Ghosts in Attics II, Chapter 1
TITLE: Ghosts in Attics II, Chapter 1
FANDOM: Star Trek TOS
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Mirror!Spock/McCoy (this part)
TABLE: # 8 - Miscellaneous B
PROMPT: 03. Answers
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: 5422
WARNINGS: Mental and physical rape, torture, violence. Dark, with a capital D.
SUMMARY: Facing ponn far without a chance to get to Vulcan, Mirror!Spock resorts to desperate measures to survive. McCoy has to suffer for it.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I'm writing for fun, not for profit.
NOTE: Unbetaed. If you find mistakes (which I’m sure you will), feel free to point them out to me.
The room looked like Spock’s. He stared up at the ceiling, saw little of the walls, nothing of the furniture, but the room looked like Spock’s, because of the light and the colours. It was too hot. It smelled like Spock’s room.
He looked up and couldn’t close his eyes to this reality, nor could he look around for fear of what he’d see.
The room looked like Spock’s and smelled like Spock’s, but it didn’t feel like Spock’s room.
Spock had never been here.
But someone was, right now, right beside him. He couldn’t look, as if refusing the facts would make them go away.
He couldn’t think clearly, didn’t know how he got here. He knew only that he was here and didn’t want to be. He wished he was dead. He was so afraid it was hard to breathe, so afraid that this might not be a dream.
A voice penetrated the cloud of pain and fear shrouding his senses and he had no choice but to follow its command and turn towards it. And there he was, with his beard and his terrible, cold eyes, looking down at him like one would look at and insect, and McCoy wanted to scream and couldn’t.
No, he tried to whisper but his lips wouldn’t move. The terrible dark eyes became the centre of his world. They filled his mind, as did Spock’s voice when he spoke. (‘Not Spock,’ he thought frantically. ‘Not Spock!’)
“I am Spock,” the man said. “I am him, he is me. You will remember that.”
“No.” McCoy somehow found the strength to speak, but his voice was but a whisper, unable to penetrate the silence around the Vulcan’s words. The fear was paralyzing, but defiance came with the denial of this man’s identity and McCoy could move. Cowering in front of the Vulcan, he looked around wildly, took in the differences to Spock’s quarters and the similarities, while he realised - really realised - where he was, and what it meant.
His gaze slid off the Vulcan - he didn’t want to see him. He wanted to run, but even if there was a way past the other, a way out, there was nowhere to go. Everyone here was twisted, viscous.
He looked, instead, for another way out of a situation without hope and found it lying on the table. McCoy ached all over. He was weak, his knees were shaking even as he was sitting, but he found inside himself the determination born of absolute hopelessness that enabled him to jump to his feet and over to the phaser carelessly left on the table.
Fleetingly he was thinking of Spock, the real Spock, and of Jim, but the thought was going nowhere - and then something stopped his movement so suddenly he fell to the floor. Something pulled back his arms, and he was lying on them, unable to get up. The bearded Vulcan was standing over him though McCoy had no memory of him moving.
“You cannot be trusted not to inflict harm onto yourself. For the high probability of it being fatal I deemed it necessary to keep you restrained.” He leaned down, reached for McCoy’s throat. The grip was crushing - when he pulled McCoy to his feet, the doctor was certain his head would simply be ripped off. He couldn’t breathe. The Vulcan didn’t loosen his hold once the human was upright, struggling for breath, his feet just barely touching the ground. He wanted to fight, but his hands were bound behind his back and his legs weak and useless. He felt the other’s breath on his face when they were so close that he could almost feel the beard against his skin.
“My name is Spock,” the Vulcan said. “You will call me by that name.”
No, the tried to say, could only gasp. The name was already forming on his tongue and only Spock’s hand around his throat kept it from getting out.
Then Spock threw him to the ground, back into the corner he had woken up in, and crouched down in front of him while McCoy for the first time became aware that he was naked. In his panic and confusion, this fact had escaped his mind as much as the cold metal around his wrists.
Now he was back on the floor, he could move his arms almost freely. The chain connecting his shackles to each other and to the ground would pull his wrists together as soon as he moved away from this place. He had no attention left to observe this and knew it anyway. Spock leaned closer again, and McCoy tried to push him away with arms that suddenly looked far too thin and weak.
“Why am I here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and desperate, escaping through an aching throat. “What do you want?”
“I want you,” Spock said coldly. “For now. I might kill you once you have outlived your usefulness to me.”
“Kill me now.” His voice was gone. His lips were forming the words, but no sound reached even his own ears. It didn’t matter; words were useless because Spock was in his head and knew all his thoughts.
The knowledge was too much to bear. Had McCoy had a weapon, he would have killed himself in an instant. Instead, he looked at this man he called Spock because he couldn’t not do it, wanting to please him in any way he could and not knowing how much longer he would be able to tell that this wish was not his own.
“No,” Spock denied his request. He lifted his hands, touched McCoy’s face for a deeper meld even as the human used every bit of his will and strength to fight him off.
Later he wouldn’t remember his own screams.
-
The human lost consciousness when Spock withdrew from his mind. His mind moved away from Spock’s but not as far as before, when they were separated by universes and their bond had been only a small percentage of what it could be.
While melding with McCoy, Spock had strengthened the bond. He had also used the opportunity to take all information he currently considered useful out of the human’s mind, reaching a better understanding of the situation he had placed the man in, and of his state of mind.
When he’d removed McCoy’s clothes after returning to his quarters, Spock had been surprised to see the superficial but painful, and obviously self-inflicted wounds covering the doctor’s body. He began to understand then, and knew for certain now: physical pain was reflected back at Spock as a pleasurable sensation. So, when McCoy had caused pain to himself it had pleased Spock and therefore released the pressure on the mind still struggling against his. McCoy had not been aware of his reasons - he’d only known that hurting himself had made him feel that little bit better.
And Spock had not been aware of this either. He had not needed to make McCoy do this to please him. Instinctively, the human had done it all on his own. Indirectly, his power over the man was going deeper than he had expected.
But gaining direct control, and keeping it, could prove to be more difficult than anticipated. This human was a curious being. He held on to his sense of self even as his hold on reality was slipping, and held on to his perception of the people he cared for despite Spock being proof that he was mistaken. Their memory gave him determination where his strength failed him and kept him fighting even when there was no hope.
It was the loss of his personality, the total surrender to Spock’s will that terrified McCoy most - physical violence he could take, to a degree, but the prospect of becoming nothing more but a tool without a will of his own was filling him with a horror Spock had never encountered before, not even in the minds of prisoners about to be tortured to death. At least there was the relief of death waiting at the end of their journey.
McCoy would rather die than let this happen to him. Knowing this, Spock would not allow him to try.
The human also feared anyone entering his mind and knowing his thoughts. It was a violation of self and privacy he simply could not comprehend. He despised Spock for doing this to him, had done so ever since he had done it for the first time two years ago, and yet was completely defenceless against the invasion. Spock knew now how long it had taken McCoy to even remotely deal with the mental rape Spock had inflicted on him then. He would enjoy searching through every hidden corner of this creature’s being - every suppressed pain, every shameful memory - just to make him suffer. His helpless misery was intoxicating.
All this, McCoy knew. Spock had let him know when he was inside his head. There had been no reason for it, no logical purpose - this was empty cruelty on Spock’s part. He was not usually prone to these urges, but the approaching ponn far made him act out of the parameters of his usual behaviour patterns and he saw no point in fighting against the ancient ways.
Certainly, this wanton desire would go once the burning left his body. For now he indulged the idea of following the urges anyway, even when he no longer had to.
McCoy knew, now, what he was here for. He knew about the ponn far, and Spock was not surprised to learn that apparently the time was nearly upon his counterpart as well. He wondered what the other Spock would do to survive; whether he had known about the possibility McCoy had represented to him, and if so, if he would have taken it. Perhaps he would not, putting too much importance on secondary matters such as consent and the fragile human’s wellbeing, as McCoy was convinced he would. But in the face of certain death, Spock thought, his counterpart might have changed his mind. That Spock was weak, but he was not stupid. He had to know that survival came first.
Curiously, McCoy’s first and only thought concerning the other Spock had been one of concern. Back in his universe, he had noted his strange behaviour, but had been unable to recognize the cause. Now he knew about the potentially lethal time of mating his friend was facing, he worried for him, and regretted not being there to help. The emotion was vague, nearly completely drowned out by the hopeless terror he was feeling during the meld, but it had been there. Somehow, in all his suffering and desperation, he had found it in him to worry about another being.
It was a sign of weakness that would turn anyone into a slave in this world, if they survived at all, and yet it was born from a strength unknown to Spock. Looking down at his unconscious victim, Spock raised an eyebrow in contemplation.
‘You are quite a fascinating creature, Leonard Horatio McCoy,’ he thought with some surprise. ‘You could be an unexpected source of entertainment. It is regrettable I shall have to break you completely.’
Getting up from his crouching position, Spock kept looking down at the motionless form at his feet. McCoy’s thin, bruised body did not appeal to him, but his strong yet vulnerable spirit and his suffering did. This close to ponn far, these aspects were tempting to Spock in a way he was unused to dealing with. For a while he toyed with the idea of waking the doctor and taking him to satisfy the persistent sexual tension that filled him at the moment. But no - he would refuse to give in to his primal nature before it completely took over and left him no other choice.
Further contemplations spoke against the idea: Spock was not certain he would be able to hold back enough not to seriously injure the weakened Terran, which might have resulted in the potentially fatal inconvenience of being without a mate when it truly became vital. And, more concretely, his shift started in half an hour. Kirk might send someone if he failed to show up, and this, Spock wanted to avoid.
He left McCoy lying naked and bound on the floor and began his preparations for his workday.
-
The headache was splitting when he woke up, worse than ever. McCoy groaned, and through the pain instantly remembered where he was.
His empty stomach turned, but he had nothing to throw up. He was in a situation where the best thing he could hope for was a quick death, and that he would not be granted.
The desperation was crippling. The hopelessness of it. He could never go home again, not without help no one would give him.
Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was alone. But soon, Spock would be back. Soon, Spock would enter ponn far, and even though the thought terrified him beyond words, McCoy couldn’t begin to imagine what this would mean for him.
The ship shook. McCoy found himself desperately hoping it would explode.
This Spock was facing ponn far, and so was his Spock. McCoy wondered if he had realised this yet - surely he would have said something. Kirk and McCoy knew about this thing. There was no reason this time for Spock to risk his life with stupid pride.
On the other hand, McCoy had not been exactly reliable lately. Perhaps Spock had chosen not to trust him, or he had decided not to bother him and Jim with his own problems in the face of McCoy’s breakdown. If either of that was the case, it was his fault his friend was once again at risk of losing his life because of his genes.
McCoy should be there, helping him, not here, being a useless piece of human garbage.
Not useless, the bearded Vulcan’s voice seemed to whisper in his head. You may take comfort in the knowledge that you will be used in any way that pleases me.
McCoy retched.
His body shook uncontrollably for a long time. It was too hot in here and yet he was shivering. His insides seemed to be frozen.
He felt ill, paralyzed by fear and desperation, but eventually the thought found its way into his head that if he wanted to escape from here, he would have to try now. Spock wasn’t there. McCoy was still well enough to move. The conditions would never be better than they were this moment.
There was nowhere to run. He had no idea how to get back home, and no one here would help him - but for the escape he had in mind nothing more would be necessary than to get out of these restraints, so he could reach the ceremonial dagger fastened to the wall on the other side of the room.
He thought, distantly, that he was giving up and shouldn’t. But he had been ill and tired for so long, and simply didn’t have the strength to cling to a hope that didn’t exist. The future waiting for him was too terrible.
Getting out of the metal shackles around his writs would be an act of determination, nothing else - and determination he had in abundance. All he had to do was dislocate his thumbs and slide the shackles over his hands. He knew how to do that, and the knowledge that the Vulcan might still monitor his thoughts and could be back to stop him any second helped him to overcome any hesitation he might have felt.
Relocating the thumbs would be difficult, but crippled like that he would not have the strength to hold the weapon. So McCoy first freed his left hand, got the bone back where it belonged and repeated the procedure with the right hand. The pain was terrible, nauseating, but also distant, as if it didn’t belong to him anymore. He realised that he didn’t care because in a minute he would be dead anyway.
Beyond pain and fear, and most importantly, beyond Spock’s reach.
The second time he didn’t bother to fix the damage he’d caused. There was no time, and no need. He could kill himself with one hand.
The Vulcan knew about this. McCoy stumbled through the room as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. Before he had made it halfway to the wall and the knife, a pain like nothing he had ever felt before surged through his body. His insides seemed to cramp around the centre of this agony and he fell to his knees, then to his side, utterly and completely unable to move, to scream, to breathe.
The pain swallowed him up and went on forever.
-
The shift dragged on. Spock had never before awaited the end of the day with such impatience, and even the Klingon battleship challenging their right to approach the next planet on their schedule was barely enough to keep his attention.
His guest woke up during the battle. Spock felt the stirring of his mind, the splitting pain in McCoy’s skull he had left in his wake, the misery. He wanted to go to his quarters and take him. The Klingons kept attacking them. They annoyed him.
He felt the human’s defiance and his determination to escape his fate, but was not bothered until McCoy acted on it. The Klingon ship exploded the moment the doctor managed to get rid of his restraints. Spock had not anticipated this, but was prepared anyway. If anyone saw him pressing the button on the little transmitter he carried with him, they didn’t think anything of it.
When McCoy went down in agony, Kirk watched the enemy ship go up in flames and smiled for the first time in weeks. Spock suppressed a pleasant shiver when he was bathed in his bondmate’s pain. He had to block the link until just enough got through for him to monitor the human’s life signs. This was not the place nor the time to feel this good.
He imagined McCoy naked and writhing in agony on the floor of his quarters, and it was almost too much. Pushing the image away required a considerable effort of will.
Spock waited until the doctor had passed out before he deactivated the device. In the end, McCoy had lasted nearly half an hour. It was longer than expected, but still within average parameters. Spock opened the link fully again, to keep watch over his suicidal prisoner, even though he did not believe he would wake within the remaining hours of this shift.
There were another two hours left, and the fact that even in his own mind he did not bother with decimal numbers was proof to Spock that he would not be able to take another shift before his time was over.
Kirk left the bridge the same time he did. Spock took the opportunity to discuss the days to come in the privacy of the turbo lift.
“I will take my leave of absence, Captain, starting tomorrow. I will return to work in eight standard days.”
Kirk looked surprised for a second, before his face darkened. “You aren’t asking,” he observed.
“No, Captain. I am aware of my rights under regulations.”
“Still, don’t you think it would have been a good idea to warn me more than a day in advance? I might need you on your job these days.” He was displeased.
“I am aware of the Enterprise’s schedule. No predictable event in the following days will requite my personal attention.”
“Well.” Kirk’s face was still dark; he did not like being surprised like this by someone he, as captain, should have complete control over. “You may take your leave, but I‘m sure you’ll understand my necessity to deny you to leave this ship. So if something comes up, I’ll know where to find you.”
“It is not my desire to leave the Enterprise. I do, however, demand my right as a Vulcan to be left alone during the following week.”
With a harsh word, Kirk stopped the lift just before it reached its destination. “Your right as a Vulcan? Who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Spock? Your muddy genetics don’t lift you into a position different than that of any other member of this crew: below me. I run this ship, and if I say I need you, you will follow my orders or face the consequences of mutiny. Is that understood?” His voice was sharp, his eyes narrowed. His respiration and pulse where sped up. He suspected insubordination, a test of power.
“I am entering ponn far,” Spock said calmly. His words preceded a moment of stunned silence.
“Ah,” said Kirk. “You could have said that before, you know.” Spock watched him closely behind as impassive a façade as he could muster. The captain looked uneasy all of a sudden, though he hid it well. Without a doubt he recalled the fight over T’Pring that had occurred between Spock and his rival Stonn during his last ponn far, and the bloody mess that had remained of his opponent once Spock’s rage cooled down.
‘I could kill you with my bare hands,’ Spock thought. ‘You may outrank me, but I am the one in power.’
“In that case, I’m surprised you are not requesting leave on Vulcan.”
“There is no one waiting for me on Vulcan.” ‘And you would not let me go there.’
“True. Perhaps it was unwise to kill your wife, don’t you think?”
Spock had thought that many times in the last two years, but could never find it in himself to regret the action. “She did not want me. I did not want her. This ponn far would not have been any more successful than the first.”
“Speaking of which, aren’t you a little early with this?”
“A side effect of the ponn far being uncompleted last time,” Spock said stiffly. It was an effort of will not to shift impatiently. “I trust my privacy will be respected during this time.”
“Oh, certainly. But tell me, how do you plan to survive without a mate? If you are planning to kill someone of my crew to blow off some steam, you’d better had asked for permission first.”
“The crew is safe from me in this regard. There are other ways which I will pursue. It would be to everyone’s advance if I remained undisturbed though.” Spock’s voice remained even as he looked at the captain. “I will kill anyone who enters my quarters.”
Kirk’s eyes narrowed again. “A threat, Spock?”
“A fact, Captain.”
A brief moment of silence, just by a heartbeat long enough to carry meaning.
“Very well.” A command had the lift moving again. “I expect you back in eight days. Have fun.” The doors opened. Spock watched Kirk’s retreating back until they closed again.
“Fun,” he mused quietly, glad that Kirk had never bothered to learn anything but the obvious about the ponn far. He smiled thinly and without humour. “Certainly.”
-
McCoy had not yet woken by the time Spock entered his quarters. The human was covered in sweat and breathing irregularly. His head rolled back bonelessly when Spock dragged him over to the wall and put the shackles back around his wrists. The exposed throat challenged his fading control over himself.
Resetting the dislocated thumb was not a problem. After that, the restrains once again fulfilled their purpose, but Spock knew now that they would not suffice should he be unable to keep a mental eye on this man. Another solution had to be found, and there was very little time.
Making use of the rationality that remained in him, Spock programmed his door override to captain only, the only setting he had no way of erasing. It didn’t matter. Kirk would know better than to get in the way of a Vulcan in ponn far.
He traded his uniform for plain robes and lit the fire pot. The heat and smell calmed his nerves, but his attempt to enter a light meditative trance was spoiled by McCoy regaining consciousness. The human moved weakly and groaned in pain. His thoughts were chaotic, but even that chaos was strangely tempting in its alieness, while the sensations of the abused body flooded Spock like a drug.
Soon it would be time to give in. He could have postponed the moment a little longer, but there was simply no need. The sooner he allowed the plak tow to begin, the sooner he would be free of it. ‘Before this night is over I will claim you,’ he thought, gazing at the pathetic, naked figure on the floor. ‘I will claim you again and again until the burning ceases or your heart stops beating.’
“Bastard.” McCoy’s voice was so weak and hoarse that even with his Vulcan hearing only the mental link allowed Spock to make out the meaning of the words. “What have you done to me?”
“I have placed an agonizer in your body while you where unconscious,” he explained and felt the human’s disbelieving shock. “Whenever you try to escape or otherwise act against my wishes, it will render you immobile. I hope for your sake that you have learned your lesson and will not risk further demonstration.”
McCoy was silent for a moment while the information settled in his mind. Finally, he said, “You’re sick.”
“I am, indeed, not.” It was quite fascinating how the close proximity of his bondmate was at the same time calming him and wearing down his restraint. “My actions were strictly logical in regard to their purpose of keeping you from pursuing actions that would go against my interests.” Spock received an interesting thought then: McCoy was deeply disturbed by the way his manner of speaking was very alike to the speech patterns of his counterpart, while at the same time the meaning behind his words went against anything the other Spock might have said.
“Sick,” McCoy whispered.
Silence fell. Spock made no further attempts to meditate, satisfied for the moment to sit beside the fire pot and listen in to the other’s erratic thoughts.
“Where are my clothes?” he human eventually asked, his voice stronger than before.
“The temperature in my quarters is sufficient to keep you from feeling cold.”
“The temperature is sufficient to toast me.” The tone was at the same time flat and aggressive. Spock sensed that for McCoy remarks of this kind came naturally in conversations with his Spock, and that the similarity was of no comfort to him now. Instead it was causing something the Vulcan could only identify as emotional pain. “That’s no answer to my question.”
“I do not require you clothed,” Spock told him. McCoy didn’t say anything more after that.
Eventually, despite his fear, the human fell asleep, worn out by pain, distress, and the heat. Spock decided to let him rest for a while. He would get little opportunity for it during the next days.
The stronger he was, the longer he would last. With distant surprise, Spock discovered that he would prefer it if the human stayed alive beyond the duration of the plak tow. He did not have the patience and peace of mind right now to analyse that realisation.
Moving around quietly, Spock took preparations for the days to come. He would not require any food during the time, but McCoy would, and circumstances made it impossible for Spock to have someone else take care of him. He had considered this problem before, and had made sure to have a collection of hyposprays in his quarters, containing concentrated nutrition created for the human organism. He took them out now, lining them in plain sight on the table. It would be enough to keep McCoy alive.
Another hypo was prepared, this one containing a strong stimulant that would keep the human from passing out the moment Spock first took him. For the need to lie with a bonded partner to be satisfied, both parties had to be conscious.
Spock was aware that all this would put an enormous strain on the human’s body, but without the surveillance that would be provided on Vulcan, there was little else he could do.
The problem remained that he would not be able to keep the doctor from escaping during the brief periods of trance-like sleep his body would fall into every now and then. But he suspected that this would not actually be a problem. By the time it first happened, McCoy was unlikely to be still able to walk.
To make sure, Spock considered breaking the doctor’s wrists, or his legs, but decided against it for fear the additional pain would prove too much for the weakened body. Instead, he decided to fasten the restraints to the head of his bed and keep the chains too short for one hand to reach the other. In the long run, should the need occur, he would have to come up with something better than that.
About four hours after McCoy had fallen sleep, Spock’s patience ran out. He lifted the light body off the floor and tied it to the bed without McCoy’s sleep being disturbed. With a sense of irony emerging through the increasing disorder of his thoughts, the Vulcan noted that after weeks of nightmares, McCoy’s sleep was deep and dreamless for the first time. Spock gathered two of the hypos and woke him to reality.
Awareness came abrupt. McCoy’s eye flew open when Spock pressed the first hypo against his neck. The stimulant followed, even while the doctor struggled against his restrains, in vain.
Spock, usually appreciating order and neatness, threw the hypos to the floor without care. McCoy’s bare skin touched his, strengthening the bond, making it impossible to block. All these sensations flooded his mind, so close yet perfectly distinguishable from his own. This human was terrified, and he was his.
Spock was very well aware of the power he had here. A low growl, animal like, escaped his throat. Letting the primal needs take over was easier than, considering his natural reluctance, he had expected - he simply had to stop fighting.
All logic and reason and sense of self disappeared. This was his mate. He would claim him, mark him as his as was his right. There was a sense of denial, a resistance coming from the other. He snarled and bent down to bite the exposed throat, while his hands moved to push apart thin legs that stood no chance against his inhuman strength. The ongoing struggle merely irritated him. Impatient movements guided his throbbing penis to the mate’s entrance and he took him with one harsh thrust.
Full mental contact was established the very same moment. A distant, unacknowledged part of him was surprised how easily his mind slipped into the other’s, even as the joining of their bodies was made difficult by lack of preparation and lack of acceptance on the mate’s part. The thought was unimportant and instantly drowned out by a sense of fulfilment, by need and desire, by another’s panic and pain meeting his own ecstasy.
Neither body nor mind accepted his invasion. He thrust again, buried himself in the cool body and made sure it hurt. He felt the pain but it wasn’t his. He exercised power and experienced the suffering he was inflicting by it and it was perfect.
You are mine. There were no thoughts in his head. There was just the message, the fact. You will yield to me. I will hurt you. I will hurt you. I will hurt you and you will love me.
He felt the denial in the blind panic, thrust hard and did not need to hear the screams. He needed more. This wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough. He couldn’t think for the need in him. His hands wrapped around brittle arms, leaving marks so easily. Just a little more and the bones would crack.
(no no no please no stop please spock no)
He thrust harder and deeper and faster and it still wasn’t enough but he would get there, eventually he would get there, if only he spend himself inside his mate, his property, this helpless thing beneath him.
The burning became stronger with every move he made and he didn’t ever want it to stop.
October 2, 2009
Chapter 2
FANDOM: Star Trek TOS
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Mirror!Spock/McCoy (this part)
TABLE: # 8 - Miscellaneous B
PROMPT: 03. Answers
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: 5422
WARNINGS: Mental and physical rape, torture, violence. Dark, with a capital D.
SUMMARY: Facing ponn far without a chance to get to Vulcan, Mirror!Spock resorts to desperate measures to survive. McCoy has to suffer for it.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I'm writing for fun, not for profit.
NOTE: Unbetaed. If you find mistakes (which I’m sure you will), feel free to point them out to me.
The room looked like Spock’s. He stared up at the ceiling, saw little of the walls, nothing of the furniture, but the room looked like Spock’s, because of the light and the colours. It was too hot. It smelled like Spock’s room.
He looked up and couldn’t close his eyes to this reality, nor could he look around for fear of what he’d see.
The room looked like Spock’s and smelled like Spock’s, but it didn’t feel like Spock’s room.
Spock had never been here.
But someone was, right now, right beside him. He couldn’t look, as if refusing the facts would make them go away.
He couldn’t think clearly, didn’t know how he got here. He knew only that he was here and didn’t want to be. He wished he was dead. He was so afraid it was hard to breathe, so afraid that this might not be a dream.
A voice penetrated the cloud of pain and fear shrouding his senses and he had no choice but to follow its command and turn towards it. And there he was, with his beard and his terrible, cold eyes, looking down at him like one would look at and insect, and McCoy wanted to scream and couldn’t.
No, he tried to whisper but his lips wouldn’t move. The terrible dark eyes became the centre of his world. They filled his mind, as did Spock’s voice when he spoke. (‘Not Spock,’ he thought frantically. ‘Not Spock!’)
“I am Spock,” the man said. “I am him, he is me. You will remember that.”
“No.” McCoy somehow found the strength to speak, but his voice was but a whisper, unable to penetrate the silence around the Vulcan’s words. The fear was paralyzing, but defiance came with the denial of this man’s identity and McCoy could move. Cowering in front of the Vulcan, he looked around wildly, took in the differences to Spock’s quarters and the similarities, while he realised - really realised - where he was, and what it meant.
His gaze slid off the Vulcan - he didn’t want to see him. He wanted to run, but even if there was a way past the other, a way out, there was nowhere to go. Everyone here was twisted, viscous.
He looked, instead, for another way out of a situation without hope and found it lying on the table. McCoy ached all over. He was weak, his knees were shaking even as he was sitting, but he found inside himself the determination born of absolute hopelessness that enabled him to jump to his feet and over to the phaser carelessly left on the table.
Fleetingly he was thinking of Spock, the real Spock, and of Jim, but the thought was going nowhere - and then something stopped his movement so suddenly he fell to the floor. Something pulled back his arms, and he was lying on them, unable to get up. The bearded Vulcan was standing over him though McCoy had no memory of him moving.
“You cannot be trusted not to inflict harm onto yourself. For the high probability of it being fatal I deemed it necessary to keep you restrained.” He leaned down, reached for McCoy’s throat. The grip was crushing - when he pulled McCoy to his feet, the doctor was certain his head would simply be ripped off. He couldn’t breathe. The Vulcan didn’t loosen his hold once the human was upright, struggling for breath, his feet just barely touching the ground. He wanted to fight, but his hands were bound behind his back and his legs weak and useless. He felt the other’s breath on his face when they were so close that he could almost feel the beard against his skin.
“My name is Spock,” the Vulcan said. “You will call me by that name.”
No, the tried to say, could only gasp. The name was already forming on his tongue and only Spock’s hand around his throat kept it from getting out.
Then Spock threw him to the ground, back into the corner he had woken up in, and crouched down in front of him while McCoy for the first time became aware that he was naked. In his panic and confusion, this fact had escaped his mind as much as the cold metal around his wrists.
Now he was back on the floor, he could move his arms almost freely. The chain connecting his shackles to each other and to the ground would pull his wrists together as soon as he moved away from this place. He had no attention left to observe this and knew it anyway. Spock leaned closer again, and McCoy tried to push him away with arms that suddenly looked far too thin and weak.
“Why am I here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and desperate, escaping through an aching throat. “What do you want?”
“I want you,” Spock said coldly. “For now. I might kill you once you have outlived your usefulness to me.”
“Kill me now.” His voice was gone. His lips were forming the words, but no sound reached even his own ears. It didn’t matter; words were useless because Spock was in his head and knew all his thoughts.
The knowledge was too much to bear. Had McCoy had a weapon, he would have killed himself in an instant. Instead, he looked at this man he called Spock because he couldn’t not do it, wanting to please him in any way he could and not knowing how much longer he would be able to tell that this wish was not his own.
“No,” Spock denied his request. He lifted his hands, touched McCoy’s face for a deeper meld even as the human used every bit of his will and strength to fight him off.
Later he wouldn’t remember his own screams.
-
The human lost consciousness when Spock withdrew from his mind. His mind moved away from Spock’s but not as far as before, when they were separated by universes and their bond had been only a small percentage of what it could be.
While melding with McCoy, Spock had strengthened the bond. He had also used the opportunity to take all information he currently considered useful out of the human’s mind, reaching a better understanding of the situation he had placed the man in, and of his state of mind.
When he’d removed McCoy’s clothes after returning to his quarters, Spock had been surprised to see the superficial but painful, and obviously self-inflicted wounds covering the doctor’s body. He began to understand then, and knew for certain now: physical pain was reflected back at Spock as a pleasurable sensation. So, when McCoy had caused pain to himself it had pleased Spock and therefore released the pressure on the mind still struggling against his. McCoy had not been aware of his reasons - he’d only known that hurting himself had made him feel that little bit better.
And Spock had not been aware of this either. He had not needed to make McCoy do this to please him. Instinctively, the human had done it all on his own. Indirectly, his power over the man was going deeper than he had expected.
But gaining direct control, and keeping it, could prove to be more difficult than anticipated. This human was a curious being. He held on to his sense of self even as his hold on reality was slipping, and held on to his perception of the people he cared for despite Spock being proof that he was mistaken. Their memory gave him determination where his strength failed him and kept him fighting even when there was no hope.
It was the loss of his personality, the total surrender to Spock’s will that terrified McCoy most - physical violence he could take, to a degree, but the prospect of becoming nothing more but a tool without a will of his own was filling him with a horror Spock had never encountered before, not even in the minds of prisoners about to be tortured to death. At least there was the relief of death waiting at the end of their journey.
McCoy would rather die than let this happen to him. Knowing this, Spock would not allow him to try.
The human also feared anyone entering his mind and knowing his thoughts. It was a violation of self and privacy he simply could not comprehend. He despised Spock for doing this to him, had done so ever since he had done it for the first time two years ago, and yet was completely defenceless against the invasion. Spock knew now how long it had taken McCoy to even remotely deal with the mental rape Spock had inflicted on him then. He would enjoy searching through every hidden corner of this creature’s being - every suppressed pain, every shameful memory - just to make him suffer. His helpless misery was intoxicating.
All this, McCoy knew. Spock had let him know when he was inside his head. There had been no reason for it, no logical purpose - this was empty cruelty on Spock’s part. He was not usually prone to these urges, but the approaching ponn far made him act out of the parameters of his usual behaviour patterns and he saw no point in fighting against the ancient ways.
Certainly, this wanton desire would go once the burning left his body. For now he indulged the idea of following the urges anyway, even when he no longer had to.
McCoy knew, now, what he was here for. He knew about the ponn far, and Spock was not surprised to learn that apparently the time was nearly upon his counterpart as well. He wondered what the other Spock would do to survive; whether he had known about the possibility McCoy had represented to him, and if so, if he would have taken it. Perhaps he would not, putting too much importance on secondary matters such as consent and the fragile human’s wellbeing, as McCoy was convinced he would. But in the face of certain death, Spock thought, his counterpart might have changed his mind. That Spock was weak, but he was not stupid. He had to know that survival came first.
Curiously, McCoy’s first and only thought concerning the other Spock had been one of concern. Back in his universe, he had noted his strange behaviour, but had been unable to recognize the cause. Now he knew about the potentially lethal time of mating his friend was facing, he worried for him, and regretted not being there to help. The emotion was vague, nearly completely drowned out by the hopeless terror he was feeling during the meld, but it had been there. Somehow, in all his suffering and desperation, he had found it in him to worry about another being.
It was a sign of weakness that would turn anyone into a slave in this world, if they survived at all, and yet it was born from a strength unknown to Spock. Looking down at his unconscious victim, Spock raised an eyebrow in contemplation.
‘You are quite a fascinating creature, Leonard Horatio McCoy,’ he thought with some surprise. ‘You could be an unexpected source of entertainment. It is regrettable I shall have to break you completely.’
Getting up from his crouching position, Spock kept looking down at the motionless form at his feet. McCoy’s thin, bruised body did not appeal to him, but his strong yet vulnerable spirit and his suffering did. This close to ponn far, these aspects were tempting to Spock in a way he was unused to dealing with. For a while he toyed with the idea of waking the doctor and taking him to satisfy the persistent sexual tension that filled him at the moment. But no - he would refuse to give in to his primal nature before it completely took over and left him no other choice.
Further contemplations spoke against the idea: Spock was not certain he would be able to hold back enough not to seriously injure the weakened Terran, which might have resulted in the potentially fatal inconvenience of being without a mate when it truly became vital. And, more concretely, his shift started in half an hour. Kirk might send someone if he failed to show up, and this, Spock wanted to avoid.
He left McCoy lying naked and bound on the floor and began his preparations for his workday.
-
The headache was splitting when he woke up, worse than ever. McCoy groaned, and through the pain instantly remembered where he was.
His empty stomach turned, but he had nothing to throw up. He was in a situation where the best thing he could hope for was a quick death, and that he would not be granted.
The desperation was crippling. The hopelessness of it. He could never go home again, not without help no one would give him.
Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he was alone. But soon, Spock would be back. Soon, Spock would enter ponn far, and even though the thought terrified him beyond words, McCoy couldn’t begin to imagine what this would mean for him.
The ship shook. McCoy found himself desperately hoping it would explode.
This Spock was facing ponn far, and so was his Spock. McCoy wondered if he had realised this yet - surely he would have said something. Kirk and McCoy knew about this thing. There was no reason this time for Spock to risk his life with stupid pride.
On the other hand, McCoy had not been exactly reliable lately. Perhaps Spock had chosen not to trust him, or he had decided not to bother him and Jim with his own problems in the face of McCoy’s breakdown. If either of that was the case, it was his fault his friend was once again at risk of losing his life because of his genes.
McCoy should be there, helping him, not here, being a useless piece of human garbage.
Not useless, the bearded Vulcan’s voice seemed to whisper in his head. You may take comfort in the knowledge that you will be used in any way that pleases me.
McCoy retched.
His body shook uncontrollably for a long time. It was too hot in here and yet he was shivering. His insides seemed to be frozen.
He felt ill, paralyzed by fear and desperation, but eventually the thought found its way into his head that if he wanted to escape from here, he would have to try now. Spock wasn’t there. McCoy was still well enough to move. The conditions would never be better than they were this moment.
There was nowhere to run. He had no idea how to get back home, and no one here would help him - but for the escape he had in mind nothing more would be necessary than to get out of these restraints, so he could reach the ceremonial dagger fastened to the wall on the other side of the room.
He thought, distantly, that he was giving up and shouldn’t. But he had been ill and tired for so long, and simply didn’t have the strength to cling to a hope that didn’t exist. The future waiting for him was too terrible.
Getting out of the metal shackles around his writs would be an act of determination, nothing else - and determination he had in abundance. All he had to do was dislocate his thumbs and slide the shackles over his hands. He knew how to do that, and the knowledge that the Vulcan might still monitor his thoughts and could be back to stop him any second helped him to overcome any hesitation he might have felt.
Relocating the thumbs would be difficult, but crippled like that he would not have the strength to hold the weapon. So McCoy first freed his left hand, got the bone back where it belonged and repeated the procedure with the right hand. The pain was terrible, nauseating, but also distant, as if it didn’t belong to him anymore. He realised that he didn’t care because in a minute he would be dead anyway.
Beyond pain and fear, and most importantly, beyond Spock’s reach.
The second time he didn’t bother to fix the damage he’d caused. There was no time, and no need. He could kill himself with one hand.
The Vulcan knew about this. McCoy stumbled through the room as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. Before he had made it halfway to the wall and the knife, a pain like nothing he had ever felt before surged through his body. His insides seemed to cramp around the centre of this agony and he fell to his knees, then to his side, utterly and completely unable to move, to scream, to breathe.
The pain swallowed him up and went on forever.
-
The shift dragged on. Spock had never before awaited the end of the day with such impatience, and even the Klingon battleship challenging their right to approach the next planet on their schedule was barely enough to keep his attention.
His guest woke up during the battle. Spock felt the stirring of his mind, the splitting pain in McCoy’s skull he had left in his wake, the misery. He wanted to go to his quarters and take him. The Klingons kept attacking them. They annoyed him.
He felt the human’s defiance and his determination to escape his fate, but was not bothered until McCoy acted on it. The Klingon ship exploded the moment the doctor managed to get rid of his restraints. Spock had not anticipated this, but was prepared anyway. If anyone saw him pressing the button on the little transmitter he carried with him, they didn’t think anything of it.
When McCoy went down in agony, Kirk watched the enemy ship go up in flames and smiled for the first time in weeks. Spock suppressed a pleasant shiver when he was bathed in his bondmate’s pain. He had to block the link until just enough got through for him to monitor the human’s life signs. This was not the place nor the time to feel this good.
He imagined McCoy naked and writhing in agony on the floor of his quarters, and it was almost too much. Pushing the image away required a considerable effort of will.
Spock waited until the doctor had passed out before he deactivated the device. In the end, McCoy had lasted nearly half an hour. It was longer than expected, but still within average parameters. Spock opened the link fully again, to keep watch over his suicidal prisoner, even though he did not believe he would wake within the remaining hours of this shift.
There were another two hours left, and the fact that even in his own mind he did not bother with decimal numbers was proof to Spock that he would not be able to take another shift before his time was over.
Kirk left the bridge the same time he did. Spock took the opportunity to discuss the days to come in the privacy of the turbo lift.
“I will take my leave of absence, Captain, starting tomorrow. I will return to work in eight standard days.”
Kirk looked surprised for a second, before his face darkened. “You aren’t asking,” he observed.
“No, Captain. I am aware of my rights under regulations.”
“Still, don’t you think it would have been a good idea to warn me more than a day in advance? I might need you on your job these days.” He was displeased.
“I am aware of the Enterprise’s schedule. No predictable event in the following days will requite my personal attention.”
“Well.” Kirk’s face was still dark; he did not like being surprised like this by someone he, as captain, should have complete control over. “You may take your leave, but I‘m sure you’ll understand my necessity to deny you to leave this ship. So if something comes up, I’ll know where to find you.”
“It is not my desire to leave the Enterprise. I do, however, demand my right as a Vulcan to be left alone during the following week.”
With a harsh word, Kirk stopped the lift just before it reached its destination. “Your right as a Vulcan? Who the hell do you think you are, Mr. Spock? Your muddy genetics don’t lift you into a position different than that of any other member of this crew: below me. I run this ship, and if I say I need you, you will follow my orders or face the consequences of mutiny. Is that understood?” His voice was sharp, his eyes narrowed. His respiration and pulse where sped up. He suspected insubordination, a test of power.
“I am entering ponn far,” Spock said calmly. His words preceded a moment of stunned silence.
“Ah,” said Kirk. “You could have said that before, you know.” Spock watched him closely behind as impassive a façade as he could muster. The captain looked uneasy all of a sudden, though he hid it well. Without a doubt he recalled the fight over T’Pring that had occurred between Spock and his rival Stonn during his last ponn far, and the bloody mess that had remained of his opponent once Spock’s rage cooled down.
‘I could kill you with my bare hands,’ Spock thought. ‘You may outrank me, but I am the one in power.’
“In that case, I’m surprised you are not requesting leave on Vulcan.”
“There is no one waiting for me on Vulcan.” ‘And you would not let me go there.’
“True. Perhaps it was unwise to kill your wife, don’t you think?”
Spock had thought that many times in the last two years, but could never find it in himself to regret the action. “She did not want me. I did not want her. This ponn far would not have been any more successful than the first.”
“Speaking of which, aren’t you a little early with this?”
“A side effect of the ponn far being uncompleted last time,” Spock said stiffly. It was an effort of will not to shift impatiently. “I trust my privacy will be respected during this time.”
“Oh, certainly. But tell me, how do you plan to survive without a mate? If you are planning to kill someone of my crew to blow off some steam, you’d better had asked for permission first.”
“The crew is safe from me in this regard. There are other ways which I will pursue. It would be to everyone’s advance if I remained undisturbed though.” Spock’s voice remained even as he looked at the captain. “I will kill anyone who enters my quarters.”
Kirk’s eyes narrowed again. “A threat, Spock?”
“A fact, Captain.”
A brief moment of silence, just by a heartbeat long enough to carry meaning.
“Very well.” A command had the lift moving again. “I expect you back in eight days. Have fun.” The doors opened. Spock watched Kirk’s retreating back until they closed again.
“Fun,” he mused quietly, glad that Kirk had never bothered to learn anything but the obvious about the ponn far. He smiled thinly and without humour. “Certainly.”
-
McCoy had not yet woken by the time Spock entered his quarters. The human was covered in sweat and breathing irregularly. His head rolled back bonelessly when Spock dragged him over to the wall and put the shackles back around his wrists. The exposed throat challenged his fading control over himself.
Resetting the dislocated thumb was not a problem. After that, the restrains once again fulfilled their purpose, but Spock knew now that they would not suffice should he be unable to keep a mental eye on this man. Another solution had to be found, and there was very little time.
Making use of the rationality that remained in him, Spock programmed his door override to captain only, the only setting he had no way of erasing. It didn’t matter. Kirk would know better than to get in the way of a Vulcan in ponn far.
He traded his uniform for plain robes and lit the fire pot. The heat and smell calmed his nerves, but his attempt to enter a light meditative trance was spoiled by McCoy regaining consciousness. The human moved weakly and groaned in pain. His thoughts were chaotic, but even that chaos was strangely tempting in its alieness, while the sensations of the abused body flooded Spock like a drug.
Soon it would be time to give in. He could have postponed the moment a little longer, but there was simply no need. The sooner he allowed the plak tow to begin, the sooner he would be free of it. ‘Before this night is over I will claim you,’ he thought, gazing at the pathetic, naked figure on the floor. ‘I will claim you again and again until the burning ceases or your heart stops beating.’
“Bastard.” McCoy’s voice was so weak and hoarse that even with his Vulcan hearing only the mental link allowed Spock to make out the meaning of the words. “What have you done to me?”
“I have placed an agonizer in your body while you where unconscious,” he explained and felt the human’s disbelieving shock. “Whenever you try to escape or otherwise act against my wishes, it will render you immobile. I hope for your sake that you have learned your lesson and will not risk further demonstration.”
McCoy was silent for a moment while the information settled in his mind. Finally, he said, “You’re sick.”
“I am, indeed, not.” It was quite fascinating how the close proximity of his bondmate was at the same time calming him and wearing down his restraint. “My actions were strictly logical in regard to their purpose of keeping you from pursuing actions that would go against my interests.” Spock received an interesting thought then: McCoy was deeply disturbed by the way his manner of speaking was very alike to the speech patterns of his counterpart, while at the same time the meaning behind his words went against anything the other Spock might have said.
“Sick,” McCoy whispered.
Silence fell. Spock made no further attempts to meditate, satisfied for the moment to sit beside the fire pot and listen in to the other’s erratic thoughts.
“Where are my clothes?” he human eventually asked, his voice stronger than before.
“The temperature in my quarters is sufficient to keep you from feeling cold.”
“The temperature is sufficient to toast me.” The tone was at the same time flat and aggressive. Spock sensed that for McCoy remarks of this kind came naturally in conversations with his Spock, and that the similarity was of no comfort to him now. Instead it was causing something the Vulcan could only identify as emotional pain. “That’s no answer to my question.”
“I do not require you clothed,” Spock told him. McCoy didn’t say anything more after that.
Eventually, despite his fear, the human fell asleep, worn out by pain, distress, and the heat. Spock decided to let him rest for a while. He would get little opportunity for it during the next days.
The stronger he was, the longer he would last. With distant surprise, Spock discovered that he would prefer it if the human stayed alive beyond the duration of the plak tow. He did not have the patience and peace of mind right now to analyse that realisation.
Moving around quietly, Spock took preparations for the days to come. He would not require any food during the time, but McCoy would, and circumstances made it impossible for Spock to have someone else take care of him. He had considered this problem before, and had made sure to have a collection of hyposprays in his quarters, containing concentrated nutrition created for the human organism. He took them out now, lining them in plain sight on the table. It would be enough to keep McCoy alive.
Another hypo was prepared, this one containing a strong stimulant that would keep the human from passing out the moment Spock first took him. For the need to lie with a bonded partner to be satisfied, both parties had to be conscious.
Spock was aware that all this would put an enormous strain on the human’s body, but without the surveillance that would be provided on Vulcan, there was little else he could do.
The problem remained that he would not be able to keep the doctor from escaping during the brief periods of trance-like sleep his body would fall into every now and then. But he suspected that this would not actually be a problem. By the time it first happened, McCoy was unlikely to be still able to walk.
To make sure, Spock considered breaking the doctor’s wrists, or his legs, but decided against it for fear the additional pain would prove too much for the weakened body. Instead, he decided to fasten the restraints to the head of his bed and keep the chains too short for one hand to reach the other. In the long run, should the need occur, he would have to come up with something better than that.
About four hours after McCoy had fallen sleep, Spock’s patience ran out. He lifted the light body off the floor and tied it to the bed without McCoy’s sleep being disturbed. With a sense of irony emerging through the increasing disorder of his thoughts, the Vulcan noted that after weeks of nightmares, McCoy’s sleep was deep and dreamless for the first time. Spock gathered two of the hypos and woke him to reality.
Awareness came abrupt. McCoy’s eye flew open when Spock pressed the first hypo against his neck. The stimulant followed, even while the doctor struggled against his restrains, in vain.
Spock, usually appreciating order and neatness, threw the hypos to the floor without care. McCoy’s bare skin touched his, strengthening the bond, making it impossible to block. All these sensations flooded his mind, so close yet perfectly distinguishable from his own. This human was terrified, and he was his.
Spock was very well aware of the power he had here. A low growl, animal like, escaped his throat. Letting the primal needs take over was easier than, considering his natural reluctance, he had expected - he simply had to stop fighting.
All logic and reason and sense of self disappeared. This was his mate. He would claim him, mark him as his as was his right. There was a sense of denial, a resistance coming from the other. He snarled and bent down to bite the exposed throat, while his hands moved to push apart thin legs that stood no chance against his inhuman strength. The ongoing struggle merely irritated him. Impatient movements guided his throbbing penis to the mate’s entrance and he took him with one harsh thrust.
Full mental contact was established the very same moment. A distant, unacknowledged part of him was surprised how easily his mind slipped into the other’s, even as the joining of their bodies was made difficult by lack of preparation and lack of acceptance on the mate’s part. The thought was unimportant and instantly drowned out by a sense of fulfilment, by need and desire, by another’s panic and pain meeting his own ecstasy.
Neither body nor mind accepted his invasion. He thrust again, buried himself in the cool body and made sure it hurt. He felt the pain but it wasn’t his. He exercised power and experienced the suffering he was inflicting by it and it was perfect.
You are mine. There were no thoughts in his head. There was just the message, the fact. You will yield to me. I will hurt you. I will hurt you. I will hurt you and you will love me.
He felt the denial in the blind panic, thrust hard and did not need to hear the screams. He needed more. This wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough. He couldn’t think for the need in him. His hands wrapped around brittle arms, leaving marks so easily. Just a little more and the bones would crack.
(no no no please no stop please spock no)
He thrust harder and deeper and faster and it still wasn’t enough but he would get there, eventually he would get there, if only he spend himself inside his mate, his property, this helpless thing beneath him.
The burning became stronger with every move he made and he didn’t ever want it to stop.
October 2, 2009
Chapter 2