Papers in the Roadside 2/5
Part 1/5 <<
--
Despite Spock’s generally cool reaction, Jim doesn’t actually expect him to show up again any time soon. He knows Spock’s type - a good boy with a bit of a romantic streak to him, whose sense of adventure is exercised in small measures and some tightly controlled conditions, and whose list of emergency contacts is a mile long.
Jim doesn’t have anything against those kinds of guys, per se; he just knows that they’re off limits. He can’t even just have sex with them, because lately, ‘just sex’ hasn’t cut it for him. Gary teases him for being a big girl, and Bones warns him not to ask for a cure for blue balls, but Jim doesn’t really care.
He doesn’t feel like indulging the curious good kids, for whom the very association with him is an adventure in itself. He tried at the beginning, intrigued by the fact that they would consider him. But their inevitable pity - good kids - was suffocating, and Jim felt so very low being subjected to it that he made a point of never going past business-related flirting with them. When he was in dire need of a one-night stand, he learned to look elsewhere - Gary’s wild parties came in all too handy for that.
When he receives a message from Spock the day after the bust fiasco, Jim freezes in shock for a moment. Spock has used his private comm line, too, and Jim has no idea how he got the frequency. He tells himself that it’s stupid to be happy about the fact that he and Spock apparently share stalker tendencies.
The message itself is short and laconic. Spock is asking for a recent holo of Gaila. He offers no explanation about why he needs it, only adding a cryptic warning that Jim shouldn’t alert Gaila to this ‘in case it does not work.’
Jim frowns. He hates being in the dark, and Gaila is family. But he hasn’t forgotten how readily Spock jumped to her defense, and Uhura has called Gaila twice already this morning.
Jim knows he can trust them; his life, by now, has sharpened his instincts when it comes to people. He doesn’t know Spock all that well; he’d only seen him twice, his weird crush aside, but he knows - can feel it unmistakably, deep down in his gut - that Spock can be trusted.
Besides, Gaila has spent the night in Jim’s bed, curled in a ball under two blankets, shivering and waking every half hour from yet another nightmare. Jim knows it will pass, but he also knows that they can’t keep this up for much longer. He’s reached the point when he’s willing to risk trusting someone outside the small circle he calls family.
He sends the holo and doesn’t tell Gaila a thing.
It turns out to be a good decision, because Spock falls silent after that. There are no more messages or calls from him that day, nor the next day. By day three, Jim has decided to give it up and stop waiting, because obviously whatever Spock had in mind didn’t work. Jim feels like an ass, because he’s disappointed on two accounts - that there is no progress with Gaila’s situation and that he doesn’t get to talk to Spock again.
Apparently, though, Jim is living through a freak phase of his life when his pessimism is just begging to be disproved.
Spock shows up late on Wednesday when Jim is about to call the last round. He steps through the doorway and nods at Jim. There’s something different about him that Jim can’t immediately lay his finger on - but then he gets it.
Spock looks tired. He’s paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes - not drastic, but noticeable. Jim can’t help a frown.
Spock goes straight to where Gaila’s sitting on a barstool, finalizing the day’s bills. She looks up at him, a confused smile tugging at her lips, when Spock silently hands her a small box.
Gaila shoots a worried glance at Jim before opening it, and then her eyes go round and her mouth opens in shock.
“Gaila, what is it?” Jim demands, losing what little patience he had. “What’s in there?”
“My new ID,” she whispers in awe. She looks up at him, and her eyes are huge. “I’m a… Vulcan citizen, now.”
“What?” Jim blurts out, turning to Spock, who is studying the polished surface of the bar rather than looking at either of them.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Normally, the procedure of acquiring a citizenship would have taken longer, but, due to the mitigating circumstances, the Council... did, eventually, come to see my point. It was possible to expedite the-”
“But-” Jim still can’t wrap his mind around it. “Vulcan citizenship is the toughest one to get. She’d need a sponsor, and a supervisor, and-”
Spock lifts his eyes at Jim for a moment, a subtle blush spreading on his cheeks.
“Oh my God.”
Spock looks away hastily, but it has been enough time for Gaila to come out of her stupor and connect the dots. Jim knows this, because in a split second he’s laughing his ass off, watching as Gaila tries to hug Spock to death while Spock stands rigid with shock and sends Jim panicked glances over Gaila’s bushy red hair.
Jim kind of wants to hug Spock, too, because Vulcan citizenship is awesome. Theoretically, all Federation planets are equal in rights, but no one messes with the Vulcans. No one. The citizenships that they extend are so far and few in between that Spock had to have pulled some serious strings to arrange this, and - as Jim realizes now - in record time.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gaila is kissing Spock’s cheeks without any noticeable intent to stop. Spock looks positively flustered by now, and, despite the fact that the sight is hilarious, Jim tugs Gaila back gently.
“Gaila, let him breathe, you’re going to strangle him.”
“I am - more resilient - than I look,” Spock manages, and Jim has to give him points for guts, because Spock doesn’t sway once Gaila finally releases him.
“Thank you,” she chirps again.
“You are welcome, but it was nothing,” Spock says.
“No, man, it wasn’t,” Jim interjects, clapping Spock on the shoulder and allowing his hand to linger. “I owe you one.”
“No,” Spock says with his usual confidence. “You do not - either of you. I did it because I could and because it was the right thing to do.”
Judging by the look on Gaila’s face, she’s about to inflict another round of her very tactile argument method on poor, unsuspecting Spock, and Jim decides to show some mercy. Gaila is right, they both owe Spock big, but Jim will deal with it himself.
He shakes his head. If this is how Spock makes friends, Jim would love to see him making enemies.
“Let’s celebrate!” Jim grins. “Let me just close those last tabs, and then we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“Oh-” Gaila stops short. “I can’t stay.” She looks from Spock to Jim apologetically. “I didn’t know, and Nyota - she invited me for a sleepover.”
“I am aware,” Spock says. “She hasn’t joined me here now for this reason. I believe she is preparing a celebration of her own.”
“Really.” Jim smirks. “Should I be worried? Do I have to send a cab to pick you up in the morning?”
“As an editor, Nyota commandeers one of the Tribune’s vehicles,” Spock tells him. “I am certain that it is covered.”
“Okay then.” Jim laughs and winks at Gaila. “Enjoy your party.”
“Thanks, Jimmy!” Beaming, Gaila grabs his face and kisses him soundly on the lips. She whirls on Spock then, who looks mortified, making Jim laugh again, but Gaila only gives him another hug, mouthing ‘Thank you,’ before strolling off, the new ID card clutched tightly in her hand.
“Well,” Jim drawls, grinning. “How about you? Feel like sticking around for a bit?”
Spock looks uncertain, and Jim nudges his shoulder lightly with his own. “Come on. There’s a pizza place three blocks from here that is simply to die for. Let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble. You look like shit.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow, affronted. “Very well.”
Jim beams. “Awesome.”
He leaves the wrapping up to Pablo and herds Spock outside, silencing the shrill voice of panic wrecking through his mind that demands to know what the fuck Jim thinks he’s doing. Common sense has never been Jim’s strong suit, and anyway, maybe this time it’ll be different.
Maybe this time.
--
Jenny’s pizza has always been to die for, but tonight it’s even better, cruelly delicious on Jim’s tongue. The slices are hot and sinfully greasy, soaked with thick tomato sauce, browned crust walls barely able to keep the toppings inside. Everything tastes better; the lights seem brighter; Jenny’s laughter louder when she pets Jim’s hair; and the air infinitesimally sweeter.
Spock keeps throwing amused glances at Jim but doesn’t comment, just looking quietly pleased with himself. Jim grins at him, safe in the knowledge that Spock attributes his good mood to gratitude.
Ironically, their conversation is surprisingly normal for two people trying to get to know one another. They discuss favorite cuisines and the origins of various dishes. Jim admits to loving Italian, while Spock declares it too garish. He says he prefers French, which makes Jim immediately call him a snob and point out that French cuisine is all about meat and wine. Somehow, from there, it strays toward the odd philosophies behind Earth-style vegetarianism and inexplicably ends with Jim quoting old Andorian chronicles while trying to make a point that Vulcans didn’t, in fact, invent ‘rational consumption.’
Spock keeps throwing progressively weirder looks at Jim throughout the meal, but it’s not until later, when they’re walking slowly through the even, predictable grid of the night streets and sacrificing brighter lights for less commotion, that Spock finally gives voice to his question.
“Jim, where did you study?”
Jim blinks, his hands still spread widely from where he’s been explaining why Napoleon should have used elephants like Hannibal did and why it would have been totally awesome, though animal rights defenders might disagree.
“Um.” Jim pauses, caught off guard. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t, really. I mean, there was high school, obviously. But I, um...” He swallows, glancing away. “I never actually finished it. Dropped out way too early.”
For a moment, Spock doesn’t say anything, just peers at him through the tangerine tinted street lamplight. Jim shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders drooping.
“Look,” he says grudgingly. “I really don’t want to talk about it. I know I’m probably one of the least educated people you know-”
“And yet you’re better versed in Tellarite politics than some of our senators,” Spock says softly.
“I just hear things, like everyone else. It’s not like I’m-”
“You believe that Guernica is highly overrated.”
“Hey, I never said I was an art expert.”
“Jim. Most people in this day and age wouldn’t know what Guernica is.”
“Oh.” Jim shifts from one foot to the other. “I, um. I just read a lot, I guess.”
A small smile creeps up on Spock’s face. “You truly are a remarkable individual.”
Heat rises in Jim’s face, and he knows he’s blushing. But the compliment isn’t deserved, he knows it isn’t, and suddenly Jim is angry at Spock for not being able to see it.
“I’m nothing special,” he mutters gruffly, resuming their walk at a brisker pace.
“Jim, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was merely impressed-”
“With what?” Jim stops abruptly, whirling toward Spock. “You think I’m smart because I read a lot of stuff and remember most of it? It’s all smoke and mirrors, Spock; a clever guy like you should be able to see through that. If I really were that smart, if I really were ‘remarkable,’ do you think I’d be struggling to keep my laughingstock of a business afloat? Do you think I’d be up all night - night after night - asking myself where the hell I’m going to get the money to pay the damn bills? To pay the people who work for me, because no one else will hire them and who’d be back on the street if I let them go?”
“Jim-”
“Do you think I’d be forced to let some stranger help Gaila if I were anything more than a total failure?” Jim closes his eyes and draws in a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the sharp, edgy feeling that has been growing in his chest ever since Spock came to the bar tonight. “It should have been me to help her,” Jim says resolutely, in the end. “She’s my responsibility, and I should have been able to keep her safe. But I couldn’t.” He glances up at Spock. “You did.”
Spock holds his eyes calmly, but his expression is more closed off now, guarded. Finally, he clears his throat.
“I apologize if I overstepped my boundaries,” he says quietly.
“Spock.” Jim sighs. “Look, I-”
“It is true” - Spock talks over him - “that I am a stranger and that I acted out of sympathy to what you told me about Gaila. I’m not such a poor judge of character to believe that you would welcome pity.”
Jim gives a weak shrug and says nothing. Well, duh.
“Pity wasn’t my motivation,” Spock insists. “I enjoy a life of privilege, yes, but Jim - that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t be in your position if the circumstances were different. I only don’t know if I’d be able to bear it with as much poise as you do.” He pauses. “Or if I would be strong enough to accept assistance as graciously as you do.”
“Gracious,” Jim repeats and snorts, despite himself, the fight draining out of him. “Yeah, that’s me. The gracious one. Ever heard that beggars can’t be choosers?”
“Indeed,” Spock says smoothly, and they fall in step again, resuming their walk.
The air is damp and fragrant, chilly, oozing from the nearest water collector. Jim glances sideways at Spock, who’s wearing a long, thick scarf, of all things, that somehow manages to defeat the persistent wind and stay put. The spell doesn’t spread up to his hair, though, and Jim smothers a grin. If Saint Exupéry’s Little Prince ever grew up, he’d probably look just like Spock right now, gazing melancholically into the face of the sleeping Lake Michigan.
“I was ten when I first came to live on Earth with my mother.” Spock’s expression is pensive, a little distant. “She had an elderly father to care for, a large, aging house that was literally falling to pieces, and a son to raise - one, I might add, with such specific dietary requirements that simply keeping him fed cost a small fortune.”
Jim nods, peering at the suddenly tense line of Spock’s shoulders.
“She was a school teacher, Jim. That particular expression was one of the first human idioms that I’ve learned.”
“What about your father?”
Spock stiffens even more, and Jim half-expects to be told to back off, but Spock merely says, “He offered to support me, but my mother had reasons to decline.”
Jim doesn’t push. He almost regrets having asked in the first place - they don’t really know each other so well to be trading such personal things. But at the same time, Jim feels selfishly grateful for the reminder that Spock hasn’t always been the rising star of modern journalism without a care in the world.
Human nature, Jim thinks, is really ugly sometimes.
By unspoken agreement, they drift back to safer topics. Jim brushes his shoulder against Spock’s companionably from time to time and grins when Spock gently nudges him back. Jim is starting to feel the stirrings of latent self-consciousness, feeling as though he has revealed too much too soon. But from the somewhat shy looks Spock gives him when he thinks Jim isn’t looking, he might not be the only one, and that’s incredibly reassuring to know.
Besides, it’s not a date, Jim reminds himself firmly. If he doesn’t screw up again, he might yet come out of this with a new friend.
Spock, as it turns out, doesn’t have a car, and Jim walks him to the corner of North McClurg Court and East Grand Avenue, where a multilevel cab is sizzling bewitchingly in yellow and white.
“So,” Jim drawls as Spock flags down a vehicle. “Will I be seeing you again, or have I managed to scare you off good?”
Spock actually smiles at him, the same teasing glint in his eye as when he commented on Jim’s cocktail recipes.
“You flatter yourself. I am not intimidated by well-read bar owners.”
Jim huffs out a laugh, dipping his head and glancing up at Spock through his lashes. “Well. Maybe by the next time you pay us a visit, I’ll finally get your favorite drink right.”
“I’m looking forward to that.” Spock’s lips quirk. “Good night, Jim.”
“Night.”
Jim grins stupidly all the way back to his apartment, through the shower, and for quite some time after he falls asleep.
--
Jim stumbles down into the bar later than usual the next morning and finds Bones already perched up on a stool, glaring into his coffee. They’re still closed, of course, but friends have privileges, and today is the day of the week when Bones stops by after his godawful 24-hour shift at the hospital that usually leaves him wrecked and so tired that he can’t even sleep.
Jim beams at him, and Bones scowls.
“Aren’t you perky today,” he grumbles as Jim pours him more coffee. “Who is she?”
“Who’s who?”
“You only ever look this chirpy when you got some, so spill, Jim. Who’s the unlucky lady?”
Jim grins at him. “You know, deep down inside, you really love me, Bones.”
“Yes, it’s a very deep-rooted emotion,” Bones drawls acidly. “So deep down you’d need an excavator.” He swallows a gulp of still steaming liquid, chokes, and swears.
Jim laughs, though not unkindly, and pats his back. McCoy swats his hand away in annoyance.
“You aren’t gonna tell me, are you? Wow, Jim Kirk learning not to kiss and tell. That’ll be a first.”
Jim sighs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to tell, Bones. There’s no lady, and I certainly didn’t get any last night.” He frowns defiantly at McCoy’s disbelieving stare. “What? I can’t be in a good mood every once in a while?”
“Not in my experience.” Bones takes a more measured sip of his drink, eyes still on Jim. “Something did happen, though. You’re glowing.”
Jim grins, not really able to hold back, and tells him about Gaila. Which consequently leads to telling Bones about Spock, but Jim tries to omit the most discreditable details - like a particularly steamy fantasy he indulged in while showering this morning, or the fact that he’s always had a thing for brown eyes.
“So let me get this straight,” Bones says, frowning. “Some random guy shows up on your doorstep offering to solve your problem and wants nothing in return? That’s it?”
“In a nutshell.” Jim crosses his arms over his chest. “What? Good things do happen.”
“Since when?”
“That’s a very cynical view of the world, Bones, you know that?”
“A realistic one. Does he have the hots for Gaila? ‘Cause I can buy it, if it was just him trying to win her over.”
“He’s not-” Jim frowns. He hasn’t thought about that. Spock did jump to Gaila’s defense within ten minutes of meeting her. And while procuring a Vulcan citizenship might be a hell of a long way to go to impress a girl, Gaila is no ordinary girl. It’s possible that Spock simply doesn’t know what overkill is.
“I don’t know.” Jim shrugs. “Maybe.”
Bones pins him down with a piercing look and suddenly smirks. “Oh my God - well, I don’t believe it. You have the hots for him.”
“Bones!” Jim blushes, glaring at his friend. “Do you have to poke and prod even off-duty? I don’t know what this is, okay? I don’t need you and your twelve kinds of torture when I don’t even know if he’s available, never mind interested. Can’t you act like a human being with a heart for once? Pretend if you have to, you’re a doctor, for fuck’s sake!”
“Whoa, Jim, cool down, will you?” McCoy raises his hands, watching Jim warily. “I’ll back off; stop yelling.”
“Sorry.” Jim runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Bones, I just-”
“Jumped the gun?” McCoy nods. “Just a bit, kid.”
“Sorry,” Jim says again. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
McCoy lifts up a finger. “We are not discussing your fantasy life.”
Jim snorts. “Your loss; could’ve learned a few things.” He stirs his coffee pensively, watching the dark liquid swirl in fancy circles. Jim bites his lip. “I just - I really like him. You know?”
McCoy sighs and shakes his head, giving Jim a tired, but sympathetic smile and proceeds to tell him all about a couple of idiots submitted to his emergency room last night with gunshot wounds, of all things.
Jim listens as he checks if the automatic cleaners missed anything. This is why he and Bones are friends. Bones can be an enormous pain in the ass, but this, right here, is why Jim loves the man.
A little absently, Jim wonders why it has never occurred to him to fall for Bones. Sure, he drinks a lot, like most ER doctors, and he’s suffered through a nasty divorce, after which he’s had tremendous trust issues, and of course he’s cynical and sarcastic and completely anti-social most of the time, which should really be read as rude - but he’s a good man. Bones would whine incessantly about his job, but when he’d be offered a position somewhere warm and cozy - which happens regularly, because Bones is just that good - he’d inevitably turn them down in favor of staying at the least comfortable, most underprivileged city clinic on the continent, with its everyday insanity and indifference and self-destructive vibes.
Jim pours Bones more coffee and grins at him for no reason at all and asks about his daughter, who Bones so rarely gets to see. Bones swears that Jo is a menace and will be a space pirate when she grows up, but he loves her, and so does Jim. (Besides, Jim kind of understands about the space pirates.)
Spock doesn’t show up that day or the next, and Jim tells himself that he isn’t disappointed. Gaila dances around the bar, positively radiant, and Jim pushes down the residual twinges of resentment that he wasn’t the one to make her this happy. It’s stupid and petty, but he knows he’ll always be a little jealous of Spock and of how easy some things are for him.
Three days after their celebratory non-date, Jim looks up from the beer tap at some point after the rush hour begins to wane to see Nyota Uhura gliding smoothly toward the bar. She hugs a beaming Gaila and grins at Jim.
“Two shots of Jack Daniels, please.”
He smirks, lifting his eyebrows. “Tough day?”
“You could say that. And you can stop looking over my shoulder, he’s not coming.”
“At all?” Jim blurts out before he can stop himself.
She smirks, watching him. “He said maybe later. He’s stuck at court.”
Jim blinks. “Why?”
“Haven’t you read his last piece?”
“The one about city council staff being forced into an early retirement?”
Uhura nods, knocking back a shot with a kind of casual flourish that makes Jim admire her just a little more. “The city administration is threatening to sue the paper.” She grimaces, drinks down the second shot. “Again.”
Jim pours her two more shots, and she pats his hand approvingly. “Smart boy.”
“Shouldn’t you be with him?” Jim asks, feeling strangely irritated at her blasé attitude. “I mean, I get that this was his article, but surely you have to share some responsibility? As his editor?”
Uhura narrows her eyes at him dangerously, but then just barely smirks, tilting her head back slightly and surveying Jim with barely concealed amusement. “You’ve never seen Spock talk back at a room full of lawyers, have you?”
Jim shakes his head.
“Well,” Uhura drawls, toying with an empty shot glass, “let’s just say that if they weren’t closed hearings, I’d be selling tickets. Spock can be quite ruthless when he wants to be.”
Jim tries to imagine it, and feels suddenly hot all over. He catches Uhura staring at him with knowing eyes and clears his throat, trying to look innocent. She laughs.
“Are the two of you-?” Jim has to ask.
“No. Not interested.” Some of Jim’s disbelief must show on his face, because Uhura shakes her head and admits, “Okay, once, a long time ago, but we never went back to that.” She bites her lip thoughtfully. “Spock wants something stable, something permanent.” She shrugs. “He’s a Vulcan, after all. Not that he’s averse to having fun,” she adds quickly. “Just - I wanted to be with him for the long haul, and I couldn’t do it as his lover.”
Jim studies her carefully through narrowed eyes. In a way, Nyota Uhura is as much of a mystery as Spock is.
“How did you get so smart?” he blurts out before his brain catches up. “I mean, no offense, but...”
She doesn’t look offended as she considers him with a mixture of condescension and sympathy. Her smirk is a bit evil, but also strangely vulnerable.
“Just because I grew up with two loving parents, went to a good school, and landed a dream job straight after doesn’t mean I’m an idiot, Jim.” Uhura glances over at where Gaila is flirting outrageously with a customer. “I might not have had her life, but I do get things.”
From the obvious, almost tender softening of Gaila’s expression when she looks back at Uhura, Jim thinks that yes, she probably does. Maybe even better than he does.
Spock does show up, much to Jim’s delight, by the end of the day, looking grumpy and irritated - for a Vulcan, at any rate. He tries six of Jim’s cocktails while complaining about the hearing, replaying some of the (completely illogical) arguments thrown at him. His voice is even and perfectly calm, but there’s a slight edge of bitchiness to it that Jim can’t help but find adorable.
“You’re so fucked,” Gaila whispers to him at some point. Jim sighs.
She doesn’t know the half of it.
--
It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon, when Sulu comes in with a ruffled, curly-haired kid in tow and pushes him toward Jim, saying, “You said you could use another pair of hands around here. This is Chekov. He’s good with numbers and makes a mean White Russian.” The kid glares at him, and Sulu smirks. “No pun intended.”
Gaila’s maternal instincts immediately kick in, and she pulls Chekov away by the hand, fetching a towel and all but cooing at him.
Jim lifts his eyebrows and looks at Sulu.
Sulu shrugs. “He’s a good kid.”
“He looks twelve.”
“He’s eighteen.”
“He looks like something the cat dragged in. Where’d you find him?”
Sulu sighs. “At the harbor. He offered me a blowjob in exchange for a meal.”
Jim glances back at the kid who’s smiling shyly now, flushed under Gaila’s ministrations. He doesn’t look broken or distrustful, and his clothes are fine, if dirty. He couldn’t have been on the streets for long.
Jim shakes his head. “You know I won’t kick him out, but-”
“He just needs a job,” Sulu says. “Somewhere where people won’t ask questions. He’ll be staying with me.” He lifts up a finger. “Before you say anything, I’m not a child molester.”
Jim smirks. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” Not even that you, my friend, look completely smitten.
The bar is doing better now, and Jim can afford an extra paycheck on his balance. So he smiles at the kid, shakes his hand, and lets Gaila fawn over him some more. Sulu soon joins the ongoing performance, and Jim laughs at him until Spock comes in and steals his attention.
Spock has adopted a habit of stopping by the bar a couple of times a week, chatting with Jim and Gaila. He’s there often enough to be introduced to Sulu and at some point to McCoy, but Jim still doesn’t know what this is. Spock is friendly with him, and clearly interested, but it’s hard to say exactly what lies at the nature of his interest. Jim flirts with him and Spock doesn’t seem to mind. He responds to it, in fact, but, seeing as Jim flirts with everyone, it might only serve to prove that Spock isn’t a prude.
Jim’s crush hasn’t exactly gone anywhere, but he doesn’t know what to make of Spock. Uhura’s words weigh heavily on Jim’s mind, mostly because she’s a smart woman and because she might be right. When it comes to stable partnerships, Jim is certainly nobody’s dream.
It’s not that he’s insecure or self-deprecating - he just knows precisely who he is. He knows that, while Spock worked two jobs to help his mother while studying for his degree, Jim has been busy conquering the continent, fighting and yeah, fucking his way through it, not being exceptionally picky in either case. He’d done his fair share of being a good son, too, but that was a long time ago. His mother has been dead for twelve years, and it’s been about as long since someone had looked at him and come up with the word ‘decent.’
Spock acts like he’s interested, at the very least interested in something, if not the same thing as Jim is. Spock also doesn’t know him.
Jim sighs, stirs his coffee, and wonders silently for how long his lucky streak is going to last.
--
It all comes to a head when Jim storms into the Shelter one night, livid. Sulu tried to talk him out of it, but Jim was too angry for reason. He must make quite a picture, because the common room, huge as it is, falls silent the moment he bursts through the doors. Jim looks around and sees mostly new faces, but he doesn’t care.
“Two of you broke into a pharmacy on East Superior today. You know the one.”
He gets nothing but blank stares, but it’s not like he has expected a confession.
“I don’t care which of you punks have done it - you or your friends outside - but let me tell you something. The guy who owns that shop is eighty-seven years old and he had a heart attack and nearly fucking died - all for a couple of douchebags to get their hands on the single bottle of KYD. I hope you used it to have a good time; I hope you shared it with friends, because if I ever find out who you are, you’re not gonna feel good for a very, very long time, I promise you that.”
Jim looks around the silent room, noting every averted gaze, every bitten lip, every flinch. He’s scaring them. Good.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Marlena emerging from the staff room. He glares at her preemptively, but she just gives him a tiny nod, tacit permission to continue.
“The man you dickwads nearly killed is my friend. For those of you who don’t know, my name’s Jim Kirk, and if you need my street credit, ask around. Do that before you decide that you can’t be assed up to get a job and would rather steal from or hit someone who can’t hit back.”
“Oh yeah, and who died and made you the resident saint, huh?”
Jim looks up to see a beefy guy of around sixteen, leaning against a wall in a would-be casual pose.
“Who are you?” Jim asks.
“Name’s Finnegan. And your little pet Kevin told me all about his sugar daddy.”
Jim ignores the bait and looks around for Kevin, but the boy isn’t there. Thank God for small mercies.
“Did you know that this guy’s street credit mostly comes from whores?”
Several people laugh nervously, and Jim doesn’t even bother glaring, measuring up Finnegan instead. He seems exactly the kind of schoolyard bullies Jim always hated, but he’s not a little kid anymore.
“So why don’t you shove your righteous anger up your ass, Papa, and leave us the hell alone?” Finnegan mocks. “Not all of us have a shitload of money and an Orion slave girl in their bed. Some of us have to do stuff that ain’t so pretty to survive.”
“Spare me the sob story,” Jim huffs. “Everyone in this room has one, and you know what? I don’t give a flying fuck. I didn’t pull myself out of the gutter to maybe try and do something with my life just so I could stand here and take crap from the likes of you.”
“So you’ve got a sob story too, then?” Finnegan taunts. “Do tell. Did your daddy cut off your allowance when he found out you stuck your dick where it didn’t belong?”
“Finnegan!” Marlena snaps. “Watch your mouth.”
“No, it’s all right,” Jim says suddenly, because sure, Finnegan’s trying to seem cool and in control, but Jim has been that guy for too long not to recognize it for what it really is. Fear. Desperation. It’s like looking into a distorted mirror, and Jim hates the reflection, but he can’t disown it.
“You want to know my sob story?” Jim asks calmly. “Fine, I’ll tell you my sob story. My dad couldn’t have cut my allowance, you stupid fuck, because he died the day I was born. You’ve heard of George Kirk, maybe? Of the USS Kelvin? That’s who my dad was.”
The room falls abruptly silent and everyone, even Finnegan, is staring at Jim with an expression of mild shock. Jim smothers a smirk. Kirk isn’t an uncommon name, so few people make the connection.
“When he died a hero, my mom sort of lost it. Clinical depression - ever heard of that? It’s treatable, right, only she didn’t want to be treated. She was smart, knew how to fool the shrinks. Quit her jobs to look after her kids, found a boyfriend. Only he didn’t stick around when she turned out to be too much work. And my brother fucked off with a rocking band, cliché or no, the first chance he got. So it was just the two of us, me and my mom, and the house falling to pieces around us.
“I was seven when Sam left, and if she was trying before then, she stopped after that. She didn’t get out of bed if I didn’t make her; didn’t eat if I didn’t bring her food. We had no money to pay for anything, because Starfleet pension for early quitters? Is a real fucking joke. They built a shipyard and named it after my father, but they couldn’t be assed up to take care of his widow.
“And you know the funny thing? Nobody cared. The social workers that stopped by every once in a while? I learned to trick them before I knew the fucking alphabet. Didn’t want to go to foster care, see; never could wrap my mind around why I should be placed somewhere when I could take care of me and my mom just fine.
“Only, she died when I was fourteen. Just didn’t wake up one morning.”
Jim takes a deep breath and a moment to steel himself. He can feel the weight of their gazes on his face, and he still doesn’t want pity.
“We were bankrupt. Everything was sold. Everything I ever called mine was gone. They wanted to send me off to an orphanage, but I talked to shrink after shrink until they allowed a court hearing and the judge emancipated me. All I had was my bike and a couple of books, and I took off. Just drove wherever. Took on stray jobs, never stayed too long. I don’t know why I didn’t end up dead in a ditch. It sure wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“What happened?” a girl curled up on the windowsill asks, her eyes wide.
Jim smirks wryly. “My pussy of an elder brother tracked me down. Turned out he knocked up a girl he shouldn’t have and her parents kicked her out. He needed money. Then I met Gaila - and if you call her a slave girl again, Finnegan, I’ll punch you in the face - and she needed me, needed someone. I made a good friend by accident, Bones McCoy, he works at the city clinic here. We trailed after him to Chicago, and well, here we are. I won’t tell you how I came to own my bar, but it sure as hell wasn’t through stealing.
“So yeah, Finnegan. How’s that for a sob story?”
The boy doesn’t answer, and Jim suddenly feels spent; his anger has dissipated somewhere in all the memories.
“You can do with your lives what you want,” Jim says, peering over the room at large. “But think twice before you hurt a friend of mine again. I’ve been around the block more than a few times. Whatever excuse you have, I’ve heard it all before, so you can shove it. If you want my help, if you want a job, you know where to find me. And if you don’t start acting like human beings with brains attached, I’ll find you.”
With that, Jim turns around to march out of the room-
And comes face to face with Spock, whose expression tells Jim immediately that he’s been standing there the entire time.
--
“What are you doing here?” Jim asks through gritted teeth the moment they step out into the boulevard.
“I stopped by the bar.” Spock’s voice is calm. Quiet. “Sulu told me where to find you. He said you were... upset.”
Jim swears under his breath. “He had no right to send you in like that. And you - you should have told me you were there. Had fun listening to me choking my guts out?”
“Jim.”
Spock’s fingers wrap around Jim’s wrist, cool. It’s late, and the alleyway is dark and deserted. Jim bites his lip and doesn’t realize he’s shivering until a gust of wind sends a tendril of cold air under his collar and down his spine.
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
Spock hums. “I am sorry that this has happened to you. I’m not, however, complaining about the man it made you.” He pauses and Jim can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I find I quite like him.”
Jim snorts. It’s involuntary, simply bursting out of him like a bubble of schadenfreude. He chuckles, his throat dry and painful, and then finally laughs, lifting up his eyes to meet Spock’s at last. Spock is indeed smiling in a quiet, understanding way. His expression is soft, but not pitying. Jim is momentarily overwhelmed with the knowledge - the certainty that it shouldn’t be possible, but it is.
Spock gets it. Jim can feel it through the firm, reassuring touch of his fingers, can see it in the steady darkness of Spock’s eyes, and it’s elating. Wondrous.
For a moment, Jim wonders how Spock would react if Jim leaned in just now and kissed him. Something probably shows on his face, because Spock lets go of his wrist suddenly with a muffled gasp, and Jim blushes. He’s always been too fucking transparent.
“I feel like a drink,” Spock says suddenly, and it’s the phrasing that gets Jim again.
He chuckles. “Me too, but I don’t feel like making one.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “There is a 24-hour establishment at the Green Inn.”
Jim grins. “Lead the way.”
--
They talk more about it after that, and for the first time in Jim’s life, it’s almost easy. He’s spent so much time worrying about Spock’s reaction to the unsavory revelations about Jim’s past that, now that Spock knows and shows no inclination to run away screaming, Jim feels like he can’t shut up.
He talks about Sam and Aurelan and Winona and about how Jim never learned what to do with his life except to take care of those who did, even if their choices were - are - shit. And Jim can’t help it, he really can’t, if he takes his time to describe one awful episode or another if it makes Spock take hold of his wrist again, or place a hand on his shoulder, or even - on one notable occasion - to press his fingers to Jim’s temple soothingly, sending a shot of acceptance and warmth throughout Jim’s body.
Gaila calls him pathetic, and Bones seems to be a bit jealous, but Jim doesn’t care. His past can’t hurt him anymore; he’s made peace with it, and he’s not one to play the sympathy card forever. It’s just that, despite appearances, Spock isn’t very generous with emotions, and Jim can’t help but coax a little more out of him while he can.
Jim doesn’t know if he owes it to Spock’s regular presence in his bar, but a few more Vulcans suddenly start showing up. They come in at odd times of the day, usually in pairs, and sit quietly at the far tables, ordering dry white wine. If they weren’t Vulcans, Jim would think they’re undercover agents - green and therefore obvious. He shares the thought with Gaila, who laughs and actually walks over to them to try and find out.
Jim watches her for a few moments, enjoying the almost openly startled expressions of their stoic customers, but it’s happy hour, and Jim’s hands are full.
“So what’d they say?” he asks Gaila later, polishing the glasses while she balances the cash register.
“Hm?”
“The Vulcans? The secret agents?”
“Oh! Oh, well, actually-” She bites her lip and frowns. “They said they were from the Citizenship Commission or something. Monitoring my ‘assimilation.’ Asked me some funny questions.”
Jim steels. “What about?”
She squints at him. “About you mostly. How long I’ve known you, if I know about anything illegal that you might be involved in-”
Jim’s eyebrows fly up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, and also if you’re using me as your personal fuck toy.”
“What?”
“Well, he didn’t phrase it exactly like that.” Gaila shrugs and grimaces. “He said something along the lines of ‘pressing me for sexual favors.’ At which point I’m sorry to say I lost us a paying customer by throwing his drink in his face. I don’t think they’ll be coming back.”
“Yeah, well, good riddance.” Jim picks up his dish towel again. “Seriously, what a jerk. You should have told me, I’d have kicked his ass.”
Gaila giggles. “Jimmy, you couldn’t take a Vulcan.”
“Could, too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ll have you know that I can hold my own.” He puffs out his chest and Gaila snickers. “Anyway, Spock could take him. You wait till I tell him.”
By the time Jim sees Spock next, the story mostly turns into an anecdote, but Spock isn’t amused. He freezes at the news, his features growing still and pale as he listens. He calls Gaila over in a sharp tone Jim has never heard him use and makes her repeat the conversation word for word. She does, looking bewildered, and now Jim is alarmed, too.
“Spock, what’s wrong? Did we screw up her citizenship or something? They were just a pair of jerks, we didn’t know-”
“Jim,” Spock interrupts him firmly. “There is no ‘Citizenship Commission.’”
“But-” Jim blinks. “Then who the hell were those guys?”
Spock purses his lips and doesn’t answer. He demands in a no-nonsense tone that Jim calls him immediately if any other Vulcans step through the door, and he clearly knows something, but when Jim tries to insist, Spock flat-out refuses to tell him.
“Well, that’s just peachy.” Jim glares at him. “We didn’t ask for your help in the first place, and if you dragged us into something fishy, you could at least have the decency to tell us.”
“Jim!” Gaila hisses, horrified.
Spock’s face is blank. He looks over at Jim, then at Gaila and back. “You’re right,” he tells Jim coolly. “It was my involvement that brought on this... trouble. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
He walks out, ignoring Jim’s continuous swearing and Gaila’s pleas.
--
Jim doesn’t see Spock for three weeks after that until finally he arrives, dragged in by Uhura and looking mildly sheepish and stubborn at the same time. Jim, who has missed him terribly but will rather cut his arm off than admit it, greets him with a scowl and arms crossed over his chest.
Uhura rolls her eyes. Spock steps forward and states, in a tone that is anything but repentant, “It has been brought to my attention that I was in the wrong having walked out on you.”
Jim waits for anything more to come. When it doesn’t, he lifts his eyebrows. “You want a medal or something?”
“I wish to - that is, I-”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Uhura pushes Spock forward none too gently. “Kiss and make up already, will you? He’s been miserable these past three weeks.” She pins Jim down with an unimpressed look. “And from what I’ve been told, so have you.”
Jim glances sideways at a grinning Gaila and hisses, “Traitor.”
He’s so busy feeling betrayed that he almost misses the incredible phenomenon of Spock blushing. When he does notice, he does a double take, which makes Spock blush harder.
“Oh my God,” Jim mutters, a gleeful grin spreading irresistibly on his lips. “Spock, you know you only need to ask, right?”
Uhura is trying to disguise her laughter as a fit of coughing. Gaila has no such reservations and laughs out loud, while Spock glares at them.
“Let it be known,” he says with enough aplomb to fuel a couple of royal dynasties to the fiftieth generation, “that, at this moment, I sincerely regret knowing any of you.”
“Aw, come on,” Jim coos, patting him on the shoulder. “You know you love us. You get jealous when we talk to other Vulcans.”
There’s a subtle shift in Spock’s expression; his eyes are suddenly sober. “There have been no more... visitors?”
Jim shakes his head, watching him closely. “None.”
Spock visibly relaxes. “Good. That is good.”
Jim draws in a breath, then locks gazes with Spock - and lets it go.
“Come on,” he says. “I just got a whole new line of Andorian ice teas. It’s a special delivery and I need a tester.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow, smiles softly, and follows suit.
--
Pavel Chekov is a godsend.
Initially, Jim had his doubts, because the boy was barely legal in more senses than one and a runaway to boot, but he didn’t look like a junkie, so Jim went with it. It proved to be one of the most solid decisions Jim’s made in a long time, because Chekov’s puppy dog eyes can guilt anyone into spending twice as much as they intended.
People flirt with him, enthralled by his accent or his curls or God knows what, really, and that used to be a major concern for Jim. But Chekov seems to like it, and if things start to escalate, he masterfully hints at his close ties with the Russian mob, which usually works like a charm.
Besides, Chekov turns out to be a closet math genius, and when he timidly tells Jim he could maybe optimize the bar’s accounts, Jim wants to buy him a life-size cake, possibly with a stripper inside. Chekov blushes scarlet, because Jim apparently has no brain-to-mouth filter, and Gaila smacks Jim upside the head before leading Chekov off to show him Jim’s computer.
There are also two new girls on the staff, Janice and Tonya. Jim feels mildly intimidated by them, because Tonya tried to give him a back rub once and Jim can’t sit straight for a week afterwards, and Janice has this way of looking at him like she knows that he didn’t wash his hands before eating back in the fifth grade and when she finally gets some proof, Jim will be in so much trouble.
Gaila laughs at him shamelessly and unkindly, and Jim informs her for the thousandth time that she is a bad person. But he also has more time on his hands now, and can’t deny that it’s kind of nice.
For one thing, it allows him to haunt a flea market on a Saturday afternoon and drag Spock along with him.
Jim loves flea markets. There’s just something about their eclectic, inconsistently-tidy nature that appeals to him on a base level. He likes being assaulted by colors and shapes, and he likes to touch things that have history. Most of the bar’s interior is decorated with stuff Jim picked up at similar places at one time or other. Luckily, though, Jim seems to have a better vision of what would fit there than he does when it comes to his bedroom.
He turns around to look at Spock’s reaction and laughs out loud at the expression on Spock’s face.
Spock has way more expressions than he likes to admit, and right now, he’s startled into showing Jim a plethora. There’s the look of a kid in a candy shop, mixed with a neat freak’s terror at the lack of hygiene in his surroundings, topped with wariness of too much chaotic traffic around him, and spiked with the curiosity of an explorer.
Jim grins and tugs at Spock’s sleeve. “Come on.”
Very soon, Jim is happily surfing through a box of old paperbacks while Spock examines a stand with vintage earrings, trying to select a present for Nyota. Jim grins to himself, because Spock obviously has no idea that he’s supposed to bargain for goods, and looks bewildered when the vendor takes offense in him willing to pay sticker price.
Jim buys a whole set of Patrick O’Brian’s novels and a copper kettle that looks positively ancient. Spock, in addition to the earrings, buys an ancient tape recorder that seems to fascinate him to no end. Jim laughs at him, but Spock is unflappable, giving him nothing but a stoic eyebrow in reply.
The next stop is a teashop that Spock seems to like. The first time Spock mentioned it, Jim felt inexplicably jealous, even though he always suspected that his bar isn’t Spock’s typical scene. Spock seemed to have seen right through him at the time, because he smirked and said that Jim should allow himself to be occasionally reminded that there is life outside Bad Company, and permitting someone else to serve him a drink on a day off is not the end of the world.
Jim still grumbles unhappily about the place, but trails after Spock all the same, flashing insolent grins at the waitresses in retaliation.
Jim orders some elaborate concoction that includes coffee, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, raspberry jam, and waffles, called Midday Delight. Spock squints at it and says that it should have been called Diabetic Coma. Jim sticks his tongue out at him and winks at their server.
Spock, of course, is having some weirdly scented tea. He’s also reading Jim passages from the article he’s working on, sometimes asking for his opinion. Jim really has no idea why Spock would be after an advice from someone who dropped out of high school, and it’s really hard to think when Spock’s gaze is fixed on him with that unnerving intensity, so Jim mostly blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.
It’s disturbing to hear that Spock finds his opinions ‘refreshing.’
“Kill the last line,” Jim says, stretching in his seat.
“Why? I believe it is suitably laconic and illuminates the readers as to the story’s conclusion.”
“Exactly. You’re telling everyone what happens to this guy at the end, after he’s made this decision. Just - wouldn’t it be better if you left that open? Let people believe what they want?”
“This would constitute to a more dramatic resolution,” Spock notes dryly. “I am not aiming for additional theatricality.”
“Yes, you are, you big fraud,” Jim says, scooping the last of his dessert and grinning. “I’ve read your stuff, remember? You definitely have a thing for cliffhangers.”
“Unintentional, I assure you.”
“Wow, you even sound convincing.”
“Jim-”
“No, really, Spock. Think about it. Your article isn’t about whether or not this guy was successful. It’s about him being able to make this decision, that difficult choice. All that matters is that in the end, he made it. Whatever the consequences were, that’s all that really counts.”
Spock purses his lips, staring at his PADD, thinking.
“I believe I shall keep the line,” he decides finally, and Jim grins.
“Whatever, man. It’s a great line.”
Spock looks at him. Jim shrugs. “Why do you even ask me, anyway? I mean, you write like Ravoux Garan - only you know, better.”
Spock taps his PADD off and peers at Jim curiously. “Am I to understand you are a fan?”
“Of Ravoux Garan?” Jim asks hopefully, because Spock really doesn’t need to know that Jim has this disturbing habit of rereading Spock’s articles when he’s feeling low. “Absolutely. He’s...”
Spock waits patiently as Jim tries to dress his feelings into words.
“I’ve spent a lot of time on the move, you know,” Jim finally says. “Mostly read stuff by accident. You know, when someone forgot a book, or there was a free-for-all library, or I was lucky enough to run across a vendor. I read tons of really weird stuff - garbage, mostly. Then I stumbled over one of Garan’s books, and it was - shit, Spock, it was like discovering language. I had no idea you could do these things with words. It’s like they’re in my head, only they’re beautiful, you know? And I could - I could sort of - relate to those people, his characters, even though I was just another smudge of dirt at their feet.”
“Yes.” Spock’s lips curve slightly. “Your use of language, for one, fits that description perfectly.”
Jim throws a napkin at him. “Shut up.”
“Are you aware that Ravoux Garan will be presenting his new novel here in Chicago next week?”
“Really?” Jim perks up. “That’s fantastic. I thought it wouldn’t be out for another month.”
“It will not,” Spock confirms. “It is a pre-publication presentation for columnists and critics. I believe abstracts of the novel will be read-”
“Dammit,” Jim groans. “Did you have to tell me that?”
“I will attend.”
“What?” Jim blinks. “I didn’t know you did lit crit.”
“I do not. I do, however, have an invitation.” Spock pauses. “It’s a plus one.”
Jim doesn’t dare to breathe, because if he hears what he thinks he hears...
“Would you like to come with me, Jim?”
Jim lets out the breath he’s been holding, and wow, is his head actually spinning?
“Are you kidding me?”
Spock looks mildly chastised. “I did not know it would be of interest to you, or I would have asked you sooner.”
“Oh God, Spock, shut up, please, please.”
Spock hesitates. “I - am confused, Jim.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m damn near stupefied, and it’s all your fault.”
“Do you wish to-”
“Yes! Yes, dammit, I’m dying to go with you, so stop asking or I might actually believe this is happening.”
“This is highly illogical.”
“Tell me about it. Don’t you want to take someone else? Uhura, maybe?”
“Jim.” Spock begins to sound exasperated. “I believe my stated intentions are a good indication of what I want. If you do not wish to accompany me, simply say so.”
Jim stares at him, then grins slowly. “Spock, you’ve just invited me to a once in a lifetime chance to meet the guy who pulled me out of the gutter and has been my hero ever since, and you think that I’ll pass on this? Good luck shaking me off. In fact, can we go already?”
Spock’s smile seems almost relieved, and Jim is certain he’s seeing things.
“The presentation will take place next Friday,” Spock says. “And Jim - it is a black tie event.”
Jim blinks. “I will get to wear other clothes, too, right?”
Spock smirks, and doesn’t reply.
Part 3/5 >>
Back to masterpost <<
--
Despite Spock’s generally cool reaction, Jim doesn’t actually expect him to show up again any time soon. He knows Spock’s type - a good boy with a bit of a romantic streak to him, whose sense of adventure is exercised in small measures and some tightly controlled conditions, and whose list of emergency contacts is a mile long.
Jim doesn’t have anything against those kinds of guys, per se; he just knows that they’re off limits. He can’t even just have sex with them, because lately, ‘just sex’ hasn’t cut it for him. Gary teases him for being a big girl, and Bones warns him not to ask for a cure for blue balls, but Jim doesn’t really care.
He doesn’t feel like indulging the curious good kids, for whom the very association with him is an adventure in itself. He tried at the beginning, intrigued by the fact that they would consider him. But their inevitable pity - good kids - was suffocating, and Jim felt so very low being subjected to it that he made a point of never going past business-related flirting with them. When he was in dire need of a one-night stand, he learned to look elsewhere - Gary’s wild parties came in all too handy for that.
When he receives a message from Spock the day after the bust fiasco, Jim freezes in shock for a moment. Spock has used his private comm line, too, and Jim has no idea how he got the frequency. He tells himself that it’s stupid to be happy about the fact that he and Spock apparently share stalker tendencies.
The message itself is short and laconic. Spock is asking for a recent holo of Gaila. He offers no explanation about why he needs it, only adding a cryptic warning that Jim shouldn’t alert Gaila to this ‘in case it does not work.’
Jim frowns. He hates being in the dark, and Gaila is family. But he hasn’t forgotten how readily Spock jumped to her defense, and Uhura has called Gaila twice already this morning.
Jim knows he can trust them; his life, by now, has sharpened his instincts when it comes to people. He doesn’t know Spock all that well; he’d only seen him twice, his weird crush aside, but he knows - can feel it unmistakably, deep down in his gut - that Spock can be trusted.
Besides, Gaila has spent the night in Jim’s bed, curled in a ball under two blankets, shivering and waking every half hour from yet another nightmare. Jim knows it will pass, but he also knows that they can’t keep this up for much longer. He’s reached the point when he’s willing to risk trusting someone outside the small circle he calls family.
He sends the holo and doesn’t tell Gaila a thing.
It turns out to be a good decision, because Spock falls silent after that. There are no more messages or calls from him that day, nor the next day. By day three, Jim has decided to give it up and stop waiting, because obviously whatever Spock had in mind didn’t work. Jim feels like an ass, because he’s disappointed on two accounts - that there is no progress with Gaila’s situation and that he doesn’t get to talk to Spock again.
Apparently, though, Jim is living through a freak phase of his life when his pessimism is just begging to be disproved.
Spock shows up late on Wednesday when Jim is about to call the last round. He steps through the doorway and nods at Jim. There’s something different about him that Jim can’t immediately lay his finger on - but then he gets it.
Spock looks tired. He’s paler than usual, and there are dark circles under his eyes - not drastic, but noticeable. Jim can’t help a frown.
Spock goes straight to where Gaila’s sitting on a barstool, finalizing the day’s bills. She looks up at him, a confused smile tugging at her lips, when Spock silently hands her a small box.
Gaila shoots a worried glance at Jim before opening it, and then her eyes go round and her mouth opens in shock.
“Gaila, what is it?” Jim demands, losing what little patience he had. “What’s in there?”
“My new ID,” she whispers in awe. She looks up at him, and her eyes are huge. “I’m a… Vulcan citizen, now.”
“What?” Jim blurts out, turning to Spock, who is studying the polished surface of the bar rather than looking at either of them.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Normally, the procedure of acquiring a citizenship would have taken longer, but, due to the mitigating circumstances, the Council... did, eventually, come to see my point. It was possible to expedite the-”
“But-” Jim still can’t wrap his mind around it. “Vulcan citizenship is the toughest one to get. She’d need a sponsor, and a supervisor, and-”
Spock lifts his eyes at Jim for a moment, a subtle blush spreading on his cheeks.
“Oh my God.”
Spock looks away hastily, but it has been enough time for Gaila to come out of her stupor and connect the dots. Jim knows this, because in a split second he’s laughing his ass off, watching as Gaila tries to hug Spock to death while Spock stands rigid with shock and sends Jim panicked glances over Gaila’s bushy red hair.
Jim kind of wants to hug Spock, too, because Vulcan citizenship is awesome. Theoretically, all Federation planets are equal in rights, but no one messes with the Vulcans. No one. The citizenships that they extend are so far and few in between that Spock had to have pulled some serious strings to arrange this, and - as Jim realizes now - in record time.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gaila is kissing Spock’s cheeks without any noticeable intent to stop. Spock looks positively flustered by now, and, despite the fact that the sight is hilarious, Jim tugs Gaila back gently.
“Gaila, let him breathe, you’re going to strangle him.”
“I am - more resilient - than I look,” Spock manages, and Jim has to give him points for guts, because Spock doesn’t sway once Gaila finally releases him.
“Thank you,” she chirps again.
“You are welcome, but it was nothing,” Spock says.
“No, man, it wasn’t,” Jim interjects, clapping Spock on the shoulder and allowing his hand to linger. “I owe you one.”
“No,” Spock says with his usual confidence. “You do not - either of you. I did it because I could and because it was the right thing to do.”
Judging by the look on Gaila’s face, she’s about to inflict another round of her very tactile argument method on poor, unsuspecting Spock, and Jim decides to show some mercy. Gaila is right, they both owe Spock big, but Jim will deal with it himself.
He shakes his head. If this is how Spock makes friends, Jim would love to see him making enemies.
“Let’s celebrate!” Jim grins. “Let me just close those last tabs, and then we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“Oh-” Gaila stops short. “I can’t stay.” She looks from Spock to Jim apologetically. “I didn’t know, and Nyota - she invited me for a sleepover.”
“I am aware,” Spock says. “She hasn’t joined me here now for this reason. I believe she is preparing a celebration of her own.”
“Really.” Jim smirks. “Should I be worried? Do I have to send a cab to pick you up in the morning?”
“As an editor, Nyota commandeers one of the Tribune’s vehicles,” Spock tells him. “I am certain that it is covered.”
“Okay then.” Jim laughs and winks at Gaila. “Enjoy your party.”
“Thanks, Jimmy!” Beaming, Gaila grabs his face and kisses him soundly on the lips. She whirls on Spock then, who looks mortified, making Jim laugh again, but Gaila only gives him another hug, mouthing ‘Thank you,’ before strolling off, the new ID card clutched tightly in her hand.
“Well,” Jim drawls, grinning. “How about you? Feel like sticking around for a bit?”
Spock looks uncertain, and Jim nudges his shoulder lightly with his own. “Come on. There’s a pizza place three blocks from here that is simply to die for. Let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble. You look like shit.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow, affronted. “Very well.”
Jim beams. “Awesome.”
He leaves the wrapping up to Pablo and herds Spock outside, silencing the shrill voice of panic wrecking through his mind that demands to know what the fuck Jim thinks he’s doing. Common sense has never been Jim’s strong suit, and anyway, maybe this time it’ll be different.
Maybe this time.
--
Jenny’s pizza has always been to die for, but tonight it’s even better, cruelly delicious on Jim’s tongue. The slices are hot and sinfully greasy, soaked with thick tomato sauce, browned crust walls barely able to keep the toppings inside. Everything tastes better; the lights seem brighter; Jenny’s laughter louder when she pets Jim’s hair; and the air infinitesimally sweeter.
Spock keeps throwing amused glances at Jim but doesn’t comment, just looking quietly pleased with himself. Jim grins at him, safe in the knowledge that Spock attributes his good mood to gratitude.
Ironically, their conversation is surprisingly normal for two people trying to get to know one another. They discuss favorite cuisines and the origins of various dishes. Jim admits to loving Italian, while Spock declares it too garish. He says he prefers French, which makes Jim immediately call him a snob and point out that French cuisine is all about meat and wine. Somehow, from there, it strays toward the odd philosophies behind Earth-style vegetarianism and inexplicably ends with Jim quoting old Andorian chronicles while trying to make a point that Vulcans didn’t, in fact, invent ‘rational consumption.’
Spock keeps throwing progressively weirder looks at Jim throughout the meal, but it’s not until later, when they’re walking slowly through the even, predictable grid of the night streets and sacrificing brighter lights for less commotion, that Spock finally gives voice to his question.
“Jim, where did you study?”
Jim blinks, his hands still spread widely from where he’s been explaining why Napoleon should have used elephants like Hannibal did and why it would have been totally awesome, though animal rights defenders might disagree.
“Um.” Jim pauses, caught off guard. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t, really. I mean, there was high school, obviously. But I, um...” He swallows, glancing away. “I never actually finished it. Dropped out way too early.”
For a moment, Spock doesn’t say anything, just peers at him through the tangerine tinted street lamplight. Jim shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders drooping.
“Look,” he says grudgingly. “I really don’t want to talk about it. I know I’m probably one of the least educated people you know-”
“And yet you’re better versed in Tellarite politics than some of our senators,” Spock says softly.
“I just hear things, like everyone else. It’s not like I’m-”
“You believe that Guernica is highly overrated.”
“Hey, I never said I was an art expert.”
“Jim. Most people in this day and age wouldn’t know what Guernica is.”
“Oh.” Jim shifts from one foot to the other. “I, um. I just read a lot, I guess.”
A small smile creeps up on Spock’s face. “You truly are a remarkable individual.”
Heat rises in Jim’s face, and he knows he’s blushing. But the compliment isn’t deserved, he knows it isn’t, and suddenly Jim is angry at Spock for not being able to see it.
“I’m nothing special,” he mutters gruffly, resuming their walk at a brisker pace.
“Jim, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was merely impressed-”
“With what?” Jim stops abruptly, whirling toward Spock. “You think I’m smart because I read a lot of stuff and remember most of it? It’s all smoke and mirrors, Spock; a clever guy like you should be able to see through that. If I really were that smart, if I really were ‘remarkable,’ do you think I’d be struggling to keep my laughingstock of a business afloat? Do you think I’d be up all night - night after night - asking myself where the hell I’m going to get the money to pay the damn bills? To pay the people who work for me, because no one else will hire them and who’d be back on the street if I let them go?”
“Jim-”
“Do you think I’d be forced to let some stranger help Gaila if I were anything more than a total failure?” Jim closes his eyes and draws in a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the sharp, edgy feeling that has been growing in his chest ever since Spock came to the bar tonight. “It should have been me to help her,” Jim says resolutely, in the end. “She’s my responsibility, and I should have been able to keep her safe. But I couldn’t.” He glances up at Spock. “You did.”
Spock holds his eyes calmly, but his expression is more closed off now, guarded. Finally, he clears his throat.
“I apologize if I overstepped my boundaries,” he says quietly.
“Spock.” Jim sighs. “Look, I-”
“It is true” - Spock talks over him - “that I am a stranger and that I acted out of sympathy to what you told me about Gaila. I’m not such a poor judge of character to believe that you would welcome pity.”
Jim gives a weak shrug and says nothing. Well, duh.
“Pity wasn’t my motivation,” Spock insists. “I enjoy a life of privilege, yes, but Jim - that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t be in your position if the circumstances were different. I only don’t know if I’d be able to bear it with as much poise as you do.” He pauses. “Or if I would be strong enough to accept assistance as graciously as you do.”
“Gracious,” Jim repeats and snorts, despite himself, the fight draining out of him. “Yeah, that’s me. The gracious one. Ever heard that beggars can’t be choosers?”
“Indeed,” Spock says smoothly, and they fall in step again, resuming their walk.
The air is damp and fragrant, chilly, oozing from the nearest water collector. Jim glances sideways at Spock, who’s wearing a long, thick scarf, of all things, that somehow manages to defeat the persistent wind and stay put. The spell doesn’t spread up to his hair, though, and Jim smothers a grin. If Saint Exupéry’s Little Prince ever grew up, he’d probably look just like Spock right now, gazing melancholically into the face of the sleeping Lake Michigan.
“I was ten when I first came to live on Earth with my mother.” Spock’s expression is pensive, a little distant. “She had an elderly father to care for, a large, aging house that was literally falling to pieces, and a son to raise - one, I might add, with such specific dietary requirements that simply keeping him fed cost a small fortune.”
Jim nods, peering at the suddenly tense line of Spock’s shoulders.
“She was a school teacher, Jim. That particular expression was one of the first human idioms that I’ve learned.”
“What about your father?”
Spock stiffens even more, and Jim half-expects to be told to back off, but Spock merely says, “He offered to support me, but my mother had reasons to decline.”
Jim doesn’t push. He almost regrets having asked in the first place - they don’t really know each other so well to be trading such personal things. But at the same time, Jim feels selfishly grateful for the reminder that Spock hasn’t always been the rising star of modern journalism without a care in the world.
Human nature, Jim thinks, is really ugly sometimes.
By unspoken agreement, they drift back to safer topics. Jim brushes his shoulder against Spock’s companionably from time to time and grins when Spock gently nudges him back. Jim is starting to feel the stirrings of latent self-consciousness, feeling as though he has revealed too much too soon. But from the somewhat shy looks Spock gives him when he thinks Jim isn’t looking, he might not be the only one, and that’s incredibly reassuring to know.
Besides, it’s not a date, Jim reminds himself firmly. If he doesn’t screw up again, he might yet come out of this with a new friend.
Spock, as it turns out, doesn’t have a car, and Jim walks him to the corner of North McClurg Court and East Grand Avenue, where a multilevel cab is sizzling bewitchingly in yellow and white.
“So,” Jim drawls as Spock flags down a vehicle. “Will I be seeing you again, or have I managed to scare you off good?”
Spock actually smiles at him, the same teasing glint in his eye as when he commented on Jim’s cocktail recipes.
“You flatter yourself. I am not intimidated by well-read bar owners.”
Jim huffs out a laugh, dipping his head and glancing up at Spock through his lashes. “Well. Maybe by the next time you pay us a visit, I’ll finally get your favorite drink right.”
“I’m looking forward to that.” Spock’s lips quirk. “Good night, Jim.”
“Night.”
Jim grins stupidly all the way back to his apartment, through the shower, and for quite some time after he falls asleep.
--
Jim stumbles down into the bar later than usual the next morning and finds Bones already perched up on a stool, glaring into his coffee. They’re still closed, of course, but friends have privileges, and today is the day of the week when Bones stops by after his godawful 24-hour shift at the hospital that usually leaves him wrecked and so tired that he can’t even sleep.
Jim beams at him, and Bones scowls.
“Aren’t you perky today,” he grumbles as Jim pours him more coffee. “Who is she?”
“Who’s who?”
“You only ever look this chirpy when you got some, so spill, Jim. Who’s the unlucky lady?”
Jim grins at him. “You know, deep down inside, you really love me, Bones.”
“Yes, it’s a very deep-rooted emotion,” Bones drawls acidly. “So deep down you’d need an excavator.” He swallows a gulp of still steaming liquid, chokes, and swears.
Jim laughs, though not unkindly, and pats his back. McCoy swats his hand away in annoyance.
“You aren’t gonna tell me, are you? Wow, Jim Kirk learning not to kiss and tell. That’ll be a first.”
Jim sighs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to tell, Bones. There’s no lady, and I certainly didn’t get any last night.” He frowns defiantly at McCoy’s disbelieving stare. “What? I can’t be in a good mood every once in a while?”
“Not in my experience.” Bones takes a more measured sip of his drink, eyes still on Jim. “Something did happen, though. You’re glowing.”
Jim grins, not really able to hold back, and tells him about Gaila. Which consequently leads to telling Bones about Spock, but Jim tries to omit the most discreditable details - like a particularly steamy fantasy he indulged in while showering this morning, or the fact that he’s always had a thing for brown eyes.
“So let me get this straight,” Bones says, frowning. “Some random guy shows up on your doorstep offering to solve your problem and wants nothing in return? That’s it?”
“In a nutshell.” Jim crosses his arms over his chest. “What? Good things do happen.”
“Since when?”
“That’s a very cynical view of the world, Bones, you know that?”
“A realistic one. Does he have the hots for Gaila? ‘Cause I can buy it, if it was just him trying to win her over.”
“He’s not-” Jim frowns. He hasn’t thought about that. Spock did jump to Gaila’s defense within ten minutes of meeting her. And while procuring a Vulcan citizenship might be a hell of a long way to go to impress a girl, Gaila is no ordinary girl. It’s possible that Spock simply doesn’t know what overkill is.
“I don’t know.” Jim shrugs. “Maybe.”
Bones pins him down with a piercing look and suddenly smirks. “Oh my God - well, I don’t believe it. You have the hots for him.”
“Bones!” Jim blushes, glaring at his friend. “Do you have to poke and prod even off-duty? I don’t know what this is, okay? I don’t need you and your twelve kinds of torture when I don’t even know if he’s available, never mind interested. Can’t you act like a human being with a heart for once? Pretend if you have to, you’re a doctor, for fuck’s sake!”
“Whoa, Jim, cool down, will you?” McCoy raises his hands, watching Jim warily. “I’ll back off; stop yelling.”
“Sorry.” Jim runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Bones, I just-”
“Jumped the gun?” McCoy nods. “Just a bit, kid.”
“Sorry,” Jim says again. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
McCoy lifts up a finger. “We are not discussing your fantasy life.”
Jim snorts. “Your loss; could’ve learned a few things.” He stirs his coffee pensively, watching the dark liquid swirl in fancy circles. Jim bites his lip. “I just - I really like him. You know?”
McCoy sighs and shakes his head, giving Jim a tired, but sympathetic smile and proceeds to tell him all about a couple of idiots submitted to his emergency room last night with gunshot wounds, of all things.
Jim listens as he checks if the automatic cleaners missed anything. This is why he and Bones are friends. Bones can be an enormous pain in the ass, but this, right here, is why Jim loves the man.
A little absently, Jim wonders why it has never occurred to him to fall for Bones. Sure, he drinks a lot, like most ER doctors, and he’s suffered through a nasty divorce, after which he’s had tremendous trust issues, and of course he’s cynical and sarcastic and completely anti-social most of the time, which should really be read as rude - but he’s a good man. Bones would whine incessantly about his job, but when he’d be offered a position somewhere warm and cozy - which happens regularly, because Bones is just that good - he’d inevitably turn them down in favor of staying at the least comfortable, most underprivileged city clinic on the continent, with its everyday insanity and indifference and self-destructive vibes.
Jim pours Bones more coffee and grins at him for no reason at all and asks about his daughter, who Bones so rarely gets to see. Bones swears that Jo is a menace and will be a space pirate when she grows up, but he loves her, and so does Jim. (Besides, Jim kind of understands about the space pirates.)
Spock doesn’t show up that day or the next, and Jim tells himself that he isn’t disappointed. Gaila dances around the bar, positively radiant, and Jim pushes down the residual twinges of resentment that he wasn’t the one to make her this happy. It’s stupid and petty, but he knows he’ll always be a little jealous of Spock and of how easy some things are for him.
Three days after their celebratory non-date, Jim looks up from the beer tap at some point after the rush hour begins to wane to see Nyota Uhura gliding smoothly toward the bar. She hugs a beaming Gaila and grins at Jim.
“Two shots of Jack Daniels, please.”
He smirks, lifting his eyebrows. “Tough day?”
“You could say that. And you can stop looking over my shoulder, he’s not coming.”
“At all?” Jim blurts out before he can stop himself.
She smirks, watching him. “He said maybe later. He’s stuck at court.”
Jim blinks. “Why?”
“Haven’t you read his last piece?”
“The one about city council staff being forced into an early retirement?”
Uhura nods, knocking back a shot with a kind of casual flourish that makes Jim admire her just a little more. “The city administration is threatening to sue the paper.” She grimaces, drinks down the second shot. “Again.”
Jim pours her two more shots, and she pats his hand approvingly. “Smart boy.”
“Shouldn’t you be with him?” Jim asks, feeling strangely irritated at her blasé attitude. “I mean, I get that this was his article, but surely you have to share some responsibility? As his editor?”
Uhura narrows her eyes at him dangerously, but then just barely smirks, tilting her head back slightly and surveying Jim with barely concealed amusement. “You’ve never seen Spock talk back at a room full of lawyers, have you?”
Jim shakes his head.
“Well,” Uhura drawls, toying with an empty shot glass, “let’s just say that if they weren’t closed hearings, I’d be selling tickets. Spock can be quite ruthless when he wants to be.”
Jim tries to imagine it, and feels suddenly hot all over. He catches Uhura staring at him with knowing eyes and clears his throat, trying to look innocent. She laughs.
“Are the two of you-?” Jim has to ask.
“No. Not interested.” Some of Jim’s disbelief must show on his face, because Uhura shakes her head and admits, “Okay, once, a long time ago, but we never went back to that.” She bites her lip thoughtfully. “Spock wants something stable, something permanent.” She shrugs. “He’s a Vulcan, after all. Not that he’s averse to having fun,” she adds quickly. “Just - I wanted to be with him for the long haul, and I couldn’t do it as his lover.”
Jim studies her carefully through narrowed eyes. In a way, Nyota Uhura is as much of a mystery as Spock is.
“How did you get so smart?” he blurts out before his brain catches up. “I mean, no offense, but...”
She doesn’t look offended as she considers him with a mixture of condescension and sympathy. Her smirk is a bit evil, but also strangely vulnerable.
“Just because I grew up with two loving parents, went to a good school, and landed a dream job straight after doesn’t mean I’m an idiot, Jim.” Uhura glances over at where Gaila is flirting outrageously with a customer. “I might not have had her life, but I do get things.”
From the obvious, almost tender softening of Gaila’s expression when she looks back at Uhura, Jim thinks that yes, she probably does. Maybe even better than he does.
Spock does show up, much to Jim’s delight, by the end of the day, looking grumpy and irritated - for a Vulcan, at any rate. He tries six of Jim’s cocktails while complaining about the hearing, replaying some of the (completely illogical) arguments thrown at him. His voice is even and perfectly calm, but there’s a slight edge of bitchiness to it that Jim can’t help but find adorable.
“You’re so fucked,” Gaila whispers to him at some point. Jim sighs.
She doesn’t know the half of it.
--
It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon, when Sulu comes in with a ruffled, curly-haired kid in tow and pushes him toward Jim, saying, “You said you could use another pair of hands around here. This is Chekov. He’s good with numbers and makes a mean White Russian.” The kid glares at him, and Sulu smirks. “No pun intended.”
Gaila’s maternal instincts immediately kick in, and she pulls Chekov away by the hand, fetching a towel and all but cooing at him.
Jim lifts his eyebrows and looks at Sulu.
Sulu shrugs. “He’s a good kid.”
“He looks twelve.”
“He’s eighteen.”
“He looks like something the cat dragged in. Where’d you find him?”
Sulu sighs. “At the harbor. He offered me a blowjob in exchange for a meal.”
Jim glances back at the kid who’s smiling shyly now, flushed under Gaila’s ministrations. He doesn’t look broken or distrustful, and his clothes are fine, if dirty. He couldn’t have been on the streets for long.
Jim shakes his head. “You know I won’t kick him out, but-”
“He just needs a job,” Sulu says. “Somewhere where people won’t ask questions. He’ll be staying with me.” He lifts up a finger. “Before you say anything, I’m not a child molester.”
Jim smirks. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” Not even that you, my friend, look completely smitten.
The bar is doing better now, and Jim can afford an extra paycheck on his balance. So he smiles at the kid, shakes his hand, and lets Gaila fawn over him some more. Sulu soon joins the ongoing performance, and Jim laughs at him until Spock comes in and steals his attention.
Spock has adopted a habit of stopping by the bar a couple of times a week, chatting with Jim and Gaila. He’s there often enough to be introduced to Sulu and at some point to McCoy, but Jim still doesn’t know what this is. Spock is friendly with him, and clearly interested, but it’s hard to say exactly what lies at the nature of his interest. Jim flirts with him and Spock doesn’t seem to mind. He responds to it, in fact, but, seeing as Jim flirts with everyone, it might only serve to prove that Spock isn’t a prude.
Jim’s crush hasn’t exactly gone anywhere, but he doesn’t know what to make of Spock. Uhura’s words weigh heavily on Jim’s mind, mostly because she’s a smart woman and because she might be right. When it comes to stable partnerships, Jim is certainly nobody’s dream.
It’s not that he’s insecure or self-deprecating - he just knows precisely who he is. He knows that, while Spock worked two jobs to help his mother while studying for his degree, Jim has been busy conquering the continent, fighting and yeah, fucking his way through it, not being exceptionally picky in either case. He’d done his fair share of being a good son, too, but that was a long time ago. His mother has been dead for twelve years, and it’s been about as long since someone had looked at him and come up with the word ‘decent.’
Spock acts like he’s interested, at the very least interested in something, if not the same thing as Jim is. Spock also doesn’t know him.
Jim sighs, stirs his coffee, and wonders silently for how long his lucky streak is going to last.
--
It all comes to a head when Jim storms into the Shelter one night, livid. Sulu tried to talk him out of it, but Jim was too angry for reason. He must make quite a picture, because the common room, huge as it is, falls silent the moment he bursts through the doors. Jim looks around and sees mostly new faces, but he doesn’t care.
“Two of you broke into a pharmacy on East Superior today. You know the one.”
He gets nothing but blank stares, but it’s not like he has expected a confession.
“I don’t care which of you punks have done it - you or your friends outside - but let me tell you something. The guy who owns that shop is eighty-seven years old and he had a heart attack and nearly fucking died - all for a couple of douchebags to get their hands on the single bottle of KYD. I hope you used it to have a good time; I hope you shared it with friends, because if I ever find out who you are, you’re not gonna feel good for a very, very long time, I promise you that.”
Jim looks around the silent room, noting every averted gaze, every bitten lip, every flinch. He’s scaring them. Good.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Marlena emerging from the staff room. He glares at her preemptively, but she just gives him a tiny nod, tacit permission to continue.
“The man you dickwads nearly killed is my friend. For those of you who don’t know, my name’s Jim Kirk, and if you need my street credit, ask around. Do that before you decide that you can’t be assed up to get a job and would rather steal from or hit someone who can’t hit back.”
“Oh yeah, and who died and made you the resident saint, huh?”
Jim looks up to see a beefy guy of around sixteen, leaning against a wall in a would-be casual pose.
“Who are you?” Jim asks.
“Name’s Finnegan. And your little pet Kevin told me all about his sugar daddy.”
Jim ignores the bait and looks around for Kevin, but the boy isn’t there. Thank God for small mercies.
“Did you know that this guy’s street credit mostly comes from whores?”
Several people laugh nervously, and Jim doesn’t even bother glaring, measuring up Finnegan instead. He seems exactly the kind of schoolyard bullies Jim always hated, but he’s not a little kid anymore.
“So why don’t you shove your righteous anger up your ass, Papa, and leave us the hell alone?” Finnegan mocks. “Not all of us have a shitload of money and an Orion slave girl in their bed. Some of us have to do stuff that ain’t so pretty to survive.”
“Spare me the sob story,” Jim huffs. “Everyone in this room has one, and you know what? I don’t give a flying fuck. I didn’t pull myself out of the gutter to maybe try and do something with my life just so I could stand here and take crap from the likes of you.”
“So you’ve got a sob story too, then?” Finnegan taunts. “Do tell. Did your daddy cut off your allowance when he found out you stuck your dick where it didn’t belong?”
“Finnegan!” Marlena snaps. “Watch your mouth.”
“No, it’s all right,” Jim says suddenly, because sure, Finnegan’s trying to seem cool and in control, but Jim has been that guy for too long not to recognize it for what it really is. Fear. Desperation. It’s like looking into a distorted mirror, and Jim hates the reflection, but he can’t disown it.
“You want to know my sob story?” Jim asks calmly. “Fine, I’ll tell you my sob story. My dad couldn’t have cut my allowance, you stupid fuck, because he died the day I was born. You’ve heard of George Kirk, maybe? Of the USS Kelvin? That’s who my dad was.”
The room falls abruptly silent and everyone, even Finnegan, is staring at Jim with an expression of mild shock. Jim smothers a smirk. Kirk isn’t an uncommon name, so few people make the connection.
“When he died a hero, my mom sort of lost it. Clinical depression - ever heard of that? It’s treatable, right, only she didn’t want to be treated. She was smart, knew how to fool the shrinks. Quit her jobs to look after her kids, found a boyfriend. Only he didn’t stick around when she turned out to be too much work. And my brother fucked off with a rocking band, cliché or no, the first chance he got. So it was just the two of us, me and my mom, and the house falling to pieces around us.
“I was seven when Sam left, and if she was trying before then, she stopped after that. She didn’t get out of bed if I didn’t make her; didn’t eat if I didn’t bring her food. We had no money to pay for anything, because Starfleet pension for early quitters? Is a real fucking joke. They built a shipyard and named it after my father, but they couldn’t be assed up to take care of his widow.
“And you know the funny thing? Nobody cared. The social workers that stopped by every once in a while? I learned to trick them before I knew the fucking alphabet. Didn’t want to go to foster care, see; never could wrap my mind around why I should be placed somewhere when I could take care of me and my mom just fine.
“Only, she died when I was fourteen. Just didn’t wake up one morning.”
Jim takes a deep breath and a moment to steel himself. He can feel the weight of their gazes on his face, and he still doesn’t want pity.
“We were bankrupt. Everything was sold. Everything I ever called mine was gone. They wanted to send me off to an orphanage, but I talked to shrink after shrink until they allowed a court hearing and the judge emancipated me. All I had was my bike and a couple of books, and I took off. Just drove wherever. Took on stray jobs, never stayed too long. I don’t know why I didn’t end up dead in a ditch. It sure wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“What happened?” a girl curled up on the windowsill asks, her eyes wide.
Jim smirks wryly. “My pussy of an elder brother tracked me down. Turned out he knocked up a girl he shouldn’t have and her parents kicked her out. He needed money. Then I met Gaila - and if you call her a slave girl again, Finnegan, I’ll punch you in the face - and she needed me, needed someone. I made a good friend by accident, Bones McCoy, he works at the city clinic here. We trailed after him to Chicago, and well, here we are. I won’t tell you how I came to own my bar, but it sure as hell wasn’t through stealing.
“So yeah, Finnegan. How’s that for a sob story?”
The boy doesn’t answer, and Jim suddenly feels spent; his anger has dissipated somewhere in all the memories.
“You can do with your lives what you want,” Jim says, peering over the room at large. “But think twice before you hurt a friend of mine again. I’ve been around the block more than a few times. Whatever excuse you have, I’ve heard it all before, so you can shove it. If you want my help, if you want a job, you know where to find me. And if you don’t start acting like human beings with brains attached, I’ll find you.”
With that, Jim turns around to march out of the room-
And comes face to face with Spock, whose expression tells Jim immediately that he’s been standing there the entire time.
--
“What are you doing here?” Jim asks through gritted teeth the moment they step out into the boulevard.
“I stopped by the bar.” Spock’s voice is calm. Quiet. “Sulu told me where to find you. He said you were... upset.”
Jim swears under his breath. “He had no right to send you in like that. And you - you should have told me you were there. Had fun listening to me choking my guts out?”
“Jim.”
Spock’s fingers wrap around Jim’s wrist, cool. It’s late, and the alleyway is dark and deserted. Jim bites his lip and doesn’t realize he’s shivering until a gust of wind sends a tendril of cold air under his collar and down his spine.
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
Spock hums. “I am sorry that this has happened to you. I’m not, however, complaining about the man it made you.” He pauses and Jim can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “I find I quite like him.”
Jim snorts. It’s involuntary, simply bursting out of him like a bubble of schadenfreude. He chuckles, his throat dry and painful, and then finally laughs, lifting up his eyes to meet Spock’s at last. Spock is indeed smiling in a quiet, understanding way. His expression is soft, but not pitying. Jim is momentarily overwhelmed with the knowledge - the certainty that it shouldn’t be possible, but it is.
Spock gets it. Jim can feel it through the firm, reassuring touch of his fingers, can see it in the steady darkness of Spock’s eyes, and it’s elating. Wondrous.
For a moment, Jim wonders how Spock would react if Jim leaned in just now and kissed him. Something probably shows on his face, because Spock lets go of his wrist suddenly with a muffled gasp, and Jim blushes. He’s always been too fucking transparent.
“I feel like a drink,” Spock says suddenly, and it’s the phrasing that gets Jim again.
He chuckles. “Me too, but I don’t feel like making one.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “There is a 24-hour establishment at the Green Inn.”
Jim grins. “Lead the way.”
--
They talk more about it after that, and for the first time in Jim’s life, it’s almost easy. He’s spent so much time worrying about Spock’s reaction to the unsavory revelations about Jim’s past that, now that Spock knows and shows no inclination to run away screaming, Jim feels like he can’t shut up.
He talks about Sam and Aurelan and Winona and about how Jim never learned what to do with his life except to take care of those who did, even if their choices were - are - shit. And Jim can’t help it, he really can’t, if he takes his time to describe one awful episode or another if it makes Spock take hold of his wrist again, or place a hand on his shoulder, or even - on one notable occasion - to press his fingers to Jim’s temple soothingly, sending a shot of acceptance and warmth throughout Jim’s body.
Gaila calls him pathetic, and Bones seems to be a bit jealous, but Jim doesn’t care. His past can’t hurt him anymore; he’s made peace with it, and he’s not one to play the sympathy card forever. It’s just that, despite appearances, Spock isn’t very generous with emotions, and Jim can’t help but coax a little more out of him while he can.
Jim doesn’t know if he owes it to Spock’s regular presence in his bar, but a few more Vulcans suddenly start showing up. They come in at odd times of the day, usually in pairs, and sit quietly at the far tables, ordering dry white wine. If they weren’t Vulcans, Jim would think they’re undercover agents - green and therefore obvious. He shares the thought with Gaila, who laughs and actually walks over to them to try and find out.
Jim watches her for a few moments, enjoying the almost openly startled expressions of their stoic customers, but it’s happy hour, and Jim’s hands are full.
“So what’d they say?” he asks Gaila later, polishing the glasses while she balances the cash register.
“Hm?”
“The Vulcans? The secret agents?”
“Oh! Oh, well, actually-” She bites her lip and frowns. “They said they were from the Citizenship Commission or something. Monitoring my ‘assimilation.’ Asked me some funny questions.”
Jim steels. “What about?”
She squints at him. “About you mostly. How long I’ve known you, if I know about anything illegal that you might be involved in-”
Jim’s eyebrows fly up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, and also if you’re using me as your personal fuck toy.”
“What?”
“Well, he didn’t phrase it exactly like that.” Gaila shrugs and grimaces. “He said something along the lines of ‘pressing me for sexual favors.’ At which point I’m sorry to say I lost us a paying customer by throwing his drink in his face. I don’t think they’ll be coming back.”
“Yeah, well, good riddance.” Jim picks up his dish towel again. “Seriously, what a jerk. You should have told me, I’d have kicked his ass.”
Gaila giggles. “Jimmy, you couldn’t take a Vulcan.”
“Could, too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ll have you know that I can hold my own.” He puffs out his chest and Gaila snickers. “Anyway, Spock could take him. You wait till I tell him.”
By the time Jim sees Spock next, the story mostly turns into an anecdote, but Spock isn’t amused. He freezes at the news, his features growing still and pale as he listens. He calls Gaila over in a sharp tone Jim has never heard him use and makes her repeat the conversation word for word. She does, looking bewildered, and now Jim is alarmed, too.
“Spock, what’s wrong? Did we screw up her citizenship or something? They were just a pair of jerks, we didn’t know-”
“Jim,” Spock interrupts him firmly. “There is no ‘Citizenship Commission.’”
“But-” Jim blinks. “Then who the hell were those guys?”
Spock purses his lips and doesn’t answer. He demands in a no-nonsense tone that Jim calls him immediately if any other Vulcans step through the door, and he clearly knows something, but when Jim tries to insist, Spock flat-out refuses to tell him.
“Well, that’s just peachy.” Jim glares at him. “We didn’t ask for your help in the first place, and if you dragged us into something fishy, you could at least have the decency to tell us.”
“Jim!” Gaila hisses, horrified.
Spock’s face is blank. He looks over at Jim, then at Gaila and back. “You’re right,” he tells Jim coolly. “It was my involvement that brought on this... trouble. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
He walks out, ignoring Jim’s continuous swearing and Gaila’s pleas.
--
Jim doesn’t see Spock for three weeks after that until finally he arrives, dragged in by Uhura and looking mildly sheepish and stubborn at the same time. Jim, who has missed him terribly but will rather cut his arm off than admit it, greets him with a scowl and arms crossed over his chest.
Uhura rolls her eyes. Spock steps forward and states, in a tone that is anything but repentant, “It has been brought to my attention that I was in the wrong having walked out on you.”
Jim waits for anything more to come. When it doesn’t, he lifts his eyebrows. “You want a medal or something?”
“I wish to - that is, I-”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Uhura pushes Spock forward none too gently. “Kiss and make up already, will you? He’s been miserable these past three weeks.” She pins Jim down with an unimpressed look. “And from what I’ve been told, so have you.”
Jim glances sideways at a grinning Gaila and hisses, “Traitor.”
He’s so busy feeling betrayed that he almost misses the incredible phenomenon of Spock blushing. When he does notice, he does a double take, which makes Spock blush harder.
“Oh my God,” Jim mutters, a gleeful grin spreading irresistibly on his lips. “Spock, you know you only need to ask, right?”
Uhura is trying to disguise her laughter as a fit of coughing. Gaila has no such reservations and laughs out loud, while Spock glares at them.
“Let it be known,” he says with enough aplomb to fuel a couple of royal dynasties to the fiftieth generation, “that, at this moment, I sincerely regret knowing any of you.”
“Aw, come on,” Jim coos, patting him on the shoulder. “You know you love us. You get jealous when we talk to other Vulcans.”
There’s a subtle shift in Spock’s expression; his eyes are suddenly sober. “There have been no more... visitors?”
Jim shakes his head, watching him closely. “None.”
Spock visibly relaxes. “Good. That is good.”
Jim draws in a breath, then locks gazes with Spock - and lets it go.
“Come on,” he says. “I just got a whole new line of Andorian ice teas. It’s a special delivery and I need a tester.”
Spock lifts an eyebrow, smiles softly, and follows suit.
--
Pavel Chekov is a godsend.
Initially, Jim had his doubts, because the boy was barely legal in more senses than one and a runaway to boot, but he didn’t look like a junkie, so Jim went with it. It proved to be one of the most solid decisions Jim’s made in a long time, because Chekov’s puppy dog eyes can guilt anyone into spending twice as much as they intended.
People flirt with him, enthralled by his accent or his curls or God knows what, really, and that used to be a major concern for Jim. But Chekov seems to like it, and if things start to escalate, he masterfully hints at his close ties with the Russian mob, which usually works like a charm.
Besides, Chekov turns out to be a closet math genius, and when he timidly tells Jim he could maybe optimize the bar’s accounts, Jim wants to buy him a life-size cake, possibly with a stripper inside. Chekov blushes scarlet, because Jim apparently has no brain-to-mouth filter, and Gaila smacks Jim upside the head before leading Chekov off to show him Jim’s computer.
There are also two new girls on the staff, Janice and Tonya. Jim feels mildly intimidated by them, because Tonya tried to give him a back rub once and Jim can’t sit straight for a week afterwards, and Janice has this way of looking at him like she knows that he didn’t wash his hands before eating back in the fifth grade and when she finally gets some proof, Jim will be in so much trouble.
Gaila laughs at him shamelessly and unkindly, and Jim informs her for the thousandth time that she is a bad person. But he also has more time on his hands now, and can’t deny that it’s kind of nice.
For one thing, it allows him to haunt a flea market on a Saturday afternoon and drag Spock along with him.
Jim loves flea markets. There’s just something about their eclectic, inconsistently-tidy nature that appeals to him on a base level. He likes being assaulted by colors and shapes, and he likes to touch things that have history. Most of the bar’s interior is decorated with stuff Jim picked up at similar places at one time or other. Luckily, though, Jim seems to have a better vision of what would fit there than he does when it comes to his bedroom.
He turns around to look at Spock’s reaction and laughs out loud at the expression on Spock’s face.
Spock has way more expressions than he likes to admit, and right now, he’s startled into showing Jim a plethora. There’s the look of a kid in a candy shop, mixed with a neat freak’s terror at the lack of hygiene in his surroundings, topped with wariness of too much chaotic traffic around him, and spiked with the curiosity of an explorer.
Jim grins and tugs at Spock’s sleeve. “Come on.”
Very soon, Jim is happily surfing through a box of old paperbacks while Spock examines a stand with vintage earrings, trying to select a present for Nyota. Jim grins to himself, because Spock obviously has no idea that he’s supposed to bargain for goods, and looks bewildered when the vendor takes offense in him willing to pay sticker price.
Jim buys a whole set of Patrick O’Brian’s novels and a copper kettle that looks positively ancient. Spock, in addition to the earrings, buys an ancient tape recorder that seems to fascinate him to no end. Jim laughs at him, but Spock is unflappable, giving him nothing but a stoic eyebrow in reply.
The next stop is a teashop that Spock seems to like. The first time Spock mentioned it, Jim felt inexplicably jealous, even though he always suspected that his bar isn’t Spock’s typical scene. Spock seemed to have seen right through him at the time, because he smirked and said that Jim should allow himself to be occasionally reminded that there is life outside Bad Company, and permitting someone else to serve him a drink on a day off is not the end of the world.
Jim still grumbles unhappily about the place, but trails after Spock all the same, flashing insolent grins at the waitresses in retaliation.
Jim orders some elaborate concoction that includes coffee, whipped cream, chocolate syrup, raspberry jam, and waffles, called Midday Delight. Spock squints at it and says that it should have been called Diabetic Coma. Jim sticks his tongue out at him and winks at their server.
Spock, of course, is having some weirdly scented tea. He’s also reading Jim passages from the article he’s working on, sometimes asking for his opinion. Jim really has no idea why Spock would be after an advice from someone who dropped out of high school, and it’s really hard to think when Spock’s gaze is fixed on him with that unnerving intensity, so Jim mostly blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.
It’s disturbing to hear that Spock finds his opinions ‘refreshing.’
“Kill the last line,” Jim says, stretching in his seat.
“Why? I believe it is suitably laconic and illuminates the readers as to the story’s conclusion.”
“Exactly. You’re telling everyone what happens to this guy at the end, after he’s made this decision. Just - wouldn’t it be better if you left that open? Let people believe what they want?”
“This would constitute to a more dramatic resolution,” Spock notes dryly. “I am not aiming for additional theatricality.”
“Yes, you are, you big fraud,” Jim says, scooping the last of his dessert and grinning. “I’ve read your stuff, remember? You definitely have a thing for cliffhangers.”
“Unintentional, I assure you.”
“Wow, you even sound convincing.”
“Jim-”
“No, really, Spock. Think about it. Your article isn’t about whether or not this guy was successful. It’s about him being able to make this decision, that difficult choice. All that matters is that in the end, he made it. Whatever the consequences were, that’s all that really counts.”
Spock purses his lips, staring at his PADD, thinking.
“I believe I shall keep the line,” he decides finally, and Jim grins.
“Whatever, man. It’s a great line.”
Spock looks at him. Jim shrugs. “Why do you even ask me, anyway? I mean, you write like Ravoux Garan - only you know, better.”
Spock taps his PADD off and peers at Jim curiously. “Am I to understand you are a fan?”
“Of Ravoux Garan?” Jim asks hopefully, because Spock really doesn’t need to know that Jim has this disturbing habit of rereading Spock’s articles when he’s feeling low. “Absolutely. He’s...”
Spock waits patiently as Jim tries to dress his feelings into words.
“I’ve spent a lot of time on the move, you know,” Jim finally says. “Mostly read stuff by accident. You know, when someone forgot a book, or there was a free-for-all library, or I was lucky enough to run across a vendor. I read tons of really weird stuff - garbage, mostly. Then I stumbled over one of Garan’s books, and it was - shit, Spock, it was like discovering language. I had no idea you could do these things with words. It’s like they’re in my head, only they’re beautiful, you know? And I could - I could sort of - relate to those people, his characters, even though I was just another smudge of dirt at their feet.”
“Yes.” Spock’s lips curve slightly. “Your use of language, for one, fits that description perfectly.”
Jim throws a napkin at him. “Shut up.”
“Are you aware that Ravoux Garan will be presenting his new novel here in Chicago next week?”
“Really?” Jim perks up. “That’s fantastic. I thought it wouldn’t be out for another month.”
“It will not,” Spock confirms. “It is a pre-publication presentation for columnists and critics. I believe abstracts of the novel will be read-”
“Dammit,” Jim groans. “Did you have to tell me that?”
“I will attend.”
“What?” Jim blinks. “I didn’t know you did lit crit.”
“I do not. I do, however, have an invitation.” Spock pauses. “It’s a plus one.”
Jim doesn’t dare to breathe, because if he hears what he thinks he hears...
“Would you like to come with me, Jim?”
Jim lets out the breath he’s been holding, and wow, is his head actually spinning?
“Are you kidding me?”
Spock looks mildly chastised. “I did not know it would be of interest to you, or I would have asked you sooner.”
“Oh God, Spock, shut up, please, please.”
Spock hesitates. “I - am confused, Jim.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m damn near stupefied, and it’s all your fault.”
“Do you wish to-”
“Yes! Yes, dammit, I’m dying to go with you, so stop asking or I might actually believe this is happening.”
“This is highly illogical.”
“Tell me about it. Don’t you want to take someone else? Uhura, maybe?”
“Jim.” Spock begins to sound exasperated. “I believe my stated intentions are a good indication of what I want. If you do not wish to accompany me, simply say so.”
Jim stares at him, then grins slowly. “Spock, you’ve just invited me to a once in a lifetime chance to meet the guy who pulled me out of the gutter and has been my hero ever since, and you think that I’ll pass on this? Good luck shaking me off. In fact, can we go already?”
Spock’s smile seems almost relieved, and Jim is certain he’s seeing things.
“The presentation will take place next Friday,” Spock says. “And Jim - it is a black tie event.”
Jim blinks. “I will get to wear other clothes, too, right?”
Spock smirks, and doesn’t reply.
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