So either I completely tainted Spock's voice with my own, or I am scarily Vulcan because that was easy as pie to write.
o
Vulcan and linguist. It's not entirely logical. Words: 1100; Title: Bon Iver
o
a pull to the flow
o
He is a Vulcan and she is a linguist.
o
She makes an illogical secret of her first name based on superstitious beliefs concerning an entirely unempirical power over individuals stemming from the knowledge of their names.
He tells people to call him Spock and rarely even twitches an eyebrow over it. A name is a tool to identify and specify. There is no secret meaning in that, only effectiveness.
o
She loves languages. Loves their nuances and hidden quirks, loves how words can say one thing and mean something completely different, how some concepts can be expressed in a single syllable in one language and require an entire sentence in another.
She is endlessly fascinated by the origins and evolutions of languages. How a word means one thing and then, though a mistake or misunderstanding, gains a new nuance while the original is lost and the end result is one hundred percent different from the beginning and in no way logically related to it.
She quotes poets and philosophers in twelve languages and insists that their words are magic and wisdom.
He tries to understand her fascination and studies the basics of linguistics to better converse with her. He finds phonemes that in no way match the symbols representing them, finds homophones and homographs, morphemes that have multiple meanings and others that can only be used in a single, unique instance.
Supposedly there is a logical foundation at the root of every language, a system of sounds and corresponding symbols, but all he finds is a mess of plosives, fricatives and glottal stops that combine to something foreign and imprecise, something entirely messy.
o
He loves numbers (as much as he loves anything because he is Vulcan) for their precision and their inability to lie and deceive as words often do. If a number is wrong, the problem lies in the process, in the organic component of the one that calculated it.
Every equation can be solved, every number holds a truth and if one combines those truths and equations, one can understand the entirety of the universe down to the last atom.
Maths and physics are clear cut and entirely logical, perfectly arranged in systems, one based on the other, rising in complexity and subject.
Language, he often finds, is barely enough to express the perfection, the utter control that numbers provide over the world.
He can say, "We are currently moving at warp eight," but he cannot express, within that sentence, what 'currently' means in measures of time and place, he cannot communicate what warp eight is, the exact speed and motion, the relation between ship and space.
She tells him numbers are dry, without truth. He tells her that numbers contain all truth.
She looks at him, waspish and angry and says, "Then calculate love for me."
o
He tries.
But his information is incomplete and the variables too many, the unknowns overwhelming.
o
He keeps her behind after class (despite the unprofessionalism of that action) and locks his office door before sitting behind his desk and staring at her intensely for long minutes (2.35, to be exact).
Then he says, "I am unable to calculate the emotion you refer to as love."
He fully expects her to jeer at his failure as his class mates on Vulcan used to do, to see the emotion called triumph in her facial expressions and have her explain what the point of her challenge was.
Instead she smiles at him in that soft way he cannot quite understand no matter how hard he tries and says, "See?"
"I am afraid I do not. Please explain."
She heaves a great sigh that implies she feels slight disappointment and burdened by his request. But she flings her bag carelessly on one of his visitors' chairs and sinks into the other. For a minute she thinks intensely.
"Why did you fail?"
He considers her question and then carefully responds, "I found too many variables and unknowns in the equation I attempted to create. One of those being the lack of evidence proving that 'love' does in fact exist."
"Do you doubt it does?"
"I have found no evidence of it."
She bites her lip (to contain her initial and instinctive reaction to his statement that she obviously finds displeasing. He has witnessed this before.) and appears to sort her thoughts in order to present an argument that he will accept as valid. "You believe in abstracts, don't you?"
"Please define the term," he requests.
"You believe in, let's say, IQ, despite the fact that it can't be directly assessed. It can only be constructed from tests and theories."
"Accepted," he allows, waiting for her to make the connection to their present argument.
"So abstracts exist."
"Accepted."
"Love, by definition of the word, is one of those. Evidence says it exists, although we can't quantify it."
He mulls that over and finds no flaw in her statement. Human behavior (and that of other species) implies the presence of an illogical, invisible entity that moves them to certain acts, like holding hands and sacrificing their lives for others of their kind.
"I can agree with you that love exists," he confirms and feels a twinge of satisfaction as watching her expression brighten.
"And you can't calculate it."
He frowns, interweaving his fingers in front of his face as he contemplates. "I assume the flaw lies in what you call the 'human factor'."
Her smile grows wider as she acknowledges, "Maybe. But you can still say it, can't you?"
He raises one eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate. "You can still say you love someone even if you don't understand the complete meaning of the term."
"I suppose so," he allows, reluctantly.
She stands and walks around his desk, her hips swaying in a blatant invitation he has learned to enjoy as aesthetically pleasing and a precursor of pleasant activities. With gentle hands she pulls his own apart and situates herself in his lap, frankly and openly.
She cups his face with her hands, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, her eyes fixed on his.
"I love you," she whispers.
He finds her statement valid and kisses her.
o
(More than a year later his father finds him after the destruction of their home planet and tells him, "I married her because I loved her."
Spock remains silent.)
o
He is a Vulcan and she is a linguist.
In between, in a place of constructs, beyond the reach of numbers, there is love.
He accepts that as a fact.
o