Disclaimer: I don't not own Star Trek or any of it's characters. Do you THINK I would be here If I did?! So I do not in any way shape or form own any of the plot or the characters. They belong to whoever owns 'em. I just took the general idea for a test jaunt. So, don't sue me...not that it would be beneficial, as I am a poor university student, yadda yadda yadda.
Authors Note #1: This story was inspired by the Star Trek Voyager episode: "Twisted", which was the twenty-second episode in the first season. I liked the idea of some outside force moving rooms and decks about like the 'Spatial distortion' did to Voyager in that episode. Is it just me or does anyone else realize the deliciously naughty possibilities that could result?
Authors Note #2: This is a tame Spock and McCoy slash boys and girls, so count yourselves as warned. Why Spock and McCoy you ask? Well, other then the fact that they are both undeniably delicious, it is simply this, no two people who argue that much, all the time, about virtually nothing cannot not have a love on for the other. Thats my reasoning anyway. Pah! Like anyone really needs an excuse to slash them together anyway!?
Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.
What A Hand Towel Can't Hide – 'A Logical Deduction'
However McCoy wasn't the only one caught up in his own thoughts that shift, for the ships first officer and sole Vulcan found himself in a constant state of inner reflection as well. Strangely all throughout his duty shift he found his mind drifting, finding himself unable to completely suppress his preoccupation. Something which in turn, troubled him greatly as the last time he had experienced such inner conflict was on the onset of his first Pon Farr.
The extent of his disturbed frame of mind became fully apparent to him when, for one of the first times in his entire Starfleet career he caught himself watching the minutes tick by on the nearest chronometer. He had to suppress the urge to invoke his officers privilege and summon his replacement early so he could retreat to his quarters and meditate, to attempt to collect himself and settle his thoughts.
But of course, since it was neither logical nor prudent for the first officer to leave the Bridge in an emergency situation he remained at his post, steadfastly refusing to look at the far corner of the where the cause of his emotional turmoil stemmed. However, as the hours wore on, he had to brutally discipline his mind, slamming down his every emotional control as he realized that despite his attentive concentration, a slow trickle of images and recollections from the incident were filtering through his shielding, letting him recall the actions and barely suppressed emotions of those two minutes and eleven point four seconds of contact with much more clarity then he was comfortable with.
When his replacement had arrived, finally appearing through the main doors with an understandably confused expression on his face, he has wasted no time in exiting the Bridge, hardly pausing to give more then a respectful departing nod to the Captain before lithely climbing into the closest access hatch, his tri-corder already set up to scan for the distortions. And as he clambered through the narrow twists and turns he strangely found himself taking a small bit of solace of having escaped the nearly tangible mental barrage of emotions that were present on the tensed atmosphere of the Bridge.
However, despite his caution, as he exited at the nearest hatch, he found that even his superior reflexes were too slow, and a wave over took him, sending him at least ten decks down. So instead of clambering out into the corridor of the next deck, he emerged quite suddenly into the crowded Mess hall from the access panel below the replicators, his sudden appearance eliciting a small number of surprised shrieks that jarred his sensitive ear drums from a group of women in front of him.
After a few near misses he finally located the correct deck, moving with slow purposeful strides as he kept an attentive eye on his tri-corder, raising a quizzical eyebrow as he studied the read outs. 'Fascinating..' He mused, pausing at the next corridor as he passed the device across the open hall in a long sweeping arc, his scientific interest aroused in spite of his desire for solitude.
According to his tri-corder he was currently on deck ten, however his quarters were not located on that deck. But, due to a scientific process he could neither deduce nor admittedly even begin to understand the spatial phenomenon had moved the entire row of Officers quarters to deck ten.
He pondered the logic of such an action for a moment as he increased the scanning resolution of his scanner before he reminded himself that it was likely that there was no logical reasoning behind the placement of the shifting internal distortions as there had been absolutely nothing to indicate they were in the grips of some vast space-born entity.
The ships scanners had recorded nothing but garbled telemetry, the readings sporadic, sometimes spewing out data at a speed that threatened to overload the computers memory banks, and then with no warning it would slow down to such a speed that it almost seemed as though the computer had malfunctioned. It was as if the sensor relays on the outer hull had been thrown into a state of never-ending temporal flux.
But regardless of the increasingly complex and strange anomalies there was nothing to indicate that they were dealing with a life-form, sentient or otherwise. However that fact had not stopped the doctor from illogically declaring that he believed, as he put it, "it", it being the spatial distortion, was apparently, "messing with them."
The irritable physician had not been pleased when he had pointed out that it was illogical to refer to a simple spatial phenomenon as a conscious entity. And as usual with their debates the doctor had refused to accept defeat graciously and had pursued the issue with him from across the Bridge from Spock's station, seeming to make a concise effort not to stray too close to him. Something for which Spock felt immensely grateful, preferring to keep a considerable distance between himself and the brown-haired doctor for as long as possible as his shaken controls regained their usual impermeable strength.
However, complete mastery continued to elude him, and for some strange reason his eyes continued to stray back to the smaller man, watching as he continued on with the argument, having not noticed his momentary lapse of attention. He soon found he could hardly tear his eyes away, noticing as if for the first time the way McCoy gestured with his hands when he was irritated, the unconsciously elegant movements bringing his slender, lightly calloused hands into focus.
He had once overheard a group of young women deep in flirtatious discussion over the very same hands. It had been over a year ago in the mess hall, but he still remembered the conversation in perfect clarity. At the time he had not understood all their references, but now he believed he had the just of it. The man certainly did have the hands of a surgeon...and they were rather pleasing to the eye...as if he had been perfectly crafted for his profession. However, he had a feeling that that wasn't entirely what the talkative Yeomen were referring to.
From his hands Spock was unable to halt his roaming eyes from traveling up to his face, truly inspecting the mans tanned features for the first time. He saw how the years had made their mark on the man, creating that undeniable character he had come to associate with the doctor, with each small line adding yet another dimension to the mans handsome face. From there his keen eyes caught the slight deepening of his eye color, the light ice-blue shade darkening as the man's ire was piked.
Then, as suddenly and as unexpectedly as one of the Vulcan Forges sand fires, something happened. The reaction would have likely been dismissed by anyone else, but to a Vulcan...to him, it had hit him like the flying tackle of a wild Selat. It had been sexual excitement, anticipation...nothing as strong as before, but the...feeling had been no less as potent. The hairs on the back of his neck had prickled and he had barely been able to suppress a shiver as a heated bolt of arousal arrowed down to his groin, nearly shattering his thinly stretched control.
But while his lack of control had previously unsettled him he was able to maintain his dignity by shifting in his chair, his face a carefully composed mask of false interest as the Doctors rant gradually lost cohesion and faltered when he did not rise up to the bait, portraying a sudden great interest in his control panel.
Yet, despite his confidence in his composed demeanor he had not missed the Captains amused expression as he watched them bicker, sending him only a pointed look and a wink from over the rim of his coffee mug when he met his stare, raising a questioning eyebrow in return. The entire exchange led Spock to wonder if the perceptive man actually knew his thoughts. The idea that another might know such intimate feelings was disturbing to say the least. However, as he had come to learn throughout the years, it was not often that Jim missed anything.
The sound of approaching crewmen shook him throughly out of his musings, leaving him to abruptly realize that in his distraction he had nearly come to a stop in the middle of the corridor. He took a moment to privately marvel at his tumultuous state of mind. Finding it strange how one small, seemingly minuscule encounter in the span of his life thus far had brought him to such uncertainty and inner conflict.
He could not understand the severity his reaction when he had faced much more emotionally disturbing events throughout his time on the Enterprise. He had been witness to the passing of friends and fellow crewmen alike. He had watched as the emotions played across their faces in the finally moments, seeing the shock and disbelief fade to regret...seeing the very moment when the life left their eyes and the glassy glaze of death began to film them over. He had seen such horrors but he had always managed to maintain his control.
Yet now, in spite of his best efforts, confusion, discomfort, and...desire threatened to run rampant through his emotionally battered shields. Composing himself he nodded to a group of Yeoman as they past, their conversation shushing the moment they caught sight of their superior, their eyes flickering over him as he continued down the empty corridor, his tri-corder beeping eerily in the near silence of the hall.
The situation simply made no logical sense. While he had always found the doctor esthetically pleasing...for a human, he had simply never thought of the Doctor in the respects of a life-mate or as a human would say, a 'romantic interest'. In truth he had never truly viewed anyone in that manner, preferring to submerse himself in scientific research and his duties rather then flesh. Even T'Pring, his childhood bride had never fully sparked his interest, and neither had any female, nor indeed male, ever inspired his instinctual yearning for a bond mate.
Therefore this sudden attraction...this connection that he felt for the fiery surgeon made no logical sense! And while his experience in such matters was admittedly limited he did know that such attraction and...affection did not develop simply because of one single incident. Infatuation maybe...but not this...this he somehow knew was much deeper and inherently different, he could simply sense it, he couldn't logically explain it, he just knew it. Which in it'self was of course, most illogical!
'But regardless, such a 'feeling' did not explain his sudden...' His internal monologue abruptly trailed off in mid thought as another possibility occurred to him, his brain working efficiently to ascertain the truth of his thoughts. 'Unless this wasn't the result of single incident. Perhaps this...feeling was something that had formed throughout their service of duty. Something that perhaps he had never admitted to himself but had always been aware of on an unconscious level.'
Logically this approach made more sense, and somehow it did not displease him, the notion serving to actually sooth his confused sense of self. But regardless of this new sense of control he knew the relief from his confusion was only temporary. What he needed was mediation, he needed to submerse himself in inner contemplation in order to achieve a balance within himself. He needed to sift through his memories and ascertain the root of these new and illogical feelings, and from there logic would determine his next course of action.
His mind appeased he rounded the final corner and turned his full attention to his surroundings as his tri-corder hummed busily in his grasp, the increased range picking up the steady life signs of the cabins inhabitants as he passed, making his way quickly to his own quarters.
He mind was already focused on the first step of his usual ritual meditation, already visualizing the cleansing power of the dancing flames in his fire pit and the comforting warmth of his rooms as he keyed in his security code.
He was just passing though the threshold, mentally lowering his tender-hook like grip on his mental controls when he was violently wrenched back, his biological controls rapidly assaulted by his own psyche as reality returned with such stunning force that he almost stumbled backwards.
It was a scent, his keen sense of smell had picked up a fading odor still wafting weakly through the recycled air. That simple smell triggered a powerful serge of sensation, the signal impacting his brain with punishing force, completely shattering his thin veneer of suppression, awakening the long dormant, more primitive center of his mind faster then he could regroup and suppress him.
He burned! His blood sang! It was him! McCoy! His!? Scrabbling to regain himself he clutched at the door frame to keep from reeling backward in this sensual delirium, panting like a winded animal, his face flushed a dark green as his body continued to betray him.
To his heightened senses the air seemed to almost permeate with the mans distinct scent. It was a mixture of scents all combined together that made up the mans essence, and he could detect them all. There was the subtle scent of aftershave, the sharp metalic tang of medical chemicals, and just the slightest hint of Kentucky style Bourbon, all mixed together with his natural musky male scent. It was a smell that virtually began to intoxicate him, burning into his brain and igniting his nerve endings to flame.
That smell, so simple and innocent in it's commonality, something that would have hardly warranted a twitch of an eyebrow from him under normal circumstances had awoke something in him, something that tickled at the very edges of his conscious mind. Something primal and ancient, something instinctive that prowled along the edges of his hastily mended barriers, searching...seeking to be let out.
'Mate! Aitlu! Desired one! Autlun! ' It screamed in ancient Vulcan, a language that usually sang so melodious and pure from the tongue now singed his mind as it blasted through to his very soul, awakening the instinctive craving for a life mate, the yearning for a bond with his chosen. To a Vulcan, nothing is more important then a life-bond, for a mate to live out their days with, to mate with, to feel with, and to die with. It was one aspect of the old days that had been so infused into their souls that every Vulcan keenly felt the emptiness that lay in being alone, in being unbonded. As if their minds and souls were incomplete without their hearts mate, the one who would meet them in their minds and know them, know them to the very core of themselves. Of course, this was something they never shared with outsiders, even many Vulcan's refused to admit their calling of their own blood, the implications were beyond any scientific theory or explanation, it was beyond the logic that their race held so dear, it simply was and had always been so.
And for one century long moment, he knew a fear only a Vulcan could truly understand. 'Control...' He repeated, closing his eyes tightly, trying to visualize his meditation flame in his mind. 'I am Vulcan. Control is my birthright, attainable through simple discipline. Control! It is not my time!' He reminded himself, the mantra running through his mind with comforting familiarity, reassuring him in his moment of illogical fear, fear that his unresolved Ponn Farr had returned, prompted by the scorching of his blood.
He came back to himself suddenly when his ears detected the wrenching shriek of metal. He pulled away from the door abruptly, as if burned, retreating back into his cabin with a quick step and turning from the door with a muffled sense of shame before he pulled his control around him like a calming cloak as the five finger indent of his clenched fingers mocked him from the frame, the dents sunk deep into the alloy, standing out like a perverse kind of decoration, a hallmark to his shame.
A/N: 'Aitlu': The Vulcan word for 'desire'. 'Aitlu': The Vulcan word for 'want'.