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The Uncertainty Principle in quantum theory relates to a certain equation, which explains a certain phenomenon, which you can act upon when you measure it.
A measurement will change the system forever.
However, a measurement can only be certainly known if you retrieve the original equation as well.
If that equation is at all distorted, then you have uncertainty. You can never truly know that variable.
No matter how much you might try…
We’ll never know velocity and position at the same time.
We can never bring our system back to what it once was.
×
Heat emanates from the controls as the ship weathers another blast of fire and rage. They can’t take much more of this, and the captain must be aware of that fact.
It’s simply impossible that they actually survive this with the warp core as vulnerable as it is…
That’s the plain, reasonable, logical outcome.
And then another blast, and the ship is critical, and there, you know what you must do, don’t you?
Whose voice is that…?
A correct assessment, regardless.
So, with haste and the uneven clicks of heels against ground, he drags somewhat trepid feet across the bridge, across the turbolift, and the lift takes him down, down, down…
This is a long shot, and such is evident to anyone who’s observing it, of course, and—whose voice is that? The one that just rang out? Is that him? It must be…
No, he knows it’s an illogical idea.
This has never been done before.
Or, if it has, it’s been far too long.
If it works—no, it must work—there’s only one voice he could reasonably put his self in the safe and steady hands of.
Safe and steady and seasoned…
It’s a long shot.
He awakens in a cold sweat.
He thinks he could scream, or shriek, or something of that nature.
Nothing comes out.
Instead, he looks around.
The last big memory he has is seeing Spock again.
Spock was there, finally, standing, and Jim was looking at him, and everything was great, everything was fine—
And now, he’s here.
His forearms are a little raw, his knees decorated with discolored mottling.
He’s wearing—this must be some sort of ceremonial robe, but it’s not very fashionable…
Spock was wearing something this color… Was he?
He glances around the room, heart starting to pound a little faster, breath coming out a little shorter.
It’s actually rather nice, if small. Were Vulcans known for their hospitality? Yes, definitely, but he’s not sure where that idea came from. The floors are a little barren, but they’re coated a nice gold color. The walls are decorated with high, winding, artistic windowpanes, depicting all sorts of events—he thinks he sees first contact, at least, maybe a few pon farr ceremonies… The ceiling is rather high… He’s on some sort of bed, or couch, something with enough cushioning that it doesn’t completely hurt to stay on…
And there, across from him…
At first, he’s not sure—but then, who could possibly be sure?
His thoughts are jumbled…
Shaking limbs find their way to the floor. What should be, logically, accompanied by pain receptors crying out remains unreasonably numb. Movement all at once becomes easy and somehow torturous, mere milliseconds and thousands of hours passing simultaneously with each inch of floor scaled.
But, eventually, he finds himself staring at himself, or—that is himself, that should be himself—
Why isn’t this him?
But, logically—no, undeniably, in fact—this cannot be himself…
This Vulcan who is not himself stares back at him with dark eyes. He sits rather still, hands folded across his thighs in the same white robes as before… He seems like he’ll never move, something statuesque. He cannot help placing a hand on the Vulcan’s calf, slowly drawing an index finger up and down the flesh there, as if to convince himself of the reality of this phantasm… which, undeniably, somehow, is indeed real, a figure not himself and some projection of himself all at once.
The Vulcan just quirks an eyebrow, as if perplexed.
Surely this is curious for him, too…?
He wonders if he can find the voice to speak to this—this must be real, despite everything to the contrary—and it comes out much coarser than he’s used to, and all at once familiar; some conjoined, terrible sound.
“Spock…” He’s not sure if it’s an address, a question, or something entirely different. His voice is not his own, though this perplexity he cannot dwell on. He must come up with something—logical, hopefully…
The words eventually find their way, rigorously shaped and contorted in the air—“What is this?”
Yes, this must be Spock—yet, somehow, such a conclusion makes his head pound, something in him screaming that it’s wrong, this is all wrong, this must be wrong—this must be Spock—and Spock takes a moment to size him up silently—
It’s not necessarily something visible on his face which gives it away, nor is it the roaming eyes in time with the alien pulsing of his chest—but, rather, a feeling, nonsensical as the feeling is—the idea, perhaps, that these eyes linger on the parts of himself which are impossibly himself a moment too long, soaking up the details as if the Vulcan is also convincing himself of the reality of their situation. Yes, the Vulcan is sizing him up, before saying in that deep and throaty tone of his which sounds like it belongs to him, and yet, somehow, similarly contorts in the space between them—“This is our facilitation, Doctor.”
Spock watches him with dark eyes, and in those eyes he finally catches a glimmer of himself, the dim light of the setting sun of Vulcan reflecting those foreign wavelengths of light back at his retinas…
That man—much, much older than he’d thought—his hairs are grey, his face blanched, his eyes a murky odd—blue, that’s the color, though he hasn’t observed it in a long time—right? No, he’d observed it yesterday—it might have been yesterday, or it might have been months ago…
That man is about as obscure to him as Spock’s calculating gaze, somehow distant and somehow fixated all at once…
This is wrong.
This must be wrong.
That man is him…
He feels that he is sizing himself up.
×
He never asked for this, but in fairness, this was never meant to happen.
That is, this has never happened before.
This never should have been able to happen.
Such a thing—it should have been impossible between Vulcans. A myth, or more accurately, a cautionary tale, one of those stories told to children to keep them on a steady path, remind them of the illogic of sticking it out on one’s own, a warning about the vulnerability that comes with such deep emotionalism, something inherently dangerous…
But it was possible, and he was a human, at that—
He slowly opens his eyes.
He hasn’t been able to reach the—he still is not sure what to classify this furniture as, but settles for bed—and in failing to reach the bed, he instead curls against the hard floor, arms wrapped around the thin wooden leg of his partner’s—perhaps that’s too intimate a term—his fellow Vulcan’s bed—though, that’s still not right—
He does not feel like the man staring back at him was…
He catches a glimpse of Spock in the corner of his vision, and he feels that Spock is continuously burning holes into him, such intense eyes…
He focuses on a spot in the far opposite corner of the room, wholly uninteresting on its own but a necessity regardless—he can’t meet those eyes, not yet.
The unspoken question hangs in the air between them. He hears Spock, and he registers the words moments after they resound. “The facilitation is a continuation of our separation from each other.”
A continuation…
It would be for the best, of course, but for the moment, each other comes with a haze of confusion…
He grips the leg a little tighter. The coarse voice resounds from deep within him. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”
“For now, we must meditate separately on what has happened,” Spock answers, “and T’Lar will provide a vehicle by which we can begin to disentangle from each other.”
The room goes dark for a moment. He slowly opens his eyes again. “I thought the fal-tor-pan was meant to bring us back to normal.”
“The procedure is extremely dangerous,” and the spot in the corner grows fuzzy. “The energy required simply to return to myself was incredibly volatile. To do anything further would have damaged both minds.” There’s a pause. Then, a sharp exhale, and he thinks that must be himself, rather than Spock. “It is safer to engage in these sessions, where we can slowly disentangle from each other.”
Disentangle…
Did you know what you were getting us into?
Of course, he couldn’t…
Somehow, in this room, on this desert planet, he feels unbearably cold and empty.
The eyes make it worse.
×
In the first of many sessions promised, T’Lar enters donning one of those extravagant headpieces and robes that trail the floor after her. The room is promptly sealed off again, supposedly for their own privacy, though such a thing seems almost patronizing.
He sits on the floor, facing his Vulcan, who stares back at him again with those deep, piercing eyes. T’Lar kneels between the two of them, reciting something he can just barely make out the syllables of—something reaches into him, deep, deep, pulling him in under—
Doctor McCoy had been standing by the warp core trying in vain to help Scotty with the casualties rapidly piling up. His coat does not have enough space for the hypos he would have needed, anyway, but the bodies are piling regardless and he needs to at least make the pain for all these people dissipate—damn it all, what else is he good for?
And, of course, Spock!
That damned Vulcan stubbornness—what a horrible thing to have—it drags him into their disaster, and he strides forward with a self-assured confidence that convinces McCoy he’s about to do something incredibly foolhardy and needlessly stupid.
He grabs Spock’s shoulder, almost desperate.
You’re not going in there!
Almost as quickly as that’s said, Spock asks about Scotty, slumped over and passed out—and the room goes dark.
The room is cold… McCoy feels unbearably cold…
T’Lar’s hand slowly moves away from his face and away from Spock’s face. She stands. There’s a certain weariness on her face—a heaviness that’s always been there, but which seems more pronounced. “We will continue this tomorrow. You both must rest.”
McCoy had wondered about the size of the room, but it seems prescient. His limbs are leaden, and even if he’d wanted to exit as well, that seems like its own foolhardy and stupid exercise.
Goodness, his head pounds…
Spock’s eyes bore into him, but he’s silent. Despite the fixation, somehow, it’s not quite as intense as before.
If McCoy didn’t know better—and, perhaps, he doesn’t—he’d call this expression pity.
As quickly as it comes on, Spock turns away.
McCoy picks at a thread at the base of his robes.
×
Spock is the only other person who could possibly understand.
That thought grounds him.
It’s true—this is the only person who could ever understand…
Sweat cakes his palms and leaves prints on the floor.
He has no right—
He would never have the right—
This corner is both too close and not far enough.
The last session—
It wasn’t unfamiliar, this feeling.
It’s a feeling from long ago.
His mind—
Well, he’s used to it, at least.
There’s something familiar in this sensation…
Well, he’s not unfamiliar, at least…
He thinks about his bearded counterpart, the way his fingers spread across his face, and he knew what was going to happen to him before the words had been uttered—
He’s never been much of a wall—
Of course, this was going to happen—
It felt as though his head had been cracked open, the contents spilling over him in flashes of burning fire and freezing winds. Liquid falling over his face, darkening his sights, and there’s that man, thrusting his head open, peeling him apart and picking at his contents with a surgical precision, picking him apart—
In the back of his mind, right where those hands are fondling the fractures in his skull, he thinks with a certain lasseiz-faire acquiescence, Jim would know how to handle this.
That is, Jim would never have let it get this far…
It was on his own insistence that this happened, after all…
He’s never been good at denying access.
Curiously, though he thinks they should be flooding in, the feelings of guilt and horror, of shame and foreboding anxiety—none of them exist.
Just… something akin to sadness, that this was ever present in his friend.
His body betrays him completely. He’s an open, festering wound.
Eventually, he comes back to the present, and something’s been taken from him that he cannot fully comprehend, which the face in front of him barely exposes with that subtle satisfaction no one else would ever catch.
He knows instinctively that this theft is something he can never really know, yet something that will stick.
He’s felt fear on this mission, of course, but for the first time, he’s terrified.
This isn’t his Spock.
Right?
A short time ago, something was done to him he can never fully comprehend.
He knows instinctively that this theft is something he will never really know, yet something that will stick.
Sessions… Perhaps, this is a waste of time—is there even really a way to disentangle from something like this?
It’s not fair, but he can’t look at himself—he can’t look at Spock, not now…
It’s not fair to Spock…
Ice water courses under McCoy’s skin.
He can only wait for it to be over…
This isn’t his Spock…
Something akin to sadness…
Spock regards him like one might regard a petri dish.
McCoy could never blame him.
×
After the last session, Spock has been unable to look at him, though McCoy will try to steal glances every now and then.
Today is rather unique in that T’Lar has let them know—they must continue, of course, but something must be working, and McCoy slowly trudges to his feet on wobbling limbs. He wants to stretch, at least—get a sense of himself again.
Today is rather unique in that Jim is at the door to greet them before anything happens, which is a great relief for McCoy—anything to stave it off, anything to stave it off…
Jim is his own brand of inscrutable, but it’s different, and that’s most of what counts.
Both stand beside each other, underneath one of the large windows overlooking the Vulcan sky. It’s an excellent view of the rocky crevices facing the sunrise, the little arena where they’d been ripped apart and reborn.
Jim has been speaking, though much of the conversation enters McCoy’s ears passively and lacking substance. They’ve been here long enough that the crew has found plentiful activities and hobbies to try, passing the time while the two of them have been cohabiting. Uhura’s taken to cataloguing some of the ancient texts in Sarek’s study and translating them into various Earth languages. Sulu’s taken to studying some of the local plant life, crossing a few of them for functional and decorative purposes. Scotty and Chekov, ever the busybodies, are largely examining the new ship and making it hospitable, dragging in the other three members of the crew for various system checks. The words flow in and out, never long enough to really be affecting…
“Are you doing okay, Bones?” The question comes across quieter than the rest of the conversation, which catches him off-guard and brings the sounds into his ears.
“I’m doing fine, Jim. Never better.” The words barely sound convincing, even to him. He rests one of his hands on the windowsill, slowly rolling the weight of his body onto the balls of his feet and back to the heels.
“Are you sure?” There’s a sort of unspoken concern that distorts his expression into something almost pitying, almost earnest.
McCoy can’t quite meet his eyes. “Once we complete T’Lar’s sessions, I’ll be back to my old self in no time.” The words are a little too hopeful, like he’s trying to convince himself more than Jim.
“How much longer do you think that’ll take?”
“It’ll take as long as it takes.” He turns his attention to a rock face. Its most engaging feature is the way the light slopes around it and dances along the ground.
“Bones—”
“Jim, let’s talk about something else. What have you been up to?”
He takes a moment to look at Jim, who’s looking back with one of those stony, far-off expressions, glassy eyes and a resigned smile. A new distance is erected here, born from this event—something indescribable—something like a wall between the two of them, insurmountable and all too present. An expression like they’ll never quite have what they had before, or maybe, they’ll never be able to move past this place under the windowsill.
“I told you earlier, Bones.”
×
The room here is much bigger.
Evidently satisfied with their progress, T’Lar had brought them into the expertise of a handful of additional Vulcan doctors, who were now surrounding the two of them in this slightly vaster room. Still, the same ornamental decorations dance across the walls and the floors and the windows. Still, these faces peer at him with medical curiosity that’s both familiar and discomforting.
He’s never been good at denying access.
The hands—so many hands, so many winding fingers against his flesh, against his face—pulling back the mental strands, stripping back the fog and crawling into nooks meant to be sealed off…
In every session, he increasingly feels like a sample whose euthanasia has gone horribly wrong, whose organs are being torn out and catalogued with a newfound trepidation; like some sort of diseased rodent whose pathogen could become airborne at any moment…
Hands and bodies he can no longer see, tearing him apart piecemeal. He’s solely grounded by the idea that Spock is also there, and he can feel that Spock is there—the presence is tangible in his mind, though he feels it slipping, slipping, slipping with every thread untangled, slowly fading and falling away. McCoy wants to reach for him, never let go—but the hands are dragging him back and peeling him away, and McCoy is stagnant, he’s never been good at denying access—
The only person who could ever understand him…
Each session brings out a little more of himself, a little more that was tucked away now in the open for everyone to see—for Spock to see…
Each session feels like a new severance.
Each session, Spock withdraws a little further…
Today, the same as every day, Spock is beside him, close enough to touch and millions of miles away in this room with those peering, endless eyes, somehow both penetrating and unbearably distant—
McCoy is used to sticking it out on his own.
That’s rather preferable, actually.
Here, where he’s feeling himself stripped bare again for these Vulcans—
And there’s his friend Jim, who cannot understand what they’re going through, and it’s not his fault—
That private conversation, those realizations and fears of days ago, maybe weeks, who knows—
They strip these away, too, cannibalizing them and distorting them into some tapestry of shared experiences…
Today, the same as every day, he looks at himself—or, he looks at Spock—or, it’s both and neither at once—
He’s asking himself; Spock is asking him; Spock in McCoy’s body is asking him—
Why are you so afraid of me?
Who’s asking?
Logic would dictate—
Please.
The answer is not mutually exclusive.
Silence hangs heavy in this place…
You can do whatever you want with me. I have no way of stopping you.
Who is this? What do you mean?
The answer is not mutually exclusive…
Is anyone speaking?
Yes, and no…
Speaking is clunky. It’s illogical and reductive.
But—there’s an element, isn’t there, of impersonality…?
You’d enjoy something so emotionless.
You—Wait, I’ve become lost again. Whose thought is that…?
The answer is—
Yes. That is a given premise. No need to repeat it.
Will you ever leave?
I cannot know that.
Do you want me to leave?
I cannot know that.
The space between them—the black, silent vacuum outside of the Enterprise, threatening to destroy them both…
The burning light of the warp core, tearing his Vulcan apart…
Do I want you to leave?
T’Lar draws her hands back, the masses of reaching hands recoil, churning fascination and horror and disgust in the eyes around them, and McCoy gasps when he finds the world under him again. He breaks into a cold sweat—moisture seeps into his clothes, throwing him into a newfound chaos…
As always, Spock can’t look at him.
This time more than any, he feels nauseous.
×
He never would have said no.
Despite all the ugly feelings, the fears, the nausea—
He never would have said no.
Willingly, he would have done all of this. Perhaps even unprompted. Perhaps even in the same way, without the exchange of words. Hand against his face, begging him to enter, take him for now—if it’s the only way, he must, begging—please, just be survived in me. Perhaps he would have…
He never asked, but—
He never would have said no.
He would have done all of this.
It’s Spock, after all…
×
Without these sessions, Spock could regress.
They both know it.
It’s better to be laid bare and destroyed over and over again. It’s better to tear himself apart thread by thread every day. It’s better to let the Vulcans strip him down and lay his soul bare, let them pour him out until nothing remains, splattering himself against the gold floors, throwing caution to the wind—
It’s better to be annihilated than for that to happen to Spock.
Regardless, sometimes, in the dark crevices of the remains of his mind, he entertains the thought of leaving, just once, and letting that regression happen—
Maybe, they’d find a way…
Maybe, Spock would destroy him just as quickly.
Spock’s been in his head before—
Pounding, pounding, aching, aching—
These limbs are not his own.
These limbs carry him, bumbling, down halls on the ship, with whatever haste he can make, but they’re foreign bodies—they’re not his own.
He watches himself move, but it’s not really him. Something else is here, something else carries him, and it hurts—every nerve ending is ablaze, crying out and screaming in shooting pain, as if a last act of defiance—but whatever has commandeered him, his body, his voice, seems to win out, carrying him across the ship with little grace. He stumbles every so often, watches himself fall, watches these unfamiliar, frail hands gripping onto the walls for support that doesn’t come.
He feels himself hit the floor, and before he can register anything, before he can try to wring back his own body—he is moving again. Every nerve ending is screaming in pain. He wishes he could scream. His mouth is no longer his own to command.
He watches, because there is little else he can do. He’s never been good at denying access…
These frail hands, clawing at the door—this is his door, he wants to rest, he wants to see his own space—these people at the door, these people would never understand—he barrels past them and cracks open the pressure-sealed door with a strength he didn’t know he could command from these limbs—and all at once white hot pain shoots up through his biceps, as if his arms are splintering—but he enters the dark room regardless…
This is his room.
This room does not belong to him.
He finds a chair and slumps over, a brief reprieve from the shooting pins and needles, newly replaced with an unbearable coldness seeping into his skin. It’s so very cold…
The fluorescent lights outside burn into his retinas and make his head pound. He needs this dark, quiet room. He needs to meditate.
When has he ever meditated…?
Who is he…?
He stares at his hands, gripping his knees, and whatever entity is commanding him seems like it will never cede control…
He needs to wring the control back, though. He must. His head is barely above the ice-cold churning around them. He can’t breathe. He must—
There’s Jim, at the doorway, and he knows there is a message he must deliver.
Whose words are these…?
The pain seeps behind his eyes and all the way back around his skull, and he remembers the feeling of two bodies contorted into one.
Still, perhaps that’d be preferable to being spilt across the wood panels.
That’s illogical and ridiculous.
Of course, it’s better to control his own faculties.
Inexplicably, he misses the other body.
×
Spock hardly regards him anymore, and who could blame him?
McCoy’s been married before—twice, in fact—and it’s the same story in those cases…
Laid bare, most people recoil at what they see.
Given the choice, McCoy would rather none of it ever come up—but these damned facilitations—
McCoy’s able to gather more of himself, at least, and today, he tries to join Spock on his bed.
These sessions—these disentanglements—they must also be doing a number on Spock—what difference is there?
“This isn’t your fault,” is all that McCoy can come up with for the moment.
Spock doesn’t speak. McCoy reaches out for Spock’s robes, running a thumb and forefinger between the fabric. Spock flinches for a moment, and McCoy takes it as a sign to recoil before Spock settles and grips his hand firmly. McCoy settles as well. Fabric between thumb and forefinger…
“I’m not sure I understand the logic of your decision, from your perspective—”
“Why must you insult me, Doctor?”
McCoy goes quiet, stiffening for a second. Of course, he understands—how could he not understand?
“We should talk about these—” and he’s not sure if he’s proposing it for Spock’s benefit, or for his own—
“We have nothing to discuss,” Spock responds.
McCoy watches his face for any signs to the contrary. Spock still can’t quite bring himself to look at him.
McCoy floats in space, millions of miles away, in an open coffin, alone on a planet no one’s ever seen before—and, somehow, still next to Spock.
×
I’m frightened.
Why?
Every day, I have to look at myself.
How does this differ from your usual experience?
Usually, this is not so clinical and impassive.
You are not used to criticizing your own emotionalism?
You’re there to do it for me.
Who am I?
I think—
Have we made any progress?
I’m not sure.
We’re separated beings, aren’t we?
Are we?
Are we separated beings?
Maybe we are just chasing a dream. Maybe this is a fruitless exercise.
Do you think we’ll ever be separate again?
The way it was before?
You want to return to how it was before.
I’m frightened.
Why?
We can never return there.
Why?
We just can’t.
I’m frightened.
If we are stuck here forever…
I can’t look at you.
Why?
I can’t tell you.
Is it so terrible?
What?
Is it so terrible to know me?
Am I so terrible?
You frighten me.
Is it so terrible?
I think we have made very little progress, actually.
I concur.
Do you think we’ll ever progress?
Do we want to?
Is it so terrible?
Yes.
No.
Maybe…
You… I’m not sure…
I’ll lose myself again.
That’s all?
Is that so terrible?
×
T’Lar leaves them once more.
They’re back in that little room. It’s a nice little room, at least—very private. He wonders whether it’s a guest room, or if it’s something like a medical bay—maybe neither. Maybe they’re designed for these sorts of procedures, should they ever happen. Maybe they’re in a honeymoon suite. He smirks at the thought, dismissing it entirely.
McCoy lays splayed with his back across the gold floor, especially exhausted today, with a deep feeling of hollowness and heartache he can’t quite place. Spock is sitting where he always sits, carrying that extreme discipline he always holds himself with.
“I miss you.”
He’s been thinking it for weeks—months, maybe, goodness knows how much time has passed between them in this room—but this is the first time he’s vocalized it.
Spock says nothing.
McCoy dares to steal a glance in his direction. “Do you ever miss me?”
Spock says nothing, but there’s something McCoy can’t quite read in his face, the way it shifts ever so slightly…
He wonders, maybe, if that’s a silent yes.
“I know, you think that’s illogical…” McCoy is staring at the decorations across the ceiling. Vulcans have an eye for beauty. There’s something warm and forlorn in his chest. God, Spock…
McCoy rolls onto his side, trying to force Spock to look at him. Spock is still distant as ever.
They’re both silent for a long moment. Spock’s pale countenance from before is slowly, subtly developing some color… He’s alive, at least…
There’s so much about them, so much terrifying closeness to navigate—he never wanted any of this, and yet—
Whatever gave Spock the impression—
He was never going to deny Spock access, after all.
Eventually, McCoy stands up. He crosses over to Spock, rests a hand on his shoulder, and that gets Spock to stir, finally. Those dark eyes slowly seep into McCoy, who tries his damnedest to meet them. “We can at least get close, can’t we?”
“That would be very illogical…” Spock finally says, voice barely above a whisper. “You would be undoing much of the work T’Lar’s been spending on our facilitation…”
McCoy lowers himself onto his knees, moving to rest his arms on Spock’s thighs. “Spock—”
The words he wants to say, the words he’s already said—everything blends together and catches in his throat. He wants, though he knows it’s illogical—but when has he ever been a logical being?
So much—the festering, dark, intense feeling that perhaps Spock holds a mirror to him, that maybe he’s disgusted with what he sees, that no matter what, there’s a line they’ve both crossed that they can never quite return from—
And it was terrible, the feeling that he was not his own—
But, the alternative, Spock withdrawing so completely—
Loneliness throbs in every dark recess, a different sort of strangulation…
To feel less like an abscess, for just a few moments—
Less like he’s being carved out and away, less like the whole of him is being discarded, less like waste—
He’s terrified of Spock—he’s terrified of what Spock must see to recoil so often—
These thoughts dance around in his head…
Spock is still as ever…
“Doctor, why would you risk staying here longer?”
McCoy brushes his fingers against Spock’s robes. “To tell you the truth, I’d do about anything to get out of here…” Something shifts in Spock’s expression, and he suddenly feels a wave of horror washing over him. “Spock…”
They are both still for a moment. McCoy does all he can think to do and grabs Spock’s hand, pressing it against his head. Spock falters, and for a moment, McCoy thinks he’s shaking.
“You feel it too, Spock?” That’s less a question than it is a statement.
“You would live to regret this. It will be harmful to both of us.”
“I miss you.”
“I know.”
He knows. Something so terrible about these sessions—he knows, intimately…
There’s so much that Spock is privy to—all of these thoughts, and McCoy feels it channel back tenfold—
Why are you so frightened of me?
McCoy slowly lets go of Spock’s hand, letting his own arms fall back onto Spock’s thighs. “It’s a medical marvel, isn’t it, Spock?”
Spock does not say anything, blinking at him.
“Coming back from beyond… Not very many people in your position.”
His attempts at conversation going nowhere, he takes to just watching Spock for the moment. His eyes trace every feature, altogether familiar and new. The heavy set of his brow, the lines across his face, the way his features seem to accentuate his stoicism, a slight dusting of green on his cheeks, and he’s alive, thank goodness, he’s alive…
He works a little at opening Spock’s robes, deftly and gently, gauging his reaction. There is none, so he goes a little further, tracing small circles into Spock’s strong inner thighs. One would have expected a man to require extensive physical therapy after such an event, but Spock’s figure was anything but fragile—still, even now, he can make out the notably strong curves, tracing every muscle group…
He wants to quip, but he finds many of his usual remarks have run dry.
He slowly trails his hands, tracing the inner curve of his thighs up, up, up… it’s really such a miracle that he’s alive.
In the process, he nudges one of Spock’s legs, shifting his weight slightly and pressing his mouth against the flesh exposed there, gently, gently… Spock does nothing, says nothing. McCoy continues his explorations, shifting the fabric away and exposing Spock to the open air between them. He looks at Spock, searches for any signs, any shifts in expression, and finds there are none… He goes a little further, fingers feather light against his Vulcan.
He feels Spock, fingertips dancing across his groin, tracing the features across his shaft and slowly running his fingers down to the tip—and back up again, slow across the veins and curves and crevices, nudging the fra’als gently at the buds. Spock’s breath hitches above him.
“Doctor—”
“It’s not very logical, is it, Spock?” McCoy tries to offer a smirk, but it comes out more pained and contorted. For a moment, he draws his hand back, before Spock holds it in place.
For a moment, McCoy just looks at him, trying once more to search for any cue to the contrary and finding none. He feels for Spock’s hips with the other hand and slowly rises to his feet, pressing against the skin there.
“It’s not quite seven years, is it? Since your last—”
“You know the answer to that question, Doctor.”
“There’s hardly anything dangerous, then—”
“You know the answer to that as well.”
McCoy is being rather facetious, and they both know it—faint, suppressed frustration seems to spill across Spock’s face.
If they cross this, there would likely be little chance of their complete separation.
Usually, this is the sort of thing bonded partners would be getting into. One of those exercises which would strengthen a connection, rather than sever it…
“You already know everything there could possibly be to know…” McCoy reasons, though it also seems like personal compromise and hope and fear tangled into one.
“You betray yourself, Doctor…”
It’s written all over his face, and they both know it.
Still, though…
“You trust me. You trusted me enough to take us this far.”
That comes out much like a question.
“That is correct…”
“What’s the harm, then?”
“The same cannot be said for you, Doctor.”
McCoy pauses, hands going still. “What do you mean, Spock?”
“It need not be said…”
They both know. They’ve both known.
These damned sessions…
McCoy wishes he could hide himself away from the Vulcans and their prying eyes, the clinical gazes and the wandering hands, the examinations which dig deeper and deeper into the recesses of his mind, the horrifying intrusions…
It’s all out in the open—
“You’re right. I’m afraid, Spock.” He’s not entirely sure what it is he’s afraid of, but the fact that he’s been trembling does not escape either of them.
It’s deep-seated and winding and churning, and entirely his own.
He worries about what his dear Spock is capable of, now more than ever…
His dear Spock…
“You do not trust me.”
“It’s not that.”
Spock is looking at him, and it feels like a dressing down—different from the facilitations but all the same amount of exposed. “There is nothing I can do for you.”
And it’s true, there’s nothing he can do—even if there was, McCoy is unsure whether he’d want Spock to do anything…
McCoy, so alone and vulnerable…
He’s not sure what he wants from Spock. This strange, murky, uncharted space, something the two of them must navigate in curious, upending exploration—something entirely new, something entirely their own…
“You trust me, though, Spock. You’d trust me to protect you again, wouldn’t you?”
Spock looks at him, though there’s something distant in his eyes, and McCoy wishes he weren’t so entirely exposed to the one person he understood better than anyone else…
“Wouldn’t you, Spock?” The words come out quiet, garbled and churning with their own sort of newfound hurt and anxiety.
Spock can’t meet his eyes. McCoy finds himself looking at those pointed ears, the way they seem to frame his features… Eventually, he hears the Vulcan say, “Intimately…” barely a whisper.
McCoy moves the hand at Spock’s hip up to his chin, tracing the jawline gently with his thumb, light touches. “Could you trust me again?”
Spock, forced to look at him, seems to search his features for something he cannot find. “Doctor, this is a pointless exercise.” Which means, you should know this by now.
McCoy presses his lips against Spock’s, a veritably human kiss. It begins gentle, McCoy just trying to soak in the experience that Spock is truly alive, breathing, warm… Emotions seep out of every pore in something that makes Spock shiver. McCoy holds him steady, pressing into him deeper, tracing every feature with his tongue, every wet crevice considered with every turn of the hand at Spock’s length, gentle fingertips running across him and nudging him out…
He closes his eyes, just briefly, letting these illogical emotions take him deeper, deeper into Spock…
He draws back his hand momentarily from where he’s slowly drawing out Spock. The fra’als, fully exposed, slowly circle his wrist and guide him back in place. A moisture starts to coat his palms, and McCoy smiles, pulling back from Spock for a moment. “Darling, you have to trust me.”
Spock’s eyes are dancing across his face with a brief hesitance, but the little coils begin to retract, and McCoy continues moving his hand across Spock’s thigh, then back up towards his hips…
He slowly crawls up onto Spock’s lap, positioned over him. He tilts Spock’s chin up slightly and presses light kisses against his cheeks, letting the sensations linger as the Vulcan’s eyes slowly fall shut. The fra’als encircle him with some cautious exploratory touches, slowly, slowly…
The small tendrils start to splay around him, crawling across him softly in curious, lazy strokes, winding across him. They finally find their entrance, and insert themselves with some vigor, guiding both himself and Spock into a more comfortable position, leaving a slickness in their wake which brings McCoy flush against Spock, easing into him, and Spock fills him…
With a small gasp, McCoy settles into their position, riding him gently as Spock bucks against him, quick breaths and moans filling the air… The fra’als rush through him with new life, exploring him thoroughly, swiftly, a little roughly, as if terribly excited or newly frightened, as if finally home.
McCoy pulls his robes off completely and does the same with Spock’s, slower, letting his flushed skin see the sun… He kisses Spock again, gently guiding one of the Vulcan’s hands to settle on his waist and the other to that same harrowing position splayed across his face…
He pulls back, looking at Spock with some newfound desperation—he wants to feel whole again, he wants, he wants…
This should work—this must work—
The same icy terror flooding through his limbs seems to reflect back in Spock’s expression, very briefly. “I would lose you, Leonard.”
McCoy shakes his head, and the sensations already are unfamiliar, frightening, exhilarating… “I don’t believe that, Spock.”
“If we continue, we may never fully part from each other.”
“Maybe I don’t want to fully part from you, Spock…”
“That is a completely irrational sentiment.”
McCoy presses Spock’s hand against himself a little harder.
“I do not wish to hurt you, Leonard.”
There are all kinds of things he wishes he could say. They remain bottled.
“It won’t hurt, Spock. Not if it’s you.”
A steady stream of please, don’t leave me alone like this, whatever it would take…
The words can’t come out.
Spock speaks with a little increased trepidation. “I cannot believe that.”
The horrifying, complexing, contradicting feelings—the fear of falling apart, but the fear of standing fully alone—the fear that he can never be himself, the fear that he’s losing himself once more…
Of course, Spock senses all of it.
What are they doing here?
McCoy holds Spock’s hand still against him but kisses his forehead gently. “Please, Spock… just this once—"
Spock’s breath hitches a moment, his hands gripping McCoy a little tighter—he thinks there will be splotching purple near his hip in the morning, but in the moment, it feels excellent—Spock holds him tight, as if afraid to lose him, and a calm recitation hits his ears, and finally, finally, finally—
McCoy feels the floor fall out from underneath him. He falls into the familiar again—two minds as one; two thoughts as one.
For a moment, they’re whole again.
I told you. This is a terrible idea.
What do you mean? This is where we belong.
You are frightened.
Not frightened, exactly.
You lie. You are shaking. You are convulsing and you are frightened.
I—
Well…
It’s not you, exactly…
I don’t understand. I disgust you.
No. You’ve never disgusted me.
It may be the other way around… but why should I disgust you?
It is not that, exactly…
You’re trembling. Is it me?
It would never be you, exactly…
Why, then…?
The version of me that you carry.
You do not need to shake like this. It is okay.
I am hurting you.
You’re not.
Let me help.
I do not think that’s a good idea. I’m afraid of what I’ll do to you. What I have already done.
It’s not you.
Then, what?
It’s not something easily explained.
I understand.
Are you sure? You are still trembling. Do you want to try?
You’re frightened.
You’re one to talk…
As one, McCoy feels that he is looking at Spock and at himself, and maybe the two of them aren’t so distant, after all…
His mouth is occupied with the sensations of Spock, of the mechanical way his tongue moves; his hands hover and trace, feeling the way he spills over the collarbones, the jawline, the lips, and falling deeper, deeper, deeper… It becomes an exercise to breathe, to take in the feeling of two heartbeats at once, throbbing in his chest and in his side, bursts of energy in pulses running up and across them, a chorus filling the air, something warm and bright bursting through them until a height is reached—and it’s all so much at once, too much at once; and he wonders whose pleasure this must be—his own, or Spock’s, he’s not entirely sure, but perhaps both…
His mind is burning. He tries to avoid thinking of it, instead settling deeper onto Spock’s lap, or his own, letting him thrust into himself, hips rolling… The fra’als burrow into him, further joining them, and McCoy clings onto him, clings onto himself, pressing bruising kisses against his jawline, against the nape of his neck, slow and rough in tandem as Spock presses against him… Colors and sounds outside the range of human perceptions…
They’re whole, at least…
Heat builds in their abdomen. Heat builds across them and spills out, overflowing, never to be contained again, something wonderful and whole and complete. Stars burst in the space between them.
Briefly, McCoy comes back to himself. He misses their uniformity already. He slowly slides fingertips across the jawline again, exploratory, until his thumbs find the corners of Spock’s mouth, tracing the skin gently. He kisses his Vulcan again, soft, deep, still… He basks in Spock, basks in the way Spock lets him in. He yearns.
Spock holds him steady.
McCoy grabs one of the hands once more, which has found its way to his waist. He runs it up his stomach, up across his chest, slowly crawling up his collarbone and across his neck and back to the same terrifying, chokehold position of before, right over the eye…
“I want you to take me again, Spock.”
Spock is breathing in quick, shaking pants. Barely perceptible, his eyes shift from McCoy to the position he’s forced Spock’s hand into and back again. They are already far too distant, far too separate… McCoy wants to feel everything viscerally again. Spock trembles. “That would not be wise.”
McCoy presses against Spock’s hand a little tighter. “Please, Spock…”
Spock’s eyes are so easy to get lost in. “The longer this continues, the less likely it is that I can draw us apart.”
For the moment, McCoy slowly draws Spock’s hand back downward, letting it linger at his mouth. Against his fingers, he says, “I understand… Spock, let me understand…”
He takes two of Spock’s fingers into his mouth, working them up and down with his tongue. They’re still, warm against him—the act itself stiffens them further. Spock’s breath hitches, and it’s enough to make him come undone again, fra’als moving frantic inside McCoy.
Still, it’s not enough…
It will never be enough…
McCoy moves Spock’s hand back to his face, kisses the palm softly, gently… He closes his eyes and waits to fall into him again.
He does not have to wait long.
×
McCoy clings to Spock at the waist. He’s laying on his side, head resting against Spock’s thigh. Spock’s hand hasn’t left the position on his head, though it’s a slightly different angle, something more comfortable. It lays across him heavily. A reminder. McCoy hasn’t moved him, though he wonders if that would be better. There is discomfort in the air between them. A bridge they should not have crossed.
McCoy has drawn into himself, and Spock similarly. Neither of them can look at each other at this moment. It feels as though something has been taken and passed around with flagrant disregard, though what exactly that is cannot be easily determined.
It was a bad idea. They knew it from the start, and now, there’s this empty, churning, vast chasm throttling him…
It was a bad idea…
Fire is shooting through him, a dull ache in the back of his head, and he remembers the feeling of being two at once, of finally feeling whole—and that’s been ripped away once more…
Aching, aching…
A sort of channel has reopened, pouring thoughts and regrets and hesitance between the two of them, back and forth. McCoy is thinking about the bearded face, and then about the warp core, and then about the dark quarters, and Spock is stiff against him, and he feels crashing, crushing guilt flow back.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Which one of them is saying that? Maybe both at once.
When Spock finally finds the courage to look at him, Spock is examining him like one might examine a horrid, diseased specimen. Cold, calculating gaze. Like he is trying to figure out what they should do next.
McCoy is cold, a film of sweat sticking to his face—whether that’s from their activity, or something much darker, he cannot discern. Not now. He can’t face that yet.
Regardless, he clings to Spock. There is not much else he can do but cling. He is sure that he is not himself, and he wonders if it’s Spock clinging to him, instead, and the vision shifts every so often from this spot in the corner to the top of the human’s head and these constricted pupils. He’s shaking. Maybe both of them are shaking.
He feels unbearably nauseous.
He never wants to leave this position. He never wants to leave.
Somehow, he thinks he would have done this regardless of this outcome.
Still, the sessions, the sessions…
McCoy, laid bare anew, and Spock…
The things Spock could know of him tomorrow…
The things McCoy could think of him tomorrow…
Whose thoughts are these…?
×
It did not help.
It did not.
I believe I mentioned that it would not help.
I know.
You want to—you wish us to be conjoined again?
Is that so terrible?
…
Is it?
It is you, after all…
Who else would it be?
I miss you. I have always missed you.
I know.
It would have always been you.
I know.
I am not sure it is good for us to know each other so intimately…
We can’t exactly return to the way it was before.
I know.
If it only hurts me, what’s the harm?
You? It will hurt us.
It’s the same thing.
Is it?
Would that be so terrible?
…
Maybe.
I am not sure.
I miss you.