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As a child, Spock struggled with meditation. More times than not he required three times the expected amount of time that children generally needed for the first stage of meditation. Art was one of the few allowed outlets of emotion that remained accessible to him, and as artistry was valued by Vulcan society, his instructors (and, especially Sarek) had no logical grounds to refuse his interest in the area. He spent hours alone in his room as shaped holographic sand sculptures into the monsters from his nightmares; the fearsome le-matya in the mountains, and the large glittering a'kweth among the sand dunes. Then, later, carefully referenced trees and blooming flowers to present to his mother, because it made her smile.
After he left Vulcan he continued to sculpt on his off-duty hours, but the repetitive and careful care of sculpting no longer soothed him as deeply as an hour intensive meditation. Therefore unproductive. Around the time he returned to practicing the lyre, he attempted to return to sculpting when his mind was too inattentive for proper playing.
The holo-sculpter sat untouched for another 3.85 years before he retrieved it again. His dreams were—and Spock resented the word, though he failed to discover another—disturbing once more. Not the nightmares of his childhood; they were actually quite pleasant. Which was the issue, since most of those dreams—Spock categorically swatted away at the idea of calling them fantasies—usually featured the Enterprise's CMO. Most of the dreams were innocent in nature. Mundane. His memory allowed for perfect recall and in his dreams that skill granted him a highly detailed and perfect revisiting of a day in the labs with McCoy some 5.98 weeks prior.
There was nothing of note on the particular day, except that McCoy wandered over to the bench Spock had claimed and sat himself upon the bench to tease Spock about the results of his experiment. The dream changed the memory then. That day McCoy had argued for some time, but in the dream the doctor had bent forward and held out his hand.
In that dream, Spock took it, and shivered at the warm touch of his skin against his palm. The heat was mesmerizing and it filled him from the top of his head to his toes. Each time he awoke, Spock was forced to meditate for an extra 19.8 minutes longer than his otherwise usual routine. The heat lingered.
The emotion would not be sorted through meditation, though he certainly attempted to do so. Vigorously. Spock unsuccessfully banished the heat (much to his chagrined frustration) which lingered at a simmer in his chest, and spiked periodically when the doctor interrupted him at mealtimes or on the bridge. It was unfairly distracting.
His efficiency dropped nearly sixteen percent for the first time in months (dreadfully, Spock was unable to measure more specifically), which was categorically unacceptable. Hence, the sculpting.
It was illogical to feel gratitude for the meditative motions of sculpting. Even with holographic emitters his thoughts slowed the churning in his chest, though something within him wistfully yearned for the red clay from the banks of desert streams.
Perhaps due to the unresolved feelings within him (that he would not quantify as pining, no matter how Kirk teased him) that the sculpture began to take its shape in the form of his distractions. Long legs. A thin waist. Hunched shoulders, no matter the times that Spock heard the hypocritical lecture to crew members about relaxing their spines while at their stations.
The door chimed at five past the hour. Kirk was somewhat early for their agreed upon meeting for dinner, but Spock had no reason to delay him. He called out to the door to open as he began the process of saving the sculpted form for later refinement.
"I didn't take you for a sculptor," McCoy's drawl remarked behind him. "Here I thought the lyre was your only other hobby."
Spock was too well-trained and Vulcan to freeze, but he did pause for a beat longer than his usual response.
It would not go unnoticed if he suddenly closed the holoprogram. Any abrupt moves would be interpreted as guilt, or shame, which McCoy was not likely to miss. Spock calculated how long the conversation would need to continue before McCoy observed that the figure of the sculpture was, in fact, himself.
The calculations were not in Spock's favor. Instead Spock turned to face him and said, "I am capable of a multitude of diverse extracurriculars."
McCoy's brow was arched. "Clearly," he said, amused. "Or maybe you are just secretly good at everything."
The compliment was…irregular. Spock cleared his throat and replied, hesitatingly, "Not so. As a child I spent many hours studying art forms, including sculpting. It is a skill borne of practice, nothing more."
The answer seemed to further mystify McCoy, though Spock failed to see how. He bounced lightly on his heels. "I see. Modeling anything or anyone in particular?"
Vulcans did not lie. Spock averted his gaze from McCoy to the smaller, McCoy-shaped sculpture with McCoy's long narrow legs and the barest impressions of his face. It was some sort of test, most likely. Or was McCoy teasing him?
The safe answer was obvious. "...no."
"Just your imagination, then?" McCoy was definitely teasing him. Spock's ears burned with shame. "Poor imagination it seems—that sculpture's poor posterior gotta be flatter than a damn pancake."
Spock was thankful that all of his reserves allowed his expression to remain neutral.
McCoy continued, "But I suppose it wouldn't be logical if sculptures were, God forbid, too sexy."
Somehow, Spock was saved, and he didn't plan to correct the doctor at any future juncture. McCoy's obtuseness generally allowed Spock to keep his dignity attached. Mercifully.
"Well, I'll leave you to it." McCoy eyed the sculpture for another beat. Observing. There was no spark of recognition in his eyes, but a curious sort of longing, like he recognized some aspect of the sculpture but couldn't pin down how or why. "I'd love to see it when you're done."
"I would be gratified to share with you," Spock said, fully intending to scrub the program from the tablet the moment McCoy exited the room. He would make up an excuse about never finishing it. Or that the holo imaging malfunctioned and corrupted the existing data.
Next time he would be sure to utilize his lyre for any McCoy-related meditations. That was far less likely to get him into trouble.
It was only 8.2 minutes after the doctor's departure that Spock realized McCoy had not given a reason for his abrupt arrival, as he had seemingly forgotten what task brought him to Spock's quarters.
Most illogical.