Rating: PG-13 for mentions of pon farr
Disclaimer: I own nothing but this story. The characters belong to Paramount/Viacom.
The night sets softly
With the hush of falling
Casting shivering shadows
On the houses through
And the light from a
Paints a pattern on my
Like the pieces of a
Or a child's uneven scrawl.
(Simon and Garfunkel – Patterns)
Spock was not inclined to take evening strolls. Life on a starship made such a thing a near impossibility. When off duty he made it a point to avoid most public areas. If
he did not then he would soon find himself embroiled in a fellow crewmember’s work problems to the point that he may
as well have been on the bridge. But the current mission had necessitated he
stay planet side and he was...his mother would say he was feeling melancholy. So
for the first time in years, Spock was actively considering taking a leisurely stroll through a park for no good reason.
Perhaps he was homesick? Spock shook himself firmly and banished the thought. Vulcan
wasn’t home and the Enterprise was...only a ship. A simple Constitution class vessel, nothing more, a reflection
of Earth’s ascetic sensibilities and the practically necessitated by deep space travel.
Yet...the surroundings Spock currently found himself in were eliciting an illogical desire for red metallic threaded
bedding and purple downcast lighting.
The room he’d been given by the local prefect
was utilitarian, spartan even by his standards. The bed was too short for him
and was little more than an upholstered ledge clinging to one of the beige walls as if it were a growth. The scratchy, stiff white bedding was of poor quality and meant for the rougher semi-reptilian skin of
the planet’s main inhabitants. The table was also short and the chair may
as well have been a foot stool. Granted, the native species was smaller in stature than a Vulcan, but Spock had hoped they’d
have made accommodations for off world guests by now. They had joined the Federation nearly 10 years prior and were regularly
visited by Starfleet vessels. It would have been a common curtsy to have at least
one guest suite made up to accommodate more humanoid, or vulcanoid, visitors.
The lack of apparent hospitality was starting to
wear on Spock’s control. It didn’t help that this was the third such
mission he’d been assigned to in so many months. As an ambassador's son,
Spock had diplomatic training that far excelled the required courses at the academy.
When the Enterprise took any sort of a break, for repairs or shore leave, Spock had started to find himself temporarily
reassigned to these tedious diplomatic missions. His current role was to negotiate
a trade agreement for an herb that grew on the planet. Evidently it was gaining popularity on Earth and the Federation wanted
to increase access. It had no medicinal purpose, no real importance. Humans had
just figured out that if they crushed it and poured vodka on top it created a most potent cocktail. The native population
thought this was hilarious and were more than willing to sell mass quantities of the weed at a high price to the silly humans. Why the Federation thought they needed to send Spock to fill out the paperwork was
beyond him. But here he was, holed up in the tiny, ugly, little room waiting
for pickup. The paperwork was done, the agreement signed, and he had another
4.87 hours to wait until the Enterprise finished its repairs and could swing by to get him.
The only good thing about the accommodations he’d
been given was the small window that looked out over the residential street outside the compound. The roads here were lined heavily with trees and the double moon shown through casting shadows across the
barren walls. Spock contemplated going for a walk again but the temperature dropped
precipitously at night and he was already chilled. Instead, he lay down on the
small cot and tried to mediate.
The shadows cast by the bright moonlight flickered
eerily in the stillness and Spock frowned slightly as the mottled light filtered through his closed eyelids. Too many years on a ship had made him apprehensive to changes in lighting.
Usually it meant a power failure, or an alien intruder, or some other danger.
The waving leaves and their shadows were creating a heightened state of anxiety in him and Spock had to step up his
control to compensate. He was finding it nearly impossible to clear his mind. Memories seemed to float to the surface, one after another, conjured by the shadows
of the leaves on the nondescript beige walls. His mother’s voice, the smell
of the ocean outside the academy, the vibration of the ship’s engines, the brush of the Doctor’s hand during a
scan, the taste of snow...random impressions assaulted his mind and for a moment Spock thought there might be truth in the
local legends of a bewitched moon.
Spock gave up on meditation and rolled to his side,
his back tight against the wall. It had been years since he lay down and watched
the play of leaves on a wall. He’d been five the first time, on a trip
with his parents to Gallifaya. Part diplomatic mission, part vacation, he’d
laid on the sleep pallet and watched the lush vegetation sway in the light and the shadows danced for him in time to his mother’s
soft humming as she prepared for bed, the brush moving through her long unbound hair like silk.
The next time, he’d been in his teens and
visiting his mother’s family for only the second time. They’d given
him her old room and he’d lie in bed and remembered her stories about climbing down the oak tree outside the window
and going to a party in the woods and getting caught sneaking back in. He’d
tried to imagine what it would be like to have something worth sneaking out to.
The last time had been at the academy on his first
night. They’d no idea what kind of accommodations to give their first Vulcan
recruit. The room had been drafty and the exterior temperature unseasonably cold for California and Spock had stayed awake
all night trying to keep his body temperature up. The street light had caused the magnolia outside to cast shadows nearly
as intoxicating as its scent.
As Spock lay on the equally cold ledge he couldn’t
help but think that there was a metaphor in such patterns. He could not tell
which tree’s leaves the shadows represented, nor what leaf matched each darkened patch.
The light distorted and angled the reality and projected it, changed and mutated, nearly unrecognizable as what it
really was. But where was the truth in such an image? Was the shadow just as real as the leaf? One could stare unendingly
at the shadow and never know the source, but did that mean the shadow was
less than the leaf or more? Equal or separate?
Not for the first time Spock felt more kinship
to the shadow than the leaf. It was so easy for everyone to see his projection,
but so difficult to see the source.
It was no coincidence that each night of his life
that he’d laid awake and pondered the patterns on his wall had lead him to make a choice. At five he’d chosen the Vulcan path. At 15 he’d
made the choice, although unvoiced, to leave his home and travel the stars. At
19, at the academy, he’d made the choice to remain no matter the trials before him.
Now, at 39, as he lay in the tiny harsh bed on
a planet he hoped to never set foot back on, Spock wondered what decision this nights pondering would conjure. He was not at odds with himself, at least not to his knowledge. But perhaps that was the point of the exercise.
Something had stopped his meditations, changed his focus to the shifting leaves. There had been ample chance to observe such patterns between the academy and the current
mission, yet this was the only time he’d felt so inclined. His subconscious
twitched and Spock raised an eyebrow in the silence.
Up a narrow flight of
In a narrow little room,
As I lie upon my bed
In the early evening
Impaled on my wall
My eyes can dimly see
The pattern of my life
And the puzzle that is
The realization when it came was unexpected, but
then Spock had actively tried to forget. The lack of external stimulation provided
by the stark quarters and unfriendly planetary inhabitants had deprived him of any means of further procrastination, it would
seem, and now his highly organized mind was pressing the point. There was a decision
to make, however much he was loath to do so.
He was worried -no, concerned- about his future. The Enterprise
mission was ending. The crew would part ways and he would find himself under
a new captain...or perhaps not. Starfleet didn’t make it a habit of keeping first officers in the same position through
multiple five year deployments. He’d been on the same ship through two
such missions. They would want him for the Academy now, or the Admiralty, or
try to give him his own command.
He did not want command. He did not want to teach. Had either of those appealed to
him he would have stayed on Vulcan rather than fleeing to Earth and to Starfleet. Where
would he go now that such an option was again being pressed upon him?
Back to Vulcan?
The call of the sand was tickling the back of his
mind and Spock knew the cause well enough. His cycle was looping back around and soon he would have to face the reality that
a mate would be needed. Or he could attempt...
He was going full circle. Vulcan to Earth, Earth to Vulcan, logic to emotion, emotion to ....Kolinahr? Like a ball, bouncing between the two
worlds, never stopping, never finding answers or peace or...rest.
Spock turned carefully onto his side to escape
the shifting shadows. He was tired. Very
tired. The threat of the Time was getting to him.
It wasn’t as if he could even predict when the next one would hit. Caught as he was, suspended between biologies…and cultures…and mores, and…duties,
he never knew when one would rise up and demand precedence over another. Pon farr, he’d learned, couldn’t be ignored or controlled. It had to be dealt with in the Vulcan way and no other. There
was no human equivalent, no human option that his mother’s blood could magically grant him. All her genetic contribution could do was disrupt the pattern, alter it enough to wreak havoc. He knew it was coming, knew that no matter what path he chose it would find him. But he didn’t know when.
From the moment of my
To the instant of my
There are patterns I
Just as I must breathe
Like a rat in a maze
The path before me lies,
And the pattern never
Until the rat dies.
Spock sighed, glad he was alone for this internal
debate. He’d been lucky. So
many years off Vulcan until the Time had caught up. As horrible as the timing
had been, as bad as the entire experience was, it could have been far far worse. He’d
been incredibly lucky despite his foolish risk taking. He’d left Vulcan
not knowing if he’d ever feel the burning and made no plans if it were to happen. He’d risked his own life, his
crew’s, his captain’s, and if he’d gone into the fires on a mission he could have done damage to the Federation
itself, might have caused a diplomatic incident. He knew now, down to his very
bones, that it wouldn’t be a onetime happening, that it would plague him forever now, a hound snapping at his heels
as Dr. McCoy had called it. Still, he’d made no plan. He was being irresponsible
and this human trait worried him.
The doctor was worried too, Spock knew. The irritating human had made it a point during every Starfleet regulation exam to bring it up. Never letting
Spock forget it. Never letting the pattern go unremarked. McCoy was convinced
there was still a pattern to it, something to do with chemicals or emotional buildup, something
that would determine when Spock would next become lost to the fires. It couldn’t be chance, and it wasn’t the
typical “seven year itch” as the doctor had nicknamed it. But it
had to be triggered by something. Problem was that with only one occurrence to
base conclusions on there was no evidence to even begin to try and analyze. Nevertheless,
McCoy had been trying for years and had vowed to keep trying until they’d worked out a solution Spock could live with. He’d even offered...it did not matter what he’d offered. Pon farr was a biological drive to mate for procreation, and
the doctor did not have the required...equipment. It did not matter how badly
Spock would have liked to accept, the fires were not his to control. McCoy had
visibly crumpled when Spock had explained this and then vowed, even more firmly, that he’d find a way around it.
Spock wasn’t as convinced, but there was
little he could do to dissuade the doctor when he got his teeth into a research problem.
So every quarter he allowed himself to be poked and prodded and examined and analyzed.
And every quarter the doctor cursed and railed and found nothing of use. Every
quarter, McCoy would look at him and Spock’s human half could see the despair in the doctor’s eyes that he could
not show in his own.
There was no escape. Not from the doctor or his biology or the patterns his life seemed hell bent on repeating.
Vulcan to Earth.
Earth to space. Space to Vulcan.
Logic to emotion. Emotion to chaos. Chaos to logic. Vulcan to human. Human to hybrid. Hybrid to Vulcan. Diplomat to scientist. Scientist to soldier. Soldier to diplomat.
He could run but he would not win the race. His people would find him. His biology would catch him. And the doctor would...save
Spock sat up straight on the narrow bench. That was...a disturbing thought. True,
McCoy did have an uncanny ability to pull defeat from the jaws of disaster, but they all did.
Why did McCoy come to mind and not the captain? Why did either play into
this introspection? What did the good doctor have to do with the decision that
lay before him?
Spock had never allowed himself to consider accepting
the doctor’s...errand of mercy. It was no secret that McCoy was more flexible
in his partners than Jim, but Spock had never allowed himself the same luxury. The fires were a constant nagging worry and
such flexibility would not help him at that critical point. So why did he hesitate
a little longer at the end of each quarter’s exam? Why did he linger in
Sick Bay and why did McCoy continue to look at him with such...sorrow? It wasn’t
logical. It wasn’t practical. It wasn’t....
Vulcan or Earth?
Earth or space? Space or Vulcan?
And the pattern still
On the wall where darkness
And it's fitting that
For in darkness I must
Like the color of my
Or the day that I grow
My life is made of patterns
That can scarcely be
Perhaps it was starting. That would explain this irrational debate he was
finding himself engaged in, his strange melancholy, his inability to meditate.
Spock checked his internal systems and did not detect any alteration in
his body functions that would indicate the start of pon farr, only the nagging
sense that it would, at some point, come again.
If it was not already upon him, what was the cause for this...emotionality? Why was he even considering McCoy’s proposition?
He would have liked to have talked this over with his friend. Jim was usually
quite helpful when dealing with emotional matters that Vulcan logic failed with.
But at the moment Jim was impossible to converse with. The looming date for their return to Earth was like a sword
poised over the man’s head. Rumor had it the Admiralty was intent on promotion
and a desk position. Jim wasn’t pleased and lately it was the topic of
nearly all their conversations.
The entire crew, as a matter of fact, was inordinately preoccupied with
their future plans.
McCoy was looking forward to some time with his daughter. He’d made
plans to retire from the service and settle down back on the ‘family farm’ in Georgia. He’d invited Jim to visit...and Spock.
Mr. Scott was going to oversee the ship’s retrofitting. He was already pouring over plans and making adjustments.
Uhura had a post waiting for her teaching stellar communications at the
Academy for a semester before her planned short vacation with a cultural heritage group in Africa. She was trying to keep her schedule open so she’d be available to redeploy with the Enterprise in
two years time.
Mr. Sulu and Mr. Chekoff were doing the same thing. They’d accepted short term postings on two different science vessels that were doing short survey
missions along the Federation/Empire boarders. According to the rumor mill they’d
arrive back on Earth just weeks before the Enterprise was due to launch.
Chapel was leaving to finish medical school.
Rand was being promoted and moved up the ranks. Uhura had been working with her on her comm skills and the Yeoman had tested so high that Starfleet was
giving her a post as a communications officer on the Yorktown.
Riley was moving up as well. He’d
been given the rank of Lt. Commander and was leaving for a position as first officer on a smaller, faster, deep space exploration
vessel that the Federation was testing. It was classified, and dangerous, and the young man couldn’t stop grinning at
Spock was the only one not to have a plan, or an assignment, or some sort
of an idea what would happen in 2.3 months when the Enterprise docked back at Earth.
Starfleet was trying to groom him for a diplomatic position and Spock could not entirely suppress his irritation at that. He wasn’t a diplomat. He was a
soldier. A “damn good officer” to quote Kirk. He wasn’t meant to do his father’s job. He wasn’t
meant to be accommodating and underhanded. The longer he was in space the more
he’d started to see a point to Mr. Scott’s hypothesis of a “fully armed phaser bank”. While he’d never be content with the use of violence he wasn’t above using it when necessary. He was capable of diplomacy, but he
did not relish it and if left in the position for too long the Federation would soon learn they’d made a mistake. Spock
had never been good at following the party line.
Spock nearly jumped when his communicator beeped. He took a deep breath and reestablished his control before answering.
“We’re back, Mr. Spock.” Kirk’s voice cheerily intoned through the speaker grill and Spock raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed, Captain. I
had assumed as much since you were contacting me. Were you not ‘back’ you would be out of range.”
“Damn pointy eared...”
McCoy’s voice grumbled in the background and Spock heard the captain chuckle.
Spock gathered up his papers. “Ready
to beam aboard, Captain.”
“Mr. Scott.” Kirk
replied and the tingle of the transporter began.
Spock stepped off the platform and nodded at the chief engineer before
heading for the bridge. Kirk was smiling a little overly fondly at one of the
younger female ensigns when Spock arrived and McCoy was leaning against the railing with a bemused expression on his face. Spock handed the signed treaty over to Uhura to have it digitized and signed into
record before taking his place at the science station.
Kirk broke off his flirtation to conduct a short informal debriefing and
scheduled a full round for the next day. Spock forced himself to concentrate
throughout the encounter and thought his inner conflict was not readily apparent to any of his fellow officers. He’d
underestimated the doctor. Kirk was happy he was back and still wound up from his brief time on the space station while the
ship was being repaired and wasn’t paying close attention. The doctor, however, was watching with a clinician's eye. When Spock stood up and made to leave the bridge
the doctor followed him into the turbo lift.
Spock didn’t say anything and the doctor didn’t attempt to
start conversation. He simply followed the stiff backed Vulcan from the lift to his quarters and proceeded to sit down uninvited
at the table. When he propped his feet up on it and leaned back Spock gave an
uncharacteristically loud sigh.
“What is it you require, doctor?”
McCoy smirked. “What
makes you think I require anything, Spock? I’m here to listen. I do have
advanced degrees in psychology.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “I
fail to see how your academic achievements have any bearing on why you are currently sitting in my quarters.”
McCoy straightened up and lowered his legs back to the ground. “I haven’t seen you this preoccupied since we got back from the ice planet. Something’s upset you. What aren’t you telling
Jim? Did they do something to you down there?”
Spock shook his head negatively.
“They are not the most hospitable hosts but I managed adequately.”
“So what’s got your goat?”
Spock stared at the fire pot and raised both eyebrows. “I do not know.” He sat down somewhat wearily
across from the doctor. “I am rarely at loss, doctor, but I currently find
myself in a most unusual and unwelcome position, that of not knowing what I want. There
are several options available to me, none of which are entirely satisfactory.”
McCoy regarded him seriously for a moment.
“I...” Spock paused
and closed his eyes briefly. The doctor was willing to hear him out and
Spock felt the unusual urge to unburden. After serving five years together,
Spock had come to consider the man a ...friend. He took a deep breath and started
speaking softly. “When I was a child I wished to gain my father’s
respect and that of Vulcan. When I was old enough I realized that these things
were not important next to how I viewed myself. So I left Vulcan for Starfleet
because it was what I wanted. It was what I needed to do. I wished to explore, to learn, to experience. Now that this
has been achieved, I find I am at a loss as to what to do next.”
McCoy nodded. “You’re awful young, Spock, for a Vulcan. You’ve got a lot of time left to keep exploring.
Aren’t you just technically out of puberty?”
“For all intents and purposes.”
Spock sighed again. “I have not followed the Vulcan path. There
are...rites of passage I have not achieved. I do not relish the thought of returning
to Vulcan and my father’s house. He will...expect me to complete these
despite the fact that I have progressed beyond them.”
“He’ll treat you like a teenager, marry you off, make sure
you crank out a couple pointy eared little heirs to the line, and lock you in a research office in the VSA until you’re
“Essentially, yes.” Spock
looked up and caught the look of disgust on McCoy’s face. “That is
why I will not go back to my family.”
“So you’re signing up for another tour?” McCoy leaned back in his chair. “This is your second time out.
You spent a five year stint with Pike before this current one. All of it on the Enterprise. Are you comfortable going to another ship or are you planning on holding out for the retrofit?”
Spock cocked an eyebrow. “I
will not have a place on the next Enterprise, Doctor. They will not give me command of her and they will not keep me as first officer. I believe they plan on forcing me into the diplomatic service.”
McCoy snorted. “They’d
regret that pretty quick. You’d make peace with somebody they wanted to bomb and bomb somebody they wanted you to make
Spock couldn’t stop the small lift to the corner of his mouth. “I have to concur with your opinion.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Spock turned his seat away and leaned back against the wall. “I do not know. I could perhaps regain my position as
an instructor at the academy. But this holds little appeal.”
“Been there done that.”
McCoy tapped his fingers on the table in thought. “You could probably
get Jim to work out a transfer to another ship before we dock. Any captain in
the fleet would kill to have you. We both know they wouldn’t be able to
make too much of a stink if Jim worked it out with another of the Constitution class captains.
They’re a tight bunch and Command knows better than to piss them
“I do not wish to serve another captain.”
McCoy sighed. “Then
I don’t know what to tell you, Spock. If ‘fleet wants you in the
diplomatic corp. and you don’t have another solid plan you’ll find yourself there before you can blink. They are
already positioning you for it. I mean, you just got back from a mission.”
“I know.” Spock’s eyes hardened. “I am contemplating allowing my commission to lapse.”
“Leave Starfleet?” McCoy
“For a time.” Spock stood up and walked over to the firepot
and gently touched the carved stone as if petting the creature. “I have not been back to Vulcan since our trip there
under rather unpleasant circumstances. I was never...content there, but it is
“Go back for a visit.” McCoy stood up and moved next to him. “Spock, we both know you won’t go back to your father and Vulcan society
won’t tolerate you living outside the clan.”
“I am aware of this, Doctor.” Spock spoke softly, his dark
eyes reflecting the dancing flames. “There are options...”
“Kolinahr.” Spock spoke the word with a finality that made McCoy cringe.
“I don’t like the sound of this and I don’t even know
what it is yet.” McCoy sat down on the bed and shook his head. “You
said that word like it means you’re walking to a firing squad.”
“It is the purging of all emotion, a spiritual quest for logic.”
Spock lifted his hand from the statue and sat down heavily next to his friend. “A
monastic calling, a path my father could not deny me.”
McCoy sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re
talking about becoming a monk? I think I like the idea of your father better, or even the diplomatic corp.”
Spock looked at his hands. “It is not the same as on Earth. Kolinahr
is...a way of life but it is not necessarily an isolated path. Once achieved I could leave the monastery. I could return to Starfleet or go on to other vocations. It would...be a logical choice.”
“Damn it, Spock!” McCoy stood up and glared at his friend. “You can’t just go and do that! You can’t give up part of yourself
because you don’t like the other options. Hell, I’ve got a spare
room with your name on it. You can come meditate till you’re blue in the face and I’ll leave you the hell alone.
You don’t have to run to a monastery!”
Spock raised his head and felt a shift in himself as realization settled
and the choice fell into place. “No, Doctor, I cannot. I must attempt Kolinahr, not because it is the only option, but because it is necessary. I am two halves at war, two parts that cannot find balance. I have given one side precedence for the last 25 years. I
must now give the other a chance to be dominant. Despite your frequent comments
to the contrary, I have been living for my human half. Now, I must attend to that which is Vulcan.”
McCoy gaped at him and
Spock stood up, pulling himself to his full height. “I have made my decision. Thank you for your counsel, Doctor.”
McCoy reached out to grip his arm. “Spock, what about....” he swallowed thickly. “Don’t
make me ask again. What are you going to do when it happens?”
Spock looked down at the hand gripping his arm. “I am facing that problem at last, Doctor. That is why
I will pursue this course. Kolinahr masters do not...have the same considerations. They
are not subject to the patterns of the Time to the same degree.”
McCoy shook his head, his eyes blindingly bright with tightly controlled
emotion. “You don’t have to do this. You have other options.”
“No.” Spock reached
a hand out to gently cup the side of McCoy’s face causing the smaller man to gasp. “I do not.” McCoy started
to open his mouth to protest but Spock stilled him by brushing his thumb across his cheek.
“I know what you are again offering but you cannot cure this and I cannot control it. I will not put another crew at risk by my selfishness. If I wish to travel the stars I must alter this
“We could embrace it.” McCoy whispered, his voice cracking.
Spock leaned down until their foreheads touched. “No Leonard, we
cannot. I know you are...offering assistance.
I would accept but it is not possible.” McCoy shivered at the unexpected
contact and Spock whispered, “We have discussed this before.”
voice shook and he reached his hands up to grips Spock’s biceps to keep him from drawing away. “Why do you keep saying no? Even if I can’t...be
there for you then, what about now? All the times between? ”
Spock closed his eyes and ran his hand backwards into the thick hair at
the back of his friend's head, holding him so tightly that their noses brushed and the skin on their foreheads started to
“Because you cannot save me this time and it would be illogical to
pretend otherwise. It is a biological impulse.
No matter my ...desires, I will have to mate.”
“With a female.” McCoy’s
voice broke. “Do we know that for sure? Has anyone tried it another way?”
Spock released him and drew back enough he could look into his eyes. “In this I am Vulcan, Doctor. The
time cannot be satisfied between us, the pattern is unalterable. To attempt to
prove or disprove your hypotheses would risk my life. I do not find the risk
acceptable when there is an alternative. Perhaps with more study an answer could
be obtained, but so little is known and the Vulcan scientists have never had a reason to research our…circumstances.”
“I’m not that selfish, Spock.
I don’t want to risk your life.”
McCoy swallowed. “Is that why you never responded to any of my...I could share, you know.”
Spock’s face softened and his voice lowered. “I am...interested. But I cannot hurt you by leaving for another when the Time does arrive. You do not share well, Leonard. Do not attempt to pretend otherwise.
I must do this so that...” Spock hesitated. “I must do this
so that one day I can accept your offer.”
McCoy laughed bitterly. “You
have to purge all emotion so you can be emotional with me?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “That
is the pattern I must follow.”
McCoy closed his eyes in pain. “So
you’re saying I can’t have you until you do this, but once you do you won’t want, it will you?”
Spock frowned ever so slightly. “I
do not know. There are logical reasons to accept your advances if the fires were
not of concern. These may prove enough after Kolinahr.” Spock shivered. “I do not see any
alternative but to try.”
“How long?” McCoy
asked quietly, his eyes still shut.
“Two years. I will find
McCoy opened his eyes and glared.
“You asking me to wait for you?”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “No,
but you will.”
McCoy snorted. “How
do you know that?”
“It is your pattern.”
Exactly 2.54 years later there was a gentle thud as the symbol of the Kolinahr landed on the
sands. Vulcan to Earth. Earth to the Enterprise. Enterprise to Vulcan. Vulcan to home.