Matter and Anti-Matter

Just for a minute, Jim wished that that perfect Vulcan control would shatter, and Spock would – could – do something to alleviate the tension that Jim saw, now, as his constant companion. It must be excruciating, Jim thought.

That impassive Vulcan façade was so complete that most of the time you would have no idea there was anything behind it but cool calculation.

And the whole time, Spock was living with this.

He felt like he'd had a glimpse into someone else's own private hell. Bad enough some random someone else - but Spock? He was so private, always…

But maybe that was why Jim was here. Maybe that was why they were having this conversation. Maybe it just was plain time for someone else to know.

Oh, wait.

Jim was here - and they were having this conversation - because Jim had butted in.

Right.

He sighed, then climbed to his feet.

Once on his feet, though, he wasn't sure what to do. Spock was not asking for pity – and the friendly hug that was his go-to default just wasn't going to cut it. (If Jim tried it - his brain began to whisper - it might help, though: Kicking his ass would, at least, give Spock something else to think about.) Jim ignored his own discomfort, and focused, instead, on Spock.

The Vulcan seemed so alone, Jim thought. So solitary; apart…

Given what Spock had already told him, what could possibly constitute 'severe privation'?

His eyes drifted from that straight back, around the silent, shadowy room. He saw again the red-draped walls, the works of art, the artifacts and objects representing what was, if Spock's assessment was correct (and who was he kidding? How often was the man wrong?) an ancient culture on the brink of inescapable change - if not extinction.

This was like a little slice of Vulcan life, maybe - a second 'last outpost.'

"I have no desire to live in a shrine," the voice was low, and inflectionless.

He looked up, and saw that Spock was studying him. It was disconcerting to find that Spock had, once again, followed every thought in his head, as though Jim had given a running commentary.

"Similar objects – or ones, at least, of similar cultural significance – can be found in the Vulcan Embassy on Earth. In all probability they will be transferred to the Colony, once it has been firmly established. I suspect that many of these items will, as well, in time." Spock's eyes were roaming over the room, too, his face as expressionless as ever.

Jim was listening to the man talk, and it took him a moment – as usual, it would appear – to really hear what he was saying. It was a classic Catch-22, wasn't it? Presumably these were objects that, when they held much less momentous weight, Spock had chosen to keep with him for their beauty, their purpose, their personal significance. In a way, to remind him, then, of what he was, and where he came from…

So they'd surely be valuable to a people who had lost nearly everything.

But, if he gave them away, then what did that leave him?

It was exactly what he had said: Logic. Pointy ears, maybe, green blood – and logic. Without all this stuff – of which there was very little, really - that was what Spock would have left that defined him as Vulcan.

Yet, as another William would have it, 'Manners makyth man.' So maybe the stuff didn't really matter.

Well, duh.

But it did.

Looking at Spock standing so still in his still, shadowed, austere quarters, Jim felt himself growing defensive on his friend's behalf – angry.

It did matter.

It mattered enough to make Jim's stomach hurt.

Surely it mattered to Spock? Not in his head maybe, but in his heart?

Ah, but that was what the Logic bit was all about, wasn't it?

Once again Jim decided that it must really, really, really suck to be Vulcan.

He smiled, walked over, looked Spock square in the eyes. Those unblinking brown ones, almost black in the dimness, searched his face; and he had to smile again. He grasped Spock's elbow, shook it the smallest bit.

"Maybe, just for a while, you could consider this a one-man Vulcan colony, huh? Surely, way out here, no one would fault you for that…"

Jim dropped his hand, and Spock nodded that single small nod so familiar by now.

Then his eyebrow rose, sharply. "Given that the alternatives would appear to be 'monastery,' 'exile,' or 'embassy,' I find 'colony' to be a reasonable – and pleasing – metaphorical description of the current situation." Jim imagined that one lean shoulder lifted the tiniest amount. "As an 'embassy' I have, perhaps, been less than entirely successful."

Jim wanted to disagree – he, himself, was incontrovertible proof of that - but now didn't seem the right time.

There was a pause, then, that was clearly for effect - and there was a glint in Spock's eye which belied the flat tone. "The other two, are, of course, completely unacceptable." His eyes flicked to Jim's. "I am sure you would agree, Captain."

Jim laughed. "Yes, I can see that, Mr. Spock." He was delighted, truly. "Completely." He forced his face into a frown, and shook his head. "Unacceptable."

He was beyond glad to see that miniscule hint of humour so deliberately, pointedly, applied. It just seemed so… Spock. His grin couldn't be repressed. "Definitely."

Spock nodded.

"Just so. Also, bearing in mind historical precedent, 'colony' is not so far wrong." He appeared to be thinking. "However, it is true, as I stated before, that we have always preferred exploration and concomitant accumulation of knowledge to actual colonization - at least in the form you know." He considered.

"And the same, it would seem, is true for me."

His eyebrow gave a barely detectable twitch. Spock looked up. "Perhaps, it is simply enough to say that I am a Vulcan scientist."