FIC : as your days stretch out beneath the sun (Star Trek XI, AU, Kirk/Spock, R)
it's after midnight on october 6th, which means the space noir is finally live! :)
Title : as your days stretch out beneath the sun (we wait to see just what we will become)
Fandom : Star Trek XI
Characters/Pairing : Spock, Jim Kirk, Christopher Pike, Gaila; Kirk/Spock, past Kirk/Gaila
Rating : R
Warnings : none
Word Count : ~11,200
Summary : Los Angeles, 5 A.M. It's going to be a beautiful day in the valley, but Spock isn't going to be there to enjoy it. He's going to be driving to San Francisco, the getaway car for Jim Kirk to escape being pegged for a murder he didn't commit. Or did he? It's a long drive up north, and an even longer drive back alone; Spock is going to have a lot of time to think, and he knows the questions rattling around in his brain don't all have answers. But no matter how hard he tries, Spock can't seem to stop wondering: Is Jim Kirk worth risking everything for-- and does he even have a choice in the matter anymore?
A/Ns : This is a noir AU based loosely on parts of Raymond Chandler's beautiful novel "The Long Goodbye". I love noir, and I got the idea for this story after reading
fiercelydreamed's fabulous SGA noir " Joining with the Jackal Pack", in which she points out that "The Long Goodbye" is the only Marlowe novel where he risks everything not for a woman, but for another man, a friend he couldn't get out of his head even after he was out of his life. I think that dynamic translates well to Kirk and Spock, and besides which, everything is better with fedoras and trenchcoats, right? :)
In all seriousness though, I adore AUs and I was thrilled to be included in this edition of "Universal Constant". You guys should read all the stories in it, because they're really wonderful. You can read them at
uczine. And enormous thanks to
rinlage for her usual beta polishing job; as usual, she's made it presentable to the outside world. <3
---
I was dredged from sleep by an incessant pounding. Startled awake, my pulse raced. I plowed blindly down the hall and wrenched the door open with drowsy, clumsy fingers. It was five o’clock in the morning, which even after years outside, still rang in my head as 0500.
Jim was standing there-- or, more accurately, he was slumped against the doorframe. I felt my eyebrows pulling together in surprise. It had been a month since I had walked away from him in the bar, a month since I had seen his face or heard his voice. With a moment's glance I took him in, pale trench coat, dark hat pulled low. When his eyes lifted to mine, the haggard exhaustion I saw there struck me like a physical blow. He looked as if he had not slept in weeks.
Then I looked down and saw the weapon in his hand. It was a gun, a phaser whose make I did not recognize. I backed away a step and he followed me inside.
"You're driving me to San Fransisco," he said without an introduction. "I've got an 11:15 shuttle to catch. Got money, passport, visa, the works. But I've gotta get there fast, Spock, so I hope five hundred credits is enough to make you step on it."
"With that in your hand, you would not need money to convince me," I said, and he looked down at the phaser as if he did not recognize it.
He laughed, dry and short. "It's all yours," he said, passing it to me. "I don't need it, but you might."
I set the phaser on the coffee table and tried to forget its existence. "Come in," I said; fruitless, as he was already in the door, but courtesy is a habit I always find easy to fall back upon. "I will make coffee," I added, turning away from him.
"Thank god for you," he said wearily, and collapsed into a chair. Through the open doorway to the kitchen I could see his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, as I moved to take out the coffee pot. I thought he'd fallen asleep, but after a minute his voice came again, quieter. "I'm in a heap of trouble, Spock," he said.
I turned on the water, put the pot under the faucet and looked out the open window. The sun was coming up now, and the scent of flowers and eucalyptus came in from outside. "Yes, I had gotten that impression," I said. "But let us wait to talk until the coffee is ready."
By the time the coffee was ready he had left the living room and slid heavily into a chair at the table. As he rested his hands on the tabletop I could see they were shaking. I ran him a glass of water from the tap and it seemed to take him a moment to remember what to do with it. "I almost passed out," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Feel like I haven't slept in a week. Definitely didn't sleep last night."
I did not say anything. I was calmer now that the gun was out of his reach, but the air in the room was as charged as ever. For a long moment we looked at each other; I tried to tell if it was adrenaline or the old familiar heat between us, but his eyes dropped before I could read anything but fatigue in them. He picked up the water glass and drank. I heard the sound of a car start down the road, the sound of him swallowing, the clink of the glass as he set it down again, the slow drip of the coffee into the carafe. Then the coffee machine beeped to signal it was ready, and I got up, time resuming its normal pace.
Against my better judgment I took down a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and poured a generous amount into his mug, wondering if he would remember he was the only reason I had the bottle to begin with. A splash of milk in mine, and I sat at the table, sliding his mug across to him.
He looked at me and did not move for a moment; then his hands came up to cover his face and I heard a raw, ragged sound in his throat, a noise of despair. I did not move to comfort him, though I admit my hand twitched as if to reach out. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, but dry. "I didn't shoot anybody," he said. He saw the coffee, and drank some.
"I do not think you did," I said. It was mostly true.
"I'll tell you about it," he said, his eyes on my face. He seemed almost desperate to talk, and I, who had until this moment thought myself distant enough from him to remain serene, found myself wanting to listen. But I knew that was not possible-- not if I was to do as he asked, and take him to San Francisco.
"You cannot," I said. It sounded harsher than I had meant it. "You cannot tell me anything," I said, gentler. "You need a ride, and you need it quickly. That, I can provide, but only if you do not tell me--" I broke off. I did not want to hurt him, but what I had to say could not be considered kind. "You cannot tell me what you have done, or what someone else has done if you know of it. You cannot tell me anything," I repeated. Irrationally, I wished I could reach forward and cover his hand with my own. He was always susceptible to touch, mine more so than most, or so I had thought.
Jim looked at me, his eyes dull, his face guarded. "Fine," he said. It was the flattest sounding word I had ever heard from him. "Have it your way. Mum's the word."
I refrained from pointing out that this was not about me getting my way. My "way", if I were to have it, would not involve my being the getaway car, the escape route to a shuttle that was no doubt intended to take him off-planet with no way or intention of returning.
But for what I wanted from Jim Kirk, it was too late. It had been too late the day we met, though I had had no way of knowing it at the time.
When the coffee was gone and he seemed less likely to pass out if I turned my back on him, I went into the bedroom to dress. I opened my closet, looked at the row of suits. My hand went for the dark grey, the wool under my fingertips well-worn, and I remembered suddenly, Jim's fingers curled into the lapel, his eyes bright on mine, insistent. My hand dropped as if burned, and I reached for the navy instead, knowing it a futile gesture.
I emerged from the far end of the hallway feeling armored, but no less unsteady. He was waiting for me in the living room, the phaser still on the table. "Ready to go?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yes. But first--" I paused, attempting to find the right phrasing. "Have you left anything-- a car, perhaps-- that might lead someone to think you came here?"
He shook his head. His eyes were still tired, but now I would have called him sad. The slope of his shoulders was full of regret, and he turned away toward the door with a shrug. "No. But it wouldn't matter if I had. Anyone who'd think to look knows the only place I'd have to go-- the only person I could come to-- is you."
He opened the door to greet a beautiful Los Angeles morning, and went down the steps towards my car with his hands in his pockets. Full of foreboding, I let my breath out slowly (I had not realized until then that I had been holding it) and locked the door behind me.
---
The first time I laid eyes on him he was drunk, and I was as close to it as I am able to get. I had gone out to distract my mind from stewing over a job that had proved more difficult than expected; my success had been minimal, and I was bored. I had stepped out of the club for some air and some quiet, wondering whether I should go back in or simply go home.
The night was warm, not humid enough to be hot. The scent of flowers hung in the air beneath the smog and tar of the city, and over the hum of crickets in the grass and the faraway cars, their laughter caught my attention. Hers was quiet and musical, his boisterously loud. They leaned on each other as if for mutual support, but as they got closer I could see she was doing most of the heavy lifting.
"Come on, Jim, just let me call you a cab," she said, her lips brushing his hair. With her heels on, she was almost as tall as he, and made quite a spectacle. Skin the color of grass, hair just a shade off of scarlet, in a dress black as night that left nothing to the imagination. Forgive my florid language; it would take a more rigid stoic than I to be unmoved by that kind of beauty.
"Don't need a cab," he said, straightening. "I can drive." I had a clear view of his face, then; pale skin, blue eyes to match his shock of gold hair. His right cheek was cobwebbed with old, fine scars that stood out livid on the skin, silver in the dim light. He saw me looking, I think. He laughed again, a lower, dirtier sound, and buried his face in the girl's neck. She giggled, one hand curling around his arm, then tried to push him away.
"You can't," she said. "You can't, Jim, come on. I'll just--" The laugh in her voice was fading, and faded faster as he lost his balance, stumbling backward to sit down hard on the curb. "Get up," she pleaded, but it wasn't worry for him coloring her tone.
"I will give you a ride," I said, stepping forward. "I was just leaving anyway."
Still, when I remember that night, I do not know what made me do it. I am not in the habit of assisting drunken strangers, or offering to extend myself to anyone who has not done the same to me first. But when he turned and looked at me, assessing and calculating even through the liquor haze, I was not sorry I had spoken.
"Great," said the girl, snapping her fingers for the valet and handing him the ticket for her car. "Jim, this guy's gonna give you a lift. Thanks," she said, turning her hundred-carat smile on me and shrugging her mink up higher on her shoulder.
"Gaila," he said dryly, before I could reply, "you're a real peach."
"Go home, Jim," she said, cool and distant. "You're loaded and I'm tired. Go get some sleep. It's been fun." She was not over-burdened with a sense of responsibility, I could see. The valet brought her car around, a convertible with white leather inside, pure as the driven snow. I understood her aversion to putting him inside; the chance of him holding down the amount of liquor he had likely consumed was not good, especially on all those winding turns. Understanding her motive still did not make me like it.
"I gather you will find out whether or not he makes it home alright," I said, bland as ever.
She shrugged, but her mouth looked sour. "Damn Vulcans," she said, "you're all so judgmental. Have a good night, buster, and thanks for taking him off my hands." She got into the car and tossed the mink on the passenger seat along with her little handbag. Then she was gone, leaving us only the engine's deep-throated purr to remember her by.
I turned to my new companion, who had gotten halfway to standing up. I took his arm and got him the rest of the way, then waved the valet down and gave him my ticket. "Where do you live?" I asked him. He stared at me for a moment before giving an address. I know now, though I did not then, how unused he was to kindness. My actions must have shocked him greatly. Then, I simply thought him too drunk to process my question.
He was mostly dead weight, but I got him into the car easily enough. As I started the car and pulled out of the lot, he said nothing, but when I looked at him I found his eyes open, fixed on my face.
"Thanks," he rasped. His head was pressed against the window, and as I watched he turned so his forehead touched the cool glass.
"You are welcome," I replied. He was the politest drunk I had ever encountered. By the time we pulled up in front of my office he seemed a bit more collected, and looked around suspiciously as I parked the car.
"This isn't my place," he observed. His eyes fixed back on mine, and no matter how drunk he was, I could see his mind was working lightning-fast in spite of it.
"There is a shower upstairs, and coffee," I said. "When you are more sober, I will drive you home." His eyes rested on mine, and for the first time he seemed completely still. I too remained motionless, knowing I was being assessed, my heart beating faster though I tried to control it.
I do not know what he was seeking in my face, but he looked for a long time. It had been several minutes when finally he put his hand on the door and pulled the handle. "Okay," he said as he got out. "Beats the drunk tank, I guess. Unless you're planning to make me sleep it off here," he added with a sharp-edged smile.
"I am not going to make you do anything," I said, typing in my passcode at the door. It slid open with a slight rattle; the building was not new.
His eyes tugged at mine again, and his grin widened as he slid past me into the hallway. "That's a shame."
I don't know why it surprised me, but it did. He was always doing that; this was simply the first time of many. I revised my opinion of him as a polite drunk, and instead of answering I followed him up the stairs. "Second floor," I said. He did not trip on the bump in the carpet, and stopped outside my door without my telling him which one it was.
"How did you guess?" I asked, typing in a second passcode.
He flicked the etching of my name on the door with a finger. "Sounds a lot more Vulcan than McCreedy or Pangitraya," he said, naming my office's immediate neighbors.
He grinned again, proud of himself, and I realized some measure of surprise must have shown on my face. My eyes met his and seemed to freeze there; a moment passed where we did nothing but look at each other, feeling the strange current of recognition traveling through the look, wondering at its abrupt manifestation.
I broke the silence. "After you," I said. He looked away. He put his hand on the door to push it open, and I noticed the band on the fourth finger.
He went still, seeing me notice, then pasted on a grin that didn't quite stick. "She's got one too," he said. His eyes, still slightly unfocused from the alcohol, slid away from mine. "I proposed, but she bought the rings. I knew from the start she was a keeper, but I'm the kept man."
He seemed to be waiting for me to comment, so I said, "I see," though I did not entirely take his meaning.
He laughed, short and surprised. "I'm sure you do," he said. Perhaps he knew I was playing along with him, perhaps not. He shook his head, still smiling, then pushed the door open the rest of the way and went into my office in the dark, not bothering to raise the lights. "I think you said something about coffee?"
---
"It's good to see you," he said quietly.
His voice startled me; he had been quiet for a long time, curled in a hunch against the window, as far from me as it was possible to get in the front seat of a car. "This is not the circumstance under which I expected to see you again," I said finally.
He nodded. His body relaxed slightly, just enough for him to turn, for our eyes to meet in each other's peripheral vision. "It wasn't exactly the way I pictured it either. Before this."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he had pictured, how often he had thought of it, and why he had not acted until necessity drove him back to me. But I kept silent. They were not questions I really wanted answers to, anyway. Not with the clock ticking down to the last time I was going to see him-- if not for the rest of our lives, then for long enough as to make my unrest irrelevant.
It was a lonely thought. I wished I had not had it. I focused on the road ahead once more.
"I wasn't going to ask you this," he said slowly after another few minutes had passed. "I didn't... I wasn't sure how you'd take seeing me again. Wasn't even sure you'd do this. I know what you're risking," he said, almost to himself. "But if you can... and Spock, if anyone can, it's you... find Gaila for me. I know it sounds insane," he rushed on, turning to face me full on, pleading eyes like a lodestone drawing mine to meet them. "But I didn't do-- what they'll say I did, once I'm gone. I didn't."
He waited for me to say something, and when I did not, he went on, somewhat abashed. "She just vanished. I swear it, Spock, like she just walked out the door in her evening gown and never came back. We'd had a fight," he said, relaxing back into his seat and running a hand through his hair. "When hadn't we? She'd had company again, down in the garden house, the night before." He glanced to me, gauging whether I would comment. I did not. I had done enough commenting on Gaila already, and lived to regret it bitterly. And I was disturbed enough to hear the reason for his flight was something so nebulous (a young woman, daughter of money, fickle and selfish by nature, disappearing without warning) that I could hardly have formed a retort on the subject of her character.
He went on. "We fought last night. Around dinner time. I know they could all hear us, the help I mean. So if someone asks, they'll say so. She told me to go to hell, I told her I'd see her there first." He swallowed hard and shook his head. "Stupid," he muttered. "So goddamn stupid."
"Do you know where she might have gone?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. No way. Except that if she did run, she wouldn't have her father's help doing it. So God knows what she'd be living on. But..." he trailed off, and looked at me sidelong, the glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Does that mean you're saying yes?"
I took a slow, silent breath, and pitched my voice to be even. "I have never said no to you before this, Jim. I see no reason to start doing so now."
I saw him relax, the tension flowing out of him like air out of a balloon. I saw his hand twitch to reach for mine, saw him pull it back sharp against his leg. "Thank you," he said, low and fervent. "Thank you, Spock."
"Thank me when I have found her," I said, and allowed the silence to return.
---
It was four hours after we'd left my house that we arrived in San Francisco. At the transport station I parked on one of the upper levels; a shorter distance to the shuttles, less chance of being seen. We might have been followed. Even now there could be someone waiting. And of course there was always the danger of stupidity; a busybody passerby taking note of a Vulcan and a human in a car together, who might remember it later when the APB went out. We had learned to be careful before, for different reasons; we were no stranger to being inconspicuous.
"Thanks," he said, his voice loud in the absence of the engine's hum. "I know you didn't have to do this--"
"Will you be back?" The question surprised him; it surprised me, too. I had not meant to ask it, and it seemed to undo something of Jim's composure. Letting out his breath in a harsh gust, he shook his head and palmed his face, hard.
"I don't know," he muttered behind his hand. "I really don't." The hand dropped to his lap, lifted as if to reach out, then fell again. "I guess it depends on you."
He looked up at me then, and I marveled at the ease with which he eroded my self-control, my ability to hold myself aloof. The shameless want in his face sliced me like a knife, and my breath caught. "Jim," I began, but he was moving across the seat as I spoke, a hand on my neck, pulling my mouth to his. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath hot on my cheek. "I shouldn't, I know, but I can't-- if this is the last--"
"Stop," I said, the only word I could manage before my mouth sought his again. I kissed him hard, too desperate to be gentle, and felt him melt against me with a soft sound. His hand slid around my ribs, pressed against my heartbeat; from where my fingers met his skin I could feel the pulse of his thoughts, fractured surges of regret, desire, determination-- a heady mix, and in moments I was dizzy with it.
"Spock," he breathed against my neck, and I shivered. "I have to go." His arms went tighter around me, an embrace different from the tangling heated mess we'd been a moment before. He clung to me with all his strength, pressed against me as many places as he could reach, and I held him tight in return. I knew the goodbye for what it was, even without words.
"I won't be able to write," he said as he pulled back, straightening his collar.
"I do not want you to," I said. "You must be careful, Jim. You are not very good at it."
He grinned, for a moment looking every bit the rakish degenerate I'd thought him when we met, and the tightness in my chest intensified. "I know. But this old dog's got a few tricks left in him, I guarantee it." He pushed open the door and I saw his smile falter, watched him paste it back on over gritted teeth. "Thanks for the ride," he said, his voice tight.
"I will do all I can," I said. "Jim. I will find her."
He turned back, one foot already out of the car. "I know you will," he said. His smile was vivid, for the first time free of the weary sorrow that had dogged him all day. He touched my hand, his two fingers running the length of mine, gentle and brief, more heartbreaking than his mouth on mine had been. Then he was gone. The door shut firmly behind him, and I watched him jog away into the press of people. His pale coat was easy to follow at first, but soon he was lost among the throng.
I sat still for a few minutes, then started the car again. I felt a strange emptiness in my stomach, and chose to attribute it to hunger. It would be a long drive back to Los Angeles.
---
As I merged onto the freeway I was still lost in thought.
No; that is not true. I was lost in reminiscence. The feel of Jim's lips on mine lingered, and I was still shaken from the suddenness of it, having him close after being apart. A month was not a long time, I would admit. Yet with a determination that defied logic, the month since I had last seen Jim seemed to have spent three times longer than usual getting from start to finish.
I had missed him. I had not told him that, and now I wished I had. I wished for an opportunity to redo much of what I had done, now that I would not have a chance to repair it.
I turned my thoughts instead to his request, that I find his wife and clear his name. Without knowing where to start it would be difficult, and I would have to tread carefully. No doubt her family, wealthy and influential as they were, would want this kept private. And anyone who went against that desire would no doubt find himself up against the might and anger of the Syndicate. A man would have to be both ambitious and reckless to take on the most powerful commercial and criminal family in California.
But Jim had asked, and I had said yes. Which was worse, I wondered? Trying to bring down the giant, knowing I might only create my own ruin instead? Or playing safe while my friend was a fugitive in exile?
There was only one answer to that question. I already knew I would do it; had known before I even asked myself. If I did nothing, Jim would live and die with this stain on his name, and there was very little probability we would ever meet again. If I acted, I risked only myself. I had done so before, and for less compelling reasons; not to do so now would be cowardice.
"I am no coward," I murmured aloud, and pressed my foot down harder on the throttle. Jim was weak sometimes, and had much less faith in himself than others had in him. But he was a good man, perhaps one of the few truly good men I have ever known. And with all that lay between us, I could not live with myself if I did not at least try to save him.
---
It had begun innocuously enough, as friendship. After our midnight ride through the Valley, I did not hear from him for a week or more, and thought perhaps he had forgotten his assertion that he would be in touch. And then I exited my office one afternoon to find him there, at the curb, leaning against the hood of a hovercar that had probably cost more than I made in a year.
"You are looking better," I commented, pausing in the shadow of the awning.
"I'm feeling better," he said. He lowered his sunglasses to look over the tops; his eyes were as blue as I remembered. "Thought I'd take you out for a drink to say thanks."
"A drink?" I asked, remembering the state of him the other night.
He laughed. "If you keep count, I won't have to."
"If you get drunk, I am driving you home in your own car," I warned him, putting on my hat as I stepped out from under the awning.
He understood that I was relenting, and his smile grew brighter than ever. "Deal. Now come on, get in."
The car was as sleek and quick as it looked, and he handled it easily. I wondered at its origins until he told me that he and his devastating green girl had made up. They were married, he told me, but didn't always get on. When we'd met they'd been on the outs; the apartment I'd taken him to was where he stayed when she wasn't speaking to him, but he was giving it up. She was too good for him, he told me; he was going to learn to be a better husband, a better man. I did not offer an opinion on the topic.
He took me to a place where the man behind the bar greeted him by name. The dark wood and dim lights gave the atmosphere of evening, and we took a booth beneath a photograph of the New York City skyline, sinking into the leather seats. Within half an hour we were absorbed in conversation. Three hours later we said good-night, and I drove back to my house in silence, while he, I assumed, took his beautiful car back to his beautiful house and beautiful wife.
Soon it was a regular occurrence. I would leave my office at the end of the day to find him waiting for me, or my communicator would buzz as I was driving back into the city with his jocular voice on the other end. Always I went intending to leave before it got late; more often than not it was fully dark out before we parted company. I did not know what it was that kept drawing me to him. Often we disagreed; often the careless disarray of his personal life, the low opinion he had of himself, threatened to bring out the harder side of my nature, the part of me always on the verge of asking why he stayed with a woman he did not love, why he let himself be kept when there was nothing tying him down except his conviction in his own uselessness.
I never said anything of the sort aloud. It was not my place, and besides, to do so would have invited a discussion I did not want to have, mostly because I knew Jim would not hesitate to challenge me, to pick apart anything he found suited to win him the upper hand. I did not doubt my ability to keep my composure, but I was not yet ready to let him dissect me. I did not know if I ever would be; it is rare that I have let someone into my confidence, and I was not certain yet that I wanted to do so with Jim. We were equals in this friendship; what might change if he knew more of me, the parts I kept hidden from everyone?
Even then, I was aware of observers. It was nineteen fifty-two; peace in space had left the American people free to worry about threats on Earth, and everywhere we were warned of spies in our midst. The word un-American was thrown about with frightening ease. And though I held dual citizenship on Earth and Vulcan, and could have fled to my father's homeworld if needed, I was stubbornly unwilling to consider it. I was a private person by nature; I would give them no reason to pay attention to me, and would continue to live as I pleased.
It had been two months, maybe, since I had first walked outside to find him sitting on my curb, the night he called me from the Cadillac Hotel.
"Spock," he said. The drawl to the word suggested he'd had a drink or two already, and he sounded pleased that I had picked up.
"Jim," I said. I was in my office still, trying to put my latest case to rest with the most tedious part of any job; the paperwork.
"I was thinking we could have a drink," he said.
"I am thinking you have already had one," I replied.
He laughed, the sound trailing off. "Well, maybe. I'm sleeping on the couch tonight, except there wasn't a couch in the house far enough away for Gaila's taste. So I'm at the Cadillac. Thought maybe... maybe you'd come keep me company."
There was nothing sly about his words, yet I felt myself flush. I knew already the sort of company I would have kept with him if I were allowed, but had not let myself consider it. He had given me no sign (none that I knew how to read, at least) and unrequited attraction was no harder to control than any other emotion I had mastered.
I cleared my throat, and realized I had been silent for a noticeable length of time. "Give me a few moments," I said. "I have work to finish, but I will be there."
"Great. Room 379," he said. "See you soon." He hung up before I could protest; I had thought he was inviting me to the hotel's bar, remembering too late that the Cadillac had none. I did not allow anxiety to settle; I finished my work and drove to the hotel, knocking on the door to room 379 without hesitation.
He opened the door with a grin, a glass in each hand. "Glad you could make it," he said, as if ushering me into a party instead of a dingy hotel room. I took one of the glasses, full of the murky chocolate concoction I favored, and followed him in.
"I am surprised to find you here," I admitted, setting the glass down long enough to remove my coat and hat. The room was small, scarcely big enough for a sofa, desk, chair and bed. He waved me toward the sofa, sprawling back in the chair where, judging by the tie draped over the arm and the ring of condensation on the table beside it, he had already been sitting for some time.
"Thought I'd go somewhere nicer?" he returned, and I nodded agreement. "Yeah, well, I don't like to spend her money when I'm mad at her," he said. "Could get to be a bad habit."
"And you would not want to cultivate any of those," I agreed, gratified at the bark of laughter I received in return. I had come to enjoy making him laugh, perhaps more than I ought. But in all things Jim was unfailingly generous, and that included showing affection where he felt it merited. I could not deny that I valued that from him, nor that I actively sought its expression.
I sipped my drink, which was cold, and welcome. The window was open but only a slight breeze came through, barely stirring the curtains. Outside the city was chaotic with sound and light, even at a remove of four storeys' height. I turned away from the view to look at Jim again, more critically than I had upon first entering the room.
"Do you wish to speak of what brought you here?" I asked. My lips curled slightly and I added, "I am not promising to give you good advice, only to listen."
A smile grazed his face, then vanished. "Nah. Boring story anyway. Same tired song you've probably heard a hundred times. But hopefully from sadder bastards than me," he said, eyes meeting mine briefly before dropping again. He looked into his glass like it had something to tell him, then drained it.
I stood before he could speak again, went to the sideboard and returned with the bottle of Scotch. I poured two fingers into his glass; his eyes swiveled up to mine without a muscle on the rest of him moving, and I added another splash. "Thanks," he murmured. I returned to my glass and sipped at it. Already I could feel the haze creeping up. The entire scene felt surreal-- he and I, silent in our chairs, the dim sounds out the window, the air inside hot and charged.
"Why did you ask me to come here?" I had meant to sound curious; it came out harder, more demanding.
His eyebrows arched, the pensive hand in front of his mouth dropped to rest on his knee, and he gave a mirthless laugh. "Isn't it obvious, Spock?" He gestured around him, the drabness of the room, the peeling wallpaper, the ugly yellow light. "You're the only thing keeping me from doing something stupid." The defiant tilt of his chin did nothing to hide the wildness of his eyes, the fractious energy rolling off him in waves.
"What sort of stupid?" I could think of several interpretations. If he meant to do himself injury, then I had underestimated his level of distress. If he meant something reckless or foolhardy, well, I had seen him through several such situations already, and did not doubt I could do so again.
"Doesn't matter," he said, looking back out the window with an expression best described as sullen. "Now you're here there's a whole other category of stupid to deal with."
I could feel my expression draw close as I frowned. "I fail to take your meaning." I took another drink and set the glass down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.
"You weren't supposed to take it," he snapped. I could hear in his voice how tightly leashed his anger was, and my adrenaline had already risen in response.
"Jim," I started, but he cut me off before I could go on.
"Look, I'm not trying to pretend my life is some sob story," he said. "I know I've got it pretty easy. But sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in on me and there's nowhere else I have to go, I'm just gonna stay in this little cage for the rest of my life and I've got to like it, 'cause I put myself there. And then all of a sudden there you are, not giving a good goddamn about anyone or anything... Except, apparently, me. You remind me what it's like to have someone out there who'd give a damn if I stopped showing up. You make me want--" Here he stopped, and ran a hand hard down his scarred cheek, across his mouth, pressing like he could keep the words in if he tried hard enough. "Things I shouldn't want," he finished. "And I don't know what the fuck to do with that, Spock. I really don't."
He looked up at me then, his face more open than I had ever seen it. You make me want things I shouldn't want. His eyes poured forth agony, the fear of what he'd said and the terrible hope it might not send me running for the door, and I understood suddenly that this was why he'd been drinking: not to dull the shame of being tossed out by his wife, but to give him courage to say what he had, I now knew, been waiting for some time to say.
I had to draw breath against the sudden tightness in my chest, and lower, and everywhere else; it was all mixed up, as everything had been with Jim since the day I met him. My voice had deserted me, and in any case, what was there to say? Words would not do better than actions, so I would not bother with them.
I stood and stepped around the table, taking the glass from his hand and setting it aside. I took his elbow and drew him to his feet; his hands stayed half raised in front of him, wary and unknowing what I was doing. But when I pushed them aside to rest a hand on his waist, the other on his neck, he understood.
We met halfway, a tentative kiss that soon became determined, and his hands fisted in my lapels drew me close. He was not content with that, however, and soon he was pushing the jacket off my shoulders, fingers working the buttons of my waistcoat. His skin was hot under my hands, I could feel it through the fine cotton of his shirt, and when I broke away to breathe he made a sound, bereft, that tore through me like a wound. I said his name, I think, and he answered by cupping my face in his hands and pulling me to him again.
Somehow my hands found his skin, and then we were shedding clothes with careless haste. "So hot," he breathed, nipping at my neck, and truly I burned for him, hotter with every touch of his hands, his mouth, his skin against mine. At last we were naked, and I pressed him to the bed beneath me, groaning at the feel of him. His leg slid up between mine, his arms around my neck, his eyes speaking wordless volumes of feeling.
"What do you want?" I asked. I could hear my own voice ragged, and saw how it affected him, seeing me so undone.
"Everything," he said, half-lidded eyes full of wanton promise. "Think you can give it to me?"
"I can," I said, and I did.
Afterwards, lying sated beside him on twisted sheets, I pulled his hand to my chest and linked his first two fingers with mine. He felt the humming affinity passing through the touch and looked up, curious. "A Vulcan gesture," I explained with a slight smile. "To show affection. Like a kiss, if you will."
His eyes warmed, the smile everywhere but his lips. "And since we can't--"
"In public, yes." It could be done quickly, casually, in passing. A small rebellion; a little intimacy when we were prevented from indulging its fullest extent.
The smile reached his mouth then, and leaned up to kiss me again, our fingers sliding sensuously together, the closest thing to a promise either of us could hope to give.
---
Remembering that night still made me ache like prodding an old bruise; painful, but sweet. I had been lost in thinking of it, and the months that had followed it, for so long that I startled out of my thoughts to realize I was approaching the Los Angeles city limits. I felt a measure of relief, but accepted it warily. I knew my absence could have been noted, and knew also that I must be prepared to answer questions regarding my whereabouts this day.
I went to my office first. I had paperwork lingering to finish regarding my last assignment, invoices to submit and it seemed a worthy way to pass the time while I thought about what to do next. I had been there little more than an hour when there was a knock on the inside door.
"Come in," I said without looking up. I was unsurprised to see two men in police uniform enter the room.
"You Mr. Spock?" one of them asked. The other, shorter and thinner than his partner, took one of the chairs across from me without being invited.
"I am," I said, though I knew he did not need confirmation.
"How's business?" he asked. His tone was pleasant, but I saw his eyes taking in the details of my office, such as they were.
"Average," I replied. "Neither fortuitous nor disastrous. I have openings in my schedule, if the LAPD wishes to consult my services."
The man smiled. There was nothing pleasant about that. "It's not the future of your schedule that interests me," he said. "It's the past. The real recent past."
So they had, indeed, come to ask about Jim. "How recent?"
"This morning recent." The smaller man in the chair cracked his knuckles. Subtlety is not that one's strong point, I thought.
"I was out of town this morning," I said. I stopped typing on the tablet screen before me, my hands resting flat on top of it. "I have only just returned--" I made a show of looking at the clock on the wall-- "one hour and twelve minutes ago."
"And what were you doing out of town, Mr. Spock?" The talkative one remained standing. I wondered what ploy this was, to keep my attention on him perhaps, to the exclusion of his partner. I could have told them it would not work; I was not so easily misled.
"I had business outside the city."
"Did you." He smiled again. "What kind of business, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I am afraid I do," I said. "It was personal, and I am not in the habit of sharing my personal life with the police."
"Your reticence suggests you have something to hide." The second man spoke at last, his voice thickly accented. He looked at me with flat disinterest, as one would look at a science experiment.
"I regret the suggestion, then, if that is true. I do not believe I have anything to hide. But nor do I have anything to share."
"Why so silent?" The first man spoke again.
"You have entered my office without giving your names, and demanded information which I am under no legal obligation to provide. I feel no urge to say more than I already have."
"So you won't tell us where you were." He rested his hands on his belt, one within easy reach of the gun, the other on the handle of the club. Subtlety was not either of their strong suits, then. And I had been hoping to be pleasantly surprised.
"Do you have a reason for wanting to know?" I asked.
"If we do--" The man in the chair cut him off, leaning forward, his face still showing no expression.
"Sulu, he will not speak unless we do. Mr. Spock," he said, eyes fixed on mine, "are you familiar with a man named James Kirk?"
My eyebrows went up. "Certainly. We used to drink together occasionally. He married money and lives well. I have never seen his house, but I have met his wife."
"And would you know anything of his whereabouts currently?"
"Nothing whatsoever. He does not confide in me anymore; we had an argument several weeks ago that has yet to be mended." I was careful with my words; I knew they would be careful with theirs, and marking mine to repeat back to me later when it would incriminate me the most. I would not lie-- it was true I had no idea where Jim might be. He had boarded the shuttle hours ago, and might be on his way to anywhere in the galaxy.
"Well, that's too bad. We're trying to find him, and we heard you were the best place to start looking."
"Whoever told you that was sadly mistaken."
"Do we look easy to fool?" the curly-haired one asked. He seemed almost bemused, which had the unfortunate effect of making me more determined to throw their presumption in their faces. I had spent most of the day in the car; I was tired and irritable and sore. I could have brought myself to hate these men easily, but did not need to hate them in order to go out of my way to make their jobs difficult.
So I shrugged, seeming apathetic. "I believe you must be familiar with the adage about shoes that fit."
Sulu gave that unpleasant smile again, and I thought perhaps I had gone too far. "I got a better question for you, Spock. Do we look easy to push around?"
"No more than do I, I hope," I said. "Will that be all? I have quite a bit of work to do."
"It won't be all. Kirk's wife is missing, and wherever she went, it doesn't look like she went there willingly. Could be she's kidnapped, could be she's dead. But we've got a serious investigation going and if you're not going to help us--"
"Why should you need my help? I've told you there's nothing I can offer you."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But we'll be the judge of that. And if you won't talk, we take you in, Spock."
"Take me in?" I gave a small smile. "As what, exactly?"
"As a suspect. Accessory after the fact, either to a kidnapping or a murder, and I don't much care which. My guess is you took him somewhere, and right now a guess is all I need."
I could see I was not going to make them leave without some sort of further explanation (and that even if I did succeed in ousting them from my office, they would be back, most likely with a piece of paper signed by a judge that would let them do a lot more than threaten me with none of the lingering guilt afterward). "You may think you know what has happened," I said, "but you are wrong. Jim Kirk was my friend. A good man, maybe the only good one I know. And I am not going to spill his confidences out for your perusal simply at your assurance that you have a good reason for it. If there is a trial and I am called, I will answer the questions I am asked. Until then, you will get no more from me."
Sulu sighed. "If that's how you want it to be, Spock. But don't say you weren't warned." He turned toward the communicator on the wall and tapped in a number. While it rang he glanced back at me. "I have to ask the question, and I know the answer I'm gonna get. You might wish later you'd been more cooperative." He turned back to the communicator as the line picked up.
The Captain said to bring me in, and rough.
---
They led me to an office, the only one I could see with a light on inside. Behind the desk sat an older man, silver-haired and steel-eyed, who looked at me with bland dislike as I followed Sulu and his partner in.
"Mr. Spock," he said, sitting back in the chair. "I had hoped not to see you here tonight."
"I regret I have disappointed you." The nameplate on his desk read Capt. C. Pike.
"Somehow I doubt that. Sulu?" He glanced up at the detective who'd escorted me in.
"He won't talk, Captain. Out all day, won't say where. Kirk's his friend, but he won't say when he saw him last."
"Hm." Pike glanced at me again, blank as if I were an inanimate object. "Well, Mr. Spock, I understand you are a licensed P.I., but in here that means less than a Boy Scout badge. We have a missing woman and a jealous husband, and more than a little reason to suspect you know where Kirk went. So I'll have a statement from you, a record of everywhere you've been and everything you've done since 2200 last night." His mouth curved in a thin, smug smile. "It would be one thing if you'd said you hadn't seen him. But you haven't said that, have you? Which means you're trying to play smart, and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's when witnesses try to play smart."
I nodded slowly as if thinking. "I see. Well then in that case I wish to co-operate. But I need legal advice. How soon could a representative from the district attorney's office be here?"
Pike's face smoothed out and he gave a short, hollow laugh. The next part happened quickly; he got up, came around the desk, and punched me. Layered on top of the blows Sulu and his partner had already given me, it made my head ring. By the time I could see straight again, he was back behind the desk.
"You discover a need to unburden yourself yet?" he asked, mild as milk.
"No sir," I said. My jaw ached, but I got the words out.
"Have it your way. Sulu." He nodded at the door, and Sulu hauled me to my feet. "Get a statement, one way or another. You have two hours, and I want him cleaned up when you bring him back."
"Thank you," I said. Pike looked at me curiously, and I elaborated. "You have just made up my mind for me. When I came in here I was uncertain what sort of man you might be. No one likes to betray his friend, but now you would have trouble convincing me to betray an enemy into your care. You cannot read people, Pike. You might have swayed me with kindness, with understanding, but now..." I shook my head. "Now I would not tell you the color of your own shirt if you asked me."
Pike's face did not change. "Sulu, I changed my mind," he said. "Book him. Suspicion of murder. Hold him in county overnight, and he can speak to his representative from the district attorney's office in the morning." He got up and came around the desk again. "I'm going to find out what I want to know," he said, quietly conversational.
"Not with my help," I said, refusing to look away.
He held eye contact with me until I could see a vein in his temple start to throb. His throat worked, and when he spoke his voice was harsher than before. "Get him out of my sight," he said, and Sulu dragged me away.
---
Colloquially it is known as the felony tank. Each cell has two bunks, but there were few occupants and I had the cell to myself. It was neither dirty nor clean, it did not smell too strongly of bleach, and the barred window let in some sunlight. The lights were still on when they put me in, but at ten o'clock they shut off without warning. I had only just sat down on the bunk, the thin mattress barely disguising the shape of the slats beneath, when I was plunged into total darkness.
I thought I would sleep, after the day I had had. Only this morning I had awoken to Jim's pounding on my door; it seemed illogical that one day should feel so long. I lay on the bunk on top of the blanket, my arms folded beneath my head, and thought. There was nothing else to do. Yet sleep eluded me. I kept seeing Jim's face, the fearful look in his eyes and the way he'd begged me to find Gaila. I felt again the desperate way he'd kissed me, little caring who saw us, how he'd held me fiercely close, unable to stop himself.
I lay awake until the summer dawn turned the window pink and breathed the chill off the air. They brought breakfast around seven thirty, and when I asked for a newspaper they brought me that as well. They could not have cared less if I were guilty, any more than they cared if I were innocent. They looked at me and saw a prisoner, someone who was staying with them for a time. They did not speak to me, and I did not speak to them. There was nothing to communicate. They were all infused with the low humdrum monotony of life in suspension, a pattern that never changes; when I was gone there would be someone else in my place. Why should they bother making me miserable? I was doing a good enough job of that on my own.
It was three days before I saw a lawyer, another four before I was released. By then I had had my fill of time to think, to reason out the facts and the logic of them, and decide how to proceed. I had some of the facts, Jim had provided a few others, but in truth it was three days' worth of newspapers, morning and evening, that had given me the answer.
Gaila was worth millions; if the papers were not full of the story of her vanishing, it was because someone had paid them to stay silent. It was the clue I had hoped for, the first step on what would (I hoped) become a path to finding her, and from there to bringing Jim home again. I thought I knew what game was being played, and was more than ready to step in and become a part of it.
I told myself again that it would not be easy. But I was not afraid of hard work, and I had made a promise. And something else had come to me during those long nights in the quiet jail, listening to the faucet drip with only myself for company, a promise I had had to make to myself: to do something worth doing, something I could be proud of. I did a job and I was good at it; I was on the right side of the law and of my own morals. But it was thankless work, and most cases were not the sort that left me feeling content, either with the state of the world or the people in it.
If I could do this, clear Jim's name and allow him to come back, I would count that a job well done. I could be proud of that, I thought. Whether it meant a chance to reconcile with him or not-- and I was under no assumption that it would, given how closely each of us would likely be watched, and the bitter words that still hung between us-- knowing he was no longer under suspicion would appease the urgent feeling I had to see this thing through to the end. I did not need to know where he was, I did not even need to see him with my own eyes. I could hardly rationalize saying so, but I had long since come to terms with the fact that my world was far less interesting without Jim Kirk in it. Now, after all this, simply knowing he was alive and free would be almost the same thing.
I received my envelope from the jailhouse clerk, put my wallet in my pocket and my hat on my head, checked the messages on my communicator as I moved toward the door. I did not see Captain Pike until I nearly bumped into him, and was startled enough that it took me several seconds to realize he was smiling.
"Have a nice stay inside?" he asked. His hands were in his pockets, and the broken capillaries in his nose were pinker than usual. I wondered how much he had had to drink that morning.
"Very restful," I said.
"Glad to hear it. Hope it doesn't set you back much, I know how hard it is to keep clients in this town." I doubted he knew any such thing, but I did not say so. I moved past him, and he let me go. I was almost to the door-- almost had my hand on the handle-- when he called my name.
"Don't think you're out of the woods yet," he said when I turned. "Just because your friend's dead doesn't mean I don't still have my eye on you."
His words failed to process at first. My head canted to one side, and my brow furrowed. "Explain your meaning," I said. I was, abruptly, in no mood to ask nicely.
Pike's eyes widened in surprise, then his cruel smile came back stronger than ever. "You mean-- they haven't told you?" He laughed, genuinely tickled. "Your friend Kirk was found in a flophouse on a moon of Rigel II. A hole in his head, a phaser in his hand, a confession written out neat as you please. Who'da thought it-- we were all gearing up for a manhunt, and he goes and pops himself in an intergalactic Motel 6." He shook his head, still laughing. I discovered I was finding it difficult not to put my hands around his throat, and clenched my fists at my sides. "Must be a let-down for you, having gone to all the trouble-- allegedly, of course," he sneered.
I spun on my heel and pushed through the door, knowing that if I did not I would land myself back in the holding cell for aggravated assault. After a week in a cell, the force of the unfiltered sun in my face was momentarily blinding, and I threw up my hand in front of my eyes. Somehow I made it to a taxi, though I do not remember hailing one. I was outside my office building before I became aware of my surroundings. I made it up the stairs without tripping and closed the door behind me, quietly, gently.
I realized, though it took me some time to put the thought together, that I was likely in some form of shock. I sat at my desk and stared out the window without seeing anything my eyes fell upon. My mind refused to accept what I knew logically must be true; I got to my feet again and began to pace. How long I did, I do not know, but I returned to my senses when I thought suddenly of Jim's face when we had awoken in the Camelot that first morning, the way he had looked outlined by the sun, the artless sprawl of his body in sleep. I will never see him again, I thought, and turned with a wordless shout of rage, putting my fist neatly through my office wall.
After that I calmed down. I treated the scrapes on my knuckles and forced myself to eat something. I knew I must focus on something other than my fury, so I pulled my tablet toward me and switched it on. It came to life and began blinking with over a hundred notifications. I scrolled through the public account first, the one I gave to prospective clients, filing and deleting where needed. The monotony calmed me. Soon I was breathing easier.
Then I began to scan the few messages that had come to my private account, and was surprised to see one from an address I did not recognize. It had been sent five days ago. Before I opened it I had the computer trace the routing path, and was told it had come from off-planet.
Unaccountably my pulse sped up. I was frozen, staring at the screen, fingers clutching the tablet so hard it hurt. Then abruptly an image of Jim's face came into my mind, his brash grin and devil-may-care posture, taunting me, What's the worst that could happen?
This time, instead of anger, I felt my lips curve in an unintended smile, and a measure of the tension left my body. "Very well, Jim," I murmured, and opened the message.
I'm sitting beside a second-floor window in a room in a not too clean hotel. I won't tell you where; I know I'm already in trouble for writing when you told me not to. I'm being watched, I know, but not by who or why. It doesn't matter too much; I always knew there was a possibility I wouldn't get away clean. I just hope you did. I hope this doesn't rub your nose in it when you thought it was over and done with.
There'll be a deposit going into your account as you read this. I want you to have it because I don't need it, and I know you'd never take it from me in person. Call it an apology for making you so much trouble, and a token of esteem for a pretty decent guy. I've done everything wrong as usual, but I still have the phaser. My hunch is that it's probably gotten out by now, what they think I did. But it doesn't matter, not in the least. The main thing now is to save an unnecessary and useless scandal. Gaila didn't make a bum out of me, I was one already. I can't give you any very clean answer about why she married me. I suppose it was just a whim. I never said so, but I hope you know it was always more than that with you. It was never easy, but God, it was worth every second.
I've written a confession. I feel a little sick and more than a little scared. You read about these situations in books, but you don't read the truth. When it happens to you, when all you have left is the phaser in your pocket, when you're cornered in a dirty little hotel on a strange planet and have only one way out-- believe me, Spock, there's nothing dramatic about it. It's just plain nasty and sordid and grim.
So forget it-- and me, if you can. But first drink a gimlet for me at Victor's. And the next time you make coffee, pour me a cup and put some bourbon in it and light me a cigarette and put it beside the cup. And after that forget the whole thing. Jim Kirk over and out. And so goodbye.
I looked in my bank account. There had been a deposit for five thousand credits, no small sum by any means. I did not want it. I hated the sight of it so much I felt fiercely, irrationally angry. My chest felt tight and my eyes hot; when I rubbed my knuckles into them I felt short of breath. A thousand thoughts swarmed in my head, but I could not make sense of any of them. I felt like I had been struck on the head, disoriented and dim.
I took another taxi home, not trusting myself to drive. I had not seen the place in over a week, and it showed. Two coffee cups still sat unwashed in the sink, and the bottle of bourbon beside the stove. Like an automaton I filled the carafe, put the grinds in the filter and set it to brew.
I did what he asked me to, sentimental or not. I poured two cups, added bourbon to one and set it on the side of the table where he'd sat the morning I drove him to San Francisco. I found a pack of cigarettes in the silverware drawer and lit one, put it in the ashtray and set it beside his cup.
Outside in the trees the birds were chirping to each other, and I could hear the rumble of traffic on the freeway. As the sun went down over Los Angeles I sat with my coffee, not drinking it, just feeling it go cold in my hand. I had not yet succeeded in cataloguing the emotions Jim's letter had left me with. I, who by nature eschewed emotion, had paradoxically been drawn to the one person who never failed to elicit some display of it. Even in death he had that power; I could not begrudge it to him, now or ever.
When the cups no longer steamed and the cigarette was dead in the ashtray, I made myself get up. I threw out the cigarette butt and dumped the coffees down the drain. I put away the bourbon and stood aimless for a few minutes in the empty kitchen before making up my mind to call for another taxi to take me back to my office.
I had mourned my friend in the manner of his choosing. Now I would honor him in the manner of mine-- by keeping my promise to clear his name. In deciding, I realized then that my inner storm had given way, and I was calm once more. I knew what I must do, and I knew I would not rest until I had done it.
I called the taxi, then went into the bedroom to change. The grey suit fit as close as I remembered, and I felt a strange satisfaction as I put it on, buttoning the buttons and knotting the tie with careful precision. Jim had called this my lucky suit, and I had always scoffed at the idea; I did not believe in luck. Now I thought perhaps it was enough to remember that he had believed it, and to remember that I believed in him.
The taxi rang its horn outside, pulling me from my thoughts, and I went out to it, locking the door behind me. It was time to go to work.
-- fin --
Further Notes : I know it was really awful of me to leave you on a cliffhanger like that, huh? :) Well rest easy-- the rest of the story is in the works. The real story of what happened to Gaila and to Jim will all be made clear in time...
This post crossposted from Dreamwidth (
comments)
Title : as your days stretch out beneath the sun (we wait to see just what we will become)
Fandom : Star Trek XI
Characters/Pairing : Spock, Jim Kirk, Christopher Pike, Gaila; Kirk/Spock, past Kirk/Gaila
Rating : R
Warnings : none
Word Count : ~11,200
Summary : Los Angeles, 5 A.M. It's going to be a beautiful day in the valley, but Spock isn't going to be there to enjoy it. He's going to be driving to San Francisco, the getaway car for Jim Kirk to escape being pegged for a murder he didn't commit. Or did he? It's a long drive up north, and an even longer drive back alone; Spock is going to have a lot of time to think, and he knows the questions rattling around in his brain don't all have answers. But no matter how hard he tries, Spock can't seem to stop wondering: Is Jim Kirk worth risking everything for-- and does he even have a choice in the matter anymore?
A/Ns : This is a noir AU based loosely on parts of Raymond Chandler's beautiful novel "The Long Goodbye". I love noir, and I got the idea for this story after reading
fiercelydreamed's fabulous SGA noir " Joining with the Jackal Pack", in which she points out that "The Long Goodbye" is the only Marlowe novel where he risks everything not for a woman, but for another man, a friend he couldn't get out of his head even after he was out of his life. I think that dynamic translates well to Kirk and Spock, and besides which, everything is better with fedoras and trenchcoats, right? :)
In all seriousness though, I adore AUs and I was thrilled to be included in this edition of "Universal Constant". You guys should read all the stories in it, because they're really wonderful. You can read them at
uczine. And enormous thanks to
rinlage for her usual beta polishing job; as usual, she's made it presentable to the outside world. <3
---
I was dredged from sleep by an incessant pounding. Startled awake, my pulse raced. I plowed blindly down the hall and wrenched the door open with drowsy, clumsy fingers. It was five o’clock in the morning, which even after years outside, still rang in my head as 0500.
Jim was standing there-- or, more accurately, he was slumped against the doorframe. I felt my eyebrows pulling together in surprise. It had been a month since I had walked away from him in the bar, a month since I had seen his face or heard his voice. With a moment's glance I took him in, pale trench coat, dark hat pulled low. When his eyes lifted to mine, the haggard exhaustion I saw there struck me like a physical blow. He looked as if he had not slept in weeks.
Then I looked down and saw the weapon in his hand. It was a gun, a phaser whose make I did not recognize. I backed away a step and he followed me inside.
"You're driving me to San Fransisco," he said without an introduction. "I've got an 11:15 shuttle to catch. Got money, passport, visa, the works. But I've gotta get there fast, Spock, so I hope five hundred credits is enough to make you step on it."
"With that in your hand, you would not need money to convince me," I said, and he looked down at the phaser as if he did not recognize it.
He laughed, dry and short. "It's all yours," he said, passing it to me. "I don't need it, but you might."
I set the phaser on the coffee table and tried to forget its existence. "Come in," I said; fruitless, as he was already in the door, but courtesy is a habit I always find easy to fall back upon. "I will make coffee," I added, turning away from him.
"Thank god for you," he said wearily, and collapsed into a chair. Through the open doorway to the kitchen I could see his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, as I moved to take out the coffee pot. I thought he'd fallen asleep, but after a minute his voice came again, quieter. "I'm in a heap of trouble, Spock," he said.
I turned on the water, put the pot under the faucet and looked out the open window. The sun was coming up now, and the scent of flowers and eucalyptus came in from outside. "Yes, I had gotten that impression," I said. "But let us wait to talk until the coffee is ready."
By the time the coffee was ready he had left the living room and slid heavily into a chair at the table. As he rested his hands on the tabletop I could see they were shaking. I ran him a glass of water from the tap and it seemed to take him a moment to remember what to do with it. "I almost passed out," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Feel like I haven't slept in a week. Definitely didn't sleep last night."
I did not say anything. I was calmer now that the gun was out of his reach, but the air in the room was as charged as ever. For a long moment we looked at each other; I tried to tell if it was adrenaline or the old familiar heat between us, but his eyes dropped before I could read anything but fatigue in them. He picked up the water glass and drank. I heard the sound of a car start down the road, the sound of him swallowing, the clink of the glass as he set it down again, the slow drip of the coffee into the carafe. Then the coffee machine beeped to signal it was ready, and I got up, time resuming its normal pace.
Against my better judgment I took down a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf and poured a generous amount into his mug, wondering if he would remember he was the only reason I had the bottle to begin with. A splash of milk in mine, and I sat at the table, sliding his mug across to him.
He looked at me and did not move for a moment; then his hands came up to cover his face and I heard a raw, ragged sound in his throat, a noise of despair. I did not move to comfort him, though I admit my hand twitched as if to reach out. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, but dry. "I didn't shoot anybody," he said. He saw the coffee, and drank some.
"I do not think you did," I said. It was mostly true.
"I'll tell you about it," he said, his eyes on my face. He seemed almost desperate to talk, and I, who had until this moment thought myself distant enough from him to remain serene, found myself wanting to listen. But I knew that was not possible-- not if I was to do as he asked, and take him to San Francisco.
"You cannot," I said. It sounded harsher than I had meant it. "You cannot tell me anything," I said, gentler. "You need a ride, and you need it quickly. That, I can provide, but only if you do not tell me--" I broke off. I did not want to hurt him, but what I had to say could not be considered kind. "You cannot tell me what you have done, or what someone else has done if you know of it. You cannot tell me anything," I repeated. Irrationally, I wished I could reach forward and cover his hand with my own. He was always susceptible to touch, mine more so than most, or so I had thought.
Jim looked at me, his eyes dull, his face guarded. "Fine," he said. It was the flattest sounding word I had ever heard from him. "Have it your way. Mum's the word."
I refrained from pointing out that this was not about me getting my way. My "way", if I were to have it, would not involve my being the getaway car, the escape route to a shuttle that was no doubt intended to take him off-planet with no way or intention of returning.
But for what I wanted from Jim Kirk, it was too late. It had been too late the day we met, though I had had no way of knowing it at the time.
When the coffee was gone and he seemed less likely to pass out if I turned my back on him, I went into the bedroom to dress. I opened my closet, looked at the row of suits. My hand went for the dark grey, the wool under my fingertips well-worn, and I remembered suddenly, Jim's fingers curled into the lapel, his eyes bright on mine, insistent. My hand dropped as if burned, and I reached for the navy instead, knowing it a futile gesture.
I emerged from the far end of the hallway feeling armored, but no less unsteady. He was waiting for me in the living room, the phaser still on the table. "Ready to go?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yes. But first--" I paused, attempting to find the right phrasing. "Have you left anything-- a car, perhaps-- that might lead someone to think you came here?"
He shook his head. His eyes were still tired, but now I would have called him sad. The slope of his shoulders was full of regret, and he turned away toward the door with a shrug. "No. But it wouldn't matter if I had. Anyone who'd think to look knows the only place I'd have to go-- the only person I could come to-- is you."
He opened the door to greet a beautiful Los Angeles morning, and went down the steps towards my car with his hands in his pockets. Full of foreboding, I let my breath out slowly (I had not realized until then that I had been holding it) and locked the door behind me.
---
The first time I laid eyes on him he was drunk, and I was as close to it as I am able to get. I had gone out to distract my mind from stewing over a job that had proved more difficult than expected; my success had been minimal, and I was bored. I had stepped out of the club for some air and some quiet, wondering whether I should go back in or simply go home.
The night was warm, not humid enough to be hot. The scent of flowers hung in the air beneath the smog and tar of the city, and over the hum of crickets in the grass and the faraway cars, their laughter caught my attention. Hers was quiet and musical, his boisterously loud. They leaned on each other as if for mutual support, but as they got closer I could see she was doing most of the heavy lifting.
"Come on, Jim, just let me call you a cab," she said, her lips brushing his hair. With her heels on, she was almost as tall as he, and made quite a spectacle. Skin the color of grass, hair just a shade off of scarlet, in a dress black as night that left nothing to the imagination. Forgive my florid language; it would take a more rigid stoic than I to be unmoved by that kind of beauty.
"Don't need a cab," he said, straightening. "I can drive." I had a clear view of his face, then; pale skin, blue eyes to match his shock of gold hair. His right cheek was cobwebbed with old, fine scars that stood out livid on the skin, silver in the dim light. He saw me looking, I think. He laughed again, a lower, dirtier sound, and buried his face in the girl's neck. She giggled, one hand curling around his arm, then tried to push him away.
"You can't," she said. "You can't, Jim, come on. I'll just--" The laugh in her voice was fading, and faded faster as he lost his balance, stumbling backward to sit down hard on the curb. "Get up," she pleaded, but it wasn't worry for him coloring her tone.
"I will give you a ride," I said, stepping forward. "I was just leaving anyway."
Still, when I remember that night, I do not know what made me do it. I am not in the habit of assisting drunken strangers, or offering to extend myself to anyone who has not done the same to me first. But when he turned and looked at me, assessing and calculating even through the liquor haze, I was not sorry I had spoken.
"Great," said the girl, snapping her fingers for the valet and handing him the ticket for her car. "Jim, this guy's gonna give you a lift. Thanks," she said, turning her hundred-carat smile on me and shrugging her mink up higher on her shoulder.
"Gaila," he said dryly, before I could reply, "you're a real peach."
"Go home, Jim," she said, cool and distant. "You're loaded and I'm tired. Go get some sleep. It's been fun." She was not over-burdened with a sense of responsibility, I could see. The valet brought her car around, a convertible with white leather inside, pure as the driven snow. I understood her aversion to putting him inside; the chance of him holding down the amount of liquor he had likely consumed was not good, especially on all those winding turns. Understanding her motive still did not make me like it.
"I gather you will find out whether or not he makes it home alright," I said, bland as ever.
She shrugged, but her mouth looked sour. "Damn Vulcans," she said, "you're all so judgmental. Have a good night, buster, and thanks for taking him off my hands." She got into the car and tossed the mink on the passenger seat along with her little handbag. Then she was gone, leaving us only the engine's deep-throated purr to remember her by.
I turned to my new companion, who had gotten halfway to standing up. I took his arm and got him the rest of the way, then waved the valet down and gave him my ticket. "Where do you live?" I asked him. He stared at me for a moment before giving an address. I know now, though I did not then, how unused he was to kindness. My actions must have shocked him greatly. Then, I simply thought him too drunk to process my question.
He was mostly dead weight, but I got him into the car easily enough. As I started the car and pulled out of the lot, he said nothing, but when I looked at him I found his eyes open, fixed on my face.
"Thanks," he rasped. His head was pressed against the window, and as I watched he turned so his forehead touched the cool glass.
"You are welcome," I replied. He was the politest drunk I had ever encountered. By the time we pulled up in front of my office he seemed a bit more collected, and looked around suspiciously as I parked the car.
"This isn't my place," he observed. His eyes fixed back on mine, and no matter how drunk he was, I could see his mind was working lightning-fast in spite of it.
"There is a shower upstairs, and coffee," I said. "When you are more sober, I will drive you home." His eyes rested on mine, and for the first time he seemed completely still. I too remained motionless, knowing I was being assessed, my heart beating faster though I tried to control it.
I do not know what he was seeking in my face, but he looked for a long time. It had been several minutes when finally he put his hand on the door and pulled the handle. "Okay," he said as he got out. "Beats the drunk tank, I guess. Unless you're planning to make me sleep it off here," he added with a sharp-edged smile.
"I am not going to make you do anything," I said, typing in my passcode at the door. It slid open with a slight rattle; the building was not new.
His eyes tugged at mine again, and his grin widened as he slid past me into the hallway. "That's a shame."
I don't know why it surprised me, but it did. He was always doing that; this was simply the first time of many. I revised my opinion of him as a polite drunk, and instead of answering I followed him up the stairs. "Second floor," I said. He did not trip on the bump in the carpet, and stopped outside my door without my telling him which one it was.
"How did you guess?" I asked, typing in a second passcode.
He flicked the etching of my name on the door with a finger. "Sounds a lot more Vulcan than McCreedy or Pangitraya," he said, naming my office's immediate neighbors.
He grinned again, proud of himself, and I realized some measure of surprise must have shown on my face. My eyes met his and seemed to freeze there; a moment passed where we did nothing but look at each other, feeling the strange current of recognition traveling through the look, wondering at its abrupt manifestation.
I broke the silence. "After you," I said. He looked away. He put his hand on the door to push it open, and I noticed the band on the fourth finger.
He went still, seeing me notice, then pasted on a grin that didn't quite stick. "She's got one too," he said. His eyes, still slightly unfocused from the alcohol, slid away from mine. "I proposed, but she bought the rings. I knew from the start she was a keeper, but I'm the kept man."
He seemed to be waiting for me to comment, so I said, "I see," though I did not entirely take his meaning.
He laughed, short and surprised. "I'm sure you do," he said. Perhaps he knew I was playing along with him, perhaps not. He shook his head, still smiling, then pushed the door open the rest of the way and went into my office in the dark, not bothering to raise the lights. "I think you said something about coffee?"
---
"It's good to see you," he said quietly.
His voice startled me; he had been quiet for a long time, curled in a hunch against the window, as far from me as it was possible to get in the front seat of a car. "This is not the circumstance under which I expected to see you again," I said finally.
He nodded. His body relaxed slightly, just enough for him to turn, for our eyes to meet in each other's peripheral vision. "It wasn't exactly the way I pictured it either. Before this."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he had pictured, how often he had thought of it, and why he had not acted until necessity drove him back to me. But I kept silent. They were not questions I really wanted answers to, anyway. Not with the clock ticking down to the last time I was going to see him-- if not for the rest of our lives, then for long enough as to make my unrest irrelevant.
It was a lonely thought. I wished I had not had it. I focused on the road ahead once more.
"I wasn't going to ask you this," he said slowly after another few minutes had passed. "I didn't... I wasn't sure how you'd take seeing me again. Wasn't even sure you'd do this. I know what you're risking," he said, almost to himself. "But if you can... and Spock, if anyone can, it's you... find Gaila for me. I know it sounds insane," he rushed on, turning to face me full on, pleading eyes like a lodestone drawing mine to meet them. "But I didn't do-- what they'll say I did, once I'm gone. I didn't."
He waited for me to say something, and when I did not, he went on, somewhat abashed. "She just vanished. I swear it, Spock, like she just walked out the door in her evening gown and never came back. We'd had a fight," he said, relaxing back into his seat and running a hand through his hair. "When hadn't we? She'd had company again, down in the garden house, the night before." He glanced to me, gauging whether I would comment. I did not. I had done enough commenting on Gaila already, and lived to regret it bitterly. And I was disturbed enough to hear the reason for his flight was something so nebulous (a young woman, daughter of money, fickle and selfish by nature, disappearing without warning) that I could hardly have formed a retort on the subject of her character.
He went on. "We fought last night. Around dinner time. I know they could all hear us, the help I mean. So if someone asks, they'll say so. She told me to go to hell, I told her I'd see her there first." He swallowed hard and shook his head. "Stupid," he muttered. "So goddamn stupid."
"Do you know where she might have gone?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. No way. Except that if she did run, she wouldn't have her father's help doing it. So God knows what she'd be living on. But..." he trailed off, and looked at me sidelong, the glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Does that mean you're saying yes?"
I took a slow, silent breath, and pitched my voice to be even. "I have never said no to you before this, Jim. I see no reason to start doing so now."
I saw him relax, the tension flowing out of him like air out of a balloon. I saw his hand twitch to reach for mine, saw him pull it back sharp against his leg. "Thank you," he said, low and fervent. "Thank you, Spock."
"Thank me when I have found her," I said, and allowed the silence to return.
---
It was four hours after we'd left my house that we arrived in San Francisco. At the transport station I parked on one of the upper levels; a shorter distance to the shuttles, less chance of being seen. We might have been followed. Even now there could be someone waiting. And of course there was always the danger of stupidity; a busybody passerby taking note of a Vulcan and a human in a car together, who might remember it later when the APB went out. We had learned to be careful before, for different reasons; we were no stranger to being inconspicuous.
"Thanks," he said, his voice loud in the absence of the engine's hum. "I know you didn't have to do this--"
"Will you be back?" The question surprised him; it surprised me, too. I had not meant to ask it, and it seemed to undo something of Jim's composure. Letting out his breath in a harsh gust, he shook his head and palmed his face, hard.
"I don't know," he muttered behind his hand. "I really don't." The hand dropped to his lap, lifted as if to reach out, then fell again. "I guess it depends on you."
He looked up at me then, and I marveled at the ease with which he eroded my self-control, my ability to hold myself aloof. The shameless want in his face sliced me like a knife, and my breath caught. "Jim," I began, but he was moving across the seat as I spoke, a hand on my neck, pulling my mouth to his. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath hot on my cheek. "I shouldn't, I know, but I can't-- if this is the last--"
"Stop," I said, the only word I could manage before my mouth sought his again. I kissed him hard, too desperate to be gentle, and felt him melt against me with a soft sound. His hand slid around my ribs, pressed against my heartbeat; from where my fingers met his skin I could feel the pulse of his thoughts, fractured surges of regret, desire, determination-- a heady mix, and in moments I was dizzy with it.
"Spock," he breathed against my neck, and I shivered. "I have to go." His arms went tighter around me, an embrace different from the tangling heated mess we'd been a moment before. He clung to me with all his strength, pressed against me as many places as he could reach, and I held him tight in return. I knew the goodbye for what it was, even without words.
"I won't be able to write," he said as he pulled back, straightening his collar.
"I do not want you to," I said. "You must be careful, Jim. You are not very good at it."
He grinned, for a moment looking every bit the rakish degenerate I'd thought him when we met, and the tightness in my chest intensified. "I know. But this old dog's got a few tricks left in him, I guarantee it." He pushed open the door and I saw his smile falter, watched him paste it back on over gritted teeth. "Thanks for the ride," he said, his voice tight.
"I will do all I can," I said. "Jim. I will find her."
He turned back, one foot already out of the car. "I know you will," he said. His smile was vivid, for the first time free of the weary sorrow that had dogged him all day. He touched my hand, his two fingers running the length of mine, gentle and brief, more heartbreaking than his mouth on mine had been. Then he was gone. The door shut firmly behind him, and I watched him jog away into the press of people. His pale coat was easy to follow at first, but soon he was lost among the throng.
I sat still for a few minutes, then started the car again. I felt a strange emptiness in my stomach, and chose to attribute it to hunger. It would be a long drive back to Los Angeles.
---
As I merged onto the freeway I was still lost in thought.
No; that is not true. I was lost in reminiscence. The feel of Jim's lips on mine lingered, and I was still shaken from the suddenness of it, having him close after being apart. A month was not a long time, I would admit. Yet with a determination that defied logic, the month since I had last seen Jim seemed to have spent three times longer than usual getting from start to finish.
I had missed him. I had not told him that, and now I wished I had. I wished for an opportunity to redo much of what I had done, now that I would not have a chance to repair it.
I turned my thoughts instead to his request, that I find his wife and clear his name. Without knowing where to start it would be difficult, and I would have to tread carefully. No doubt her family, wealthy and influential as they were, would want this kept private. And anyone who went against that desire would no doubt find himself up against the might and anger of the Syndicate. A man would have to be both ambitious and reckless to take on the most powerful commercial and criminal family in California.
But Jim had asked, and I had said yes. Which was worse, I wondered? Trying to bring down the giant, knowing I might only create my own ruin instead? Or playing safe while my friend was a fugitive in exile?
There was only one answer to that question. I already knew I would do it; had known before I even asked myself. If I did nothing, Jim would live and die with this stain on his name, and there was very little probability we would ever meet again. If I acted, I risked only myself. I had done so before, and for less compelling reasons; not to do so now would be cowardice.
"I am no coward," I murmured aloud, and pressed my foot down harder on the throttle. Jim was weak sometimes, and had much less faith in himself than others had in him. But he was a good man, perhaps one of the few truly good men I have ever known. And with all that lay between us, I could not live with myself if I did not at least try to save him.
---
It had begun innocuously enough, as friendship. After our midnight ride through the Valley, I did not hear from him for a week or more, and thought perhaps he had forgotten his assertion that he would be in touch. And then I exited my office one afternoon to find him there, at the curb, leaning against the hood of a hovercar that had probably cost more than I made in a year.
"You are looking better," I commented, pausing in the shadow of the awning.
"I'm feeling better," he said. He lowered his sunglasses to look over the tops; his eyes were as blue as I remembered. "Thought I'd take you out for a drink to say thanks."
"A drink?" I asked, remembering the state of him the other night.
He laughed. "If you keep count, I won't have to."
"If you get drunk, I am driving you home in your own car," I warned him, putting on my hat as I stepped out from under the awning.
He understood that I was relenting, and his smile grew brighter than ever. "Deal. Now come on, get in."
The car was as sleek and quick as it looked, and he handled it easily. I wondered at its origins until he told me that he and his devastating green girl had made up. They were married, he told me, but didn't always get on. When we'd met they'd been on the outs; the apartment I'd taken him to was where he stayed when she wasn't speaking to him, but he was giving it up. She was too good for him, he told me; he was going to learn to be a better husband, a better man. I did not offer an opinion on the topic.
He took me to a place where the man behind the bar greeted him by name. The dark wood and dim lights gave the atmosphere of evening, and we took a booth beneath a photograph of the New York City skyline, sinking into the leather seats. Within half an hour we were absorbed in conversation. Three hours later we said good-night, and I drove back to my house in silence, while he, I assumed, took his beautiful car back to his beautiful house and beautiful wife.
Soon it was a regular occurrence. I would leave my office at the end of the day to find him waiting for me, or my communicator would buzz as I was driving back into the city with his jocular voice on the other end. Always I went intending to leave before it got late; more often than not it was fully dark out before we parted company. I did not know what it was that kept drawing me to him. Often we disagreed; often the careless disarray of his personal life, the low opinion he had of himself, threatened to bring out the harder side of my nature, the part of me always on the verge of asking why he stayed with a woman he did not love, why he let himself be kept when there was nothing tying him down except his conviction in his own uselessness.
I never said anything of the sort aloud. It was not my place, and besides, to do so would have invited a discussion I did not want to have, mostly because I knew Jim would not hesitate to challenge me, to pick apart anything he found suited to win him the upper hand. I did not doubt my ability to keep my composure, but I was not yet ready to let him dissect me. I did not know if I ever would be; it is rare that I have let someone into my confidence, and I was not certain yet that I wanted to do so with Jim. We were equals in this friendship; what might change if he knew more of me, the parts I kept hidden from everyone?
Even then, I was aware of observers. It was nineteen fifty-two; peace in space had left the American people free to worry about threats on Earth, and everywhere we were warned of spies in our midst. The word un-American was thrown about with frightening ease. And though I held dual citizenship on Earth and Vulcan, and could have fled to my father's homeworld if needed, I was stubbornly unwilling to consider it. I was a private person by nature; I would give them no reason to pay attention to me, and would continue to live as I pleased.
It had been two months, maybe, since I had first walked outside to find him sitting on my curb, the night he called me from the Cadillac Hotel.
"Spock," he said. The drawl to the word suggested he'd had a drink or two already, and he sounded pleased that I had picked up.
"Jim," I said. I was in my office still, trying to put my latest case to rest with the most tedious part of any job; the paperwork.
"I was thinking we could have a drink," he said.
"I am thinking you have already had one," I replied.
He laughed, the sound trailing off. "Well, maybe. I'm sleeping on the couch tonight, except there wasn't a couch in the house far enough away for Gaila's taste. So I'm at the Cadillac. Thought maybe... maybe you'd come keep me company."
There was nothing sly about his words, yet I felt myself flush. I knew already the sort of company I would have kept with him if I were allowed, but had not let myself consider it. He had given me no sign (none that I knew how to read, at least) and unrequited attraction was no harder to control than any other emotion I had mastered.
I cleared my throat, and realized I had been silent for a noticeable length of time. "Give me a few moments," I said. "I have work to finish, but I will be there."
"Great. Room 379," he said. "See you soon." He hung up before I could protest; I had thought he was inviting me to the hotel's bar, remembering too late that the Cadillac had none. I did not allow anxiety to settle; I finished my work and drove to the hotel, knocking on the door to room 379 without hesitation.
He opened the door with a grin, a glass in each hand. "Glad you could make it," he said, as if ushering me into a party instead of a dingy hotel room. I took one of the glasses, full of the murky chocolate concoction I favored, and followed him in.
"I am surprised to find you here," I admitted, setting the glass down long enough to remove my coat and hat. The room was small, scarcely big enough for a sofa, desk, chair and bed. He waved me toward the sofa, sprawling back in the chair where, judging by the tie draped over the arm and the ring of condensation on the table beside it, he had already been sitting for some time.
"Thought I'd go somewhere nicer?" he returned, and I nodded agreement. "Yeah, well, I don't like to spend her money when I'm mad at her," he said. "Could get to be a bad habit."
"And you would not want to cultivate any of those," I agreed, gratified at the bark of laughter I received in return. I had come to enjoy making him laugh, perhaps more than I ought. But in all things Jim was unfailingly generous, and that included showing affection where he felt it merited. I could not deny that I valued that from him, nor that I actively sought its expression.
I sipped my drink, which was cold, and welcome. The window was open but only a slight breeze came through, barely stirring the curtains. Outside the city was chaotic with sound and light, even at a remove of four storeys' height. I turned away from the view to look at Jim again, more critically than I had upon first entering the room.
"Do you wish to speak of what brought you here?" I asked. My lips curled slightly and I added, "I am not promising to give you good advice, only to listen."
A smile grazed his face, then vanished. "Nah. Boring story anyway. Same tired song you've probably heard a hundred times. But hopefully from sadder bastards than me," he said, eyes meeting mine briefly before dropping again. He looked into his glass like it had something to tell him, then drained it.
I stood before he could speak again, went to the sideboard and returned with the bottle of Scotch. I poured two fingers into his glass; his eyes swiveled up to mine without a muscle on the rest of him moving, and I added another splash. "Thanks," he murmured. I returned to my glass and sipped at it. Already I could feel the haze creeping up. The entire scene felt surreal-- he and I, silent in our chairs, the dim sounds out the window, the air inside hot and charged.
"Why did you ask me to come here?" I had meant to sound curious; it came out harder, more demanding.
His eyebrows arched, the pensive hand in front of his mouth dropped to rest on his knee, and he gave a mirthless laugh. "Isn't it obvious, Spock?" He gestured around him, the drabness of the room, the peeling wallpaper, the ugly yellow light. "You're the only thing keeping me from doing something stupid." The defiant tilt of his chin did nothing to hide the wildness of his eyes, the fractious energy rolling off him in waves.
"What sort of stupid?" I could think of several interpretations. If he meant to do himself injury, then I had underestimated his level of distress. If he meant something reckless or foolhardy, well, I had seen him through several such situations already, and did not doubt I could do so again.
"Doesn't matter," he said, looking back out the window with an expression best described as sullen. "Now you're here there's a whole other category of stupid to deal with."
I could feel my expression draw close as I frowned. "I fail to take your meaning." I took another drink and set the glass down, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.
"You weren't supposed to take it," he snapped. I could hear in his voice how tightly leashed his anger was, and my adrenaline had already risen in response.
"Jim," I started, but he cut me off before I could go on.
"Look, I'm not trying to pretend my life is some sob story," he said. "I know I've got it pretty easy. But sometimes I feel like the walls are closing in on me and there's nowhere else I have to go, I'm just gonna stay in this little cage for the rest of my life and I've got to like it, 'cause I put myself there. And then all of a sudden there you are, not giving a good goddamn about anyone or anything... Except, apparently, me. You remind me what it's like to have someone out there who'd give a damn if I stopped showing up. You make me want--" Here he stopped, and ran a hand hard down his scarred cheek, across his mouth, pressing like he could keep the words in if he tried hard enough. "Things I shouldn't want," he finished. "And I don't know what the fuck to do with that, Spock. I really don't."
He looked up at me then, his face more open than I had ever seen it. You make me want things I shouldn't want. His eyes poured forth agony, the fear of what he'd said and the terrible hope it might not send me running for the door, and I understood suddenly that this was why he'd been drinking: not to dull the shame of being tossed out by his wife, but to give him courage to say what he had, I now knew, been waiting for some time to say.
I had to draw breath against the sudden tightness in my chest, and lower, and everywhere else; it was all mixed up, as everything had been with Jim since the day I met him. My voice had deserted me, and in any case, what was there to say? Words would not do better than actions, so I would not bother with them.
I stood and stepped around the table, taking the glass from his hand and setting it aside. I took his elbow and drew him to his feet; his hands stayed half raised in front of him, wary and unknowing what I was doing. But when I pushed them aside to rest a hand on his waist, the other on his neck, he understood.
We met halfway, a tentative kiss that soon became determined, and his hands fisted in my lapels drew me close. He was not content with that, however, and soon he was pushing the jacket off my shoulders, fingers working the buttons of my waistcoat. His skin was hot under my hands, I could feel it through the fine cotton of his shirt, and when I broke away to breathe he made a sound, bereft, that tore through me like a wound. I said his name, I think, and he answered by cupping my face in his hands and pulling me to him again.
Somehow my hands found his skin, and then we were shedding clothes with careless haste. "So hot," he breathed, nipping at my neck, and truly I burned for him, hotter with every touch of his hands, his mouth, his skin against mine. At last we were naked, and I pressed him to the bed beneath me, groaning at the feel of him. His leg slid up between mine, his arms around my neck, his eyes speaking wordless volumes of feeling.
"What do you want?" I asked. I could hear my own voice ragged, and saw how it affected him, seeing me so undone.
"Everything," he said, half-lidded eyes full of wanton promise. "Think you can give it to me?"
"I can," I said, and I did.
Afterwards, lying sated beside him on twisted sheets, I pulled his hand to my chest and linked his first two fingers with mine. He felt the humming affinity passing through the touch and looked up, curious. "A Vulcan gesture," I explained with a slight smile. "To show affection. Like a kiss, if you will."
His eyes warmed, the smile everywhere but his lips. "And since we can't--"
"In public, yes." It could be done quickly, casually, in passing. A small rebellion; a little intimacy when we were prevented from indulging its fullest extent.
The smile reached his mouth then, and leaned up to kiss me again, our fingers sliding sensuously together, the closest thing to a promise either of us could hope to give.
---
Remembering that night still made me ache like prodding an old bruise; painful, but sweet. I had been lost in thinking of it, and the months that had followed it, for so long that I startled out of my thoughts to realize I was approaching the Los Angeles city limits. I felt a measure of relief, but accepted it warily. I knew my absence could have been noted, and knew also that I must be prepared to answer questions regarding my whereabouts this day.
I went to my office first. I had paperwork lingering to finish regarding my last assignment, invoices to submit and it seemed a worthy way to pass the time while I thought about what to do next. I had been there little more than an hour when there was a knock on the inside door.
"Come in," I said without looking up. I was unsurprised to see two men in police uniform enter the room.
"You Mr. Spock?" one of them asked. The other, shorter and thinner than his partner, took one of the chairs across from me without being invited.
"I am," I said, though I knew he did not need confirmation.
"How's business?" he asked. His tone was pleasant, but I saw his eyes taking in the details of my office, such as they were.
"Average," I replied. "Neither fortuitous nor disastrous. I have openings in my schedule, if the LAPD wishes to consult my services."
The man smiled. There was nothing pleasant about that. "It's not the future of your schedule that interests me," he said. "It's the past. The real recent past."
So they had, indeed, come to ask about Jim. "How recent?"
"This morning recent." The smaller man in the chair cracked his knuckles. Subtlety is not that one's strong point, I thought.
"I was out of town this morning," I said. I stopped typing on the tablet screen before me, my hands resting flat on top of it. "I have only just returned--" I made a show of looking at the clock on the wall-- "one hour and twelve minutes ago."
"And what were you doing out of town, Mr. Spock?" The talkative one remained standing. I wondered what ploy this was, to keep my attention on him perhaps, to the exclusion of his partner. I could have told them it would not work; I was not so easily misled.
"I had business outside the city."
"Did you." He smiled again. "What kind of business, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I am afraid I do," I said. "It was personal, and I am not in the habit of sharing my personal life with the police."
"Your reticence suggests you have something to hide." The second man spoke at last, his voice thickly accented. He looked at me with flat disinterest, as one would look at a science experiment.
"I regret the suggestion, then, if that is true. I do not believe I have anything to hide. But nor do I have anything to share."
"Why so silent?" The first man spoke again.
"You have entered my office without giving your names, and demanded information which I am under no legal obligation to provide. I feel no urge to say more than I already have."
"So you won't tell us where you were." He rested his hands on his belt, one within easy reach of the gun, the other on the handle of the club. Subtlety was not either of their strong suits, then. And I had been hoping to be pleasantly surprised.
"Do you have a reason for wanting to know?" I asked.
"If we do--" The man in the chair cut him off, leaning forward, his face still showing no expression.
"Sulu, he will not speak unless we do. Mr. Spock," he said, eyes fixed on mine, "are you familiar with a man named James Kirk?"
My eyebrows went up. "Certainly. We used to drink together occasionally. He married money and lives well. I have never seen his house, but I have met his wife."
"And would you know anything of his whereabouts currently?"
"Nothing whatsoever. He does not confide in me anymore; we had an argument several weeks ago that has yet to be mended." I was careful with my words; I knew they would be careful with theirs, and marking mine to repeat back to me later when it would incriminate me the most. I would not lie-- it was true I had no idea where Jim might be. He had boarded the shuttle hours ago, and might be on his way to anywhere in the galaxy.
"Well, that's too bad. We're trying to find him, and we heard you were the best place to start looking."
"Whoever told you that was sadly mistaken."
"Do we look easy to fool?" the curly-haired one asked. He seemed almost bemused, which had the unfortunate effect of making me more determined to throw their presumption in their faces. I had spent most of the day in the car; I was tired and irritable and sore. I could have brought myself to hate these men easily, but did not need to hate them in order to go out of my way to make their jobs difficult.
So I shrugged, seeming apathetic. "I believe you must be familiar with the adage about shoes that fit."
Sulu gave that unpleasant smile again, and I thought perhaps I had gone too far. "I got a better question for you, Spock. Do we look easy to push around?"
"No more than do I, I hope," I said. "Will that be all? I have quite a bit of work to do."
"It won't be all. Kirk's wife is missing, and wherever she went, it doesn't look like she went there willingly. Could be she's kidnapped, could be she's dead. But we've got a serious investigation going and if you're not going to help us--"
"Why should you need my help? I've told you there's nothing I can offer you."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But we'll be the judge of that. And if you won't talk, we take you in, Spock."
"Take me in?" I gave a small smile. "As what, exactly?"
"As a suspect. Accessory after the fact, either to a kidnapping or a murder, and I don't much care which. My guess is you took him somewhere, and right now a guess is all I need."
I could see I was not going to make them leave without some sort of further explanation (and that even if I did succeed in ousting them from my office, they would be back, most likely with a piece of paper signed by a judge that would let them do a lot more than threaten me with none of the lingering guilt afterward). "You may think you know what has happened," I said, "but you are wrong. Jim Kirk was my friend. A good man, maybe the only good one I know. And I am not going to spill his confidences out for your perusal simply at your assurance that you have a good reason for it. If there is a trial and I am called, I will answer the questions I am asked. Until then, you will get no more from me."
Sulu sighed. "If that's how you want it to be, Spock. But don't say you weren't warned." He turned toward the communicator on the wall and tapped in a number. While it rang he glanced back at me. "I have to ask the question, and I know the answer I'm gonna get. You might wish later you'd been more cooperative." He turned back to the communicator as the line picked up.
The Captain said to bring me in, and rough.
---
They led me to an office, the only one I could see with a light on inside. Behind the desk sat an older man, silver-haired and steel-eyed, who looked at me with bland dislike as I followed Sulu and his partner in.
"Mr. Spock," he said, sitting back in the chair. "I had hoped not to see you here tonight."
"I regret I have disappointed you." The nameplate on his desk read Capt. C. Pike.
"Somehow I doubt that. Sulu?" He glanced up at the detective who'd escorted me in.
"He won't talk, Captain. Out all day, won't say where. Kirk's his friend, but he won't say when he saw him last."
"Hm." Pike glanced at me again, blank as if I were an inanimate object. "Well, Mr. Spock, I understand you are a licensed P.I., but in here that means less than a Boy Scout badge. We have a missing woman and a jealous husband, and more than a little reason to suspect you know where Kirk went. So I'll have a statement from you, a record of everywhere you've been and everything you've done since 2200 last night." His mouth curved in a thin, smug smile. "It would be one thing if you'd said you hadn't seen him. But you haven't said that, have you? Which means you're trying to play smart, and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's when witnesses try to play smart."
I nodded slowly as if thinking. "I see. Well then in that case I wish to co-operate. But I need legal advice. How soon could a representative from the district attorney's office be here?"
Pike's face smoothed out and he gave a short, hollow laugh. The next part happened quickly; he got up, came around the desk, and punched me. Layered on top of the blows Sulu and his partner had already given me, it made my head ring. By the time I could see straight again, he was back behind the desk.
"You discover a need to unburden yourself yet?" he asked, mild as milk.
"No sir," I said. My jaw ached, but I got the words out.
"Have it your way. Sulu." He nodded at the door, and Sulu hauled me to my feet. "Get a statement, one way or another. You have two hours, and I want him cleaned up when you bring him back."
"Thank you," I said. Pike looked at me curiously, and I elaborated. "You have just made up my mind for me. When I came in here I was uncertain what sort of man you might be. No one likes to betray his friend, but now you would have trouble convincing me to betray an enemy into your care. You cannot read people, Pike. You might have swayed me with kindness, with understanding, but now..." I shook my head. "Now I would not tell you the color of your own shirt if you asked me."
Pike's face did not change. "Sulu, I changed my mind," he said. "Book him. Suspicion of murder. Hold him in county overnight, and he can speak to his representative from the district attorney's office in the morning." He got up and came around the desk again. "I'm going to find out what I want to know," he said, quietly conversational.
"Not with my help," I said, refusing to look away.
He held eye contact with me until I could see a vein in his temple start to throb. His throat worked, and when he spoke his voice was harsher than before. "Get him out of my sight," he said, and Sulu dragged me away.
---
Colloquially it is known as the felony tank. Each cell has two bunks, but there were few occupants and I had the cell to myself. It was neither dirty nor clean, it did not smell too strongly of bleach, and the barred window let in some sunlight. The lights were still on when they put me in, but at ten o'clock they shut off without warning. I had only just sat down on the bunk, the thin mattress barely disguising the shape of the slats beneath, when I was plunged into total darkness.
I thought I would sleep, after the day I had had. Only this morning I had awoken to Jim's pounding on my door; it seemed illogical that one day should feel so long. I lay on the bunk on top of the blanket, my arms folded beneath my head, and thought. There was nothing else to do. Yet sleep eluded me. I kept seeing Jim's face, the fearful look in his eyes and the way he'd begged me to find Gaila. I felt again the desperate way he'd kissed me, little caring who saw us, how he'd held me fiercely close, unable to stop himself.
I lay awake until the summer dawn turned the window pink and breathed the chill off the air. They brought breakfast around seven thirty, and when I asked for a newspaper they brought me that as well. They could not have cared less if I were guilty, any more than they cared if I were innocent. They looked at me and saw a prisoner, someone who was staying with them for a time. They did not speak to me, and I did not speak to them. There was nothing to communicate. They were all infused with the low humdrum monotony of life in suspension, a pattern that never changes; when I was gone there would be someone else in my place. Why should they bother making me miserable? I was doing a good enough job of that on my own.
It was three days before I saw a lawyer, another four before I was released. By then I had had my fill of time to think, to reason out the facts and the logic of them, and decide how to proceed. I had some of the facts, Jim had provided a few others, but in truth it was three days' worth of newspapers, morning and evening, that had given me the answer.
Gaila was worth millions; if the papers were not full of the story of her vanishing, it was because someone had paid them to stay silent. It was the clue I had hoped for, the first step on what would (I hoped) become a path to finding her, and from there to bringing Jim home again. I thought I knew what game was being played, and was more than ready to step in and become a part of it.
I told myself again that it would not be easy. But I was not afraid of hard work, and I had made a promise. And something else had come to me during those long nights in the quiet jail, listening to the faucet drip with only myself for company, a promise I had had to make to myself: to do something worth doing, something I could be proud of. I did a job and I was good at it; I was on the right side of the law and of my own morals. But it was thankless work, and most cases were not the sort that left me feeling content, either with the state of the world or the people in it.
If I could do this, clear Jim's name and allow him to come back, I would count that a job well done. I could be proud of that, I thought. Whether it meant a chance to reconcile with him or not-- and I was under no assumption that it would, given how closely each of us would likely be watched, and the bitter words that still hung between us-- knowing he was no longer under suspicion would appease the urgent feeling I had to see this thing through to the end. I did not need to know where he was, I did not even need to see him with my own eyes. I could hardly rationalize saying so, but I had long since come to terms with the fact that my world was far less interesting without Jim Kirk in it. Now, after all this, simply knowing he was alive and free would be almost the same thing.
I received my envelope from the jailhouse clerk, put my wallet in my pocket and my hat on my head, checked the messages on my communicator as I moved toward the door. I did not see Captain Pike until I nearly bumped into him, and was startled enough that it took me several seconds to realize he was smiling.
"Have a nice stay inside?" he asked. His hands were in his pockets, and the broken capillaries in his nose were pinker than usual. I wondered how much he had had to drink that morning.
"Very restful," I said.
"Glad to hear it. Hope it doesn't set you back much, I know how hard it is to keep clients in this town." I doubted he knew any such thing, but I did not say so. I moved past him, and he let me go. I was almost to the door-- almost had my hand on the handle-- when he called my name.
"Don't think you're out of the woods yet," he said when I turned. "Just because your friend's dead doesn't mean I don't still have my eye on you."
His words failed to process at first. My head canted to one side, and my brow furrowed. "Explain your meaning," I said. I was, abruptly, in no mood to ask nicely.
Pike's eyes widened in surprise, then his cruel smile came back stronger than ever. "You mean-- they haven't told you?" He laughed, genuinely tickled. "Your friend Kirk was found in a flophouse on a moon of Rigel II. A hole in his head, a phaser in his hand, a confession written out neat as you please. Who'da thought it-- we were all gearing up for a manhunt, and he goes and pops himself in an intergalactic Motel 6." He shook his head, still laughing. I discovered I was finding it difficult not to put my hands around his throat, and clenched my fists at my sides. "Must be a let-down for you, having gone to all the trouble-- allegedly, of course," he sneered.
I spun on my heel and pushed through the door, knowing that if I did not I would land myself back in the holding cell for aggravated assault. After a week in a cell, the force of the unfiltered sun in my face was momentarily blinding, and I threw up my hand in front of my eyes. Somehow I made it to a taxi, though I do not remember hailing one. I was outside my office building before I became aware of my surroundings. I made it up the stairs without tripping and closed the door behind me, quietly, gently.
I realized, though it took me some time to put the thought together, that I was likely in some form of shock. I sat at my desk and stared out the window without seeing anything my eyes fell upon. My mind refused to accept what I knew logically must be true; I got to my feet again and began to pace. How long I did, I do not know, but I returned to my senses when I thought suddenly of Jim's face when we had awoken in the Camelot that first morning, the way he had looked outlined by the sun, the artless sprawl of his body in sleep. I will never see him again, I thought, and turned with a wordless shout of rage, putting my fist neatly through my office wall.
After that I calmed down. I treated the scrapes on my knuckles and forced myself to eat something. I knew I must focus on something other than my fury, so I pulled my tablet toward me and switched it on. It came to life and began blinking with over a hundred notifications. I scrolled through the public account first, the one I gave to prospective clients, filing and deleting where needed. The monotony calmed me. Soon I was breathing easier.
Then I began to scan the few messages that had come to my private account, and was surprised to see one from an address I did not recognize. It had been sent five days ago. Before I opened it I had the computer trace the routing path, and was told it had come from off-planet.
Unaccountably my pulse sped up. I was frozen, staring at the screen, fingers clutching the tablet so hard it hurt. Then abruptly an image of Jim's face came into my mind, his brash grin and devil-may-care posture, taunting me, What's the worst that could happen?
This time, instead of anger, I felt my lips curve in an unintended smile, and a measure of the tension left my body. "Very well, Jim," I murmured, and opened the message.
I'm sitting beside a second-floor window in a room in a not too clean hotel. I won't tell you where; I know I'm already in trouble for writing when you told me not to. I'm being watched, I know, but not by who or why. It doesn't matter too much; I always knew there was a possibility I wouldn't get away clean. I just hope you did. I hope this doesn't rub your nose in it when you thought it was over and done with.
There'll be a deposit going into your account as you read this. I want you to have it because I don't need it, and I know you'd never take it from me in person. Call it an apology for making you so much trouble, and a token of esteem for a pretty decent guy. I've done everything wrong as usual, but I still have the phaser. My hunch is that it's probably gotten out by now, what they think I did. But it doesn't matter, not in the least. The main thing now is to save an unnecessary and useless scandal. Gaila didn't make a bum out of me, I was one already. I can't give you any very clean answer about why she married me. I suppose it was just a whim. I never said so, but I hope you know it was always more than that with you. It was never easy, but God, it was worth every second.
I've written a confession. I feel a little sick and more than a little scared. You read about these situations in books, but you don't read the truth. When it happens to you, when all you have left is the phaser in your pocket, when you're cornered in a dirty little hotel on a strange planet and have only one way out-- believe me, Spock, there's nothing dramatic about it. It's just plain nasty and sordid and grim.
So forget it-- and me, if you can. But first drink a gimlet for me at Victor's. And the next time you make coffee, pour me a cup and put some bourbon in it and light me a cigarette and put it beside the cup. And after that forget the whole thing. Jim Kirk over and out. And so goodbye.
I looked in my bank account. There had been a deposit for five thousand credits, no small sum by any means. I did not want it. I hated the sight of it so much I felt fiercely, irrationally angry. My chest felt tight and my eyes hot; when I rubbed my knuckles into them I felt short of breath. A thousand thoughts swarmed in my head, but I could not make sense of any of them. I felt like I had been struck on the head, disoriented and dim.
I took another taxi home, not trusting myself to drive. I had not seen the place in over a week, and it showed. Two coffee cups still sat unwashed in the sink, and the bottle of bourbon beside the stove. Like an automaton I filled the carafe, put the grinds in the filter and set it to brew.
I did what he asked me to, sentimental or not. I poured two cups, added bourbon to one and set it on the side of the table where he'd sat the morning I drove him to San Francisco. I found a pack of cigarettes in the silverware drawer and lit one, put it in the ashtray and set it beside his cup.
Outside in the trees the birds were chirping to each other, and I could hear the rumble of traffic on the freeway. As the sun went down over Los Angeles I sat with my coffee, not drinking it, just feeling it go cold in my hand. I had not yet succeeded in cataloguing the emotions Jim's letter had left me with. I, who by nature eschewed emotion, had paradoxically been drawn to the one person who never failed to elicit some display of it. Even in death he had that power; I could not begrudge it to him, now or ever.
When the cups no longer steamed and the cigarette was dead in the ashtray, I made myself get up. I threw out the cigarette butt and dumped the coffees down the drain. I put away the bourbon and stood aimless for a few minutes in the empty kitchen before making up my mind to call for another taxi to take me back to my office.
I had mourned my friend in the manner of his choosing. Now I would honor him in the manner of mine-- by keeping my promise to clear his name. In deciding, I realized then that my inner storm had given way, and I was calm once more. I knew what I must do, and I knew I would not rest until I had done it.
I called the taxi, then went into the bedroom to change. The grey suit fit as close as I remembered, and I felt a strange satisfaction as I put it on, buttoning the buttons and knotting the tie with careful precision. Jim had called this my lucky suit, and I had always scoffed at the idea; I did not believe in luck. Now I thought perhaps it was enough to remember that he had believed it, and to remember that I believed in him.
The taxi rang its horn outside, pulling me from my thoughts, and I went out to it, locking the door behind me. It was time to go to work.
-- fin --
Further Notes : I know it was really awful of me to leave you on a cliffhanger like that, huh? :) Well rest easy-- the rest of the story is in the works. The real story of what happened to Gaila and to Jim will all be made clear in time...
This post crossposted from Dreamwidth (
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