A/N: So, for those following Equilibrium, I hope to have a new chapter up by the weekend, or maybe next week. Thanks for hanging in there!

In the meantime ... this post-'Mirror Mirror' story occurred to me over the weekend, so ... for better or for worse, here it is. I hope you find it worthwhile. It will be either a one-shot or two-shot, based on reader response. ;-)

Thanks for reading!

The hardest thing of all, after returning with Jim, Scotty, and Uhura from the other universe—from that warped, funhouse-mirror version of his home and his friends, of every ethical and moral code to which he had ever devoted himself—wasn't facing Spock again. He'd expected it to be, but two brief, almost inconsequential encounters had proven that his friendship (yes, he was willing to admit it as long as no one else could hear) with the first officer wasn't in jeopardy. Spock and his counterpart in the other universe were just too different, no matter what Jim seemed to think. (Where the captain had gotten that idea was an entirely different puzzle, one that he had pondered briefly and then deliberately put aside. He suspected that any strong similarity that Kirk had seen—thought he saw—was more wistful self-delusion than anything based in reality, but he didn't want to take the chance of convincing himself otherwise, not after … Well.) In any case, their Spock, all sharp curiosity and personal space and infuriating Vulcan logic, was nothing like him—facial features beneath that ridiculous goatee aside. Even semi-stunned as it was for those first few days, McCoy found that his mind had no trouble distinguishing between the two.

It wasn't sleeping—which he'd thought might come in a close second. He'd had a few restless nights, sure, slept with the lights on for about a week to drive away that sense of someone else in the room with him. Within a few days, though, he'd lost the overwhelming sense of being followed everywhere he went—of never being quite alone—and after that faded, he'd found that his sleep cycle settled back to normal. There were never any nightmares, even in the immediate aftermath. He didn't know why, but he was grateful.

It wasn't even reporting the incident. He'd never really expected that to be a problem anyway. Jim hated reading reports, and as the captain had been present in the other universe and would assume that anything of significance had been verbally reported to him at the time, there was every reason to suspect that he wouldn't comb the reports very thoroughly. Spock didn't really do Kirk's reports along with his own, no matter what ship rumor indicated—even Spock didn't have time for that amount of paperwork—and so there was no reason to worry that the first officer's careful eye would pick up any vagueness or inconsistencies. A carefully worded phrase or two regarding the 'sickbay incident', as he had started to think of it—no lies outright, but circular phrasing enough that even Spock and his finely honed sense of Vulcan misdirection would have been proud—and he was home free. When his copy of the electronically signed report appeared on his personal monitor, without comment or addendum, he wasn't certain whether to be disappointed or relieved.

No. The hardest part was the memories of that other universe—not his own, but the other Spock's. A remembered lifetime of cold calculation, of ruthless scheming, of everyday distrust and casual bloodshed seemed to have bound itself into and throughout his own thoughts, ready and even anxious to assert itself at the slightest opportunity.

It was confusing, and exhausting, and horrifying.

The first time was three days after they had returned, and it took him completely by surprise. McCoy remembered the place (Conference Room 1) and the circumstances (a minor disagreement with Scotty over power priority for the upcoming mission) like they had been branded to his brain. He, the captain, and Spock were listening to Scott's reasoning for Engineering priority, given the possibility of gravitational fluctuations in the upcoming regions of space. McCoy himself had already stated his case, and was somewhat irritated that Jim seemed to be leaning toward Scotty's argument. He was opening his mouth to add an additional counter-argument when a surge of cold rage nearly buckled his knees, accompanied by a flash of memory—hands gripping an officer from behind, the quick jerk of a knife, the spray of blood from a severed carotid.

It was no officer he'd ever known, though, and certainly nothing he'd ever done.

The shocked fear nearly drowned him. The memory faded, left him speechless and nauseated. He swallowed whatever he had been about to say—he couldn't even remember, and it suddenly didn't seem important anymore—made some excuse, and fled the meeting. He caught the odd look that Jim sent after him, but McCoy managed to get a grip before the next time they met. If the captain remembered the incident at all, he must have assumed it was over. Whatever it was.

It wasn't.

The memory repeated twice by the time he reached his office, and possibly fifteen times total by the time he went to bed for the night. Just what was happening to him? And how did he make it stop? Repetition eventually brought recognition, though—it was the other universe he was seeing, and the hands … yes, the long, thin fingers certainly belonged to the other Spock.

This was his, then. His assassination, his memory.

Now McCoy's, as well.

He was repulsed, and he wondered if he was going crazy.

Weeks passed, and the memories continued. At times, they were uncommon and distant—two on one day, one the next. At times, it was if a holovid was skipping on the same five-second scene, over and over. At times, specific emotions triggered them—irritation or anger or even, heaven help him, simple contentment. At times, the replay in his head seemed entirely independent of anything he did or felt. At times the memory changed—the other Kyle going down beneath an agonizer, an officer shrieking in the booth, another assassination, blood spattering the corridor walls—but mostly the first one remained, clear and stark, as shocking and terrifying each time as it had been the first.

At times, he had to remind himself that they were not his own.

Maybe he really was going crazy.

He fought the images. The memories. He tried pushing them back down where they came from. He tried thinking of other things. He talked to himself over the top of them—inside his head, of course, there was no need for everyone else to wonder if he was going insane, too. He hummed over them. When they were particularly strong, he dug his fingernails into his palms, and the physical pain grounded him. He gave himself routine doses of the strongest non-addictive anti-anxiety agent in sickbay, and made sure that no one else had access to his file.

None of it seemed to make any difference.

His work wasn't affected, thankfully. He could still think—could still plan, consult, diagnose, operate. Laugh. Argue. Drink a brandy with Jim in the evening. Maybe he had to concentrate a little harder, but overall … everything continued on the outside exactly as it had before, and no one noticed a thing. He was angry with them sometimes for that, but the anger was ridiculous, given how hard he worked to hide it. As much as he might want his friends to notice, to see that he needed help, he couldn't afford for anyone to find out.

What if he was crazy? He would have to leave the Enterprise—his friends, his job. His life.

No, he couldn't risk it.

He spent hours researching mind melds, and telepathic attacks. There was little information to be found on the first, and plenty on the second. None regarding the two combined—apparently either Vulcans didn't telepathically attack others, here in this universe, or such attacks were well hidden. Given what he knew about Spock and about Vulcans in general, he suspected the first and was grateful for it. He wouldn't wish this on anyone—whatever this was. It meant that he was still in the dark, though, because none of his research found any paper or site that discussed or even hinted at follow-up symptoms like his.

He was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted, with no end to any of it in sight.

Maybe that was why McCoy found himself outside of Ambassador Sarek and Lady Amanda's quarters, on the evening before the Enterprise reached the neutral planetoid Babel to deliver its load of delegates for the Coridan admission vote. He was out of other options, and he was desperate, and he was so tired. He had come to know Amanda during the last few days, as her husband recuperated in sickbay. Spock's mother was a compassionate, discreet, highly intelligent woman. She was also a human who had lived among Vulcans in a very intimate manner for a good portion of her life. Surely if anyone would be able to speak of the usual follow-up effects to a mind meld, it would be she. McCoy was fairly certain by this point that his symptoms were not usual—but then again, his mind meld had not been, either. If he could feel his way through this, gain just an impression, from a human perspective, of how melding was supposed to be, maybe he would have some new direction or lead to follow.

Amanda opened the door herself, instead of simply calling for him to enter. Her smile lit her face when she saw him, and he wondered again how such a vivacious woman ever managed to fall in love with a Vulcan. The Lady Amanda was truly a wonder, and a woman to be reckoned with.

She motioned him inside. "Doctor! Come in! I'm afraid that Sarek isn't here, he hasn't returned from his nightly meditation yet, but I expect him before too much longer."

McCoy entered, pushing away the nerves that rolled his stomach and dried his mouth. "Actually, ma'am, I knew that the Ambassador would still be out. I, uh … I hoped that I might be able to talk with you for a few minutes. Confidentially."

She seemed surprised by that last addition, but didn't hesitate. "Of course, Doctor." Amanda gestured him toward the couch, and moved toward the low table against the wall. "Would you like tea? I believe there's brandy here as well, although we haven't looked since our arrival." She flashed him a rueful smile. "As you know, Vulcans don't drink much alcohol, and I'm afraid I've lived on Vulcan for too long to still have much of a taste for it."

"No, thank you." McCoy forced a return smile, and settled gingerly on the edge of the couch. The Lady Amanda sank gracefully into the desk chair.

"Very well. How can I be of assistance, Doctor?" For the first time, a shadow crossed her features. "Is this about Sarek's heart? I hope that—"

"No, ma'am," McCoy rushed to assure her. "Not at all. Your husband is perfectly healthy—more so than he's been in years, I'd say."

She pressed a hand to her own heart, and smiled again. "I'm relieved. I can't tell you how difficult the last few days have been." Amanda shook her head. "It's so hard to fret about the ones you love when they insist upon being staunch and logical even from their sickbeds." She snorted softly, a wry, delicate noise, then laughed and refocused her attention. "But, one can't expect anything else, I suppose, from marrying a Vulcan and raising a Vulcan son. Now. What brings you here this evening, Doctor? You've been so much help to us since we boarded, I confess I'm anxious to help you in any way I can."

McCoy hesitated. Once he opened his mouth, there was no turning back. He looked into her expectant gaze, and took a long breath. "I've been doing research on the after-effects of mind melds in non-telepathic species. Humans, specifically." All right, that was all true. So far, so good. "I wondered if you had ever participated in a meld, and if so, you might be at liberty to give me your impressions of the days after—if you noticed any residual effects, or if everything seemed to just go on as usual after the meld ended."

"Hmm." Amanda sat back. His request was obviously a surprise, but she didn't appear offended or reluctant. "How interesting. You have need of this research on the Enterprise? I suppose, as all the various species mix more and more …"

Her voice trailed off, and she smiled wryly. Remembering the fighting and general chaos that had dominated the Enterprise over the past days, McCoy couldn't help a faint chuckle himself. The intermingling of so many different species was nothing if not an adventure ...

He returned his mind to the topic at hand. Now was the time for caution. "We've had use for mind melds in our own missions, a time or two. I've never seen any ill effects, but there's not much in the literature, and I prefer to have a baseline of knowledge if this is going to be something that we're going to be seeing. Not everyone reacts the same way to drugs, or allergens, or different environments. I'm trying to get a handle on whether people might react differently to mind melds, and what those different reactions might entail." He was deep into a lie now, despite the fact that the individual words were all technically true. McCoy felt a stirring of remorse, but pushed it away. He didn't have any other options.

"Yes, I see. Quite wise." Amanda's brow wrinkled as she thought back. "I have participated in three melds during my time on Vulcan—two with my husband and one with a Vulcan healer. I can't say that I remember experiencing any after-effects." She hesitated, thinking again, and then shook her head and shrugged. "No, nothing residual at all, to my memory." Amanda smiled, and sat forward again. "Vulcans are most meticulous in such matters, Doctor, especially when non-telepathic races are involved. Spock, indeed, was always even more careful than most." She laughed, a soft, sad sound. "In everything that he attempted, poor child." The sadness fled, and she grinned suddenly. "I assume, of course, your mind melds here involved him." McCoy didn't bother to answer, as she didn't really require a response. Spock was, after all, the only Vulcan posted to the Enterprise. "You need not worry that he will not take scrupulous care of any mind in his charge, Doctor."

Wasn't your Spock, though. "No, I was never worried about that," McCoy answered her truthfully. Her information confirmed his own suspicions, but didn't really help him any. He felt his way out onto a limb. "Have you ever heard tell of any human who did experience residual effects? Repetitive memories from the meld, maybe, or from the Vulcan who performed the meld?"

Her eyebrow lifted, in an uncanny reflection of her son. "Memory transfer? No, I …" Amanda paused and frowned, obviously searching her own memories. "No, I can't say that I've ever heard of such a thing." She tilted her head. "Have you had someone experience this, or seen mention of it in your research?"

"I …" How to answer without giving himself away? "I believe so, during a mission several months back. There seemed to be … what I guess you could describe as residual, repetitive memories from the Vulcan who initiated the meld." McCoy tried to push away the disappointment, and the flash of blood spattering against the corridor wall, and the surge of fear that came with it. "There isn't anything that I can find in the literature, though, and I wondered if someone with experience might know more."

"Not I." She shook her head. "But, you should speak with my husband, Doctor. He is far more conversant on this topic than I am. If anyone would be able to help you, it would be Sarek."

That was the last thing he wanted, to drag the Ambassador into this. "No thank you, ma'am." McCoy stood, and Amanda rose with him. "There's no need to bother Ambassador Sarek with this, he's got more than enough on his plate right now." He drifted toward the door. "Thank you for your time, Lady Amanda, I won't take up any more of it. I—"

"Doctor!" Amanda followed. "I'm certain my husband wouldn't mind, especially if it can aid in your research. He'll return very shortly. Surely we could at least ask whether he—"

"No, it's all right." McCoy turned back to the Lady Amanda, took her hands in his, and squeezed them. "Again, thank you. It's been a pleasure to—"

"Ask me what?" The dry voice sounded from the doorway behind him. Amanda looked over his shoulder, and McCoy whirled around, his heart thumping. He hadn't noticed the door slide open. Obviously, however, Ambassador Sarek had heard something of their conversation even from the hallway.

He'd have to remember those sharp Vulcan ears, the next time he decided to talk outside of Spock's door.

"Sarek!" Amanda moved around him and took her husband's arm, drawing the Ambassador into the room. "Dr. McCoy came with some questions regarding—" She broke off suddenly and looked back, obviously remembering the 'confidential' part of McCoy's request.

It was difficult to say no now, though—not without implicating himself. McCoy hesitated, then nodded slowly. He would just have to be careful in his wording, keep things short, and take his leave as soon as possible. He looked back to Sarek, and found the Ambassador's dark eyes on him.

"Sarek." Given permission, Amanda launched into an explanation. Sarek returned his attention to his wife. "Dr. McCoy has been doing research regarding the residual effects of mind melds on non-telepathic species—humans in particular. He came to ask about my experiences regarding mind melds, given my time on Vulcan, and I'm afraid that we've run into a bit of a puzzle. I suggested that you might be able to help better than I."

"A puzzle, my wife?" Sarek looked back to McCoy. "What puzzle is this?"

"Residual repetitive memories from the Vulcan who initiated the meld." Amanda shook her head. "I told him that I'd never heard of such a thing, but Dr. McCoy indicated that he'd seen such a response after a meld several months ago. I didn't know what to tell him, I suggested that you might have more knowledge of such a thing—whether this type of effect had ever been reported."

The dark Vulcan eyes narrowed, and McCoy stepped back against their sudden weight. Sarek was silent for a long moment, and even Amanda seemed confused. "Sarek?" She looked from her husband to McCoy, and back again. "Is there something that—"

"Doctor." Sarek's cultured voice was tight. "I'm afraid that I must question you regarding the circumstances of this particular meld."

Sarek knew something. Blast. McCoy took another step back, wondering how to control the situation. The best defense, he supposed, was a good offense … "I'm afraid I can't discuss it, Ambassador. The matter is confidential, a doctor-patient privilege."

"And yet, you discussed it with my wife."

Real irritation stirred, and he seized it gratefully. "Not details! I would never discuss—"

"Indeed, he didn't, Sarek." Amanda frowned. "He gave me no specific information."

"Look." McCoy circled around them both, headed for the door and safety. "I didn't come here to take up your time, Ambassador, and this really isn't crucial. I'll do some more—"

"Dr. McCoy." Sarek's brittle voice brought him up short. When the Ambassador spoke again, McCoy was glad that he had remained facing the door. "The effects that you describe have been reported only very rarely on Vulcan, and only in association with a non-consensual mind meld." Amanda's sharp intake of breath mingled with her husband's next words. "This is a grave crime among my people, and so I must ask again, despite your doctor-patient privilege, for details regarding the meld in question."

McCoy took a long, silent breath, and didn't turn around.

The silence was heavy, a tangible weight.

"Doctor." Sarek's robes rustled, but he didn't approach. "If such a meld has occurred, the Vulcan Council must know the identity of the perpetrator. He or she must be removed from—"

"It doesn't matter." McCoy bit off the words, battling both the sudden, unreasoning fear and the flood of the other Spock's memories into his mind. "He's not … it's a long story, but it was a … a universal transposition." It was classified information, but at this point he didn't much care. "We were in a different universe, a kind of a violent mirror to our own. He won't … he's still there. He won't be bothering anyone here." The last thing he wanted was to tell them that the perpetrator had been Spock. Their son.

But, not their son. Not really.

Another long silence, and then Sarek did circle around to face him. "We, Doctor?"

"Blast it." McCoy passed a defeated hand over his face, and looked away.

He was so tired.

Sarek's voice was weary. "Doctor, please be seated. We have much to discuss."

There was nothing to say—no protest in the face of Sarek's knowledge. McCoy followed the Ambassador back into the room and dropped heavily onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. Amanda sat primly on the opposite end of the sofa, her face alight with horror and compassion, and Sarek took the desk chair. He sat silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he spoke.

"Dr. McCoy. Before anything else is said, I must know—how is it that my son has not provided these answers for you, and appropriate exercises to manage the aftermath?" Manage the aftermath. The words swam in his mind, taunting and inviting. "He is your colleague—your direct superior, I believe—and is well-versed in both the history and the techniques of mind melding. I find it impossible to believe that he would—"

"Spock doesn't know," McCoy sighed, and it didn't matter for the moment that he was interrupting the Vulcan Ambassador. "I never told him."

Sarek tilted his head, and for an instant he looked so much like Spock that McCoy was forced to choke back a laugh. "When your report was made known, however …" He trailed off as McCoy shook his head, and then straightened, understanding. "You concealed the incident?"

Concealed. Yes, he supposed that was what he had done.

"Yes."

The Lady Amanda's silent compassion was soothing. Safe. Sarek's dark eyes pinned him again. "For what purpose? As a physician, you understand the need for transparency in regard to such occurrences."

"I don't …" McCoy trailed off, as he really considered the Ambassador's words. "I don't know why," he finally admitted, quietly. "I don't … it was my own stupid fault I was alone with him in the first place. Maybe I was just embarrassed at what I'd gotten myself into."

Sarek frowned, minutely. "Doctor, you cannot accept responsibility for—"

"I know. But I guess …" Even now the memory made him shudder, and brought with it an encroaching darkness. "Maybe I just didn't want to talk about it at all."

"Indeed." Sarek nodded, absently. Amanda slid closer to McCoy, and after a brief hesitation, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. McCoy looked around quickly, and smiled his thanks into her questioning eyes. Despite his fears, it was such a relief for someone to just know … Her hand tightened. Sarek continued. "And after these … residual memories began to take hold?"

He laughed bitterly. "I thought maybe I was going crazy, and I didn't want … to have to leave."

"I see." Sarek paused again, his dark eyes hooded. "Doctor, I will tell you what I am able. The residual memory effects of which you speak are, as I have indicated, associated only with forced mind melds, and only in non-telepathic races."

McCoy nodded. "I see."

"Additionally, it seems to be the case that the residual memories grow stronger the more strenuously the victim attempts to combat them. Paradoxically, it is only after they have been accepted, integrated, that they begin to fade. At least, this has been the case in the past. I have not personally—"

Something in the words, the description, sparked against the vast banks of medical knowledge stored in McCoy's mind. The physician in him tensed, triumphant. "Obsessive-compulsive disorder."

Sarek tilted his head, confused. "Pardon?"

Amanda, however, was already nodding her understanding. "It is a human condition, my husband. Not seen on Vulcan, or even often still on Earth."

"Obsessive-compulsive disorder." McCoy shook his head, swearing softly. "It's a condition that focuses around repetitive, unwanted thoughts. They're usually counter to the personality of the patient—violent thoughts in a primarily peaceful person, for example—and for that reason are extremely distressing. The harder you fight them, the stronger they can become. It's …" Relief flooded him. Having a name to put with it didn't fix anything, but even so … it gave him a sense of control that he had been sorely lacking. "It's not the same, of course—what I've been facing are outside, imposed memories, but it's possible that …" He shook his head. "An obsessive-compulsive-type syndrome. It makes sense." He squeezed his eyes shut, tightly. "That bastard." Irritation followed fast on the heels of understanding. "I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. How I could have missed—"

"Doctor." Amanda's voice was soft. "You were telepathically injured, confused and alone. We seldom see our own infirmities clearly, no matter what our profession."

Hmm. She was absolutely correct. It was the reason that Starfleet prohibited its doctors from serving as their own physicians, except when no other was available. Or, tried to, anyway. None of them much followed that rule, of course …

"I guess so." McCoy blew out another long breath, the anxiety returning. Obsessive-compulsive disorder—even a pseudo-version—was chronic, and difficult to treat. No laughing matter. "What do I …" He looked to Sarek. "I guess before I start planning out a treatment on my own, I should ask what methods they've used for … this situation in the past."

"It has been a two-fold process, and has proven satisfactory, according to records."

Satisfactory. It wasn't hugely encouraging, but even 'satisfactory' had to be better than what he had now.

Of course, 'satisfactory' could also mean anything, coming from the Ambassador.

"Go on."

"First …" Uncharacteristically, Sarek hesitated. Despite that his expression never changed, McCoy tensed. Somehow, he didn't think that he was going to like this. "The first step is a mind meld."

He was on his feet before Sarek's words had finished. Amanda rose with him, gripping his arm when he would have backed away. "Doctor, please …"

"Dr. McCoy." Sarek's tone was cool, as calm as ever. "I understand your reluctance, but I request that you hear me out." McCoy forced himself to a halt, and turned to face the dispassionate face. Despite the screaming, the panic in his brain, he nodded. "Very good." Sarek rose, and approached slowly. "Mind melds must be both initiated and terminated using very specific telepathic steps, in order to avoid damage to the minds involved. In the case of a non-consensual meld, most often it has been the case that such steps were not properly followed. It is difficult to explain to one not versed in such methods, but this causes a … telepathic 'friction', which may in fact be the primary cause of the residual effect. When the perpetrator terminates the meld improperly, the 'friction' may trap alien memories within the victim's mind."

All right. It made sense, in a crazy, Vulcan sort of way. McCoy nodded for the Ambassador to continue. Amanda's cool hand rested firmly on his arm, grounding him.

"The purpose of this new meld is to disperse this effect, returning the damaged mind to its original state."

Hope kindled, briefly. "And, this will disperse his memories, as well?"

"It will not." The tiny flicker of hope died. "By this point, the memories are no longer completely alien. They have become a part of your own mind."

"But I don't want them!" McCoy snarled, then snapped his mouth shut. Blast, blast. He couldn't lose it here, not in front of the Vulcan Ambassador …

Amanda pressed his elbow, gently. Sarek nodded. "I understand your frustration, Doctor. However, you have seen these memories. You know them now. They cannot be simply removed, and they will not be easily forgotten."

"Right." McCoy looked down, fighting the bitter disappointment. "You said two steps? What is the second?"

"Structured meditation, to help the mind accept and properly process the alien memories. Once that occurs, the residual memories have, in most instances, faded into the subconscious, and although they do continue to reappear, they do so far less frequently."

Meditation. Of course. Couldn't ask a Vulcan for help and get around that. "All right, then." He took a long breath. It was stupid to be as nervous about the cure as he was about the problem. "How do I …" He hesitated. It seemed like asking a lot, from this particular Vulcan. "Is this something you're willing to show me? I'm not normally very good at—"

"I am more than willing to perform the meld, Doctor, and with your permission, will do so before you leave tonight. It is a simple procedure, requiring only minutes. I suggest that we approach my son regarding the meditations, however. I realize that—"

"Wait a minute." McCoy's heart sank. That meant explanations, and apologies, and uncomfortable discussions. Besides, meditating with Spock sounded like a recipe for disaster… "I don't know about—"

Sarek's expression was severe. "Doctor, I understand that it may be uncomfortable to do so, given that you have previously concealed this assault from him." Assault. Not incident. McCoy's mind shied away from the word, true as it was. "However, I must insist that it now be reported—both for your sake, and for that of the Enterprise and her crew. It is not—"

Crap. "I understand, Ambassador." McCoy looked away. This was it, then. There was no putting it off, no hiding it anymore. Jim would know, Spock would know—both what had happened, and that he had kept it from them. And if someone up the line decided that he was no longer able to function in his current role, he would—

"Doctor." Sarek reclaimed his attention. "Although the situation which you now face is rare, the success rate of this treatment in cases of record has been more than satisfactory. There is no reason to expect that it will be necessary to remove you from your position." McCoy raised an eyebrow, a little surprised that Sarek had so quickly caught on to his concern. One of Sarek's own eyebrows crept up in response. "However, if you do find this question raised, I will expect to be notified. I shall … handle the situation."

Well. That was promising, at least. The Vulcan Ambassador was willing to go to bat for him. The tension began to fade. Not many could stand up to Sarek for long. McCoy looked down at Spock's mother, who smiled, encouraging.

"Dr. McCoy, I know that Spock will be anxious to assist you. I have seen over the past days that he—"

"My wife." Sarek's voice was dry. "Spock is Vulcan. He will be anxious to do nothing. However, he—"

Amanda shook her head, an exasperated smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "Of course, my husband." She looked back to McCoy, and tugged at his arm. "Come, Doctor. Please, sit down. Let my husband help you."

He sighed, and let her lead him back to the couch, and sank down on the cushions. Sarek came to sit opposite him, pushing back the wide sleeves of his robe. McCoy's heart rate rose as the long, dry fingers settled onto the meld points. The touch was light, impersonal.

Nothing like the last time …

"Doctor." Sarek's voice was dry. "You will be required to breathe."

Breathe. Right. McCoy released a long breath, and took in another. Sarek held his gaze for a moment, cool and somehow reassuring, then closed his eyes. McCoy followed suit, and sank into the meld.