What Part Of Forever: Chapter Three

[the_castle]

Title: What Part of Forever (Chapter 3)
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, 19,601.
Summary: Vulcan is considering seceding from the Federation; Spock decides now is a good time to catch up on being Human. So he hires Jim Kirk as his guide, with predictable results. Pretty Woman redux, now with more sex. In this chapter, Rand, Chapel, McCoy, and Jim participate in some bad decision-making involving alcohol, while Spock observes; Jim questions his career choices; and Jim and Spock have some quality time.

Chapter One. Chapter Two.

As a researcher at the Vulcan Science Academy, Spock was accustomed to difficult problems and the solving thereof. It was his job, after all, and one at which he excelled. Spock had not yet reached his thirtieth year, and already he was the head of a team of researchers which included several Vulcans twice his age. He possessed a quick and clever mind, and the dedication to statistical and scientific rigor that any worthwhile endeavor called for. Spock had headed research projects that ranged from improving the energy yield of dilithium to finding a vaccine against Moxana Pestis to combat the plague on Rigel VI. His current success rate exceeded 98.75%, which was unparalleled amongst his peers.

And yet here he was, standing uselessly in the middle of his room like an obsolete piece of equipment. Spock checked his chronometer for the thirteenth time in the last eight-point-three minutes. Jim Kirk would be arriving to collect him in under twenty-nine Standard minutes. Spock had known this for approximately six-point-five hours, and yet he was no closer now to knowing how to plan for the evening ahead of him than he was six hours ago.

He did not even know what to wear.

That he should be so utterly incapable of planning for tonight was preposterous, and yet undeniable. His helplessness was largely a function of the fact that had no exact itinerary of the night's expected events. When he had asked Jim what they would be doing this evening, Jim had made the frustratingly vague statement "Just hanging out," and Spock, who had not wanted to betray exactly how unenlightened this left him, had not asked for further clarification. In retrospect, he should not have been so afraid, but to call Jim now and ask for details-

It would be logical. Part of him recognized this. But Spock did not wish to do it. In fact, Spock did not want to do anything that might make Jim Kirk regret his casual invitation for Spock to come spend the evening with Jim and several of Jim's acquaintances.

When Jim had called the previous evening to inform Spock he would not be able to attend the event at the Science Academy with Spock, in favor of staying home with his doctor friend, Spock had assured Jim that he took no offense. Jim had promised to get in contact with Spock the next day, and then ended the conversation. Spock had put away the comm-unit and returned to his desk, and had sat staring at the computer monitor for a full five minutes, seeing nothing of the text on the screen.

Jim's situation was logical and understandable. He'd known "Bones" for years, while he had been acquainted with Spock for less than twenty-one days, and at that a strictly business relationship. Spock understood that Humans were an emotional species who reacted strongly to stressful situations, and while Jim had not given many details, Spock was aware that Dr. McCoy was going through just such a stressful time. Spock also understood that at such times, Humans depended heavily upon their family members and closest acquaintances-their friends. Jim was being a good friend to Bones, or so Spock concluded.

In the end, Spock had decided to go to the Academy's Night Out by himself. He had made polite, uninteresting small talk with the many aliens who were also in attendance, and dutifully examined the new exhibit that would be premiering the next day, an installation on differing types of unique marine life indigenous to a variety of Class M planets. Spock had stared at the gently-glowing jellyfish in the tanks, floating gracefully through the clear water, the rooms lit only by the jellyfishes' internal luminescence, and felt his own solitariness more keenly than he had in years.

It was a beautiful, fascinating exhibit, particularly to a desert-born species such as a Vulcan, whose planet lacked the vast, deep oceans of Earth and Andor. Spock had left after 90 minutes, and gone home to meditate.

Spock had not known whether or not he would hear from Jim today at all. He had tried to not even think about it, displeased at his increasing inability to concentrate as of late, to say nothing of the dissatisfying conversations with Malik and Sasak. As enlightening and interesting as his pursuits with Jim had been, he did not wish for this quest after his humanity to have such a drastic effect on him. He had gone so far as resolving to not seek out Jim's service or company for a period of three full days, in order to regain his focus, and was absorbed in one of the PADDs for his duotritocale project when his comm-link had gone off.

He had meant to decline Jim's invitation, no matter its nature. But in the instant before the words left his mouth, Spock had suffered a brief but powerful vision of Jim out at some dimly-lit Human bar, surrounded by his other companions, chatting and drinking and engaged in various pursuits (the details of which Spock was perhaps a bit hazy on), and not thinking of Spock at all. Some nameless, unfamiliar emotion had swamped him, cramping his stomach viciously, and though Jim could not have heard it, Spock's hand had clamped down on his comm-unit so hard that the metal frame had cracked under his fingers.

Spock had told Jim he would be honored to accept his invitation, and that he looked forward to learning about Human friendship rituals. Then they had ended the communication. Spock had spent the consequent six hours wondering whether over-exposure to Humans and their illogical behavior was infectious, despite the illogic of that idea.

Someone knocked three times at the door, interrupting Spock's ruminations. Spock frowned. Had he perhaps forgotten an obligation? Unlikely. "Enter," he called, composing himself as he turned to face the door.

The door slid open, revealing Sarek. "Greetings, Father," Spock said softly. He must have been distracted indeed to forget that his father was returning from San Francisco today. Spock's arms hung loosely at his sides, hands laying awkwardly along the lines of his trousers. He had chosen clothes that were slightly more in line with what Humans might wear, and knew his father was looking at them.

Sarek inclined his head in response. "Greetings, my son," he said, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut behind him. "I trust I find you in good health."

"Yes, Father. I am well."

Sarek nodded. "You have been preoccupied, as of late," he said. His gaze settled on Spock like a layer of volcanic ash-subtle but hot, missing nothing. "Is it due to the secession proceedings? Or is there some other cause of which I am unaware?"

Spock suffered a childish twinge of irritation-why did everyone insist on asking him so many questions? Was it really so disturbing to Vulcans when one of their number strayed even slightly outside of standard deviation? He stifled that thought almost immediately. Such ideas were not worthy of himself, or his father. And it would be best not to inform his father of his situation, Spock thought... but even as he opened his mouth to simply opt for the easy way out, he found the words sticking in the back of his throat. He found he did not wish to mislead Sarek, even though it would likely be easier on both of them for Sarek to remain ignorant.

"It is partly due to the secession movement, yes," Spock said at last. Sarek's eyes did not change, but Spock knew he had his father's full attention. "But I have been pursuing a project of my own while here on Earth." Spock hesitated, the stomach-cramps twisting through his guts again, as though with persistent indigestion. Spock suffered the sudden, bizarre mental image of the cramps being caused by trying to digest unpalatable ideas, and shoved it aside, bewildered. "I wished to better understand my Human heritage, while in a position to do so. To that end, I have been employing the aide of a local guide. It has been a most provocative experience thus far, and I find myself conflicted about what I will say when called to stand before the tribunal."

Silence. Spock braced himself. but he still wasn't expecting the next words out of his father's mouth. "As usual, my son, you possess the unique ability to confound your own interests. Had you spoken to me of this endeavor before we departed from Vulcan, I would have retrieved your mother's journals for you. Now it will have to wait until our return home."

Spock stared at Sarek, feeling as bereft as if ejected from airlock without warning. "Journals?" he said blankly. "You have never spoken of mother's journals before-" But now a memory surfaced, tugged loose by Sarek's announcement; himself as a young child, sitting at his mother's feet, intent on one of his educational puzzle-solving games while his mother bent over her desk and wrote slowly by hand in an old-fashioned paper book. A journal.

"I would very much like to look at those journals," Spock said slowly. His skin prickled hot all over, like he was coming down with fever, and he had to fight to keep the sudden sensation of vertigo from sending him tipping over.

Sarek merely nodded, hands still folded in front of him. He opened his mouth as if to say something further, but at that moment Spock's comm-unit flared to gaudy life, blinking and beeping loudly for attention. Spock blinked, reaching for the unit, silencing the alert but not taking the call yet. "My guide and his companions have arrived to collect me," he said, feeling the strange burn of embarrassment and confusion singing through his chest.

"I will not keep you from your obligations, then." Sarek straightened, visibly withdrawing. Spock suffered a pang, wondering what else his father might have said if they could have continued this conversation."We will speak of this more later."

"Yes, Father." Spock opened the comm-unit, raising it automatically to his face. "Hello, Jim."

"We're downstairs," came Jim's cheerful voice, larger-than-life even through the comm-unit. "Get your butt out here, the valet is givin' me the stink-eye!"

"I am sure he is not," Spock informed him, "but I will be down shortly." He rung off, tucking his comm back into his trousers and casting another uncertain glance at his father. But if Sarek disapproved of Spock's plans for the evenings, he gave no sign. Spock wasn't reassured; his father might have married a Human, but that did not mean he approved of his son fraternizing with them.

* * * * *

The problem with being Jim Kirk's friend, McCoy mused, was that when he wanted you to do something, you had as much luck not doing it as a goldfish might have trying to escape a whirlpool. So McCoy's chances of getting to lay at home wallowing in his own misery were slim to none, once Jim had managed to see past the cloud that his head had been stuck in for the past two weeks.

McCoy had tried to insist that he didn't want to go out, didn't want to see a goddamn person, or have to deal with other human beings at all, thanks so much. He'd been partially successful at staying in the night before, when Jim had found him attempting to drown himself via a good bottle of Jim Beam, but while Bones had been hoping for a reprieve the following night, Jim had marched into the living room at 11 am and announced that Chris Chapel and Janice Rand would be joining Jim and McCoy for a visit to Trader Sam's that night, and oh, by the way, Bones, don't forget we're going to the gym this afternoon. Ridiculous. But that was Jim for you. Might as well argue with the Santa Ana winds.

He was still grumpy about being dragged out, but intrigued now that Jim's mysterious Vulcan friend Spock would be joining them. None of them had met Spock yet, though McCoy had been privately glad at the distraction the Vulcan was providing Jim-Jim had only taken one other client in the past few weeks, he'd been so busy with shepherding Spock around. McCoy had thought about buying Spock a bottle of wine, but figured that would be odd, both because he didn't even know if Vulcans drank, much less know Spock as a person at all.

McCoy slouched in the front seat, listening to Christine and Janice in the back, Christine relating a story that McCoy had already heard once today about a more-than-slightly-insane woman who'd come into the ER insisting that she had Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease and who refused to leave until she'd been given "antibiotics"-never had a sea-salt hypospray come in so handy before, McCoy thought privately. But his attention was on Jim, who seemed at ease, but whose eyes kept trailing to the front door of the hotel and back again.

When Jim had tentatively suggested that they invite Spock, McCoy had agreed, but now he was wondering why Jim thought it was a good idea to bring along this mysterious alien friend of his. Not that McCoy was a xenophobe (or not much of one), but why bother when Spock didn't know anyone but Jim? It was just a group night out, not any sort of formal event. But McCoy hadn't asked before now, and Jim hadn't volunteered the answer, and now McCoy had to decide if he cared enough to inquire or if he would just try to figure it out on his own.

A tall figure came out the front of the hotel, all crisp clean lines, blue button-down shirt and black slacks, matching his shiny black hair corralled into the most severe haircut McCoy had ever seen outside of a fashion runway. McCoy suddenly found himself with a lapful of Jim Kirk when Jim leaned across the vehicle, yelling out the passenger-side window, "SPOCK! Over here!"

The conversation in the backseat suddenly dropped off, and McCoy rolled his eyes, shoving Jim off him and back to his side of the car. "Goddamn, kid, keep it in your pants."

"You're just jealous 'cause I get all the hot aliens," Jim said cheerfully. "Chris, scoot over, Spock gets motion sick pretty easy, we shouldn't make him ride in the back." McCoy looked to his right, watching Spock approach the car. The Vulcan's face was predictably impossible to read, as stoic and expressionless as every Vulcan McCoy had ever met in his entire life. He climbed in carefully, settling himself down onto the seat and pulling the seat-belt across his chest and waist. "Guys, this is Spock. Spock, these jerks are my friends. That's Janice Rand-Christine Chapel-and this is Bones."

"Leonard McCoy," McCoy interrupted, twisting around in his seat to add to the chorus of "Hellos" that had just been leveled at Spock. Spock nodded to each of them in turn, as serious as the guest speaker at commencement.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintances," Spock said. "I am sure I will find the evening most informative. I wished to express my gratitude at being invited to come along."

"Informative?" Christine laughed, leaning forward from the back seat as Jim put the transport in gear and guided the vehicle back out towards the highway. It was nice to see her outside of her scrubs, McCoy thought reflectively. She'd just cut her hair boy-short, and McCoy was no chauvinist, but he would never admit how flattering he thought the pixie cut was on her handsome face and tall frame. "Sure, if you're doing a paper on how much alcohol Jim Kirk and his friends can drink before someone starts throwing up or gets in a fight."

Spock glanced from Christine to Janice to Jim, his brow furrowing. McCoy thought he looked unsure, though it was tough to tell when your eyebrows looked like they were preparing for a wrestling match with a gorilla's. "It was my understanding that getting into fights was not considered a desirable way for Humans to spend their time with acquain-with friends."

"You're not wrong, Spock." Jim took his eyes from the road just long enough for a glance over his shoulder at Spock. "We're just goin' to our favorite dive bar out by the beach in one of the quieter parts of town. Just hanging out and having fun. No one's planning to do any vomiting or fighting."

McCoy raised an eyebrow at that, and he would bet an entire night's worth of drinks that Janice and Christine were exchanging looks behind him. Jim Kirk, stating outright his plan to be good and not cause trouble? As if he could read McCoy's mind, Jim shot McCoy a sideways glare that had McCoy grinning despite himself and despite his shitty last couple of days. "Awe, and here I thought you were gonna be providin' distraction for me tonight," he drawled. "Nothin' like spending an evening puttin' you back together."

"We're gonna be near Christine's place so we can all go crash if we need to," Janice added cheerfully.

"Crash?" Spock now sounded as if he very much questioned his own sanity at having gotten into this transport at all.

"Pass out," Christine said helpfully. "Black out. Have too much to drink. Are physically inebriated and unable to stand."

"Fascinating," said Spock, and to McCoy's mild amusement, he sounded like he actually meant it.

Spock himself turned out to be fascinating, too, more than McCoy was expecting. Initially, he seemed reluctant to share much about himself, but after some insistent prodding by Janice and Christine, he finally admitted that he had hired Jim as his guide to help him explore his Human heritage-turned out Spock was a half-Vulcan, the son of one Dr. Amanda Grayson, one of the pioneers of the Universal Translation Protocol. By the time they got to Trader Sam's, McCoy was slightly amazed to find that everyone in the transport was engaged in a heated conversation about Human and Vulcan psychology and the merits of each.

They trooped inside, found an empty booth towards the back of the lounge, and got their first round of drinks from the waitress without ever breaking their conversation. However McCoy had seen himself spending the evening, it hadn't been like this.

"So let me get this straight," Christine said, leaning forward over her Long Island Iced Tea with a slightly manic gleam in her eye. McCoy recognized that look from long nights in the ER with Christine, who was one of the best nurses he'd ever met in his life and was a truly force of nature when you got on her bad side. Like a tornado, or a hurricane. "Vulcans think emotions are illogical, right?"

"That is not actually strictly true," Spock said calmly. He was drinking a simple glass of orange juice, at Janice's suggestion; if anyone asked, he could just say it was a screw-driver. Spock had been mystified as to why he would want to appear to be drinking when he was in fact doing no such thing, but had agreed to go along with Janice's suggestion anyway. "In Vulcans, as in Humans, emotions were an evolutionarily beneficial adaptation, providing the stimulus for goals and rewards so that the host would perform activities beneficial to the continued existence of itself and its species. So in this sense, emotions are quite logical."

McCoy raised an eyebrow at that. He'd taken a few seminars in neuropsychology back at med school, but his specialty was emergency care, not psychoanalyzing or reverse-engineering the brain. "Wait, I think I remember what you're talking about," he said. "Pinker's Postulate, isn't it?"

Spock nodded. "That is correct," he said. "Emotions, and the facial expression and body language that accompany them in most Humanoid species, are biologically adaptive. Any species that depends as much as Humans do upon social interaction, and the give and take of information, needed to have developed a complex method for advertising one's own intents and desires, and for protecting their investments."

"Sure," Jim said. He had been following the conversation attentively, but had been doing more listening than speaking, apparently content to sit and drink his Cardassian Sunrise and ride the flow of conversation. "Who are you gonna take more seriously, a dude who looks like he's about to completely lose his shit and start a fist-fight, or a soft-spoken little wall-flower who asks you very nicely to 'please stop doing that'? The guy who looks like he's gonna rip your arm off and beat you with it."

"Affirmative," Spock said, glancing at Jim with what McCoy would have sworn was approval. "In order to predict whether a stranger means you ill or aid, it is imperative that you be able to interpret the visual cues they are presenting you with, and vice versa."

"That still doesn't explain why I fell in love with Jeremy Komives my senior year of college," Janice said serenely. She was on her second mojito, and already spots of red were appearing high up on her cheekbones. "He was a jerk and an idiot-a good-looking idiot, but still as dumb as a bag of gravel. But we dated for almost a year before he dumped me for one of the girls on the cheerleading squad. I was heartbroken for months. How the hell is that beneficial?"

Spock inclined his head slightly. "I admit to being somewhat confused on the subject myself," he said, slowly. Spock had a deep voice, McCoy noted distantly, and he spoke each word carefully, as though he was thinking about how he'd never be able to take it back once it left his mouth. "Or rather, I understand the concept of love, from an evolutionary standpoint, but not its application, or what inspires it."

"Do tell," McCoy said. He took another drink of his whiskey, and shifted in his seat, slouching against the cushioned back of the booth. Jim glanced at him, concern furrowing his brows, but McCoy just shook his head. Spock must have noticed, because he hesitated for a moment, looking at the other faces around the table. McCoy twirled his hand, the universal "come on, then" gesture, and after a moment Spock resumed where he left off.

"The benefit to love being as ...unpredictable and unplannable as it is, from what I understand, is that if one chooses a mate logically, purely upon factors of compatibility, as though measuring a chemical compound, one would have no guarantee of not being abandoned in the future when a new partner with more desirable characteristics happens along. Thus the two partners have a greater chance of remaining together, each improving the other's survival odds and overall satisfaction, and thus also successfully raising offspring and ensuring their own continued access to desired resources."

"Sounds like a great theory," McCoy said before he could stop himself. "But like so much else about Human physiology, it doesn't always work that way in practice." An uncomfortable silence fell then, and McCoy rolled his eyes, sipping at his drink. "Oh, god, please stop acting like I'm going to break if we mention anything inappropriate around me. I'm divorced, not a terminal cancer patient."

"Oh, don't worry, Bones." Jim sat up, a genuine Jim Kirk shit-eating grin firmly in place on his face. "If you had the big C, we'd be helping you pick out toupees and different-colored tubes for your catheter." McCoy swore and elbowed Jim in the shoulder, and Jim laughed, and whatever awkwardness had been threatening to stifle their table seemed to dissipate, floating away into the air of the room like so much dust.

"That is another Human foible that I confess to not understanding very well," Spock said, as Christine got up to fetch them another round of drinks. It was difficult to tell, but McCoy thought he seemed relieved that the subject had been changed.

"Don't plenty of other species have a sense of humor?" asked Jim of no one in particular. "I mean, surely Humans aren't the only ones in the galaxy who get the giggles when someone rips a really good fart."

"No, Jim, that's just you," Janice said drily. "Being a paradigm of taste and good manners for the entire world, that's the Jim Kirk way." On cue, Jim turned his head, opened his mouth, and erupted with a loud, particularly meaty belch, holding it for a good five seconds. Everyone except Spock fell apart, groaning and laughing, and as Christine came back, two drinks in each capable hand, Christine leaned over and punched Jim in the bicep.

"Ow!" Jim whined, sliding down in his seat and clutching his shoulder theatrically, writhing around as though bleeding from a gut wound, an activity that was soundly ignored by everyone at the table save Spock, who was peering at Jim in what passed for mild concern for a Vulcan. "No, anyway," Jim continued, popping back up as though someone had pulled a string in his spine to re-ignite his participation in the conversation. "Isn't a sense of humor supposed to be one of those things that indicates self-awareness? Wasn't there some old science fiction story, from like the 20th century or something-Heinlein, I think maybe?"

"You would be a fan of Heinlein," Christine remarked, sipping at her Long Island. Jesus fuck, how many of those had she had, McCoy wondered distantly. The woman could drink like a fish. "He was such a sexist piece of shit."

"So was Milton," Jim pointed out, "but you can't argue that Paradise Lost isn't one of the most brilliant creations in Human history-"

"Since when do you read Milton?" McCoy demanded.

"Anyway," Jim said loudly, waving his hand as if to physically dispel the interruption, "in the book there was this supercomputer, that they had on the moon-there was a colony on the moon-I think they named it Mike. Mycroft."

"Mycroft," Spock said slowly. "After Sherlock Holmes's older, more intelligent brother."

Jim shot a startled glance at Spock, a bright, quicksilver smile flickering across his face. "Yeah, actually, I think that's right. Anyway, in the book, the... I think it's the janitor who winds up feeding all these jokes to the computer. I can't even remember why. But he feeds Mike probably thousands of jokes, all the jokes he can find, out of boredom or curiosity or whatever, and eventually the computer supposedly acquires a sense of humor. It figures out how to tell a joke itself. And that's the point when it supposedly became self-aware."

"Fascinating," Spock murmured. He was now staring at Jim as if Jim were the only one at the table. McCoy glanced sideways at Christine, who proceeded to roll her eyes hard enough to strain something. At least McCoy wasn't the only one who was seeing this. He was going to have to have a talk with the kid, he could already tell.

Talk broke off for a moment as the lights dimmed, the bartender turning the music subtly up as the evening wore on. The conversation took a more general turn then, working through recent politics and to a few of the movies Jim had dragged Spock to see, and McCoy soon found he was pleasantly buzzed, warmed both by the alcohol and the amiable conversation of friends around him. The music was good tonight, too, older rock and roll, not that newer xeno-fusion crap that was so popular right now. Broadening your horizons was all well and good, but sometimes a man just wanted to hear some honest-to-God guitar and drums.

Janice broke off in the middle of a colorful story about some of the drunken shenanigans some cadets in her dorm had gotten up to during finals when the music changed, a rough-sounding piece of dialogue that sounded like it was a very old recording. "Oh my God!" she squealed, shoving Jim harder than strictly necessary in the shoulder. "Jim. JIM. Come on you have to dance with me, come ON-"

"Jesus!" But Jim was laughing, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet and stumbling out into the open space that passed for a dance floor in the middle of the bar, backing up so that he was facing Janice, separated by a few feet. Now young lady, what is your name? asked the voice, sounding like an old-timey announcer.

Janice dropped into a mock half-bow, giggling as she mouthed, "Mrs. Mia Wallace." Jim grinned from ear to ear, mimicking her gesture as he bent from the waist. And how 'bout your fella here? "Vincent Vega," Jim mouthed. McCoy watched, for once as mystified as Spock, as old, badly-recorded boogie music started to play, and Jim and Janice started to dance.

They were doing the twist, McCoy realized abruptly. Christine started laughing as both Jim and Janice started to gyrate, mugging horribly at each other as they twirled and wiggled and spun across the dance floor. Other people were getting up and moving onto the floor now too, following Jim's and Janice's lead, and soon most of the empty space was taken up by people in various stages of inebriation doing a bad but enthusiastic session of the Twist.

But it wasn't Jim and Janice that McCoy found himself watching. It was Spock. Spock was staring at Jim and Janice, his back perfectly straight, an expression of utmost concentration on his face. Beyond that, McCoy couldn't have said what Spock was thinking to save his own life. But whatever it was that was on his mind, he looked as though he was trying to sear this scene into his memory banks permanently.

The song ended, and McCoy thought for a moment that Jim and Janice would come sit down again, but instead it was Christine who got up, bouncing out to the dance floor to join the others, and McCoy found himself alone at the table with Spock. Christine's exit seemed to bring Spock back to himself, and he shifted in his seat, tearing his eyes away from Jim and looking over at McCoy. "Do you not wish to join your friends?" Spock asked after a few moments, sounding unsure.

McCoy shook his head. "Nah," he said. "Not really much for dancing. M'glad they're having fun, though." Spock inclined his head, eyes tracking back to the figures on the dance floor seemingly despite himself, and then as if realizing that he was staring, he forced his eyes down to his hands.

"I must apologize," he said after another minute or so of silence. "I believe I unintentionally offended you earlier. Jim informed me of your current circumstances..." Spock trailed off, looking as uncomfortable as McCoy thought he'd ever seen a Vulcan be. It was strangely endearing.

"You didn't offend me, Spock." McCoy smiled, picking up his whiskey and draining the last of it in one go. "I meant what I said. I'm divorced. It sucks, but I've survived this far, and I don't really see myself keelin' over any time soon." Spock inclined his head, his eyes still on his hands, and for a few moments they lapsed into silence again, McCoy watching Spock try and fail to not fidget with his empty glass.

"If that is true..." Spock hesitated. McCoy waited. He had an idea of what Spock was about to ask, but he wasn't about to volunteer anything until Spock got around to it, either. "Forgive me," Spock said finally. "It is not my place to inquire into your personal affairs." But McCoy just shook his head, finding himself impatient now with all the dancing around the topic.

"If you want to ask about my divorce, Spock, you go right on ahead. You got more manners than most of the jerks I hang around with, anyway." McCoy paused, signaling at the waitress to bring him yet another whiskey, then added, "If it makes you feel any better, I promise I won't go answering anything that I don't want to."

Spock seemed to consider this for several seconds, then nodded his head again. "Very well. I am... unfamiliar with the intricacies of Human relationships. I was given to understand that for Humans, a marriage is not entered into lightly, and is intended to be permanent." McCoy nodded, gesturing for Spock to keep going. "Furthermore, I understand that this does not always work out for a couple, and that legal and emotional separations do occur. But..."

Again Spock hesitated, picking his words with care. "I was surprised to hear of your distress the other night. If a marriage ends, logically it is because the arrangement has not worked out, and I would assume that both parties would be relieved upon the dissolution of their relationship, as it frees them to pursue more satisfying arrangements. But when I asked Jim about this, he said that you and your former spouse still... still love each other. And I do not understand why, then, you decided to end your marriage."

McCoy let out a long breath, leaning back in his chair. "Ain't that the million-dollar question," he murmured, more to himself than to anything. But Spock blinked, and as he opened his mouth again, no doubt to ask for clarification, McCoy shook his head in negation. He was silent for several long moments, staring out at the dance floor over Spock's left shoulder, thinking.

The question hurt, sure. But McCoy found, just at that moment, that he was glad of the hurt.

"Jim's not wrong," McCoy said at length. "I do still love Joss. Jocelyn, that's... that's my ex-wife's name. But I guess.... for Humans, a successful marriage isn't always only about being in love. It's also about compatibility." At this, Spock nodded, but Bones kept going, letting the words spill out with probably less consideration than he normally would give to a conversation with a stranger, but then, he'd had a lot to drink tonight. "We maybe got married sooner'n we should have, but I was just... I was so in love with her. I think I knew I wanted to marry her within a week of tracking her down."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Tracking her down?"

Bones grinned. The expression felt unfamiliar, and somehow good. He hadn't smiled about Jocelyn in a long time. "Oh, god, yeah. She and I met in medical school. And... my second year, whenever I would come to certain classes, there would be these poems up on the board, that someone had snuck into the classroom while it was empty and written up there. Poetry or song lyrics or sometimes just a quote, from a book or something. It drove me crazy, trying to figure out who was doing it, and I finally resorted to hiding in one classroom for an entire damn day, for a week straight, to see if I could catch who was doing it. And it turned out to be this gorgeous redhead, and I was just completely smitten as soon as I laid eyes on her."

McCoy trailed off, finding it suddenly hard to speak around the lump in his throat. He hadn't told anyone that story in a long time, and he wasn't entirely sure why he just shared it with Spock, who was still watching him, a deep consideration in those dark eyes. "Anyway," McCoy said, his own words sounding hoarser than he'd like, "that's that. Joss is a good woman, and we had Joanna together-that's my little girl, Jo. She lives with her mother back in Georgia. But it didn't work out, and I wish I could tell you why, Spock, but I don't think I'll ever really know."

"I see," Spock said softly, although McCoy was willing to bet good money he did not. At some point when McCoy wasn't paying attention, he'd folded his hands into his lap. "Thank you for answering my question, Dr. McCoy."

At that, McCoy laughed. "Christ, don't do that," he said. "Just call me Leonard. Or Bones, if you like."

"Very well, Leonard." Spock paused, cocking his head to one side. "Why does Jim call you Bones?"

McCoy snorted into his drink, slouching into his chair. "That's a question you'll have to ask him, Spock."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Jim appeared abruptly at the edge of the table like a force of nature, skidding to a halt, red-faced and practically glowing. "You two gonna sit there and talk about the meaning of life for the rest of the night?" he demanded.

"I'm crying into my beer," McCoy informed him loftily.

"You are not drinking beer, Leonard," Spock pointed out, and Jim laughed as McCoy flipped an uncomprehending Spock the bird.

"Exactly. Spock, this is your opportunity to participate in bona fide Human-style bonding. Your assignment is to help me drag Bones out on the dance floor." On cue, both McCoy and Spock started to protest. Spock leaned back against the booth as though Jim had just presented him with a radioactive Tribble, while McCoy started to inch himself backwards along the booth, out of Jim's reach.

"Oh hell no, Kirk, don't you even-"

"I am not entirely certain that is an appropriate-"

"GET UP!" bawled Christine, who'd appeared at Jim's side like some sort of demonic familiar, lunging for McCoy from the other end of the table. "Come on, I went and hacked the fucking computer for you, Len, so you damn well better get up and dance, because this next one here is your song-"

"What?" Out McCoy went onto the floor, unwilling and mistrustful, followed by an equally reluctant Spock, with Jim bouncing on the balls of his feet at Spock's side. "Song? What's my song, wh-" And then the opening strains of an all-too-familiar guitar sang out over the loudspeakers. Christine slung one long arm around McCoy's shoulders, mimicked moments later by Jim on McCoy's opposite side, Janice and Spock hovering in front of them. All of them save Spock wore identical shit-eating grins.

"I hate you so much," McCoy announced, barely audible over the sultry sounds of Garth Brooks, drawling about showing up in boots and ruining a black-tie affair. But, he reflected (as Janice started to pantomime the lyrics for dramatic effect and Spock just stood there, looking at once mystified and vaguely uncomfortable), being humiliated in a bar by his best friends was a much better way to spend the evening than poisoning himself with rotgut whiskey back at the house.

* * * * *

Oscar night, and celebrity after celebrity was strolling up the red carpet, paparazzi shouting and flashing cameras every other second. Thousands of beings, all pressing and straining to catch a glimpse of the famous faces in attendance tonight, and tonight Jim was one of them, here to be adored and fawned over. But wait-where were his pants? Pure horror washed through him as Jim realized everyone was staring-not because he was famous, but because he was wearing nothing but a gold g-string covering his privates. He turned in slow-motion, panic deadening his limbs as he took in the sea of faces, all eyes focused on him, but one pair of dark eyes in particular jumped out at him, eyebrows drawn down in disappointment-

The alarm blared, cutting through Jim's fuzzy dreams, and he flung a hand out, slapping at the noise until his hand collided with the clock and found the off-button. Blessed silence fell over the room again, and Jim rolled onto his back with a low grunt, rubbing at his eyes as he tried to remember why he was asleep in his bed at 5 pm and not out doing something useful with himself. Images of the night before filtered through his sleep-addled mind: Christine Chapel wearing a lei draped over her head as she serenaded a rigid Spock, a thoroughly inebriated McCoy engaging in some shockingly raunchy dancing...

Shit. And then he'd had to get up this morning to go turn in his final paper in his Humanoid Sociology class and do a few errands, still marinating in his own alcoholic soup, and hadn't made it back to the house till almost two. After a night like that, no wonder he'd crashed for a few hours more of sleep. At least he wasn't traumatizing everyone with his junk, though. Damn, but the "pantsless in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre" dream was getting old. The addition of Spock at the edge of the crowd, though, witnessing Jim's nonsensical shame... that was new. But further analysis of his dream-scape was stalled by a mouth that felt like desiccated cotton and the remnants of a nasty headache. He should probably take some painkillers, go see if McCoy had any of his magical hangover-killing hypos still lying around.

Not just yet, though. First things first: he needed a shower. Jim thumbed his boxers down over his hips and let them fall to the ground, padding barefoot to the bathroom, grabbing a discarded towel from the rack on the wall. It might be hot and gritty like Satan's asshole outside, but a long hot shower was still gonna feel fantastic.

Thirty minutes later, Jim was eyeing himself critically in the mirror, mouth quirked up at the corner in exasperation. The face looking back at him was still identifiably his, if you knew what to look for, but no one among Jim's more casual acquaintances would recognize him-which was the idea, at least in part. Smudged kohl lined his arresting blue eyes, the dusty pink of his nipples just barely visible underneath the tight black mesh shirt he wore, and the black leather pants looked as though they had been poured on. But the thing that had Jim making faces at himself in the mirror was the platinum-blonde wig he now sported, hiding his own shorter, sandier hair. It looked like a reject from Miss Piggy's arsenal of personal tragedies, but by itself it did lightyears more to hide Jim's normal appearance than all the rest of his ensemble put together, and as fugly as he privately thought it was, he'd found a certain number of well-paying clients went for that kind of shit.

Including the one he had an appointment to meet with tonight.

Naveen Kamdar was one of the most devastatingly attractive men Jim had ever met in his entire life, looking like an Indian prince who wandered out of some ancient Hindu myth, if princes wore tailored silk suits and played politics with a vindictiveness that made Klingons look sweet and thoughtful. He was unfailingly polite to Jim, always had an expensive, delicious meal waiting for him at the hotel suite when Jim arrived, and paid Jim exorbitantly for the pleasure of his company. (Jim could read the massive over-payment as the bribe for silence it was, and always kept quiet when Naveen's wife occasionally called, wanting to check in with her husband. Of course, half the time he was tied to the bed and gagged anyway, so it wasn't as if he had much choice.)

As if on cue, Jim's comm-unit went off, jangling distantly from the bedroom. Jim swore under his breath and bolted down the hallway, grabbing it up off the cover just in time to answer before it went to his mailbox. "Hi, Naveen," he said, fighting to keep the breathlessness out of his voice and face.

"Hello there, James," purred the voice at the other end. Naveen's handsome face stared out at Jim, as smooth and polite as a carved ebony statue. "I was worried for a little there that you were going to disappear on me tonight."

"Oh, hey now," Jim said. "I wouldn't do that to you."

"Really? You've certainly been hard enough to get ahold of for the past few weeks. One would almost think you'd been avoiding me." Jim felt heat flood his face and neck and hoped devoutly that he wasn't visibly flushed-or at least that Naveen wouldn't be able to see it through their link, if he was.

"Now why in the world would I do that? I told you, I've just been busy."

"Of course, I have no idea why you'd want to end our acquaintance," Naveen said, and now there was definitely no mistaking the amusement in his voice now. Jim felt a bit like a particularly beautiful cat was laughing at him. "I'm sure I was just imagining things. But I am very much looking forward to seeing you tonight, James."

"So am I," Jim lied sweetly, flashing his most dazzling smile at the little view-screen. "I'm almost ready to go now. See you soon, Naveen." Naveen nodded once, and then the screen went black. Jim switched his own comm-unit off and tossed it down to the bed, letting out a long breath that he hadn't even known he was holding.

Jim glanced at his clock. Almost six. He was due at Naveen's hotel in a little over an hour. If he'd wanted to, Jim could have called back Naveen and asked for a transport to come pick him up, but one of Jim's ironclad rules was that clients didn't know where he lived and never came to his house. Which was probably the only reason Naveen hadn't turned up at Jim's front door at some unwanted, highly-inopportune moment. Like when I'm trying to tell Bones how my job is so fun and fulfilling, Jim thought sourly.

Well, he could have worry about that problem later. Right now, he needed to get going, or he'd never make it to Naveen's part of Marina Del Ray in time. Jim grabbed up his helmet off the desk, shrugged into his leather jacket, and pocketed his keys. He could do this. He was good at his job, fuck, he was amazing at his job, and he loved it. Naveen might be a lot to handle, but he paid Jim well and gave him the red-carpet treatment. This was just a job like any other, and there was no reason to be stressing out over it. But being professional about it sometimes meant functioning on a need-to-know basis, which was where Jim's head was retreating to right now.

McCoy didn't need to know that Jim was meeting with Naveen Kamdar tonight, or Naveen's preferred brand of "service" he liked from Jim . Naveen didn't need to know that Jim had been deleting his messages for the past three weeks, or that the only reason Jim agreed to meet with him tonight was because Spock was up in San Francisco for two days with the Vulcan Embassy. And Spock-

Jim felt a hard knot form in his throat. No, Spock definitely did not need to know what Jim was going to be doing tonight.

Jim pulled his helmet carefully over his wig and strode briskly out the front door, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. With any luck, McCoy would be in bed long before Jim got back.

* * * * *

As it happened, not only was McCoy not in bed when Jim got back to the house, he wasn't even home-Jim beat him by almost thirty minutes. Of course, his night hadn't gone exactly how he'd expected it to, either.

Dr. McCoy (whose week had improved considerably since Jim came home to find him well on his way to ruining his liver at their kitchen table) left his shift at St. Mary's, stopped at the grocery store on the way home for coffee, bagels, and bread, and got back to their neighborhood a full fifteen minutes earlier than he'd expected. He impulsively stopped at the taco truck up the street, simply because it happened to still be open, and sat on the curb to eat his dinner as twilight drew slowly down around him, enjoying his cold beer and the balmy summer evening. McCoy had never really gotten used to the dry heat of Los Angeles, but tonight he could admit he was enjoying the lack of humidity.

He came in the front door with the bag of groceries in one hand and the remains of his taco wrappers in the other, still mulling over the last patient he saw that day before leaving work. He walked into the kitchen, put the bag of groceries on the table, and went into the laundry room to pitch the remnants of his dinner into the trash bin-

And paused, staring in bemusement at the platinum-blond wig sitting on top of the pile of trash. It had bits of-McCoy squinted in disbelief-were those wads of tissue on top?

Right. Wads of tissue with spots of blood on them. Okay. McCoy straightened, tossing his wrappings into the bin almost as an after-thought, and went back into the kitchen. "Jim," he called, wondering belatedly if Jim was even still home, "where you at, kid?"

"In here." McCoy followed Jim's voice to the living room, where he found his roommate sacked out on the couch in a t-shirt and sweatpants, "watching" some program with the volume turned all the way down. Jim looked up at him as he entered, flashing a big, cheerful, fake smile that wouldn't have fooled a blind man. He sat up, and a bag full of something sloshed against his chest as he did so, a bag of what McCoy now realized was ice, settled on top of Jim's right hand. His knuckles, to be precise. "Hey," Jim said, his smile fading a little around the edges at the way McCoy was looking at him. "What's up?"

"Pretty sure I'm the one who should be asking that question, Jim." McCoy raised his eyebrows, unable to keep from smiling at the way Jim now looked like he was trying not to fidget, like a boy who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Though, if McCoy's guess about where that blood on the tissues came from, no cookie jar had ever done quite a number on a boy's hand like Jim had done to himself tonight. "You wanna tell me what the occasion is that you finally put that travesty of a wig in the trash?"

Jim hesitated, shifting on the couch to make more room for McCoy, then swore loudly as his bag of melting ice chose this moment to go oozing off his lap in a tumble to the floor, bursting and spilling ice-water all over the carpet. "Goddammit, Jim," McCoy laughed, and jumped up again to run to the kitchen for towels, Jim close on his heels.

"Sorry, I'm sorry! Jeez, it's just water, it's not like I haven't spilled worse out here-"

"Don't remind me. You and red wine are a dangerous combination." McCoy crouched, scooping up the last few melty ice-cubes, and as they were mopping up the mess, Jim said, almost as an afterthought, "So, in answer to your question, I deleted all my messages today. From my clients." He kept his eyes on the ground as he said this, hands pressed against the towels on the carpet, his expression a study in nonchalance.

McCoy glanced up, one hand braced against his knee, looking at Jim's face and trying to gauge that comment. "This mean you're takin' a break from this business?" he asked carefully, not entirely sure what to do with that statement. Jim was easy-going about most things, but McCoy really wasn't interested in inadvertently picking another fight with his roommate.

"Yeah, a permanent one." Now Jim did look over at McCoy, a touch of defiance in his voice and eyes. Trust Jim to get defensive about the one thing McCoy had been hoping he'd do for two years now.

"Jesus fucking Christ, kid, it's about time." McCoy reached over, batted the wadded towels out of Jim's hands, and hauled Jim to his feet, embracing him like a brother. Jim endured it for several moments before he squirmed his way out of McCoy's arms, rolling his eyes to hide his smile. "So what's the occasion? You finally realized what I've been telling you for two years, that you're too smart for that crap?"

Jim bent down to scoop up the towels, following McCoy to the laundry room to dispose of the dirty rag as they continued their conversation. "Smart's got nothing to do with it. I just got tired of it. It's not fun anymore." Now it was McCoy's turn to roll his eyes at this typical Jim take on the situation. You could probably convince Jim Kirk to sign up for hazardous duty in a war zone, as long as you could find a way to convince him it was 'fun.'

"I still have no idea how you ever found it fun, you little twerp, but we're going out for a drink tonight to celebrate. In fact-" McCoy broke off, squinting at Jim's hand as he caught a better look at it in the light of the kitchen. "Lemme see that hand, Jim. What'd you do to yourself? This have something to do with the new lack of fun in your job?"

"Uh, actually..." Jim obediently let McCoy examine what turned out to be the lacerated knuckles of Jim's right hand, mostly because McCoy already had his wrist in a death grip and getting out of it looked to be more trouble than it was worth. "Nnnno. I just had a really... unsatisfying night and decided I'd had enough. The hand I got from punching Harry Mudd."

McCoy looked up, new disbelief creasing his brows. "You what? Jim. Jim. Are you sure you're my roommate? Not that I'm surprised to hear you getting in a fist-fight, but where did this sudden increase in common sense come from?"

"He had it coming, okay?" Jim said loudly, yanking his hand away from McCoy's grip, but McCoy was already going for the med-kit from its berth in one of the cupboards.

"You don't have to tell me that, Jim, I've thought you should ditch that sleazeball since I first laid eyes on him, but last I checked you still thought he had your best interests at heart." McCoy plunked the box down on the counter and rummaged through it for a few seconds 'til he came up with the dermoplaser, turning and grabbing Jim's hand again and running it over the abused skin of his knuckles.

"He was threatening to tell all my clients where I lived." It was a credit to McCoy's diligence as a doctor first and a friend second that he managed to finish knitting up Jim's hand before leveling a new, outraged stare in Jim's direction.

"He what? Jim-"

"Yeah. Yeah. I left Naveen's hotel-"

"-who?"

"Client! Doesn't matter, he actually took the news really well-anyway. I left Naveen's hotel, got halfway home, decided I was done, so the first thing I did was call Harry and tell him to not refer anyone else to me, because I'm done taking clients. He wanted me to give him some kind of pay-off for all the people he's sent my way, especially Spock."

"And you told him to go fuck himself, I hope." McCoy put the dermoplaser aside, shutting the lid of the med-kit with more force than strictly necessary.

"Yeah, basically. And then he threatened to tell all my clients where I live." Jim caught McCoy's look, and smirked. "Bones, he doesn't know where I live. I checked."

"By punching his face in?"

"Uh, no? Christ, I'm not a bully, Bones! Anyway. So I told him I'd come over so we could talk, and after confirming that, yeah, he has no fuckin' idea where I live, I told him that he could go to hell and to leave me the fuck alone." Jim smiled, a tight, unhappy expression that said volumes about how that conversation had actually gone. McCoy leaned back against the counter, bracing his hands against the edge as he studied Jim.

"So you're done, then. Really done. And Mudd's not going to bother you anymore."

"Well, I mean, short of shipping off-planet, I can't be sure, but yeah, I'm pretty certain."

"Good," McCoy said forcefully. "You're well rid of that sleaze." He paused as something occurred to him, watching Jim go to the fridge to get the orange juice. McCoy thought again of the way Jim and Spock had been looking at each other, the other night at the bar; thought of how the number of clients Jim had taken since he met Spock had dwindled to almost nothing, and of how constantly Jim was out with Spock. A clear picture was forming in his head, and McCoy wasn't entirely certain he liked what he saw. "So, Jim," he said after a moment, as Jim poured himself a glass of juice and glanced over at him. "What about Spock?"

Jim arched an eyebrow at him that the aforementioned Vulcan would've been proud of. "What about Spock?" he asked.

"You're ditching all your clients. Have you told him yet?"

Jim shrugged. "It's not really any of his business, is it?"

"Uh, I'd say so, if you're letting him off the hook the way you are everyone else."

Jim didn't answer, putting the juice away and then coming back to hop up on the counter, legs dangling over the side.. "Spock's different," he said, leveling his gaze at McCoy. "Besides, he leaves in less than six weeks. I see no reason to cut things short." The carriage of his shoulders and the tone of his voice were a clear warning, but McCoy had no intention of turning back from this particular subject. Suddenly Jim's decision to abandon the sex trade didn't look so fabulously clean-cut.

"Right. Sure. Look, Jim..." McCoy drew a deep breath, and then took the plunge. "You haven't slept with him, have you?"

"What does it matter if I have?" Jim's voice had gone cool and slightly hard, losing even the pretense of nonchalance. McCoy, however, was having none of it.

"Please, Jim," he said. "Hello? You do realize that I live with you, right? You really think I haven't noticed how completely over the moon you are about this guy?"

"I am not-what are you smoking, Bones?" Jim sat up, planting his hands on the counter. "Spock's just a friend."

"A friend?" McCoy repeated skeptically. "Not a client, Jim? Not someone who's paying you for your services?" Jim flushed, floundering on whatever he'd been going to say next, and McCoy sighed, rubbing at his temple. "Kirk, you are going to be the death of me," he muttered. Louder, addressing Jim again, he said, "Please tell me you haven't slept with him, Jim."

"I haven't slept with him." Jim sounded surly now, shoulders hunching ever-so-slightly as he glared across the kitchen at his housemate. "Happy?"

"Not exactly," McCoy said. "But I-for chrissake, Jim, this isn't about making me happy. So you haven't slept with him. But you want to, don't you?" He raised his eyebrows, and after a moment of hesitation, Jim nodded. Just once, barely there, but it was enough. McCoy groaned softly. "Oh, boy. You really like him, don't you."

"It's not a big deal, Bones, it's just-it's just a crush." McCoy shook his head, pushing off from where he leaned against the counter, coming over to where Jim still sat, legs dangling over the side like an oversized ten-year-old. McCoy had known Jim for almost two years now, having found that the loud-mouth, hot-tempered kid he'd first taken in as a temporary house-mate had turned out to be one of the most loyal and true friends a man could ask for. In all that time, he had never once seen Jim lose his cool over a man, woman, or alien.

"Jim." McCoy's voice was gentle. "Look. I don't have anything against Spock. If you've quit turning tricks because of him, then I owe him dinner at the nicest restaurant in town, 'cause he's managed what I've been tryin' to convince you of for two years. But I just can't see this ending well for you. You just told me he's going back to his home planet next month, didn't you?" Again Jim nodded. McCoy pursed his lips (something he would deny strenuously were Jim to ever accuse him of, due to his association of that facial expression with his mother), leaning against the counter. "Does Spock know you feel like this?"

Jim shook his head. "I only realized tonight," he admitted. "When I was-well. I kept wishing Naveen was Spock, and I had to end the night early 'cause I just... couldn't go through with it." McCoy made a face, both because of a devout wish to not picture Jim naked and because of how very much he disliked hearing that uncertain note in his friend's voice. "Look, it's really not a big deal," Jim added more firmly. "I'm not gonna fuckin' do anything about it. I don't think Spock thinks of me like that at all."

"Right. Okay. Just..." McCoy shook his head. "Just be careful, okay?"

Jim nodded, a wry smile making an appearance. "Got it, Dad."

"Shut up, brat. Now. About that drink..."

* * * * *

Rest of Chapter Three here.