THERE IS NO ALGORITHM FOR LOVE - A trek_crack fable.
What is this? Is this fic? What is fic?
Fully illustromated by the ever-illustrious Captain, I bring you part one of a crack-addled saga, which began life in an a7 notebook under the influence of deadlines and caffeine.
With no further ado, fic, for you!
Warning: This is apparently what the insides of our minds look like. We apologise.
Preview:
Chekov was busy moping in his room, chewing on a pen and wondering if he could compare McCoy to salad.
But maybe we should back up.
It had all started a few months before, when Chekov had noticed just how much of a cantankerous bastard Bones could be. This in itself was not surprising, but it was his reaction to McCoy which Chekov found most peculiar. Whenever McCoy ranted on a trivial matter, or...clashed with Spock, it had started to elicit strange feelings in him. Strange feelings which he could not quite define.
Pavel Andreievich Chekov was not used to things he could not define. Surely there was an academic solution to this.
Three weeks later, the walls of Ensign Chekov's quarters were plastered with plans, charts, and diagrams - he knew he was close to creating a successful equation to explain it all. On this wall, here, he'd constructed a graph which kept track of the pitch and decibels of McCoy's voice when irked. There was a diagram of his varying degrees of posture; he had shown this one to Sulu to get a second opinion. He had not been helpful. When Chekov pointed out, accurately, that Doctor McCoy's posture leant backwards from the waist, Sulu had grinned with disturbing toothiness and intoned with a borderline unnatural level of glee, "Where his hips thrust, Bones is sure to follow". When Chekov just looked at him worriedly, head tilted, Sulu insisted that this was a "life lesson, Ensign".
Chekov muttered to himself in thoughtfully fractured English as he worked. "If ve measure the woice lewel in decibels, and then graph that alongside the length of the speech, and then identify vhich vords have the most emphasis..."
At this moment, he was interrupted by a visitation from Sulu. A matter of months ago, he had found a magazine whilst on shore leave which extolled the benefits of physical contact in facilitating productive inter-personel relationships. On its advice, he had started a twice-daily hugging regime for all members of the Enterprise...or at least the ones he could locate and physically pin down.
Whilst Sulu was stroking his hair and saying something about how he valued Chekov as a person, and that he was the best Chekov he could be, he came up with an idea. A dastardly idea. Perhaps even a brilliant idea.
Hopefully.
"Doctor McCoy! Help!" Chekov limped dramatically, flouncing as much as one can whilst overbalancing and trying to remember which leg was the good one and which was the bad. He flung the back of his hand to his forehead and wailed in heartbroken Russian before inexpertly fluttering his eyelashes and attempting to swoon onto McCoy. McCoy dropped him.
"Next time, remember which leg you're supposed to be limping on."
Chekov, cheeks burning, rushed back to his quarters, cursing the failure of his experiment. He opened the lock on his diary, and scrawled "THERE IS NO ALGORITHM FOR LOVE" over two pages.
Oooh, are you in suspense? Ease the pain with illustrations.
Part two is on its way as soon as I find vast enough quantities of tea to fuel me.
This should not be difficult.
Fully illustromated by the ever-illustrious Captain, I bring you part one of a crack-addled saga, which began life in an a7 notebook under the influence of deadlines and caffeine.
With no further ado, fic, for you!
Warning: This is apparently what the insides of our minds look like. We apologise.
Preview:
Chekov was busy moping in his room, chewing on a pen and wondering if he could compare McCoy to salad.
But maybe we should back up.
It had all started a few months before, when Chekov had noticed just how much of a cantankerous bastard Bones could be. This in itself was not surprising, but it was his reaction to McCoy which Chekov found most peculiar. Whenever McCoy ranted on a trivial matter, or...clashed with Spock, it had started to elicit strange feelings in him. Strange feelings which he could not quite define.
Pavel Andreievich Chekov was not used to things he could not define. Surely there was an academic solution to this.
Three weeks later, the walls of Ensign Chekov's quarters were plastered with plans, charts, and diagrams - he knew he was close to creating a successful equation to explain it all. On this wall, here, he'd constructed a graph which kept track of the pitch and decibels of McCoy's voice when irked. There was a diagram of his varying degrees of posture; he had shown this one to Sulu to get a second opinion. He had not been helpful. When Chekov pointed out, accurately, that Doctor McCoy's posture leant backwards from the waist, Sulu had grinned with disturbing toothiness and intoned with a borderline unnatural level of glee, "Where his hips thrust, Bones is sure to follow". When Chekov just looked at him worriedly, head tilted, Sulu insisted that this was a "life lesson, Ensign".
Chekov muttered to himself in thoughtfully fractured English as he worked. "If ve measure the woice lewel in decibels, and then graph that alongside the length of the speech, and then identify vhich vords have the most emphasis..."
At this moment, he was interrupted by a visitation from Sulu. A matter of months ago, he had found a magazine whilst on shore leave which extolled the benefits of physical contact in facilitating productive inter-personel relationships. On its advice, he had started a twice-daily hugging regime for all members of the Enterprise...or at least the ones he could locate and physically pin down.
Whilst Sulu was stroking his hair and saying something about how he valued Chekov as a person, and that he was the best Chekov he could be, he came up with an idea. A dastardly idea. Perhaps even a brilliant idea.
Hopefully.
"Doctor McCoy! Help!" Chekov limped dramatically, flouncing as much as one can whilst overbalancing and trying to remember which leg was the good one and which was the bad. He flung the back of his hand to his forehead and wailed in heartbroken Russian before inexpertly fluttering his eyelashes and attempting to swoon onto McCoy. McCoy dropped him.
"Next time, remember which leg you're supposed to be limping on."
Chekov, cheeks burning, rushed back to his quarters, cursing the failure of his experiment. He opened the lock on his diary, and scrawled "THERE IS NO ALGORITHM FOR LOVE" over two pages.
Oooh, are you in suspense? Ease the pain with illustrations.
Part two is on its way as soon as I find vast enough quantities of tea to fuel me.
This should not be difficult.
