No Longer
Feeling the weight of that wise black gaze heavy upon him - ageless and oddly alien-seeming, all of a sudden, in the heat and dimness - Kirk felt his stomach start to tighten - and he suddenly felt disgusted with the whole damned thing.
He was tired of being frightened by a person who, he suspected, knew exactly how he was feeling, felt nothing of the kind in return, and, worst of all, probably – no, make that definitely – didn't deserve it in the first place.
The very first time he had seen this man who would, unbeknownst to either of them, play such a part in his future, he had been defensive, apprehensive, aware that his fate hung in the balance – and he'd felt that way, pretty much (off and on), ever since.
Was that really Spock's fault?
Well - except for the whole whoop-ass-and-strangle thing, and throwing him off the ship (both suitable subjects for a whole 'nother discussion, thank you very much) – not really, no.
And, really? Not even then.
Thinking about it, Jim Kirk pretty much felt like shit.
Looking over at his First Officer, Captain Kirk found fathomless dark eyes still observing him.
"Frankly," Jim said, "Scares the crap out of me, just hearing about it."
Spock eyed him appraisingly.
"I mean that figuratively, of course," Jim said.
Spock nodded.
He looked down at the tea tray.
"Even we find these conditions to be less than satisfactory," he observed, "However, it is a biological imperative over which we have no control."
He reached out and picked up his teacup; and, once again balancing the saucer on his palm, took a small sip of that weak-seeming Terran tea.
He glanced over at Jim, only for an instant, before his eyes focused somewhere in front of him. "I assure you that we have, as a species, made attempts to combat the madness." His mild voice was musing. "Although, I suppose it is just as well that we have not proven successful in that endeavor. We are now, by-and-large, creatures of intellect – and it is possible that, without that compulsion, our numbers could have, with time, diminished through neglect as much as they have, now, through other means."
He took another sip.
Looking at him, at the strength and power in that long-limbed form, Jim thought, for a second, 'Yeah, right.'
He had seen Uhura kissing Spock, once, in the midst of disaster – and Spock had certainly kissed her back.
And subsequently, he had seen the way she looked at him, when she thought no one would see: That had to be in response to something, right?
This evening she'd gone to him, reached for him, gazed into his eyes…
Jim remembered, then, that Spock was actually half-human. How different did that make him from others of his kind?
It occurred to Jim that, in fact, there were no 'others of his kind'. Spock was unique. For all that he thought of himself as Vulcan; for all that he identified with - thought like, acted like - the people of that world; for all that his body was dominated by steadfast Vulcan genes; there was, still, something essentially different about him.
In personal philosophy, Jim decided, if nothing else…
Jim wondered if he would ever know where the Vulcan Spock left off, and the rest of him began.
No. Probably not. Spock was really, unabashedly stubborn. (And that little after-thought made Jim smile.)
Spock was looking at him, over his delicate teacup, and his eyebrow was rising.
Jim started to grin. He thought that, Vulcan or no, his First Officer was totally unique.
"I am sure you guys would have figured it out before allowing yourselves to disappear completely," Jim said, and he tried to keep the amusement in his voice to a minimum.
"No doubt you are correct," Spock replied, his tone very sedate.
"We did manage to save ourselves from extinction once before."
He put his cup-and-saucer down, and raised the teapot. His slight gesture was a question, and Jim shook his head: 'No, thanks.' Spock poured a second cupful for himself, and set the pot on the tray once more; he didn't lift his cup.
"We nearly destroyed ourselves with furious brutality and blood-lust." Spock's smooth voice and serene face contrasted sharply, jarringly, with the words Kirk was hearing. The Vulcan was looking toward the opposite wall, and he appeared to be gazing far into his homeworld's distant past. "Our great plain ran green with what was spilled there."
"Only Surak, with his message of peace, brought us back from the brink of disaster. It was very nearly too late, and the result was total upheaval and restructuring of everything that we were."
His chin moved toward Jim just for a second - too briefly, even, for his eyes to follow in their usual slow slide. "I had thought to say 'What we became is what we are now.'"
His eyelids dropped, for a second, before those eyes were sent away. "But, clearly, that is no longer true."
He picked up his cup, then, and his fingers curled again on that delicate handle. "Soon we will no longer be 'Vulcans' at all. For surely we must change – and there is no logic in retaining the name for a people from a place non-existent."
He blinked; then coolly took a tiny sip from his steaming cup of tea.
Jim just watched as Spock slowly drank that entire cup. Once more he had a vague feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it just seemed like too much work to analyze what it was, and he didn't really want to take the time. Instead, he focused on the impassive intelligent face of his First Officer.
He tried to understand how someone who obviously had a deep understanding of what faced his people in the wake of their near annihilation – who could express it in such a way – could sit so, and drink tea.
If it were him -
What?
If it were him what?
Jim felt again the reeling aftermath of his mind-meld with the other Spock - and gazed upon his own, sitting so unmoving.
How could anyone live with such pain?
Fuck.
It was impossible.
"So what now?" Jim didn't realize he had said the words aloud until Spock's eyes shifted, and the Vulcan looked over at him.
"I do not know." Spock said, and his voice held a deep something that told Jim more than its owner, perhaps, intended. He took a last sip of his tea, and put the cup and saucer down. He parked his elbows on the arms of the chair and interlaced his fingers. He leaned forward, slightly, and moved one foot a little. He seemed, for a moment, to be studying his boots.
"There are so few of us left."
Jim was suddenly reminded that the guy was barely a year older than he was, himself. He had a tendency to forget that.
Spock was silent for another minute, before sitting back in that intricate Vulcan-made chair.
He gathered Jim's attention with a glance.
"At the time of its destruction, our planet had some six billion inhabitants, a number representing approximately a fifth of those who had dwelled there in the course of recorded history.
"We had had practical spaceflight capability for more than three thousand years.
"Our primary interest was always in accumulation of knowledge. Due to various biological constraints, generation and sleeper ships were quickly deemed inadequate, and we developed warp technology almost immediately. Our brief period of expansion was intense and violent; however, we soon discovered that Vulcans are not well suited for a life off-world. We abandoned any interest in long-term colonization and withdrew, again, almost completely, to our home planet.
"The sole outpost remaining was a monastery, where, separated from the rest of our kind, postulants lived in severe privation.
"The return of those who had left, and the uneasy addition of their progeny to the already unstable sociopsychological climate, triggered the final warfare that almost destroyed us.
"In the after-time, as Surak's teachings took hold, we decided, as a species, to reinvent who we were. It was not easy, and many were lost as we struggled to free ourselves from the passions that we had formerly embraced. But, in the end, logic won."
His gaze had shifted, as he spoke, but now he caught Jim's eye.
"Now?" Spock shook his head, in that tiny negative. "Logic is, essentially, all that we have left. Everything else – everything that made us truly Vulcan, and not some other sort of creature – is gone. We will assuredly try to rebuild our numbers, preserve the remnants of our culture.
"But, in a way no outworlder will ever be able to understand, its heart – our heart - is gone forever.
"Vulcan is dead."
That cool calm Vulcan voice made the word 'dead' sound very final, indeed.
Spock stood then, slowly unfolding himself from the chair, and moved away. It seemed to Jim that he was calling on his years of training to move so slowly, with such perfect control.
And Jim said nothing.
There was nothing to say.