McCoy was waist-deep in the cooler when he heard footsteps entering his kitchen. Now it would be only a matter of seconds, and sure enough…

"Doctor, are you aware that a pot on your stove is boiling in a most violent manner?"

McCoy withdrew from the cooler and straightened as he faced his long-term houseguest. "Spock, how many weeks have you been living here, hidden away under my roof? Can't you just call me Leonard?" He hurried on before Spock could even attempt a reply. "No—I don't want an answer to either of those questions. The first is strictly rhetorical, and…" He broke off, muttering, "My God, I'm starting to sound like you…" But he was not finished quite yet. "And for your information, I am fully aware of what I'm doing here—namely, cooking pasta which requires a full, rolling boil."

Over the course of directing Spock's medical care, McCoy had grown accustomed to the orange eyes and gray, serpentine skin caused by the Donari's genetic manipulation. It was that other part that bothered him—the same old unbending, analytical part that belonged to the same old aggravating-as-hell halfling.

"Here, Spock, why don't you help me with these pork chops?" It was revenge, pure and simple. He knew full well how the changes to Spock's system made him crave meat. These specially ordered chops were guaranteed to be succulent and fork-tender.

The hot frying pan awaited. "Look," McCoy said, "it's easy." And lifting them from a plate, he tossed them one by one into the greased skillet where they sizzled gloriously amid clouds of mouth-watering steam.

Spock's eyes latched onto the pan and McCoy could just imagine what torment that meat was inflicting. With a wicked grin, the doctor asked, "Hungry?"

Spock backed toward the doorway and said, "You seem to have matters well in hand."

McCoy reached out and seized his arm. "No—wait. How about making one of those oh-so-tasty salads of yours?" He gestured toward a counter where a variety of greens lay alongside a cutting board and a bowl. Then he handed the mutated Vulcan a knife.

By now the delicious aroma of pork filled every nook of the kitchen, and the orange glint in Spock' eyes was growing so downright murderous that McCoy had second thoughts about giving him that blade. The Donaris were a violent race. Eating a couple of chops might put Spock in a better mood, but the man stubbornly clung to his vegetarian way of life.

A beeping sound intervened. It was time to drain the pasta and turn the meat. When next he looked, the knife lay on the cutting board by an anemic smattering of salad, and Spock was nowhere to be seen.

For a moment McCoy almost felt badly, teasing him like that. But shaking his head, he smiled to himself and said, "Nah."

Then he chopped a little cabbage and added some cherry tomatoes to the bowl.