Title: Impromptu Bondmates

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: R: bondings, angst, violence, and all manner of craziness

Feedback: Yes, please! I'm always interested in what other people think of my writing, and especially this, being that this is my fist foray into Trek Slash. At any rate, bring it on!

Email: ParadigmShiftmchsi.com

Author's Note: As I mentioned before, this is my first attempt at writing Spock/McCoy. I think, honestly, that I was hesitant to write this genre because it's so close to my heart. It was what got me into slash in the first place. Finally, though, I felt that I really just had to try my hand. So, here we go: my very first Spock/McCoy story. It's going to be long, drawn out, and, I hope, completely worth it and realistic.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns them. I don't. Believe me, if I did own them, the DVD format would be considerably different. Damn them and the money they make me spend.

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Chapter 1

"Why, you green-blooded, pointy-eared, unfeeling bastard!"

Commander Spock, who was renowned for his calm, was finding it more and more difficult not to snap at the irate human at his side. He had known from the off that the notion of placing them together as a diplomatic team was inadvisable, but it had not been his decision to make.

Would that it were.

"Doctor," he said evenly, "my parentage has already been established."

McCoy stared at him in consternation. Then, he expelled his breath in an angry sigh. "Dammit, Spock, it was a euphemism!"

"Pardon me, Doctor," Spock stated. "If you would not use words in a manner contrary to their definitions, then these problems wouldn't arise."

"And if you wouldn't have been so goddamn heartless, I wouldn't have called you that in the first place!"

"Yes, Doctor," the Vulcan sighed, "you would have."

McCoy considered that. "Okay, maybe so." Spock arched an eyebrow at that admission, and McCoy flushed angrily. "But that doesn't change the fact that I have a genuine point." Then, even as his compact frame seemed to swell with fury, it sagged, and the doctor sat down heavily on the concrete divider that stood in the street next to them. "Jesus," he breathed, and Spock had the feeling that, had he not been Vulcan, he would not have heard the human, "I have seen more despicable and . . . inhumane things on this planet than I ever wanted to in my entire lifetime."

Spock had to admit, if only to himself, that the doctor had been completely accurate in that statement. Harmegeiddon II was a forgotten Federation colony near the void between the Orion Spur and the Scorpio Arm of the galaxy. Founded over one and a half centuries before and last checked on about fifty years ago, the colony was rarely visited because of its isolationist policies. Still, when parties unknown had sent out a distress call to the Federation, Starfleet had immediately dispatched the Enterprise to investigate.

And what they had found had been, as the good Doctor had phrased it, beyond the pale.

Sometime during that half-century, a formerly peaceful society had turned into a seething mass of depravity and cruelty. The government was virtually non-existent, and the only people who kept any sense of order in the single city on the arid planet were the Mafias of organized crime. Between their districts of enforced terror were areas of pure chaos ruled by gangs who raped and plundered seemingly at will.

Kirk had immediately been informed by the heads of the mafias that security forces would be killed, as would anyone armed. The only Federation representatives that could beam down and remain relatively unharmed would be a small diplomatic team.

After deliberating, Kirk had decided the two of them would represent two poles of diplomacy. It was an intelligent idea in theory, allowing one to take over where to other failed, but the actual fact of their team was . . . less satisfactory.

In the end, all they could do was concentrate on different areas and stay out of the other's way. While Spock discussed possible Federation measures with the most powerful drug cartels, McCoy organized a field hospital in the burned-out City Hall, drafting some of the multitudes of poor and starving people on the streets as volunteer nurses in exchange for care for their families, and Starfleet field rations to help sustain them.

And now, after three days without the Enterprise (which had hastened to the nearest Starbase for a more official force to help stabilize the colony), Spock wondered at the fact that McCoy could still question his opposition to rampant displays of emotion. After everything he had seen? Every rape and assault victim he had treated?

Deliberating how to best phrase what he had to say, what he'd wanted to say for three days, Spock seated himself next to the slumped human. "That is precisely the reason why I must approach this situation with logic instead of emotion," Spock explained.

McCoy's bowed head raised slightly to give the Vulcan a narrow glare. "You want to explain that, Mr. Spock?"

"Doctor, many of the crimes that were not only perpetrated, but condoned on this planet, organized rape and murder squads, for example, are born of emotion. Therefore, to approach such a situation in a similar manner would most likely prove to be—"

"How dare you," McCoy spat, staring at Spock in shock and distaste. "How dare you try to pin this . . . brutality on human emotion? This is perversion! This is a malignant cancer on the spirit of this society!"

"All of which is an apt description of the manifestation of vast amounts of negative human emotion," Spock pointed out.

McCoy sprung to his feet, nearly quivering with renewed fury. His voice surprisingly quiet, the human growled, "So, you're saying there're no cases of insanity on Vulcan?"

"Are you claiming that the state of this planet is a case of mass insanity?" Spock challenged simply.

McCoy shook his head. "I'm saying that . . . human emotion is not inherently evil. This is wrong, I know, but I can't blame emotion. I've seen it as the cause of too much greatness and beauty to blame it for this situation."

"Yet, you cannot deny its presence in this situation, nor the validity, however partial, of my statement," Spock pressed. If he was able to force the overly human doctor into such an admission, then perhaps he truly had accomplished something on this mission.

It did not appear to have worked as planned. McCoy glared at him in something that might be termed disgust. "You want to sit there and condemn humanity, fine. Be my guest. I'm going to the field hospital, see if I can't do something . . . emotional."

He spun on his heel. In an instant, Spock realized how starkly the doctor stood out in the grays and sullied browns that seemed to dominate this planet. His blue medical tunic, even dirtied and covered in various bodily fluids as it was, set him apart.

Spock could never be sure how it was that he thought that, or why it was suddenly imperative, but it was.

Then, it was utterly clear. Spock heard an ear-drum shattering crack so rarely perceived in the civilized galaxy, and surged to his feet. Time illogically seemed to slow as McCoy was spun smartly, a look of utter shock on his face and the blue of his uniform quickly being supplanted by a deep crimson spreading from his shoulder.

"Spock," he gasped as the Vulcan caught him, eyes darting across the street, but couldn't determine where the shot had come from.

He returned his attention to the injured human, and just in time, too, because McCoy's knees buckled. His blue eyes were dilated, and when Spock touched his wrist, he felt that his pulse was thready. Of course, that wasn't the only thing he felt.

. . . Emotions, surging and confused. Too many, even for the human. Perceptions were off, sluggish. World moving too slow for logic, but too fast for comprehension. Something on the bullet . . .

Spock felt a decided sense of urgency come over him. If the doctor had, indeed, been poisoned, then it was imperative that he be cared for immediately. "It seems that you will be going to the hospital, after all," he said, in a tone approaching humor.

It was unfortunate that the doctor didn't recognize the rare event.

McCoy looked up at him, lips slightly parted and eyes full of confusion. "Why the hell's it foggy, Spock?" he demanded, his voice slurred and his accent so thick as to be nearly incomprehensible to the Vulcan.

Spock didn't respond, but slung his free arm under McCoy's knees, sweeping him up.

McCoy blinked, and then smiled crookedly. "Well, lookee there. I'm flying."

Spock moved swiftly in the direction of the hospital, his steps quickening as he felt something warm and sticky soak through his own uniform.

Then, the second shot rang out, and Spock staggered, his head whipping around to take in the bleeding hole in his leg. Then, he looked up to see a group of four people approaching them.

The poison began to spread though his system at an alarming rate, and he quickly felt that he was moving through knee-deep sludge.

McCoy, who was clinging to his shoulders tenaciously, and was, in fact, the only point in his world that currently felt real to him, looked worried, even through the haze of the poison. "Spock, were you aware that Harmegeiddon is the actual archaeological location known more infamously as Armageddon?"

"How does that fact relate to our current situation, Doctor?" Sock queried, using all of his Vulcan concentration to focus on moving.

"It's the end of the world," McCoy concluded softly. "Look, here come the Four Horsemen."

Spock staggered, surprised that he hadn't even noticed the crack in the street. The two blue and black clad men tumbled to the ground in a tangle.

As his body seized up, Spock could still understand their captors as they spoke.

"I get that they're healthier than almost any other person we could sell, but seriously, they're Feds! How the hell do we sell Feds?"

"Who says they're Feds? Change their clothes and no one's the wiser."

"Yeah, did you happen to notice the points on those ears? How do we explain acquiring a Vulcan?"

"It's not the Vulcan I'm worried about. It's the human. He's too old. I don't care how healthy he is. He's not appealing, not exceptional, how do we pawn him off?"

Silence for several moments.

"We sell them as an item."


"Have you gone heat-crazy?"

"We sell them as a pair. We say they're . . . what, bonded? Is that the word?"

"Yeah. Bonded."

"Yeah. We say they're bonded. You can't separate them without ruining the merchandise."

"No buyer's gonna believe that a Vulcan bonded with a human!"

"On this rock? They'll believe it. They'll believe it if it means owning a Vulcan."

"We make it a status symbol?"

"Definitely. The kind of people who can hawk up the cash for this can find some sort of use for the human."

"I still think you're heat-crazy."

"And I think you'd better shut up before you lose your share in the profits by being dead."

"Listen, sorry. Didn't know you felt so strong about it."

"Will you two both shut up? Let's get 'em out of here."

This was, most assuredly, not a good situation to be in.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .


Next: Impromptu bondmates.