Title: Along Comes a Stranger (26/28)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: AU. Jim’s life in Riverside is uncomplicated until two men, both equally mysterious and compelling, arrive in town, bringing with them the promise of change.
Previous Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25

Some things worth noting:
1. This chapter is 9k+ words. Be prepared for a ride.
2. Today is the two-month anniversary of this fic. Yes, it’s taken that long to write.
3. Story length has now surpassed 110k. We’ll wrap it up before 125k.
4. I love you all, my dedicated readers. Please remember that when you get to the end of this chapter. -_-;

Italicized passages are scenes out of sequence.

Part Twenty-Six

Trelane flips back the sheet and stares at the bloodless face streaked with evidence of fire for a long moment. He touches the bruises around his throat in memory.

The mortician asks, “Is this your friend, sir?”

“He is remarkably whole,” Trelane states.

“The body was pulled outta the building before it could burn. Poor bastard was already gone, though.”

“Mm, yes,” the man answers, finally acknowledging the question. “This was my friend. Thank you for allowing me a look.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

The mortician wouldn’t understand his reply so Trelane says nothing. He limps away from the morgue, missing his umbrella and still uneasy. He had been fooled once before. He can only hope that James T. Kirk is properly dead this time.

Trelane suspects Lady Q as his betrayer, and so the deal between them is null and void. Let it be known that Trelane is a man not to be trifled with. Though his revenge will be such a small consolation in light of his great loss, of his ruined dream.

Ah well. There are plenty of other cities in this country he could conquer.

~~~

“Madam, are ye feeling a’right?” Scotty asks the woman brandishing a fan like a tiny dagger beneath the nose of one round-eyed Pavel Chekov. “Do ye need to sit doun?”

Lady Q stills her fan and turns, face an unhealthy shade of red. “He is a Russian!” she exclaims to Montgomery Scott, who blinks, not comprehending the implied seriousness of the situation.

Scotty shrugs. “Me mother’s Scottish.”

Lady Q rustles her dress in irritation. Chekov uses the moment of distraction to cower behind Sulu. When Lady Q finds that the object of her dismay has slipped away, she whirls on Kirk. “James, I will not permit Russians in the house of the Q!”

Jim tilts his head in an imitation of Spock and asks “Why?” with genuine curiosity.

The old woman appears scandalized that he would have to ask. “They are our enemy!”

Bones intervenes dryly, “You know the Cold War is over, right?”

Lady Q sails over to McCoy and stops within a foot of him before snapping open her fan and peering at Leonard over the top of it. “Introduce yourself,” she commands.

“I already told you this is Bones,” begins Jim.

McCoy and Lady Q both ignore Kirk. Leonard lifts an eyebrow in amusement and, after looking Lady Q over, seems to come to some decision. The man executes a proper bow and drawls, “Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Lady Q holds out one of her hands. McCoy kisses the top of it as a gentleman is supposed to. The old woman sniffs from behind her fan, appeased, before lowering it to say, “Your acquaintance is also well-received, Dr. McCoy. Now you may proceed with your explanation.”

Leonard looks at Jim as if to say is she real? Jim gives him a thumbs-up out of range of Lady Q.

McCoy clears his throat. “I meant no offense, ma’am. I just don’t see a reason for your prejudice against a poor Russian kid.”

Her glance flicks over to Pavel. “He does look quite poor. However the Russians have no love for the Q—”

Pavel looks as confused as everyone else, Jim notes.

“—nor the Q for the Russians. They will say they invented any number of things which are nothing but bold-faced lies!”

Pavel pipes up, “Vodka was invented in Russia” like he is trying to be helpful.

“AH HA! Vodka was not invented in Russia!” she cries triumphantly.

Jim puts a hand over his face and sighs. Chekov whispers something in Sulu’s ear, probably does she bite?

Spock, on the other hand, is tired of this nonsense. “Lady Q, Mr. Chekov humbly requests that you pardon his presence in your home for a brief period of time. He bears no ill intentions toward your person; in fact I suspect the opposite. If you are amendable, perhaps you shall be the first of your kind, along with the aid of Mr. Chekov, to seek to foster an improved relationship between the… Q and the Russians.”

Lady Q has stopped fanning herself to consider this alternative. “James, will you vouch for your Pavel Chekov?”

“Yes, your Ladyship,” Jim replies with all the gravity and dignity he can muster. (Really, though, it’s difficult because she is being ridiculous.)

Lady Q nods decisively. “I will be a gracious hostess, even to an ungracious enemy.” Then she fixes a pointed stare upon McCoy until McCoy realizes he needs to present his arm, which the old woman then latches onto and proceeds to drag Leonard is a particular direction down the hallway.

Jim and Spock follow closely behind the pair but he still catches Sulu’s “You’ll be okay, Pavel, I promise. Older people aren’t always sensible.” After a pause Sulu adds, “Just don’t drink or eat anything until I taste it first.”

They have no idea, Jim thinks—no idea at all how remarkably senseless Lady Q truly is. But the woman is also their best (and only) ally.

Jim’s place of importance at the dining table is immediately—and unknowingly—usurped by Bones, who is ushered to the end opposite of Lady Q by a male attendant, per her Ladyship’s explicit directions. Lady Q remarks loudly that she has not been in the company of a genuine old country doctor in years and it’s rather exciting. Jim strategically uses Spock as a shield until the urge to giggle passes. McCoy shoots Kirk a bemused look when Lady Q directs her attention to her staff.

Lunch is a short affair. Nyota is interrogated as to why the young woman has yet to “take up with James—it’s not as if he is aesthetically unpleasing, my dear.”

Bones chokes on his salad, Jim melts into his chair, but Uhura laughs.

“I like my men less excitable than I am,” she tells Lady Q. The matriarch seems to find this answer acceptable.

Jim isn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

Spock, sitting to Lady Q’s immediate right at her insistence, becomes an obvious favorite of hers after a quick and dirty bantering that may or may not help progress Jim’s developing headache. She calls Spock “well-mannered and witty” and asks the lawyer if he needs a job.

Spock graciously declines. Lady Q seems to let that pass, except from Kirk’s vantage point, Jim sees a certain look in the woman’s eyes that says she is not the type to accept no for long.

For a brief minute, silence envelopes the table. Then McCoy drops his fork onto his plate with a clang and says, “Let’s quit dancing around what we’re here to do.”

Lady Q blots delicately at the corner of her mouth, replaces her napkin, and then states calmly, “Ah, placing you at the head of the table was an excellent choice. I leave the discussion in your hands, Dr. McCoy.”

Bones fiddles with his glass of water, now ill-at-ease. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“What is the deadline for determining our course of action?” Spock asks the eldest Q.

She stops nibbling on a slice of bread. “Tonight.”

Jim scrubs his hands over his face, listening to pandemonium break out. No one pays attention to the other Q filing in with plates of fruit and cheese. After Jim has had his fill of noise and protest, he stands up and calls for order. “Guys, okay, enough!”

“The only kind of death you’re going to get, Jim, on short notice is a REAL one,” McCoy snaps. “We don’t even have time to plan!”

“So we wing it!” Jim fires back.

Leonard shoots to his feet. “Do you want to die? Because there’s a good chance—OW!” The doctor puts a hand to the back of his head where Uhura had smacked him. She glares over Leonard’s shoulder at Jim.

“Sit down or I’ll come over there too,” she says in warning.

Jim immediately sits down.

Nyota Uhura crosses her arms, looking peeved that she had get out of her chair in the first place. “I want everyone to shut up.” Then she focuses on the woman at the other end of the table. “You are the only one without something to say—which means you already have a plan.”

Lady Q beams. “Of course I have a plan.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?” complains Kirk.

Her amusement grows. “It wasn’t until I met the Russian that the plan became clear to me, James. These things cannot be rushed.”

“Well apparently they need to be…” grumbles McCoy but a quick glance at Uhura has the doctor closing his mouth again.

“There are many, many ways to kill a person,” Lady Q states matter-of-factly. “What we need are believable circumstances, shocking but not unheard of. Common tragedies like robberies interrupted or car accidents or lightning strikes—” Scotty mouths lightning strikes? “—are out of the question. Also, James, you are not a dealer in drugs, I presume?”

Jim shakes his head.

“I thought not. So we are left with one scenario of death that is tragic, not overly suspicious, and cannot be pinpointed as a crime committed by the politician Trelane.” Her amusement fades. “It must be a hate crime.”

Jim almost wants to ask why would anyone hate me? but he knows better. Instead Kirk slumps in his chair. A hand lands on his shoulder. It belongs to Uhura, who has circled around to his chair. He covers her hand with his.

“Okay,” he says, wincing at the sudden rough quality to his voice. He looks at Lady Q. “We can deal work with that.”

The eyes which return his look are surprisingly sympathetic. “You are a strong man, James,” she says, “and a brave one. I hope you never believe otherwise.”

After lunch, Lady Q tells everyone they are look “peaky” and naps are in order all around. Jim suspects she might have another reason for dispersing their group, but he is feeling slightly numb and sleep does sound good.

Kirk and his friends stand together at a juncture of four long corridors. Lady Q directs her assortment of uniformed, silent men and women to escort each guest to a suitable bedroom. Uhura latches onto Scotty (who looks mildly shocked) and says she would nap better knowing she is only a few doors down from Scotty. Lady Q waves the pair off, saying, “I am certainly not a prude, Nyota dear. And Mr. Scott does seem to be the least ‘excitable’ of the bunch.”

Her Ladyship’s look lingers on Sulu and Chekov and though neither man says a word, she sends them both in the same direction. Her wink at Kirk is mixture of Russian and Japanese, how unsurprising and they’ll find their way to each other if they want to.

Then she asks Bones if he needs a valet, beckons a male Q to offer his services to McCoy, and Jim has to interrupt. “Bones and Spock will stay with me,” he says with a hint of determination.

Lady Q pins Jim with a sharp, speculative stare and tucks her fan away into a sleeve of her dress. “I see,” she murmurs slowly and her stare moves on to inspect Spock and Leonard. “I suppose it was a foolish old woman’s hope that you would have the sense to make a baby with some tartlet and secure your line before settling down with your paramours.”

Jim’s face turns bright red. He fumbles for a reply, only to come up with “Bones has a daughter.”

Leonard’s eye twitches as Lady Q’s disappointment falls away and she lights up.

“Oh I approve! It will be such a simple task to have her last name changed to Kirk.”

“What! Why you meddling—”

Jim grabs Bones’ arm and reels him away the pleased matriarch of the Q. “C’mon, Bones. She’s just talking.”

Leonard sputters. Kirk notes how Spock walks behind them, in case Leonard should escape Jim’s grasp. They make a rather good team, Jim decides, when it comes to herding McCoy.

Lady Q calls after the retreating men, “We will reconvene in five hours! Use your time wisely!”

Jim is blushing down to his toes as he leads Leonard and Spock to his room.

Jim idles on the edge of the neatly made bed and watches Spock fold his shirt and trousers. Behind Jim, Leonard comes out of the bathroom and says, “That’s the damn biggest tub I’ve ever seen.”

“I know,” he replies absentmindedly.

Bones settles beside Jim on the bed and puts a warm hand on his leg, startling Kirk.

“Jim?”

“Yeah?” Jim looks at the man and forgets how to form words. McCoy has stripped off his shirt and Bones’ bare chest is kind of distracting. Jim drags his eyes away, only to find Spock unabashedly in standing in front of them both in only an undershirt and briefs.

Now is about the right time for Jim to hide his face under a pillow and pretend he is saintly man above the carnal pleasures of the flesh.

Which. He. Really. Isn’t.

“You are not prepared for bed,” Spock says in that unassuming (completely terrifying) way of his.

“I think he’s embarrassed,” guesses McCoy.

“I am not!” Jim squeaks.

Leonard smiles slowly at Jim, and Jim’s heart (and libido) does all manner of awkward stunts.

“You sure?” asks the green-eyed man (Bones’ eyes change like the freaking wind and Jim loves it). “Not wearing your man-thong under there, are you, Jim-boy?”

Kirk’s mouth ignores his sparking brain. “What would you do if I was, Bones?” he challenges.

Leonard smirks. “Question is… what will I do even if you aren’t?”

McCoy’s hand squeezes his thigh, and Jim falls off the bed in surprise. He scrambles away and around to the other side of the bed and cries “Bathroom!” like he’s dying from an urgent need to pee. Once enclosed in the bathroom Jim’s jelly-like legs give out and Kirk plops onto the floor.

Whoa. What is the matter with him?

Because he is supposed to be doing bathroom-ly things, Jim gets up (never mind that his legs are still wobbly) and turns on the sink facet. He watches the water run for a second or two before pacing to the other side of the bathroom.

Sex is not bad.

Sex with Bones could NOT be bad. Sex with Bones and Spock? Probably REALLY NOT BAD.

Is he a fool for agonizing over this? Sex is comfort, and right now Jim could use a lot of comforting.

Except he doesn’t want let’s-get-naked-before-Jim-dies sex, even though he had thought of his list of the things I would do if I were going to die tomorrow… ages ago. A threesome was definitely on that list.

And now he’s in the scenario and bowing out.

Life sucks, Jim decides and turns off the running water. He tosses his jeans into a corner, his t-shirt along with it, and jerks open the bathroom door.

Bones and Spock are standing close together. They turn to look at him, faces unreadable.

He smiles slightly and says, “Thanks for being here. I’m going to crash. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Jim drops the hand he had been rubbing the back of his neck with and crawls under the covers of the bed. Sighing (because this is his idiot moment of the year) he flings an arm over his eyes and asks, “Can someone close the curtains? Stupid sun.”

Stupid, stupid Jim.

There is the sound of swooshing fabric. The light in the room dims. A body stretches out next to Jim, and Jim doesn’t have to think about who is; only Bones wears that kind of aftershave.

Bones plants an arm across Jim and murmurs tentatively, “Jim?”

He drags his arm off of his eyes and blinks them open. McCoy is propped up on his elbow, looking at him, no doubt seeing right through him. Jim swallows against the lump in his throat. “Can we just pretend my life isn’t epic-ly fucked up and I’m not going to get beat on in a few hours for being gay?”

“No one is going to hurt you, Jim,” McCoy says in a fierce whisper.

“Not today, maybe. Who’s to say it won’t ever happen?” he asks, looking up at the ceiling. “I mean, that’s why you came to Riverside, Bones—to get away from people who couldn’t accept you for yourself.”

A thumb strokes his cheek. “I haveta say, kid, I think I was pretty successful. I found you, didn’t I?”

That makes him grin a little. “Actually I found you.”

“Your momma gets the credit,” McCoy says firmly, “’cause she insisted you give me that ride to the motel.”

Jim sits up. “Oh, oh shit! I forgot!” The letter from his mother.

Spock skirts around the bed with the offer of “I will retrieve it.”

The man is back in a second and holding out the folded letter to Jim. Jim takes it with a quick thank you. McCoy has switched a lamp on a side table so that Jim can read it without squinting.

Jimmy,

I had to re-write this more than once. Most of the things I want to say can be said later. Come home. Please come home. I love you.

Mom

PS: Amanda is here with me. She says ditto for both Spock and Leonard.

Jim hands the note to Bones and slumps under the covers. For the first time, Jim lets himself imagine what would happen if he didn’t make it home. That makes him flip over onto his stomach and bury his face in his pillow to hide his tears.

Bones’ gentle “C’mere” is as soft as he touch when he tucks up against Jim’s side. Jim gives in and turns into the man’s arms. The mattress dips on the other side of the bed and a hand fleetingly touches his back, then slides along Jim’s side. Jim reaches back and tugs on it, telling Spock without words that it is okay to touch him. Spock settles along Kirk’s back, not quite against Jim but close enough that Jim can feel the heat of Spock’s body.

After a while, cradled in the presence of both Leonard and Spock, Jim sinks into a calm that he hasn’t felt in days. Jim finally eases onto his back again, surprised to find that he is sleepy. But he has to say the words, just in case. “If it goes wrong,” Jim whispers, “tell her I love her. Don’t… don’t let her be alone.”

“Okay, Jim” comes an equally soft whisper.

Jim closes his eyes and relaxes and drifts.

The Q who knocks on their bedroom door to fetch them some hours later says without preamble, “You are summoned to her Ladyship’s side.”

From the bathroom where Jim can spy Leonard pulling on his shirt, McCoy calls, “Why do I feel like I’m at a royal’s Court but have no more status than a jester?”

“Lady Q believes herself to be royalty,” Spock explains, already waiting by the door fully dressed. “The other Q enforce her beliefs. Why, however, I am not yet certain.”

Jim pulls on a sock. “Sometimes it’s better to let people have their delusions.”

Spock asks, “Why would her station in life be a delusion if others accept her claim?”

“Okay, no more speculatin’,” says Bones as he comes into the room and hands Jim the shoe he had been looking for. “I want to focus on my patient, not a crazy lady.”

The Q leads them silently through the halls. Jim asks at one point, “Where are the others?”

“They are completing errands for her Ladyship, in preparation for this evening’s task.”

For some reason, Jim is certain that he does not wait to know the details of those errands. The Q indicates a half-open door. Jim nods his thanks. He walks into the room, sees who is sitting in a chair opposite of the doorway, and his blood runs cold.

Frank Rand pales. “You three? Oh fuck.”

Someone’s hand settles at the small of Jim’s back (Spock’s, Jim thinks) and Bones reminds Jim quietly, “We’re with you” even though McCoy sounds no less surprised than Jim feels.

Breathing deeply, Jim locks down on his rampant emotions and ignores Frank. Lady Q waves to them from her perch on a settee across the room and calls, “James, James! Over here, dear.”

Standing beside the seated Lady Q is Sheriff Komack. The man forgoes the standard hello and holds out a folded letter to Kirk. “From your mother,” the sheriff says shortly.

Jim brushes a thumb along the edge of the paper, almost giving into the need to open it, but decides to tuck the letter into his back pocket instead.

Lady Q explains sweetly, “The Sheriff has brought us a prop for our play.”

“Hey,” protests an agitated Deputy Rand, rising from his chair. “I got somewhere to be, lady.”

“SIT!” bellows the old woman.

Rand sits.

“You will remain in that chair until you otherwise informed,” she tells the frowning deputy sternly.

Frank clutches his hat in his hands and looks at Komack for support. Komack says, “Keep your seat, Frank.”

It is McCoy who demands, “Why is that asshole here?”

“Language, please,” tsks her Ladyship. “Dr. McCoy, if we are to stage a hate crime, we need a perpetrator.”

Spock asks, “May I inquire why you believe Deputy Rand is a suitable choice for a perpetrator?”

McCoy looks askance at Spock, as if astonished how Spock can ask that and then looks at Jim for an explanation. Jim just shrugs and Spock ignores them both. The lawyer’s attention is solely for Lady Q.

Lady Q folds her hands in her lap. “You are aware of my reasons but if you wish them stated aloud: Frank Rand is a small-minded, arrogant boot-licker. He is incapable of tolerance and compassion for others who do not adhere to his beliefs. Komack, I trully cannot understand why you allow such a man to defend the common citizen.”

Komack looks like he has bit into something incredibly sour. “I won’t disagree that a man needs to keep his prejudices to himself.”

“He’s a cop!” Leonard interrupts hotly. “It’s his job to protect people—that means even from himself!”

Komack eyes McCoy with a grim expression. “There aren’t many folks in Riverside who are willing to put themselves in the kind of danger an officer has to. Frank’s been in my department a long time and he has worked hard for this town. I’ve never had a complaint about him.”

“Yet you brought him here,” Spock says flatly, “which indicates that you are aware of his disposition.”

“I brought him here,” is Komack’s sharp response, “because he aided and abetted in a kidnapping.”

Leonard’s voice is soft and deadly. “‘N what about those other times, Sheriff, when your deputy was pushing Jim around and callin’ him a faggot?“

Lady Q grimaces.

Komack asks mildly, “Did you report it?”

Jim grips Bones’ arm in warning. Kirk says, because he does have a margin of respect for the Sheriff of Riverside, “We made no report.”

Komack’s eyes are less hard when they land on Jim. “You have my apologies, Jim, for the behavior of one of my men, though I know doesn’t do you much good. We all know you and Frank haven’t ever gotten along—hell, you and I don’t really get along—”

Jim’s mouth quirks at that. Komack has yet to forgive him for starting a brawl in the in the police station when he was seventeen.

“—but the law is the law. When someone breaks it, you tell me.”

Jim nods.

Komack sighs and settles his hat on his head. “I’ve already let my wife know I won’t be home for dinner, but that don’t make her any less easy to handle. So let’s get this show started.” The sheriff walks over to his deputy and says, “You’re quiet over here, Frank. Got nothing to say?”

Rand’s jaw tightens. “I haven’t done anything to Kirk and I don’t plan on it.”

“Now that’s a lie, Frank, and everybody here knows it.” Komack tells the other man, “You’re working with Trelane, and you have already committed one crime that I know of. You have two options at this point, Frank: you can go to jail with as many charges as I can make stick, or you can save a man’s life and redeem yourself.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Komack flicks a glance over to Lady Q, who nods. Komack folds his arms. “You’re going to go to Trelane and tell him that some old woman blackmailed you into killing Kirk—and that you need help in disposing of the body.”

Frank says, “Trelane doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. He’d turn me in.”

“Exactly. He’ll come to me and tell me where the body is and said you did it. I won’t believe him, of course, and then he’ll try to build a case against you.”

Spock interrupts with “Fascinating. The only other event which could connect Rand with Kirk, one which Trelane is aware of, will be the first kidnapping.”

Komack nods. “So he’ll say Rand tried to get rid of Kirk before and, when that failed, he tried again—and was successful.”

“Why me?” Jim mumbles, slightly creeped out at how blithely everyone can talk about his kidnapping and his death and plan them into one big conspiracy. Bones’ hand trail down his wrist and catch Jim’s fingers and rub them gently.

Komack continues, “I’ll get the details out of Trelane, make him take me to the body, and arrest him then. I have been collecting evidence against him, so if we can’t hold him for long him on kidnapping charges, we’ll find something else.”

Lady Q adds a bit too excitedly, “And Mr. Spock shall be the prosecutor! Oh, how perfect!”

“What about me?” asks Frank Rand.

“You play your part, Frank,” says Komack, “and we’ll discuss the charges against you.” Komack shoots a look at Jim.

Jim nods at the unspoken question. He doesn’t want to let Frank go free and clear, and he may not have to, but that issue isn’t as important right now as getting Trelane off the streets of Riverside and away from the people Jim loves.

Frank drops his head under the weight of their stares. “All right,” agrees the deputy.

They begin ironing out the details.

Jim grins. “How do I look? Cool, right?”

“Only you would say that,” says McCoy dryly as the doctor measures a bottle of something medicinal.

Pavel says, “You look terrible.”

“I believe that is the point,” intones Spock. “Nyota, Jim could use more bruising under the right eye.”

“Do I want to know how you know how black eyes are supposed to look?” asks Kirk.

Spock lifts Jim’s arm without another word and rips a third tear in the sleeve of his dirty shirt (Kirk had to roll on the ground to get it that way).

When Sulu walks in the room with a big kitchen knife, Jim says hurriedly, “Hey, I thought we agreed no real injuries?”

Leonard snorts. “Things would go a lot faster if we could do this the old fashioned way.”

Jim is too busy watching Sulu approach with the gleaming blade to answer properly. He manages, “Nope, better like this, kinda Halloween-y.”

Nyota pinches him then says innocently, “Don’t move while I’m applying the paint.”

Jim eyes the black stuff that might be eyeshadow or might not. “Is it going to wash off?”

“Yes, you baby,” Nyota retorts. “Here, Hikaru—here’s his hand.”

Jim wonders if sweating will mess up Uhura’s handiwork and earn him another pinch. “I like my fingers,” he says and tries to sit on his hand. “Please don’t cut off my fingers.”

Sulu shoots him a distinctly not-amused look. “Maybe the hate crime involved cutting out his tongue,” suggests the chef.

Jim automatically clamps his mouth shut.

“Score: Sulu,” mutters Bones.

Jim watches as Sulu examines his hand for a moment before letting it go. The man turns to a set of flesh-colored molding clay and begins making neat little slices into it, which Uhura then paints red like open wounds and applies to Jim’s knuckles. She says, “It’s better than abrading your skin. Just don’t do much with your hands, Jim, and it’ll stay on.”

“He won’t be able to do much,” McCoy cuts in, “not once I give him this cocktail.” The doctor holds up a vial of clear liquid.

“Tell me that isn’t a date-rape drug,” Jim says.

Bones’ face sobers. “Not quite—more like a legal date-rape drug. It’ll knock you out for the most part, and when you start to come to you might feel somewhat paralyzed in your lower limbs.”

“But I won’t be completely paralyzed, right?” Kirk insists, nervous.

“Jim,” Leonard says, leaning over but probably not finding anywhere to touch Jim that isn’t covered in makeup or dirt or fake blood. “Your responses will be sluggish. It should be okay, though, because Rand knows not to keep the charade going too long. You should be back with us before you come out of it.”

Jim nods and says, “Okay.”

Scotty comes skirting around a corner, moving faster than Jim has ever see him. “Imma late?” He waves something in Jim’s face. “I finished it!”

Jim tries to take the small little square box but Scotty pulls it out of his grasp, saying, “Be careful now, she’s charged!” Scotty demonstrates what he means by pressing a button on the side of the device. The sharp crackle of energy makes Jim—and several others—jump in place.

“Whoa,” Jim says, “is that a tazer?” He has never owned one before—or seen one that small.

McCoy snaps, “Jim is not gettin’ a tazer! He’ll kill himself with it!”

Scotty is too proud to pay attention to the ranting doctor. “It’s nae the real thing, Jim. I dinnae have all the parts to make a bigger one but she’ll work just fine—and she’s easy to hide ‘cause she’s itty-bitty!” He points out the little prongs at the end of the square that deliver the charge. “You just press the button and ZAP!”

Jim’s eyes lit up. “So this is like one of those electrical joke buzzers, when you shake hands and stuff and freak people out, only more dangerous!”

“Preee-cisely,” agrees Scotty. “She won’t knock a fella down but she’ll give ‘im pause if you need to get away!”

“You’re the best, Scotty,” Jim says sincerely.

Leonard sighs into his hand. He begs Jim, “Please don’t fry yourself.”

Jim promises to try his best to avoid self-injury. Leonard’s dubious look has a hint of loving exasperation in it.

Spock stands and announces, “Jim is prepared.”

The look on Rand’s face when he sees Jim is priceless. Kirk says humorlessly, “Yeah, this is what a hate crime looks like. Like what you see, Frank?”

Frank says haltingly, taken aback, “I’d never do that to you.”

He holds the man’s gaze. “I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”

Frank says nothing.

Rand left his police cruiser at the station and brought his personal SUV. When the back of the SUV is opened and Jim sees the tarp he’ll be hidden under—that is, the body of Jim Kirk—he almost wants to back out.

He is going to be riding in Frank Rand’s car like a dead body, so very much like a dead body because he’ll be out of it and Frank will be in total control of what happens next. Rand could take him out into the woods, shoot him through the head, bury his body, and no one would be the wiser.

Well, not no one.

Bones is threatening Frank is a low tone, “We’re trusting you with him, Rand, ‘n believe you me if Jim doesn’t turn up alive at the end of this, I will personally strap you to a table and watch Sulu carve you up like a chicken.”

“I won’t touch your queer,” Frank spits and it is not Leonard, surprisingly, who reacts so quickly but Spock.

Jim stares at Rand splayed out over the gravel of the driveway, hand to his jaw where he had been punched.

Spock says in a cold, cold voice, “That prejudice, Mr. Rand, is why you are in here. I suggest you consider a change of attitude in the near future.” What Spock doesn’t have to say is what will happen to Rand if he doesn’t. Spock looks at Jim. “You would have fought back. The bruise can be easily explained.” Then the lawyer pivots and stalks away.

Leonard says, when Jim hesitates between following Spock and staying because they are running out of time, “Let him be, Jim.”

Jim nods, knowing that Leonard knows how to handle Spock better than anyone. He sighs heavily, pulls back his shoulders, and says, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Kirk arranges himself in the back of the SUV, mindful of the image he needs to present and that nothing he does will ruin it. Lastly, he tucks the mini-tazer deep into one of his pockets and prays Trelane doesn’t have a fetish for body-searching a cadaver.

Bones kneels to his level and asks quietly, “Ready?”

He holds out one of his wrists. “Yeah. Bones, have I told you thanks?”

“Yes, kid, you have.”

“How about I love you?”

“Jim,” Leonard says in a strained voice, “you’ll have plenty of opportunities to say it later.”

He smiles. “Just in case. Love you.”

Leonard’s eyes are tear-bright as he injects the part sedative, part paralytic drug into Jim’s system. Not long after, Jim’s head feels heavy so he rolls it to the side and swallows. He tries to say to McCoy, maybe slightly drunk-sounding, “Tell Spock—after tha’punch—I could luv ‘im too.”

Someone (Bones? aw, Bones is going away now) strokes his hair and then the light goes out as a shroud falls over Jim. Then Jim is out too.

When Kirk comes to, his first instinctive thought is that something isn’t right. The silence isn’t right, nor is the fact that he cannot move his body. Because Jim is afraid, he keeps his eyes shut (isn’t sure if he can open them anyway) and tries to think instead, which is difficult in itself.

It’s possible he fades out.

His mind is less foggy when he becomes aware of his surroundings again; this time, there are muted voices in the distance that make him focus. Heated. Arguing? Why?

Jim’s nose registers the pervading smell of plastic. His eyes definitely won’t open. Something inside Jim warns him: be quiet, be still, listen.

He notices several consecutive thumps nearby, like when the branches of the old oak would knock against his bedroom window during in a storm. The fog fades even more. A word—”…imbecile!“—is sharp and clear like a lightning bolt.

That voice. He has had nightmares about that voice.

At last, Jim remembers where he is: Rand’s SUV. Dead in Rand’s car. He is suddenly grateful that he cannot move; otherwise he might have shifted the tarp and ruined the ploy. Jim strains now to listen for Trelane’s voice; Rand’s, too, since that must be who Trelane is yelling at.

A door slams but he cannot tell which side it is coming from or even feel the rocking of the vehicle. That last part disconcerts Kirk the most. Is this how it feels to be paralyzed? You know logically that something is happening, the world is moving, but you can’t sense it well enough and you certainly can’t move along with it?

Just play dead. Or, crap, go back to sleep or something.

But Jim can’t. His mind is waking up at the very real knowledge of what is happening.

The voices of Trelane and Rand, which had faded around the side of the car earlier, circle back around to Jim’s position. He hears snippets of conversation:

“—fuck you, Trelane, fuck you! You’ll help me get rid of—”

“—are you certain he is—”

“—know how to kill a man.”

“Show me.“

Jim tries to go to a happy place upon hearing the lock of the trunk click open. The hot air under the tarp disperses, and the barriers between Trelane and Jim are gone.

His eyes are shut, aren’t they?

Jim prays his breathing isn’t too obvious, though it feels like he isn’t breathing at all.

“Hmm,” says Trelane. “I can’t see his face.”

“It’s not any prettier than the rest of him,” Rand retorts but even Jim can pick out the nervous quality to his voice.

“Explain the part again,” Trelane says curiously, “of why this ‘old woman’ wanted you of all people to kill Kirk.”

“She knows I think he is a scumbag of the earth, that’s why,” snaps the deputy.

“Is?”

“Was,” corrects Rand flatly. “Look, this is your fucking problem now, Trelane. I won’t go to jail for murder over this asshole. Some people desire to die and James Kirk was one of ’em.”

“I see you don’t feel remorse for your actions, Mr. Rand.”

“Cut the crap, Trelane. I don’t want to wake up in the morning because I’m being called to his crime scene. I know a place out by an old windmill. We’ll bury him there. The only people who’ll know he is will be us and the rats.”

Trelane makes a noise of disgust. “I do not dig, you ingrate.”

Jim’s foot is starting to tingle and his skin has an awful crawling sensation, like he’s covered in ants. It takes all of Kirk’s self control to remain quiet as a dead man should while the conversation continues above him.

He becomes aware of something else—a pressure against his ribs, then on his neck, his arm.

Trelane is talking. “How long has he been dead? Hmm.”

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that? Quit poking him with that fuckin’ umbrella.”

“I want to see his face.”

Boots against gravel. The air changes, smells like sweat. Someone’s breathing on him. Oh God, and digging their fingers into his face.

“Yes, thank you. That’s quite enough.”

Jim definitely feels it when his head is carelessly dropped back onto the floorboard of the SUV.

“—leave the body with me,” Trelane is saying.

Rand snaps, “No fucking way! I don’t trust you!”

“Mr. Rand,” Trelane responds calmly, “you do not have a choice. You killed a man and you need my help.”

A snarl. “Get out my way, Trelane. I’ll take care of it myself!”

“No, I don’t believe this is going to work at all.”

Someone shouts, Jim tenses, and he hears Frank Rand yell, surprised, “What the fuck—what the fuck are you—!” The words die without warning.

Jim is already testing how far he can stretch his fingers, because shit this is bad and he needs to get to his pocket!

The following silence is eerie. An unfamiliar deep voice asks, “What now, Sir?”

Trelane’s voice sounds farther away. “Bring them both. Lady Q has given us the pieces to a puzzle. Now it is up to us to fit them together.”

When a hand grabs Kirk’s arm and drags him out of the SUV, Jim stays limp. And he doesn’t dare open his eyes.

Jim is dumped on the floor like a sack of potatoes. A few minutes later, something heavy is dropped partially on top of him. A body. Rand? The person is alive, though, because he is breathing in little puffs of air against Jim’s neck.

Jim thinks he can curl his toes inside his sneakers. The drug is wearing off.

For a while, he listens to scraping sounds and footsteps. At one point a cellphone rings and Jim hears Trelane say absently, “Hello, Marlena darling.” A pause, then “Oh do stop blathering, I told you that Kirk woman is insane. No. No, of course not—” Trelane goes from calm to furious in a heartbeat. “—keep your fucking mouth shut, you little bitch, or I’ll have it shut for you, permanently.” Calm again. “Now I really must go. Urgent business to handle, my dear.”

Trelane sighs and snaps to whoever is with him, “How hard can it be to find something flammable, you nitwit! This is a fucking kitchen!”

“The stoves are not gas-lit, Sir,” Trelane’s lackey says, sounding confused.

“Must I do everything myself?!”

Rand groans softly. Jim digs his nails into the palm of the hand in sudden fear. Shut up, Frank! he doesn’t dare whisper.

Frank groans again, louder this time.

“How delightful. The deputy is awake. Do help him up.”

Rand is hauled off of Jim.

Frank’s voice is ragged. “What’s going on? Trelane…?”

“It’s rather simple, Mr. Rand. You kidnapped and tortured James Kirk, here in this very diner, abandoned by its workers as they searched for him—poetic, don’t you think?—and somehow everything went terribly wrong and you both died.”

“What?” Rand’s voice has an edge of panic. “N-No one would believe that!”

“Given your blatant animosity towards Kirk? Didn’t you assault him in public once? And, oh yes, there is the small fact that you caused Kirk’s motorcycle accident—which can be proved, I assure you. I always have a fall-back plan, Mr. Rand—though in all honesty I did not think I would need to use it so soon!”

“Trelane, you can’t do this. I have a family! I’m a fucking police officer!”

“All the more tragic.” Trelane doesn’t sound sad at all. “I fear this will ruin your reputation as an upstanding man—not that you ever were one.”

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” Rand is screaming now. “I’LL KILL YOU, TRELANE!”

Trelane is amused. “Make the scuffle between Kirk and the deputy look authentic. I daresay one bruise is not going to be convincing. Now, if you all will excuse me.” Jim listens to the fading tap-tap-tap of Trelane’s umbrella as Trelane walks away.

Rand’s screams are cut off abruptly by the sound of fighting. Jim snaps open his eyes without another moment’s thinking and forces his shaking hand into his pocket. He only needs a split second to see what is happening—who is standing where—and to get his fingers around that small tazer. Frank is on the floor, clutching his bleeding nose. When a hulking shadow of a man grabs the back of Rand’s shirt to haul the man back into punching distance, Jim flops over onto his side and kicks out with his numb leg (sadly, an ineffectual action) at the man’s ankle.

The bear-man stops what he is doing to stare down at Kirk in surprise. Jim croaks, “Hi there.”

Frank uses the moment of distraction to break the hold on his shirt and send the other guy stumbling back. Jim is rather impressed when Frank lurches to his feet, takes hold of the nearest wooden chair and swings upon the guy’s shoulders with a sickening crack. The chair breaks and the lackey goes down.

Jim’s body aches like he’s had the flu but he doesn’t miss the opportunity to zap the man’s out-flung wrist with his mini-tazer. The man spasms and stills.

Frank grabs Jim’s arm in a bruising grip. “C’mon, get the fuck up!”

Jim’s legs buckle as soon as he puts weight on them.

Rand curses soundly and hooks his arms under Jim’s armpits and starts dragging Jim across the tiled floor of the diner.

“Gun,” Jim says, as the idea pops into his head. “Frank, your gun!”

Frank stops dragging him. “Gun’s in the car.”

“Then go get it!” Jim snaps.

Rand hesitates, looking at the moaning man on the ground (who is definitely coming back to consciousness), and Jim insists, “Go!”

Rand leans Kirk against the diner counter and says shortly, “Don’t move.”

Ha ha. Like Jim is going anywhere when his legs are stumps of lead. He clutches the countertop for dear life and tries to keep himself upright.

No sooner than Frank Rand has pelted out of the side door of the diner than the kitchen door swings back with Trelane calling jovially, “How does our Mr. Rand fare?”

“Pretty good, actually.” Jim hopes his mouth is stretched in his usual shit-eating grin. By Trelane’s look, it’s probably more of a rictus grin.

Trelane’s face loses color for all of three seconds, then it comes back in a rush and turns the politician bright red. “Kirk!”

Kirk tries to pretend he is lounging like a lazy badass, never mind that his fingers will have to be pried from the counter. “Hello, Trelane. Want to hear about the afterlife?”

Trelane’s umbrella comes up like a sword. “You were dead.”

“Not so much,” he admits. “You’re just a sucker.” And where the fuck is Frank? How long does it take to get a gun out of a glovebox?

Oh shit, has Frank left him behind?

Trelane stalks around the counter and stares at his drooling lackey on the floor. “I underestimated you, Kirk,” he says in an odd voice. “Don’t expect me to do so again!” And with those words, Trelane leaps forward and cracks his umbrella against Jim’s fingers. Jim latches onto the umbrella as he pitches backwards and jerks Trelane off balance with him. Then it is a scramble for a weapon—shit, the tazer has skittered out of Jim’s hand and under a table and it’s dark and hard to see. Trelane tries to hit Jim with the umbrella again and the blow lands on Jim’s legs. Funny but it doesn’t hurt that much. Jim uses his adrenaline rush to knock a chair on top of Trelane, who fights with it for a moment while shrieking.

Jim sits up in time to see smoke billowing around the side of the counter. Somewhere beyond the smoke is a red, red fire casts an ominous glow across various shapes.

Jim’s heart catches in his throat and when he finally removes it, a terrible rage comes boiling out of him. “What did you do!” He shouts, “TRELANE!“

Suddenly it’s easy to get to his feet and tackle Trelane who is scurrying away across the floor towards an exit.

Jim puts his hands around Trelane’s neck and squeezes. Ignoring the acrid smoke stinging his eyes and rapidly filling up his lungs. The air temperature is now well past warm.

Bob’s diner—his mother’s diner—Jim’s diner—is dissolving around them.

Trelane chokes under his hard grip and claws at his hands. “K-Kirk, stop! STOP!” Trelane pleads.

Jim doesn’t want to stop. The diner is on fire, like a symbol of everything Jim loves burning down to ash because of one man, one fucking man, and if Trelane gets away, no one is safe.

“H-Help m-me!” Trelane cries. Jim has a split second to realize that Trelane isn’t talking to him and that he had stupidly forgotten the other guy.

There is a whoosh of air and smoke, a roar (the fire? a man?), then an incredibly sharp pain in the back of his head. Jim blacks out.

~~~

The guard at the gate to Trelane’s home is missing. Another incompetent fool to fire. Trelane abandons his driver (idiot is still babbling about feeling funny form an electric shock) and enters his house through the garage. In the main hallway, Trelane is greeted by silence, a still darkness, and enough low lighting to see by. The man sheds his jacket and umbrella, tossing them on a sofa as he passes through the living room on the way to his study. Only when he flicks the light switch by the study door, and it doesn’t work, does Trelane realize all is not as it seems.

A voice comes out of the complete darkness of the room, freezing Trelane where he stands. The voice says, “Come in and close the door, Mr. Trelane.”

The skittering up Trelane’s spine alerts him to the new presence somewhere behind him in the hall, waiting for him to choose the wrong action and try to bolt.

Trelane steps fully into the study and closes the door. There is a gentle click and the lamp on the edge of his desk comes on, revealing an unfamiliar man—an older man—sitting in Trelane’s executive leather chair like he belongs there.

“What is the meaning of this… invasion of my home!” Trelane demands as bravely as he dares. “I shall call the police!”

The man steeples his fingers and rests them against his chin. For a long moment of silence, dark eyes contemplate Trelane. At last Trelane is told, rather mildly, “Please desist your histrionics. Should you attempt to leave this estate before the allotted time, you will be captured and carried to another… less pleasant environment and our discussion shall resume there. I must also explain, so that you are aware of your circumstances, moving forward there will be no outside communication by you—or any of your men. No one knows what is happening at this moment, Mr. Trelane, except you and I, and no one ever shall.”

Trelane had broken into a sweat as soon as his unknown assailant began talking. Now he has to steady himself on a chair to stay upright. “I don’t understand. Who are you?” he asks weakly.

“Who I am is irrelevant. You may wish to consider the question: what is my purpose?

The man rises gracefully from the chair and walks around the desk to Trelane. When he stops, he plants his feet shoulder-width apart, back absolutely straight and hands clasped behind him. It speaks vaguely of an odd combination between the breeding of nobility and militaristic training.

Trelane sinks into the chair he is gripping. “What do you w-want?” The stutter slips from him before he can stop it.

“You committed acts of maliciousness against the innocent people of this town, Mr. Trelane.” There is a pause. “Rarely do I interfere with individuals not under my jurisdiction; however, I find myself inadvertently involved on a personal level—and in a position to provide an expedient resolution to the problem you pose.” That last bit is added in a lower, softer cadence.

Trelane shivers. “I have no idea what you are alluding to, sir. I’ve done nothing, and you are trespassing on my property.”

The man shifts his stance slightly, and the light from the lamp casts an eerie, somewhat devilish glow across the stranger’s face. “I have not the time to list your crimes, as I have an engagement of greater importance to attend in a matter of minutes. We will speak on the subject at a later date, if you are inclined to plead your case.” His tone indicates that any plea Trelane could think up would be a pointless venture.

Trelane thumps his fist on the arm of his chair, incensed and frightened. “Get out of my house!”

The door to the study opens and dark shadows file into the room. Trelane scrambles out of his chair and against the edge of his desk. There’s a small handgun locked in the bottom drawer of the desk. If he can…

The stranger casually removes Trelane’s pistol from an inside jacket pocket. He tells Trelane, “I have also taken the liberty of removing the journals from your personal safe, Mr. Trelane. They will be returned to their proper owner.” The man says to the men circling him, “Please escort our guest to his next destination.” Then he turns and walks to the door.

Trelane cries out, as the shadows form into men wearing black outfits and ski masks to protect their identities, “What is this! You can’t hurt me!” Someone pins his right arm and injects him with something before he can react. “Where are you taking me!” He struggles as his mouth is gagged, heart beating wildly.

The stranger pauses in the doorway and says without a hint of compassion, “No one will harm you, Mr. Trelane. You will be rehabilitated, shall we say, in a place where you can do no harm to yourself or others.”

Trelane screams until the sedative takes effect and he passes out, barely registering that he is being dragged across the floor and out the back of his home. He dreams he is strapped on a gurney while everything shakes and rattles beneath him and there is a smell of ozone (a plane?); later his dream takes the shape of a light in his eyes, only to focus into a man patting his cheek and laughing, then the man turns away to accept several stacks of foreign-marked bills from someone.

When Trelane finally breaks free of the fog enveloping him, he finds himself in no familiar place (a hospital? no, too poorly kept and there are people yelling in the background, how awful!) and surrounded by darkly tanned faces of people who speak broken English. They try to convey, “Do not feel upset, Mr. Trelane—you safe—good place to cure mind, best in all Indonesia!”

Trelane protests his surroundings loudly. Someone else enters the room, a man in a dirty lab coat. The man watches him squirm with interest.

“Nurse, another sedative,” says the British-accented doctor. “I fear this one’s dementia shall attempt to surface periodically. We must be diligent with his care. I am told he is a special patient.”

Hands reach out and tighten the straps binding Trelane, and Trelane panics. He cries in a disoriented slur, “Let me go! I am the Q! THE Q!” until tears are leaking out of his eyes.

An orderly snickers at a nurse. “Q? Meebe this’un think he space man!”

The nurse merely shakes her head in a gesture of pity and presents a long, gleaming needle. Trelane’s protests, upon seeing it, are reduced to screams.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Along Comes a Stranger (28/28) – from July 10, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (27/28) – from July 9, 2011
• Chapter of Doom – from July 4, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (25/28) – from June 30, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (24/28) – from June 29, 2011

00