My Star Trek One-Shots

Tuvok

The air in Sandrine's bar was thick with the scent of synthehol and the rowdy cheers of a pool game. Lieutenant Thiro Shommrarvi sat in a dark corner, her fingers white-knuckled around a mug of warm bloodwine.

Across the room, Commander Tuvok sat perfectly still, observing the crew's recreation with the detached interest of a biologist watching microbes.

"You're staring again," B'Elanna Torres said, sliding into the seat opposite Thiro.

Thiro didn't flinch. "I am assessing a tactical weakness in the security chief's posture."

"Right. And I'm a pacifist," B'Elanna deadpanned. "Thiro, you're vibrating. Even for a Klingon, you're wound tighter than a warp core. Just go talk to him."

Thiro slammed her mug down, the thud echoing through the holodeck. "To what end? He is a Vulcan. He is a statue made of logic and repressed sighs. To him, I am a loud, inefficient variable. A Klingon heart is a storm; Tuvok is a vacuum. There is no middle ground."

The opportunity—or the curse—came three days later during a standard away mission on a Class-M moon. A sudden ion storm had forced Thiro and Tuvok into a cramped limestone cave while the rest of the team beamed back to Voyager.

The silence was deafening. Thiro paced the small perimeter like a caged sehlat, her boots crunching loudly on the gravel.

"Lieutenant," Tuvok said, his voice a calm anchor in the dark. "Your pacing will not dissipate the ion interference, nor will it hasten our rescue. It is merely depleting your oxygen."

Thiro whirled on him, her dark eyes flashing. "And your sitting there like a gargoyle won't change the weather either! I am a warrior, Tuvok. I do not sit and wait for the universe to decide my fate."

"Your stubbornness is well-documented," Tuvok remarked. "I believe Lieutenant Paris recently compared your resolve to that of a planetary crust."

"Paris is a fool," Thiro spat, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She stepped closer, invading his personal space. "Tell me, Vulcan. Does it ever bother you? Being so... empty? Never feeling the fire of a battle or the ache of a song?"

Tuvok looked up at her. The cave was dim, but his dark eyes seemed to hold a strange, flickering light. "It is a common misconception that Vulcans do not feel. We choose not to be mastered by our emotions. To do otherwise would be... chaotic."

"Chaos is where life happens!" Thiro shouted, her voice breaking. "I have spent months pretending I don't see you. Pretending that a Klingon lieutenant has no business looking at a Vulcan commander. I decided long ago that you were incapable of seeing me as anything more than a loud complication. And I was right, wasn't I?"

Tuvok stood up. He did not back away. He stood so close that Thiro could smell the faint, spicy scent of Vulcan tea on his uniform.

"You are indeed a complication," Tuvok said softly. "You are loud. You are frequently illogical. And your stubbornness is, at times, infuriating."

Thiro turned away, her throat tight. "Precisely."

"However," Tuvok continued, his voice dropping an octave, "you are also the most focused officer I have served with. Your loyalty to this crew is absolute. And your... 'fire,' as you call it, provides a necessary contrast to the coldness of space."

Thiro froze. She felt a hand, warm and steady, rest briefly on her shoulder. It was a gesture so un-Vulcan it felt like a physical blow.

"I am a Vulcan," Tuvok whispered. "I cannot give you the poems of your ancestors or the public displays your culture demands. But do not mistake my silence for absence. To observe you is a task I find . . . agreeable."