Title: Long Day's Journey into Night

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: R

Summary: There's a serial killer loose on the Enterprise, and only the boys in blue have any hope of stopping him. The problem is, suspicion is cast on Spock, and McCoy is left alone to stop a psychopath. What can I say? I've been watching way too much Law and Order. Oh, and it's my Tenth Wave story answering the challenge: write a story that ends with the same line it begins with.

Author's Note: This baby is the second story in the "Impromptu Bondmates" series. I feel a little guilty about continuing that universe, but I also feel like there are more places to go there. The title is ripped off from Eugene O'Neill.

Historian's Note: Takes place roughly a month after "Impromptu Bondmates", and even has a character reference to "Aw, Hell". See "Impromptu" for full details on Spock and Len's bonding. This can, however, easily be read as a standalone.

Disclaimer: As I have said time and time again, I don't own any part of them. All I own is the kernel of idea that went into the creation of this story. Still, that kernel came from a universe and characters which aren't mine, so in the end I don't own anything.

Chapter 1

Spock was a being who thrived on logic. It was the core of his existence and the cement which kept him from falling apart. That having been said, there were moments when all logic deserted him.

He felt something wrong within himself. He was very a self-aware being, and the slightest abnormality in his self-perceptions or motivations was like a swift blow to the skull. The sensation he felt now was more like a sledge-hammer.

Spock wondered if he were dead, for he moved through the ship and no one saw him. Yet, the dead did not feel the smug sense of satisfaction he achieved by passing so many familiar faces unnoticed. True phantoms did not take pride in their own invisibility.

Not like Spock. He looked about him in disdainful triumph. It was right that these beings should not see him. They had no relevance, and should not approach one who did.

His walk turned to a prowl. Warrior ancestors called and whispered in his mind, telling him of a renounced heritage. It was easy, he realized, to return to that which he had abandoned. It was frighteningly easy, but Spock was in no way frightened.

It was then that Spock saw his quarry. Leonard had always seemed fragile to him. His limbs were made to be broken, and being bonded had allowed Spock to understand that the doctor himself agreed with this assessment. Leonard knew that he was weak and he feared that revelation more than anything. He blustered and shouted, puffing up his small frame to the best of his ability, merely to conceal the fact that, of the senior staff, he was the easiest target. He was prey.

It did not surprise Spock that, after his trek through anonymity, Leonard would recognize him. The doctor turned, momentarily startled by the silent approach. For a second, there was fear in the man's eyes. Then, there was anger to cover the fear. Then both faded and Spock's bondmate smiled.

And, without a word, Spock pulled out a knife and slit his throat.

Commander Spock of the Starship Enterprise sat up in bed and gasped, attempting to purge the image from his mind.

Beside him, his bondmate blinked in muzzy bewilderment. "Spock?" he asked, "what is it?"

"I . . ." Spock took a moment to steady his voice, "I believe I dreamed."

Leonard McCoy propped himself up on his elbows. "Is that an event?"

"In it of itself, I should say possibly. Given the subject material, definitely."

Leonard pushed himself the rest of the way to sitting and regarded Spock with concern, his cool hand landing on the Vulcan's arm. "Honey, you're shakin'," he stated. "What did you dream about that's got you so upset?"

Spock couldn't even say it. To speak it aloud was to acknowledge the dream's reality, when all he truly wanted to do was banish it into the farthest reaches of his mind.

The hand on his shoulder, though, negated that desire, easily seeing past Spock's tattered walls. The Vulcan attempted to warn McCoy, attempted to tell him that such things were as unprecedented in Spock's mind as they were in his bondmate's, but all he got out was a swift burst of completely illogical panic before Leonard knew everything.

His hand pulled back as though burned.

Spock looked to his bondmate to see fear in the man's eyes. Leonard was trying not to look at Spock as though he was diseased, but he met with only marginal success. "That's one unpleasant dream," Leonard said, his tone tight.

"I don't know what prompted it," Spock said, praying that Leonard would understand.

"Which is reassuring."

"And yet—"

"Doctor McCoy," the intercom in his quarters sounded, "emergency medical situation on deck fifteen."

They both looked up sharply and Leonard hissed, "Damn." He pulled himself out of bed and scrabbled about the room collecting his clothes. As he hopped about on one foot and then the other, pulling on his pants, Leonard said with attempted levity, "I guess it's good that we slept in my quarters tonight, huh?"

Spock rose from the bed, as well, retrieving the other shirt from the floor and noticing the stripes of a lieutenant commander on the sleeves. He approached his bondmate and grasped the other shirt.

For a moment, Leonard McCoy went absolutely tense, a sharp wave of terror communicating itself through the bond.

Spock halted all movement until Leonard had overcome his fear, and then exchanged the shirts and indicated the stripes.

His bondmate bit his lip and whispered, "I'm sorry. Guess that dream got to me a bit."

"It's understandable."

"No, it's not, but thanks for saying." He pulled on the correct shirt and tried to grin. "That would have been a way of coming out to the crew, wouldn't it? 'Hey, aren't you two wearin' the wrong uniform?' 'Oh, well, there's somethin' we've been meanin' to tell y'all . . .'"

"Leonard," Spock whispered, grasping his bondmate's hands between his own. I apologize for the dream, but you must calm yourself if you wish to be effective in your duty.

The doctor closed his eyes. I know, he thought. Weird moments, you know?

Spock bent down and pressed a brief kiss to Leonard's lips. I do, indeed.

For a second, they stared at each other, something floating between them unsaid.

And then the intercom beeped loudly, proclaiming, "Doctor McCoy, medical emergency—"

"I know!" Leonard snapped irritably. He turned, grabbed his medkit from the table, and dashed out of the room, Spock on his heels. The Vulcan did not know if his assistance would be required, but as long as the first officer, it was his duty to render aid where it was needed. Also, it seemed somehow inappropriate for him to linger in Leonard's quarters while the doctor was out.

It was a quick and efficient trip to deck fifteen, Leonard double-checking his supplies and Spock staring resolutely at the doors of the turbolift. When they reached their destination, they set a brisk pace down the hall.

They were met by Ensign Withers, the bridge-playing security officer. His young face was fighting to remain professional, but his shock and disgust kept winning out. He said, "Doctor, it's Lieutenant Wallace."

McCoy nodded and followed the security guard as they rushed to her. The brunette lay on the ground, a delicate tumble of bones and flesh. And blood. Amazing amounts of blood.

Spock stopped dead, images of his dream flashing through his head as he stared at the body on the floor. Wallace's throat had been slit from ear to ear. Leonard fell to his knees beside the woman, quickly grasping at her throat in an attempt to hold the ragged edges of skin together and stem the blood flow with one hand, while he attempted to dig through his medkit with the other. Spock could have told him that it was far too late for anything work short of divine intervention, but he couldn't actually find his voice to speak.

Jim Kirk rushed past him, having been called by Withers. The Ensign now stood by a wall, running a hand through his blonde hair and trying not to look ill. He did manage to simply look shocky, but it was not a vast improvement. Spock, from years of practice, simply looked impassive.

Even Kirk took a moment to stare at the body on the floor. Seeing such things on alien worlds was one thing. That was a danger of the job, and everyone knew that uncharted regions could be hazardous. You came to expect a certain price for exploration.

But things were different on the Enterprise. This ship was their home and their world, more so even than their respective places of origin. This ship, above all else, had to be safe. It was a sanctuary. There may be power failures and electrical blasts occasionally, even alien takeovers, but the crew trusted that they were safe from one another.

And now there was a young woman lying on the floor with her throat slit.

Kirk's voice was icily neutral as he asked, "Who found her?"

"I did, Sir," Withers said, "about three minutes ago. I called for Doctor McCoy."

"Was there anyone else in or near the hall, Ensign?"

"No, Sir. I checked around, but there was no one, Sir, and I didn't want to go too far in case . . . in case she might need me." He sagged as he obviously realized how foolish that sounded, but Spock understood the human sentiment. The boy had not wished to leave the Lieutenant alone on the principle that he, himself, would not wish to be left alone as he died.

Kirk, apparently, also understood the unspoken message. "You did the right thing, Ensign," he assured Withers, thawing his tone enough to be reassuring. "You can go now. We'll handle things from here."

Withers looked up, his face ashen as he nodded. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Then, he walked away as quickly as he could without losing a sense of decorum.

As soon as he was gone, Kirk's face hardened again and he knelt next to Leonard. "How is she, Bones?" he asked.

Slowly, Leonard took his hands away from the woman's throat, and the flow of blood had all but stopped. All three officers now stood on carpet that was soaked red, and Spock was dimly certain that they would leave crimson footprints when they left. Withers certainly had. Spock wondered why the killer hadn't.

The doctor stared at the blood which coated his hands and arms and even spattered across his shirt. There was probably blood on his pants and boots, as well, soaked up from the carpet, but the black didn't reveal stains. "She's dead, Jim," he stated, attempting a dispassionate tone that didn't seem to come. "She was probably too far gone when Withers found her. By the time I got here, the best I could do was sit by and watch."

Kirk nodded and then stood, turning to Spock. "This sort of thing does not happen on my ship," he said. "We have to find out who did this before there's a panic."

Spock didn't respond, and Kirk's gaze sharpened. "Spock?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Jim," Spock finally managed, "I believe I dreamed this."