Even with all the air filtration mechanisms, sterilization procedures, and repellents known throughout a thousand worlds, the universe would never be free of dust bunnies. It was part of that stubborn persistence that the human race was known for. You just couldn't get them to quit producing body ash: skin cells and hair, mixed with bits of fabric and sweat, floating all about the ship. And landing on my medical equipment, McCoy grumbled to himself as he ran a finger across the biobed monitor. "Nurse Chapel," he said, not too loudly, for he felt her presence behind him. "Wipe down all the diagnostic equipment, will you? I'll take care of the instruments."

McCoy was hoping that this quick procedure would be his last task of the day. Hmm, no, it couldn't be near the end of my shift, he thought, and sighed. All he really wanted was just a chance to get off his feet. But even without a chronometer nearby, he was sure he could not be approaching the end, because these days Spock was keeping careful track of his duty schedule and, so long as the crew was not facing any kind of crisis, Spock would occasionally wander into sickbay two minutes before McCoy was done for the day. (Actually, it was not fair to say he "wandered." Spock did stride purposefully wherever he went. But any ambulatory activity with no urgent purpose tended to be called "wandering" on the ship, a negative connotation which served to discourage it.)

Well, that lieutenant is resting comfortably, and there haven't been any more bones to be set since the gravity was restored on the recreation deck. Surely it wouldn't do any harm if I snuck into my office, just to put my feet up awhile…

But when he heard the whoosh of the sickbay doors, McCoy stayed right where he was, and for the sake of the ritual about to occur he tried to look busy at the sterilization table.

"Doctor." The deep, flat voice came from behind him, and McCoy made only the slightest of movements, a little twitch of the head to indicate surprise.

"Oh, hello, Spock," he said, perhaps with a suspicious amount of cheer.

"I trust the gravity malfunction has not caused an overwhelming number of injuries today?"

This was a cue. McCoy had needed to learn that on his own. Spock had never explained to him what he meant by these visits to sickbay. He was ascertaining McCoy's mental situation; what sort of mood the day had left him in, whether he was sexually inclined. Over time, as McCoy learned what these inquiries were really about, he'd changed the way he responded. Answers were given very deliberately.

"I just want to get off my feet," McCoy said. "I'm not real particular beyond that."

Spock nodded. "If you have completed your report on the pathologies of Eminar Four, we can retrieve it from your quarters, or if you prefer, you can bring it to me tomorrow." McCoy would have liked to think that there was something special in Spock's voice that only he could decipher, but no, Spock was still a master of self-discipline and his tone was entirely neutral.

"Sure, the disk is sitting on the desk in my quarters. Ah, and my shift's just now over. We'll go get it."

Walking down the corridor, McCoy said candidly, "What I really want to know is what's going on with Sulu. I was on the bridge today, and that rascal never stopped grinning. Has he got a new girl or something?" He stepped into the turbolift with Spock. "Deck Three F," he called out.

"I believe the Lieutenant's mood has been elevated by the Captain's announcement that we will be having our shore leave on the Ganjitsu colony."

"Oh, that's right! Sulu grew up on Ganjitsu, didn't he? I heard it's beautiful there." McCoy suddenly felt a rush of realization, a recollection of something he'd once read, about Ganjitsu. He began to tingle all over with the effort of not revealing it until the proper moment. "Nothing but pine trees there, right? Figuratively speaking."

"Indeed, Ganjitsu authorities have strictly limited the development of the colony in order to preserve its arboreal wealth. This has resulted in a community where civilization is in balance with nature." As they passed into McCoy's quarters, Spock continued, sitting down when he was invited to. He would not allow himself to become as comfortable in McCoy's quarters as he was in his own. "Social scientists believe that the colonists have been able to achieve this balance due to Japanese cultural traits, such as discipline, a traditional worship of nature spirits…"

"…And utter social conformity. All of which are traits you, no doubt, admire."

Spock was not fazed by McCoy's playful attempt to pick a fight. "The underlying concept in Japanese culture is ka, which means 'harmony.' Every behavior is expected to contribute to the underlying ka of the society. All aspects are influenced: architecture, diet, horticulture, social strata, and so on."

For a moment McCoy was focused on retrieving some pertinent bit of data from his computer terminal, and Spock took a moment to reflect on the culture of the Japanese, and the colonies they had established. Their humility and aesthetic simplicity and appealed to him. Not all of their cultural practices were logical, but he admired their overarching concept of ka.

"But Spock, you have forgotten one important aspect of their society. Something which makes all that harmony possible." McCoy put his hand on his monitor and rotated it with a dramatic flourish that did not impress Spock. He read the title of the screen which McCoy was displaying for him.

"Love hotels."

"Even the most harmonious people need to get away from the relations once in a while. For hundreds of years, in places like Tokyo, people were packed in so tight, it was hard to find a place to go for a little action."

"Action? Was it so difficult to move in such close quarters? They must have been crippled by muscular atrophy."

"Action," McCoy repeated, and nodded toward the bed. "A love hotel is a place where couples go to have private time away from their children, or their parents. The hotels promise anonymity above all, because discretion is the most important thing. But you could go to most hotels and get that. Love hotels are special in other ways. No one goes to a love hotel just because they're traveling and need simple lodging, so the people who run the hotels pull out all the stops."

"By that you mean they have organs at these hotels?"

"Would you quit pretending you don't understand Terran figures of speech? You lived on Earth long enough to understand our idioms. You just like to make a point of making them seem ridiculous."

"They are ridiculous."

"Would you just look?" McCoy jabbed the air with his hand, in the general direction of the monitor. "I think this is a perfect opportunity. We could go to one of these hotels, spend our whole shore leave there. And we can finally…you know."

"I understand."

"Computer: provide a list of lodgings classified as 'love hotels' on Ganjitsu…Are there brochures for any of the hotels on this list?"

The content of the screen changed from plain text to a colorful, eye-catching collage. This title screen identified the brochure as being for a love hotel, with a discreet, standard typeface and below that, Japanese characters. The program asked for a language preference.

"I just want to know if this appeals to you," McCoy said. He was miffed by Spock's impassiveness. "If nothing else, I'm sure you could have an engaging conversation with the hotel's computer."

"It would be pleasant to interact with an entity who is as reasonable and methodical as I am," Spock said casually as he gazed at the screen. He was skeptical when he saw the price of the hotel.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Maybe you've been spending all your pay on Romulan ale and whores, but I've been saving mine. I can afford it."

Spock did not appreciate when McCoy mixed irony and earnestness.

McCoy could not stand Spock's careful, unenthusiastic examination of the brochure, so he pushed his chair over next to Spock's and pointed out things that he found interesting. Through the menu he took them to the section detailing the various rooms offered.

"What kind of room do you want?" McCoy asked. "They're all themed. See, we could get a room made to look like an Orion pleasure palace…"

"Why would we want to do that?" Spock's tone was so flat, McCoy could not tell if he was genuinely puzzled, or just attempting to employ the human emotion "sardonic."

"I'm not saying we should get the Orion room. I'm only saying that's one of the options. They have all kinds. Most of them are based on particular cultures or time periods. Oh, like this one, 'Wild West.' Nineteenth-century western United States. See, everything is made of real wood; that's mostly what they built with in those days. And it's made up to look like a saloon."

"Do you mean 'salon'?"

"No, 'saloon,' but it's probably derived from 'salon.' It was a social hub. Oh, look at this, they have a Vulcan room." McCoy selected this room from the menu so they could examine it in greater detail. The room had stone walls and floors, with arched doorways and subdued tapestries on the walls. The accompanying text specified the room's temperature - thirty-two degrees Celsius - the average early-evening temperature on Vulcan. "Well, what do you think?"

Spock made himself very clear. "I do not wish to establish our bond in a facsimile of my home planet."

McCoy held up his hand in a gesture of concession, while with the other he hit a button to backtrack to the room menu. "Then what do you want? Something dramatic? Something romantic? Something bizarre?"

"What I desire is to establish a bond with you in complete privacy." McCoy waited for Spock to continue, but he said no more.

"Fine. If you won't express a preference, I will. I want the most luxurious, sensually delightful room in the place. I want the exact opposite of what this ship is." The love hotel had a small selection of rooms which boasted staggering luxuries. The brochure pointed out that they specifically catered to sensually-deprived space-farers. Excellent, McCoy thought. If there's one thing the Japanese are good at, it's sensory overload. "I want feather pillows and satin sheets," he said. "No, make that ermine. And I want real food, served on silver and crystal. And a big bathtub. Hell, I want the bathtub to be made of ermine!"

Spock did not ask why McCoy desired an ermine bathtub. For the first time in his life, he had encountered a question to which he did not want to know the answer.

***

So long as they were harmless, Montgomery Scott had learned to stop questioning unusual requests made of him when he was at the transporter controls. After a few years in Starfleet, he'd come to the sad conclusion that not everyone adored machines the way he did, and that it was actually a majority who distrusted the transporter. Many people, mostly ensigns, would perform "luck" rituals before being beamed. Thankfully, these tended to be brief: a short chant, or holding onto a talisman of some kind. Lieutenant Clayton would never let himself be beamed until he'd crossed his arms over his chest - he had done this the first time he'd used the transporter, and had made it through in one piece, so as he saw it there was no need to tempt fate.

Still, Scotty couldn't help but be curious when Spock specifically requested that he and Doctor McCoy beam down to Ganjitsu and begin their shore leave in the middle of the night.

Spock had, in his mind, invented a lie: "I will be joining Ganjitsu's team of zoologists to study the nocturnal mammals. Doctor McCoy will accompany me." But he had not the heart to tell this lie, so he said nothing, and Scotty did not ask.

McCoy also did not ask why, at first. He assumed it had to do with the bonding ritual. Maybe they had to howl at the moon together, or something. Did Ganjitsu even have a moon? In any event, McCoy was so nervous with expectation, he dared not disrupt the process by pestering Spock with questions.

But he grew suspicious after they beamed down. Spock took McCoy's arm and ducked through the streets, leaping from one shadow to the next until they reached the hotel. Once they were inside, Spock's crisis seemed to be over, and he carried on as though nothing unusual had just happened.

"What was all that about?" McCoy asked, once he'd caught his breath.

"Ganjitsu is currently host to many Vulcan scientists, who are here to catalog the planet's flora and fauna. I wished to minimize our visibility."

McCoy's expression clouded over. "I get it. You wanted to hide because you're worried they would disapprove if they saw you with a lover. A human lover."

"No. I wanted to hide because it is none of their business."

That response seemed to satisfy McCoy. He approached the concierge desk, which was manned solely by a computer terminal. Most lodging facilities in the galaxy were staffed by friendly sentient beings; it made guests feel more at ease in unfamiliar surroundings. But Spock found a computer concierge at a love hotel to be quite logical, as the major function of the facility was to preserve anonymity. When the computer confirmed that McCoy had made a reservation, it issued him a key-card for the room and encouraged him, in a bland tone, to have a pleasant stay.

If his companion was pleased with the sumptuousness of the accommodations, then that was good enough for Spock, but he himself was not impressed. It was indeed luxurious, but it was not like any sort of luxury Spock had ever faced before. He had stayed in elaborately decorated guest lodgings in the past, but this room had a unique and overtly sexual nature, which did not amuse him. The lamps were provocatively shaped, with thick, undulating stems. Spock could not say precisely which part or parts of the human body they were meant to imitate, but these nebulous curving shapes just reminded him of anatomy, and he imagined the effect would be ten times worse on humans, who when left to their own devices tended to think about sex every seventeen seconds. When he saw the legs of the chairs and tables, he understood the Victorian practice of placing skirts over table legs so that men would not become excited.

And though the furnishings were of a quality, sturdy and smooth, the room boasted almost no fine artisanship; there was no detail to it. Anyone could cut great swaths of cloth or carve large chunks of wood or marble. The one object in the room that did strike him was the bedspread, which was finely embroidered. Spock stooped down to examine it, suspecting that it had been sewn by a machine, but in fact there were minor imperfections in the embroidery which showed it to be hand-made. Gold filaments, as fine as spider's silk, were woven into the fabric, creating a luminous floral pattern. The craftsmanship was so geometrically exact, Spock wondered if those tiny flaws were purposely contributed, to quell suspicions that only a machine could be so accurate. The precision and magnificence of it, the thought of the gold silk in the loom, eased Spock's mind.

And here McCoy stood now, after weeks of anticipation. He was on Ganjitsu, he was with Spock, and they were going to forge a true bond. But after waiting until late to beam down, and all the hassles of getting here, McCoy was exhausted. He was ready to get in that bed, but for the express purpose of sleep. This really is just like a honeymoon, he thought.

"I could use a nap," he said. "Is that alright?"

Spock found this agreeable. "I also need some time, to meditate and prepare. Would you like me to wake you?"

"In a couple of hours. Don't let me sleep too long."

The heat was turned all the way down. McCoy dialed it up to his and Spock's standard compromise temperature, twenty-seven degrees Celsius. Spock milled about, unpacking his spartan bit of luggage and examining the various features of the room. When he encountered a panel of buttons next to the viewing screen, he asked, "What is karaoke?"

"They take the lyrics out of popular songs, so you can sing them instead. Won't do us any good, though. I haven't been able to keep up with popular music since I joined Starfleet." McCoy stripped naked and flung himself on the bed, casting off the heavy top blanket, burrowing under the thin satin sheet underneath. "And anyway, I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket." He rolled about in the sheets a bit for good measure, feeling their myriad textures on his bare skin, then dozed off, leaving Spock to ponder this unusual method of transporting musical structures.

The bathroom was marble, with gold fixtures. Spock tried to think of the nearest planets which produced these two substances, and then began calculating the cost of the transportation of said substances to Ganjitsu. Before he could complete his estimate, he stopped and reminded himself that this time and place were not appropriate for contemplating the economic implications of importing limestone and precious metals. He wondered if perhaps Leonard had a point about enjoying an elaborately sensual experience, and finally decided to put himself in such a mood by indulging in a rare, wasteful luxury: a bath.

Vulcans never bathed in tubs. Even the most ascetic, primitive homes employed sonic showers, rather than squander a commodity as precious as water. Living on Earth and socializing with humans had given him a taste for the compound in a recreational context: while at the Academy he had learned to swim, and found water to be conducive to meditative thought. He'd even read about great Terran scientists who did their best thinking in the bath.

Very well, then. Spock filled the enormous circular tub with water hot enough to discourage a human. Two hours of meditation would be sufficient, before he would need to wake Leonard.

***

McCoy was roused by the soapy smell of steam, which drifted out of the bathroom in Spock's wake. The first thing he saw as he rolled over was Spock draping a towel over the back of a chair, and then approaching him with an erection.

"I was just about to wake you," Spock said.

"I'll bet you were. Good to see that meditation did the trick."

McCoy had seen his share of pornographic holovids, and had always thought that a grown man walking around with his erection bobbing to and fro looked completely silly. But this, what was happening right now, was not silly at all. Like most mammals, he was aroused by the sight of another aroused male. He could feel his whole body react to Spock's erection. His breathing quickened, his pulse raced. He got goosebumps. His own cock got hard instantly. His body knew before his brain did, that it was time to get ready to make love.

Spock must have turned the heat up. It was too hot even for the sheets. McCoy threw them off, no longer ashamed these days to show Spock his naked body. Looking up into those dark eyes, McCoy was sure that Spock was ready to leap upon him. But instead, for all the intensity in his expression, Spock still kept himself in check. He patiently searched their luggage for their bottle of oil (he found that McCoy had packed two, a wise choice), then took a folded towel from the shelf next to the bathroom door. Though there were only these two items, he placed them in a methodical fashion on the nightstand, opened the lid of the bottle and set it aside. Only then, once he deemed it appropriate, did he leap upon McCoy.

Immediately McCoy reached for the open bottle, which he offered to Spock. "Please, don't make me wait any longer."

Spock took the bottle, tilted his head. "You don't need me to 'warm you up a little'?"

McCoy spread his legs, his eyes intense and unfocused. "I'm on fire for you."

Spock could have teased more lascivious confessions out of McCoy, but there would be plenty of time for that later. He too was losing patience. Here was something he could never admit, not to another Vulcan, not to anyone - that he found this human's body so hard to resist. There was no mathematical component, no grace of geometry. It was a human body, warm, moist, wriggling, pulsing, groaning and whimpering, and Spock felt passion, to gaze upon it, to contemplate what was inside it.

Once Spock had prepared McCoy and set the bottle aside, he took a moment to tilt his pelvis and press their bellies together. That always seemed to heighten McCoy's arousal; he would usually make a compelling noise.

Spock barely had to move to enter him. Once McCoy felt Spock touching the entrance to his body, he spread his legs wider, grabbed Spock's buttocks, and urged him inside. Spock needed to concentrate now, to take this pleasure and set it aside for one moment in order to perform the meld. His fingers strayed unimpeded to McCoy's temple.

McCoy was panting. "I'm more nervous now than I was the first time," he whispered.

"This is our first time," Spock replied, and initiated the meld.

McCoy had thought he was ready for this. He thought he was starving for it. But the moment before he was plunged into the depths he reconsidered. Perhaps he'd been right all along. He should never have let this crazy Vulcan tempt him into doing this. He wasn't ready. But it was too late now. Oh, it was too deep already. Don't these things have a shallow end?

When he had been subjected to the meld in the past, he had felt utterly exposed to Spock. Now he felt as though his mind were being exposed to the entire universe. Being pulled open and displayed to all of existence, and he was quite sure he didn't like it. He was only dimly aware of his body, and he didn't understand what was going on. He began to scream from fear, but heard nothing. He did not know if he'd succeeded in making any noise, either in here or out there. It took only a moment, it seemed, for him to exhaust himself with crying out for help. He was beginning to forget where he was and how he'd gotten here. That was when he felt Spock. Spock moved around his fear, examined it, but did nothing to soothe it. When he focused on the presence of Spock, he forgot to be terrified for a second. Then he felt Spock's consciousness latch onto him, and it was like falling. No, flying. No, falling for sure.

Spock was pulling at his mind. Now Spock was pulling at his body. Now Spock was pushing into his body. Now he was the one who was pushing.

He felt an urge, something was urging him to leave this mosaic of sensation, to rise above it. At first he did not want to do this, because he felt so good all of a sudden. But when he finally gave in, it became ten times better. He began to feel everything at once. The pushing, and the pulling.

Oh Spock! Hold me! I can't control it!

It was a relief when the orgasm overtook him, because he was sure he couldn't handle any more. But just as the last shiver passed through his body, he felt another one, no, it was a tremor, no, oh, a lot of them. Oh.

I want out now. Let me out. Please. I'll die.

And then, just like that, he was laid back down in a soft, luxurious bed. And it was like waking leisurely from a wonderful dream.

He groaned, because the feeling was still inside him, and even the remnant of it was too much to hold within his mere physical form. He realized then what a frail husk it must be, that it could not even contain these things.

"I felt both orgasms," McCoy said dazedly. He wasn't sure if his eyes were closed or if he'd gone blind. "I felt yours…then I felt mine."

"No," Spock said. "Yours was the first one, mine was the second."

"Oh." McCoy tried out some basic motor functions. He swallowed. He wiggled his toes. "Spock. You knew I was afraid. Why didn't you do anything about it?"

"I concluded that the fear would intensify the experience."

"Oh. So…how do Vulcans handle this stuff?"

"We do not indulge so often."

When Spock gathered McCoy up in his arms, McCoy felt something strange. It was relaxation, a bit like what he felt, but so powerful, and there was something else, too. And it seemed to be coming from outside his body.

"Wait," he said, and wriggled out of Spock's grip, so that they were not touching at all. The feeling went away. He put a hand on Spock's shoulder, and it came back a little.

"I can feel what you feel," McCoy said, awestruck.

"It has been that way for a while, though it is probably much stronger now."

"I never noticed before."

Spock rested his head on his hand. "You are not very perceptive."

McCoy's eyebrows went up. "I'd like to think that I miss things sometimes because I'm so wrapped up in my work, or because I'm fending off a hostile alien."

"Do you consider me hostile?"

"I wouldn't consider fending you off." McCoy returned to his rightful place, with Spock wrapped around him. "I could go again," he mumbled.

Spock slipped a hand between their bodies to find McCoy's penis was still soft, and it appeared determined to stay that way.

"Doesn't matter," McCoy said. "I want to go again."

Spock rolled McCoy onto his back. "Are you still afraid?"

"Not at all."

Spock placed his fingers with great care. "Then this time will be different."

And so McCoy saw the world dissolve around him, and he was propelled into a realm of light and softness. Along the way there was a twinge, and he wondered if it was Spock entering his body, but he could not focus on it; he could only concentrate on Spock entering his mind.

Waves of energy bombarded both him and Spock, goading them into merging themselves. Once they gave in, their new togetherness fell away and became nothingness, as they plunged into the primordial void. Here things became clear to McCoy that he'd once believed to be impenetrable mysteries. Everything in the universe seemed effortless.

All around him was a radiant softness. All his mistakes, all his regrets, meant nothing in this flood of perfect, unconditional love. He knew not to grieve for the patients he had lost; they were taken care of. And he knew not to fear death. Something was chanting, breathing into his body, a life-force which would go on when his body was no more. He surrendered and fell into the light.

Where were these feelings coming from? Was this Spock? Is this how he is, deep down? Even in his wildest fantasies of seeing Spock express emotion, McCoy had never imagined this. This is what Vulcans must feel - a thread, no, a billion trillion threads - that tied them to every other thing in the universe.

He was pulsating with energy now, and something like an orgasm washed over him, though it was different in a hundred ways, more powerful in a hundred ways. He understood then that the sexual pleasure was merely the foundation upon which new sensory experiences were being built.

He rode the waves of slowly subsiding rapture, until he was washed ashore, back in their soft bed, in their soft room. Spock was, amazingly, still there, beside him. A fortunate coincidence that they had washed up together.

It was the most deeply satisfying experience Spock had ever had, made all the more so by the fact that he'd never expected to have it. With great effort, he tilted his head, and found McCoy staring and silent. He seemed to have not quite made up his mind about how he felt, now that it was complete. Spock waited one point four hours for McCoy to speak. Occasionally he would look over to see if McCoy had nodded off, but no, his eyes were wide open. Spock even waited to make sure he was blinking, before turning back to sort through his own thoughts.

"What did you feel?" McCoy asked, at last.

Even after all the time he'd had to think, Spock was not sure he was ready to articulate his feelings. "Everyone experiences it differently," he said.

"I didn't ask about everyone else. I asked about you."

"I feel…as if the universe and I have reached an understanding."

McCoy snorted. That was the just the sort of answer the damned Vulcan would give, wasn't it?

Spock knew that McCoy would not be satisfied with that response, so he continued. "I also feel very near to you. I feel a closeness that can never be broken, can never be defiled. And when I think of you, something wells up in me, a satisfaction with…life. I cannot organize a better description from my thoughts at this time."

McCoy rolled over, smiled lazily. "Why Spock," he drawled. "Are we feeling…warm and fuzzy?"

At any time up until this moment, Spock would have fixed McCoy with a look of puzzlement, at hearing that phrase and what it was meant to describe. But at this moment, Spock admitted, "Yes, 'warm and fuzzy' represents with reasonable accuracy the way I feel." And he smiled. McCoy got a little warmer and fuzzier himself, seeing Spock's smile, genuine and symmetrical, but somehow not quite right, somehow lopsided. Perhaps, for just an instant, that smile was actually, truly perfect, like the alignment of planets. McCoy moved into Spock's arms. He wanted to know what it was that Spock felt, all over, when he smiled.

"That place we went?" he said. "I wish we could stay there forever."

Spock clutched McCoy tightly. "We are going to," he said.

***

McCoy was having the most wonderful dream. He was lying in bed, and Spock was there. It felt so real, he was sure he was wide awake. Then he woke up, but it sort of felt the same, and he tried to spend some time just thinking about some things he'd been meaning to ponder, and he drifted back to sleep again. Or maybe he was slowly waking. This puzzlement twisted and turned into a moment of panic, and he sat up abruptly in bed. He was alone. "Spock? Spock!"

Spock appeared then, carrying a plate of food, fresh food that came from a cold-storage compartment in the room. Light fare, fruit and sandwiches.

"Am I awake?" McCoy asked. "Be honest."

"To the best of my knowledge, we are both awake."

"How long was I dozing?"

"Two point seven hours." Spock encouraged McCoy to eat something from the plate, and took a piece of fruit for himself.

McCoy looked around the room, as if in the immense span of two point seven hours, things there might have changed. He felt very odd, and the oddness was still making him panicky.

Spock sought to reassure him. "During the time you were asleep, your mind was in a receptive state that allowed our bond to strengthen on a geometric level. You had a spiritual experience. You feel very different."

Holding himself still for a few moments, McCoy was able to focus on the new feeling his brain. He felt good all over, but kind of blurry. From one moment to the next, he might feel a little different, for no reason. That must be Spock in his head. He kind of came and went.

"Yeah, I feel it," McCoy said. "Will I really feel this way forever now?"

"The operations of the bond are at the mercy of many variables, including time, physical distance, emotional state, and mental disciplines. Over time you will become accustomed to the bond and it will cease to seem 'strange.' But if I were to answer your question in the same spirit in which you ask it, my answer would be 'Yes'."

Now McCoy understood why Spock insisted that they have lots of time alone. The swirling, buzzing sensation flitting around inside him made him feel so good, but also a bit lethargic. Right now he was sure he wouldn't want to get out of bed in the morning, or ever again. He would need to grow accustomed to these feelings, learn to live with them, before he would be in any condition to practice medicine.

For a while, they lurked in that hazy, sensuous zone, where your desires are fulfilled before you even realize you have them. It was only when McCoy caught Spock gazing into the middle distance that he realized it was the first time that Spock had not been gazing at him.

"Something on your mind?"

Spock continued to stare absently. "I was pondering a certain Vulcan legend. It is a story about a creature who dwells in the vacant deserts. It is called the Eater of Souls."

This sinister name made McCoy perk up. Could Vulcans be capable of such fanciful drama?

Spock continued. "It appears in sandstorms, during the summer solstice. It is a demon, and it devours unwary Vulcans, right down to the katra."

They were close enough together, under the sheets, that when one of them moved it resulted in the brush of skin against skin, which was more arousing to McCoy than it had been before. Even the slightest caress seemed more poignant.

"What made you think of this Eater of Souls, all of a sudden?"

"It exploits the fear that all Vulcans have: to be consumed utterly, to lose oneself utterly. The katra is indestructible; it would not be eradicated, but instead trapped, forever."

McCoy smiled to hear Spock admit that Vulcans really did have fears, and propped himself on one elbow, stroking Spock's chest idly with his free hand. "Are you trying to tell me that you're afraid that one day I'm going to devour your soul?"

Spock did not answer.

"Do you want to make love again?" McCoy suggested.

"Yes. I desire a brief, intense session."

McCoy rolled back to lie flat on the mattress, displaying himself and inviting Spock to partake of him. As soon as Spock engaged the meld, McCoy yanked him down for a kiss. He summoned up all the passion and technique he could muster, to show Spock how good it really could be.

Spock broke the meld abruptly, which jarred them both and gave McCoy a moment of vertigo.

"That is what a kiss is supposed to feel like?"

McCoy grinned. "Yeah."

"Fascinating." Spock pulled McCoy to him and returned the kiss. McCoy was so excited by the ferocity of it, he began thrusting against Spock's belly. When Spock employed his tongue with deft precision, McCoy pulled away to cry out, and spent himself suddenly.

"I'm sorry," he panted. "I just…that was incredible. It's never felt that good before, just to kiss."

Looking down, McCoy observed that he had produced just a single drop of ejaculate. Spock was exhausting every bit of him.

"I suppose that's not what you meant when you said 'brief and intense.'"

Spock was not overly concerned. "I wish to more fully appreciate the human practice of kissing."

"Well, I'll tell you what, Spock, I'm interested in more fully exploring the human practice of bathing. How long have we been in this bed, anyway? Don't answer that. I don't want to know. What are your thoughts on the bathtub?"

Spock had indeed been musing on the bathtub. "The water usage is wasteful. The bathtub in this suite measures two meters long by two point five meters wide by one-half meter deep. There is a step on one side which measures one half meter long by two meters wide by one quarter of a meter deep. Consequently, the tub holds two point two-five cubic meters of water. If we were to use our collective body mass to account for water displacement---"

McCoy put two fingers over Spock's lips. "I highly doubt that even your mathematical mind could accurately predict how much water we might displace in that tub, if you understand my meaning. Forget about all that, hm? What say you and me fill that bathtub with two-point-two-five cubic meters of warm soapy water, and I'll show you all about this thing we Earthlings call 'kissing,' okay?"

***

McCoy had been following Spock's lead since they'd arrived on Ganjitsu, and so after the bath, when Spock dressed, McCoy did the same, and wondered if it served a purpose at this point, to put on clothes. He opened his luggage and took out another gift he'd been given somewhere along the way: a charcoal-gray pullover. It was some sort of animal fur. McCoy didn't remember how to pronounce the name of the animal, but the woman who gave it to him, a young lady who had tried in vain to win his love, insisted that no harm had been done to the animal to acquire the material. The pullover was soft, and fit loosely. It caressed his skin here and there, as he moved, rubbing his nipples provocatively. McCoy could barely concentrate on sorting through his luggage. He wondered if anything could happen to him in this room that would not make him feel amorous. He had thought he'd stabilized a bit, now that he was out of bed and moving around. But all the softness and sensual delight was pulling him back into that hazy, misty place where he and Spock were still in the process of bonding. He was frightened when he realized that before long, he'd have to abandon this blissful isolation and return to the ship. It was going to be very difficult.

Best not to dwell on it. He was pleasantly distracted again by the feel of the fleece, or an approximation of fleece, against his clean skin. He lounged on the plush sofa, sinking into the cushions with a refreshed, satisfied sigh.

"I don't know about you," he said to Spock, "but I could go for a big meal."

Spock took one more look around for good measure, but he was quite sure there was no food replicator in the suite. (There was no kitchen, considering that most love hotel patrons only stayed a few hours.) "Our options are limited, with only the refrigerated storage unit."

"I don't want food out of the refrigerator," McCoy said. "I want fresh food. Can we have some brought here?"

Spock spent a few minutes at the computer terminal and recited for McCoy a short list of restaurants in the town that would deliver food.

"I want a steak," McCoy said. "No, wait, I want pheasant. What kind of poultry do they have on Ganjitsu? And I want it smothered in butter, on a bed of leafy greens. And a loaf of bread and a bottle of olive oil. And I want the most expensive bottle of wine on the planet, delivered here. Sake. The most expensive bottle of sake. And for dessert…chocolate. Chocolate something. I don't care if it's frozen or a pastry or what. Chocolate." He gestured, to indicate the size of the dessert he would be interested in consuming.

Spock listened to all this, and based on the available information for the applicable restaurants, put together a veritable feast, to be delivered to them.

When the order had been placed, Spock went to his luggage and retrieved his data slate, which he linked to the computer terminal. He sat at the little dining table across from the sofa and plucked the stylus from its holder.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" McCoy tried to sit up to express his indignation, but he remained sunk rather deeply in the sofa cushions.

"I will not be long. I only wish to view the latest news feeds from Starfleet's comnet."

"Little light reading?" McCoy said cuttingly. "Put that damn thing away. We're on vacation. If the Klingons have seized Starfleet headquarters, we're still on vacation."

Spock ignored this, so McCoy got up off the sofa, or rather, he sort of rolled out of it, and yanked the stylus from Spock's hand, fixing him with a look that could, if its energy were properly harnessed, melt sand into glass. But Spock knew that it was not a critical situation, because the doctor was making a fuss. When things truly upset him McCoy was strong and silent as stone.

And indeed, McCoy soon set the stylus back down on the table and retreated to his nest of cushions and pillows. "It feels strange now," he said, "to just talk with you. I feel like, if I have something to tell you, I should just meld with you and tell you that way."

"Some things are better expressed in that manner. But once we are back on the Enterprise and have returned to our routines, I think you will find that verbal communication is more appropriate."

"Of course, yes. I guess I'm just not ready for that yet."

"Nor am I."

"What is it going to be like when we get back to the ship?"

"Vulcans consider it unhealthy to focus on their marriage above all other things. There are many other societal obligations. A bond requires little maintenance."

"Well, that's no fun."

Spock did not smile, he did not even raise an eyebrow, but McCoy could sense the mischief in Spock's voice when he said, "We will perform as much maintenance as you believe is necessary."

Settling himself deeper into the sofa, McCoy sighed contentedly. "Spock, you say the most romantic things."

***

McCoy woke in the night, snuggled closer to Spock, and sighed, ready to drift back to sleep again. He reckoned he wanted to wake up fifty more times in the night, just so he would have that many more opportunities to feel the warm joy of snuggling up to someone and falling back asleep. Tomorrow was their last day of shore leave; they would not be able to do this again for a long time. Hmm…how long?

Something in his mind told him that Spock was awake. He swore he could feel the alert consciousness. "Spock?" he whispered. "When the five-year mission is over, let's get a place together and do this every night, forever. Can we?"

There was no answer from Spock. McCoy guessed that his instincts were wrong, and that Spock was asleep after all. I wonder what he dreams about, McCoy thought. Perhaps I'll get to find out.