs, and Spock furrows his brow just slightly but he knows he’s been figured out when the Doctor’s expression softens a bit around the edges.

“I’ll be alright. I am alright. The Albanonians have been nothing but generous with me since you left earlier this morning. Hell, other than the whole slaving away, curing their version of the common cold, it’s practically been a vacation for me down here. Nice food and a soft, non-regulation bed. Meanwhile, I gotta worry about the possibility that y’all aren’t gonna come back for me.” He pauses, considering his words before he sees Spock about to reply and interrupts him.

“That you won’t be able to come back for me. You’re flyin’ in there blind, Spock, and it could be weeks before I find out what happened. Even at maximum warp it’ll be at least a couple days before you reach the research base, and lord knows how long it’ll take to get everything sorted out. So really, I’m the one that should be all stressed and huffy.”

Spock’s mouth pinches slightly before he reluctantly surrenders to the logic of that argument, leaning back slightly in his chair. Not for the first time he wishes McCoy were a little more selfish. Just a little less devoted to the health and safety of his patients, regardless of whether they were complete strangers.

But then he doesn’t truly desire that, not really. He wants the Doctor to be safe but at the same time this singular, all-consuming selflessness is what draws him to Leonard’s company.

“Vulcans do not get ‘huffy’, Leonard,” Spock grunts, pretending not to notice the way McCoy’s face lights up at hearing him use his first name. He has long since hypothesized that he doesn’t even realize he does it, but Spock knows. Spock is very, very much aware of how McCoy responds to the growing closeness between them, both physically and emotionally.

He laments that he cannot feel the familiar, glowing delight that usually radiates off McCoy in moments like these, with the light years currently between them, even if the CMO feels so much louder than most normal humans. He wears his “heart on his sleeve”, as Jim is wont to point out during the momentary lapses in judgment when Spock admits to being vexed by the sheer, constant volume of McCoy’s emotions.

When did something that he had so long considered to be an irksome burden become a steady, reassuring constant in Spock’s life?

“Aw, now, Spock, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re actually worried. I hadn’t realized you cared that much,” McCoy practically purrs at the screen and Spock ruthlessly squashes down the heat that threatens to rise in his cheeks at the suggestive lilt in that southern drawl.

“I am as worried as I would be for any of the Enterprise’s crucial personnel,” Spock says, as carefully neutral as he can manage, overcompensating for the embarrassment he’s currently feeling. “I am no more concerned for you than I would be for anyone else aboard my ship.”

Something flickers on McCoy’s face just then but the subtleties of the expression get lost in the fuzzy static of the long-range video and with the distance between them Spock doesn’t have the benefit of hearing McCoy’s emotional response to help him figure out what he’s just missed.

“No, I don’t suppose you would be, would you?” McCoy says ruefully, sitting up and running a distracted hand through his hair.

“I gotta go, Spock. You’ll be too far away by tomorrow for these shoddy communications to reach you, but do make sure to come back for me, yeah? Wouldn’t want the Enterprise to be without her CMO.” The Doctor says this as if that would be the only reason Spock might wish for his safe return to the ship. Realizing he has drastically miscalculated with his last response, he opens his mouth to immediately correct this mistake only to be greeted by the soft static of a severed connection.

He closes his mouth and stares in silent contemplation at the screen, deep in thought. He needs to meditate on this before he takes any further action and potentially makes things worse.

Leonard is correct, the Enterprise would be back for him in a week, fifteen days at the absolute most, barring the unknown variable of encountering some catastrophe that Spock doesn’t want to dwell on. In the meantime, they both have a mission to complete, and the sooner things are dealt with at Science Station 12 the sooner the Enterprise would be able to return to claim their wayward CMO.

It suddenly feels like not enough time for him to parse why he is so uncomfortable with McCoy’s assumption that Spock’s concern for his safety is purely professional.

“Captain, I must strongly object to this,” Spock says through gritted teeth, trying to school his expression to hide the growing frustration he’s currently feeling at the order he’s just received. “It has already been thirteen point seven days since we arrived. If the scientists of Research Station 12 do not feel safe here then it is their prerogative to contact Starfleet and request better security but it is not the job of the Enterprise to come running every time a diplomat gets a bad feeling.” The disdain he feels does not bleed through to his tone, but it’s a near miss.

The big emergency that had forced the Enterprise and her crew to abandon their CMO on an unknown planet had been, as McCoy suggested before their departure, a giant pile of bureaucratic “horse shit”, an expression that Spock had been largely unfamiliar with until he spoke with the Ambassador stationed at the research facility.

He admits to waking up with a claustrophobic feeling of impending doom and, humans being prone to a truly vexing amount of superstition and paranoia, immediately went to raise the alarm despite a complete lack of evidence to suggest any danger is actually imminent.

Three days later, when the Enterprise arrives at the research station, this unidentified doom has still yet to manifest but the Ambassador is adamant: the Enterprise will remain until all possible threats are neutralized.

“A thing which does not exist is, by its very nature, neutralized, Captain,” he hears himself growling out, studying Jim’s face. He is not nearly as expressive as the Doctor but Spock knows him well enough to read every minute twitch of brow and lip.

“Don’t you think I’m aware of that, Mister Spock?” Jim grumbles, twisting his fingers together in absentminded anxiety. “Our hands are tied here. Starfleet Command has given us direct orders to remain here until the Ambassador’s fears have been assuaged.” He turns to leave and is stopped by Spock flinging his arm out to block him in an unusual display of emotionalism.

Or at least, the incredulous look Jim gives him implies it is unusual. Spock is too distracted to notice in that moment, and isn’t that more damning than anything else?

“Doctor McCoy is waiting for our return. We have no way of guaranteeing his continued safety on that planet and the probability that he will encounter some form of danger increases with every hour that we delay here chasing ghosts.” Spock’s voice is soft and he doesn’t bother to try and conceal his anger this time. Annoyance flashes through him when Jim slaps his arm away, allowing the immature gesture despite having the strength to resist it.

“You are not the only one worried about Bones,” Jim replies warningly, his mouth screwed into a deep, forbidding frown. “He is waiting for our return instead of here with us because he was doing his job. I suggest you start doing yours.”

He storms away with the clear intent of leaving Spock to ruminate on his words, but Spock impedes his departure once more, his arms folded behind his back and spine ramrod straight like it always is when he’s truly uncomfortable. He recognizes that Jim is just as frustrated as him at their current lack of options and, perhaps, he has been out of line in implying otherwise.

“I apologize for my… outburst. I am merely concerned for the Doctor’s safety. He is important to the Enterprise and to you. I feel that the longer we tarry here, guarding a paranoid man against his bad dreams, the less likely it becomes that we will return to find him alive.”

Jim studies him for a long time before he eases back from the door, the corners of his lip tremoring slightly as if he were trying very, very hard not to smile.

“Why, Spock. I didn’t know you cared so much about our wayward CMO,” he teases, and Spock accepts the olive branch for what it is.

“There are many things about me that you do not know, Captain,” Spock says evenly, not missing the way Jim’s eyes crease around the edges with his secret smile.

“I’m sure there are, Mister Spock,” he murmurs agreeably, tilting his head slightly. Spock gets the message and stands aside to let him by, gripping his wrists tightly behind his back lest he be tempted to any more rash outbursts of emotion.

“You will petition the Ambassador to allow our departure as soon as he is… reassured of his safety?” he asks through a deep frown, brown eyes staring intently at the back of Jim’s head. He opens the door and casts one last look at his first officer, and there’s a curiosity in his gaze that makes Spock wholly uncomfortable.

“You know I will, Spock. I want Bones back as much as you do,” Jim sighs, then offers him a wry, knowing grin. “Well, almost as much as you do.” He’s gone before Spock’s theoretically superior Vulcan brain can formulate a coherent response to the unvoiced accusation.

It takes three point five more days before Jim is finally able to convince the Ambassador to allow the Enterprise to leave Research Station 12. Even at maximum warp, it will take almost three full days for them to reach Albanon VI, and Spock feels every single minute of the passing time like it were a physical thing, offensive and insufferable to him in its quest to keep them from McCoy.

When they are within a day’s travel from the planet they attempt to contact the Doctor. The planet’s electrified atmosphere is responsible for blocking any long-range communication from the Enterprise, but at this distance it should not have been an issue.

Uhura only gets static, which means the jury rigged communications system they had left with McCoy upon their departure is either damaged or destroyed.

Jim orders her to contact the Albanonians directly and the purple, six eyed humanoid they had come to recognized as some kind of leader amongst the population appears on the screen, distinctly distressed.

Spock does not like the way his pulse jumps at the realization of what this must mean.

“We were attacked,” the Albanonian, who identifies himself as Ta’ar, confesses in garbled Standard. “Ten days ago. There is a violent faction to the north that believe it an offense to our Holy God Avanar to accept outsiders into our midst. They oppose our acceptance into your Federation of Planets.”

Jim’s expression is stony but Spock can sense his mounting concern and anger, radiating off him so clearly that even the non-Vulcan members of the bridge can practically taste it on the air.

“Where is my Chief Medical Officer?” he demands coldly, and Spock stiffens, scenario after scenario playing out in the theater of his mind. None of them have a happy ending for McCoy.

“He tried to fight them off but he was vastly outnumbered and we are a peaceful people, we have neither the means nor the ability to resist the invaders,” Ta’ar says guiltily, squirming slightly. Spock can all but hear the way Kirk mentally shifts the blame for McCoy’s situation from the Albanonians to himself.

“Where is my Chief Medical Officer?” he repeats, sounding defeated, like he already expects what the answer will be.

“Doctor McCoy surrendered. He offered to go with them as a willing hostage if, and only if, Warlord Jo’on and his faction left us in peace. He was alive and healthy when he left us, but our long-range communications were destroyed. We only had the short range devices and well, there was no one close enough to listen,” the Albanonian mumbles miserably, looking down in shame.

“Of course he did,” Spock hears Jim grumble under his breath before he sits up straighter in the captain’s chair, hands folded tightly on his lap.

“Do you know where we can find this.. Warlord Jo’on?” he asks calmly, the perfect image of the collected Captain with his emotions in check. In that moment Spock admires his self control for it takes all his focus just to contain the angry words piling up behind his teeth, threatening to spill out at even the briefest lapse in attention.

“I’ll transmit the coordinates to you,” Ta’ar obliges, blinking all six of his unsettling black eyes. “Your Doctor McCoy gave himself up for the sake of my people. We won’t ever forget his sacrifice.”

Spock turns abruptly and marches towards the turbo lift, ignoring the faint static that signals that the communications have been severed.

“Spock!” Jim barks, a few steps behind him. He grabs him by the elbow just before he enters the lift, halting his departure. “What has gotten into you, Spock?”

He turns to look at him and is quietly surprised to see Jim take a step back, immediately releasing his grip on the Vulcan’s arm. Spock clearly isn’t hiding the building anger he feels as well as he initially believed.

“I am emotionally compromised, Captain. I am not fit for the Bridge right now,” he says roughly, forcing himself to cram the rage and frustration away into a dark corner of his mind. Jim is not to blame for this situation any more than Spock or Ta’ar were. The only one to blame here is the warlord that had taken Leonard hostage and Spock needs to get himself under control or he would not be allowed to participate in the rescue.

“I need to meditate if I am to be fit for duty by the time we arrive at the planet.”

Jim gives him a searching look, eyes sweeping from head to toe and back again before he visibly relents, accepting his first officer’s self assessment.

“Then you are dismissed. I’ll notify you when we are ready to beam down,” he murmurs, mouth twisted in an uncharacteristic frown. It doesn’t suit Jim’s usually sunny demeanor.

“He’ll be alright, Spock. McCoy’s a stubborn son of a bitch. If there’s anyone that can survive this, it’s him.”

He knows Jim is probably just saying that to comfort him but he finds it oddly reassuring nevertheless. He’s never met anyone with more pigheaded will to live than Jim, but McCoy is an arguably close second. He won’t go down without a fight and his prompt surrender had been a ruse to protect the peaceful Albanonians from further harm when he was the target.

Spock finds himself revisiting the thoughts he had entertained when conversing with McCoy after the Enterprise’s departure. That their lives might be easier were the Doctor capable of even a shred of selfishness.

It is illogical to consider impossible what ifs, but it’s tempting. He tries to picture a reality in which a selfish McCoy might live and is acutely reminded of the hours he had spent in the company of the mirror universe version of the Doctor and the subsequent verbal abuse and poisonous threats that followed.

No, there could not exist a world in which Leonard Horatio McCoy were selfish. Not and still retain the essence of what makes him who he is.

“I must meditate,” Spock repeats, rather than acknowledging any of this out loud. Jim frowns again, but nods, and steps back to allow him to leave. As the turbo lift descends to the crew quarter decks, Spock tries to ignore the weight of his fear for Leonard, sitting heavy like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

Spock hears rather than feels the crunch of the communicator disintegrating between his fingers, white hot fury boiling beneath the surface of his pale exterior. McCoy is alive, very much so, but the condition he’s in provokes a deeply buried, instinctual bloodlust in Spock that he hadn’t even believed himself capable of outside the plak tow.

Warlord Jo’on reclines on his ridiculous stone throne, tapping twelve skeletal-thin fingers against the armchair as he considers the Starfleet officers before him. Beneath his hand there is a silver-white chain bolted into the stone leading to the human prisoner kneeling at his feet. The chain is looped in a choke hold around McCoy’s bruised and bloody neck, secured in place with a thick, heavy looking lock.

The man himself is clad only in the tattered remains of his regulation trousers, matching chains around his ankles and wrists connecting to the one at his waist, keeping him immobilized and on his knees. Every inch of him appears bruised and sore, and his knees and chest in particular seem especially swollen and scraped, as if he’d spent a lot of time being dragged around.

But what sets Spock’s teeth on edge the most, and what draws pained, startled noises from the rest of the landing party, is the ugly, inflamed stitching across the Doctor’s mouth, keeping it closed and preventing him making a sound. The suture sites are an angry reddish-purple, indicating they had been done poorly and were quite likely infected. Spock briefly wonders how McCoy had been able to eat or drink in his condition and a quick sweep of his body gives him the answer: he hadn’t.

His skin, what parts of it aren’t blue-black, is unnaturally pale, and he’s definitely lost weight since they last saw him.

“We have come for the Doctor,” Jim is saying to his right, the tightness of his words betraying the anger he must feel at seeing his closest friend in this state.

“Have you, now,” Jo’on replies pleasantly, his hand sliding to rest on the top of McCoy’s head. Before Spock can think to react, Leonard opens his eyes and wrenches himself immediately away from the warlord’s touch, fury and disgust burning in those familiar blue eyes.

Jo’on sneers and backhands him, smirking at the landing party when some of them startle forward.

“The Doctor is my property. You can see he’s been somewhat difficult to tame, but I’m sure with time and a steady hand even he can be made to understand the value of obedience.” Jo’on sounds almost bored now, ignoring the positively poisonous stare that he gets from the man at his feet that says he rather die than obey.

And if they don’t get him back soon then McCoy might just get his wish.

“We are willing to barter for possession of him,” Spock interjects, before Jim can say something reckless in the heat of his fury at watching McCoy be so mistreated. The warlord considers him with far more interest now, all six beady black eyes fixated on the Vulcan.

“I have no use for your Federation credits,” he begins, tone deliberately silky even as it’s mangled by the universal translator. “In my culture, we have to fight to claim what we desire.”

Spock straightens his back, staring down his nose at the Albanonian warlord. His gaze drifts to the dark bruising on McCoy’s throat and the unfocused, glassy look on his face that means he’s severely dehydrated and in pain. He needs medical attention and the longer he doesn’t receive it the higher the risk is that he’ll soon be beyond needing it.

“What a coincidence,” Spock murmurs, dropping the crushed remains of his communicator and shoving his phaser towards Jim’s startled hands. “My culture believes this as well.”

He takes a few steps forward into the stone circle that had stood between the landing party and the throne, ignoring the way the warlord’s soldiers rustle in anticipation around the edge.

“Spock, I order you to stand down,” Kirk snaps from somewhere behind him, though he sounds far more distant than he actually is. “We can find another way.”

“I apologize Captain, but I cannot. Doctor McCoy needs medical treatment for his injuries and this is the only logical way to bring this to a swift conclusion,” Spock murmurs, staring down the warlord seated on his ugly throne.

“Do you accept my challenge or will you refuse and brand yourself a coward?” he aims this barb directly at Jo’on’s weak spot and the Albanonian immediately takes the bait, rising to his feet and stalking into the stone circle.

“First one to be killed or knocked from the ring is the loser. The winner will receive ownership of the one designated McCoy,” the warlord snarls, casting off the thick leather vest he’s wearing and raising his arms.

“Spock!” Jim protests, sounding angry and exasperated. McCoy is vigorously shaking his head, straining weakly at his chains in an attempt to stop the fight. In pain and dying, Leonard is still more concerned about Spock’s safety than his own, and Spock realizes in a hot flash of agony that he is willing to die to protect this man.

“The gravitational pull of this planet is approximately one quarter of the strength that exists upon Vulcan,” Spock says conversationally, quirking an eyebrow when McCoy goes still. The Albanonians wouldn’t understand what that means but he knows Leonard does when he gets a mirrored raised eyebrow in response.

Finally, reluctantly, McCoy nods and Spock can see Jim throwing his arms up in a frustrated huff out of the corner of his eye.

“Fine! Do what you want Spock, but don’t you dare get yourself killed. That’s a direct order from your commanding officer,” Kirk snaps, aiming his phaser at the ring of Albanonians around the battle ground. Sulu, Uhura, and the three security officers they had brought with them all do the same, intent on keeping this as fair a fight as it can be. They are outnumbered and outgunned but they will go down fighting if that’s what it takes.

Spock widens his stance and raises his arms in front of him, studying the humanoid. As anticipated, Jo’on charges in without much skill, expecting his muscular bulk would lend him the advantage over the slender, unassuming form of the Vulcan, so when Spock side steps him and grips him with impossibly strong fingers he’s too shocked to prevent himself from being tossed to the side as if he weighed no more than a handful of sand.

The angle is off and instead of sailing over the foot tall wall of stone that makes up the border of the ring, the warlord crashes face first against it with a monstrous squeal of rage and pain.

He looks back at McCoy and takes no small amount of pleasure in the quiet satisfaction on the Doctor’s face at seeing his abuser being punished.

Viscous orange blood is dripping down Jo’on’s face when he clambers to his feet, two of the six black eyes closed and swollen shut. Leonard tips his head at the Vulcan as if to say “get on with it then, you green blooded show off” and Spock remembers what he’s truly here to do.

This time when he throws the Albanonian through the air he corrects the angle upwards and Jo’on collides with two members of his guard, knocking all three into the rusty red dirt where they belong.

Spock draws his heels back together and folds his arms behind his back, as if he hasn’t just tossed someone twice his size and weight over his shoulder like it’s all in a day’s work.

“I believe I have won, and therefore claim total ownership of the good doctor,” Spock says mildly, resisting the human urge to roll his eyes at the utterly apoplectic noise said doctor makes in response to this declaration.

“In addition,” he adds, ducking the wild jab a howling Jo’on aims at him when he stumbles back into the ring, his arm swinging out from behind his back to catch the Albanonian in the throat. He goes down choking and the only thing that prevents the guard from rushing forward to kill Spock is the phasers the landing party have pointed at them. The crew of the Enterprise do not kill wantonly but they would do what they must to defend their own if necessary.

“You will leave the rest of the population of this planet in peace. The deal they have brokered with the Federation does not extend to you or your ilk and you would do best to remember that before engaging with them again, unless you want to experience the full weight of Starfleet’s reprisal.”

Jim is usually the one to issue such warnings and threats to unruly individuals. It feels foreign on Spock’s tongue but he doesn’t feel like ruminating on it just now, not when there are more pressing matters to attend to.

Spock crosses the ring and in one smooth movement of his hand rips the bolt keeping McCoy chained to the throne clean out of its mooring. Now that they are close he can feel the Doctor’s dizzying relief and he allows himself a moment to savor it, drinking in the familiar weight of McCoy’s emotions.

“Have sick bay ready to receive us, Captain,” Spock says, having no way to transmit the order himself with the remains of his communicator currently decorating the sand. He squats in front of McCoy and gingerly unwinds the chain from around his damaged throat, crushing the lock until it crumbles into pieces. He’s unable to resist brushing his fingers against warm skin as he works, gentle against dark, angry bruises. Joy, pain, exhaustion, hunger, and a deep, blinding gratitude and affection all broadcast towards him from those phantom touches.

“What you said in our last conversation,” Spock murmurs, low enough that only McCoy can hear him. The Doctor looks up at him with tired eyes, arms limp as the chains binding his wrists and ankles are broken and cast aside. He clearly doesn’t remember what Spock is referring to, so he decides to clarify.

“When you said that you didn’t realize I cared that much, and I insinuated that the regard I bore for your safety was similar to the concern I have for any member of the crew.” Some recognition there and when Spock brushes his pointer and index finger against McCoy’s wrist he can feel his wary apprehension.

“I was in error when I said that. The depth of my feelings for you and the esteem in which I hold you cannot possibly be compared to any other person I have ever met, Leonard.” He says it plainly, leaving no room for misunderstanding this time, and he takes advantage of the wide eyed disbelief that distracts McCoy in order to sweep his arms beneath his knees and shoulders, lifting him off the hot stone.

It’s a testament to how much pain Leonard is in that his protests at being manhandled are halfhearted at best before he surrenders, wrapping shaky arms around Spock’s neck. Spock can feel his clammy forehead against his throat, consumed by the ocean of emotion that he can feel from so much skin to skin contact. Underneath it all is a pulsing, unfamiliar beat that Spock suddenly realizes is Leonard’s deep, steadfast love for him, normally concealed behind layers of annoyance and a reluctance to believe he is worthy of being loved in return.

Spock forces down the fresh wave of anger because he knows then, in that moment, if he weren’t currently more concerned about getting Leonard on board the Enterprise as quickly as possible, he would be tempted to kill the person that had made his mate suffer. He doesn’t need the blood rage to inspire him to murder, not when Leonard is curled up so weak and unguarded against his chest.

Lights swirl around them and when they rematerialize Spock is relieved to find that Scotty has beamed them directly into sick bay. McCoy would never have suffered the indignity of being carried through the entire ship like a princess rescued from a high castle.

Then again, Leonard McCoy is quite possibly the worst damsel in distress in the entire quadrant, if not the whole universe. He squirms in Spock’s arms the entire way across the room until he’s set down on a bio bed, giving him a look that is three fifths consternation, two fifths reluctant gratitude. It’s a distinctly McCoyish expression and it reassures Spock more than anything else that the Doctor is going to be fine.

“I must see to it that the rest of the landing party is beamed aboard and that Starfleet Command is made aware of the situation on Albanon VI,” he murmurs reluctantly, standing up a little straighter when Nurse Chapel and Doctor M’Benga enter the room bearing armfuls of hyposprays and a lifetime’s worth of pain medication, bandages, and IV supplements. McCoy looks like he wants to say something but is still hindered by the cruel, ugly sutures locking his mouth shut. Spock briefly entertains the notion of returning to the planet to slake his fury, but this line of thought is abruptly halted when McCoy raises his hand, pointer and index finger pressed together in silent expectation. His expression is decided and firm but Spock can feel the uncertainty holding his injured body tense, as if he truly believes Spock might not return it.

Spock’s expression gentles and he mirrors the gesture, gingerly brushing their fingertips together in a moment of silent comfort. McCoy visibly relaxes and he puts up only a mild complaint when Chapel arrives to fuss over him, clearly upset about the condition he’s in.

“We’ll take good care of him, Mister Spock,” M’Benga promises softly, clearly amused at the exchange he’s just witnessed. He, out of everyone on the Enterprise, would know what a Vulcan kiss looks like, which means the entire ship will know by the end of the week.

Spock finds he isn’t as bothered by that as he probably should be and turns to go, pausing when fingers curl into his sleeve to stop him. McCoy looks up at him and the vulnerability he is broadcasting in loud waves is belied somewhat by the pinched expression of disgruntled annoyance on his face, as if he’s silently daring the Vulcan to judge him for the question he hasn’t asked.

“I will be back as soon as my duties have been seen to, Leonard,” Spock answers anyways, satisfied that this seems to appease McCoy enough that he lays back on the bio bed again, releasing his hold on Spock’s uniform. There’s the familiar, slow burn of pleasure in hearing Spock use his first name and Spock hadn’t realized how dearly he has missed it in its absence.

He forces himself to leave the med bay before he can change his mind, his steps as quick and wide as he can make them without drawing attention. The faster he does his job the sooner he can return to Leonard’s side and right now, in this moment, that’s the only thing Spock wants in the whole expanse of time and space.

McCoy has been released from sick bay and allowed to return to his quarters, though he isn’t yet cleared to go back on the duty roster, much to his loud and repeated annoyance. The dermal regenerator had healed most of the scarring around his mouth and now little remained of the sutures except for a line of faint red dots ringing his lips.

The lack of privacy within the wide open and often occupied sick bay had not provided them with much time to talk about the as yet unidentified thing that still vibrated between himself and the Doctor. They went on like this for five days, dancing around each other under the watchful gaze of Nurse Chapel while McCoy’s injuries heal.

M’Benga finally kicks the pair of them out with the very, very firm understanding that Spock is not to allow Leonard to push himself before he’s well and truly recovered.

“As if you could stop me,” McCoy snarls without any real heat to his words, gingerly lowering himself into the chair at the small table Spock’s quarters while Spock waits for the replicator to do its job. He turns and fixes the Doctor with a raised eyebrow, bowl of soup cradled between his hands.

“Technically, you are my property now by the cultural standards of several Federation planets,” he replies bemusedly, hardly reacting when McCoy’s slipper hits him in the shoulder with a soft thump.

“Say that again and the next one goes for your face,” McCoy warns, waving the second slipper threateningly in his direction. Wisely, Spock chooses not to respond and instead sets the bowl of soup before the cranky human, returning with his own bowl a moment later and settling down into the other chair. The slipper has at least been set aside, though it’s well within reach should McCoy decide to employ it as a projectile.

They eat in companionable silence for several long minutes before Spock pushes his bowl away, folding his hands on the table and studying Leonard intently. He waits just long enough for McCoy to get visibly annoyed with the inspection before speaking, his face a carefully controlled mask of neutrality.

“I found myself wishing on numerous occasions during our separation that you would be more selfish. That you would consider the value of your own life before making risky decisions that put you in harm’s way,” he comments in a low, even tone, his dark brown eyes fixed on McCoy’s electric blue ones. McCoy purses his lips and considers this, brows pinching together before he responds.

“And now?” he asks with no small amount of trepidation, clearly anticipating a fight over acts of reckless, selfless nobility that Spock is certainly no more innocent of committing than Jim or any other member of the crew.

“Now I find that this selflessness you demonstrate on numerous occasions, even to your own detriment, is a crucial part of what makes you who you are. If you were to take that away then you would not be the same Leonard McCoy,” Spock says simply, quirking his head to the side.

Leonard gawks at him with wide eyes, momentarily speechless at Spock’s words. Twin peaks of color rise in his cheeks and spread to the rounded tips of his ears, turning the Doctor a most intriguing shade of pink. Spock leans forward in his chair until their faces are only a few inches apart, his gaze intent and heavy with sincerity.

“You once said to me that you felt sorry for me because I would never know the things that love could drive a man to do. The.. ecstasies and the miseries of it, I believe was your phrasing. You told me that love wasn’t written in my book and because of that I would never be capable of understanding it, or feeling it,” he murmurs softly, reaching up to grip McCoy’s chin between his fingers to prevent him from looking away in embarrassment.

“Do you still believe that?”

The depth of McCoy’s frown draws his eyebrows together and Spock enjoys some brief sensation of victory at the slight shame in that expression at realizing how hurtful his words must have been for Spock to remember them almost exactly all this time later.

“You’re the touch telepath,” Leonard sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself before opening them again, staring straight back at the Vulcan. “You tell me.”

Spock is surprised at the offer hidden beneath those words and he’s the one frowning now, not daring to believe, but Leonard’s gaze doesn’t waver, not even for an instant.

He releases his chin and fingertips trip across warm skin to find his psi points, leaning in until his forehead is brushing against Leonard’s.

“My mind to your mind.” My thoughts to your thoughts.

He expects to be engulfed in a whirlwind of emotion, only to find himself in a surprisingly ordered mind, precise and definite despite the frequent exterior chaos of the human being it belonged to. Spock really shouldn’t be that shocked, in retrospect. Leonard McCoy is a brilliant doctor and scientist and one does not achieve that without having an organized, if frequently illogical, mind.

A swirl of purple-blue amusement lights up around him and he knows Leonard is laughing at his stunned revelation, but Spock can’t muster up the will to reproach him for it.

Delving deeper into the Doctor’s mind, Spock allows himself to be wrapped up in the tendrils of colorful emotion, love and annoyance and frustration and a comfortable, warming affection mixing together to create the complicated mess of feelings that McCoy has for Spock, but never allowed himself to voice. He shares his own deep regard in return, ribbons of complex expression curling around their consciousness until Spock doesn’t know where he stops and Leonard begins.

When he starts to draw away from the connection he finds McCoy chasing him, first with his mind, then with his body when that isn’t enough to stop Spock’s retreat. Reality begins to take focus around him and he finds them both on their feet, chairs knocked back and soup bowls spilling their contents across the table as they devour one another, fingers curled into straining fabric.

With great reluctance, Spock breaks the searing kiss but doesn’t withdraw further than is required to be able to focus on McCoy’s face and he’s sure his own cheeks are just as flush as the human’s, feeling the heat all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes.

He kisses him again and this time it’s slower, though no less passionate. He savors the sensation of Leonard’s mouth against his own, relishing the way they fit together so naturally after many years of conflict and friction. It’s easy to curl his fingers around McCoy’s thighs and guide him up until he’s wrapping his legs around Spock’s waist, allowing himself to be manhandled without complaint for once as Spock carries them across his quarters and carefully drops him down onto the bed, regretful only in that this means the kiss is broken.

Spock freezes in place, unable to tear himself away from the sight of Leonard McCoy sprawled across his bed, mouth swollen with Spock’s kisses and legs still spread around Spock’s waist. He’s healthy and whole and very much alive. He would go on staring forever, except McCoy gets increasingly impatient with his gawking and reaches up to grab a fistful of Spock’s blue uniform, yanking him down until he’s forced to plant his hands on either side of the Doctor’s slender shoulders to prevent himself from falling.

“You gonna just look at me for the rest of the night?” Leonard growls, and the rough edge to that normally smooth, dulcet voice is what coaxes Spock to close the gap again, silencing any further teasing. He licks his way into Leonard’s mouth with a primal urge to taste himself on the Doctor’s tongue, gripping the collar of the scrub top he’s wearing and tearing the shirt straight down the middle as easy as if it were made of tissue paper.

He earns a sharp bite from Leonard in retaliation for the ruined shirt but all malcontent melts away from the body beneath him when he gets his hands on bare skin, running his palms up and down his ribcage, needing to feel for himself the healed, unbruised flesh. Arousal, need, desire pummel Spock’s senses as McCoy sighs beneath his touch, and he allows the tugging fingers to peel his own shirts up and over his head, tossing them away to some unknown corner of the room.

“I am under orders from Doctor M’Benga that you are not to be subjected to anything overly taxing until you are fully recovered,” Spock sighs, running his fingertips through the curls of hair that lead from Leonard’s belly button to the waistband of his trousers. An unattractive, derisive snort escapes Leonard, and Spock stares down at him reproachfully, still unable or perhaps just unwilling to take his hands off Leonard’s naked skin.

“I’ll show you overly taxing if you don’t take your pants off in the next ten seconds,” McCoy complains, but he’s far too gone with need and want for the words to have much kick to them. Spock raises an eyebrow and doesn’t move to stop Leonard when deft fingers start tugging at the snaps and zippers of his uniform pants.

“Then in the interest of avoiding unnecessary strain, I suppose then I have no other choice but to do as you say, Leonard,” Spock murmurs, just to feel the wave of delight from the other man when he uses his first name.

“Good, I’m glad we got that straightened out,” Leonard replies distractedly, more focused on getting both of them out of their clothing as fast as possible. “Things would go a lot smoother around here if you did what I say without complaint more often.”

Spock stands up abruptly, relishing the keening noise of dismay this elicits from the Doctor. He silences any further protest with a heated stare, grabbing Leonard by his ankles and yanking him forward until his legs dangle off the bed, held aloft by Spock.

“The same could be said for the reverse, Leonard,” the Vulcan growls softly, tugging his pants off by the flared hems and throwing them away to find his discarded shirts. He drinks in the sight of his mate, naked save the tattered shirt and flush with desire, and allows himself the flash of possessive heat.

“Why don’t you make me, you green blooded menace,” McCoy whispers, though the normally vitriolic insult lacks any of its former poison. Spock curls himself over the human in his bed, hearing McCoy’s breathing hitch in anticipation, only to brush his lips across his forehead, the heat of his passion momentarily subdued in this moment of quiet intimacy.

The tension in Leonard’s body drains away at the gentle caress and he turns his head, pressing soft kisses along the pointed curve of Spock’s ear. He can’t help but smile ever so slightly against Leonard’s temple, enjoying the flash of amused annoyance when the human feels the movement of his mouth.

“What’s got you all giddy?” Leonard chuckles, spreading his thighs around Spock’s waist so the other can fit more snugly on top of him.

“Just proving a hypothesis, that’s all,” Spock hums, leaning back as Leonard sits up and tugs his pants the rest of the way open, pushing them down his hips until they pool at Spock’s ankles and he can step out of them.

“Oh yeah, and what hypothesis would that be?” Leonard grumbles good naturedly, raking his gaze over Spock’s naked form. Spock lifts him by his hips and drops him further back on the bed so he can crawl up and between his thighs, pushing him to lie back down across the blankets. He strokes his palms over Leonard’s pale thighs before gripping a heel, raising his leg so he can turn and press a soft kiss to the almost delicate curve of his ankle bone.

“That you were lying all those times you said you hated my ears,” he murmurs against the gentle pulse beneath the thin skin, looking back towards McCoy’s face just in time to see the flush of red embarrassment that spreads across his chest and towards freckled shoulders.

“Fascinating.”

He drops the leg to rest against his shoulder, curving back down to chase that fading splash of color with his lips. He feels the rumble of Leonard’s sigh and closes his eyes when those beautiful hands he’s lusted after for so many years slide into his hair, mussing the normally flawless arrangement. Skilled fingers trace the arch of his ear, sending an electric pulse of pleasure to bloom in Spock’s pelvis.

“As if I could ever truly hate anything about you,” Leonard whispers so softly even Spock has to strain to hear him. Spock leans up from worshipping McCoy’s chest to study his face, committing the open, tender expression he wears to memory. He kisses him again, warm and chaste, and reaches over Leonard to rummage blindly through his bedside drawer, relieved when he finds the relatively unused bottle of personal lubricant without much struggle.

“Leonard McCoy, you are the most vexing, confusing, illogical human being I have ever met,” he chuckles, coaxing McCoy’s thighs to spread even wider as he slicks his fingers with the lubricant. Leonard smirks against his jaw, breath hitching when the first digit slips its way inside with little resistance.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” the Doctor sighs, loose and pliant beneath Spock as the Vulcan opens him up with methodical precision, one leg still comfortably perched on Spock’s shoulder. Spock lowers it with a hand at the crook of his knee, pushing it up towards Leonard’s chest to open him up even further. Between one breath and the next, Spock is pressing inside of him, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses across Leonard’s face and throat.

“No, I would not.”

McCoy drags him back for a proper kiss by the grip he has in his hair and Spock pants softly against his lips, consumed by the tight heat of Leonard’s body. It’s been a very long time since he’s been intimate with anyone and he remembers now, in the welcome softness of McCoy’s body, why he had enjoyed sex on the occasions he had indulged.

Those experiences pale in comparison to what’s happening right now, though. The way McCoy arches up with a soft gasp when the angle of Spock’s gentle, rhythmic rocking changes just enough to send delicious sparks of pleasure soaring through every nerve in the Doctor’s body. The roughness of his mouth against Spock’s and the clutch of his hands against the broad plane of Spock’s shoulders, as if it were all he could do to just hang on.

Spock releases Leonard’s knee and raises his fingers to tease against his psi points again, stilling his hips with himself still buried deep inside McCoy, drawing his heated, needy gaze in an instant.

“I would bond with you,” he purrs, brushing a comma of loose brown hair away from Leonard’s sweat beaded forehead. “I wish to take you as my mate. Mine forever, parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched.” The ritualistic words feel heavier on his tongue than they ever had before when he had spoken them to T’Pring.

Leonard hesitates, and Spock prepares himself for rejection, but the Doctor is constantly surprising him and he knows that won’t stop now just because they have confessed the truth of their affections.

“Do it,” he urges instead of refusing, his gaze as open and honest as it has ever been in their years together. “Please, Spock.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Leonard say ‘please’ before. At least not directed at him, and certainly not with this much feeling behind it. It’s all the persuasion he needs to initiate the meld, delving deep into the recesses of McCoy’s mind once more.

This time he doesn’t resist the pull of the ribbons, instead encouraging them, reaching out to pull them in and bind them together, weaving a web of emotion and experience around their shared consciousness until that feeling of being one from before returns in full force.

He’s vaguely aware that his body is moving again, thrusting against McCoy’s as their minds forge an even deeper connection, and when he comes it’s with the taste of Leonard’s name on his tongue, the bond forming in a cascading explosion of light and sound.

Spock slowly returns to reality and notes the heavy, sated feeling in his body and the warmth of the other curled around him. His head is pillowed against Leonard’s chest and there’s a hand in his hair, stroking through the tangled black strands. He opens his eyes with a soft, rumbling sigh, unwilling to move lest he dislodge or discourage the gentle petting.

“You sure y’aint gonna regret this?” Leonard asks him quietly, his southern accent more pronounced in this moment of exhausted contentment. Spock raises an eyebrow and doesn’t dignify that with a verbal response, instead focusing his attention on the tightly closed bud in the corner of his mind. He coaxes it into opening just a little and he pours every feeling he has for Leonard through that doorway, hearing the rough intake of breath as McCoy realizes the presence of the bond in his mind.

The doorway widens and the bond blossoms fully between them in a surge of warmth and affection.

“Oh,” is all Leonard has to say, but his fingers don’t cease their petting so Spock considers it a victory. They’re silent for a moment, enjoying the sweet comfort of the connection they now share until Spock feels a solar flare of amusement from Leonard, tipping his head back to see what could possibly be so entertaining.

“This is going to make our arguments a might bit complicated, isn’t it, Mister Spock?” Leonard drawls, and Spock hums thoughtfully, both eyebrows drawing up toward the fringe of his bangs.

“I suppose one solution is we could just.. stop quarreling as often as we do,” he suggests, propping himself up on his elbow to study the relaxed, sprawling form of his bond mate. His eyes trace the places where dark, miserable bruises had darkened the skin only days before, and Spock cups a palm against Leonard’s jaw, tracing the shadow of suture marks around his mouth.

“But that wouldn’t be much fun now, would it?” Leonard murmurs, reaching up to cradle his hand against the back of Spock’s to still him, turning his head to press a soft kiss to the sensitive palm. A silent apology through the bond and a promise to take more care with his own safety in the future, for Spock’s sake if nothing else.

A faint smile curves at the corners of his lips and he cocks his head to the side, relishing the sight of Leonard, normally so closed off, so withdrawn from the rest of the world, now so open and content in his bed.

“No, Leonard. It wouldn’t be much fun at all.”