It was, Spock thought, relentless.

Relentless. Insidious. Persistent. Insistent.

It granted him no respite.

It? No, not it. Imprecise. Much more than a mere 'it.'

*They* granted him no respite.

It was as if, Spock told himself humorlessly (why without humor? How is humor *relevant?* his mind commented snidely.)

Spock shook his head.

It was as if, he began again sternly, he -- no, a *human* -- had been asked to hold in their hands a mass of writhing grubs. Wet. Slimy. Half decayed. Then, to name them. To give them the affectionate little names, as they would a pet. And then slide them, one, by one,into a vein, where they would wriggle free to writhe and copulate and breed in the bloodstream. To be the host to these parasites for all time.

For as long as one managed to survive.

Hyperbole. Surely this was hyperbole. And yet...

Emotions were parasites. They sucked away thought. They sucked away discipline. They sucked away *logic.*

"*This* is not logical," he said aloud. (But then, the voice piped up, neither is talking to the ceiling.)

Spock rose from his bed and considered another attempt at meditation. Perhaps there was no choice. Perhaps he had no choice but to examine each emotion *again.* He closed his eyes against the pain of it all.

"But why?" he said aloud. "Why *him?*"

<<<>>>

He did it with the help of the Fed Standard thesaurus.

Found names for all the little grubs writhing in his system. Naming them *should* give him power over them.

Distance from them. Enable him to repress them as he had been taught to all his life.

Humiliation. Embarrassment. Shame.

He had not realized he felt these things so keenly in

relation to the fact that he was half-Vulcan. Felt like his human blood weakened him; made him *less.*

And layered on top of that, his sense of failure. He had failed with T'Pring. He had seen T'Pau's superior smile. He had seen his father, resigned to continued disappointments. His mother's concern, quickly hidden.

Fear was more familiar. He had felt fear, and anger, before. They were commonplace and easily dealt with. Except that he was not used to feeling them towards his captain. Or towards the CMO.

Curiosity, superiority, the occasional disdainful thought, but not anger. Not fury.

Anger that they had seen him humiliated. Anger that they now (with reason, the little voice reminded) could consider Vulcans barbaric. (Honestly. Prancing around in loincloths, the voice said.) Spock winced, and returned to his thoughts.

Anger that they -- humans -- had *tricked* him. Made him believe he had killed his captain.

Yes, he had felt joy when he had realized Jim was alive. Had embraced him. It was only later that the deception had stung. Angered him. T'Pau, he knew, was angry as well. But that was not the same as his own deep sense of betrayal.

(The deception would not have worked, his newfound little voice reminded him, had you been informed of what was intended. And then you would have been back to square one. Or you'd be dead.)

Where had this little voice come from? He had heard Jim speak of his own, speak as if two people resided in his head, the one only making its presence known when tense, or emotionally fraught, or particularly ridiculous situations cropped up. Spock had never had a 'little voice' before. He did not want one. He did not *need* one.

(I beg to differ, his little voice said drily. You need to talk to someone. And not the ceiling. If not me, then perhaps... Leonard, the voice suggested tentatively.)

Spock stood up, leaving his list of emotions lying on the desk. "Leonard? I do not need to speak to *Leonard*"

Petulantly he stomped out of his quarters and headed for the mess hall. Maybe the company of others would be distracting.

<<<>>>

There was a moment of tension as he stepped through the door and surveyed his fellow crewmembers eating their evening meal. He'd gone back to -- as McCoy would say -- attempting to 'out Vulcan the Vulcans' since the utter

fiasco that was supposed to have been his bonding ceremony.

It was a convenient mask, and one easily donned -- the perfectly correct, perfectly reliable, perfectly emotionless Vulcan. He'd perfected it to the point that he'd heard Dr. McCoy speak under his breath about how he longed to stick Spock with a pin to see whether he'd bother to bleed green or any other color. He hadn't been able to resist sending a smug smile in the good doctor's direction and McCoy had immediately snapped his mouth closed on whatever other taunts he'd been tempted to mumble.

Surprisingly, McCoy had not sent any of the usual insults his way. Nothing about Spock being a 'pointy-eared' Vulcan. A comment meant to be derogative and yet which had never had the power to wound. Firstly because he'd had his emotions under control. And secondly, because all Vulcans had pointy ears. Aesthetically, Spock thought, they were much more appealing than Human's rounded ears.

"You okay?"

Spock looked down at his cup of tea. What was the human expression? Speak of the devil and he shall appear?

"Dr. McCoy. My condition is... satisfactory."

"You've been awful quiet. This is the first time I've seen you in the mess hall in weeks."

"Much of my time has been spent in meditation."

"Ah. Helpin'?"

"Yes."

"Good." And after a short pause. "Good."

"I have a voice." Spock blinked, not certain what had prompted him to say this.

"You have a... voice?"

"In my head," Spock clarified, aware that his initial statement had been imprecise to the point of being cryptic. Or blatantly obvious if taken literally.

"Ah." McCoy said, sitting down across from Spock. "What's it sayin' to you?"

"It contradicts me."

"It contradicts you, does it? Spock... er, you haven't been considerin' doin' anything foolish, have you?"

Spock looked carefully at the doctor who seemed only to be evincing professional curiosity, and perhaps some personal concern as well.

I am only thinking of reaching across the table to touch my fingers to yours, Spock thought. Does that make me foolish?

And then he watched with interest as a blush passed over McCoy's features.

"I meant foolish like... Perhaps we'd better continue this conversation in sickbay."

"You are, perhaps, overly concerned."

"Perhaps. But better safe than sorry and all that." McCoy waved a hand vaguely as he rose from the table.

Spock rose and obediently followed.

"So," McCoy said after they'd entered the infirmary and sat down in his office. "This little voice of yours. What does it say?"

"It... pokes fun." Spock raised an eyebrow and attempted a look of detached amusement.

"At...?"

"Me."

McCoy lips twitched slightly, and then he seemed to become even more deeply concerned. "This has to do with that business with T'Pring, does it?"

"Yes."

McCoy fell silent, and Spock watched as he pursed his lips and squinted. An 'I'm thinking' expression. He realized anew how much of human communication was nonverbal. And how much more expressive these communications were than the Vulcan variety. Completely lacking in subtlety, perhaps, but, once the expressions and gestures were decoded, providing invaluable insight. Did McCoy, Spock wondered, use the same expressions in private, while pondering a particularly thorny problem? Or were the expressions only used when others were present?

McCoy's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I'm just theorizing here -- and granted I don't have much data to work with -- but it seems likely that this situation was more than a little traumatic."

This required no answer that Spock was willing to provide, and McCoy continued rather hurriedly.

"To you, I mean. And the... preliminary pair-bond, between T'Pring and yourself, it was formed at age seven, yes?"

"Yes." This was more like their old dynamic. Spock being inscrutable and uncommunicative. And yet McCoy was not pushing, not getting angry as he used to.

"So perhaps your subconscious is offering up another voice because you... miss having that other presence in your head?"

"T'Pring was rarely, as you put it, in my head. She had not the interest." But yes, he was lonely. He had not realized that until now.

McCoy's jaw tightened for a moment. "Still and all, losing that link. You weren't pair-bonded with another Vulcan, so maybe your psyche is trying to compensate.

Keep you company, so to speak." He paused briefly. "It's not tellin' you to, well..."

Spock contented himself with looking at McCoy impassively.

"Hurt yourself?" McCoy finished with a cough.

"You fear psychosis?" Spock asked, letting mild curiosity enter his voice.

"Damn it, Spock!" McCoy said, slamming a hand down on his desk, "I don't know what to think! You say you have a little voice that you've never heard before and we don't have enough information about what can happen to a Vulcan whose pon farr is meddled with and I'm your doctor and am concerned about you because you hole yourself up in your cabin when you're not on duty and this is the longest conversation anyone's had with you in weeks, damn it."

Yes. This felt more familiar and oddly satisfying. McCoy glaring at him. Why did provoking the man produce such feelings, Spock wondered.

"I do not fear psychosis," Spock said. "I have had no

urges to do physical injury to myself or to anyone else." He watched curiously as McCoy sighed with relief. "Nor does the voice do more than taunt me to..."

"To?"

"To do as you have long suggested."

"Your little voice agrees with *me,* Spock? Now we *know* there's something wrong with you."

"Indeed." Spock watched as McCoy's hand fidgeted with the various items that lay on the surface of his desk.

"What does your inner voice want you to do?"

"Apparently it wishes me to..." Spock closed his eyes

and said in tones of great resignation, "recognize my human half and follow through on certain... instincts."

"Okay. Logical in its way." McCoy leaned back in his chair.

"Logical?" Spock prompted.

"Well, like I said. You were pair-bonded to T'Pring at

age seven. Whether she was an *active*..."

Disdain there, Spock noted. Why?

"...presence in your mind or not, she was *there.* Maybe she helped to anchor you more firmly to your Vulcan side. Maybe in the absence of that bond your human emotions are more free to have their wicked way with you."

"A most appealing idea," Spock said drily.

McCoy smiled at him and Spock felt warmth spread throughout his body.

"So until you've regained your equilibrium, so to speak, maybe this little voice is to be expected."

"It is, I think, a voice like Jim's little voice. Sometimes the voice of reason, sometimes the voice that urges heedless action. More often the latter."

"Heedless action? I'd almost like to see you take some of that."

"Indeed, doctor? Then you and my little voice are again in agreement."

For a moment or two it seemed as if the air between he and the doctor was charged.

"Indeed, Spock." For a moment, the doctor's voice was tinged with... something, but his expression was unreadable. "Look, my door is always open. So if you, or your little voice, ever need a third party to the discussions you've been havin,' you'll let me know, right?"

"Certainly doctor."

Spock realized he was unwilling to leave. It was... pleasant... to just sit in the doctor's company. And yet... Slowly he rose to his feet and made his way back to his quarters.

<<<>>>

The dreams were growing more intense. More vivid. Bodies arching to press and slide. Lips parted, mouths seeking, tongues and teeth and hands and fingers used to best effect. Spock lay in his bed, sweating lightly. "I had not realized that my imagination was quite so vivid," he said to the ceiling.

He had taken to avoiding the doctor. Their conversations left him wishing for... more. Conversation, closeness, contact...

But McCoy insisted on talking, once a week. In sickbay. Professional concern, professional courtesy. And... awkwardness, when they met on other occasions. McCoy's gaze seemed to slide over him and Spock almost wished he could provoke the doctor into insulting him.

The emotions now felt less like something alien slipping through his system. Now they were familiar, known, but occasionally they... hurt. Cut sharply, like swallowed glass. Or just ached. Spock shoved down the pain, shoved down the desire, and stared up at the ceiling once again.

"What must I do?" he asked. The ceiling didn't have any advice to offer.

(Tell him, the little voice said.)

"I will not give him..."

(Won't give him what? The satisfaction? Perhaps, the voice said reasonably, confronting this head-on is the best solution. It's certainly more logical than talking to the ceiling.)

Spock was beginning to dislike his little voice. Most emphatically.

<<<>>>

He stood before the door to Leonard McCoy's quarters and... hesitated. It wasn't until a crewmember started down the hall and looked at him curiously that he actually raised a hand to ring the chime.

"Come."

He entered the room slowly. "Doctor, I hope I am not..."

His eyes went to the doctor's desk. A half-empty bottle of liquor stood there. He could smell the faint fumes from his position in the doorway.

"Like a drink, Spock?" McCoy asked.

"No. Perhaps I should return at a more convenient time."

"Now's as convenient a time as any. I actually hadn't drunk any yet. I was just contemplatin' it."

McCoy leaned back into his chair. He looked... exhausted, Spock realized. Eyes bloodshot, skin gray.

This was not acceptable.

"Doctor, are you... ill?"

"Not been sleepin' too well lately."

"Excessive consumption of alcohol interferes with REM sleep," Spock pointed out.

"Really?" McCoy looked amused. "I'll have to convey that to StarFleet medical. Have them mention it in the textbooks."

Spock felt a flush rise to his face.

"C'mon, Spock. Sit down. Can't have you loomin' over me."

Spock walked to a chair and sat.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"I am... having feelings of..." Spock cast a look at McCoy who had regained his professional composure. McCoy nodded at him to continue.

"Desire," Spock finished.

"For anyone in particular?" McCoy asked after a moment.

"Yes. However, my desire is not... logical."

"Ah. Because desire is in itself not logical or for some other reason?" McCoy asked curiously.

"Both. It is the second matter which I find to be of greater concern."

"The second matter being the other reason why your desire is not 'logical.'" McCoy reiterated.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"It is not... unheard of... in your culture."

"Desire isn't?"

"This particular desire."

"So we're talking about a kind of desire that is acceptable to humans but not to Vulcans."

"Yes."

McCoy gave a short bark of laughter. "It's like pulling teeth, gettin' this out of you."

Spock made no answer. To be this close to confessing.

Perhaps he should have talked to Jim. But Jim was 'a man for the ladies' as one might say. And Dr. McCoy was a doctor, after all.

"Okay, is the desire not logical because you desire someone not Vulcan?"

"In part, but no. That is not the essential reason."

"Okay."

Spock watched as a series of emotions crossed the doctor's face. A brief flash of humor, a hint of what seemed like longing, and then an expression of resolve.

"Is it because the person is," McCoy's voice grew husky, "male?"

"Yes."

And now the expression on McCoy's face was impossible to decipher. It was a strong emotion. Revulsion? Maybe he was incorrect, and this was a deeply-seated prejudice that humans -- some humans -- still felt?

"Why is homosexual desire not 'logical?'" McCoy asked.

He appeared to be gritting his teeth.

"The desired result of a bond is procreative in nature."

"Two males can procreate. Not the old-fashioned way, maybe, but it's possible."

"True. However, a bond between two males would more likely be an indication of..."

"Immorality? Perversion?" McCoy pushed himself out of

his chair and began to pace angrily. "So much for..."

"Emotion."

"What?" McCoy turned sharply towards him.

"A bond between two members of the same sex would be an indication that emotion -- mutual affection, desire -- was the sole motivation for the relationship." Spock watched as McCoy blew out a long breath, and then resumed his pacing.

"But... Vulcan bondmates... care... for one another,

don't they?"

"Often."

"And that's acceptable."

"Mates committed to one another are likely to raise children who will adapt well to society."

"Vulcans are pair-bonded at age seven," the doctor said musingly to the wall he was currently facing.

Spock raised an eyebrow questioningly. McCoy appeared to be off on another tangent. And it was interesting to see him talk to a wall. Perhaps walls were more communicative than ceilings? No, there was that human expression, 'it's like talking to a wall.' Frequently the expression had been used to describe what it was like to converse with Spock.

Spock shook these irrelevant thoughts off and returned his attention to the doctor's words.

"In humans, homosexual desire usually becomes apparent

at the onset of puberty. Although sometimes it happens earlier and sometimes later. But if Vulcan's are pair-bonded to someone of the opposite sex at an early age," McCoy appeared to be thinking aloud, "Well, that would account for the lack of same sex couplings among Vulcans. You don't get the chance to explore your sexuality in the same way that humans and most other species do."

McCoy turned from the wall to face Spock. "I guess this is quite a shock to you."

"Yes." Spock swallowed. "The more so because..."

"You actually have an object of your, ah, affections, as we humans would say." McCoy's eyes strayed to the still open bottle of whisky on his desk.

"I am not certain how he would respond to my... desire."

"Hell, he'd be an idiot..." McCoy cut himself off. "Look, as long as he's not your, ah, subordinate..."

"He is not."

McCoy appeared to flinch and looked longingly at the bottle again.

"And there's a reasonable chance that he won't be offended..."

"He seems to be open-minded about the existence of male/male sexual desire."

"Ah... He does, does he? Well then. Perhaps you might broach the matter with him." McCoy's eyes seemed to be unable to find something which would hold his gaze, flickering from the bottle to the door to the wall hanging and down to his hands.

"I have done so, though perhaps indirectly."

"You have." McCoy looked up to meet Spock's eyes, his expression perfectly blank.. "Perhaps, then, a more direct approach is warranted."

"I am not certain how to do so."

"Is he familiar with Vulcan culture at all?"

Spock nodded.

"Then, perhaps... That two-fingered thing you do." McCoy brought a hand up, his first two fingers raised. Spock found himself watching avidly. Standing, he crossed the room swiftly to stand before the doctor. Slowly Spock raised his fingers to brush against the other man's, watching as McCoy's mouth fell open with disbelief.

"Me!? Don't you... Shouldn't you..."

Spock immediately withdrew his fingers, his stomach clenching. "I... Forgive me."

"No!" McCoy reached forward quickly to resume the contact. "I just expected you to walk out of here and go find Jim."

"Jim?" Spock asked. McCoy's fingers were now slowly tracing the length of his. Spock swallowed.

"I just assumed... I'm glad to be wrong."

"You... Me?"

"Spock inarticulate." A grin spread across McCoy's features. "Yes," he whispered. "Me, you."

"Most... satisfactory."

The grin grew wider, as he'd somehow known it would.

"Spock can I...?"

"Yes."

And McCoy stepped forward and pressed his full length against Spock's body, his fingertips never leaving Spock's as his other arm encircled Spock's waist and pulled him close.

"My little voice..."

"If your little voice suggested this, I entirely approve." The words were a bit muffled as McCoy's face

was pressed tightly against Spock's chest.

"It suggested we talk."

"And the rest was your idea? Better and better."

"My... little voice. It also calls you..."

"Calls me?"

"Leonard."

"You can call me Leonard too."

"I would wish to. Leonard."

"Spock."

<<<>>>

They stood pressed together for long moments. Finally,

McCoy pulled away, then pulled Spock with him to sit on the couch.

"We should probably take this slow," McCoy said.

"Slow?"

"You've had a lot dumped on you." McCoy reached for Spock's hands, clasped them firmly between his own. "Maybe you need time to sort through all this."

"Sorting through 'all this,' as you put it, is what brought me to your door."

"Oh." And then it seemed to Spock as if he could actually feel McCoy's gaze on his lips.

"Leonard. Would you like to... kiss me?"

"Most certainly, Mr. Spock."

And then McCoy was leaning forward, his mouth just a whisper away. Warm breath. A gentle caress of the lips. McCoy pulled back to look into Spock's eyes. And then it was Spock's turn to lean forward and cover McCoy's mouth with his own.

McCoy's lips parted and Spock delved deeper. So. This is what Leonard tasted like. This is what it felt like to have Leonard's body pressed willingly, eagerly against his own. This was nothing short of... delightful.

The kiss grew wilder, more frantic until both had to let go for want of air. McCoy raised a hand to Spock's cheek.

"We can take this slowly. We probably should."

Spock turned his face to press his lips to McCoy's wrist.

"I have had such dreams. I would make them real."

"You've been dreaming too? My imagination has been driving me crazy for the past few weeks."

Spock withdrew to look McCoy in the eyes. "These dreams. Were they... a new occurrence?"

"New? Well, considering how long I've been dreaming of you, I wouldn't call them new. Just really, ah, explicit."

Spock's mind tried to follow two separate paths and in his current state was unable to.

"You have been dreaming of me for..."

McCoy blushed fiercely. "Since just about the first day I met you."

"Then... why?"

"My hostility? It's called a defense mechanism." McCoy reached to brush his fingers through Spock's hair. He smiled, apparently finding the texture pleasurable.

"Explain."

"It's painful wanting what you can't have. Not that it's really an excuse." For a moment McCoy looked rueful.

"Leonard," Spock said. "I am relieved."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I wouldn't like to think that your... desire for me was a by-product of my desire for you."

"Meaning..."

"Meaning I may have transmitted my dreams to you."

"So that wasn't *my* imagination? Why Spock. You dog you."

"Leonard, I wish to see how the reality measures up to the dream."

"Why don't we agree to work our way towards that. There's a truism among humans that the first time is never the best. And I think you've given me a lot to live up to..."

<<<>>>

They had stripped one another of clothing with a minimum of awkwardness and a maximum of efficiency.

"Um," McCoy had said happily, once his bare skin was pressed against Spock's. "I'd tried to imagine what it would be like -- your skin that much warmer than mine.

It's lovely."

"Words are... inadequate," Spock had said.

For a time speech was set aside. And then McCoy gasped out, as if picking up a thread of an earlier conversation, "When I said more time, I had in mind maybe a week or two. Or maybe a day or two if I couldn't last that long. I didn't mean..."

McCoy's words subsided as Spock slid further down the other man's body. Spock's hands traced gentle patterns along McCoy's skin, his lips eagerly tasting as he went.

"I didn't mean," he continued, once he'd recovered from a particularly clever movement of Spock's tongue, "a *minute* or two."

Spock raised himself back up to look down into McCoy's face.

"It strikes me that you were considerably less verbal in my dreams."

"You complainin'?"

"Merely stating a fact.

"Because if you're complainin'"

"If I were?"

McCoy reversed their positions so that he lay on top. "I might have to do a few things differently."

"Indeed."

"Yes, indeed." A pause, while he traced the tip of Spock's ear with finger, then tongue. He wriggled to get more comfortable. "Damn bunks are way too small."

"You seem to be the one with complaints, doctor."

"Hum..." Another wriggle, this time with deliberate intent.

"Oh."

"Uh-hmm." McCoy slid his body down slightly. A tongue flickered out to taste a nipple. It lapped and caressed, then teeth nibbled, and a mouth suckled.

"That..."

McCoy transferred his attention to the other nipple as he continued to grind his pelvis against Spock's. "Permission to state the obvious?"

"Certainly." Spock's was having difficulty keeping his measured tone.

"You. Feel. So... Good." The words came at irregular intervals. Spock looked down to see that McCoy's eyes

were closed against the sensation of their erections sliding against one another, bumping and scraping along their bodies.

Spock resumed his task of tracing every inch of McCoy's skin with his fingertips.

"I want," he said.

"Anything," McCoy muttered against his chest.

"Your lips. On mine. Now."

"Oh," was all McCoy had time to say before his head was dragged up and Spock's mouth captured his own.

"Better," Spock muttered.

The two men's body were slightly slick with sweat and each sliding, grinding undulation brought them closer to the edge.

"Spock..."

"Yes."

"It's not just. Your emotions. Having their. Wicked way with you.*"

"No?"

"*I'm.* Having my wicked. Way with you."

"Yes."

"Oh yes."

"Yes, Leonard."

"I... Uhhhh oh.... *Gods*... Ahhhh"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh."

"Yes."

"Oh yes, Spock."

"Yesss....."

After a few moments of silence, a happy hum emanated from the doctor who now had his pillowed his head on Spock's chest. Spock stared up at the cieling. It had all been so much easier than he'd expected. (See, I was right.) Spock started slightly. He had not been expecting his little voice to make an appearance.

"Leonard."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"My little voice. It reminds me a bit of you."

"It's back?"

"Yes."

"What's it sayin'?"

"Apparently 'I told you so.'"

"Snide little sucker is it?"

"Yes."

McCoy laughed, happily, sleepily. "I like it."

"I would prefer..." A hand tentatively caressed McCoy's hair.

"Um?" McCoy raised his head to meet Spock's eyes.

"To hear your voice. In my head," Spock clarified.

"Oh. Spock."

"But if you do not wish..."

"Oh. I wish."

"Then?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"*Yes,* Spock."

Tension eased from Spock's body and he hugged McCoy's body closer. "T'hy'la."

McCoy pressed his lips to Spock's tenderly then pulled back.

"Honey-lamb," he said wickedly.

***end***