Title: For the Sake of Nothing, Part 24
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: pre-Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: Things between Kirk, Spock, and McCoy begin to work themselves out.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

I bring tidings! I signed up for the holiday challenge space_wrapped as I have done for the past two years (resulting in fics Cookies and Cakes, Oh My! and Of House Guests and Winter Twins). The prompt I chose this time gives me, shall we say, plenty of room to play? There is a post with the prompt, a tantalizing fic summary, and other details. I look forward to providing you all with this treat come December!

Concerning this story: we will see its conclusion in the next three to four parts. The boys have finally been placed on the same path, and though we may not go with them to the end of it, at least we know they made it to a point where they are together. I hope everyone has enjoyed the story thus far and will not feel too badly when it is over.

The street was quiet, veiled by a hint of an approaching twilight which naturally shifted thoughts towards home and the haven therein. The occasional passerby had a hurried stride, not lingering along the way to his intended destination as if with the stroke of the hour there was no longer time for leisurely shopping or dining.

On the near-empty sidewalk, Jim was focused not on the world at large but on a singular man, who returned his attention with equal measure.

“You will stay at my house tonight.”

Jim, broom in hand, eyed his employer. “Is that an order?”

Spock placed his hands behind his back. “You were with Leonard the previous evening.”

“Not the whole time,” Jim admitted. Then it occurred to Jim that Spock wasn’t accusing him, per se, but pointing out some inherent clause of equality in their unspoken pact. “So if I spend time with Bones, I should also spend time with you?”

Spock simply looked at him.

A strange feeling tightened Jim’s chest. He resumed sweeping the path in front of the shop, paying close attention to a leaf caught in a crack in the cement. “That’s fair.”

The sudden silence between them was uncomfortable. At length Spock said, “I cannot force you, Jim.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jim replied, attacking the stubborn leaf from a different angle. It refused to be dislodged. “We’ll order Chinese.”

Spock made a barely audible noise that served as a sigh. “It is understandable if your attachment to me does not mirror your attachment to Leonard. You are not required to love me.”

Jim closed his eyes, grateful he had his back to Spock. But I— He couldn’t finish that thought, saying instead “I make my own choices, Spock.”

“And what choice have you made?”

Jim shoved down his first reaction—a shudder—and did not falter in his self-appointed task of sweeping the sidewalk. “That I’ll be at your house tonight.”

“…I see.” The soft scrape of shoe against pavement meant Spock had shifted, probably turned away. “I will extend the invitation to Leonard.”

Jim heard the shop door open and when it had closed again, he blew out a breath. He knew he should have said something else and that what he had said was not what Spock wanted to hear. The right words had been on the tip of his tongue for a brief instance before he lost them. And Jim, for the life of him, could not figure out what had frightened them away.

When Spock said in passing “It would be best if you joined Jim and myself this evening” Leonard lifted an eyebrow and intercepted Spock’s retreat to his office. “Why’s that?”

Spock kept his eyes fixed on the closed office door. “I fear Jim is not comfortable when he is alone with me.”

Leonard did not need to work hard to verbalize his surprise. “You must be crazy!”

“Do not,” Spock said, voice suddenly dropping to an ominous note, “say that again.”

Promptly he repeated, “Crazy!” Leonard’s streak of mischief, his mother had once claimed, was a mile wide.

Spock turned around with one of his expressionless but expertly fearsome looks.

“Crazy, crazy, crazy,” Leonard sang and fought the upward turn of his mouth.

“I find you annoying, Mr. McCoy.”

“I can tell. You’ve even wearing an annoyed expression.”

The muscles in Spock’s face twitched once, involuntarily at the accusation, before they smoothed out again. Wordlessly, Spock extricated his arm from Leonard’s grip.

“None of that now,” Leonard chastised, catching Spock before he got more than two steps away. “Let’s have a chat.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I will not,” Spock snipped.

“Mm,” Leonard murmured, not the least bit intimidated. “How about—well, no. We can’t both squeeze into your office without knocking over half of the yesterday’s supplies delivery.” Decided, Leonard towed Spock toward the rear exit of the shop. “I need some fresh air anyway.”

A minute later Spock, standing next to a green dumpster, deadpanned, “This air is not fresh.”

Leonard dug a carton out of his pocket and tapped out a cigarette. “We live in a city with more people than places to put them. What did you expect?” He thought for a half-second about sloping countryside and acres of farmland and felt a pang of homesickness. If he went back to visit— But, no. There was no going back because there was nothing to go back to. Not just craving a cigarette now but needing to steady himself with the familiar motion, he lit it and shoved it between his lips.

Spock eyed the cigarette with something less like distaste and more like hate. “There are ways to fight your addiction, Leonard.”

“Who says I’m addicted?” Leonard shot back, purposefully blowing a lungful of smoke at Spock’s shoulder.

Spock positioned himself closer to the dumpster. Clearly he would rather smell trash than smoke. Leonard grinned and mentioned this.

“If you must, speak your mind,” Spock said with unusual impatience. He never seemed appreciative of Leonard’s sense of humor.

“What did Jim say?”

“He said nothing of importance.”

Leonard considered that. “So what did you ask him?”

“I asked what I should not have.” Spock’s eyes darkened. Not with anger, Leonard mused, but with sadness.

“And you got an answer you didn’t want to hear.”

“Yes.”

Leonard dropped the barely smoked cigarette and ground it beneath his shoe. “Spock, not that I think Jim’s a liar but maybe he’s sensitive about some subjects and can’t say all that he wants to.”

“As you are?” Spock countered quietly.

He nodded. “Just like me, only I figure he’s ten times worse.”

Spock’s lips twitched. “I highly doubt that.” Then his voice grew somber. “Leonard.”

Leonard glanced upward, catching sight of a burnt-orange sky between the buildings, and tried not to sigh. It was coming, the question he always dreaded. “Go on.”

“You have been grieving.”

His heels met the ground, shocked out the notion of flight by such a blunt truth. “Yeah,” he said without thinking, “I have.”

Maybe it wasn’t just compassion in Spock’s eyes; Leonard had an unexplained hunch Spock was feeling empathetic too, though he could not fathom why. Then Spock said: “I grieved for the loss of my father for many years, though he is living. There are times,” his voice died momentarily, came back, “when I find myself still locked in grief. Or anger. Often I cannot distinguish between them.”

His throat tightening, Leonard accepted the unspoken offer to share in a secret. “How did you lose him?”

“He let me go.”

“Oh,” Leonard said. Then with more understanding, “Oh. Can you, I mean, is it all right if I ask why?”

Spock nodded slightly just before he continued. “My father comes from a culture in which arranged marriages are both common and expected, particularly of the eldest son. His first wife was chosen by his own father. I did not know this until I was old enough to understand as an adult. The explanation came upon the heels of an announcement of my engagement to a person I had never met. I told my father I could not adhere to a practice I believed to be unsuitable as well as archaic. Then I explained it was unlikely I would marry a woman, even if the idea of an arranged marriage was not abhorrent to me. He… did not wish to hear this.”

“Oh damn, Spock. I’m sorry.”

“I assumed he knew me as I knew myself. I was wrong. I was of age when it happened and moved ahead with my plans to become independent. When I left, however, it was not with his blessing, or his understanding, and we have not spoken since.”

Damn and double-damn. “I wished you’d never had to go through that with your family.”

“It was only my father who was unhappy. I am not a son who can meet his expectations.”

Leonard bit back a heated rebuttal of Clearly your father’s expectations are fucking poorly defined! “That’s—that’s just shitty but, Spock, you have a right to live your life as you want and to be happy.” Why can’t people realize this? he wanted to say but did not. Likely Spock would have no better understanding than Leonard did.

“I know this. That is why I left. I hope—” Spock sounded so sad, Leonard’s heart ached. “—there can be a reconciliation some day.”

“I—” Leonard grimaced. “You’re just going to have bear with me while I hug you. It’s not my fault I smell like smoke.”

“I do not understand why you enjoy making claims which are blatantly untrue,” Spock said as he accepted the hug.

“All the better to confuse you, my dear.”

Spock’s fingers drifted into his hair, unconcerned with sarcasm or dry wit or any dig Leonard might make at him. “I am not confused.”

Leonard relaxed into the embrace. He could pull away, probably should pull away now, but his courage wasn’t as shaky if he kept his face tucked in the juncture between Spock’s neck and shoulder. He could do this, he could. Time to own up to his own secret.

“It was my family,” he said so tightly, so quietly, it was wonder anyone could hear the words. “My parents and my b-brother. Car accident.” A band of fresh grief tightened across his chest, squeezing air from his lungs. Why is it talking about this with Spock made the words hurt that much worse? A moment passed before Leonard could speak again. “Spock,” he whispered, “he was young, so fucking young. It’s not f-fair.“

Would Spock think him weak because of the tears? Didn’t matter. Leonard couldn’t stop them if he wanted to.

“Leonard,” Spock said gently and the name sounded like so many things, painful kind things; none of it born of pity.

Leonard confessed the worst of it. “Peter wasn’t dead—” Breathe. “—on arrival l-like… but I didn’t make it to the hospital before—” he gasped for air, “—before—” but was unable to finish when no air came, only a sob which he ferociously bit down upon yet could not stop. Muffling the sound against fabric and flesh, the thought hit him again and again like a relentless, terrorizing agent, freed from the dark place where Leonard had hidden his guilt. His brother died without him, with strangers and horrendous pain and no one who loved him to hold his hand. Leonard had failed to be there and somehow, in the blackest moment of his life, had hated Peter deeply for not waiting for him, for not surviving one hour longer so he could—

It was momentous and dreadful, the thought. Leonard wept bitterly on Spock’s shoulder. Spock, who knew nothing of Leonard’s great terribleness, held him tenderly and let him cry.

In those moments, they resolved nothing concerning Jim. Leonard remembered that fact once they had returned to the shop and Jim, silent, watched them closely. Yet Kirk did not ask about Leonard’s reddened eyes or Spock’s calm, reassuring touches while Leonard washed a battered coffee pot and miserably failed at pretending he hadn’t just laid out the pieces of his broken heart and sobbed over them.

Soon, with everyone working quietly and keeping to themselves, Leonard’s guilt shrunk to a manageable size. He placed the last washed item on the drain board to dry and tentatively offered to cook dinner. Spock made a vague sound that could have been either agreement or dissension.

“We should go to the supermarket first. It’s my turn to buy,” Jim said, breaking his silent reverie.

“You’ll get no complaints from me on that score. Spock?” Spock’s head tilted. Leonard wished his eyes didn’t ache and squinted against the bright light in the kitchen. He tossed out the question “What do y’all want to eat?”

Jim shrugged and wrung a mop over a bucket of dirty water. Spock did not bother to respond.

Wiping his hands on a towel, Leonard said, “The McCoy special it is, then. Who’s driving?” Which was a moot question because nobody drove Spock’s car but Spock. Leonard simply wanted to see if they were actually listening.

Jim, bless his heart, asked with a hint of interest, “What’s the McCoy special?”

Leonard eyed the other person in the kitchen, however, whose nose was stuck in an accounting ledger. His answer to the question was absent-minded at best. “Catfish, bacon bits, and a dash of hot sauce.” Leonard raised his voice slightly. “Jim’ll drive. And he said he doesn’t believe in stoplights!”

Spock’s pen continued to tick back and forth like a metronome. Jim slid his bucket across the floor to stand beside McCoy. The scraping noise didn’t seem to perturb their employer at all.

“Has he suddenly gone deaf?” Leonard whispered to Kirk.

“Math” was all Jim said. “It’s better than sex.”

Leonard snorted. “If that’s what Spock thinks, then what an utter travesty. We’ll have to fix that.”

Jim slanted a glance at him, one Leonard could not interpret, and relinquished the mop handle to Leonard. Then he walked over to Spock at the table and poked a shoulder. The pen stopped and Spock looked up, his blinking gaze still transfixed on some imaginary number.

Jim smiled down at Spock fondly. “Feeding time.”

Spock put his pen aside with an uncomprehending “Feeding time?”

Leonard really loved them both in that moment. He cleared his throat. “It’s time for dinner, Spock. Will you drive us to the store?”

“I will,” Spock said, closing his ledger and standing up.

Dinner was a simple affair of good food and good company. The meal wasn’t catfish and bacon bits like Bones had initially said—or teased?—but a kind of buttery pasta that sated Jim’s taste buds. Jim was finally relaxed and somewhat drowsy propped in his dining chair; Leonard had made the comment that a man who had had a hard day deserved a rewarding nap and Jim was about to take him at his word.

Idly, his thoughts replayed the comment but this time Jim stalled on the ‘hard day’ and wondered what was so particularly hard about today. Why had Bones been upset? His brain, unfortunately, woke up and drew an unpleasant conclusion: whatever had happened between Spock and McCoy was a private moment, one they felt Jim didn’t need to be included in. He could push for an explanation but then he would look like an ass trying to elbow in where he wasn’t wanted.

Regardless, the exclusion stung.

“I’m goin’ to bed,” McCoy announced, pushing back from the dining table. Then his eyes skated across the remnants of their dinner. “After clean-up.” He began to pick up plates and glasses. Jim leaned forward to help but Spock had commandeered a majority of the silverware in a matter of seconds and swiftly followed Leonard to the kitchen.

Jim dropped his napkin to the table, picked up the single glass left on the table—his—and trailed after them.

“You are tired,” Spock was saying to Bones. “Allow me—”

“Hands off, Spock. I cooked, so I’ll clean.”

“Since you cooked, you should not clean,” Spock corrected.

It was an amusing sight, the way Leonard twisted his body to block Spock from the sink and Spock snaked a hand over Leonard’s shoulder to steal the sponge. “Thief!” Leonard cried. He pointed a soapy finger at Spock’s nose but Spock refused to cross his eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t see your head nodding over your bowl! Be glad you didn’t do somethin’ embarrassing like drown in your soup!”

“We had no soup.” Spock was slowly but surely edging into McCoy’s personal space.

Jim shook his head in disbelief. Why did they argue over such mundane things? Somebody had to intervene, he supposed. Jim snuck up behind them and respectively snaked a possessive arm around each waist. Spock, startling, moved away like Jim suspected he would. Leonard, on the other hand, turned to look at Jim, eyebrow raised.

Jim held up the sponge he had pilfered from Spock in his moment of inattention and grinned. “I think you’re both tired. And cranky. I’ll do the dishes.”

Leonard’s eyes inspected Jim closely, as if he was a man-sized booby trap. “What’s the difference between bleach and dish detergent? Does Spock have a garbage disposal? Have you had your tetanus shot?”

“Um, bleach is for clothes and if ingested kills you, and yes, and yes. What’s with the third degree, Bones?”

Leonard nodded once, satisfied. “I guess you’ll be okay.” He stared at the double sink full of pots and dishware one last time. “Watch out for the knives.”

“Thank you,” Jim responded dryly. “I’m sure they make a much scarier gang than the forks and spoons.”

“Just don’t stab yourself, kid” came the pointed comment and ceiling-ward eyeroll. Leonard stepped back to allow Jim unhindered access to the sink and, as a bonus, ushered Spock away. Jim heard Bones saying, “C’mon, we’ll check the first-aid kit. I am certain everything will be fine.” It was meant to be a challenge for Kirk and reassurance for Spock.

Despite being unable to make out the actual reply, Jim grinned at Spock’s doubtful tone.

He located the chef’s knife at the bottom of the stack of dishes and flipped it end over end in his hand. Don’t cut himself? That was laughable. But Jim wasn’t going to explain that his first lesson on the street had been how to wield an open blade and where to stab a man to do the most damage in the shortest amount of time. Hopefully, there would never be a need for Bones or Spock to learn that about him—or any of the other dangerous skills he had cultivated simply to survive.

Mindless work like washing, scrubbing and drying soothed Kirk. He followed up his chore by puttering about the kitchen, making certain the other groceries were put away and all food containers in the refrigerator were tightly sealed. Then, having nothing left to do, Jim went to the guest bedroom. Oddly, the bed was unoccupied.

Tapping on the closed bathroom door, he queried, “Bones?”

McCoy’s voice rang out. “Done in a minute! Spock’s gettin’ ready in his bathroom, I think. We’ll be in his room tonight.”

In …Spock’s room. Spock’s bedroom. Spock’s bed. Jim’s brain absorbed this news like a turtle trying to cross the road, with stops and starts and hiding his head (in his hands) in-between. Eventually he realized by “we” Leonard meant all three of them. That conclusion was followed by a certain knowledge: if he didn’t join them tonight, the message would be he had lied about what he wanted.

And it wasn’t a lie, just a desperate hope that was perhaps coming true sooner than expected.

It was natural, then, that Jim felt some concern when Leonard came out of the bathroom half-naked.

“What’s the matter with you?” McCoy asked him upon seeing his face.

“Nothing! I’m great, Bones—more than great!”

Leonard just shook his head in a sad way and left Jim to his own devices. In short order Jim had locked himself in the bathroom and indulged in a minor freak out where no one could judge him. Drowning his head in a sink full of cold water did nothing to calm his nerves, however, though it did succeed in making Jim slightly dizzy. Finally he settled for sitting on the tile floor and toweling his face, thinking through every possible scenario.

Minutes crept by.

It wasn’t like he lacked in experience or had never found himself in bed with multiple partners. No, he wasn’t worried over anything which would make an average man nervous. What made a difference was something much simpler: Spock and Bones were waiting for him. And as thrilling as that sounded, it was also terrified Jim to death.

How did people do this when the person mattered?

How could it possibly be done when there were two persons who mattered? Wasn’t that twice the odds of failing?

Jim glared at the sink cabinet and barely refrained from giving it a frustrated kick. Here he was in the best, most fantasized about moment of his life and he couldn’t even…

Jim transferred his glare to his perfectly useless body. “I hate you,” he told it.

Someone knocked on the door. “Jim, unless you’re explaining to the fairy under the sink the proper way to clean a drain, stop dawdling and get out here!”

His body twitched with apprehension. “I don’t ‘dawdle’!” Only Southerners, Jim thought, could infuse a silly word with so much bossiness. And what was that crack about fairies? Leonard confused the hell out of him sometimes.

“Just get out here” came the grunt through the door. Bones gave the wood a last token thump before he left.

Jim stood up. “This is the moment of truth,” he said to the mirror’s reflection.

The face looking back at him was frightened. Jim did not find that consoling at all.

“Is he ill?”

“How should I know?” Leonard said, slipping into Spock’s bed. But he did know. “If I had to guess, I’d say he was scared.”

Spock stared at him as if that would encourage more explanation.

“I said I don’t know,” he repeated stubbornly.

Hesitation crept into Spock’s voice. “Could he… be afraid of us?”

“You might look like the bogeyman but I don’t.” Leonard stretched out on his back. “Listen, Jim probably hasn’t done this much, with the real feelings and everything. It has to be weird for him.”

“Nor have I.”

Leonard sighed. “Yes, I know.” He refrained from saying ‘told you this was a bad idea, you pushy dolt’. “We go slow. That’s all we can do. Okay?”

Interpreting Spock’s silence as agreement, Leonard closed his eyes and tried not to think too hard.

Bones was mumbling under his breath when Jim entered Spock’s bedroom; well, the mumbling might not have been mumbling but that’s all Jim could hear since Leonard had the bed covers drawn up to his nose. Spock sounded exceedingly patient as he responded to McCoy’s complaints and subtle squirms. “I believe we had this conversation last time, Leonard. Please contain any restless movements to your half of the bed.”

Leonard flipped down the covers. “I don’t get a half of the bed anymore, you dimwit! I’m lucky if I’ll get a third. Jim’s probably a kicker.”

“He could be no worse than you,” Spock muttered.

Jim didn’t have to see the movement under the covers this time to know Leonard tried to kick Spock.

“Hey,” Jim said, feeling awkward and like the odd man out.

They just looked at him, clearly not sharing his apprehension. Leonard asked, “Do you want the edge or the middle?”

If he picked, who would he offend?

Leonard snuck a glance at Spock. “You could take the middle,” he suggested. “Spock would probably thank you.”

And that was how Jim wound up between Spock and Leonard in bed—not quite the way he had imagined his getting there. Once fully ensconced beneath a sheet and a duvet, Jim waited three seconds before asking, “So, what now?” He winced internally. Not smooth, Kirk. Not smooth at all.

Leonard turned on his side with a sigh. “What’s supposed to happen, kid. We sleep.”

“Oh.”

Fingers brushed against his arm under the covers. He might have expected that from Bones but not Spock. Jim turned his head.

“Are you comfortable?” Spock inquired.

Jim nodded.

Jim’s hair stirred. Bones said, voice working slowly, “‘s not goin’ to work.” He curled close against Jim’s back. Jim leaned into him unthinkingly and tugged Bones’ arm over his waist.

“Better,” the man huffed drowsily. Then he fit his foot against Jim’s calf and seemed content to be still. Jim heard no more from him other than increasingly deep breaths.

After a time, Jim whispered into the dark room, “…Bones likes to cuddle.”

“It would seem so” came the quiet reply.

“Is this okay, Spock?”

After a long minute of silence, Jim feared there would be no reply. When it came, it still surprised him.

“Yes, Jim, because you are here.”

It was a long time before Jim’s heart stopped pounding over a simple remark and longer still until he fell asleep.

Next Part

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