This is not the way it's supposed to end… McCoy clutched Spock tighter to his chest, trying to use his own body heat to warm the violently shivering Vulcan in the freezing cold that had become their environment for the however many days or weeks it had been that they were trapped there. Spock was bleeding from the mouth and nose, and Bones had noticed a small trickle that seemed to be coming out of one of his pointed ears. Green blood shined in the stark white light beating down on them.

McCoy wasn't sure what those bastards had done to him exactly, it had been something mental, where they tried to break past his shields and caused Spock to strain against them until he couldn't take it, or something. But he did know with absolute certainty, that he didn't like that vacant look in those eyes. He didn't like that it was because of him.

"Spock, Spock, come on…" He didn't shake him; he didn't know if there were physical consequences, and he didn't want to risk it. "Please, come on, talk to me…"

He kept up a constant stream of chatter, peppered with worried curses, desperately trying to gain a response. He knew that his own body heat wasn't enough, but he didn't have anything else; they were prisoners. Actually, and here's where it began to piss McCoy off, they weren't even really prisoners, they were more like lab rats.

It had started out simply enough. An away mission to the surface of a planet that had native flora that could be used to cure a wider range of diseases than had been hoped for. The ship that had discovered it had been unaware of their find until it was too late, and had left without collecting more. They were also not equipped for greater testing, and while they knew that it was helpful for a wide range of diseases, Starfleet wanted the details.

Spock and McCoy had been beamed down to assess the situation, see if it was worth claiming, and obtain a few samples for testing. Due to the fact that the planet was also pronounced uninhabited, Jim had let them both go down alone, as it was a very simple mission. It basically amounted to go down, get the plants, return to the ship.

Which was, of course, when things went horribly wrong. Spock and McCoy had been leaning over one of the native flora, McCoy reflecting quietly that if its medical properties had anything to do with the smell -which was absolutely heavenly, and had a rather invigorating quality- then he wasn't surprised it was considered to be so helpful. Spock had replied with something that McCoy remembered being rather ticked about, and then everything went black.

They had come to in a wide bright room, the same bright light that stung McCoy's eyes after so long and caused a migraine to pulse behind his temple shining down on them. But back then they hadn't known that they couldn't walk in a larger area than twelve feet by twelve. Then they had attempted to take a better look around, and McCoy had made the mistake first, a shock running through him as soon as he took a step outside of that invisible box. Spock had pulled him back, not being jolted at all, and that was when McCoy noticed the scar on the inside of his elbow.

They had basically been equipped with shock collars.

That's when the…things had come in. They were all as white as the room Spock and McCoy were trapped in. Their hair was long and straight and hung past their waists, their clothing one of the only shocks of color on them, in silvers and royal purples. But their eyes were the things that McCoy remembered with the most terror, those large purple and blue orbs that seemed to crackle with electricity. There was no way to tell what gender they were, no differences in appearance, but they soon came to recognize their own personal guard, if only for the color of its robes. A heavy material that was golden in color.

Spock had straightened slightly on that first meeting and asked them something, McCoy couldn't even really remember what it was; he had been too busy staring at those large eyes. Then one of them had the grace to stare back, and Leonard had been pulled into the mind of a monster. When he had come to, Spock was holding him tight to him, and that was his first indication that something had been dreadfully wrong. He didn't want anyone in his mind, true, but the way Spock was reacting made him think that something else had happened. When McCoy tried to ask him what had happened, he noticed how much his throat hurt. That was when he realized that he probably had been screaming.

Spock let go of him once he realized that McCoy had understood what was wrong, and was on the path to being able to breathe properly, and then began trying to talk to their captors. Once again, McCoy wasn't able to remember what Spock was saying, he had been too shocked at the fact that he had been touching him, and then reeling with the realization that his mind had been violated. But then he was distracted from his thoughts by the noises they were making.

He still wasn't able to properly describe it, but those mouths when they opened them were black, the tongues thick and wiggling like worms. But despite the disgusting quality to it, the noises that left their mouths were eerily beautiful.

They couldn't understand what they were saying.

Spock tried again, only to be ignored, and then they had been left alone, and the lights promptly went out. That first 'night' several things had been made clear. It was cold, horribly, unbearably cold. There was no hint of light, and the echoing quality to the room made even the slightest movement louder than it should be. They attempted to find a way to remove the chip, only to find that it would shock them if they so much as touched the area it was in.

The conversation that had taken place after that was something McCoy looked back to with painful regret, especially now with Spock pressed close to his chest, bleeding and vacant.

McCoy had snarled something; he couldn't remember the exact phrasing, something about, "Of all the people to get stuck with, I get stuck with the pointy-eared bastard."

Spock had not replied, and McCoy couldn't see him. It didn't help him much when he could, only Jim seemed to have enough of a connection to see when he was actually thinking, but it did help. That had made McCoy mad enough that he snapped. He had already been on edge, but the silent treatment had never been something he could stand (he blamed it on his ex-wife). "What? You don't like me enough to try and give me the silent treatment? You wish you were stuck with someone else, too? Huh? Do you hate me that much, you bastard?"

Spock had replied then, a calm, clinical, "I do not hate you, doctor."

"Yeah, right, 'hate is an emotion' and all that other shit. We both know it's a load of crap."

Spock had not answered, and McCoy had curled up as far away as possible from the sound of Spock's gentle breathing, shivering in the cold, but unwilling to go near him. He didn't want to admit it, but he regretted the words.

The next day was when they realized exactly what kind of place they were in. Their 'jailer' was the one in gold robes, really more like their 'tester'. McCoy was taken first, and the pain had been unbearable. He didn't know what Spock had done when he was left alone, but the first thing he saw as he locked eyes with the Vulcan was a flicker of concern and relief to find him whole. Then it was gone, and then Spock was taken.

McCoy knew what he did when Spock was gone, he paced, never holding still, ignoring the aching pain in his limbs, trying to ignore the pain in his mind… He was scared, and he hated it.

When Spock came back he was firm, he walked on his own, and McCoy wanted to spit at him. He made him feel weak, he made him feel worthless, and it made his unnecessary worrying feel useless. He was angry at him then. But still he said nothing.

They were fed something like bread and water, both of which were useless against the hunger that gnawed Leonard's insides. But if Spock was hungry he never showed it.

McCoy began baiting him quietly. Spock never replied, and Bones hadn't known what to think about that fact. They would be taken at regular intervals, and no matter how much McCoy wished otherwise, whenever Spock was gone he always remained pacing.

He was terrified.

And always, when McCoy was taken back from their testing of him, Spock was looking at him with eyes that held nothing but scrutiny, and it hurt. He felt like he was being judged and found lacking.

They had continued in this manner, McCoy getting steadily weaker and more pained, until the gathering of them had came, walked directly up to Spock, and made eye contact.

The Vulcan had gone rigid, eyes widening slightly under the brunt of what McCoy knew to be a vicious and violent assault. But still he held his ground, and McCoy had finally, desperately, tried to break him out of whatever trance he was in; only to be pushed out of the way by Spock in what he now knew to be an effort to protect him. That was when green blood began to trickle out of his nose, and McCoy began shouting at them, pleading with them.

It was only when Spock finally crumbled to the ground that they stopped, and slowly trickled out one by one, leaving him curled up on the floor and bleeding.

That was when Spock had begun to tremble, and McCoy could suddenly see how much damage had actually been done to the Vulcan. The remains of the black undershirt (the blue had been taken away ages ago) managed to hide large bruises, and McCoy had finally realized that Spock had been getting the worst of it all. Yet he was telepathic, and he knew for a fact that most telepaths treated the others they found, be they touch-or otherwise, with greater respect that those that had no ability.

So this was insane, why would they be treating him like that? What on earth could possibly be gained from it?

Then it hit him.

Spock had never stopped looking at him with those eyes, but the intent had never been what McCoy had thought it was. Spock had done something, made some sort of deal. He was making sure that his terms were being fulfilled.

So here Leonard H. McCoy was now, clutching a shivering Vulcan to his chest and desperately trying to make him open his eyes and talk to him, to apologize, to thank him, to do SOMETHING. But he was not responding.

Leonard was afraid that there was irreparable damage, and he didn't know what to do. Finally, McCoy just took time to breathe.

"Come on Spock, you can't blank out on me… You can't," he finally whispered quietly.

There was no reply, and McCoy just bowed his head. He wasn't sure how, but he eventually fell into an empty sleep devoid of dreams, exhaustion and emotional turmoil finally getting to him.

McCoy woke up at the sudden stiffening of the body in his arms. He blinked; looking around, unsurprised, but highly disgusted to see that the light had turned off, and then slowly let go of Spock, whispering his name quietly.

"Doctor…"

McCoy nearly burst into tears. "Dammit, Spock, dammit…"

"Doctor McCoy, I see no reason to damn it and for that matter, nothing to damn…"

In that moment Leonard realized how much he had missed that sort of response and laughed. "Spock, I'm going to ask you some questions, please…for my own peace of mind, let me…"

"Very well."

"What's your name?"

"Doctor…"

"Answer the question dammit; this is the best method I have for determining brain damage, and I want to make certain that you aren't suffering from any."

"Doctor, when I am clearly responding…"

"Spock…" It wasn't even much of a threat, but a moment later, Spock responded.

"Very well… S'chn T'gai Spock…"

"…I'm not even gonna ask what you said before 'Spock', now, age?"

The questions continued, long into what passed for the night, McCoy happier than he could stand that Spock was apparently not suffering from any long term effects. There would be time for plans of escape and greater apologies later. So long as they weren't killed in their sleep, as McCoy was almost certain would wind up happening.

"Highly illogical, doctor…"

"Spock, while I am admittedly happy you're alive and are not suffering from brain damage, I must kindly ask you to please, just shut up…"

"Very well, doctor."