What Part of Forever: Chapter One
Title: What Part of Forever (Chapter 1)
Author & Mixer: Kairi (feels_like_fire) Did my own mix for this, which you can find here.
Artist: kauniainen did a beautiful piece of artwork that you can see HERE, I will make sure she sees all of your comments!
Betas: This fic would not EXIST if it were not for the efforts of tmysha, rainjewel, and linzeestyle. I CAN NEVER THANK YOU ENOUGH.
Series: AOS/Reboot, slight AU
Character/Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, McCoy, Rand, Chapel, Pike, Winona Kirk, Sarek, T'Pring, Harry Mudd, with cameos by Scotty and Number One
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: ~85k total; this part, 13,671
Summary: Vulcan is considering seceding from the Federation, and Spock has decided to take this opportunity to explore the Human half he's neglected for over half his life, since his mother's death when he was young. While there, he meets James T. Kirk, sometimes-prostitute, supposed good-for-nothing, and completely irresistible. Chemistry ignites, but when the date of the hearing on Vulcan's secession arrives, Spock must decide where his loyalties lie. Pretty Woman redux-now with more sex.
The house on the corner of 4th Street and A Street didn't look any different from any other house in that part of Venice Beach. It had a tiny shed in the backyard that held a number of beach cruisers, abandoned by the house's previous occupants; it had a front yard overwhelmed almost completely by a single magnolia tree; and it was painted exactly the same color as every other house on its block, an uninspiring shell-pink with white trim. But at 2 am, it was the only house on the block-practically the entire neighborhood-that still had a light blazing in one of the windows.
Inside, one of the house's two inhabitants was sacked out on the couch, having fallen dead asleep two hours ago despite the three lamps he'd left on and the medical periodical he'd been studying, now lying open across his broad chest, slowly rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing. Dr. Leonard McCoy was a good three months behind on his CME, and he'd promised himself he'd play a little catch-up tonight after work, but his head nurse had asked him to come try out a new Tellarian fusion restaurant downtown and he'd had such a good day he'd decided to oblige her. Trying to read about the latest antiviral medications after a heavy dinner and two glasses of wine had been exactly as useful as pushing a boulder up-hill would have been, but McCoy had thought maybe he'd wait up for Jim and get some reading done in the process.
The screen door slammed, and McCoy jerked awake as though he'd been slapped, his CME sliding from his sleep-clumsy fingers to the floor. Fuck, what time was it? McCoy squinted hazily at the clock on the opposite side of the room, just making out the blurry "2:04 a.m." before the sounds of his housemate entering the kitchen and opening the 'fridge reached his ears. Jesus christ, he'd fallen asleep on the couch again.
"Jim?" McCoy sat up, wincing slightly at the way all the vertebrae in his back snapped and popped.
"I wondered if you were still awake." Jim's voice floated back to him from the kitchen, nauseatingly cheerful for such a dead hour of the morning. "Didn't you pull another double today?"
"Nngh. I was supposed to, but Dr. Vajasthaya relieved me early." McCoy stood up, taking a moment to stretch his cramped muscles-why he kept falling asleep in the living room when he had a perfectly comfortable bed, he'd never know. He retrieved his CME from the floor, depositing it on the table as he shuffled towards the kitchen. He knew from experience that Jim coming home this late meant he'd been out with a client, and tired as he was, McCoy wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep until he'd at least checked on Jim first. "How're you-Jesus fucking Christ!"
Jim looked up at McCoy from the sandwich he was fixing, his complacent expression a jarring contrast to his split lip and smeared eye makeup. The stiffness in his posture made McCoy's stomach tighten. "It's worse than it looks," Jim said, flashing an easy smile that McCoy didn't buy for a second. McCoy glared, his exhaustion and good humor vanishing instantly, stalking across the room and grabbing Jim's wrist in one hand, the other going to cup Jim's jaw, tilting his face up. "Bones, fucking christ, would you just-ow, fuck-"
"Ow?" McCoy glanced down at the arm he was holding and froze at the sight of the faint discolored marks ringing Jim's wrist-four even, darkening marks, offset by a fifth one on the opposite side. The irritation flared hotter in his chest, and for a moment McCoy was actually speechless. That didn't last long, however. "What the fuck, Jim!"
Jim took this brief distraction as an opportunity to wrench his arm out of McCoy's hand, turning sideways away from his friend, trying to end the conversation physically. "It's not a big deal, Bones, you just need to chill, okay-"
"The hell I do!" McCoy was already storming out of the room, returning within moments with a small oblong snap-case, which he slammed down on the counter and pulled open, muttering under his breath as he rummaged through it for his tricorder. The case was an emergency medical kit he'd taken from the hospital, about a month after he'd started rooming with Jim. He wasn't really supposed to have it at home, but Jim had sort of made it a necessity. "Get up on the counter."
"Bones, I really just want to eat a sandwich and-"
"Counter. Now." McCoy leveled a glare at Jim, and Jim sighed, recognizing an unwinnable battle when he saw it. McCoy waited till Jim had hoisted himself up on the counter next to his half-made sandwich before sweeping the tricorder over him, checking for internal bleeding. "Did you use protection?"
"Of course I did. I'm not a fucking moron." Jim leaned back, crossing his arms impatiently.
"Yeah, I'm gonna have to disagree with that assessment. Because I can't think of any other reason why you let some twisted sicko beat up on you, Jesus Christ, Jim." Satisfied that Jim was not going to bleed out from internal hemorrhaging, McCoy switched off the tricorder and set it aside, turning his attention once more to the busted lip. The smeared eyeliner was common enough, though it sickened McCoy if he thought too hard about the implications, but the physical injuries were another matter altogether.
"It's not a big deal! It was an accident, okay-" Jim's good humor was completely gone at this point. Now he sounded almost as irritated as McCoy did, scowling up at his friend as McCoy probed his face, checking for broken bones and testing the extent of the injury.
"Oh yeah?" McCoy retorted, reaching for his dermoplaser. "What, you just 'accidentally' took a fist to the face? Smashed your mouth into the headboard? And what about those marks on your wrist, here? Was that an accident too?" Jim held still exactly long enough for McCoy to run the dermoplaser over his lip, wincing slightly at the sting of skin knitting itself back together, and then he was shoving McCoy away from him, sliding off the counter.
"It's none of your fucking business, is what it is." Jim turned away, the stiff carry of his shoulders screaming drop it already, but McCoy had already had twice his quota of bullshit for one day and wasn't about to put up with more.
"Then whose business is it?" McCoy snatched a hypo from his kit and grabbed Jim's arm again, jabbing him in the bicep before Jim could pull away.
"FUCK! STOP THAT!" Jim whirled, glaring at McCoy, hands bunching into fists, but McCoy was up in his space again already, crowding him against the counter, so angry he wasn't thinking clearly anymore.
"No, Jim, you stop it. This is the third time in the past two weeks you've come home all roughed up, I'm getting sick and tired of patching you up just so you can find another pervert to do it all over again-"
"Then why the fuck are you bothering? Fuck off, already! I didn't ask you to kiss my boo-boos and make it better, so get off my case already! I'm not one of your patients, okay?"
"No I will not get off your case!" McCoy knew he was pushing it, could recognize that tight clench of Jim's jaw from a mile away, but he couldn't stop himself. "You're right, you're not one of my patients, which is why I want to know why, after I spend all day putting idiots back together, I have to come home and do it with you, too!"
"I already told you that you don't have to!" Jim's whole body was tense now, vibrating with the same tight, unruly energy that McCoy recognized from the times he'd seen right before Jim threw the first punch in the dive bar du jour. He wondered distantly if he really was about to get into a brawl with his best friend, and it brought him up short just as Jim raised his arms as if to shove McCoy away from him, his hands bunched into tight fists.
"You know what, we're done here," McCoy said, and raised his hands, palms-out, stepping back and away from Jim. "I can't stop you from throwin' yourself in the briar patch if you're that determined to do it." Bad enough that Jim had come home, dragging his drama with him yet again; McCoy wasn't going to tarnish his day further by rising to this situation. He walked out of the room without looking back, thus missing the disgruntled, abortive glower Jim threw after him, and bent to pick up the couch-pillows and his CME from the floor. Maybe he'd just go to bed, though no doubt he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for awhile. He heard a noise behind him but didn't look up, not until Jim cleared his throat. McCoy stood up and turned around, arms crossed over his chest. "Yes?"
Jim stood in the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched, watching McCoy with a mixture of resentment and what McCoy wouldn't scare back into hiding by calling embarrassment. "Sorry," Jim said at length, when McCoy made no attempt to help him out. McCoy rolled his eyes, and Jim sighed. "Look, tonight was stupid, okay? I told the guy I'm not seeing him again."
"Thank God for small mercies," McCoy said, and shook his head. There was still a huge, hot mess there, but he was done poking at it for tonight. "Let's drop it for now, Jim, it's too late and I'm too tired for us to have this conversation again tonight."
"Yeah, okay." Jim stuck his hands in his pockets, completing the image of a surly and repentant schoolboy. He hesitated, opening his mouth again. "You know-"
"Watch it, kid, you're gonna embarrass yourself worse," McCoy growled, but the anger burning the back of his throat had gone.
"As if," Jim said easily, and McCoy could hear the smile Jim was trying not to show, knew it was probably just this side of shit-eating. "You have tomorrow off, right?"
McCoy scowled. "No, I switched with Dr. Pierce so I could get a few days off in a row. Don't have off till day after tomorrow."
"Okay, then. Day after tomorrow, you're mine. Let's hit the boardwalk and catch a movie." Jim leaned forward, fixing those baby-blues on McCoy, and damn but those eyes could probably stop-or start-a war. Jim knew it, too.
McCoy heaved another sigh, this one loud and much put-upon. "Alright, fine. Now put the eyes away, already, I'm not buyin' what you're selling. Thank Christ."
"Only 'cause you're too old-fashioned to try the goods," Jim said cheerfully, and laughed as McCoy reached over and punched him in the shoulder. "Ow!"
"Don't push your luck, Jim," McCoy said, and Jim smiled.
* * * * *
Spock watched the transport pull away from the curb, re-entering the flow of morning traffic. Pedestrians parted around him like salmon in a stream, disregarding his presence entirely. Most were human, with a few representatives of other species appearing now and then-a Rigellian in a crimson uniform here, an Andorian in a light traveling robe there, antennae waving absently. It was a testament to how unusual Los Angeles was as a city, even on Earth, that not even the appearance of a Vulcan was enough to provoke so much as a second glance.
Or a half-Vulcan, Spock corrected himself silently.
Spock moved out of the direct line of foot-traffic on the sidewalk and turned on the spot, making a slow survey of the scene in which he found himself. It was not yet 9 am, and already the temperature had reached a comfortable level for Spock. But "comfortable" on Vulcan translated to "oppressively hot" by Earth standards, even in a city used to sun and warmth. This Spock knew from his research, not from experience; he had been to Earth exactly once before in his life, and that was when he was very young, years before the death of his mother. And he had never been to Los Angeles, a city he found metastatic and overwhelming in both size and pace of living.
But now that he was here, standing at the corner of Santa Monica and Wilshire Boulevard, instead of the deep inner calm all Vulcans strive for, logic's refuge, Spock found himself experiencing a sensation unpleasantly similar to the helplessness of zero G. He had no frame of reference, nothing to hold onto, no convenient starting point. It was a sensation he was quickly growing tired of-a sentiment that was wholly illogical, considering he was at the very beginning of his private exploration of his Human heritage.
Spock had decided before leaving Vulcan that he would attempt to explore his mother's heritage while Earth-side, particularly in light of the fact that he might soon lose the opportunity permanently. He had known in advance that it would be a difficult undertaking, made more so by his decision to keep his study as private as possible. But it was not until this moment-staring out at the massive expanse of a city, an entire planet indifferent to his existence-it was not until now that Spock realized exactly how inadequately he was prepared for this undertaking. Where did he even begin?
A Vulcan would approach the situation logically: formulate a list of objectives, from which he would generate a set of goals and the means by which to achieve them. A Vulcan would differentiate the tasks according to their type, taking into account the history, genealogy, interests, and so on of the subject, one Dr. Amanda Grayson. And if Spock was on Vulcan, that would be what he would do. But he was not on Vulcan; he was on Earth. And very little on Earth seemed to follow any sort of logical plan or procedure, least of all Earth's inhabitants. Spock could not escape the nagging idea that he would be unable to truly understand any part of his human heritage unless he made at least an attempt to experience humanity the way a Human might.
Perhaps, Spock decided, he should begin by simply observing. It would be instructional, if nothing else.
Spock slipped back into the flow of pedestrian traffic, heading down the sidewalk towards a plaza further along the street. It looked to be a town square or public space of some sort, dotted here and there with tables and benches and crowded around with what Spock realized was art, propped up on display on easels and tables. Spock surmised that some sort of artistic exhibit was being held here today. A number of beings milled about, mostly human but with the same scattering of xeno-biodiversity Spock had observed before, conversing amongst themselves and admiring the art on display. Spock found an empty bench and settled onto it, devoting his attention to the clusters of humanity passing by him.
A family unit drifted by, a young couple shepherding a pair of blond children ahead of them, trailed by a grey-haired woman Spock guessed to be the mother of one of the parents. Spock watched closely at how the parents interacted with their children, intrigued at the seeming lack of direction the family's path had. The mother and father seemed content to follow in the wake of their children, the mother occasionally calling to her offspring to warn them away from other pedestrians or one of the displays.
Spock watched as the boy child tripped and fell, tumbling in a heap of chubby limbs to the ground and immediately bursting into tears. His mother rushed over and plucked her squalling child from the pavement, cradling him against her chest, shushing him with an expression on her face that Spock could not quite interpret. She did not seem unhappy, which Spock found peculiar, considering how loudly her son was currently bawling into her ear. Spock tried to recall a similar such event from his youth on Vulcan, and found he could not. His eyes lingered on the young mother, and the way she rocked her son against her chest, singing into his ear to calm him.
Her mother temporary distracted, the older of the two children took the opportunity to toddle over to where Spock sat observing the tableau. A girl of about four with her hair in messy twin braids down her back, she looked up at Spock somberly, sucking at the two fingers lodged firmly in her mouth. Spock returned her gaze, nodding once at the girl in acknowledgment. The girl's eyes widened, and she whirled on the spot, ripping her drool-covered fingers from her mouth to point at Spock as she cried out, "Daddy daddy daddy he has pointy ears!"
"Rivkah!" The father turned, coming over to his daughter and grabbing for the hand that was not flung out at Spock. "That was very rude, you know better than that! I want you to apologize, right now."
"But daddy-"
"Apologize, Rivkah."
The girl leaned against her father's leg, clutching at his hand now with both of hers as she fixed blue eyes once more on Spock. "M'sorry," she mumbled, suddenly and inexplicably shy. Spock watched as she buried her face in her father's leg, and noted the way the father's features softened as he looked down at her, bending down after a moment to lift her into his arms as his wife had with Rivkah's brother thirty-two point five seconds ago. Rivkah's arms went around her father's neck, laying her head on his shoulder as she pressed herself against his chest. Only then did the father's gaze flicker up to Spock, and Spock could tell from the way the man's eyes widened slightly that Spock's ears had just been noticed for the second time. Spock inclined his head at Rivkah's father, unsure of the proper Earth greeting in this context, and the man smiled back. Spock thought the smile seemed rather hesitant.
"Sorry," the man said. "Kids, you know."
"It is of no consequence," Spock said. "Your apology is accepted, but unnecessary. No offense was given." Again the man smiled, fainter this time, and marred by the way his eyebrows drew together, and then he turned away from Spock, trailing after the rest of his family, who had wandered deeper into the art show.
Spock watched them go. Human interaction was proving to be most inexplicable.
An hour later, his assessment had not changed much. From his bench, Spock observed four family units of various configurations (the most interesting one being an interracial couple in which both parents wore clothing and adornments typical of female Humans, but of which only one had the physical attributes to match); three interracial, childless couples; nineteen groups composed of individuals who were all clearly friends; thirteen solo individuals accompanied only by their pet-and not one of them had given Spock the faintest idea where to proceed next in his investigation.
Spock sighed, reaching into his robe to retrieve his PADD and send a message to request a transport back to the Beverly Wilshire, where he was staying with Sarek and a few other Vulcans who'd already arrived. As Sarek was here in his official function as Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, he would be splitting his time between San Francisco, where Starfleet Academy made its headquarters, and Los Angeles, which would be playing host to myriad beings who would be arriving to attend or testify at the secession hearing next month.
As he hit "send," a large red double-decker transport of an old-fashioned design pulled up to the curb not far from where Spock sat waiting, with Los Angeles Tourism Company emblazoned on the side in bright yellow letters. Spock watched as the bus opened to disgorge a large number of humans and not a few aliens, all of them chattering to each other and clutching PADDs to their chests. A number of them scattered, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings, and started taking photos. A few moments later, a young, sandy-haired Human male in a yellow t-shirt exited the bus, wearing dark glasses over his eyes to protect them from the sun. Immediately he turned, raising his voice to address the crowd. "Alright, everyone line up! We're going to start the tour in a moment here, so make sure you have your confirmation codes and everything you need, we won't be coming back to the bus for a few hours..." A guide, Spock realized. The young man was a tour guide.
The realization jolted something loose in Spock's mind, and he wondered at his own shortsightedness. Taking on a mentor had been his very first impulse, back before he'd even landed on Earth-but he had only considered taking a Vulcan guide, and had summarily rejected the idea, due to wanting to avoid drawing additional unwanted attention to his mixed heritage. And though Spock did not believe that Sarek would actively disapprove of Spock's project, it was likely that once Sarek learned of its existence, he would wish to engage in conversations that Spock was not yet prepared to have.
But who better to ask for help investigating his Human heritage than a Human? On Earth, no less. Spock knew that all or most of his peers would reject the idea of investigating his Human side as having no merit; certainly they would treat the idea of asking a Human to be their guide with the same disdain. This came not from an inherent dislike of Humans so much as Vulcan condescension towards all other beings contained in the wide galaxy. It was a testament to the limited Vulcan way of thinking that this idea had not even occurred to Spock until now, which in turn clearly showed how necessary a guide was if Spock truly wished to achieve any measure of success.
The tour group, having collected itself into something resembling an orderly unit, now moved away down the street, following the young man in the yellow shirt, whose voice Spock could still hear raised above the general hubbub of the busy crosswalk. Spock watched them go, already assessing the best way to go about finding a guide. He could not ask any of his fellows for aid; completely aside from his desire for privacy, it would be an exercise in pointlessness, for as they were all Vulcan, none of them would have any better idea of who to ask than Spock did.
Spock glanced up as the black transport he'd been waiting for slid smoothly up to stop parallel to the curb, and a chauffeur climbed out of the passenger seat, opening the back door for Spock. Spock remembered how quietly impressive the staff of the Wilshire was, as professional and efficient as any hospitality staff he had ever encountered elsewhere in the galaxy. It was true that Starfleet was footing the bill for Sarek and Spock to stay at such an exclusive hotel, ostensibly as a courtesy for the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, but that had not stopped Spock from experiencing profound satisfaction at the grace and care that the staff had taken with their guests. This transport had been dispatched by the hotel manager himself. Harcourt Mudd had greeted the Vulcan entourage personally upon their arrival, and had taken pains to tell Spock and Sarek that they were to not hesitate to contact Mudd should they need anything.
As Spock slid across the smooth nuleather of the back seat, that reflection clicked over into the germ of an idea. Mudd seemed an ideal person to speak to regarding Spock's dilemma. As the manager of a hotel that catered to a wide range of intergalactic guests, Mudd would almost certainly know someone within his list of contacts who would be suited to aiding Spock. Spock was not quite as certain of the manager's discretion, but he would simply have to make sure he emphasized his desire for privacy when making his request.
Spock looked out the window, contemplating the Los Angeles skyline as the buildings and scenery slid by outside. Here, where there were no other Vulcans to observe his impolitic behavior, he could admit to himself that he felt a small measure of relief. Perhaps his research would be fruitful, after all. It was a comforting thought.
* * * * *
"Why did I agree to let you drag me out here? Especially when our house has perfectly functional air-conditioning? Sweet Mary and Joseph, it is entirely too hot today for this."
Jim wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, glancing at McCoy, unable to repress a grin at his friend's incessant complaining. "Quit your whinin', Georgia. Isn't it at least this hot back where you're from? With humidity, to boot?"
"Yeah, but we're not stupid enough to go outside in the middle of the goddamn day. We stay inside. In the air conditioning."
"Except when you sit on the back porch and drink your mint juleps or your sweet iced tea and talk about the glory days of the Civil War, right?" Jim laughed as McCoy flipped him the bird, and took another drink of his horchata.
McCoy wasn't wrong-it was probably close to a hundred today, without a cloud in the sky to moderate the heat of the August sun. Only the breeze from the Pacific a few blocks away saved it from being too wretched to function, with the trade-off being the sun's blinding reflection off the surface of the ocean, too bright to look at without shades. Jim didn't mind. Eating ceviche from the taco stand and drinking beer didn't exactly qualify as strenuous activity.
Jim leaned back against the picnic table they'd staked out, taking another bite of his tostada. "What do you wanna do after this?" he asked. He let his gaze linger on a couple of girls walking by on the other side of the street, their skin glistening bronze under the sun, clad in nothing but bathing suits and floral wrap-arounds. McCoy snorted softly, but Jim knew his friend was watching just as Jim was. He was only human, after all, divorce or not.
"Thought you wanted to head down to the boardwalk?" McCoy took a pull of his beer, raising an eyebrow at Jim.
"Sure do. Just wanted to make sure you were still up for it. I mean, seein' as it's hotter than a witch's left tit or whatever-"
"Jim, I realize you aspire to grow up a bitter old asshole like me someday, but you'd just better leave the hard stuff to the professionals 'til you get the hang of it. The phrase you're thinking of is, 'colder than a witch's left titty.' What you actually probably wanted to say was 'hotter than Satan's asscrack.'"
Jim sputtered, face creasing with laughter as McCoy took another regal swallow of his beer. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but Jim could recognize "smug bastard" at fifty yards on his friend. "Are you real? Like, are you sure you're not just a particularly ridiculous folk caricature from a bad sitcom, because I don't think people actually talk like that anymore. In case you were, you know, confused."
"Whatever, kid. Not my fault the sun has fried your brains." Now it was Jim's turn to flick off McCoy, and the doctor just smiled serenely, finishing off the rest of his beer in one long drink, muscles of his throat working.
They finished their lunch, paid for two more beers, and then headed off towards the beach, setting an easy pace that was little more than a stroll. Technically, Los Angeles still had an no-open-container law, but this part of town was quiet and as long as you weren't rowdy, it was rare for law enforcement to harass you about it. Jim had tried to talk McCoy into taking out the beach cruisers, but McCoy had insisted that they were relaxing, not exercising, and Jim wasn't inclined to argue. Not when it was this hot.
Two days had passed since their late-night quarrel, days that McCoy had spent working and Jim had spent cleaning and studying for the classes he was taking at UCLA. Neither of them had brought up the argument since, which was perfectly fine as far as Jim was concerned. Jim knew McCoy didn't like what Jim did for a living, but he'd been so preoccupied with the divorce and the associated custody negotiation that he rarely had the energy to actually say anything to Jim about it. But with the divorce over with, or at least settled, McCoy would be looking for something to take his mind off his troubles, and Jim had the sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what that subject would be.
Jim dragged McCoy down to the water's edge, and after a minimum of harassment McCoy finally followed Jim into the waves breaking against the sand, his grumpiness belying his genuine enjoyment. They wandered up the beach in this manner, weaving in and out of the other beach-goers. Jim always got a lot of attention when he went around shirtless, and McCoy was no slouch in that department either, with his broad chest and dark hair, though he met the inevitable admiring looks with a roll of his eyes instead of Jim's cheerful smirk. The water was pleasantly cool on their feet, moderating the scorching mid-afternoon heat, and for awhile Jim allowed his mind to simply drift.
They came to a relatively deserted part of the beach, and Jim was actually floating, flat on his back in the water, eyes closed at the brightness beating against his skull, when McCoy's voice close by interrupted the pleasant aimlessness of Jim's thoughts. "So, I got an invitation in the mail the other day."
"Invitation?" Jim drew his legs up to his chest, letting his body weight sink him so that he could right himself, turning to look at McCoy. McCoy had a strange expression on his face, squinting past Jim and out to sea.
"Yeah. From Starfleet. They want me to come to a recruitment fair next week." McCoy shaded his eyes with his hand, as though trying to spot something far out on the ocean.
"You gonna go?" Jim kept his voice carefully neutral.
"Yeah, think so. At least check it out."
"Mmm. Cool. Didn't realize you were thinking about leaving your job."
"I'm not, exactly, it's just..." McCoy took a deep breath, shifting his gaze to Jim's face now, something complicated and uncertain trying to work itself out across his features. "I think I need a change. Something. Not sure what. Something with better pay, if nothing else." He hesitated, and Jim knew what was coming next before it even came out. "Thought maybe you might wanna come with me."
"How much have you had to drink, dude? You know how I feel about Starfleet." Before McCoy could answer, Jim took a breath and dove under the water, shutting his eyes against the salt sting. For a moment, he contemplated turning and swimming further out-out to where the waves rolled deeper and the riptide waited to drag you under, out where the best waves for surfing were. The ocean would be dark and green and soothing out there, oblivious to the throbbing heat of the August sun. Then he surfaced, breaking water with a soft gasp, and as the ocean gave him up again he heard McCoy's irritated huff, only a few feet from him now.
"Jesus Christ, Jim, it's a job fair, not damn boot camp. I don't see how it would hurt to know what else is out there for you-"
"Stop, Bones, just-stop, okay?" An unusually large wave came rolling in then, crashing over both of them, cutting off the conversation for a moment as both men sputtered and tried to right themselves. Jim caught his breath, moving towards shore, and McCoy automatically turned to pace him, their swim trunks clinging wetly to their bodies. "I'm not fucking interested. I don't need anyone up in my business or asking me a bunch of fucking questions, and there is no way I could show up there without someone recognizing me."
"Oh, please." Jim could hear the way McCoy was rolling his eyes, and it spurred him to move faster, but McCoy kept pace, following Jim up the sand to where they'd left their bag. "Now you're just being fucking ridiculous. How the hell would anyone recognize you? Why are you so determined to-"
"To what? Live my own life?" Jim whirled, still ankle-deep in the water, glaring at McCoy. "Look, if you're getting ready to join the chorus of people ready to tell me that I'm wasting my potential, just save it, because I've heard it all before. Believe me, I am intimately acquainted with everyone else's expectations for the son of George and Winona Kirk. That's why I'm here. Not at Riverside Shipyards, or at Starfleet Academy. I like my life how it is-got it?"
McCoy stopped, staring at Jim, hands clenching and unclenching in fists at his side. Jim waited, chest tight, a sour taste in the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the seawater he'd swallowed. But the inevitable didn't come. McCoy took a deep breath and then just let it out, shaking his head. "You know I don't give a shit about either of your parents, Jim," McCoy said softly.
"Yeah, well." Jim let out a breath too, not even realizing he'd been holding it till that moment. "You're pretty much the only one." He turned around before McCoy could make his inevitable point about how he was practically the only one in Los Angeles who actually knew about Jim's famous father and equally famous mother. They'd had this conversation and variations on it easily a dozen times, and Jim was sick of it. It was a testament to their friendship that he hadn't told McCoy to go fuck himself after the first time they'd had this talk.
Jim went to their bag, digging in it for his comm unit, pausing when he saw he had a new message. He flopped down on the towel, reading quickly through it as McCoy came up to join him, rummaging in the bag for the bottle of water they'd stashed earlier. "Who is it?" McCoy asked, plunking down on the towel next to Jim.
"Harry Mudd," Jim said absently, already opening a window to send a return message. Bones's face McCoy, and he glowered out at the ocean for a moment.
"That scumbag again? Jesus, Jim, why do you still talk to that creep?"
"Chill, would you? Harry's okay. Maybe got a client for me." Instead of disappearing, McCoy's scowl only deepened. "Something about a visiting dignitary. A Vulcan. Said the guy was looking for someone good and discrete, a professional."
"Oh great," McCoy said sarcastically. "Just what you need. A whole new set of bruises and alien STIs. I'm so excited."
"Give it a rest, Bones." Jim tapped out a few more characters and hit "send," and was unsurprised when he got a ping back from Mudd in under sixty seconds; clearly Harry had been waiting around on Jim's reply. "Shit, the guy is staying at the Wilshire, the one by Rodeo Drive. He must be loaded."
"Like it's the money you care about," McCoy muttered, and Jim just laughed. "You gonna do it?"
"Yeah. Mudd said the guy wants to see me tonight, if possible." Beside him, McCoy pulled another face and then took a long drink of water. Jim sent back one more quick reply to Mudd and then shut his comm, stuffing it back into the bag and turning to look at McCoy. "Hey, we still have plenty of time for dinner and a movie, man. I'm not going over there till like nine or ten. Way past your bedtime."
"Shut your fool mouth, Kirk," McCoy grumbled, and Jim just grinned and slung his arm around his friend's shoulder.
* * * * *
Part two of Chapter One
Author & Mixer: Kairi (feels_like_fire) Did my own mix for this, which you can find here.
Artist: kauniainen did a beautiful piece of artwork that you can see HERE, I will make sure she sees all of your comments!
Betas: This fic would not EXIST if it were not for the efforts of tmysha, rainjewel, and linzeestyle. I CAN NEVER THANK YOU ENOUGH.
Series: AOS/Reboot, slight AU
Character/Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, McCoy, Rand, Chapel, Pike, Winona Kirk, Sarek, T'Pring, Harry Mudd, with cameos by Scotty and Number One
Rating: NC-17 overall
Word Count: ~85k total; this part, 13,671
Summary: Vulcan is considering seceding from the Federation, and Spock has decided to take this opportunity to explore the Human half he's neglected for over half his life, since his mother's death when he was young. While there, he meets James T. Kirk, sometimes-prostitute, supposed good-for-nothing, and completely irresistible. Chemistry ignites, but when the date of the hearing on Vulcan's secession arrives, Spock must decide where his loyalties lie. Pretty Woman redux-now with more sex.
The house on the corner of 4th Street and A Street didn't look any different from any other house in that part of Venice Beach. It had a tiny shed in the backyard that held a number of beach cruisers, abandoned by the house's previous occupants; it had a front yard overwhelmed almost completely by a single magnolia tree; and it was painted exactly the same color as every other house on its block, an uninspiring shell-pink with white trim. But at 2 am, it was the only house on the block-practically the entire neighborhood-that still had a light blazing in one of the windows.
Inside, one of the house's two inhabitants was sacked out on the couch, having fallen dead asleep two hours ago despite the three lamps he'd left on and the medical periodical he'd been studying, now lying open across his broad chest, slowly rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing. Dr. Leonard McCoy was a good three months behind on his CME, and he'd promised himself he'd play a little catch-up tonight after work, but his head nurse had asked him to come try out a new Tellarian fusion restaurant downtown and he'd had such a good day he'd decided to oblige her. Trying to read about the latest antiviral medications after a heavy dinner and two glasses of wine had been exactly as useful as pushing a boulder up-hill would have been, but McCoy had thought maybe he'd wait up for Jim and get some reading done in the process.
The screen door slammed, and McCoy jerked awake as though he'd been slapped, his CME sliding from his sleep-clumsy fingers to the floor. Fuck, what time was it? McCoy squinted hazily at the clock on the opposite side of the room, just making out the blurry "2:04 a.m." before the sounds of his housemate entering the kitchen and opening the 'fridge reached his ears. Jesus christ, he'd fallen asleep on the couch again.
"Jim?" McCoy sat up, wincing slightly at the way all the vertebrae in his back snapped and popped.
"I wondered if you were still awake." Jim's voice floated back to him from the kitchen, nauseatingly cheerful for such a dead hour of the morning. "Didn't you pull another double today?"
"Nngh. I was supposed to, but Dr. Vajasthaya relieved me early." McCoy stood up, taking a moment to stretch his cramped muscles-why he kept falling asleep in the living room when he had a perfectly comfortable bed, he'd never know. He retrieved his CME from the floor, depositing it on the table as he shuffled towards the kitchen. He knew from experience that Jim coming home this late meant he'd been out with a client, and tired as he was, McCoy wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep until he'd at least checked on Jim first. "How're you-Jesus fucking Christ!"
Jim looked up at McCoy from the sandwich he was fixing, his complacent expression a jarring contrast to his split lip and smeared eye makeup. The stiffness in his posture made McCoy's stomach tighten. "It's worse than it looks," Jim said, flashing an easy smile that McCoy didn't buy for a second. McCoy glared, his exhaustion and good humor vanishing instantly, stalking across the room and grabbing Jim's wrist in one hand, the other going to cup Jim's jaw, tilting his face up. "Bones, fucking christ, would you just-ow, fuck-"
"Ow?" McCoy glanced down at the arm he was holding and froze at the sight of the faint discolored marks ringing Jim's wrist-four even, darkening marks, offset by a fifth one on the opposite side. The irritation flared hotter in his chest, and for a moment McCoy was actually speechless. That didn't last long, however. "What the fuck, Jim!"
Jim took this brief distraction as an opportunity to wrench his arm out of McCoy's hand, turning sideways away from his friend, trying to end the conversation physically. "It's not a big deal, Bones, you just need to chill, okay-"
"The hell I do!" McCoy was already storming out of the room, returning within moments with a small oblong snap-case, which he slammed down on the counter and pulled open, muttering under his breath as he rummaged through it for his tricorder. The case was an emergency medical kit he'd taken from the hospital, about a month after he'd started rooming with Jim. He wasn't really supposed to have it at home, but Jim had sort of made it a necessity. "Get up on the counter."
"Bones, I really just want to eat a sandwich and-"
"Counter. Now." McCoy leveled a glare at Jim, and Jim sighed, recognizing an unwinnable battle when he saw it. McCoy waited till Jim had hoisted himself up on the counter next to his half-made sandwich before sweeping the tricorder over him, checking for internal bleeding. "Did you use protection?"
"Of course I did. I'm not a fucking moron." Jim leaned back, crossing his arms impatiently.
"Yeah, I'm gonna have to disagree with that assessment. Because I can't think of any other reason why you let some twisted sicko beat up on you, Jesus Christ, Jim." Satisfied that Jim was not going to bleed out from internal hemorrhaging, McCoy switched off the tricorder and set it aside, turning his attention once more to the busted lip. The smeared eyeliner was common enough, though it sickened McCoy if he thought too hard about the implications, but the physical injuries were another matter altogether.
"It's not a big deal! It was an accident, okay-" Jim's good humor was completely gone at this point. Now he sounded almost as irritated as McCoy did, scowling up at his friend as McCoy probed his face, checking for broken bones and testing the extent of the injury.
"Oh yeah?" McCoy retorted, reaching for his dermoplaser. "What, you just 'accidentally' took a fist to the face? Smashed your mouth into the headboard? And what about those marks on your wrist, here? Was that an accident too?" Jim held still exactly long enough for McCoy to run the dermoplaser over his lip, wincing slightly at the sting of skin knitting itself back together, and then he was shoving McCoy away from him, sliding off the counter.
"It's none of your fucking business, is what it is." Jim turned away, the stiff carry of his shoulders screaming drop it already, but McCoy had already had twice his quota of bullshit for one day and wasn't about to put up with more.
"Then whose business is it?" McCoy snatched a hypo from his kit and grabbed Jim's arm again, jabbing him in the bicep before Jim could pull away.
"FUCK! STOP THAT!" Jim whirled, glaring at McCoy, hands bunching into fists, but McCoy was up in his space again already, crowding him against the counter, so angry he wasn't thinking clearly anymore.
"No, Jim, you stop it. This is the third time in the past two weeks you've come home all roughed up, I'm getting sick and tired of patching you up just so you can find another pervert to do it all over again-"
"Then why the fuck are you bothering? Fuck off, already! I didn't ask you to kiss my boo-boos and make it better, so get off my case already! I'm not one of your patients, okay?"
"No I will not get off your case!" McCoy knew he was pushing it, could recognize that tight clench of Jim's jaw from a mile away, but he couldn't stop himself. "You're right, you're not one of my patients, which is why I want to know why, after I spend all day putting idiots back together, I have to come home and do it with you, too!"
"I already told you that you don't have to!" Jim's whole body was tense now, vibrating with the same tight, unruly energy that McCoy recognized from the times he'd seen right before Jim threw the first punch in the dive bar du jour. He wondered distantly if he really was about to get into a brawl with his best friend, and it brought him up short just as Jim raised his arms as if to shove McCoy away from him, his hands bunched into tight fists.
"You know what, we're done here," McCoy said, and raised his hands, palms-out, stepping back and away from Jim. "I can't stop you from throwin' yourself in the briar patch if you're that determined to do it." Bad enough that Jim had come home, dragging his drama with him yet again; McCoy wasn't going to tarnish his day further by rising to this situation. He walked out of the room without looking back, thus missing the disgruntled, abortive glower Jim threw after him, and bent to pick up the couch-pillows and his CME from the floor. Maybe he'd just go to bed, though no doubt he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for awhile. He heard a noise behind him but didn't look up, not until Jim cleared his throat. McCoy stood up and turned around, arms crossed over his chest. "Yes?"
Jim stood in the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched, watching McCoy with a mixture of resentment and what McCoy wouldn't scare back into hiding by calling embarrassment. "Sorry," Jim said at length, when McCoy made no attempt to help him out. McCoy rolled his eyes, and Jim sighed. "Look, tonight was stupid, okay? I told the guy I'm not seeing him again."
"Thank God for small mercies," McCoy said, and shook his head. There was still a huge, hot mess there, but he was done poking at it for tonight. "Let's drop it for now, Jim, it's too late and I'm too tired for us to have this conversation again tonight."
"Yeah, okay." Jim stuck his hands in his pockets, completing the image of a surly and repentant schoolboy. He hesitated, opening his mouth again. "You know-"
"Watch it, kid, you're gonna embarrass yourself worse," McCoy growled, but the anger burning the back of his throat had gone.
"As if," Jim said easily, and McCoy could hear the smile Jim was trying not to show, knew it was probably just this side of shit-eating. "You have tomorrow off, right?"
McCoy scowled. "No, I switched with Dr. Pierce so I could get a few days off in a row. Don't have off till day after tomorrow."
"Okay, then. Day after tomorrow, you're mine. Let's hit the boardwalk and catch a movie." Jim leaned forward, fixing those baby-blues on McCoy, and damn but those eyes could probably stop-or start-a war. Jim knew it, too.
McCoy heaved another sigh, this one loud and much put-upon. "Alright, fine. Now put the eyes away, already, I'm not buyin' what you're selling. Thank Christ."
"Only 'cause you're too old-fashioned to try the goods," Jim said cheerfully, and laughed as McCoy reached over and punched him in the shoulder. "Ow!"
"Don't push your luck, Jim," McCoy said, and Jim smiled.
* * * * *
Spock watched the transport pull away from the curb, re-entering the flow of morning traffic. Pedestrians parted around him like salmon in a stream, disregarding his presence entirely. Most were human, with a few representatives of other species appearing now and then-a Rigellian in a crimson uniform here, an Andorian in a light traveling robe there, antennae waving absently. It was a testament to how unusual Los Angeles was as a city, even on Earth, that not even the appearance of a Vulcan was enough to provoke so much as a second glance.
Or a half-Vulcan, Spock corrected himself silently.
Spock moved out of the direct line of foot-traffic on the sidewalk and turned on the spot, making a slow survey of the scene in which he found himself. It was not yet 9 am, and already the temperature had reached a comfortable level for Spock. But "comfortable" on Vulcan translated to "oppressively hot" by Earth standards, even in a city used to sun and warmth. This Spock knew from his research, not from experience; he had been to Earth exactly once before in his life, and that was when he was very young, years before the death of his mother. And he had never been to Los Angeles, a city he found metastatic and overwhelming in both size and pace of living.
But now that he was here, standing at the corner of Santa Monica and Wilshire Boulevard, instead of the deep inner calm all Vulcans strive for, logic's refuge, Spock found himself experiencing a sensation unpleasantly similar to the helplessness of zero G. He had no frame of reference, nothing to hold onto, no convenient starting point. It was a sensation he was quickly growing tired of-a sentiment that was wholly illogical, considering he was at the very beginning of his private exploration of his Human heritage.
Spock had decided before leaving Vulcan that he would attempt to explore his mother's heritage while Earth-side, particularly in light of the fact that he might soon lose the opportunity permanently. He had known in advance that it would be a difficult undertaking, made more so by his decision to keep his study as private as possible. But it was not until this moment-staring out at the massive expanse of a city, an entire planet indifferent to his existence-it was not until now that Spock realized exactly how inadequately he was prepared for this undertaking. Where did he even begin?
A Vulcan would approach the situation logically: formulate a list of objectives, from which he would generate a set of goals and the means by which to achieve them. A Vulcan would differentiate the tasks according to their type, taking into account the history, genealogy, interests, and so on of the subject, one Dr. Amanda Grayson. And if Spock was on Vulcan, that would be what he would do. But he was not on Vulcan; he was on Earth. And very little on Earth seemed to follow any sort of logical plan or procedure, least of all Earth's inhabitants. Spock could not escape the nagging idea that he would be unable to truly understand any part of his human heritage unless he made at least an attempt to experience humanity the way a Human might.
Perhaps, Spock decided, he should begin by simply observing. It would be instructional, if nothing else.
Spock slipped back into the flow of pedestrian traffic, heading down the sidewalk towards a plaza further along the street. It looked to be a town square or public space of some sort, dotted here and there with tables and benches and crowded around with what Spock realized was art, propped up on display on easels and tables. Spock surmised that some sort of artistic exhibit was being held here today. A number of beings milled about, mostly human but with the same scattering of xeno-biodiversity Spock had observed before, conversing amongst themselves and admiring the art on display. Spock found an empty bench and settled onto it, devoting his attention to the clusters of humanity passing by him.
A family unit drifted by, a young couple shepherding a pair of blond children ahead of them, trailed by a grey-haired woman Spock guessed to be the mother of one of the parents. Spock watched closely at how the parents interacted with their children, intrigued at the seeming lack of direction the family's path had. The mother and father seemed content to follow in the wake of their children, the mother occasionally calling to her offspring to warn them away from other pedestrians or one of the displays.
Spock watched as the boy child tripped and fell, tumbling in a heap of chubby limbs to the ground and immediately bursting into tears. His mother rushed over and plucked her squalling child from the pavement, cradling him against her chest, shushing him with an expression on her face that Spock could not quite interpret. She did not seem unhappy, which Spock found peculiar, considering how loudly her son was currently bawling into her ear. Spock tried to recall a similar such event from his youth on Vulcan, and found he could not. His eyes lingered on the young mother, and the way she rocked her son against her chest, singing into his ear to calm him.
Her mother temporary distracted, the older of the two children took the opportunity to toddle over to where Spock sat observing the tableau. A girl of about four with her hair in messy twin braids down her back, she looked up at Spock somberly, sucking at the two fingers lodged firmly in her mouth. Spock returned her gaze, nodding once at the girl in acknowledgment. The girl's eyes widened, and she whirled on the spot, ripping her drool-covered fingers from her mouth to point at Spock as she cried out, "Daddy daddy daddy he has pointy ears!"
"Rivkah!" The father turned, coming over to his daughter and grabbing for the hand that was not flung out at Spock. "That was very rude, you know better than that! I want you to apologize, right now."
"But daddy-"
"Apologize, Rivkah."
The girl leaned against her father's leg, clutching at his hand now with both of hers as she fixed blue eyes once more on Spock. "M'sorry," she mumbled, suddenly and inexplicably shy. Spock watched as she buried her face in her father's leg, and noted the way the father's features softened as he looked down at her, bending down after a moment to lift her into his arms as his wife had with Rivkah's brother thirty-two point five seconds ago. Rivkah's arms went around her father's neck, laying her head on his shoulder as she pressed herself against his chest. Only then did the father's gaze flicker up to Spock, and Spock could tell from the way the man's eyes widened slightly that Spock's ears had just been noticed for the second time. Spock inclined his head at Rivkah's father, unsure of the proper Earth greeting in this context, and the man smiled back. Spock thought the smile seemed rather hesitant.
"Sorry," the man said. "Kids, you know."
"It is of no consequence," Spock said. "Your apology is accepted, but unnecessary. No offense was given." Again the man smiled, fainter this time, and marred by the way his eyebrows drew together, and then he turned away from Spock, trailing after the rest of his family, who had wandered deeper into the art show.
Spock watched them go. Human interaction was proving to be most inexplicable.
An hour later, his assessment had not changed much. From his bench, Spock observed four family units of various configurations (the most interesting one being an interracial couple in which both parents wore clothing and adornments typical of female Humans, but of which only one had the physical attributes to match); three interracial, childless couples; nineteen groups composed of individuals who were all clearly friends; thirteen solo individuals accompanied only by their pet-and not one of them had given Spock the faintest idea where to proceed next in his investigation.
Spock sighed, reaching into his robe to retrieve his PADD and send a message to request a transport back to the Beverly Wilshire, where he was staying with Sarek and a few other Vulcans who'd already arrived. As Sarek was here in his official function as Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, he would be splitting his time between San Francisco, where Starfleet Academy made its headquarters, and Los Angeles, which would be playing host to myriad beings who would be arriving to attend or testify at the secession hearing next month.
As he hit "send," a large red double-decker transport of an old-fashioned design pulled up to the curb not far from where Spock sat waiting, with Los Angeles Tourism Company emblazoned on the side in bright yellow letters. Spock watched as the bus opened to disgorge a large number of humans and not a few aliens, all of them chattering to each other and clutching PADDs to their chests. A number of them scattered, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings, and started taking photos. A few moments later, a young, sandy-haired Human male in a yellow t-shirt exited the bus, wearing dark glasses over his eyes to protect them from the sun. Immediately he turned, raising his voice to address the crowd. "Alright, everyone line up! We're going to start the tour in a moment here, so make sure you have your confirmation codes and everything you need, we won't be coming back to the bus for a few hours..." A guide, Spock realized. The young man was a tour guide.
The realization jolted something loose in Spock's mind, and he wondered at his own shortsightedness. Taking on a mentor had been his very first impulse, back before he'd even landed on Earth-but he had only considered taking a Vulcan guide, and had summarily rejected the idea, due to wanting to avoid drawing additional unwanted attention to his mixed heritage. And though Spock did not believe that Sarek would actively disapprove of Spock's project, it was likely that once Sarek learned of its existence, he would wish to engage in conversations that Spock was not yet prepared to have.
But who better to ask for help investigating his Human heritage than a Human? On Earth, no less. Spock knew that all or most of his peers would reject the idea of investigating his Human side as having no merit; certainly they would treat the idea of asking a Human to be their guide with the same disdain. This came not from an inherent dislike of Humans so much as Vulcan condescension towards all other beings contained in the wide galaxy. It was a testament to the limited Vulcan way of thinking that this idea had not even occurred to Spock until now, which in turn clearly showed how necessary a guide was if Spock truly wished to achieve any measure of success.
The tour group, having collected itself into something resembling an orderly unit, now moved away down the street, following the young man in the yellow shirt, whose voice Spock could still hear raised above the general hubbub of the busy crosswalk. Spock watched them go, already assessing the best way to go about finding a guide. He could not ask any of his fellows for aid; completely aside from his desire for privacy, it would be an exercise in pointlessness, for as they were all Vulcan, none of them would have any better idea of who to ask than Spock did.
Spock glanced up as the black transport he'd been waiting for slid smoothly up to stop parallel to the curb, and a chauffeur climbed out of the passenger seat, opening the back door for Spock. Spock remembered how quietly impressive the staff of the Wilshire was, as professional and efficient as any hospitality staff he had ever encountered elsewhere in the galaxy. It was true that Starfleet was footing the bill for Sarek and Spock to stay at such an exclusive hotel, ostensibly as a courtesy for the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, but that had not stopped Spock from experiencing profound satisfaction at the grace and care that the staff had taken with their guests. This transport had been dispatched by the hotel manager himself. Harcourt Mudd had greeted the Vulcan entourage personally upon their arrival, and had taken pains to tell Spock and Sarek that they were to not hesitate to contact Mudd should they need anything.
As Spock slid across the smooth nuleather of the back seat, that reflection clicked over into the germ of an idea. Mudd seemed an ideal person to speak to regarding Spock's dilemma. As the manager of a hotel that catered to a wide range of intergalactic guests, Mudd would almost certainly know someone within his list of contacts who would be suited to aiding Spock. Spock was not quite as certain of the manager's discretion, but he would simply have to make sure he emphasized his desire for privacy when making his request.
Spock looked out the window, contemplating the Los Angeles skyline as the buildings and scenery slid by outside. Here, where there were no other Vulcans to observe his impolitic behavior, he could admit to himself that he felt a small measure of relief. Perhaps his research would be fruitful, after all. It was a comforting thought.
* * * * *
"Why did I agree to let you drag me out here? Especially when our house has perfectly functional air-conditioning? Sweet Mary and Joseph, it is entirely too hot today for this."
Jim wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, glancing at McCoy, unable to repress a grin at his friend's incessant complaining. "Quit your whinin', Georgia. Isn't it at least this hot back where you're from? With humidity, to boot?"
"Yeah, but we're not stupid enough to go outside in the middle of the goddamn day. We stay inside. In the air conditioning."
"Except when you sit on the back porch and drink your mint juleps or your sweet iced tea and talk about the glory days of the Civil War, right?" Jim laughed as McCoy flipped him the bird, and took another drink of his horchata.
McCoy wasn't wrong-it was probably close to a hundred today, without a cloud in the sky to moderate the heat of the August sun. Only the breeze from the Pacific a few blocks away saved it from being too wretched to function, with the trade-off being the sun's blinding reflection off the surface of the ocean, too bright to look at without shades. Jim didn't mind. Eating ceviche from the taco stand and drinking beer didn't exactly qualify as strenuous activity.
Jim leaned back against the picnic table they'd staked out, taking another bite of his tostada. "What do you wanna do after this?" he asked. He let his gaze linger on a couple of girls walking by on the other side of the street, their skin glistening bronze under the sun, clad in nothing but bathing suits and floral wrap-arounds. McCoy snorted softly, but Jim knew his friend was watching just as Jim was. He was only human, after all, divorce or not.
"Thought you wanted to head down to the boardwalk?" McCoy took a pull of his beer, raising an eyebrow at Jim.
"Sure do. Just wanted to make sure you were still up for it. I mean, seein' as it's hotter than a witch's left tit or whatever-"
"Jim, I realize you aspire to grow up a bitter old asshole like me someday, but you'd just better leave the hard stuff to the professionals 'til you get the hang of it. The phrase you're thinking of is, 'colder than a witch's left titty.' What you actually probably wanted to say was 'hotter than Satan's asscrack.'"
Jim sputtered, face creasing with laughter as McCoy took another regal swallow of his beer. His eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but Jim could recognize "smug bastard" at fifty yards on his friend. "Are you real? Like, are you sure you're not just a particularly ridiculous folk caricature from a bad sitcom, because I don't think people actually talk like that anymore. In case you were, you know, confused."
"Whatever, kid. Not my fault the sun has fried your brains." Now it was Jim's turn to flick off McCoy, and the doctor just smiled serenely, finishing off the rest of his beer in one long drink, muscles of his throat working.
They finished their lunch, paid for two more beers, and then headed off towards the beach, setting an easy pace that was little more than a stroll. Technically, Los Angeles still had an no-open-container law, but this part of town was quiet and as long as you weren't rowdy, it was rare for law enforcement to harass you about it. Jim had tried to talk McCoy into taking out the beach cruisers, but McCoy had insisted that they were relaxing, not exercising, and Jim wasn't inclined to argue. Not when it was this hot.
Two days had passed since their late-night quarrel, days that McCoy had spent working and Jim had spent cleaning and studying for the classes he was taking at UCLA. Neither of them had brought up the argument since, which was perfectly fine as far as Jim was concerned. Jim knew McCoy didn't like what Jim did for a living, but he'd been so preoccupied with the divorce and the associated custody negotiation that he rarely had the energy to actually say anything to Jim about it. But with the divorce over with, or at least settled, McCoy would be looking for something to take his mind off his troubles, and Jim had the sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what that subject would be.
Jim dragged McCoy down to the water's edge, and after a minimum of harassment McCoy finally followed Jim into the waves breaking against the sand, his grumpiness belying his genuine enjoyment. They wandered up the beach in this manner, weaving in and out of the other beach-goers. Jim always got a lot of attention when he went around shirtless, and McCoy was no slouch in that department either, with his broad chest and dark hair, though he met the inevitable admiring looks with a roll of his eyes instead of Jim's cheerful smirk. The water was pleasantly cool on their feet, moderating the scorching mid-afternoon heat, and for awhile Jim allowed his mind to simply drift.
They came to a relatively deserted part of the beach, and Jim was actually floating, flat on his back in the water, eyes closed at the brightness beating against his skull, when McCoy's voice close by interrupted the pleasant aimlessness of Jim's thoughts. "So, I got an invitation in the mail the other day."
"Invitation?" Jim drew his legs up to his chest, letting his body weight sink him so that he could right himself, turning to look at McCoy. McCoy had a strange expression on his face, squinting past Jim and out to sea.
"Yeah. From Starfleet. They want me to come to a recruitment fair next week." McCoy shaded his eyes with his hand, as though trying to spot something far out on the ocean.
"You gonna go?" Jim kept his voice carefully neutral.
"Yeah, think so. At least check it out."
"Mmm. Cool. Didn't realize you were thinking about leaving your job."
"I'm not, exactly, it's just..." McCoy took a deep breath, shifting his gaze to Jim's face now, something complicated and uncertain trying to work itself out across his features. "I think I need a change. Something. Not sure what. Something with better pay, if nothing else." He hesitated, and Jim knew what was coming next before it even came out. "Thought maybe you might wanna come with me."
"How much have you had to drink, dude? You know how I feel about Starfleet." Before McCoy could answer, Jim took a breath and dove under the water, shutting his eyes against the salt sting. For a moment, he contemplated turning and swimming further out-out to where the waves rolled deeper and the riptide waited to drag you under, out where the best waves for surfing were. The ocean would be dark and green and soothing out there, oblivious to the throbbing heat of the August sun. Then he surfaced, breaking water with a soft gasp, and as the ocean gave him up again he heard McCoy's irritated huff, only a few feet from him now.
"Jesus Christ, Jim, it's a job fair, not damn boot camp. I don't see how it would hurt to know what else is out there for you-"
"Stop, Bones, just-stop, okay?" An unusually large wave came rolling in then, crashing over both of them, cutting off the conversation for a moment as both men sputtered and tried to right themselves. Jim caught his breath, moving towards shore, and McCoy automatically turned to pace him, their swim trunks clinging wetly to their bodies. "I'm not fucking interested. I don't need anyone up in my business or asking me a bunch of fucking questions, and there is no way I could show up there without someone recognizing me."
"Oh, please." Jim could hear the way McCoy was rolling his eyes, and it spurred him to move faster, but McCoy kept pace, following Jim up the sand to where they'd left their bag. "Now you're just being fucking ridiculous. How the hell would anyone recognize you? Why are you so determined to-"
"To what? Live my own life?" Jim whirled, still ankle-deep in the water, glaring at McCoy. "Look, if you're getting ready to join the chorus of people ready to tell me that I'm wasting my potential, just save it, because I've heard it all before. Believe me, I am intimately acquainted with everyone else's expectations for the son of George and Winona Kirk. That's why I'm here. Not at Riverside Shipyards, or at Starfleet Academy. I like my life how it is-got it?"
McCoy stopped, staring at Jim, hands clenching and unclenching in fists at his side. Jim waited, chest tight, a sour taste in the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the seawater he'd swallowed. But the inevitable didn't come. McCoy took a deep breath and then just let it out, shaking his head. "You know I don't give a shit about either of your parents, Jim," McCoy said softly.
"Yeah, well." Jim let out a breath too, not even realizing he'd been holding it till that moment. "You're pretty much the only one." He turned around before McCoy could make his inevitable point about how he was practically the only one in Los Angeles who actually knew about Jim's famous father and equally famous mother. They'd had this conversation and variations on it easily a dozen times, and Jim was sick of it. It was a testament to their friendship that he hadn't told McCoy to go fuck himself after the first time they'd had this talk.
Jim went to their bag, digging in it for his comm unit, pausing when he saw he had a new message. He flopped down on the towel, reading quickly through it as McCoy came up to join him, rummaging in the bag for the bottle of water they'd stashed earlier. "Who is it?" McCoy asked, plunking down on the towel next to Jim.
"Harry Mudd," Jim said absently, already opening a window to send a return message. Bones's face McCoy, and he glowered out at the ocean for a moment.
"That scumbag again? Jesus, Jim, why do you still talk to that creep?"
"Chill, would you? Harry's okay. Maybe got a client for me." Instead of disappearing, McCoy's scowl only deepened. "Something about a visiting dignitary. A Vulcan. Said the guy was looking for someone good and discrete, a professional."
"Oh great," McCoy said sarcastically. "Just what you need. A whole new set of bruises and alien STIs. I'm so excited."
"Give it a rest, Bones." Jim tapped out a few more characters and hit "send," and was unsurprised when he got a ping back from Mudd in under sixty seconds; clearly Harry had been waiting around on Jim's reply. "Shit, the guy is staying at the Wilshire, the one by Rodeo Drive. He must be loaded."
"Like it's the money you care about," McCoy muttered, and Jim just laughed. "You gonna do it?"
"Yeah. Mudd said the guy wants to see me tonight, if possible." Beside him, McCoy pulled another face and then took a long drink of water. Jim sent back one more quick reply to Mudd and then shut his comm, stuffing it back into the bag and turning to look at McCoy. "Hey, we still have plenty of time for dinner and a movie, man. I'm not going over there till like nine or ten. Way past your bedtime."
"Shut your fool mouth, Kirk," McCoy grumbled, and Jim just grinned and slung his arm around his friend's shoulder.
* * * * *
Part two of Chapter One