Papers in the Roadside 1/5
Masterpost
--
Jim spots him the moment he enters the bar.
At any other time, he probably wouldn’t have given the guy a second glance. Vulcans and bars seldom go together, but this is Chicago, and weirder things have happened. But business is slow in the early afternoon - Jim likes to pretend that the time of day has more to do with it than the bar’s location - and there’s time to stare.
The Vulcan is tall and dressed in jeans of all things, the pant legs wet up to his knees and his canvas shoes clearly soaked through. Jim blinks, watching as the Vulcan wrestles with a huge purple monster of an umbrella, trying to fit it into the holder. There’s something almost psychedelic about the image, a surreal tinge to the picture playing out in the gloom of a backstreet bar while a thunderstorm rages outside.
The Vulcan walks slowly toward the bar, unbuttoning his wet jacket to reveal a simple grey shirt underneath. His hair is also more wet than not, and Jim wonders if the guy knows that an umbrella has purposes other than collecting water.
He sits at the bar, not too close to Jim, and doesn’t look up, his attention focused on a small PADD he’s pulled out of his pocket, wiping the water - unbelievable - off the screen.
Jim mentally sighs. He hates it when people treat him as if he’s invisible, no more sentient than a beer tap. He wonders vaguely if he’d be shown more respect if people knew he was the owner.
“What can I get you?”
The visitor doesn’t wince, but somehow, the impression of being caught by surprise is unmistakable. He looks up.
Jim falls in love between one startled blink and another.
They stare at each other as time slows down, stretching like a rubber band. Outside, the storm seems to still for a moment; a couple of girls giggling in the corner over their coffees quiet minutely; Lorenzo the poet is still grumbling over the modern day Iliad he’s writing; but the sound evens out, becomes distorted, incomprehensible.
A heartbeat. Two. A metallic clang of the coffee roaster. The sharp smell of rain sucked in through an open window. Brown warmth glowing, deep, startled.
Jim takes a breath, careless, and the rubber band snaps, spinning time back into motion.
The Vulcan clears his throat, blinking. “I am unfamiliar with most beverages on the menu,” he says, glancing minutely at the list that flashes names in the middle of the counter.
His voice conjures up images of tangled bed sheets and late mornings, and Jim mentally shakes himself. This is ridiculous; he should get laid more often and talk to Lorenzo less. In fact, he should probably grow a spine and show him the door like every other sensible barkeep in town.
“I would not-” The Vulcan pauses, frowning slightly, as though puzzled by Jim’s continued silence. “That is, something heated would be most welcome.”
Jim grins widely. “I know just the thing. Won’t take a minute.”
That earns him a slight raise of an eyebrow, but Jim is too busy to give due appreciation to that fact. He spins around on his heel, hands reaching for a small pot and activating the heater. Jim likes the open flame and considers the time he lost kicking the city administration for permission to use it well spent.
His fingers catalogue the sensations absently, like marks on a well-known route; the chapped ceramic pot, warm from the flame; apple skin, smooth, slithering, smelling like the summer; a whiff on his fingertips, the red wine breathing; a runaway drop of honey, white, viscous. It would have been a ritual, except it really does take only a minute.
Jim is scanning the spices and doesn’t know he’s being watched until he breaks a cinnamon stick and hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. Jim smiles to himself.
He just knows he isn’t wrong with this.
The drink pulses with ruby energy when Jim pours it into a glass, arranging the contents artistically and dropping in a straw. He turns around, beaming for no reason at all, and sets the glass on the bar in front of his guest.
The Vulcan is staring at the drink inquisitively, without wariness or disdain. He glances up at Jim, whose heart stutters for a second. So much for getting a grip.
“You are aware that Vulcans are not affected by alcohol.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jim nods, still grinning. “But this is guaranteed to warm you up. Scout’s honor.”
The Vulcan lifts an eyebrow again, looking somewhat amused. He picks up the glass and leans down slightly, catching the straw between his lips. He takes a sip and rolls it on his tongue for a couple of moments before finally swallowing down. He looks at Jim curiously.
“Were you really a Boy Scout?”
Jim stammers. “I-”
“This is incredibly good, by the way. Very warming indeed. Thank you.”
“Oh. I, um...” Jim blushes and hates himself for it. “You’re welcome.”
The Vulcan is looking at him still as if waiting for something. Jim straightens up a bit, pulling himself together.
“I’m Jim, by the way. Jim Kirk, and I - own this place.”
He wants to slap himself so badly his hands itch. Where did that come from?
The Vulcan, however, seems unperturbed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kirk,” he replies, and then does something that completely throws Jim - he reaches out across the counter to shake Jim’s hand.
Dazed, Jim responds in kind, too shocked to register the strength of the hold or the warmth of the skin.
Vulcans never do that. Never. And yet-
“My name is Spock,” his guest continues. “And I do not own this place.”
Startled, Jim lets out a laugh. “No kidding. What do you do for a living, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Spock takes another sip, eyes still on Jim, intense with interest. It’s unsettling.
“I am a journalist with the Chicago Tribune,” he replies at last, his gaze lingering on Jim for a reaction.
“Oh,” Jim says, surprised. “Huh. You don’t seem like the reporter type.”
“That is because I am not a reporter.” Spock sets the glass on the bar and sits a little straighter on his stool. “I do not work with news. I write feature articles.”
Jim nods, reaching for another glass to polish automatically. “So, you’re the ‘fly on the wall’ kind of guy.”
Spock’s lips curve slightly. “Sometimes.”
“Aha. You’re, like, famous or something?”
The hint of a smile is more pronounced now, and Spock’s eyes are still focused on Jim’s with the same unnerving intensity. This time, they’re laughing.
“The answer to that question should be self-evident.”
“Hey, no.” Jim grins, throwing his hands up. “I’m just not the reading kind. You could have won a Pulitzer for all I know.”
Not true; Jim knows pretty much anyone who’s ever won that. But Jim isn’t taking Spock upstairs to show him how badly Jim needs to donate things to the local library, so.
“No.” Spock gives a slight shake of his head. “You need not worry that you have not recognized a celebrity, Mr. Kirk.”
“Jim, please.”
“Jim. I do not aim for awards when I write. I’m simply... interested. In people.”
“Really?” Jim stares at him, the glass he’s been polishing forgotten in his hand. “Sorry, not to come all racist on you, but… that’s kind of unusual, isn’t it? I mean, Vulcans generally keep to themselves.”
Something tightens in Spock’s expression; the smooth line of his jaw tenses, and his eyes still.
“Yes,” he says quietly, glancing down at his drink. “Vulcans generally do.”
Jim curses mentally; his foot-and-mouth disease seems to have no hope of ever being cured. He doesn’t know what it was he said, but it was clearly the wrong thing.
He opens his mouth, trying to figure out a way to apologize without making things more awkward, but Spock beats him to it.
“Jim, you are very kind, but I need to finish this right now.” He nods at his PADD.
“Oh, sure.” Jim backs away hastily, his heart sinking. “Just - let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will.”
Jim retreats to his corner, starting to polish a second round of glasses just to keep his nervous hands busy. Lorenzo the poet asks for another Irish coffee - ‘There’s supposed to be liquor in it, Jimmy, don’t forget’ - so Jim makes it, not bothering to substitute the real Irish Cream with its non-alcoholic equivalent. It’s too early in the day to start arguing with Lorenzo in butchered Greek.
From time to time, Jim looks over to where Spock is sitting, seemingly fully immersed in whatever’s on his PADD. He takes in Spock’s rather artificial slouch - as if he’d rather be sitting straight, but someone told him that it’s uncalled for in such a setting, so he has carefully constructed a more ‘relaxed’ pose. Spock’s hair is drying and curling slightly at the very ends, making him look wind-swept and a little rebellious.
Jim sighs. Spock probably is more than a little rebellious, given that Jim has never seen a Vulcan willingly wearing human clothes or working in such a decidedly less-than-dignified field. Jim’s success in his own profession is mostly based on his ability to read people, which makes his quip about Vulcans even less acceptable. He blames it on Spock’s eyes - so damn gripping - but it doesn’t make him feel better.
He satisfies himself with quietly preparing another mulled wine to replace the one Spock has finished.
“On the house,” Jim says, when Spock looks up at him, eyebrow raised.
“Thank you, but that is not neces-”
“I insist.” Jim grins as amiably as he can. “We’re a little out of the way and don’t get a lot of clients. Can’t have you forgetting us too quickly.”
Spock holds Jim’s gaze with the same frightening intensity, only this time his eyes seem more on the dark side of brown.
“No,” he says slowly, “I do not believe we are in danger of that happening any time soon.”
Jim flushes all over, swearing loudly inside his head, as Spock’s eyes drop from his face and roam all over him, as though capturing every part of Jim for further inspection.
“Yes. Well.” Jim clears his throat. “Enjoy.”
“I am.”
Spock is smirking slightly, starting on his fresh drink, and Jim is ready to do something incredibly stupid, like maybe ask him out because they have officially entered the flirting territory, when he hears the shrill sound of the comm.
“Sorry. That’s my landline, I have to take it.”
Spock nods, staring into his drink. Jim turns away reluctantly and opens the door that connects the bar with the storerooms and the little cramped space with no windows that serves as Jim’s office.
The moment Jim sees Sam’s ID he frowns. His brother only ever calls when he’s in trouble, which in Sam’s case usually spells money, and Jim only sent him a good amount two months ago. Not that he minds helping out, Sam’s the only blood family he has left, but Jim can’t help the incredible frustration he feels at his brother’s inability to take care of himself. There was no one to help Jim during his time of need and he managed all the same, and Sam is supposed to be the elder brother, and it’s all just so wrong somehow.
The bar hasn’t been on the plus side of balance for weeks now. Jim doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.
“There’s this girl,” Sam starts, and Jim doesn’t know how he manages to not howl in frustration.
Of course there’s a girl. If Jim is lucky, though, there’s no baby this time. He adores Peter to bits and Aurelan is a sweetheart, and Jim would happily give his last penny to that kid, but another child support deal would probably end his efforts at staying legal right here and now. One Kirk slipping on the wrong side of the law is certainly enough.
The conversation is cold and awkward and lasts forever, and by the time it’s over, Jim has completely forgotten about his unusual customer.
He remembers when he walks back into the bar and sees that Spock’s stool is empty. There is no ruffled Vulcan sitting at the bar, no wet traces on the floor, and no and-you-thought-you-had-it-tough purple umbrella in the holder. There’s an empty glass and a credit chip, but no note or card or anything.
Jim bites his lip hard, trying to hold on to his anger, but he’s just sad all of a sudden, and very tired. He takes the glass and the money, noting that Spock has left a twenty-credit bill for a five-credit check, and it makes Jim feel even worse.
Then he notices that Lorenzo the poet has left, and Jim knows better than to look and see if he’s paid for his drink as well.
It’s too much, really, and Jim laughs, because the only other available option is to burst into tears, and he’s not that far gone yet. He calls Gaila and tries to feel enthusiastic about another night spent over his flashy 3D castle of accounting books, trying to figure out how to make ends meet.
His life is wonderful like that.
--
Jim can’t remember if there had ever been a moment in his life when he felt optimistic about his future.
Maybe back when he was still a baby and the only things to look forward to were stealing sweets when nobody was looking and building a fort out of the bright constructor cubes scattered around his bedroom. Back before Sam ran away with a traveling band; before Winona lost all touch with reality; before Frank left them. After that, his life had always been a struggle for one thing or another.
Jim had never known his father, but, at times like this, he hopes desperately that there’s more of George in him than there is of Winona. Not because he didn’t love his mother - he just doesn’t believe that clinical depression would look any better on him than it had on her.
Gaila knocks at the open door of his office softly. “Sulu’s here.”
Jim blinks, realizing he’s been staring at the monitor for the better part of an hour and doing nothing except hoping that the figures would magically transform into something less gloomy. “Oh. Right. You okay with closing up?”
“Sure.” She lifts one shoulder, shrugging. “You’re off to the Shelter again?”
“Yeah.” Jim stretches, his body stiff and screeching like rusty hinges. “Shit.”
Gaila giggles. “Make sure the misguided youth don’t hear you do that. They’d start calling you grandpa.”
“Shut it,” Jim says benevolently, reaching for his jacket, the leather worn and warm under his fingers. He pauses, not tugging it on.
Gaila tilts her head, studying him. “What’s up?”
Jim closes his eyes, pressing his hand to the back of his neck and kneading the tired muscles. “We’ll be minus seven grand after closing this month.”
Gaila bites her lip. “It’s not too much, is it?”
Jim snorts. It’s been a while since they measured their revenue by the actual profits rather than by how little they still were going to owe everyone after the close of business.
“It’s not too much,” he agrees, “if we make up for it the next month. But we’ve been on the down streak for ages now, Gaila. I don’t think I believe in luck anymore.”
“It’s not all about luck, you know.”
Jim looks at her. “I’ve talked to Gary. He says that for two grand he can stick our flyers into every health and care pack they’re sending out to the gyms.”
“That’d be great!” Gaila beams. “But - we don’t have any flyers.”
“Hence the two grand. We need to raise it, and we need to raise it fast.”
She purses her lips. “You want to send me back to the streets, don’t you?”
Jim sighs. “I really don’t, Gaila.”
“But my lessons are popular, and women pay well.”
“Girly drinks are expensive,” Jim tells her apologetically.
Gaila nods. “It’s okay, Jim. I’ll do it.”
Jim hates the idea. When he first bought out the bar, they were desperate and came up with the idea of Gaila giving lessons of Orion body dance to attract more people. Very few gyms offered it, and certainly even fewer had Orion instructors. The idea was definitely alluring. As they couldn’t afford even the simplest ad, Gaila danced in the streets for several hours every night serving as a live commercial.
The trouble is, Jim knows how much Gaila hates every reminder of her past, and he is loath to ask this of her. She takes one for the team way too often.
“You don’t have to.”
“Hey.” Gaila lowers herself gracefully to sit on his lap, snaking her arms around his neck. “It’s not a problem. I’ll go to the corner in front of Sulu’s shop; he’ll look after me. If anyone tries anything, he’ll cut them with one of his scary katanas.”
Jim huffs out a laugh, mostly because Gaila’s hopelessly unrequited crush on Sulu has been a long-standing joke between them. “I’ll tell him. Do that tomorrow and the day after, and we’ll have the dance night on Saturday?”
“Sure.” Gaila kisses his forehead. “Don’t frown, handsome, you’ll get wrinkles.”
He slides his arms around her waist, and, for a moment, they simply hold each other.
“It’s going to be okay, Jim. You know we always come through.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Yeah.”
Finally, Gaila pushes him away gently and slides fluidly to her feet.
“Well, since the captain is too busy for his sinking ship, I need to go back to work.” She winks at him but turns in the doorway, expression serious. “Be careful, Jim. The one who got arrested the other day had a Cardassian blade on him.”
Jim gives her a cocky grin. “Don’t worry. I used to live on the street, too, you know. I can handle whatever they dish out.”
“I’m just saying.” Gaila’s hands land on her hips in a no-nonsense way. “I’d better not be taking you to the hospital again. McCoy hates me.”
“Don’t take it personally, he hates everybody. I suppose it’s a given in his line of work.”
“Hm.” Gaila purses her lips, not convinced. Suddenly, her face brightens. “Any word from your mystery man?”
“What mystery man?” Jim asks, but he’s blushing, and his hand slides into his pocket unconsciously, palming the PADD he’s taken to carry around with him.
Gaila rolls her eyes. “The one that transformed you into one of your thirteen-year-old charges. Seriously, Jim. Just man up and call him.”
“If he wanted me to call, he’d have left me his number.” Jim pouts.
Gaila throws her hands up. “I give up. I have no idea how your species still manages to procreate.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You do realize the Chicago Tribune has a landline?”
Jim opens his mouth to launch a heated and fully deserved tirade, but at that moment Sulu appears in the doorway, looking irate.
“Jim, what’s the fucking hold-up? You need time to make yourself pretty or something?”
“No,” Jim says quickly, moving around the table. “Let’s go. You” - he jabs a finger at Gaila as he brushes past her - “mind your own business. And the bar.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Anything else, boss?”
“Yes. Don’t seduce Lorenzo; we’ll never be rid of him.”
Gaila snorts. “Too late for that, isn’t it? We’ll never be rid of him, since he thinks you’re his number one fan.” She smirks. “You really like those literary types, don’t you, Jim? Poets, journalists-?”
“Oh God, shut up.” Jim rolls his eyes. “Why I put up with you I have no idea.”
“You guys are so married it’s disgusting,” Sulu says flatly and drags Jim out by the collar while Gaila splutters indignantly.
--
The walk from Bad Company to St. Andrew’s Shelter for Young Citizens in Need, commonly known as the Shelter, is a little too long for most people to walk, but Jim never takes his bike if he can help it. The night is gloriously soothing, the daylight warmth oozing out of the pavement and buildings, melting in the cool breeze creeping from the omnipresent lake.
Jim takes a deep breath, savoring the city. The scent of late-night bagels, slightly burnt, from a round-the-clock place across the street; the ever-present sound of traffic, mildly abated due to late hour; the vaguely orange glow of the streetlamps, old-fashioned and crooked in this part of town.
When had it become so familiar?
Iowan nights were always cold. Too close to the earth. Endless corn fields, dark and whispering, mulling over the centuries old gossip. Loneliness. The tired groans of the ancient wooden house. A knock in the night. Social worker. Must have spotted the light. No, Mom is fine; see, she replicated the veggies for me. I’m up late doing homework. You don’t have to wake her, do you? Can I get you a coffee? How’s your wife?
“Jim.” Sulu snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Are you even there?”
Jim flinches, jerking away instinctively, before giving his friend a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Long day.”
“Tell me about it,” Sulu grumbles. “Ever since they kicked me off the Force, it’s like I live the same 24 hours over and over.”
Jim glances at him sideways.
He and Sulu had met literally in midair that summer four years ago when Jim tried to make some extra money by working as a space jump instructor in California. Sulu’s chute had malfunctioned and Jim had jumped after him without a second thought, hoping beyond hope they would both make it to the ground in one piece. It was two days after Sulu’s grandfather was killed when someone robbed his antique shop.
“You ever thought about going back?”
Sulu shrugs. “Sure. But not until I find the fuckers and cut them open.”
Jim purses his lips, nods. He gets it. Sulu’s superior in the Chicago PD didn’t.
“Besides, I have the shop now and our street kids,” Sulu adds. “It turns out to be a full time occupation.”
Jim nods again. A skinny street cat dashes away from under his feet as he trips over the curb edge.
Sulu nudges him. “What was Gaila on about earlier? Another penniless poet banging on your door?”
Jim snorts. “Hardly.” He sighs, shakes his head. Why not? “There was this guy the other day; a Vulcan.”
Sulu smirks. “Hot?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Of course.”
“It’s true, though. Way out of my league.”
“I hope you’re not fishing, ‘cause I’m not in the mood to deal with teenage angst.”
Jim looks at him pointedly.
Sulu rolls his eyes. “Any more than I absolutely have to, I mean. So what’s with this guy?”
Jim looks away. “He said he’s a journalist with the Tribune. We might have been getting somewhere, but then I got distracted, and he left. That’s it, honestly. Well, that, and he writes like no one else I know,” Jim adds, fingering his PADD again.
He took the time to download every article Spock has ever written a few days back. To say that Jim was impressed would be a huge understatement. The last time the written word gave him shivers like that happened when he had discovered Ravoux Garan at the tender age of fifteen.
Sulu frowns. “You met Spock?”
Jim stops abruptly. “You know him?”
Sulu shakes his head. “Of him. He’s somewhat of a legend in the Chicago PD. You know, like the Flying Dutchman. The only Vulcan on file with a police record.”
“What?” Jim’s jaw drops open. “Let me guess, he’s also the only Vulcan who doesn’t know how to parallel park?”
“Not exactly. Try interfering with a police investigation, some rather audacious breaking and entering, and threatening several members of the Force in terms that were ripped into quotes on the spot.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. He served fifteen days in all; community service. The Park District guys had never been so happy. I mean, Vulcan efficiency is really something else - those benches had never been so clean.”
“Okay.” Jim grabs his arm. “You realize that you can’t just drop a bomb like that and not explain?”
“Yes.” Sulu gave him a dangerous smile, detaching Jim’s hand clinically. “I also realize that you’re awfully distracted tonight, and you’re not leaving me to deal with the crazy kids alone. I’ll get you some info once we’re done with the Shelter, okay?”
“You’re a terrible person, Sulu. I thought you should know that.”
“Yes, and you’re an obsessed fanboy turning stalker.”
“I’m just a lit geek.”
“That’s what they all say.”
--
Sulu had been involved with the Shelter since his early days in the Force, and it was the only project he refused to leave behind. When he first suggested that Jim join him, Jim had laughed hysterically for half an hour and only stopped when he had started to hiccup.
‘For fuck’s sake, Sulu, I’m just a tramp who got lucky that one time and settled down. I dropped out of school at fourteen and never went back - how do you want me to convince them to do it?’
‘Jim, these kids need someone they can trust. They know me as an okay guy, but I’ll always be a former cop to them.’
‘Don’t you have, like, counselors?’
‘Sure we do. All smart and sympathetic to the gills, but they don’t speak these kids’ language, Jim. You do.’
When Jim finally agreed to go with him, it was mostly to make Sulu shut up and leave him alone. But Jim hadn’t expected to find what he did that first night at the Shelter. A discovery that turned his attitude one hundred eighty degrees.
Those kids were idiots.
They didn’t have the first clue about how to survive on their own, yet didn’t want to be processed by the system. Jim understood about the system, he really did - he’d beat it, after all. But he had never been that helpless.
He found himself talking - snapping, to be exact - before his brain caught up with what his mouth was doing. He’s been talking ever since. Sometimes he feels like he’s on an AA meeting. ‘Hi, I’m Jim Kirk, and this is my life story.’
It seems presumptuous, but sometimes he gets them to listen. The fact that he doesn’t report any of them and occasionally helps them find legal jobs helps.
Tonight, though, there are no new faces, much to Jim’s relief. Sulu gets roped into answering questions about the kid that got arrested the other day. Jim spots Kevin sitting quietly in the corner and grins at him.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”
The boy barely looks at him, but that’s more than most people get from him, and Jim is long used to it, in any case.
“Whatcha doing?” He gets no answer and looks at Kevin’s PADD over his shoulder. “Hey, those look like music notes.”
Kevin rolls his eyes. “Duh.”
“So, you’re back to writing songs then?” Jim prods. “That’s great.”
Understatement of a century. Kevin Riley has seen more foster families in his life than he had birthdays, and his last guardians managed to forget him at a mall. He spent two days wandering and sleeping on benches before security tracked him down. His foster parents hadn’t even noticed his absence. It was a small wonder that he rarely made the effort of communicating with other people, Jim being one of the very few exceptions.
Jim doesn’t know what makes him special. The truth is, while he sympathizes with Kevin’s circumstances, he also can’t help but resent him a little, the irrational part of his brain insisting that he, Jim Kirk, wouldn’t have bowed to this kind of treatment or shut the world out. He would have clenched his fists and he would have fought. Hell, he kind of did.
But he isn’t sixteen anymore. He knows by now that most people aren’t like him, and in all honesty, it’s a relief.
‘You’re the extreme, Jim,’ Bones told him once, after patching him up yet again. ‘You’re the free radical. If everyone was like you, we’d never have made it into the twenty-third century; we’d have self-destructed even before they’d invented the goddamn gunpowder.’
So Jim grins and clasps Kevin’s shoulder. “Looks like you’re almost done with that one. Wanna drop by the bar sometime, try it out?”
Kevin’s head snaps up, eyes hopeful. “Can I really? Will Gaila be there?”
Jim chuckles. “Sure. She’d never miss one of your dates now, would she? Although I have to ask” - Jim peers at the corner of the screen - “who’s Catherine? Seeing as you dedicated a song to her and all?”
Kevin blushes a deep shade of Bordeaux and mutters something rude under his nose. Jim grins. Maybe the kid will be all right, after all.
Sulu picks him up in half an hour. By that point, Jim is almost asleep in an armchair, feigning participation in the conversation with Marlena, the counselor on duty, who’s been trying to reform Jim and his lifestyle since the moment they met. Most of the time, Jim manages to deflect her efforts by either flirting obnoxiously or being deliberately rude. It’s not his most attractive trait, but the woman gets on his nerves.
“Well?” Jim blurts out impatiently the moment he and Sulu are out the door.
Sulu groans. “You’re pathetic. Go home, Jim, I’ll drop you a message. I expect free drinks the next time I’m at yours.”
Jim lifts his eyebrows suggestively. “Depends on how good that message is.”
But Sulu delivers brilliantly. The fact that he made a copy (clearly illegal) of the police database before quitting his job speaks of paranoia to most people. Jim just smirks. Somewhere in an alternate reality, Sulu would have made a formidable security chief or undercover agent. In any universe, though, Jim is grateful to have him on his side.
Spock’s Chicago Tribune profile barely gives any information on him at all, only mentioning that he’s an Oxford graduate and a Chicago resident. Sulu’s file is much more extensive, and Jim digs in happily.
The first thing he finds out is that Spock is only half Vulcan. His mother was human, one Amanda Grayson, wife of the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation. Spock was born in Shi’Kahr, Vulcan, but Chicago is named as his permanent residence for the last eighteen years.
According to a note in the margins, Amanda Grayson had never divorced her husband, but she had also never gone off planet ever since she returned with her son to her family house years ago. Clearly, even Vulcans believed in going separate ways.
At sixteen, Spock was accepted to Oxford and got a full ride. He majored in anthropology and cross-cultural communications, with minors in social studies, history, and linguistics. Standing champion of the university chess club, too.
Jim grins. Spock was clearly bring-the-smart-back-in-smartass kind of guy. Jim had always had a soft spot for those.
It strikes him as odd, however, that Spock graduated almost six months later than his class. He follows Sulu’s loop-link (underlined in red) and discovers that Amanda Grayson died the day before Spock should have started his finals. That’s when Spock’s trouble with the law began.
The police file regarding Amanda Grayson’s death states that it was a simple traffic accident. Apparently, she was one of the unfortunate couple of hundred who still became victims of those every year on the planet. There didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about the record, in Jim’s view.
Evidently, Spock didn’t agree. From the looks of it, he wrecked havoc in Chicago PD for the subsequent three months until they had enough and arrested him.
Jim nods to himself. The guy obviously had his heart in the right place, and even if Jim will never see him again, he’s glad he knows that. It doesn’t quite restore his belief in the universe, but if there are Vulcans out there who act on their emotions, maybe people of Earth will see reason some day.
Quickly, Jim scans through the rest of the file, but it’s sparse and not nearly as interesting. Spock returned to the university, finished his degree, and then literally vanished. All his traces on Earth disappeared, and for the next five years one can only guess what he had been up to. His pieces appear sporadically in different papers across the Federation, but there is no data whatsoever on exactly where he had been at the time. It’s quite an achievement in itself, considering how extensive and thorough the Federation security grid is. More mystery until about four years ago, when Spock returns to Earth, apparently to stay.
Jim shuts down the file and stares at the screen longingly for a moment. He feels like he has just discovered a completely unknown and utterly compelling novel, but a lot of pages are missing and there’s no telling of how it ends.
Just then, the daily update with their earnings pops up on the screen, and Jim sighs. He doesn’t want to leave Chicago. Seven years is the longest he had stayed anywhere since Iowa, and he doesn’t want to go back on the road. He has Gaila now, and even if he didn’t, he’s tired. He has never complained, but some days he just wishes this seemingly eternal fight would give him a break.
It’s one of those nights when Jim wishes Gary would still slip him a pill of one thing or other every now and then, like he used to years back, just so Jim could sleep without dreams.
--
Three weeks later, Jim’s mood is considerably less gloomy.
Gaila’s lessons raised enough money to pay for the flyers and to end the month with a positive balance. It wasn’t much, but it kept them alive, and Jim was too starved for any good news to look the gift horse in the mouth. Jim also managed to get good discounts from their usual suppliers, even though he nearly ended up with severe alcoholic poisoning after his negotiations with Scotty.
Gary’s promotion brought in enough new people to keep things looking optimistic, and Jim had even been forced to call all hands on deck several times this week because he and Gaila were simply overwhelmed. Pablo and Terry came willingly, and Christine cursed them profusely - it looked like she was picking up all the wrong things from McCoy - but Jim figured the tips more than made up for the inconvenience.
It’s Friday night. They seem to have two thirds of the bar full already, and it’s still relatively early. Pablo and Terry are waiting the tables expertly while Gaila holds down the fort at the bar.
Jim is just coming back from the storeroom with a fresh box of limes when the door opens again, and Spock walks in.
Jim freezes in place as his heart stupidly decides to make a somersault or a dozen. He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t help it. He can’t believe Spock is back, having all but given up hope of ever seeing him again.
Box still in his hands, Jim takes an unconscious step forward when Spock steps aside from the doorway and turns to guide someone else in.
The ‘someone’ the most stunning woman Jim has ever seen in his life, and he’s counting Gaila. She’s tall and slim like a ballerina, miles of smooth dark skin and lean muscle. Her eyes are huge and almond-shaped, lips invitations and interdictions both, and her hair is the definition of luxury.
She’s drop dead gorgeous and she’s smiling at Spock, who leans closer to hear her words.
Jim turns around mechanically and finally manages to deposit the limes under the bar. Gaila shoots him a concerned look in between taking orders and flirting with customers. Jim shakes his head at her: I’m fine.
He pours someone a beer while watching surreptitiously as Spock and his beautiful companion settle at a table in the middle. The woman is taking in her surroundings curiously, while Spock turns toward the bar and finds Jim’s eyes within a second.
Jim curses under his breath, barely releasing the tap in time to not spill the beer.
It’s just so damn unfair, he thinks bitterly, but he’s walking toward the table already, a polite smile of welcome on his face. Once upon a time he’d made it a habit to personally greet new customers, and there’s no legitimate reason to back down now.
Spock hasn’t looked away from him once, and Jim tenses up more and more with every step he takes. The gorgeous girl is looking at Jim now, too, and her gaze is frankly appraising. Anything to make it better.
“Good evening,” Jim says cheerily, the image of professionalism, as he lays down the menus. “Welcome to Bad Company. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
His words are followed by an awkward silence. Spock is staring at the menu like it’s going to spring to life and bite him, and his companion is staring at him, impatience clear in her expression. In a moment, Spock winces, and Jim has the strongest suspicion that he has just been kicked under the table. He looks up at Jim, cheeks mildly flushed.
“Jim,” Spock says, and Jesus, his voice is even deeper than Jim remembers. “You may not remember me, but I - I stopped by several weeks ago. I am-”
“Spock,” Jim supplies, grinning. “You write feature articles for the Chicago Tribune. You liked my mulled wine.”
Spock blinks. “Yes.” His eyes narrow. “Do you remember every customer?”
“Nah.” Jim’s grin widens. “Only those with monstrous purple umbrellas that they don’t know how to use.”
The woman laughs at that, and Jim mentally kicks himself. Flirting with a taken man in front of his girlfriend is way too stupid even for him.
“I see,” Spock says, throwing a dark look at his companion. “Nyota, this is Jim Kirk.” Spock’s lips curve slightly. “He ‘owns this place.’ Jim, this is Nyota Uhura, my editor.”
“Your editor?” Jim blurts out before he can stop himself. “You mean she’s not - oh, I’m sorry!” He grabs Uhura’s hand hurriedly and they shake. “It’s a - pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she replies, smiling broadly, like a puma after a successful hunt. Jim has a horrible feeling that she can read his mind. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” Jim blinks.
“Oh, yes. You seem to have very, uh, talented hands.” She smirks.
“Please ignore her,” Spock interjects, sending her a glare, before looking back at Jim. “Your menu seems to have a - ‘surprise’ option?”
“Yeah.” Jim grins. “If you trust your bartender, he or she will mix a drink of their own choice for you.” He winks at Uhura. “We’re never wrong.”
“Is that so?” she drawls lazily. “All right; I’ll risk it. What about you, Spock? Your taste is so... unpredictable.”
Spock’s eyes are still on Jim, expression intense. “I trust Jim,” he says.
Jim clears his throat. “Right, then. Um. Guess you won’t be needing those.” He picks the menus off the table. “If you don’t like your drinks, they’re on the house.”
Uhura nods approvingly. “Nice.”
Spock merely continues to stare. Jim smiles at him, hoping it’s still impersonal, and finally makes himself walk away.
“Oh my God, are you drunk?” Gaila hisses at him when he’s level with her. “Your eyes are kinda crazy.”
Jim grabs her arm and pulls her aside. “This is Spock,” he whispers, ignoring the way Gaila’s lips form a perfect O at the news. “I need to make ‘surprise’ drinks for him and his probably-not girlfriend.”
“Okay, just calm down. Jesus.” She squeezes his shoulder. “You’re a professional, Jimmy. You can read anyone. Don’t panic and you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” He breathes. “I gotta-”
“Go.” She nods. “Good luck.”
Jim’s hands absolutely don’t shake when he puts together the ingredients, because Gaila is right, he is a professional. No matter how badly he’s crushing on his customer.
Which would be pretty badly, yes.
He thinks about Nyota Uhura, editor and goddess. Confident, assertive, and - a little wary. She’s probably one of those people who don’t really eat so much as feed on the food’s aroma. She did order a drink, though, which means her iron discipline allows for little indulgencies. Something too sweet will be rejected, but something tender with a bit of an intrigue will probably hit the bull’s eye.
Jim snatches a champagne glass and dips it in sugar. He pours a shot of Andorian plum wine, the thick sapphire liquid coiling at the bottom, and then tops it with some extra brut champagne he keeps for those who actually do have some measure of sense when ordering champagne. A slice of plum on top finishes the composition.
Done with Uhura, Jim thinks of Spock and wants to groan. Despite his exercises in stalking, Jim still knows next to nothing about the man. He glances back to where Spock and Uhura are sitting, allowing himself to watch for a moment.
Spock seems calm and collected as they converse quietly, tilting his head to his side slightly when Uhura says something he finds curious. He picked a seat so that he would be the one facing the door, and his eyes sweep over the entrance from time to time, as if checking that no trouble comes in. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket over blue jeans tonight and a beige button down shirt, open at the collar.
All cold with a touch of warmth, Jim thinks. He suddenly wants nothing more than to keep Spock permanently warm.
He picks a self-assured, old-fashioned glass and pours equal measures of Grand Marnier and Bailey’s, sprinkling the mix with dark chocolate.
Before he has the time to question his choices, Jim grabs a tray and heads for Spock’s table, trying to convince himself that this isn’t some kind of test.
“One Kir Andorian for the lady.” Jim smiles and sets the glass in front of Uhura. “And one Caress for the gentleman.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow at the name, and Jim blushes. He forgot he’d have to actually say that. Uhura giggles and throws him an amused look. Jim smirks at her and winks, because he’s pretty certain that she had him figured in two seconds flat anyway.
“Damn, this is good,” Uhura says, after taking a sip. “It’s like - I’m not sure, but it’s like...” She trails off and shakes her head, acknowledging defeat gracefully. “Good job.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Jim gives her a mock bow, pleased at being proved right yet again. He has nothing to do now but to look at Spock, who is nursing his drink cautiously.
“It is - intriguing,” Spock says no sooner than Jim is ready to burst.
“Intriguing,” Jim repeats, not really knowing what to make of that.
Uhura laughs. “That’ll be Spock for ‘I can’t quite find the words to tell you how awesome this is.’ Anyway, if you don’t want it, I’ll drink it. I love Caresses, though I haven’t had one in years.”
Spock pulls his glass closer to himself. “You have your own drink.”
Uhura beams at Jim. “He likes it all right.”
“I would not be averse to another ‘surprise’ for the next round, though,” Spock says. “The taste is very pleasurable, but I do not believe it truly reflects my character.”
Jim shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “You’re one spoiled brat, you know that?” Spock blinks at him. Uhura snickers. “I’ll see what I can do. Enjoy your drinks.”
He makes himself walk away, already working on the game plan in his head, because Spock is not walking out of here tonight without being positively smitten with something. Not on Jim’s watch.
Three hours - and a considerable amount of fancy cocktails - later, Jim suddenly realizes that he’s only working for Spock and Uhura now, because the bar it nearly empty. Jim feels tired, but it’s a pleasant weight. Evenings like this are keeping them in business.
Uhura is looking a little tipsy when Jim takes his latest creations to their table.
“That’ll be the last round,” she says. “I have no idea how I’m going to show my face in the office tomorrow as it is.”
“With the usual amount of glamour and aplomb, one would assume,” Spock suggests dryly.
Uhura’s eyes narrow, and Jim thinks that Spock has a lot of nerve teasing her like that. He feels a little jealous because of this, and because she can translate Spock to English, and because Jim doesn’t have any more reasons to stand here now that he’s delivered their drinks.
It’s the exact moment when Gaila appears at his side and sets a tall glass of Long Island on the table.
“What’s this?” Jim frowns.
“Your drink, silly, so that you can finally sit down and chat with your friends like a normal person.” She makes a face at him, before beaming brightly at Spock and Uhura. “Hi, I’m Gaila. This misunderstanding here is my boss.”
Spock rises to his feet to greet her, and Jim stares. Whoever raised Spock did one hell of a job.
“I like your earrings,” Gaila tells Uhura almost shyly.
“Really?” Uhura smiles. “I bought them on a whim; they were just asking for it, you know?” Gaila nods happily. “But they’re too heavy for me. I told myself I should at least wear them once before - hey, they’ll look great on you!”
“Oh, I couldn’t-” Gaila sputters.
“Tough, let’s find a mirror and see how that works, huh?” Uhura is on her feet already. “Come on, you’ll look great, you’ll see.”
Jim watches as the two of them head off, presumably toward a bathroom, and shakes his head with a disbelieving grin.
“They’ll come back as BFFs, mark my words,” he tells Spock, dropping into a chair.
“Indeed. I have never understood the female capacity to bond spontaneously over-”
“Earrings,” Jim supplies, chuckling. “How’s your Andorian Summer?”
“Acceptable.” Spock stares at Jim’s ice tea. “May I try that?”
Jim laughs, his head lolling back slightly. He can’t remember the last time he had felt so good.
“You’re so, so spoiled,” he says, but swaps their glasses all the same. “At least you write well.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “You read my work? Which piece?”
“Um…” Jim blinks, a traitorous blush creeping onto his cheeks. “All of them?” he admits sheepishly. “I, uh, I sort of had some time, and you, you know. You write really well.”
Spock is staring at him now, and Jim is in so much trouble.
“I like to read,” he says hastily, which is of course the way to make it better.
Spock’s eyebrow crawls higher. “I believe you said you were not the ‘reading kind’?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“I suspected you might have been insincere.”
“You did?”
“Your eyes do not hide your intelligence well, Jim.”
“Oh.” Jim has no idea what to say to that, so he does what he always does when he panics - pulls on a saucy smirk and goes for something obnoxious. “Well, sorry I can’t say the same about you. I mean, the rest of you looks smart enough, but your eyes pretty much just spell ‘bedroom’ - you know what I mean?”
Jim braves a glance at Spock, and regrets it instantly. Spock seems taken aback for a moment, but then he simply looks amused.
“Your deflection technique,” he says, “leaves much to be desired.”
Before Jim can come up with anything to counter that, Spock goes on. “You, apparently, cannot take a compliment. Would it help if I told you that I am not in the habit of paying them? I merely stated a fact.”
“Oh really?” Jim smirks. “Well, guess what, genius, so did I.”
Spock’s answer, whatever it might have been, never comes, because two things happen at the same moment.
Uhura and Gaila emerge from the bathroom, giggling and chattering away like a pair of pre-teen girls, while the entrance door opens, letting in a pair of tall, bulky men in grey uniform.
Gaila’s laughter dies out abruptly, like a put out candle, and she freezes in place, a look of uncontrolled fear on her face. The men move in determinedly, barely sparing a glance around.
Jim is on his feet before he knows it, blocking the way. “Can I help you?”
The visitors focus on him instead.
“You Kirk?” The taller man flashes a badge in Jim’s face. “This is a drugs bust.”
Furious as he is, Jim manages to steel himself. “I’d like to see a warrant.”
“Believe me, son, you wouldn’t,” the officer tells him condescendingly, watching as his colleague flashes a scanner around. “We’re just checking out a rumor. As long as everyone on your staff has a legal ID and a working permit, no one needs to worry their pretty heads about us. Provided your facility is clean and no one has anything in their pockets they shouldn’t have.”
Seething, Jim nods at Pablo and Gaila, while reaching for his own papers. Gaila sends him a look that screams fear, but Jim just jerks his chin and presses his lips together tightly. He knows they both know where this is headed, but they don’t have any other choice but to play along.
His suspicions are confirmed when the policemen barely look at his and Pablo’s papers, but spend a great deal of time staring at Gaila’s.
“You’ll have to come with us, Miss,” the younger of the officers tells her with a smirk.
Gaila bites her lip and steps unconsciously closer to Jim. He squares his shoulders.
“On what grounds?” Jim demands angrily. “Her papers are fine, I hired her.”
“We need to run a more in-depth check.”
“What for? If you want to detain her, you’ll have to charge her with something, and I don’t see how you can, seeing as she hasn’t done anything illegal.”
“We’re not detaining her, Mr. Kirk. This is a routine check, and your employee is a random subject.”
“Random, my ass!” Jim spits. “You have no reason to suspect her of anything, and yet here you are. Did Finney put you up to this? Because this wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Mr. Kirk, you are derailing the police. As I have explained, this is merely a random-”
“-case of racial discrimination exercised by the authorities.”
Jim and both cops turn in unison to stare at Spock, who is on his feet now, too.
The tall officer confronts Spock bluntly. “Who the hell are you?”
Instead of deigning him with a verbal response, Spock pulls out a business card and hands it over, making sure not to come close to touching the man.
“You’re a journalist?” They stare at him in disbelief.
“Indeed, and I would be very interested to know your motivation for picking this young woman as your ‘random’ target,” Spock says and looks at the officers expectantly, a notepad and a stylus at the ready. “I will need to know if your actions are products of your own xenophobic tendencies and unchecked bigotry issues, or if the federal police endorses racial profiling now. Would you care to state your names?”
“Listen, mister-”
“Oh, go ahead,” Uhura encourages, flanking Spock and looking belligerent. “As a Tribune editor, I can assure you that you gentlemen are one call away from making the morning edition’s front page.”
They gape at her, mouths hanging open comically, as she pulls out her comm.
“Are you ready for your fifteen minutes in the spotlight?” Uhura smirks nastily. “More importantly, does your mother know you’re doing this?”
The younger officer looks incensed at this and starts forward, but his partner catches him by the elbow. He glares at Uhura; glares at Spock, who lifts an eyebrow in return; glares at Jim, and doesn’t even look at Gaila.
“We won’t need to run this check after all,” he grits out, shoving her ID into Jim’s hands none too gently. “Our mistake.” He gives his colleague a scathing glance. “All clear, let’s go.”
“Fuckers,” Jim spits, watching the door close behind them.
To his left, Gaila gasps and claps her hand over her mouth desperately, shaking all over. Jim and Uhura rush to her side.
“Hey, hey, baby, it’s okay, it’s fine,” Jim murmurs reassuringly, running a hand awkwardly down Gaila’s back. “They’re gone, they won’t bother you again, I won’t let them. Oh, come on, don’t cry. They’re not worth it.”
“I know,” she stammers, her lips trembling, and tears streaming down her face. She’s shaking like a leaf. “I know, Jim-my, I just can’t help it.”
Jim can’t stand this expression of terrified helplessness on her face. He wants to smash something. He takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm for Gaila’s sake.
“Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes and I’ll make you some herbal tea, huh? What do you say?” She nods at him gratefully. “That’s my girl.”
“Come on, sugar, sit down,” Uhura soothes, her arm snaking around Gaila’s waist as she half-hugs, half-tugs her to a chair.
Jim watches for a moment, before snapping out of it. Unclenching his fists with an effort, he retreats to the bar to make tea.
Spock follows him, sliding into one of the barstools. He doesn’t say anything, but Jim knows he deserves an explanation.
“Thanks for what you did,” Jim says quietly, without lifting his eyes from his work. “Her ID can pass a routine scan, but if they ran a real check, they’d know it’s a fake.”
There is a short pause, and then Spock says, “I assumed as much.”
“You did?” Jim looks up at him. “Damn. Not much skips past you, does it?”
“No, Jim. Not much.”
Again, Spock doesn’t ask further questions, and Jim can’t help but like that about the guy, even if he’s also, for some reason, frustrated with it.
“Her owner brought her here when she was thirteen,” Jim says, pouring boiling water into a tall ceramic cup. “Slavery is forbidden in the Federation, but that bastard had ‘adopted’ her, which pretty much gave him an excuse to do whatever the hell he wanted.”
“Prostitution?” Spock asks softly.
Jim nods tightly. “She wasn’t like the others, though. Never learned proper ‘obedience.’ So that fucker beat her and starved her, not to mention...”
He glances over to where Gaila is sitting, her head lying on Uhura’s shoulder. Uhura’s arms are around her, and they seem to be talking quietly.
“Anyway, she ran away. Don’t know how; she doesn’t talk about it. They searched for her everywhere, because he was some hotshot and Starfleet wanted his dilithium or something.” Jim adds a shot of brandy into the cup and covers it to brew. “She was living on the streets when I met her. Scared to death of anyone in uniform. I was sort of a rover back then, and we just stuck together, I guess.”
“You procured a fake identification for her.”
“Yeah. We needed to get by somehow. I mean, she’s smart as hell, but she didn’t know anything. Had to find a school, had to stay somewhere.” Jim shrugs. “It was easier to tell people she was my foster sister when she had some kind of ID.”
Spock nods pensively. Jim smiles at him. “Bet you didn’t think I was such a shady character when you decided to drop by again, did you?”
It’s the closest he can come up with instead of saying, ‘I’ll never see you again, will I?’
Spock stares at him, and Jim suddenly feels naked under his gaze.
“Who is Finney?” Spock asks.
Jim blinks at the abrupt switch. “He owns the Peel Off.” At Spock’s confused look, Jim grimaces and explains, “It’s a strip bar at the corner of East Huron and North Michigan. Finney’s been pissed at us ever since Gaila turned him down when he tried to hire her. He knows she’s pretty much what’s keeping us alive and he doesn’t like competition. It’s not the first time he’s played dirty.”
Spock frowns slightly. “Why do you consider Gaila to be the only attraction to your establishment?”
Jim shrugs. “She’s what makes us different.”
Spock’s eyes lock with his. “And you are the one who makes it possible. You underestimate yourself.”
“I’m not, I...” Jim trails off. He looks away, and clears his throat. “I need to bring Gaila her tea.”
He picks up the cup and walks over to where Gaila is sitting, without sparing a glance at Spock.
She seems better - smiling timidly at him, though still shaken by the encounter. Jim gets a grateful nod for the tea, and watches as Gaila cradles the cup in her hands, inhaling deeply.
“Just the way I like it,” she mutters.
Jim grins at her. “You mean you doubted me? I’m wounded, madam.”
She takes a sip and sighs. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
Jim throws an arm around her shoulders and tugs her close. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”
Uhura takes this as her cue to go, nodding at Jim as she rises. Jim can hear her say something to Spock quietly, but he doesn’t look up as they leave.
Part 2/5 >>
Back to masterpost <<
--
Jim spots him the moment he enters the bar.
At any other time, he probably wouldn’t have given the guy a second glance. Vulcans and bars seldom go together, but this is Chicago, and weirder things have happened. But business is slow in the early afternoon - Jim likes to pretend that the time of day has more to do with it than the bar’s location - and there’s time to stare.
The Vulcan is tall and dressed in jeans of all things, the pant legs wet up to his knees and his canvas shoes clearly soaked through. Jim blinks, watching as the Vulcan wrestles with a huge purple monster of an umbrella, trying to fit it into the holder. There’s something almost psychedelic about the image, a surreal tinge to the picture playing out in the gloom of a backstreet bar while a thunderstorm rages outside.
The Vulcan walks slowly toward the bar, unbuttoning his wet jacket to reveal a simple grey shirt underneath. His hair is also more wet than not, and Jim wonders if the guy knows that an umbrella has purposes other than collecting water.
He sits at the bar, not too close to Jim, and doesn’t look up, his attention focused on a small PADD he’s pulled out of his pocket, wiping the water - unbelievable - off the screen.
Jim mentally sighs. He hates it when people treat him as if he’s invisible, no more sentient than a beer tap. He wonders vaguely if he’d be shown more respect if people knew he was the owner.
“What can I get you?”
The visitor doesn’t wince, but somehow, the impression of being caught by surprise is unmistakable. He looks up.
Jim falls in love between one startled blink and another.
They stare at each other as time slows down, stretching like a rubber band. Outside, the storm seems to still for a moment; a couple of girls giggling in the corner over their coffees quiet minutely; Lorenzo the poet is still grumbling over the modern day Iliad he’s writing; but the sound evens out, becomes distorted, incomprehensible.
A heartbeat. Two. A metallic clang of the coffee roaster. The sharp smell of rain sucked in through an open window. Brown warmth glowing, deep, startled.
Jim takes a breath, careless, and the rubber band snaps, spinning time back into motion.
The Vulcan clears his throat, blinking. “I am unfamiliar with most beverages on the menu,” he says, glancing minutely at the list that flashes names in the middle of the counter.
His voice conjures up images of tangled bed sheets and late mornings, and Jim mentally shakes himself. This is ridiculous; he should get laid more often and talk to Lorenzo less. In fact, he should probably grow a spine and show him the door like every other sensible barkeep in town.
“I would not-” The Vulcan pauses, frowning slightly, as though puzzled by Jim’s continued silence. “That is, something heated would be most welcome.”
Jim grins widely. “I know just the thing. Won’t take a minute.”
That earns him a slight raise of an eyebrow, but Jim is too busy to give due appreciation to that fact. He spins around on his heel, hands reaching for a small pot and activating the heater. Jim likes the open flame and considers the time he lost kicking the city administration for permission to use it well spent.
His fingers catalogue the sensations absently, like marks on a well-known route; the chapped ceramic pot, warm from the flame; apple skin, smooth, slithering, smelling like the summer; a whiff on his fingertips, the red wine breathing; a runaway drop of honey, white, viscous. It would have been a ritual, except it really does take only a minute.
Jim is scanning the spices and doesn’t know he’s being watched until he breaks a cinnamon stick and hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. Jim smiles to himself.
He just knows he isn’t wrong with this.
The drink pulses with ruby energy when Jim pours it into a glass, arranging the contents artistically and dropping in a straw. He turns around, beaming for no reason at all, and sets the glass on the bar in front of his guest.
The Vulcan is staring at the drink inquisitively, without wariness or disdain. He glances up at Jim, whose heart stutters for a second. So much for getting a grip.
“You are aware that Vulcans are not affected by alcohol.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jim nods, still grinning. “But this is guaranteed to warm you up. Scout’s honor.”
The Vulcan lifts an eyebrow again, looking somewhat amused. He picks up the glass and leans down slightly, catching the straw between his lips. He takes a sip and rolls it on his tongue for a couple of moments before finally swallowing down. He looks at Jim curiously.
“Were you really a Boy Scout?”
Jim stammers. “I-”
“This is incredibly good, by the way. Very warming indeed. Thank you.”
“Oh. I, um...” Jim blushes and hates himself for it. “You’re welcome.”
The Vulcan is looking at him still as if waiting for something. Jim straightens up a bit, pulling himself together.
“I’m Jim, by the way. Jim Kirk, and I - own this place.”
He wants to slap himself so badly his hands itch. Where did that come from?
The Vulcan, however, seems unperturbed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kirk,” he replies, and then does something that completely throws Jim - he reaches out across the counter to shake Jim’s hand.
Dazed, Jim responds in kind, too shocked to register the strength of the hold or the warmth of the skin.
Vulcans never do that. Never. And yet-
“My name is Spock,” his guest continues. “And I do not own this place.”
Startled, Jim lets out a laugh. “No kidding. What do you do for a living, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Spock takes another sip, eyes still on Jim, intense with interest. It’s unsettling.
“I am a journalist with the Chicago Tribune,” he replies at last, his gaze lingering on Jim for a reaction.
“Oh,” Jim says, surprised. “Huh. You don’t seem like the reporter type.”
“That is because I am not a reporter.” Spock sets the glass on the bar and sits a little straighter on his stool. “I do not work with news. I write feature articles.”
Jim nods, reaching for another glass to polish automatically. “So, you’re the ‘fly on the wall’ kind of guy.”
Spock’s lips curve slightly. “Sometimes.”
“Aha. You’re, like, famous or something?”
The hint of a smile is more pronounced now, and Spock’s eyes are still focused on Jim’s with the same unnerving intensity. This time, they’re laughing.
“The answer to that question should be self-evident.”
“Hey, no.” Jim grins, throwing his hands up. “I’m just not the reading kind. You could have won a Pulitzer for all I know.”
Not true; Jim knows pretty much anyone who’s ever won that. But Jim isn’t taking Spock upstairs to show him how badly Jim needs to donate things to the local library, so.
“No.” Spock gives a slight shake of his head. “You need not worry that you have not recognized a celebrity, Mr. Kirk.”
“Jim, please.”
“Jim. I do not aim for awards when I write. I’m simply... interested. In people.”
“Really?” Jim stares at him, the glass he’s been polishing forgotten in his hand. “Sorry, not to come all racist on you, but… that’s kind of unusual, isn’t it? I mean, Vulcans generally keep to themselves.”
Something tightens in Spock’s expression; the smooth line of his jaw tenses, and his eyes still.
“Yes,” he says quietly, glancing down at his drink. “Vulcans generally do.”
Jim curses mentally; his foot-and-mouth disease seems to have no hope of ever being cured. He doesn’t know what it was he said, but it was clearly the wrong thing.
He opens his mouth, trying to figure out a way to apologize without making things more awkward, but Spock beats him to it.
“Jim, you are very kind, but I need to finish this right now.” He nods at his PADD.
“Oh, sure.” Jim backs away hastily, his heart sinking. “Just - let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will.”
Jim retreats to his corner, starting to polish a second round of glasses just to keep his nervous hands busy. Lorenzo the poet asks for another Irish coffee - ‘There’s supposed to be liquor in it, Jimmy, don’t forget’ - so Jim makes it, not bothering to substitute the real Irish Cream with its non-alcoholic equivalent. It’s too early in the day to start arguing with Lorenzo in butchered Greek.
From time to time, Jim looks over to where Spock is sitting, seemingly fully immersed in whatever’s on his PADD. He takes in Spock’s rather artificial slouch - as if he’d rather be sitting straight, but someone told him that it’s uncalled for in such a setting, so he has carefully constructed a more ‘relaxed’ pose. Spock’s hair is drying and curling slightly at the very ends, making him look wind-swept and a little rebellious.
Jim sighs. Spock probably is more than a little rebellious, given that Jim has never seen a Vulcan willingly wearing human clothes or working in such a decidedly less-than-dignified field. Jim’s success in his own profession is mostly based on his ability to read people, which makes his quip about Vulcans even less acceptable. He blames it on Spock’s eyes - so damn gripping - but it doesn’t make him feel better.
He satisfies himself with quietly preparing another mulled wine to replace the one Spock has finished.
“On the house,” Jim says, when Spock looks up at him, eyebrow raised.
“Thank you, but that is not neces-”
“I insist.” Jim grins as amiably as he can. “We’re a little out of the way and don’t get a lot of clients. Can’t have you forgetting us too quickly.”
Spock holds Jim’s gaze with the same frightening intensity, only this time his eyes seem more on the dark side of brown.
“No,” he says slowly, “I do not believe we are in danger of that happening any time soon.”
Jim flushes all over, swearing loudly inside his head, as Spock’s eyes drop from his face and roam all over him, as though capturing every part of Jim for further inspection.
“Yes. Well.” Jim clears his throat. “Enjoy.”
“I am.”
Spock is smirking slightly, starting on his fresh drink, and Jim is ready to do something incredibly stupid, like maybe ask him out because they have officially entered the flirting territory, when he hears the shrill sound of the comm.
“Sorry. That’s my landline, I have to take it.”
Spock nods, staring into his drink. Jim turns away reluctantly and opens the door that connects the bar with the storerooms and the little cramped space with no windows that serves as Jim’s office.
The moment Jim sees Sam’s ID he frowns. His brother only ever calls when he’s in trouble, which in Sam’s case usually spells money, and Jim only sent him a good amount two months ago. Not that he minds helping out, Sam’s the only blood family he has left, but Jim can’t help the incredible frustration he feels at his brother’s inability to take care of himself. There was no one to help Jim during his time of need and he managed all the same, and Sam is supposed to be the elder brother, and it’s all just so wrong somehow.
The bar hasn’t been on the plus side of balance for weeks now. Jim doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.
“There’s this girl,” Sam starts, and Jim doesn’t know how he manages to not howl in frustration.
Of course there’s a girl. If Jim is lucky, though, there’s no baby this time. He adores Peter to bits and Aurelan is a sweetheart, and Jim would happily give his last penny to that kid, but another child support deal would probably end his efforts at staying legal right here and now. One Kirk slipping on the wrong side of the law is certainly enough.
The conversation is cold and awkward and lasts forever, and by the time it’s over, Jim has completely forgotten about his unusual customer.
He remembers when he walks back into the bar and sees that Spock’s stool is empty. There is no ruffled Vulcan sitting at the bar, no wet traces on the floor, and no and-you-thought-you-had-it-tough purple umbrella in the holder. There’s an empty glass and a credit chip, but no note or card or anything.
Jim bites his lip hard, trying to hold on to his anger, but he’s just sad all of a sudden, and very tired. He takes the glass and the money, noting that Spock has left a twenty-credit bill for a five-credit check, and it makes Jim feel even worse.
Then he notices that Lorenzo the poet has left, and Jim knows better than to look and see if he’s paid for his drink as well.
It’s too much, really, and Jim laughs, because the only other available option is to burst into tears, and he’s not that far gone yet. He calls Gaila and tries to feel enthusiastic about another night spent over his flashy 3D castle of accounting books, trying to figure out how to make ends meet.
His life is wonderful like that.
--
Jim can’t remember if there had ever been a moment in his life when he felt optimistic about his future.
Maybe back when he was still a baby and the only things to look forward to were stealing sweets when nobody was looking and building a fort out of the bright constructor cubes scattered around his bedroom. Back before Sam ran away with a traveling band; before Winona lost all touch with reality; before Frank left them. After that, his life had always been a struggle for one thing or another.
Jim had never known his father, but, at times like this, he hopes desperately that there’s more of George in him than there is of Winona. Not because he didn’t love his mother - he just doesn’t believe that clinical depression would look any better on him than it had on her.
Gaila knocks at the open door of his office softly. “Sulu’s here.”
Jim blinks, realizing he’s been staring at the monitor for the better part of an hour and doing nothing except hoping that the figures would magically transform into something less gloomy. “Oh. Right. You okay with closing up?”
“Sure.” She lifts one shoulder, shrugging. “You’re off to the Shelter again?”
“Yeah.” Jim stretches, his body stiff and screeching like rusty hinges. “Shit.”
Gaila giggles. “Make sure the misguided youth don’t hear you do that. They’d start calling you grandpa.”
“Shut it,” Jim says benevolently, reaching for his jacket, the leather worn and warm under his fingers. He pauses, not tugging it on.
Gaila tilts her head, studying him. “What’s up?”
Jim closes his eyes, pressing his hand to the back of his neck and kneading the tired muscles. “We’ll be minus seven grand after closing this month.”
Gaila bites her lip. “It’s not too much, is it?”
Jim snorts. It’s been a while since they measured their revenue by the actual profits rather than by how little they still were going to owe everyone after the close of business.
“It’s not too much,” he agrees, “if we make up for it the next month. But we’ve been on the down streak for ages now, Gaila. I don’t think I believe in luck anymore.”
“It’s not all about luck, you know.”
Jim looks at her. “I’ve talked to Gary. He says that for two grand he can stick our flyers into every health and care pack they’re sending out to the gyms.”
“That’d be great!” Gaila beams. “But - we don’t have any flyers.”
“Hence the two grand. We need to raise it, and we need to raise it fast.”
She purses her lips. “You want to send me back to the streets, don’t you?”
Jim sighs. “I really don’t, Gaila.”
“But my lessons are popular, and women pay well.”
“Girly drinks are expensive,” Jim tells her apologetically.
Gaila nods. “It’s okay, Jim. I’ll do it.”
Jim hates the idea. When he first bought out the bar, they were desperate and came up with the idea of Gaila giving lessons of Orion body dance to attract more people. Very few gyms offered it, and certainly even fewer had Orion instructors. The idea was definitely alluring. As they couldn’t afford even the simplest ad, Gaila danced in the streets for several hours every night serving as a live commercial.
The trouble is, Jim knows how much Gaila hates every reminder of her past, and he is loath to ask this of her. She takes one for the team way too often.
“You don’t have to.”
“Hey.” Gaila lowers herself gracefully to sit on his lap, snaking her arms around his neck. “It’s not a problem. I’ll go to the corner in front of Sulu’s shop; he’ll look after me. If anyone tries anything, he’ll cut them with one of his scary katanas.”
Jim huffs out a laugh, mostly because Gaila’s hopelessly unrequited crush on Sulu has been a long-standing joke between them. “I’ll tell him. Do that tomorrow and the day after, and we’ll have the dance night on Saturday?”
“Sure.” Gaila kisses his forehead. “Don’t frown, handsome, you’ll get wrinkles.”
He slides his arms around her waist, and, for a moment, they simply hold each other.
“It’s going to be okay, Jim. You know we always come through.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Yeah.”
Finally, Gaila pushes him away gently and slides fluidly to her feet.
“Well, since the captain is too busy for his sinking ship, I need to go back to work.” She winks at him but turns in the doorway, expression serious. “Be careful, Jim. The one who got arrested the other day had a Cardassian blade on him.”
Jim gives her a cocky grin. “Don’t worry. I used to live on the street, too, you know. I can handle whatever they dish out.”
“I’m just saying.” Gaila’s hands land on her hips in a no-nonsense way. “I’d better not be taking you to the hospital again. McCoy hates me.”
“Don’t take it personally, he hates everybody. I suppose it’s a given in his line of work.”
“Hm.” Gaila purses her lips, not convinced. Suddenly, her face brightens. “Any word from your mystery man?”
“What mystery man?” Jim asks, but he’s blushing, and his hand slides into his pocket unconsciously, palming the PADD he’s taken to carry around with him.
Gaila rolls her eyes. “The one that transformed you into one of your thirteen-year-old charges. Seriously, Jim. Just man up and call him.”
“If he wanted me to call, he’d have left me his number.” Jim pouts.
Gaila throws her hands up. “I give up. I have no idea how your species still manages to procreate.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You do realize the Chicago Tribune has a landline?”
Jim opens his mouth to launch a heated and fully deserved tirade, but at that moment Sulu appears in the doorway, looking irate.
“Jim, what’s the fucking hold-up? You need time to make yourself pretty or something?”
“No,” Jim says quickly, moving around the table. “Let’s go. You” - he jabs a finger at Gaila as he brushes past her - “mind your own business. And the bar.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Anything else, boss?”
“Yes. Don’t seduce Lorenzo; we’ll never be rid of him.”
Gaila snorts. “Too late for that, isn’t it? We’ll never be rid of him, since he thinks you’re his number one fan.” She smirks. “You really like those literary types, don’t you, Jim? Poets, journalists-?”
“Oh God, shut up.” Jim rolls his eyes. “Why I put up with you I have no idea.”
“You guys are so married it’s disgusting,” Sulu says flatly and drags Jim out by the collar while Gaila splutters indignantly.
--
The walk from Bad Company to St. Andrew’s Shelter for Young Citizens in Need, commonly known as the Shelter, is a little too long for most people to walk, but Jim never takes his bike if he can help it. The night is gloriously soothing, the daylight warmth oozing out of the pavement and buildings, melting in the cool breeze creeping from the omnipresent lake.
Jim takes a deep breath, savoring the city. The scent of late-night bagels, slightly burnt, from a round-the-clock place across the street; the ever-present sound of traffic, mildly abated due to late hour; the vaguely orange glow of the streetlamps, old-fashioned and crooked in this part of town.
When had it become so familiar?
Iowan nights were always cold. Too close to the earth. Endless corn fields, dark and whispering, mulling over the centuries old gossip. Loneliness. The tired groans of the ancient wooden house. A knock in the night. Social worker. Must have spotted the light. No, Mom is fine; see, she replicated the veggies for me. I’m up late doing homework. You don’t have to wake her, do you? Can I get you a coffee? How’s your wife?
“Jim.” Sulu snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Are you even there?”
Jim flinches, jerking away instinctively, before giving his friend a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Long day.”
“Tell me about it,” Sulu grumbles. “Ever since they kicked me off the Force, it’s like I live the same 24 hours over and over.”
Jim glances at him sideways.
He and Sulu had met literally in midair that summer four years ago when Jim tried to make some extra money by working as a space jump instructor in California. Sulu’s chute had malfunctioned and Jim had jumped after him without a second thought, hoping beyond hope they would both make it to the ground in one piece. It was two days after Sulu’s grandfather was killed when someone robbed his antique shop.
“You ever thought about going back?”
Sulu shrugs. “Sure. But not until I find the fuckers and cut them open.”
Jim purses his lips, nods. He gets it. Sulu’s superior in the Chicago PD didn’t.
“Besides, I have the shop now and our street kids,” Sulu adds. “It turns out to be a full time occupation.”
Jim nods again. A skinny street cat dashes away from under his feet as he trips over the curb edge.
Sulu nudges him. “What was Gaila on about earlier? Another penniless poet banging on your door?”
Jim snorts. “Hardly.” He sighs, shakes his head. Why not? “There was this guy the other day; a Vulcan.”
Sulu smirks. “Hot?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Of course.”
“It’s true, though. Way out of my league.”
“I hope you’re not fishing, ‘cause I’m not in the mood to deal with teenage angst.”
Jim looks at him pointedly.
Sulu rolls his eyes. “Any more than I absolutely have to, I mean. So what’s with this guy?”
Jim looks away. “He said he’s a journalist with the Tribune. We might have been getting somewhere, but then I got distracted, and he left. That’s it, honestly. Well, that, and he writes like no one else I know,” Jim adds, fingering his PADD again.
He took the time to download every article Spock has ever written a few days back. To say that Jim was impressed would be a huge understatement. The last time the written word gave him shivers like that happened when he had discovered Ravoux Garan at the tender age of fifteen.
Sulu frowns. “You met Spock?”
Jim stops abruptly. “You know him?”
Sulu shakes his head. “Of him. He’s somewhat of a legend in the Chicago PD. You know, like the Flying Dutchman. The only Vulcan on file with a police record.”
“What?” Jim’s jaw drops open. “Let me guess, he’s also the only Vulcan who doesn’t know how to parallel park?”
“Not exactly. Try interfering with a police investigation, some rather audacious breaking and entering, and threatening several members of the Force in terms that were ripped into quotes on the spot.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. He served fifteen days in all; community service. The Park District guys had never been so happy. I mean, Vulcan efficiency is really something else - those benches had never been so clean.”
“Okay.” Jim grabs his arm. “You realize that you can’t just drop a bomb like that and not explain?”
“Yes.” Sulu gave him a dangerous smile, detaching Jim’s hand clinically. “I also realize that you’re awfully distracted tonight, and you’re not leaving me to deal with the crazy kids alone. I’ll get you some info once we’re done with the Shelter, okay?”
“You’re a terrible person, Sulu. I thought you should know that.”
“Yes, and you’re an obsessed fanboy turning stalker.”
“I’m just a lit geek.”
“That’s what they all say.”
--
Sulu had been involved with the Shelter since his early days in the Force, and it was the only project he refused to leave behind. When he first suggested that Jim join him, Jim had laughed hysterically for half an hour and only stopped when he had started to hiccup.
‘For fuck’s sake, Sulu, I’m just a tramp who got lucky that one time and settled down. I dropped out of school at fourteen and never went back - how do you want me to convince them to do it?’
‘Jim, these kids need someone they can trust. They know me as an okay guy, but I’ll always be a former cop to them.’
‘Don’t you have, like, counselors?’
‘Sure we do. All smart and sympathetic to the gills, but they don’t speak these kids’ language, Jim. You do.’
When Jim finally agreed to go with him, it was mostly to make Sulu shut up and leave him alone. But Jim hadn’t expected to find what he did that first night at the Shelter. A discovery that turned his attitude one hundred eighty degrees.
Those kids were idiots.
They didn’t have the first clue about how to survive on their own, yet didn’t want to be processed by the system. Jim understood about the system, he really did - he’d beat it, after all. But he had never been that helpless.
He found himself talking - snapping, to be exact - before his brain caught up with what his mouth was doing. He’s been talking ever since. Sometimes he feels like he’s on an AA meeting. ‘Hi, I’m Jim Kirk, and this is my life story.’
It seems presumptuous, but sometimes he gets them to listen. The fact that he doesn’t report any of them and occasionally helps them find legal jobs helps.
Tonight, though, there are no new faces, much to Jim’s relief. Sulu gets roped into answering questions about the kid that got arrested the other day. Jim spots Kevin sitting quietly in the corner and grins at him.
“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?”
The boy barely looks at him, but that’s more than most people get from him, and Jim is long used to it, in any case.
“Whatcha doing?” He gets no answer and looks at Kevin’s PADD over his shoulder. “Hey, those look like music notes.”
Kevin rolls his eyes. “Duh.”
“So, you’re back to writing songs then?” Jim prods. “That’s great.”
Understatement of a century. Kevin Riley has seen more foster families in his life than he had birthdays, and his last guardians managed to forget him at a mall. He spent two days wandering and sleeping on benches before security tracked him down. His foster parents hadn’t even noticed his absence. It was a small wonder that he rarely made the effort of communicating with other people, Jim being one of the very few exceptions.
Jim doesn’t know what makes him special. The truth is, while he sympathizes with Kevin’s circumstances, he also can’t help but resent him a little, the irrational part of his brain insisting that he, Jim Kirk, wouldn’t have bowed to this kind of treatment or shut the world out. He would have clenched his fists and he would have fought. Hell, he kind of did.
But he isn’t sixteen anymore. He knows by now that most people aren’t like him, and in all honesty, it’s a relief.
‘You’re the extreme, Jim,’ Bones told him once, after patching him up yet again. ‘You’re the free radical. If everyone was like you, we’d never have made it into the twenty-third century; we’d have self-destructed even before they’d invented the goddamn gunpowder.’
So Jim grins and clasps Kevin’s shoulder. “Looks like you’re almost done with that one. Wanna drop by the bar sometime, try it out?”
Kevin’s head snaps up, eyes hopeful. “Can I really? Will Gaila be there?”
Jim chuckles. “Sure. She’d never miss one of your dates now, would she? Although I have to ask” - Jim peers at the corner of the screen - “who’s Catherine? Seeing as you dedicated a song to her and all?”
Kevin blushes a deep shade of Bordeaux and mutters something rude under his nose. Jim grins. Maybe the kid will be all right, after all.
Sulu picks him up in half an hour. By that point, Jim is almost asleep in an armchair, feigning participation in the conversation with Marlena, the counselor on duty, who’s been trying to reform Jim and his lifestyle since the moment they met. Most of the time, Jim manages to deflect her efforts by either flirting obnoxiously or being deliberately rude. It’s not his most attractive trait, but the woman gets on his nerves.
“Well?” Jim blurts out impatiently the moment he and Sulu are out the door.
Sulu groans. “You’re pathetic. Go home, Jim, I’ll drop you a message. I expect free drinks the next time I’m at yours.”
Jim lifts his eyebrows suggestively. “Depends on how good that message is.”
But Sulu delivers brilliantly. The fact that he made a copy (clearly illegal) of the police database before quitting his job speaks of paranoia to most people. Jim just smirks. Somewhere in an alternate reality, Sulu would have made a formidable security chief or undercover agent. In any universe, though, Jim is grateful to have him on his side.
Spock’s Chicago Tribune profile barely gives any information on him at all, only mentioning that he’s an Oxford graduate and a Chicago resident. Sulu’s file is much more extensive, and Jim digs in happily.
The first thing he finds out is that Spock is only half Vulcan. His mother was human, one Amanda Grayson, wife of the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation. Spock was born in Shi’Kahr, Vulcan, but Chicago is named as his permanent residence for the last eighteen years.
According to a note in the margins, Amanda Grayson had never divorced her husband, but she had also never gone off planet ever since she returned with her son to her family house years ago. Clearly, even Vulcans believed in going separate ways.
At sixteen, Spock was accepted to Oxford and got a full ride. He majored in anthropology and cross-cultural communications, with minors in social studies, history, and linguistics. Standing champion of the university chess club, too.
Jim grins. Spock was clearly bring-the-smart-back-in-smartass kind of guy. Jim had always had a soft spot for those.
It strikes him as odd, however, that Spock graduated almost six months later than his class. He follows Sulu’s loop-link (underlined in red) and discovers that Amanda Grayson died the day before Spock should have started his finals. That’s when Spock’s trouble with the law began.
The police file regarding Amanda Grayson’s death states that it was a simple traffic accident. Apparently, she was one of the unfortunate couple of hundred who still became victims of those every year on the planet. There didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about the record, in Jim’s view.
Evidently, Spock didn’t agree. From the looks of it, he wrecked havoc in Chicago PD for the subsequent three months until they had enough and arrested him.
Jim nods to himself. The guy obviously had his heart in the right place, and even if Jim will never see him again, he’s glad he knows that. It doesn’t quite restore his belief in the universe, but if there are Vulcans out there who act on their emotions, maybe people of Earth will see reason some day.
Quickly, Jim scans through the rest of the file, but it’s sparse and not nearly as interesting. Spock returned to the university, finished his degree, and then literally vanished. All his traces on Earth disappeared, and for the next five years one can only guess what he had been up to. His pieces appear sporadically in different papers across the Federation, but there is no data whatsoever on exactly where he had been at the time. It’s quite an achievement in itself, considering how extensive and thorough the Federation security grid is. More mystery until about four years ago, when Spock returns to Earth, apparently to stay.
Jim shuts down the file and stares at the screen longingly for a moment. He feels like he has just discovered a completely unknown and utterly compelling novel, but a lot of pages are missing and there’s no telling of how it ends.
Just then, the daily update with their earnings pops up on the screen, and Jim sighs. He doesn’t want to leave Chicago. Seven years is the longest he had stayed anywhere since Iowa, and he doesn’t want to go back on the road. He has Gaila now, and even if he didn’t, he’s tired. He has never complained, but some days he just wishes this seemingly eternal fight would give him a break.
It’s one of those nights when Jim wishes Gary would still slip him a pill of one thing or other every now and then, like he used to years back, just so Jim could sleep without dreams.
--
Three weeks later, Jim’s mood is considerably less gloomy.
Gaila’s lessons raised enough money to pay for the flyers and to end the month with a positive balance. It wasn’t much, but it kept them alive, and Jim was too starved for any good news to look the gift horse in the mouth. Jim also managed to get good discounts from their usual suppliers, even though he nearly ended up with severe alcoholic poisoning after his negotiations with Scotty.
Gary’s promotion brought in enough new people to keep things looking optimistic, and Jim had even been forced to call all hands on deck several times this week because he and Gaila were simply overwhelmed. Pablo and Terry came willingly, and Christine cursed them profusely - it looked like she was picking up all the wrong things from McCoy - but Jim figured the tips more than made up for the inconvenience.
It’s Friday night. They seem to have two thirds of the bar full already, and it’s still relatively early. Pablo and Terry are waiting the tables expertly while Gaila holds down the fort at the bar.
Jim is just coming back from the storeroom with a fresh box of limes when the door opens again, and Spock walks in.
Jim freezes in place as his heart stupidly decides to make a somersault or a dozen. He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he can’t help it. He can’t believe Spock is back, having all but given up hope of ever seeing him again.
Box still in his hands, Jim takes an unconscious step forward when Spock steps aside from the doorway and turns to guide someone else in.
The ‘someone’ the most stunning woman Jim has ever seen in his life, and he’s counting Gaila. She’s tall and slim like a ballerina, miles of smooth dark skin and lean muscle. Her eyes are huge and almond-shaped, lips invitations and interdictions both, and her hair is the definition of luxury.
She’s drop dead gorgeous and she’s smiling at Spock, who leans closer to hear her words.
Jim turns around mechanically and finally manages to deposit the limes under the bar. Gaila shoots him a concerned look in between taking orders and flirting with customers. Jim shakes his head at her: I’m fine.
He pours someone a beer while watching surreptitiously as Spock and his beautiful companion settle at a table in the middle. The woman is taking in her surroundings curiously, while Spock turns toward the bar and finds Jim’s eyes within a second.
Jim curses under his breath, barely releasing the tap in time to not spill the beer.
It’s just so damn unfair, he thinks bitterly, but he’s walking toward the table already, a polite smile of welcome on his face. Once upon a time he’d made it a habit to personally greet new customers, and there’s no legitimate reason to back down now.
Spock hasn’t looked away from him once, and Jim tenses up more and more with every step he takes. The gorgeous girl is looking at Jim now, too, and her gaze is frankly appraising. Anything to make it better.
“Good evening,” Jim says cheerily, the image of professionalism, as he lays down the menus. “Welcome to Bad Company. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”
His words are followed by an awkward silence. Spock is staring at the menu like it’s going to spring to life and bite him, and his companion is staring at him, impatience clear in her expression. In a moment, Spock winces, and Jim has the strongest suspicion that he has just been kicked under the table. He looks up at Jim, cheeks mildly flushed.
“Jim,” Spock says, and Jesus, his voice is even deeper than Jim remembers. “You may not remember me, but I - I stopped by several weeks ago. I am-”
“Spock,” Jim supplies, grinning. “You write feature articles for the Chicago Tribune. You liked my mulled wine.”
Spock blinks. “Yes.” His eyes narrow. “Do you remember every customer?”
“Nah.” Jim’s grin widens. “Only those with monstrous purple umbrellas that they don’t know how to use.”
The woman laughs at that, and Jim mentally kicks himself. Flirting with a taken man in front of his girlfriend is way too stupid even for him.
“I see,” Spock says, throwing a dark look at his companion. “Nyota, this is Jim Kirk.” Spock’s lips curve slightly. “He ‘owns this place.’ Jim, this is Nyota Uhura, my editor.”
“Your editor?” Jim blurts out before he can stop himself. “You mean she’s not - oh, I’m sorry!” He grabs Uhura’s hand hurriedly and they shake. “It’s a - pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she replies, smiling broadly, like a puma after a successful hunt. Jim has a horrible feeling that she can read his mind. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” Jim blinks.
“Oh, yes. You seem to have very, uh, talented hands.” She smirks.
“Please ignore her,” Spock interjects, sending her a glare, before looking back at Jim. “Your menu seems to have a - ‘surprise’ option?”
“Yeah.” Jim grins. “If you trust your bartender, he or she will mix a drink of their own choice for you.” He winks at Uhura. “We’re never wrong.”
“Is that so?” she drawls lazily. “All right; I’ll risk it. What about you, Spock? Your taste is so... unpredictable.”
Spock’s eyes are still on Jim, expression intense. “I trust Jim,” he says.
Jim clears his throat. “Right, then. Um. Guess you won’t be needing those.” He picks the menus off the table. “If you don’t like your drinks, they’re on the house.”
Uhura nods approvingly. “Nice.”
Spock merely continues to stare. Jim smiles at him, hoping it’s still impersonal, and finally makes himself walk away.
“Oh my God, are you drunk?” Gaila hisses at him when he’s level with her. “Your eyes are kinda crazy.”
Jim grabs her arm and pulls her aside. “This is Spock,” he whispers, ignoring the way Gaila’s lips form a perfect O at the news. “I need to make ‘surprise’ drinks for him and his probably-not girlfriend.”
“Okay, just calm down. Jesus.” She squeezes his shoulder. “You’re a professional, Jimmy. You can read anyone. Don’t panic and you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” He breathes. “I gotta-”
“Go.” She nods. “Good luck.”
Jim’s hands absolutely don’t shake when he puts together the ingredients, because Gaila is right, he is a professional. No matter how badly he’s crushing on his customer.
Which would be pretty badly, yes.
He thinks about Nyota Uhura, editor and goddess. Confident, assertive, and - a little wary. She’s probably one of those people who don’t really eat so much as feed on the food’s aroma. She did order a drink, though, which means her iron discipline allows for little indulgencies. Something too sweet will be rejected, but something tender with a bit of an intrigue will probably hit the bull’s eye.
Jim snatches a champagne glass and dips it in sugar. He pours a shot of Andorian plum wine, the thick sapphire liquid coiling at the bottom, and then tops it with some extra brut champagne he keeps for those who actually do have some measure of sense when ordering champagne. A slice of plum on top finishes the composition.
Done with Uhura, Jim thinks of Spock and wants to groan. Despite his exercises in stalking, Jim still knows next to nothing about the man. He glances back to where Spock and Uhura are sitting, allowing himself to watch for a moment.
Spock seems calm and collected as they converse quietly, tilting his head to his side slightly when Uhura says something he finds curious. He picked a seat so that he would be the one facing the door, and his eyes sweep over the entrance from time to time, as if checking that no trouble comes in. He’s wearing a dark blue jacket over blue jeans tonight and a beige button down shirt, open at the collar.
All cold with a touch of warmth, Jim thinks. He suddenly wants nothing more than to keep Spock permanently warm.
He picks a self-assured, old-fashioned glass and pours equal measures of Grand Marnier and Bailey’s, sprinkling the mix with dark chocolate.
Before he has the time to question his choices, Jim grabs a tray and heads for Spock’s table, trying to convince himself that this isn’t some kind of test.
“One Kir Andorian for the lady.” Jim smiles and sets the glass in front of Uhura. “And one Caress for the gentleman.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow at the name, and Jim blushes. He forgot he’d have to actually say that. Uhura giggles and throws him an amused look. Jim smirks at her and winks, because he’s pretty certain that she had him figured in two seconds flat anyway.
“Damn, this is good,” Uhura says, after taking a sip. “It’s like - I’m not sure, but it’s like...” She trails off and shakes her head, acknowledging defeat gracefully. “Good job.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Jim gives her a mock bow, pleased at being proved right yet again. He has nothing to do now but to look at Spock, who is nursing his drink cautiously.
“It is - intriguing,” Spock says no sooner than Jim is ready to burst.
“Intriguing,” Jim repeats, not really knowing what to make of that.
Uhura laughs. “That’ll be Spock for ‘I can’t quite find the words to tell you how awesome this is.’ Anyway, if you don’t want it, I’ll drink it. I love Caresses, though I haven’t had one in years.”
Spock pulls his glass closer to himself. “You have your own drink.”
Uhura beams at Jim. “He likes it all right.”
“I would not be averse to another ‘surprise’ for the next round, though,” Spock says. “The taste is very pleasurable, but I do not believe it truly reflects my character.”
Jim shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “You’re one spoiled brat, you know that?” Spock blinks at him. Uhura snickers. “I’ll see what I can do. Enjoy your drinks.”
He makes himself walk away, already working on the game plan in his head, because Spock is not walking out of here tonight without being positively smitten with something. Not on Jim’s watch.
Three hours - and a considerable amount of fancy cocktails - later, Jim suddenly realizes that he’s only working for Spock and Uhura now, because the bar it nearly empty. Jim feels tired, but it’s a pleasant weight. Evenings like this are keeping them in business.
Uhura is looking a little tipsy when Jim takes his latest creations to their table.
“That’ll be the last round,” she says. “I have no idea how I’m going to show my face in the office tomorrow as it is.”
“With the usual amount of glamour and aplomb, one would assume,” Spock suggests dryly.
Uhura’s eyes narrow, and Jim thinks that Spock has a lot of nerve teasing her like that. He feels a little jealous because of this, and because she can translate Spock to English, and because Jim doesn’t have any more reasons to stand here now that he’s delivered their drinks.
It’s the exact moment when Gaila appears at his side and sets a tall glass of Long Island on the table.
“What’s this?” Jim frowns.
“Your drink, silly, so that you can finally sit down and chat with your friends like a normal person.” She makes a face at him, before beaming brightly at Spock and Uhura. “Hi, I’m Gaila. This misunderstanding here is my boss.”
Spock rises to his feet to greet her, and Jim stares. Whoever raised Spock did one hell of a job.
“I like your earrings,” Gaila tells Uhura almost shyly.
“Really?” Uhura smiles. “I bought them on a whim; they were just asking for it, you know?” Gaila nods happily. “But they’re too heavy for me. I told myself I should at least wear them once before - hey, they’ll look great on you!”
“Oh, I couldn’t-” Gaila sputters.
“Tough, let’s find a mirror and see how that works, huh?” Uhura is on her feet already. “Come on, you’ll look great, you’ll see.”
Jim watches as the two of them head off, presumably toward a bathroom, and shakes his head with a disbelieving grin.
“They’ll come back as BFFs, mark my words,” he tells Spock, dropping into a chair.
“Indeed. I have never understood the female capacity to bond spontaneously over-”
“Earrings,” Jim supplies, chuckling. “How’s your Andorian Summer?”
“Acceptable.” Spock stares at Jim’s ice tea. “May I try that?”
Jim laughs, his head lolling back slightly. He can’t remember the last time he had felt so good.
“You’re so, so spoiled,” he says, but swaps their glasses all the same. “At least you write well.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “You read my work? Which piece?”
“Um…” Jim blinks, a traitorous blush creeping onto his cheeks. “All of them?” he admits sheepishly. “I, uh, I sort of had some time, and you, you know. You write really well.”
Spock is staring at him now, and Jim is in so much trouble.
“I like to read,” he says hastily, which is of course the way to make it better.
Spock’s eyebrow crawls higher. “I believe you said you were not the ‘reading kind’?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“I suspected you might have been insincere.”
“You did?”
“Your eyes do not hide your intelligence well, Jim.”
“Oh.” Jim has no idea what to say to that, so he does what he always does when he panics - pulls on a saucy smirk and goes for something obnoxious. “Well, sorry I can’t say the same about you. I mean, the rest of you looks smart enough, but your eyes pretty much just spell ‘bedroom’ - you know what I mean?”
Jim braves a glance at Spock, and regrets it instantly. Spock seems taken aback for a moment, but then he simply looks amused.
“Your deflection technique,” he says, “leaves much to be desired.”
Before Jim can come up with anything to counter that, Spock goes on. “You, apparently, cannot take a compliment. Would it help if I told you that I am not in the habit of paying them? I merely stated a fact.”
“Oh really?” Jim smirks. “Well, guess what, genius, so did I.”
Spock’s answer, whatever it might have been, never comes, because two things happen at the same moment.
Uhura and Gaila emerge from the bathroom, giggling and chattering away like a pair of pre-teen girls, while the entrance door opens, letting in a pair of tall, bulky men in grey uniform.
Gaila’s laughter dies out abruptly, like a put out candle, and she freezes in place, a look of uncontrolled fear on her face. The men move in determinedly, barely sparing a glance around.
Jim is on his feet before he knows it, blocking the way. “Can I help you?”
The visitors focus on him instead.
“You Kirk?” The taller man flashes a badge in Jim’s face. “This is a drugs bust.”
Furious as he is, Jim manages to steel himself. “I’d like to see a warrant.”
“Believe me, son, you wouldn’t,” the officer tells him condescendingly, watching as his colleague flashes a scanner around. “We’re just checking out a rumor. As long as everyone on your staff has a legal ID and a working permit, no one needs to worry their pretty heads about us. Provided your facility is clean and no one has anything in their pockets they shouldn’t have.”
Seething, Jim nods at Pablo and Gaila, while reaching for his own papers. Gaila sends him a look that screams fear, but Jim just jerks his chin and presses his lips together tightly. He knows they both know where this is headed, but they don’t have any other choice but to play along.
His suspicions are confirmed when the policemen barely look at his and Pablo’s papers, but spend a great deal of time staring at Gaila’s.
“You’ll have to come with us, Miss,” the younger of the officers tells her with a smirk.
Gaila bites her lip and steps unconsciously closer to Jim. He squares his shoulders.
“On what grounds?” Jim demands angrily. “Her papers are fine, I hired her.”
“We need to run a more in-depth check.”
“What for? If you want to detain her, you’ll have to charge her with something, and I don’t see how you can, seeing as she hasn’t done anything illegal.”
“We’re not detaining her, Mr. Kirk. This is a routine check, and your employee is a random subject.”
“Random, my ass!” Jim spits. “You have no reason to suspect her of anything, and yet here you are. Did Finney put you up to this? Because this wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Mr. Kirk, you are derailing the police. As I have explained, this is merely a random-”
“-case of racial discrimination exercised by the authorities.”
Jim and both cops turn in unison to stare at Spock, who is on his feet now, too.
The tall officer confronts Spock bluntly. “Who the hell are you?”
Instead of deigning him with a verbal response, Spock pulls out a business card and hands it over, making sure not to come close to touching the man.
“You’re a journalist?” They stare at him in disbelief.
“Indeed, and I would be very interested to know your motivation for picking this young woman as your ‘random’ target,” Spock says and looks at the officers expectantly, a notepad and a stylus at the ready. “I will need to know if your actions are products of your own xenophobic tendencies and unchecked bigotry issues, or if the federal police endorses racial profiling now. Would you care to state your names?”
“Listen, mister-”
“Oh, go ahead,” Uhura encourages, flanking Spock and looking belligerent. “As a Tribune editor, I can assure you that you gentlemen are one call away from making the morning edition’s front page.”
They gape at her, mouths hanging open comically, as she pulls out her comm.
“Are you ready for your fifteen minutes in the spotlight?” Uhura smirks nastily. “More importantly, does your mother know you’re doing this?”
The younger officer looks incensed at this and starts forward, but his partner catches him by the elbow. He glares at Uhura; glares at Spock, who lifts an eyebrow in return; glares at Jim, and doesn’t even look at Gaila.
“We won’t need to run this check after all,” he grits out, shoving her ID into Jim’s hands none too gently. “Our mistake.” He gives his colleague a scathing glance. “All clear, let’s go.”
“Fuckers,” Jim spits, watching the door close behind them.
To his left, Gaila gasps and claps her hand over her mouth desperately, shaking all over. Jim and Uhura rush to her side.
“Hey, hey, baby, it’s okay, it’s fine,” Jim murmurs reassuringly, running a hand awkwardly down Gaila’s back. “They’re gone, they won’t bother you again, I won’t let them. Oh, come on, don’t cry. They’re not worth it.”
“I know,” she stammers, her lips trembling, and tears streaming down her face. She’s shaking like a leaf. “I know, Jim-my, I just can’t help it.”
Jim can’t stand this expression of terrified helplessness on her face. He wants to smash something. He takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm for Gaila’s sake.
“Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes and I’ll make you some herbal tea, huh? What do you say?” She nods at him gratefully. “That’s my girl.”
“Come on, sugar, sit down,” Uhura soothes, her arm snaking around Gaila’s waist as she half-hugs, half-tugs her to a chair.
Jim watches for a moment, before snapping out of it. Unclenching his fists with an effort, he retreats to the bar to make tea.
Spock follows him, sliding into one of the barstools. He doesn’t say anything, but Jim knows he deserves an explanation.
“Thanks for what you did,” Jim says quietly, without lifting his eyes from his work. “Her ID can pass a routine scan, but if they ran a real check, they’d know it’s a fake.”
There is a short pause, and then Spock says, “I assumed as much.”
“You did?” Jim looks up at him. “Damn. Not much skips past you, does it?”
“No, Jim. Not much.”
Again, Spock doesn’t ask further questions, and Jim can’t help but like that about the guy, even if he’s also, for some reason, frustrated with it.
“Her owner brought her here when she was thirteen,” Jim says, pouring boiling water into a tall ceramic cup. “Slavery is forbidden in the Federation, but that bastard had ‘adopted’ her, which pretty much gave him an excuse to do whatever the hell he wanted.”
“Prostitution?” Spock asks softly.
Jim nods tightly. “She wasn’t like the others, though. Never learned proper ‘obedience.’ So that fucker beat her and starved her, not to mention...”
He glances over to where Gaila is sitting, her head lying on Uhura’s shoulder. Uhura’s arms are around her, and they seem to be talking quietly.
“Anyway, she ran away. Don’t know how; she doesn’t talk about it. They searched for her everywhere, because he was some hotshot and Starfleet wanted his dilithium or something.” Jim adds a shot of brandy into the cup and covers it to brew. “She was living on the streets when I met her. Scared to death of anyone in uniform. I was sort of a rover back then, and we just stuck together, I guess.”
“You procured a fake identification for her.”
“Yeah. We needed to get by somehow. I mean, she’s smart as hell, but she didn’t know anything. Had to find a school, had to stay somewhere.” Jim shrugs. “It was easier to tell people she was my foster sister when she had some kind of ID.”
Spock nods pensively. Jim smiles at him. “Bet you didn’t think I was such a shady character when you decided to drop by again, did you?”
It’s the closest he can come up with instead of saying, ‘I’ll never see you again, will I?’
Spock stares at him, and Jim suddenly feels naked under his gaze.
“Who is Finney?” Spock asks.
Jim blinks at the abrupt switch. “He owns the Peel Off.” At Spock’s confused look, Jim grimaces and explains, “It’s a strip bar at the corner of East Huron and North Michigan. Finney’s been pissed at us ever since Gaila turned him down when he tried to hire her. He knows she’s pretty much what’s keeping us alive and he doesn’t like competition. It’s not the first time he’s played dirty.”
Spock frowns slightly. “Why do you consider Gaila to be the only attraction to your establishment?”
Jim shrugs. “She’s what makes us different.”
Spock’s eyes lock with his. “And you are the one who makes it possible. You underestimate yourself.”
“I’m not, I...” Jim trails off. He looks away, and clears his throat. “I need to bring Gaila her tea.”
He picks up the cup and walks over to where Gaila is sitting, without sparing a glance at Spock.
She seems better - smiling timidly at him, though still shaken by the encounter. Jim gets a grateful nod for the tea, and watches as Gaila cradles the cup in her hands, inhaling deeply.
“Just the way I like it,” she mutters.
Jim grins at her. “You mean you doubted me? I’m wounded, madam.”
She takes a sip and sighs. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
Jim throws an arm around her shoulders and tugs her close. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”
Uhura takes this as her cue to go, nodding at Jim as she rises. Jim can hear her say something to Spock quietly, but he doesn’t look up as they leave.
Part 2/5 >>
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