lost in translation

---

"Mr. Spock."

At his station.

"Captain."

Rather, also at his station.

They were at the science station, anyway. And, jointly, they had achieved equilibrium.

"I'd like a word with you."

"You have it."

Kirk smiled. Of course he did. Every time, it surprised him how much he loved to.

Then he grew serious again.

"This word you've been using recently...t'hy'la. You said it was a term of great significance, just like you said ashayam is a term of endearment. But the latter I understand - it means 'beloved'."

Spock seemed to color a touch at that reminder; of his human frailty, of his Vulcan weakness.

"What about the former, Spock? What does it mean?"

Spock answered simply, "I could not tell you."

Kirk, it seemed, had been expecting this.

"Isn't there any translation? Even an approximate one."

Spock hesitated. "Not one that I know. Not one that would do it justice."

An impossibility, but not one to be lusted after. If he did understand their bond in absolution, which was itself a continual effort, to achieve translation was futile and indeed counterproductive. The knowing was in the not knowing, the love in the learning subsisted and not capitalized.

"Then what it means to you," Kirk pressed. "I'd like to know. Would you tell me?"

Subjectivity was not a Vulcan's way. Doubtless, Kirk knew this. But his insistence was not one of smug intrusion; rather, one of protective supplication. Not a thirst for coy knowledge, but an awe, in exploration.

Spock frowned, cocked his head, pursed his lips, crossed his arms - but all, of course, in quite an understated and elegantly subdued fashion. Kirk adored him for it.

At last, Spock arose from his spontaneous pseudo-meditation.

"Jim," he said, with another fine inclination of his head, and returned to his work.