Title: So Blasted Honest

Author: Tempest

Series: TOS

Paring: S/Mc themes

Rating: PG, mild language

Summary: Honesty has many degrees. Spock ponders this while in a prison cell with McCoy.

Disclaimer: Star Trek and all of its relations are property of Paramount and Viacom. I only own this story. Problems with male homosexuality? Please stay away. Flames and feedback are welcome. For archiving, please ask author permission first.

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So Blasted Honest

By Tempest

March 28, 2005

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Why must I always be so blasted honest? You flung that at me in a heated moment of frustration, just like every time you speak to me. I didn't respond at the time, instead, I simply changed the subject.

But to answer it, yes, by the law of Surakian Law, I must be. But I'm not. Would that I were honest about what I really thought...and felt. Yes, I feel things, just as you've always suspected. But I can no more let you know that than you could take a life, or Jim could give up the Enterprise.

But would you like me to be honest, Leonard? Completely honest? I don't think that you would. You can say all you want for me to open up and let others in, but were I to, we'd both wish I hadn't.

Would you like me to tell you what I thought when we first met? How I'd been looking forward to meeting a man with your medical record? How when I first laid eyes upon you, I was intrigued by your mannerisms? And how when we had our first argument, within two hours of your transfer to the ship, I knew I could never voice them

Or would you prefer to hear how I felt when I saw Flavius look at you in this very cell earlier? How I could tell he was attracted to you? How I know because I've had that same affliction for years, now. Would you like to hear how I felt being unable to come to your aid as you fought against him, berating me as I offered assistance, and knowing you'd never be able to accept it?

Or would you like to know how I *felt* when I burned? How despite my bond to T'Pring, it was thoughts of you that kept entering my mind during the frenzy. How it was image after image of you, your eyes, your voice, and your body, nude and aroused on my bed, which allowed me to momentarily quench the fire in my flesh? No. You wouldn't want to hear that, because you've long since made it clear how ridiculous it is to love a machine. And as far as you're concerned, Vulcans are just organic computers with bodies. Unable to love, unable to feel.

And yet for all the acid that you spit at me, you’re equally as likely to remind me of my humanity. To tell me that my Mother was human and that although my blood runs green, I’m still linked to that Great Human Race of yours. That I shouldn’t act so Vulcan, so aloof, so logical, so blasted honest.

I only wish that you could see how little you know me. And that if you’d simply make an indication that you’d be able to accept me for all that I am, I would gladly bond with you. Or marry, in the human fashion. Or have me on any terms you wish.

But alas, as you’ve made clear, we are not compatible, and although I’m certain you have yet to realize all I’ve hidden, all I have lied to you about, you’ve certainly done enough to push me away, to make it painfully clear that we are too different to be compatible on any level. And this is why I have to continue to lie to you, to pretend that I’m as stoic as you believe I am, that I tolerate your presence only because our ship needs a Chief Medical Officer and it’d be too time-consuming and expensive to train a replacement.

But little do you know what thoughts are in my mind, which have a tendency to present themselves at the most inopportune moments. Little do you know that in the past two months, I have brushed you off in the corridors, not because I have had duties to attend to, but because even my Vulcan training has not been enough to combat the evidence of my attraction, which presents itself, as well, at the worst possible times.

It is true I have asked the Captain on numerous occasions to revoke your bridge privileges; just as you have complained about in the past. But this is not due to feelings of disdain, or even a desire to keep the bridge exclusive to bridge crew. You make me uneasy. You invade my personal space, standing so close behind me. You touch me, and I cannot stop my body’s reaction. I am not so Vulcan that I have each biological system under control. And with you right there...contrary to colloquial belief, Vulcans are capable of embarrassment, and should you ever discover what your presence does to me, the revelation of that knowledge would ultimately lead to the necessity of my resignation. And then I would be apart from you.

And so I shall continue my part of our game, working to distance myself from you, just as you distance yourself from me, all the while an illogical hope in my mind that we could do otherwise.

I shall even keep quiet, as I have done, when you say something that goes deeper than our simple insults. I may even respond in kind, just enough to get you angry, so that you will spend your day fuming about “What that blasted Vulcan did,” about what I did. And known only to myself, I might take pride in that accomplishment, knowing that, under a certain set of circumstances, I was in your thoughts all day.

My father would tell me such actions are illogical, undignified, for a Vulcan, and I am inclined to agree. However, you make me this way. You bring out my animalistic desires, to mate, to be emotional, even to kill. I would kill for you. I nearly did, earlier.

But you will never know any of this, because I am not so blasted honest as you believe I am. And so it is back to our patterns.

“Spock.”

You said my name. I look up; turn around my contemplation, and the bars I have been gripping while I thought. Certain aspects made me grip them harder than necessary. Surely you cannot tell what I have been thinking. Surely, you must think I have been attempting, fruitlessly, to escape.

“Spock...uh, I know we’ve had our disagreements. Maybe they're jokes. I don't know. As Jim says, we're not often sure ourselves sometimes, but what I'm trying to say is-“

Do not start in on sentimentalism; not when moments before I saved you from death. I cannot break my training, not here, in some cell on a foreign world, awaiting a death sentence. So I must hide my thoughts, behind what you expect. “Doctor, I am trying to find a means of escape,” I am not, but I could never tell you what I had really been doing. “Will you please be brief?”

Not even a slight shift in your expression. Of course you think I care more about these bars than I do you. “Well, what I'm trying to say
is you saved my life in the arena.”

      You are welcome, Leonard. And yet, I cannot utter the words. “Yes,” I hear myself say, “that is quite true.”

      There it is, the explosive rage that comes when I am at my most reserved. Despite the harshness of your voice, and the veins in your neck, the nearly violet complexion from the blood rushing to your face, your eyes flash, and you are lovely. “I’m trying to thank you, you pointed-eared hobgoblin!”

      But it is not your thanks I desire, Leonard. Not your gratitude. I desire your mind, your body, your katra. I desire your devotion, your attention. I desire your love, Leonard McCoy, but you will never know.

      Perhaps one day I will be honest with you, allow you to see deep within me, but until then, I shall play the infuriating, calm, logical individual you love to pick at. And I shall find a way to settle for that.

                              Finit