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He staggers out of her room, into the hallway, breathing heavily,erratically. Confusion and uncertainty creates a whirlwind in his mind. Down becomes up, the sea the sky.

'So,' he thinks dispassionately. 'This is what going mad feels like.'

It is the only thing he is absolutely certain of. He is going mad, and, while he is certain he is not a danger to himself, at least not yet, he is a danger to others and harming himself cannot be that far behind.

What does it matter? He hurt the one person in this universe that loved him, all of him, not just the Vulcan, not just the human. He saw the pain on her face, the shock in her voice, all because of him. He hurt her, could have even raped her or at the very least close enough to it. He had entered her room, uninvited, forced himself on her and shocked her, harmed her. It would not matter what he did to himself because of this insanity that raged through him. He already committed the worst act imaginable, because his mind is slipping from him, for reasons he still cannot fathom.

The geneticists on Vulcan foresaw no complications from creating the first Vulcan-human hybrid. The genomes were close enough in structure to ensure viability and the tests concluded no diseases nor disorders as a result of his mixed blood. Despite this reassurance, that in every way that mattered he was a man, Spock still wonders, though he would never admit it, if somehow the geneticists were wrong. If the classmates that taunted him so long ago were right: “You are neither human nor Vulcan and therefore have no place in this universe.” He wonders if the geneticists had taken into consideration the possibility of mental illness, if they studied his brain as they studied his blood. Did they predict the fire that would rage through him now? Did they warn his parents? Were ethical lines crossed?

He looks in the mirror, hardly believing the reflection, yet he knows he must, logically. His hair is mussed, out of place where Nyota ran her hands through it, tugging and twisting. His eyes—his human eyes—are darker than he remembers, almost black. He used to carry himself with such control, always such perfect posture and walking with what Nyota called 'feline-like grace,' but now he is hunched, clutching the post of his bed. He is looks leaner, he thinks, most likely from not eating for the past three days. It is too warm in his room, he thinks, and he goes to open a window.

The temperature hasn't changed, he notes, which means that his internal temperature has increased significantly. He paces, wondering how long, exactly, does it take to run scans of the food and drink he beamed to the Enterprise? He had food ordered up to his room before he meditated and he had them beamed up to the good doctor. The scans should be finished by now, the results ready to be reported.He could be dying; meanwhile the doctor is taking an illogically long time to run the scans! He contacts the Enterprise again and Chekov informs him the Doctor has no results to give him and that McCoy “kindly requests that you stop harassing him and let him to his damned job, Sir.”

He growls in frustration, running his hands through his hair again, before patting it back flat. He has to stop this newfound bad habit of running his hands through his hair. It is unbecoming.

He browses the selection of books in the bookcase, hoping to find something that will take his mind off of his illness, at least until he hears back from the Enterprise. He chooses a translation into Vulcan of A Study in Scarlet, sprawling on the chaise lounge, opening the paper book.

He is surprised by how comfortable it is to lay on the couch. Normally, he would sit, preferring to keep his spine straight, but he finds he actually likes this position. An image comes to him, he is apologizing to Nyota, asking her to accompany him to his room, so they can talk, he invites her to sit on this couch...suddenly she is beneath him, writhing, moaning, begging him to take her.

He is more than willing to oblige.

He is horrified, tossing the book to the floor as he bolts up from the couch. He cannot think like this, cannot allow himself to come up with ways to seduce Nyota, not after the way he almost raped her.

The madness refuses to listen to him. It tantalizes him with images of her, her head thrown back in passion, baring her throat, inviting him to mark her, to make her his and his alone. He remembers, feverishly, the feel of her skin, so soft and so smooth—almost unbelievably so. It smells faintly of her shower—of flowers and soap and Nyota and it's intoxicating, breathtaking. How warm her skin was, like the warmth of the sun. It tasted slightly salty to his tongue, and he never wants to forget that taste, or the feel. He remembers the way her pulse fluttered when he kissed her throat, how her voice changed from startled surprise at his presence to something like pleasure and arousal. It whispers to him that she would like it, love it, would beg for it. It suggests to him that maybe, just maybe he was wrong, for once in his life. Maybe, just maybe he wasn't forcing himself on her, that maybe she wanted him, too. It asks him why he continues to fight, why does he choose death when he can have life?

“I will not sacrifice her,” he says aloud, to no one in particular.

The wind carries the sound of laughter from the party and Spock wonders if perhaps his madness is mocking him.

Nyota knew that the world was unfair. It was unfair when she started to develop breasts and all of a sudden men seemed to forget she had eyes and a brain. It was unfair when Academy teachers would smile at her patronizingly when she disagreed with their argument, and in essence ignore her. It was unfair when Spock, in some misguided sense of logic, assigned her to the Farrigut instead of the Enterprise.

But she weathered those storms, righting the wrongs when she could and acknowledging the fact that life wasn't fair when she couldn't.

Right now, she wants to kick and scream and demand that he come back here and finish what he started.

But as much as she wants to throw a hissy fit, she is also mature enough to realize that there is something seriously, dangerously wrong with Spock. It scares her to think that Spock is sick. She has never seen him sick—never a sniffle nor a fever, and she had started to think, even though it was completely stupid to do so, that somehow he was above things like viruses and bacteria and illness.

The bookcase in her room is outfitted with fiction which normally she would appreciate, but right now she wishes to read medical journals and books and find anything that might explain Spock's behavior.

She looks to her desk, where her communicator is. She picks it up. McCoy might know something. He is, after all, Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise. He'll at the very least be able to point her in the right direction.

“Uhura to Enterprise.”

“Hello, Uhura. Vat brings this pleasant surprise?” Chekov's upbeat voice greets her.

She smiles, happy to hear a friendly voice. “Hello, Pavel. I need to talk with Dr. McCoy. Is he available?”

“My. Doktor Mkoy is wery popular today. First Komander Spock, now you. Is ewerything well with ze Komander, Uhura?”

She frowns, unaware that Spock had talked with Dr. McCoy. Which meant that he knew that he wasn't feeling well, which confirmed that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Everything's fine, Pavel. The Commander's being...overly cautious.”

She can practically hear the wheels turning in the Russian whizkid's head, but he leaves it alone and for that she is eternally grateful. “I hope he feels better, Uhura. Please tell him ze crew sends their vell vishes.”

“Thank you, Pavel.”

Chekov says his goodbyes and transfers her over to McCoy.

“Good god, what now, you crazy green-blooded Vulcan? I told you I would have the results in a couple of hours!”

“McCoy?” Nyota asks, startled.

“Oh, Uhura, it's you. Sorry, I thought it was your crazy Vulcan boyfriend again. He's been harassing me all evening. Would you let him know I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker?”

Nyota smiles. “I'll get right on that, Leonard. What is Spock harassing you about?”

McCoy debates telling her for a few seconds. He does, after all, have to consider doctor-patient confidentiality, but Uhura's the closest thing the walking computer has to a significant other, and he might be able to get more information out of Uhura. A human insight that he can work with.

“He says he hasn't been eating, his temperature's up. I heard Chekov complaining to Sulu that the Commander was about to bite his head off for not running the tests quickly enough, and the way he's been hounding me, I'm willing to bet that he's irritable as well. That's just conjecture on my part, though.”

“Leonard, if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Spock or Kirk or the rest of the crew I told you this?”

“Doctor's honor, hun.”

“Spock came into my room tonight, and I don't think he was in his right mind.”

There's a pause on the other end of the line. “Did he hurt you, Uhura?” McCoy asks in a tone that suggests that he is looking forward to tarring and feathering Spock if Nyota answers in the positive.

“No! No, nothing like that. He was just...not himself, Leonard. It was like all of his defenses were down, all of those restrictions he puts on himself. Like the Vulcan in him was lying dormant for a little while.”

“Huh. You know, Vulcan biology was never my specialty, but I remember reading something about this in one of my xenobiology textbooks at the academy. It sounds like it's hormonal, which means I can stop running those tests for every poison known in the universe.”

“So you know what is wrong with Spock?”

“I never said that. Vulcan's are a secretive lot, especially when it comes to their biology. You would think they'd consider it illogical and all of that, but no. They use all of these euphemisms and crap. Why can't they just call a dog a dog? At any rate, I do remember there being a small passage on Vulcans and something about their hormones...I'll see what I can pull up here in the databases and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Leonard.”

“Hey, Uhura? We're going to figure out what's wrong with him, okay? No need to fret, honey.”

She smiles. “I know, Leonard. You're a doctor and that's what you do.”

“Damn straight, doll face. Get some sleep. I don't need you suffering from exhaustion all because of your boyfriend.”

She promises him that she'll get some sleep and ends the communication.

She is too keyed up to sleep.

She tried, she really did try, but between the dopamine, the adrenaline, the nervousness, and the anxiousness, Nyota isn't sure if she'll be able to sleep for a while. Every time she closes her eyes, she imagines Spock, his mouth on her neck, her mouth, her breasts, his hands everywhere and wonders if it was just a dream, a realistic fantasy to put all previous day dreams she has ever had about him to shame. She imagines what it would be like if he hadn't bolted out of her room like he was being chased out by Klingons, she wonders if it would be a slow burning fire, lasting all night, or if it would be like the fireworks display she watched early, bursts of passion culminating in a grand finale.

She lets out a moan, her mind, and her libido, letting her wander too far. She gives up any thought of sleep, at least in the immediate future.

She might as well research.

She puts a pair of wide leg silk pants and a wrap around shirt, both sapphire blue. She'll be damned if she's going to walk around the hallways in a skimpy robe where Sybok might see her. She puts her hair in a low ponytail to get it out of the way, puts on a pair of shoes that remind her of the ballet slipper style favored on Earth and walks out.

She notices Spock's door is shut. Part of her wants to walk forward until she is standing in front of it, knock on it until he answers, demand to know what is going on with him.

'What if he doesn't know?' she thinks. He could be scared, unsure of what is going on inside of him.

And, more than likely, he is trying to meditate it away.

She smiles, sadly, and continues walking to the library.

She is surprised that she is able to find it with relative ease, but she is able, and enters the room. It is just as big as she remembers, just as gaudy. It's an extension of Sybok.

'All of these rooms are an extension of Sybok,' she thinks disgustedly. 'Gaudy and showy and more than a little bit sinister.'

But she has work to do. She scans the shelves, hoping to discern a pattern in the placement of the books. They seem to be organized by subject and she scours the shelves looking for anything remotely resembling a book on Vulcan biology.

She finds what she is looking for—a book called Bohrau-yehat by Sa'al. Bohrau-yehat, she knows, translates to 'able to be cured' thus, logically, it must have something to do with diseases. Namely, Vulcan diseases.

The book is old, extremely old by the use of Traditional Vulcan. She has a little difficulty translating it, she is much better in Golic Vulcan than she is in Traditional, but she gets by, only pausing on a few words. She flips through the pages, wishing to find anything that might help her.

She is about to give up on the book when she reaches the last chapter.

Pon Farr.

'Mating Time,' she translates. Well. That's certainly they don't teach you in 'Understanding Vulcan Culture.'

Every seven years upon maturity...enters Pon Farr...unable to eat...emotional...final stage is Plak Tow..

Plak Tow? She struggles to translate, her exhaustion suddenly catching up with her.

Blood Fever.

Thoughts are consumed with mating...victims are robbed of speech...must mate with bonded other before death...

Death? The options were mating or dying?

She lets out a low whistle, slowly closing the book, letting it all sink in. She wonders why this...affliction didn't occur to Spock. Does he know? If he does, it means he is trying to fight it, keeping it from her. It must be awkward for him. They haven't been intimate yet and she can't imagine bringing up a conversation involving a Vulcan hormonal cycle that leaves the option of mating or dying. Or, there is the possibility he has no idea what is wrong with him, which would explain why he was hounding McCoy about test results. He must be thinking his humanity eradicated the Pon Farr instinct in him.

It made sense, though. In a way, it was the only rational explanation—his jealousy, his irrational behavior. He is a walking torrent of hormones, for crying out loud. The thought amuses her and she giggles a little, realizing how exhausted she truly is.

After all, her Vulcan boyfriend is sick, and the only way for him not to die is for him to have sex.

Despite the life or death seriousness of the concept, or perhaps because the concept has such levity, is really was funny. She laughs harder.

“Something amusing, Lieutenant Uhura?”

She jumps, startled, and whirls around.

Sybok is leaning against the door, a grin on his face. He looks her over, up and down appreciatively, before his eyes settle on her face. He meant her to see that look. He didn't try to be sly in his appreciation of her, in fact, he made a display of it. As if he was telling her with that look 'I'm a man, you're a woman, I desire you, let's have sex.'

“Just-just something I remembered about the party, Sybok.”

“Hmmm,” he sounds as if he doesn't quite believe her. “Are you unable to sleep?”

“Yes,” she answers too quickly, latching onto the excuse eagerly. “I was just really keyed up from the party and I couldn't sleep, so I decided to find some bedtime reading. I hope you don't mind.”

He waves a hand. “Not at all. My home is your home, Lieutenant.”

She forces herself to smile. “Thank you. I think I found something, so I'm going to head back.”

She goes to leave, but he stops her, touching her arm. She gives his hand a withering stare and he drops it, but doesn't move.

“Lieutenant, I feel I must ask you something,” his tone is sheepish, almost reluctant to talk to her. He looks down, looking at her through his eyelashes. It would be cute, she thinks, if it wasn't a total act.

“Yes?” she says, with just a hint of impatience to her tone.

“Is everything okay between you and my brother? I noticed some...discord when you left the party. I hope my buying you the dress had nothing to do with it.”

“Everything is fine, Sybok,” she tells him firmly. “I should really be getting to bed, now. It's been a long day.” And with that she starts moving to leave.

He's too fast for her. He sidesteps her, blocking the door and she bumps into him. He steadies her, both hands on her arms. She can feel the desire through his touch and she fights it, flooding her mind with images of Spock. She refuses to feel Sybok, to feel the desire he feels for her. It's disgusting, revolting, and she refuses to let it permeate her mind.

It still makes her toes curl...her breathing become faster and she hates herself a little for it, even though she knows she can't stop the physical effects.

“Lieutenant...please, don't put such images in my head.”

“W-what? Excuse me?”

“I-I have started to develop feelings for you. Please, understand, I have tried to stop them. You are my brother's and I refuse to come between the two of you. But I can't help myself, I see you, feel the love that you have for my brother and I can't help but dream, hope that it was mine.

“I have tried to erase you from my memory, to not picture you, but I find I cannot. You haunt me, Lieutenant, night and day and I cannot stop it anymore. I-I refuse to stop it anymore. This feels too fated, Lieutenant. I cannot stop my desire for you any more than I can stop the sun from rising.”

She stares at him. His words sound so sincere, so honest and true, but also knows that they are not true, they are smoke and mirrors, words to make her forget herself. They are duplicitous, a sinister farce of genuineness It is just another move, another strategy to get what he wants.

She wants to slap him, wants him to take them back, to make him erase the memory she now has of him delivering this little speech of his.

“Sybok, you know I am involved with your brother. I love him, deeply. I don't return your affections. Please don't bring this up again.”

He stares at her. So long she wonders if he even heard her, and she's to tell him again, with far less polite words, when he speaks.

“Uhura...my brother cannot make you happy, you must know this by now. He'll try, but in the end he is too steeped in Vulcan restrictions to truly love you, as you deserve to be loved.”

She laughs, not believing she's hearing this crap come out of his mouth. “And you can?”

His face hardens. “Yes, Uhura, I can.” His tone is dangerous, almost a growl.

He leans into her, about to kiss her mouth and she turns her head at the last second, so his lips meet her cheek. The bile rises in her throat, but it was the safest move. She is well trained in self-defense, but Sybok is at least three times stronger than her. She would be foolish to try to fight him.

He's angry. She can feel the anger through his touch, can see it in his face as he frowns and his eyes darken.

He pushes it no further, however, and instead lets her go. He walks away from the door and instead to the bookshelves, his back toward her.

“I would rather not force you, Uhura. I have genuine feelings for you, whether you believe me or not. You will come to love me, too, in time. I would rather that develop naturally than...He trails off, looking back at her and smiling. “I would hate to damage that beautiful, incredible mind you possess. But,” he sighs. “I will do what I must.” He pauses for a moment. “I need to remember,” he says to both himself and her, “you are young. Spock is your first lover, is he not? Or he's among the few. Ah, I see,” he says to her shocked face. “Not your first. But he is your first serious lover, isn't he, Uhura? Oh, to be young and in love again!” he exclaims wistfully, sinisterly. “But,” he continues “the young never know what they truly want. Sometimes they need to be...guided. I am willing to do that, Uhura. I am willing to guide you. If needed be, break you, like one breaks a stubborn horse. We'll just need to both practice a little patience. There would be so much ecstasy in the reward.”

He turns to her again. “I do try not to be a monster, Nyota,” he says quietly.

She doesn't say a word to him, not a reprimand for saying her first name without her permission, not a word on his threat to mind rape her into loving him. She walks, very fast, out of the room, still clutching the book, feeling like she just escaped the serial killer in a horror movie.

She walks back to the hallway of their bedchambers and stops in front of Kirk's door, banging--not knocking--on it.

“Okay! Okay, jeez, hold on.”

Kirk is shirtless, obviously in the middle of getting out of his party clothes. “Uhura! What's up? Everything okay with Spock?”

She waves her hand. She'll tell him about that later. “Kirk, there's something seriously weird about Sybok, about this whole damn planet.”

He looks like she just told him that the sky on Earth was blue. “Yeah, I know. I think there's a black market and that's how Sybok's risen to power.”

Uhura raises her eyebrow. “Captain, I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Jim?” The 'J' is pronounced more like in the French tradition, rather than hardened 'J' Uhura's used to.

“Jim, are you coming back to bed?” the voice says again.

Uhura stares at Kirk incredulously. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“What? Just because you're clearly not getting laid doesn't mean I can't. Just gimme one sec, would you? I'll tell her I'll be right back, and we can go talk about Sybok and the black market and all of that.”

She waves her hand, allowing him to proceed.

“Hey, baby? I've got some official Starfleet business to take care of—make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back.”

“Do you promise?” Uhura wants to vomit from the petulance she hears in the bimbo's voice.

Kirk grins at the woman in his bed disarmingly. “Of course. And a Kirk never reneges on a promise. Don't have too much fun without me,” he winks.

“Let's go, Captain,” Uhura hisses.

“Alright! Alright! Mind if we use your room? Mine's a little bit occupied. Unless, you know, you're into that sort of the thing.”

Kirk is very glad there aren't any sharp objects or vases in the hallway.

Description
He staggers out of her room, into the hallway, breathing heavily,erratically. Confusion and uncertainty creates a whirlwind in his mind. Down becomes up, the sea the sky.

'So,' he thinks dispassionately. 'This is what going mad feels like.'

It is the only thing he is absolutely certain of. He is going mad, and, while he is certain he is not a danger to himself, at least not yet, he is a danger to others and harming himself cannot be that far behind.

What does it matter? He hurt the one person in this universe that loved him, all of him, not just the Vulcan, not just the human. He saw the pain on her face, the shock in her voice, all because of him. He hurt her, could have even raped her or at the very least close enough to it. He had entered her room, uninvited, forced himself on her and shocked her, harmed her. It would not matter what he did to himself because of this insanity that raged through him. He already committed the worst act imaginable, because his mind is slipping from him, for reasons he still cannot fathom.

The geneticists on Vulcan foresaw no complications from creating the first Vulcan-human hybrid. The genomes were close enough in structure to ensure viability and the tests concluded no diseases nor disorders as a result of his mixed blood. Despite this reassurance, that in every way that mattered he was a man, Spock still wonders, though he would never admit it, if somehow the geneticists were wrong. If the classmates that taunted him so long ago were right: “You are neither human nor Vulcan and therefore have no place in this universe.” He wonders if the geneticists had taken into consideration the possibility of mental illness, if they studied his brain as they studied his blood. Did they predict the fire that would rage through him now? Did they warn his parents? Were ethical lines crossed?

He looks in the mirror, hardly believing the reflection, yet he knows he must, logically. His hair is mussed, out of place where Nyota ran her hands through it, tugging and twisting. His eyes—his human eyes—are darker than he remembers, almost black. He used to carry himself with such control, always such perfect posture and walking with what Nyota called 'feline-like grace,' but now he is hunched, clutching the post of his bed. He is looks leaner, he thinks, most likely from not eating for the past three days. It is too warm in his room, he thinks, and he goes to open a window.

The temperature hasn't changed, he notes, which means that his internal temperature has increased significantly. He paces, wondering how long, exactly, does it take to run scans of the food and drink he beamed to the Enterprise? He had food ordered up to his room before he meditated and he had them beamed up to the good doctor. The scans should be finished by now, the results ready to be reported.He could be dying; meanwhile the doctor is taking an illogically long time to run the scans! He contacts the Enterprise again and Chekov informs him the Doctor has no results to give him and that McCoy “kindly requests that you stop harassing him and let him to his damned job, Sir.”

He growls in frustration, running his hands through his hair again, before patting it back flat. He has to stop this newfound bad habit of running his hands through his hair. It is unbecoming.

He browses the selection of books in the bookcase, hoping to find something that will take his mind off of his illness, at least until he hears back from the Enterprise. He chooses a translation into Vulcan of A Study in Scarlet, sprawling on the chaise lounge, opening the paper book.

He is surprised by how comfortable it is to lay on the couch. Normally, he would sit, preferring to keep his spine straight, but he finds he actually likes this position. An image comes to him, he is apologizing to Nyota, asking her to accompany him to his room, so they can talk, he invites her to sit on this couch...suddenly she is beneath him, writhing, moaning, begging him to take her.

He is more than willing to oblige.

He is horrified, tossing the book to the floor as he bolts up from the couch. He cannot think like this, cannot allow himself to come up with ways to seduce Nyota, not after the way he almost raped her.

The madness refuses to listen to him. It tantalizes him with images of her, her head thrown back in passion, baring her throat, inviting him to mark her, to make her his and his alone. He remembers, feverishly, the feel of her skin, so soft and so smooth—almost unbelievably so. It smells faintly of her shower—of flowers and soap and Nyota and it's intoxicating, breathtaking. How warm her skin was, like the warmth of the sun. It tasted slightly salty to his tongue, and he never wants to forget that taste, or the feel. He remembers the way her pulse fluttered when he kissed her throat, how her voice changed from startled surprise at his presence to something like pleasure and arousal. It whispers to him that she would like it, love it, would beg for it. It suggests to him that maybe, just maybe he was wrong, for once in his life. Maybe, just maybe he wasn't forcing himself on her, that maybe she wanted him, too. It asks him why he continues to fight, why does he choose death when he can have life?

“I will not sacrifice her,” he says aloud, to no one in particular.

The wind carries the sound of laughter from the party and Spock wonders if perhaps his madness is mocking him.

Nyota knew that the world was unfair. It was unfair when she started to develop breasts and all of a sudden men seemed to forget she had eyes and a brain. It was unfair when Academy teachers would smile at her patronizingly when she disagreed with their argument, and in essence ignore her. It was unfair when Spock, in some misguided sense of logic, assigned her to the Farrigut instead of the Enterprise.

But she weathered those storms, righting the wrongs when she could and acknowledging the fact that life wasn't fair when she couldn't.

Right now, she wants to kick and scream and demand that he come back here and finish what he started.

But as much as she wants to throw a hissy fit, she is also mature enough to realize that there is something seriously, dangerously wrong with Spock. It scares her to think that Spock is sick. She has never seen him sick—never a sniffle nor a fever, and she had started to think, even though it was completely stupid to do so, that somehow he was above things like viruses and bacteria and illness.

The bookcase in her room is outfitted with fiction which normally she would appreciate, but right now she wishes to read medical journals and books and find anything that might explain Spock's behavior.

She looks to her desk, where her communicator is. She picks it up. McCoy might know something. He is, after all, Chief Medical Officer of the Enterprise. He'll at the very least be able to point her in the right direction.

“Uhura to Enterprise.”

“Hello, Uhura. Vat brings this pleasant surprise?” Chekov's upbeat voice greets her.

She smiles, happy to hear a friendly voice. “Hello, Pavel. I need to talk with Dr. McCoy. Is he available?”

“My. Doktor Mkoy is wery popular today. First Komander Spock, now you. Is ewerything well with ze Komander, Uhura?”

She frowns, unaware that Spock had talked with Dr. McCoy. Which meant that he knew that he wasn't feeling well, which confirmed that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Everything's fine, Pavel. The Commander's being...overly cautious.”

She can practically hear the wheels turning in the Russian whizkid's head, but he leaves it alone and for that she is eternally grateful. “I hope he feels better, Uhura. Please tell him ze crew sends their vell vishes.”

“Thank you, Pavel.”

Chekov says his goodbyes and transfers her over to McCoy.

“Good god, what now, you crazy green-blooded Vulcan? I told you I would have the results in a couple of hours!”

“McCoy?” Nyota asks, startled.

“Oh, Uhura, it's you. Sorry, I thought it was your crazy Vulcan boyfriend again. He's been harassing me all evening. Would you let him know I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker?”

Nyota smiles. “I'll get right on that, Leonard. What is Spock harassing you about?”

McCoy debates telling her for a few seconds. He does, after all, have to consider doctor-patient confidentiality, but Uhura's the closest thing the walking computer has to a significant other, and he might be able to get more information out of Uhura. A human insight that he can work with.

“He says he hasn't been eating, his temperature's up. I heard Chekov complaining to Sulu that the Commander was about to bite his head off for not running the tests quickly enough, and the way he's been hounding me, I'm willing to bet that he's irritable as well. That's just conjecture on my part, though.”

“Leonard, if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell Spock or Kirk or the rest of the crew I told you this?”

“Doctor's honor, hun.”

“Spock came into my room tonight, and I don't think he was in his right mind.”

There's a pause on the other end of the line. “Did he hurt you, Uhura?” McCoy asks in a tone that suggests that he is looking forward to tarring and feathering Spock if Nyota answers in the positive.

“No! No, nothing like that. He was just...not himself, Leonard. It was like all of his defenses were down, all of those restrictions he puts on himself. Like the Vulcan in him was lying dormant for a little while.”

“Huh. You know, Vulcan biology was never my specialty, but I remember reading something about this in one of my xenobiology textbooks at the academy. It sounds like it's hormonal, which means I can stop running those tests for every poison known in the universe.”

“So you know what is wrong with Spock?”

“I never said that. Vulcan's are a secretive lot, especially when it comes to their biology. You would think they'd consider it illogical and all of that, but no. They use all of these euphemisms and crap. Why can't they just call a dog a dog? At any rate, I do remember there being a small passage on Vulcans and something about their hormones...I'll see what I can pull up here in the databases and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Leonard.”

“Hey, Uhura? We're going to figure out what's wrong with him, okay? No need to fret, honey.”

She smiles. “I know, Leonard. You're a doctor and that's what you do.”

“Damn straight, doll face. Get some sleep. I don't need you suffering from exhaustion all because of your boyfriend.”

She promises him that she'll get some sleep and ends the communication.

She is too keyed up to sleep.

She tried, she really did try, but between the dopamine, the adrenaline, the nervousness, and the anxiousness, Nyota isn't sure if she'll be able to sleep for a while. Every time she closes her eyes, she imagines Spock, his mouth on her neck, her mouth, her breasts, his hands everywhere and wonders if it was just a dream, a realistic fantasy to put all previous day dreams she has ever had about him to shame. She imagines what it would be like if he hadn't bolted out of her room like he was being chased out by Klingons, she wonders if it would be a slow burning fire, lasting all night, or if it would be like the fireworks display she watched early, bursts of passion culminating in a grand finale.

She lets out a moan, her mind, and her libido, letting her wander too far. She gives up any thought of sleep, at least in the immediate future.

She might as well research.

She puts a pair of wide leg silk pants and a wrap around shirt, both sapphire blue. She'll be damned if she's going to walk around the hallways in a skimpy robe where Sybok might see her. She puts her hair in a low ponytail to get it out of the way, puts on a pair of shoes that remind her of the ballet slipper style favored on Earth and walks out.

She notices Spock's door is shut. Part of her wants to walk forward until she is standing in front of it, knock on it until he answers, demand to know what is going on with him.

'What if he doesn't know?' she thinks. He could be scared, unsure of what is going on inside of him.

And, more than likely, he is trying to meditate it away.

She smiles, sadly, and continues walking to the library.

She is surprised that she is able to find it with relative ease, but she is able, and enters the room. It is just as big as she remembers, just as gaudy. It's an extension of Sybok.

'All of these rooms are an extension of Sybok,' she thinks disgustedly. 'Gaudy and showy and more than a little bit sinister.'

But she has work to do. She scans the shelves, hoping to discern a pattern in the placement of the books. They seem to be organized by subject and she scours the shelves looking for anything remotely resembling a book on Vulcan biology.

She finds what she is looking for—a book called Bohrau-yehat by Sa'al. Bohrau-yehat, she knows, translates to 'able to be cured' thus, logically, it must have something to do with diseases. Namely, Vulcan diseases.

The book is old, extremely old by the use of Traditional Vulcan. She has a little difficulty translating it, she is much better in Golic Vulcan than she is in Traditional, but she gets by, only pausing on a few words. She flips through the pages, wishing to find anything that might help her.

She is about to give up on the book when she reaches the last chapter.

Pon Farr.

'Mating Time,' she translates. Well. That's certainly they don't teach you in 'Understanding Vulcan Culture.'

Every seven years upon maturity...enters Pon Farr...unable to eat...emotional...final stage is Plak Tow..

Plak Tow? She struggles to translate, her exhaustion suddenly catching up with her.

Blood Fever.

Thoughts are consumed with mating...victims are robbed of speech...must mate with bonded other before death...

Death? The options were mating or dying?

She lets out a low whistle, slowly closing the book, letting it all sink in. She wonders why this...affliction didn't occur to Spock. Does he know? If he does, it means he is trying to fight it, keeping it from her. It must be awkward for him. They haven't been intimate yet and she can't imagine bringing up a conversation involving a Vulcan hormonal cycle that leaves the option of mating or dying. Or, there is the possibility he has no idea what is wrong with him, which would explain why he was hounding McCoy about test results. He must be thinking his humanity eradicated the Pon Farr instinct in him.

It made sense, though. In a way, it was the only rational explanation—his jealousy, his irrational behavior. He is a walking torrent of hormones, for crying out loud. The thought amuses her and she giggles a little, realizing how exhausted she truly is.

After all, her Vulcan boyfriend is sick, and the only way for him not to die is for him to have sex.

Despite the life or death seriousness of the concept, or perhaps because the concept has such levity, is really was funny. She laughs harder.

“Something amusing, Lieutenant Uhura?”

She jumps, startled, and whirls around.

Sybok is leaning against the door, a grin on his face. He looks her over, up and down appreciatively, before his eyes settle on her face. He meant her to see that look. He didn't try to be sly in his appreciation of her, in fact, he made a display of it. As if he was telling her with that look 'I'm a man, you're a woman, I desire you, let's have sex.'

“Just-just something I remembered about the party, Sybok.”

“Hmmm,” he sounds as if he doesn't quite believe her. “Are you unable to sleep?”

“Yes,” she answers too quickly, latching onto the excuse eagerly. “I was just really keyed up from the party and I couldn't sleep, so I decided to find some bedtime reading. I hope you don't mind.”

He waves a hand. “Not at all. My home is your home, Lieutenant.”

She forces herself to smile. “Thank you. I think I found something, so I'm going to head back.”

She goes to leave, but he stops her, touching her arm. She gives his hand a withering stare and he drops it, but doesn't move.

“Lieutenant, I feel I must ask you something,” his tone is sheepish, almost reluctant to talk to her. He looks down, looking at her through his eyelashes. It would be cute, she thinks, if it wasn't a total act.

“Yes?” she says, with just a hint of impatience to her tone.

“Is everything okay between you and my brother? I noticed some...discord when you left the party. I hope my buying you the dress had nothing to do with it.”

“Everything is fine, Sybok,” she tells him firmly. “I should really be getting to bed, now. It's been a long day.” And with that she starts moving to leave.

He's too fast for her. He sidesteps her, blocking the door and she bumps into him. He steadies her, both hands on her arms. She can feel the desire through his touch and she fights it, flooding her mind with images of Spock. She refuses to feel Sybok, to feel the desire he feels for her. It's disgusting, revolting, and she refuses to let it permeate her mind.

It still makes her toes curl...her breathing become faster and she hates herself a little for it, even though she knows she can't stop the physical effects.

“Lieutenant...please, don't put such images in my head.”

“W-what? Excuse me?”

“I-I have started to develop feelings for you. Please, understand, I have tried to stop them. You are my brother's and I refuse to come between the two of you. But I can't help myself, I see you, feel the love that you have for my brother and I can't help but dream, hope that it was mine.

“I have tried to erase you from my memory, to not picture you, but I find I cannot. You haunt me, Lieutenant, night and day and I cannot stop it anymore. I-I refuse to stop it anymore. This feels too fated, Lieutenant. I cannot stop my desire for you any more than I can stop the sun from rising.”

She stares at him. His words sound so sincere, so honest and true, but also knows that they are not true, they are smoke and mirrors, words to make her forget herself. They are duplicitous, a sinister farce of genuineness It is just another move, another strategy to get what he wants.

She wants to slap him, wants him to take them back, to make him erase the memory she now has of him delivering this little speech of his.

“Sybok, you know I am involved with your brother. I love him, deeply. I don't return your affections. Please don't bring this up again.”

He stares at her. So long she wonders if he even heard her, and she's to tell him again, with far less polite words, when he speaks.

“Uhura...my brother cannot make you happy, you must know this by now. He'll try, but in the end he is too steeped in Vulcan restrictions to truly love you, as you deserve to be loved.”

She laughs, not believing she's hearing this crap come out of his mouth. “And you can?”

His face hardens. “Yes, Uhura, I can.” His tone is dangerous, almost a growl.

He leans into her, about to kiss her mouth and she turns her head at the last second, so his lips meet her cheek. The bile rises in her throat, but it was the safest move. She is well trained in self-defense, but Sybok is at least three times stronger than her. She would be foolish to try to fight him.

He's angry. She can feel the anger through his touch, can see it in his face as he frowns and his eyes darken.

He pushes it no further, however, and instead lets her go. He walks away from the door and instead to the bookshelves, his back toward her.

“I would rather not force you, Uhura. I have genuine feelings for you, whether you believe me or not. You will come to love me, too, in time. I would rather that develop naturally than...He trails off, looking back at her and smiling. “I would hate to damage that beautiful, incredible mind you possess. But,” he sighs. “I will do what I must.” He pauses for a moment. “I need to remember,” he says to both himself and her, “you are young. Spock is your first lover, is he not? Or he's among the few. Ah, I see,” he says to her shocked face. “Not your first. But he is your first serious lover, isn't he, Uhura? Oh, to be young and in love again!” he exclaims wistfully, sinisterly. “But,” he continues “the young never know what they truly want. Sometimes they need to be...guided. I am willing to do that, Uhura. I am willing to guide you. If needed be, break you, like one breaks a stubborn horse. We'll just need to both practice a little patience. There would be so much ecstasy in the reward.”

He turns to her again. “I do try not to be a monster, Nyota,” he says quietly.

She doesn't say a word to him, not a reprimand for saying her first name without her permission, not a word on his threat to mind rape her into loving him. She walks, very fast, out of the room, still clutching the book, feeling like she just escaped the serial killer in a horror movie.

She walks back to the hallway of their bedchambers and stops in front of Kirk's door, banging--not knocking--on it.

“Okay! Okay, jeez, hold on.”

Kirk is shirtless, obviously in the middle of getting out of his party clothes. “Uhura! What's up? Everything okay with Spock?”

She waves her hand. She'll tell him about that later. “Kirk, there's something seriously weird about Sybok, about this whole damn planet.”

He looks like she just told him that the sky on Earth was blue. “Yeah, I know. I think there's a black market and that's how Sybok's risen to power.”

Uhura raises her eyebrow. “Captain, I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Jim?” The 'J' is pronounced more like in the French tradition, rather than hardened 'J' Uhura's used to.

“Jim, are you coming back to bed?” the voice says again.

Uhura stares at Kirk incredulously. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“What? Just because you're clearly not getting laid doesn't mean I can't. Just gimme one sec, would you? I'll tell her I'll be right back, and we can go talk about Sybok and the black market and all of that.”

She waves her hand, allowing him to proceed.

“Hey, baby? I've got some official Starfleet business to take care of—make yourself comfortable and I'll be right back.”

“Do you promise?” Uhura wants to vomit from the petulance she hears in the bimbo's voice.

Kirk grins at the woman in his bed disarmingly. “Of course. And a Kirk never reneges on a promise. Don't have too much fun without me,” he winks.

“Let's go, Captain,” Uhura hisses.

“Alright! Alright! Mind if we use your room? Mine's a little bit occupied. Unless, you know, you're into that sort of the thing.”

Kirk is very glad there aren't any sharp objects or vases in the hallway.