Transfiguration, Chapter 2 (Kirk/Spock, Star Trek XI AU)
Alternative Universe (or rather, pre-incarnation) story taking place in the early 2010s on Earth in New York City. Spock is a deacon in the Roman Catholic Church. Jim Kirk is the genius-level offender that drifts into his life. At 10k words and counting (although only chapter 1 posted so far), this is a love story.
Aside from our lovely beta le_culdesac, a multitude of people have aided us in conceiving this gigantic project. It would not have been possible for us to write this without them. Our acknowledgments and notes are to be found in the master post. All future chapters will also be linked there.
As always, all kinds of feedback are appreciated. ^o^
Title: Transfiguration (Chapter 2)
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Authors: snowlight and buoy
Rating: PG-13 (so far)
Status: WIP
Disclaimer: Kirk and Spock belong to each other, the story itself belongs to us, everything else belongs to Paramount.
Transfiguration
by Renata Lord (snowlight) & Ligeia (buoy)
One kind of splendor belongs to the sun, another to the moon, and still another to the stars.
-1 Corinthians 15:41
*
Chapter II
In later years, as the reach of James Tiberius Kirk creeps ever more steadily into his life, Spock finds himself wondering why he acted as he had that night they first met, or if he indeed met the other man for a reason. He has to tell himself that it's compelled by a divine will, and in certain self-satisfied moments he ponders whether Saint Jude, patron of the lost causes, was working through him at that hour. Yet all the internal struggles and debates invariably converge in the knowledge that one cannot discover the depth of God.
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done, from beginning to end.
It was a deep winter night, a few weeks before last year's Christmas. Spock had just finished making a house visit to Mrs. Arbers. Just as he swung around to the other side of the parked car, however, a clash of metal striking the ground came careening from the alley behind the corner. The sounds of an apparent fight-scuffling noises and shouts-broke out over the background noise of the city. Without thinking, Spock bolted around the corner towards the direction of the sound.
Halting right before the narrow alley, he just caught the sight of a limp figure being thrown against the far wall. Three figures surrounded the man, alternating as they kicked their victim against the ground. He didn't need to glance around to know there were no other witnesses but himself, but there was no onset of panic. When he found himself dialing 911 on his cellphone, his voice was calm as he requested police attention and surveyed the scene for the operator.
"I'm calling from the intersection of Krueger and Worthington in lower Manhattan. There's a physical altercation happening in the back alleyway, right now. Three men assaulting one. It looks very serious...no, I don't think guns are involved, but I can't see them very clearly from here."
The operator responded with something about the police arriving shortly, but Spock barely paid attention as the figure struggled up to a standing position and lunged forward. Two of the three surrounding men seized the victim by the arms in a restraint as the third laughed and lifted afist for a punch straight across his face-
"Hey, stop that!" he yelled, running. Three versus one, hardly a fair fight. The guy in the center wasn't even fighting back anymore, although judging from the bloodied faces of the three men, he'd probably done a number on them already.
The people stopped and looked at him with obvious surprise. Some of it was from seeing the black priest robe, he guessed. The Order of St. Teresa was one of the only orders that did not distinguish between priest and deacon clothing. In this part of the town, the old ethnic neighborhood, people still had some respect for the men of cloth.
"-what the hell? A priest?"
"Let him go. The police are already on their way here," he said matter-of-factly. Between the 911 call and the fact that small-time degenerates usually hesitated to beat up clergymen, the chance of him getting actively involved was low. And if it came to that, he probably could defend himself long enough for people to take notice of the car alarm going off outside the alley. But ultimately, he placed his trust in the protection from his Creator.
The three men looked at each other briefly before the biggest one of them spat on their target's face, pulling his fist back savagely. The other two men released the guy from the arm lock, and there was a low thud as the body hit the ground.
"We got even. Let's go."
"See'ya." Slurred words in a mockingly bright tone came out from the body slumped on the ground.
They retreated. Spock heard some muttered curses as they passed by him, one of them limping. He watched them leave with his back against the wall, eyes careful to project calmness and control. When the figures disappeared, he went over to the crumpled man.
"Are you alright?"
The guy was definitely not all right. He looked about Spock's age and build. Bruised cheeks, split lips, blackened eyes, and a contorted mockery of limbs. There were dark streaks in his blond hair, but Spock didn't see an open wound on his head and the blood probably belonged to his attackers.
Those swollen lips moved and he heard a soft curse.
"The police are coming. You will get help soon."
Against all improbability, the young man actually rolled his eyes at Spock and grimaced. "That's why I said 'shit'."
Right. Of course. People generally didn't get that good at fighting by staying out of trouble.
"Look, just get me out of here, okay? Drop me off somewhere away from here...anywhere. I don't care. For the love of God, I don't wanna deal with the cops."
If he encountered this scenario a hundred times, in perhaps ninety-nine of those hundred Spock would have refused outright. Yet for some reason, by what Father Pike would later call God's will, this one time he sighed in acquiescence and draped the young man's arm over his own shoulder.
"My car is outside. May I drive you to a place where somebody can watch over you?"
"No," the man mumbled, "My friend's at work and his girlfriend's a bitch."
Spock was smart enough to not ask about parents, or a home. He helped the stranger slip carefully onto the backseat, frowning when he saw the face twist with pain as he crossed the man's legs. There were dark stains on those jeans.
Making a sharp left turn before the yellow light was about to give way, he briefly considered taking the man into the nearest hospital emergency room; but that was probably another hornet's nest.
"Okay, here's good," his passenger slurred as they came upon a red light. "I can get off here. Thanks man."
Spock didn't open the door.
"I am not in the habit of dumping bodies," he said, already irritated with himself for complicating a simple matter. "You will stay at my place tonight."
He thought he heard the cursing again.
*
The man was still sound asleep the following morning when Spock awoke. Dawn began creeping in through the curtains as Spock stood there, straightening the crisp black sleeves of his shirt and watching the bruised pile of a body sprawled over his couch.
The blood that had been running down the man's nose and lips the previous night was mostly gone, leaving behind only bruises and gentle swelling. The blood on his hair was more or less cleaned off, as well as the cut on his thigh. An arm dangled off the couch, crooking slightly at the elbow as if to lift itself. Two feet away from the couch lay the crumple of ruined jeans.
Hospital would have still been the best option, but Spock told himself it wasn't his place to decide. He also knew next to nothing about the man-not even his name-much less how he'd react once awake. He doubted the man would attempt anything, this intuition arising from both a certainty inside and the man's reaction the night before. Before Spock left the man for the night, there was almost a touch of resigned gratitude and surprised humor in the voice.
"If you require anything else, you are free to ask me."
"That is so weird of you. Uh...thanks."
It was as though he had spoken gibberish instead of offering to help. Nonetheless, it was an honest reaction, one deeply reflective of the hardships this young man must be accustomed to facing.
So he went about his routine as he calmly waited for the man to awaken: oral hygiene, shower, shave, and morning prayer. With all that completed, and no signs of the stranger arousing from sleep, he returned to the living room and unceremoniously put a hand on the man's chest.
"Wake up."
At the disturbance, a deep groan broke out from the man's throat. The briefest of pauses followed and Spock then found himself staring into wide blue eyes-eyes that quickly snapped back shut with a resigned sigh. "Oh, fuck."
Spock ignored the clear irritation in that voice. If the behavior from the previous night was any indication, it was not an altogether unfamiliar situation for the man. He considered this as he weighed his words, even though it was clear that his guest did not believe he needed anything.
"I need to leave soon. Are you by any chance lactose-intolerant?"
The man gazed at him, obviously confused by the non-sequitur.
"Errr, no?" He replied finally, running a hand through dirty blond hair.
Spock said nothing but turned to the kitchen counter, retrieving two bowls and spoons. He settled those down on the table in front of the couch, followed by a carton of milk and the cereal box. Having fixed two bowls, he turned to the man and gestured towards one of them.
"Is that skim milk?" the man commented with a scandalized air. Spock ignored him and quietly said Grace. When he finished the prayer he looked across the table and saw the man staring at him with an indecipherable expression.
"Christ... You really are a priest?"
"Not yet," Spock answered after finishing a spoonful, "But I will be leaving in seven minutes for work. I suggest you eat the food before then."
The man complied, although somewhat reluctantly. He dragged himself up from the couch slowly, staring at the bowl a bit before digging in.
Spock was in no mood to ask questions, but just as he was about to finish the bowl the man put down the spoon and said, "Thanks man. You didn't have to do this."
"You are welcome." he didn't stop eating.
"I mean it," the man looked up at him, now smiling earnestly. "I'm Tiberius King. What's your name?"
"Spock. And it's not very polite to introduce yourself using a fake name," he stood up and took the emptied bowl into the counter, washing his hands.
"How did you know?" behind him, the non-Tiberius-King didn't sound angry or defensive.
"Your ID appeared fake." All three of them, each with a different name. "But that is not my concern."
There was a sigh, followed by the sound of a spoon being thrown into an empty bowl. "Sorry about that. The real name's James Kirk." And the man came over to join him at the sink, washing the bowl and the spoon. Spock noticed that even in this state, his hand's movements were fairly nimble. "Tiberius is my middle name, actually. So if I just told you I'm Tiberius, it wouldn't be lying really."
"And I suppose you could also tell me that given Tiberius was a Roman emperor, the last name King is also only fitting?" A brief, startled look flitted across the man's features, a look that told Spock his reply hit the mark. He didn't bother pointing out that Tiberius Caesar was the emperor under whom both John the Baptist and Jesus Christ were martyred, therefore any good Catholic-let alone a member of the clergy-would know that name by heart.
"Umm, yeah. Before we go, can I use your bathroom real quick?"
Spock gestured in assent and the man disappeared behind the narrow door. He stood before the kitchen counter mirror, adjusting the white collar and doing a final check before heading out to church. As always, the same image stared back at him: a figure shrouded in black, from the distinct haircut to the neatly ironed cassock. The only exception was a pale face with prominent, severe features. He tried to smile but found that he still couldn't do it well. It was a point Father Pike had occasionally remarked upon, this unnaturally stiff poker face of his.
Just then his cell phone rang. It was Pike, asking him which file directories the new forms were saved under because for the love of coffee, the poor man could not find that email with instructions in his inbox. Knowing that the Pastor was already at work despite the one-hour commute made Spock feeling slightly guilty, given that he lived all but ten minutes away from the church.
"My apologies, Father. I had meant to come in earlier today but I was...delayed."
"Oh? Everything alright, Spock?" the Pastor inquired with a typical mildness.
"Yes. I just..." he waved a hand, unaccountably frustrated somehow. "I picked up somebody who was injured and in need of shelter last night. He's using my bathroom as we speak. We will leave right after this, however."
"It's not one of our own, is it? Because if it's that Webster boy again"
"No, no," Spock said hurriedly, not wanting to let Pike worry, "His name is James Kirk. I don't think I've ever seen him around here."
There was a pause on the other end.
"James Kirk? That's...interesting. Spock, he wouldn't happen to be...actually, around your age?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. But I'm not sure that's even his real name. He first told me his name is Tiberius."
He heard Father repeating that odd name once, slowly. It was in a hushed and reverent tone, as if they were in the confessional for the Sacrament of Penance, surrounded by all that was holy.
"....Father?"
"Don't let him leave under any circumstances," Pike said suddenly, as if waking from a deep dream. "I'm coming to your place right now."
"Is something wrong, Father?" Spock wrinkled his brow. In his peripheral vision, he saw James Kirk coming out from the bathroom door, still wobbling slightly but otherwise looking wholly unremarkable.
If the enthusiasm in Pastor Pike's voice was any indication, however, they might as well have just received a vision from any number of saints.
"Nothing's wrong, Spock. It's only the prodigal son returning."
*
End of Chapter II
Continues in Chapter III
Aside from our lovely beta le_culdesac, a multitude of people have aided us in conceiving this gigantic project. It would not have been possible for us to write this without them. Our acknowledgments and notes are to be found in the master post. All future chapters will also be linked there.
As always, all kinds of feedback are appreciated. ^o^
Title: Transfiguration (Chapter 2)
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Authors: snowlight and buoy
Rating: PG-13 (so far)
Status: WIP
Disclaimer: Kirk and Spock belong to each other, the story itself belongs to us, everything else belongs to Paramount.
Transfiguration
by Renata Lord (snowlight) & Ligeia (buoy)
One kind of splendor belongs to the sun, another to the moon, and still another to the stars.
-1 Corinthians 15:41
*
Chapter II
In later years, as the reach of James Tiberius Kirk creeps ever more steadily into his life, Spock finds himself wondering why he acted as he had that night they first met, or if he indeed met the other man for a reason. He has to tell himself that it's compelled by a divine will, and in certain self-satisfied moments he ponders whether Saint Jude, patron of the lost causes, was working through him at that hour. Yet all the internal struggles and debates invariably converge in the knowledge that one cannot discover the depth of God.
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done, from beginning to end.
It was a deep winter night, a few weeks before last year's Christmas. Spock had just finished making a house visit to Mrs. Arbers. Just as he swung around to the other side of the parked car, however, a clash of metal striking the ground came careening from the alley behind the corner. The sounds of an apparent fight-scuffling noises and shouts-broke out over the background noise of the city. Without thinking, Spock bolted around the corner towards the direction of the sound.
Halting right before the narrow alley, he just caught the sight of a limp figure being thrown against the far wall. Three figures surrounded the man, alternating as they kicked their victim against the ground. He didn't need to glance around to know there were no other witnesses but himself, but there was no onset of panic. When he found himself dialing 911 on his cellphone, his voice was calm as he requested police attention and surveyed the scene for the operator.
"I'm calling from the intersection of Krueger and Worthington in lower Manhattan. There's a physical altercation happening in the back alleyway, right now. Three men assaulting one. It looks very serious...no, I don't think guns are involved, but I can't see them very clearly from here."
The operator responded with something about the police arriving shortly, but Spock barely paid attention as the figure struggled up to a standing position and lunged forward. Two of the three surrounding men seized the victim by the arms in a restraint as the third laughed and lifted afist for a punch straight across his face-
"Hey, stop that!" he yelled, running. Three versus one, hardly a fair fight. The guy in the center wasn't even fighting back anymore, although judging from the bloodied faces of the three men, he'd probably done a number on them already.
The people stopped and looked at him with obvious surprise. Some of it was from seeing the black priest robe, he guessed. The Order of St. Teresa was one of the only orders that did not distinguish between priest and deacon clothing. In this part of the town, the old ethnic neighborhood, people still had some respect for the men of cloth.
"-what the hell? A priest?"
"Let him go. The police are already on their way here," he said matter-of-factly. Between the 911 call and the fact that small-time degenerates usually hesitated to beat up clergymen, the chance of him getting actively involved was low. And if it came to that, he probably could defend himself long enough for people to take notice of the car alarm going off outside the alley. But ultimately, he placed his trust in the protection from his Creator.
The three men looked at each other briefly before the biggest one of them spat on their target's face, pulling his fist back savagely. The other two men released the guy from the arm lock, and there was a low thud as the body hit the ground.
"We got even. Let's go."
"See'ya." Slurred words in a mockingly bright tone came out from the body slumped on the ground.
They retreated. Spock heard some muttered curses as they passed by him, one of them limping. He watched them leave with his back against the wall, eyes careful to project calmness and control. When the figures disappeared, he went over to the crumpled man.
"Are you alright?"
The guy was definitely not all right. He looked about Spock's age and build. Bruised cheeks, split lips, blackened eyes, and a contorted mockery of limbs. There were dark streaks in his blond hair, but Spock didn't see an open wound on his head and the blood probably belonged to his attackers.
Those swollen lips moved and he heard a soft curse.
"The police are coming. You will get help soon."
Against all improbability, the young man actually rolled his eyes at Spock and grimaced. "That's why I said 'shit'."
Right. Of course. People generally didn't get that good at fighting by staying out of trouble.
"Look, just get me out of here, okay? Drop me off somewhere away from here...anywhere. I don't care. For the love of God, I don't wanna deal with the cops."
If he encountered this scenario a hundred times, in perhaps ninety-nine of those hundred Spock would have refused outright. Yet for some reason, by what Father Pike would later call God's will, this one time he sighed in acquiescence and draped the young man's arm over his own shoulder.
"My car is outside. May I drive you to a place where somebody can watch over you?"
"No," the man mumbled, "My friend's at work and his girlfriend's a bitch."
Spock was smart enough to not ask about parents, or a home. He helped the stranger slip carefully onto the backseat, frowning when he saw the face twist with pain as he crossed the man's legs. There were dark stains on those jeans.
Making a sharp left turn before the yellow light was about to give way, he briefly considered taking the man into the nearest hospital emergency room; but that was probably another hornet's nest.
"Okay, here's good," his passenger slurred as they came upon a red light. "I can get off here. Thanks man."
Spock didn't open the door.
"I am not in the habit of dumping bodies," he said, already irritated with himself for complicating a simple matter. "You will stay at my place tonight."
He thought he heard the cursing again.
*
The man was still sound asleep the following morning when Spock awoke. Dawn began creeping in through the curtains as Spock stood there, straightening the crisp black sleeves of his shirt and watching the bruised pile of a body sprawled over his couch.
The blood that had been running down the man's nose and lips the previous night was mostly gone, leaving behind only bruises and gentle swelling. The blood on his hair was more or less cleaned off, as well as the cut on his thigh. An arm dangled off the couch, crooking slightly at the elbow as if to lift itself. Two feet away from the couch lay the crumple of ruined jeans.
Hospital would have still been the best option, but Spock told himself it wasn't his place to decide. He also knew next to nothing about the man-not even his name-much less how he'd react once awake. He doubted the man would attempt anything, this intuition arising from both a certainty inside and the man's reaction the night before. Before Spock left the man for the night, there was almost a touch of resigned gratitude and surprised humor in the voice.
"If you require anything else, you are free to ask me."
"That is so weird of you. Uh...thanks."
It was as though he had spoken gibberish instead of offering to help. Nonetheless, it was an honest reaction, one deeply reflective of the hardships this young man must be accustomed to facing.
So he went about his routine as he calmly waited for the man to awaken: oral hygiene, shower, shave, and morning prayer. With all that completed, and no signs of the stranger arousing from sleep, he returned to the living room and unceremoniously put a hand on the man's chest.
"Wake up."
At the disturbance, a deep groan broke out from the man's throat. The briefest of pauses followed and Spock then found himself staring into wide blue eyes-eyes that quickly snapped back shut with a resigned sigh. "Oh, fuck."
Spock ignored the clear irritation in that voice. If the behavior from the previous night was any indication, it was not an altogether unfamiliar situation for the man. He considered this as he weighed his words, even though it was clear that his guest did not believe he needed anything.
"I need to leave soon. Are you by any chance lactose-intolerant?"
The man gazed at him, obviously confused by the non-sequitur.
"Errr, no?" He replied finally, running a hand through dirty blond hair.
Spock said nothing but turned to the kitchen counter, retrieving two bowls and spoons. He settled those down on the table in front of the couch, followed by a carton of milk and the cereal box. Having fixed two bowls, he turned to the man and gestured towards one of them.
"Is that skim milk?" the man commented with a scandalized air. Spock ignored him and quietly said Grace. When he finished the prayer he looked across the table and saw the man staring at him with an indecipherable expression.
"Christ... You really are a priest?"
"Not yet," Spock answered after finishing a spoonful, "But I will be leaving in seven minutes for work. I suggest you eat the food before then."
The man complied, although somewhat reluctantly. He dragged himself up from the couch slowly, staring at the bowl a bit before digging in.
Spock was in no mood to ask questions, but just as he was about to finish the bowl the man put down the spoon and said, "Thanks man. You didn't have to do this."
"You are welcome." he didn't stop eating.
"I mean it," the man looked up at him, now smiling earnestly. "I'm Tiberius King. What's your name?"
"Spock. And it's not very polite to introduce yourself using a fake name," he stood up and took the emptied bowl into the counter, washing his hands.
"How did you know?" behind him, the non-Tiberius-King didn't sound angry or defensive.
"Your ID appeared fake." All three of them, each with a different name. "But that is not my concern."
There was a sigh, followed by the sound of a spoon being thrown into an empty bowl. "Sorry about that. The real name's James Kirk." And the man came over to join him at the sink, washing the bowl and the spoon. Spock noticed that even in this state, his hand's movements were fairly nimble. "Tiberius is my middle name, actually. So if I just told you I'm Tiberius, it wouldn't be lying really."
"And I suppose you could also tell me that given Tiberius was a Roman emperor, the last name King is also only fitting?" A brief, startled look flitted across the man's features, a look that told Spock his reply hit the mark. He didn't bother pointing out that Tiberius Caesar was the emperor under whom both John the Baptist and Jesus Christ were martyred, therefore any good Catholic-let alone a member of the clergy-would know that name by heart.
"Umm, yeah. Before we go, can I use your bathroom real quick?"
Spock gestured in assent and the man disappeared behind the narrow door. He stood before the kitchen counter mirror, adjusting the white collar and doing a final check before heading out to church. As always, the same image stared back at him: a figure shrouded in black, from the distinct haircut to the neatly ironed cassock. The only exception was a pale face with prominent, severe features. He tried to smile but found that he still couldn't do it well. It was a point Father Pike had occasionally remarked upon, this unnaturally stiff poker face of his.
Just then his cell phone rang. It was Pike, asking him which file directories the new forms were saved under because for the love of coffee, the poor man could not find that email with instructions in his inbox. Knowing that the Pastor was already at work despite the one-hour commute made Spock feeling slightly guilty, given that he lived all but ten minutes away from the church.
"My apologies, Father. I had meant to come in earlier today but I was...delayed."
"Oh? Everything alright, Spock?" the Pastor inquired with a typical mildness.
"Yes. I just..." he waved a hand, unaccountably frustrated somehow. "I picked up somebody who was injured and in need of shelter last night. He's using my bathroom as we speak. We will leave right after this, however."
"It's not one of our own, is it? Because if it's that Webster boy again"
"No, no," Spock said hurriedly, not wanting to let Pike worry, "His name is James Kirk. I don't think I've ever seen him around here."
There was a pause on the other end.
"James Kirk? That's...interesting. Spock, he wouldn't happen to be...actually, around your age?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. But I'm not sure that's even his real name. He first told me his name is Tiberius."
He heard Father repeating that odd name once, slowly. It was in a hushed and reverent tone, as if they were in the confessional for the Sacrament of Penance, surrounded by all that was holy.
"....Father?"
"Don't let him leave under any circumstances," Pike said suddenly, as if waking from a deep dream. "I'm coming to your place right now."
"Is something wrong, Father?" Spock wrinkled his brow. In his peripheral vision, he saw James Kirk coming out from the bathroom door, still wobbling slightly but otherwise looking wholly unremarkable.
If the enthusiasm in Pastor Pike's voice was any indication, however, they might as well have just received a vision from any number of saints.
"Nothing's wrong, Spock. It's only the prodigal son returning."
*
End of Chapter II
Continues in Chapter III