0Title: River Bound (1/4)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Warnings: Stalking, Mind Control, Non-consensual kissing
Summary: AU. When Kirk begins to receive anonymous love letters, he assumes they’re coming from his partners, unaware that he has attracted some unwanted attention. The situation turns perilous once Kirk realizes his mistake, for he has been ensnared by someone who wants to keep him from Spock and McCoy at any cost.
A/N: Written for Valentine’s Day round of McSpirkHolidayFest; based on the prompt by ladybuggete for this AOS AU: Jim is receiving Anonymous Valentines and believes it is coming from his partners. Unfortunately it is coming from a dangerous stalker. The anonymous Valentine instructs Jim where to meet them for dinner date. Will Spock and Bones figure out what’s happening and get to Jim in time?
Dear friend, you said AU and I took you at your word. This one is weird. Credit to be given at the end for my inspiration.
I’ll admit, I have been nervous since I received this prompt. Stalking is not my usual fare for story conflict and it’s, well, an uncomfortable thing to write. There’s obsession and then there’s obsession, the creepy, bad kind. I think that line can often be blurred by misconception, so let me clarify here: Obsession-based stalking is not a joke. Stalking, any kind, is a serious harassment and can very quickly lead to a dangerous, even life-threatening, situation. I hope I haven’t downplayed any part of that.
Riverside, Iowa is anything but a quaint little town. Things exist there that cannot be found in normal cities, at times trapped, but more often just born different due to the proximity of what exists opposite the river. Jim Kirk is one of those born-different things. At first he blames himself, like when one makes a secret wish to be noticed, only to end up with a curse instead of a talent. By the time he’s into adolescence, he blames his absentee father, whom his mother pretends will show up on their porch one day, still young and in love with her. Jim, on the other hand, has long since decided the man must have re-married, died, or just plain forgotten his wife and two kids. After all, if George Kirk ever dreamed of returning, he has had Jim’s whole life to try.
Only when, at twenty-two, Jim gives up trying to leave Riverside—an actual impossibility, he comes to accept, since every road leading past city limits deposits him back on the outskirts of his grandfather’s farm—he also gives up his anger. Good things come into his life, then, which makes him wonder if he spent years being miserable simply because he had chosen to ignore what Riverside could offer.
A man doesn’t become content overnight, of course, but Kirk is in a great mood as he crosses the street in front of the Men’s Mission and pops into the shop next door. Today the store is empty, though it has been visible from the street since dawn.
“Hey, it’s me!” Jim calls down the front aisle, out of habit ducking as a set of chimes made of metal odds-and-ends rattles over his head. One of its pieces is liable to drop off, unceremoniously conking a customer on the head. Jim thinks he is on good terms with the shop owner, but even so the chime-set can be fickle concerning its victims.
Escaping unscathed, he slips through the gloomy atmosphere of the storefront with practiced ease, past the invisible barrier which signals the end to the glamour meant to scare away less hardy clientele. A man in spectacles appears at the end of a curved glass counter. He nods to Jim without pausing in his work, a studious polishing of a bronze pocket watch with a white-and-gold checkered handkerchief.
“James Tiberius Kirk. Preferred form of address: Jim.” The shop owner looks his way. “What can I do for you today, Jim?”
Jim retrieves a small red velvet-lined sack from an inner jacket pocket and places it on the counter. “Spock’s out of rabbits.”
“Ah. Unfortunately, so am I.”
Jim had been afraid that might be the answer. “He has a birthday party this afternoon.”
“I sold the remaining few to a very eager Mr. Hutch. The next shipment arrives at the week’s end.”
Hutch is a new Blood in town, another supposed Highborn (although most claim that, thinking humans are not capable of telling the difference common arrogance and aristocratic arrogance). Jim has only heard about him through the gossiping locals at Take-A-Walk cafe, who just love it anytime someone or something shows up from across the River. If Hutch is trying to move in on Spock’s turf, Jim owes it to Spock to let him know.
The shopkeeper’s unblinking grey eyes look large and round behind his glasses. “Perhaps Mr. Spock can be creative?”
Jim braces a forearm against the counter, leaning in. “You’ve met my boyfriend. Creative isn’t in his vocabulary. He’s not going to like being unable to do his tricks by the book.”
The owner firms his mouth momentarily before suggesting, “Pigeons?”
“Feathers are messy,” sighs Jim. “Also, birds tend to leave behind nasty surprises in his hat.”
“Mice?”
“Love to chew through the hat.”
The men stare at one another in brief silence.
Jim breaks eye contact first, sticking his hands in his pockets as he frowns at the sack. “If the performance was on a stage, Spock might agree to use an illusion. But no way that will work for a birthday party. You know how kids need to touch stuff in order to believe it.”
“I’ve heard there are many tricks a magician can perform which children find amusing.”
Jim’s mouth tips up at one corner. “His business card has a rabbit and a top hat on it. Kind of smacks of false marketing not to do the old rabbit-from-the-hat bit.”
The shopkeeper just shakes his head and goes back to polishing the watch.
“Well,” Jim says, collecting the empty bag in one hand, “we’ll figure something out. Put us down for part of that shipment, though.”
“Of course. This shop is loyal to those who are loyal in return—and Mr. Spock is one of our best customers. I’ll have the usual order ready for you on Saturday.”
“Thanks.” The chime-set sways silently as Jim exits the shop.
After a few minutes of walking along the avenue in thought, considering how he might find out more concerning what Hutch is up to, Kirk hears the familiar whine of a pickup slowing down behind him. He stops where the sidewalk and street meet, facing the pickup pulling up on his left, its passenger window already rolled down.
“You want a ride?”
When the pickup stops, Jim pops the door open and gets in. He looks at the driver, who stares back with eyes like his own, except today the color is decidedly more turbulent sky than bright blue.
“Hey, Sam,” Jim says. “What brings you out here?”
“I was interested in seeing which direction you’d choose.”
That’s about as forthcoming as Sam ever is. Where Jim is the Riverside Observer with his emotions, all flashy headlines and big announcements, his brother is a top-secret list of nuclear codes. Gaining access to Sam’s feelings usually results in a huge detonation, with casualties.
Jim ruthlessly suppresses the urge to flash his brother his trademark troublemaker’s grin, because he does know a few quick ways to set Sam off. But not today. Tapping one blunt fingernail against the hard plastic window rim, Jim keeps his gaze fixed elsewhere. “I’m guessing I got that part right.”
“McCoy’s?” Sam questions, already pulling into a lane of traffic.
“Yeah,” he agrees, thinking about the rabbit-less sack hidden in his jacket. “That’d be good.” He hopes McCoy has an idea or two on how to fix Spock’s problem.
Sam kills the engine about half a block from the apartment building where Jim’s second boyfriend lives. Jim settles his hand on the door handle but doesn’t pull on it, waiting.
“Mom wants to know if you’re coming to Sunday dinner.”
“Depends.”
Sam blinks, looking his way again. “On what?”
“On who’s invited,” Jim explains, calm. “Am I allowed to bring Spock and Bones?”
“Oh.” His brother adds slowly, “I don’t know.”
“Then I don’t know either.”
Sam shrinks in his seat, clearly no happier about his family’s inability to resolve their differences than Jim is. “Yeah, okay. I’ll tell her that.”
Jim sighs because sighing seems like the only thing he can do which hasn’t been tried already. Yelling did no good; neither did radio silence. Not with Winona.
As Jim jerks on the handle, Sam says, “Aurelian’s pregnant.”
The world stills for a second. Jim sees a chubby, wailing baby with wispy blond hair in Aurelian’s arms. A boy. He blinks. The vision dispels. “That’s great, Sam. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Sam smiles at him for the first time in a long while. “Now get out.”
Jim does grin, then. “See you around, Dad.”
Sam mimes cuffing him around the head. “See ya, little brother.”
Jim climbs out, and the pickup rumbles off.
Jim takes the stairs to the third floor, two steps at a time. He waves to the neighbor with the cat who likes to sun on their balcony in the afternoon and waits until the woman enters her apartment before he disengages the spell lock on his own door with a slight of hand. Then he twists his key in the physical lock and goes inside. Regular locks won’t deter the criminal-minded, but magical locks generally do.
Kirk knows before he fully crosses the threshold that no one else is home. Being not fully human, Spock has a unique energy signature, unlike Leonard’s, but both are recognizable to him. That is one of the many reasons he noticed Spock and McCoy in the first place, and then made a point to stick around until he could figure out what sensing them meant.
He tosses Spock’s magic bag on the kitchen counter and grabs an apple on his way to the living room. Someone left an empty mug on top of a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. The mug would be McCoy’s. The newspapers belong to Spock.
Jim retrieves the mail pile waiting for his return in his favorite recliner, running a thumb over it as he sits down. His eye catches on the edge of a red envelope in the center. Pulling the envelope out and discarding the rest of the pile beside the newspapers, he sees the letter is addressed to him. There is no return address, not even a stamp; its flap is tucked in rather than sealed, which means it’s likely a gift. Jim pulls open the flap with a smile.
The card inside is a simple white, its handwritten message in red ink even simpler:
let love begin with thee
everyone is for you
but you are only for me
Jim smiles as his gaze reaches the signature at the bottom. “From your secret admirer,” he reads aloud.
Who left it out here for him to find, Bones or Spock? The handwriting is neither of theirs but that doesn’t mean much. A spell of disguise could alter the appearance slightly to keep him guessing.
They aren’t downplaying Valentine’s Day after all. Leonard especially has been adamant that he does not celebrate the holiday, claiming it’s over-commercialized. Spock, having never experienced human-conceived traditions in general until he left the Realm, readily admits to not understanding the purpose of having a calendar day specifically for celebrating one’s love affairs. Then again, Spock had not known what being in love felt like before meeting Jim and Leonard.
Jim is pleased to have this evidence that he isn’t the only romantic in their relationship. If one or both of his partners is testing the waters via sending anonymous love letters to him, he certainly won’t spoil the fun.
Inside the bedroom claimed as his own despite being used mainly as a study, Kirk places the envelope and card inside a textbook. Then he returns to the living room to message a friend about Spock’s rabbit problem.
Twenty minutes later, Kirk’s head is braced in his hands. Scotty has some terrible ideas. A mechanical rabbit? Even if the tinker can make any contraption he designs seem like the real thing, the kids won’t buy it. As a young boy, Jim certainly wouldn’t have—and it only takes one annoying brat at the party to declare the rabbit as a fake and ruin the trick and Spock’s show for everyone else.
Yeah. Not happening.
No fake rabbits, he texts back to Scotty.
Bugger off is his friend’s next suggestion.
Afterward, McCoy comes home in the usual noisy fashion to find Jim scouring the Internet on his phone for the next best thing to magical rabbits, and flops down next to him, planting one boot on the table. His jeans are ragged at the edges, unraveling and threadbare in other places from overuse. The old Henley sweater had originally been Kirk’s. Between the outfit, the finger-combed hair and two-day beard, Leonard could pass for homeless. Jim likes the look.
“Hey, kid. Whatcha doin’?”
“Trying to find Spock a rabbit.”
“So the magic shop was out.” Jim’s boyfriend sighs, rubbing his thumb against his mouth. “Had a feeling. It seemed like bad business to book a party on such short notice.”
“Any business is better than no business.”
Leonard raises a cynical eyebrow at him. “It’s not like Spock needs a job.”
If Spock wants to learn to live as a human, he does. But Jim doesn’t say that. He and McCoy have argued over it a thousand times already.
Leonard shifts on the couch, probably not wanting to fight either. “Spock’s problem aside, did your mom ever tell you which of us is her problem?”
Jim blinks, surfacing from the contemplation of his boyfriend’s strangely careless demeanor. Because he doesn’t answer fast enough, Leonard answers for him: “I bet it’s me.”
“Why would it be you?”
“‘Cause I’m just a plain ol’ bad-tempered human. Don’t have the ability to charm the pants off people like Spock does.”
Jim stretches an arm across McCoy’s shoulders. “You charmed my pants off, Bones.”
Leonard huffs. “I didn’t. You came at me with them already missing.”
Jim barks out a laugh, remembering that night. “Much good that did, since you refused to take advantage of the situation.”
“You were drunk. How could I know you wouldn’t regret us in the morning?”
Jim smiles, then. “I thought you said I confessed I loved you. Didn’t that make it obvious?”
McCoy just rolls his eyes, but he lets his shoulder settle more firmly against Kirk’s. “About this thing with your mother…”
Damn. Jim had hoped a trip down memory lane would be sufficiently distracting. Yet somehow he always ends up underestimating Leonard’s determination to go digging for the root cause of other people’s problems.
“…we ought to tackle it directly.”
“Directly as in how?”
McCoy gives him an unamused look. “How else? By talking to her.”
Kirk groans.
Leonard pokes him in the stomach. “You’re going to regret it if you don’t fix this.”
“You said it—it’s her problem, Bones. I shouldn’t have to fix it.”
“You have to at least do your part. If she won’t budge, then…” The sentence fades briefly before starting up again. “…we’ll think of something else.”
Jim kisses the side of Leonard’s head, as if his boyfriend is a particularly precocious child to be proud of. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “This isn’t the first time Mom and I have disagreed over a choice I made. I doubt it will be the last.”
“If you say so,” grumbles McCoy.
“Did you text Spock about dinner?”
McCoy’s air of un-caring dissipates in an instant as he sits up, incensed. “Text him? Are you kidding? He can’t even work a damn cell phone!”
“It’s the magic,” Jim points out.
“It’s the magic, it’s the magic,” mocks Leonard. “Screw the damn magic! I think it’s Spock’s refusal to accept that modern technology is smarter than he is!”
Jim hasn’t seen McCoy this riled since last week and, yeah, that was about Spock too. “What did he do?”
“We had an interview,” Leonard snarls, “and he bailed on me.”
Kirk winces.
“And that ain’t the worst of it, Jim. When Spock did deign to show up, he was two hours late, completely unrepentant, with Starbucks! And because of those damn pointed ears of his, you know what my staff did? They fawned all over him anyway!”
It’s inappropriate to laugh, Jim knows it is. When he is certain he won’t give Leonard a reason to strangle him, he takes his hand off his mouth and asks, “Spock didn’t say he was sorry?”
Eyes flashing, McCoy crosses his arms. “He said he lost track of time.”
Jim swallows a sigh. “You know that’s an actual issue for Them, Bones.”
Keeping time seems kind of pointless, Spock had explained to his boyfriends once, when one is expected to live a very long time. Also, aside from being unconcerned about living by a clock, Spock is easily sidetracked by ‘fascinating human things,’ which only adds to the problem of him showing up to places at the wrong time.
“That’s why I told him to set his phone alarm in advance.” Leonard drops back to his former position on the couch suddenly, his fit of anger gone as quickly as it came. “I handled it.”
“Oh no,” Jim groans. “What did you do?”
Leonard smirks. “I took his phone away. When he got upset about it, I told him since he was too much of a child to use a phone properly, there was no point in him having one.”
“Oh no,” Jim repeats.
“Oh yes. And then when Spock started the whole ‘I’ve lived longer than you can imagine’ bit, I said, yup, he was freaking ancient, which is why he qualified, because apparently half-bloods act like children in their old age just like humans do. Why else would he be so terrible at adapting to twenty-first century technology?”
Jim tries to swallow a laugh and ends up wheezing. When he can speak again, he points out, “Spock left home to learn more about humans. Did it occur to you challenging him like that could backfire?”
McCoy’s smug expression wavers.
As if on cue, Jim’s phone on the coffee table buzzes with an incoming text message. They both stare at it.
“Annnd there we go,” announces Jim, since the text header reads Spock in bold letters. “The Ancient One heard us.”
The phone immediately buzzes again. The follow-up message, Jim discovers after swiping his screen, reads, Age is in the eye of the beholder.
Jim falls to the side, laughing, showing the text to Leonard.
McCoy snatches up the cell phone. “You pointy-eared menace!” McCoy yells at it. “Stop eavesdropping! And get your damn metaphors right!”
Spock pops in behind the couch, staring down at the tops of their heads with one eyebrow cocked. “You might speak louder, dearest,” he advises, “in case my brethren in the Realm could not hear you.” Spock raises the phone in his hand so they might see it. “As you requested, I have mastered the form of human communication known as texting.”
“That’s great, Spock,” commends Jim.
“Damn it,” Leonard complains. “I can’t win.”
Spock turns to his phone.
A moment later, McCoy’s cell pings in his pants pocket. When the man digs it out, he reads aloud, “You have won my heart,” immediately looking horrified.
Jim grins at the line of heart emojis on the screen. “Hey, that’s pretty good. You did master texting, Spock.”
“I requested the assistance of a young female at the bus stop. Her lessons were thorough.”
“My god, no wonder he texts like a teenager!”
“You text like an old man,” Jim counters.
“You text like a drunk,” Leonard shoots back.
Jim snatches up Leonard’s phone and dances away with it. “Then let’s see how you like it when Christine gets a text saying you’re not working tomorrow!”
McCoy almost falls off the couch in his haste to follow Kirk. “Jim, give that back. Damn it, Chapel will end me!”
“She needs you that bad, huh?” Jim waggles his eyebrows, knowing for a fact McCoy’s co-producer will take charge of the documentary in a heartbeat. After meeting everyone on the staff, Jim has decided they are a bunch of extremely dedicated and blatantly terrifying individuals. Who else would have the guts to chase down supernatural creatures for interviews?
Leonard hisses and advances on him. Jim sprints around the couch to use Spock as his shield. As McCoy comes at them, murder in his gaze, Spock raises his cell phone and snaps a picture of himself with Jim cowering behind him.
“I can also use Snapchat,” Kirk and McCoy’s boyfriend states matter-of-factly as he inspects his new picture. Then he turns the camera on McCoy, advising, “Now would be the time to smile.”
“AAAAGGGGHHHH!” roars Leonard, leaping for them both.
The camera’s flash goes off.
Afterward, from the floor, pinned in between flailing human limbs, Spock observes, “Leonard did not smile.” Jim watches him upload the photo anyway.
For lunch, Jim makes everyone sandwiches, leading to Spock and Leonard debating the merits of a traditional PB&J versus using non-grape jams and jellies. Eventually Jim grows weary of reminding them there’s no point in arguing when they only have grape jelly in the refrigerator and returns to the couch to doze.
He startles awake some time later, lifting his head from Leonard’s lap to exclaim to Spock on the opposite end of the couch acting as his personal footrest, “The rabbit!”
“Ah, yes,” says Spock, blinking, unconcerned as he surfaces from the paperback novel in his hands. “The rabbit.”
“The party,” McCoy adds, glancing at his watch. “Oh good, you still have a while.”
“Spock, the shop didn’t have any rabbits.”
“I am aware of that, Jim.”
Jim stares up at McCoy.
“Don’t look at me, kid. I forgot about it.”
Spock closes his book, resting it on top of Jim’s ankles. “Informing of the fact is unnecessary, but your concern is appreciated. The matter was resolved when I encountered a relative this morning.”
Jim’s chest constricts the tiniest bit. “You have a relative in Riverside?” Why didn’t Spock say something before now?
“He is lately come to town.” Spock seems oblivious to his boyfriends’ expressions, adding, “After hearing of my new business venture, he decided to make a nuisance of himself by buying my supplier out of rabbits.”
Jim sits up. “Hold on. Your relative is Hutch?”
Leonard purses his mouth. “What kind of name is Hutch?”
“His Blood name is not Hutch, Leonard.”
Leonard replies sharply, “You mean like yours isn’t Spock?”
“Precisely.”
McCoy huffs, but subsides. “I’ll get it out of you someday, Spock.”
“I look forward to that day, my persistent one.”
Jim has been with these two long enough to tell when a Spock-McCoy argument is actually flirting. His primary concern is of one only thing: “Is Hutch out to get you?”
Spock blinks at him. “Define the means by which he would ‘get’ me, Jim.”
“Jim is asking if the little weasel crossed the River bearing a grudge. What do you want us to do about him, Spock?”
Jim approves of the grimness of McCoy’s question. “What Bones said.”
“At this time, nothing.”
Jim opens his mouth but McCoy’s hand dropping to his arm halts all protest.
“All right,” Leonard tells Spock. “But keep in mind, Jim and I may not be one of your kind but we humans have defenses and tricks too.”
“That’s right, mister. If nothing else, I have an acquaintance in the Pack who owes me favor.” Not that anyone in the Pack needs or wants much of a reason to throw a trueblood back to their side of the River. Pack members are notorious for their hatred of anybody with elfin features and mannerisms, despite a third of their ranks being halfies themselves.
Hutch probably hasn’t been around long enough to form any alliances or barter for protection, so he likely wouldn’t survive more than a few hours after the Pack catches wind of him skulking about Riverside. And if that’s how Jim can keep Spock out of danger, he doubts he would feel any regret for his actions.
“So what about the birthday party?” Leonard wants to know, circling back to the original topic of conversation. “You gonna skip the rabbit trick?”
Spock just looks at them a moment. Then he points across the room to a dining table chair with his cape draped across its back and his top hat and wand lying on the seat. After Spock murmurs a sentence in his native language, the hat moves of its own accord until a tiny, twitching pink nose appears beneath the brim. The rabbit, having decided there is no danger present, squirms out from under the hat and hops to the floor.
Jim watches it inspect the rug before asking in wonder, “Is it real?”
“Affirmative.”
“And where’d you get it?” McCoy asks, his voice laced with more suspicion than wonder.
“As the Starbucks cashier refused to accept a rabbit as a form of payment, Hutch was unable to purchase the cafe latte he desired. We made an exchange, my human currency for his rabbit, which I believe was profitable for both sides.”
Leonard sighs, muttering, “Damn elves. Should’ve known.”
Jim drops his head to Leonard’s lap again and puts his feet on Spock. “Wake me up before you leave for the party.”
“Yes, Jim,” Spock replies dutifully.
Jim returns to his nap.
The next day Jim lingers at the opening to the alley between the station house and the city’s complex for public services. The morning shift change is underway, with the police officers looking fresh and crisp in their ironed uniforms as they cross the parking lot toward the station. Jim is more curious about the men and women coming out of it, however, watching their shuffling gaits, noting how their faces are drawn tight over their skulls. There must be a big case going on to deplete the energy of an entire department.
Finally, the man Jim has been waiting for exits the station. He’s dressed casually in black jeans and sneakers, with a Zepplin t-shirt under a shiny new leather jacket. His silver sunglasses are designer from at least a decade ago. Between the glasses and a bland expression, he doesn’t look very friendly.
Jim watches him until he approaches the street lamp opposite the alleyway. Then, pausing there long enough to tilt his head ever-so-slightly in Kirk’s direction, the man continues north. Jim follows, deliberately keeping several paces behind.
After skirting the perimeter of the park next to the complex, they both come to a halt under a birch tree shading the sidewalk. The spot is out of visual range of the station.
Jim finally comes level with the man, mirroring his quarry with his hands hidden in his jacket pockets.
“Long time no see, Kirk.”
“What do you want?”
“Polite as usual.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Jim stares at his reflection in the silver glasses. “I was hoping you’d lost my number.”
The cop offers him a tiny smile, then, uncovering his eyes. They aren’t any friendlier than the glasses. “I have a question. You have an answer.”
An angry flush works its way up Jim’s neck. “We were square, Gary.”
“We were. Then your boy had his picture taken outside the jewelry store on 2nd and Holden right after it was looted last night. We caught him down by the Wharf. He had at least two thousand in gold. Tried to dump it into the river.” Gary glances purposefully at a wristwatch. “He’s been in holding for about ten hours. He’s kept his mouth shut but you and I both know by noon that won’t matter.”
Jim is beyond anger now. “You should have called me when you picked him up!”
“And miss out on a golden opportunity?” The tiny smile becomes a teeth-baring grin. “Not a chance in hell.” Mitchell goes on, “I hear the Wharf rats don’t last more than three days now, at Genesis. The new hospital director is so skittish about their brand of crazy, he ships them upstate to the national detention center for the criminally insane at the first sign of River madness.”
“You heartless bastard.”
Gary’s expression shutters suddenly. “I’m a b-town cop, Kirk. A place like Riverside doesn’t have a use for people with hearts.”
Jim is far from happy about being indebted to his ex-best friend, but he accepts he doesn’t have a choice. “What’s the question?”
The cop stares at him a moment. “There’s word of a new southside gang.”
“Riverside has a dozen or more gangs. We used to be in one, remember?”
“This gang isn’t like ours. It’s mixed.”
Jim snaps, “I don’t care. What’s the question?”
Instead of answering, Mitchell takes a phone out of his pocket, thumbs its screen alive, and turns toward Jim. Kirk intends to dismiss the photo but after his first glance at it he cannot pry his eyes away. “What… is that?”
“The leftovers of one of their members.”
Jim’s stomach gives a lurch. “I didn’t think you handled gang violence cases.”
“You’re not looking at evidence of gang violence, Jim.” Gary flicks off his phone screen, interrupting Jim’s next question. “What I need to know is where I can find another one, preferably still breathing.” He stares at Jim expectantly.
“It doesn’t work like that,” Jim says reluctantly.
“Being alive is a good thing. So why can’t you? Give me my good news, Kirk. Is there a kid like that alive somewhere?”
“Yes,” Jim answers immediately, his gift already kicking in. His eyes shut of their own accord to allow an image to play on the back of his eyelids. What he sees surprises him.
“Ask Chekov,” he says, opening his eyes to find Gary still watching him closely.
Gary’s mouth thins in response. “If this is a trick—”
“It’s not. I saw him with your… victim,” he explains. And that kid had looked… Jim cannot quite find the words to describe his appearance, except the teenager looked unnaturally ill, his bloodless features already misshapen, barely recognizable as human. In fact, everything about him looked elongated, like stretched taffy. “Chekov was next to him, talking to him. They must know each other.”
Mitchell is silent for a long time. Then, “A lot of the runaways end up in one gang or another. Okay, I believe you… for now. If your Rat provides me with a solid lead, I’ll bounce him back to the Wharf, same as usual. But if you’re lying to me, Kirk—or if he lies to me—I’ll personally escort him to Genesis’s psych ward.”
“Show Pavel the picture,” insists Jim. “Tell him the kid will end up like that, and he’ll talk.”
After another beat of silence, Gary steps back, clearly satisfied. He will return to the station right away, will have to in order to talk to Chekov while Chekov is still sane. Jim is tempted to go with him. But there’s not much he can do, being a bystander and an unwelcome one at that.
He needs to find a way to stop Chekov from sacrificing to the River. The River and the creatures who can thrive in it don’t have a desire or a need for precious metals and gems. But you cannot convince a person addicted to River water otherwise, just like you cannot make them understand the water is diseased, not magical. In the end, even if you detox them, they almost always end up addicted again. The River isn’t the lure. Its promise of self-confidence is.
Gary’s voice cuts into Jim’s train of thought. “You’re wasting yourself on them, you know,” he says, as if he has the ability to read minds. “Let the River eat them up. It’s their own fault for thinking that stupid water will make them special.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, Gary. You’ve never been made to believe who you are isn’t good enough.”
“That’s because I know how not to be a pathetic human being.”
Jim hates that Gary’s arrogance, left unchecked, has made him into such a callous person. He starts to turn away in disgust, but the man draws him in again by saying, “By the way, you’ve got a tail.”
“A what?” Jim looks behind him, alarmed.
“Look at the park, not your ass,” Mitchell says dryly.
Jim turns that way, seeing no one but a young woman studying the plaque of one of the park’s bronze statues. “Who? I don’t see anybody.”
No answer is forthcoming. By the time Jim spins back around, the man has already crossed to the other side of the street.
“Shit,” Jim says. He takes a moment to pull out his phone and check his messages. Then he goes in the opposite direction.
The garage on the edge of the city looks like a dump; that is, it’s the most popular junkyard around for broken, outdated, and piece-meal electronics. Jim is careful where he parks his motorcycle in the gravel lot, having blown a tire one too many times on an errant spark plug or rusty screw. He walks into the garage without knocking, the protective shield around the building recognizing him instantly. He had had Spock make it.
Kirk cries at the top of his lungs, “Yo, Scotty!”
A voice crackles overhead, coming from an old speaker system. “Bugger off means BUGGER OFF!”
“Can’t,” he shouts back, shouldering his way around stacks of gutted stereo sets and amplifiers, nearly cracking a kneecap against a teetering tower of VCRs. “I’m bored!”
“Bollocks.”
“Whose?” he asks, finally locating a doorway in one of the walls. “Geez, why can’t you leave the office in the same place?”
When Jim steps inside, Scotty turns around, snapping up the front shield of his welder’s mask to reveal a soot-streaked, annoyed face. “Because that makes it easier for you to bother me!”
Jim dismisses the complaint. “What are you working on?”
As Jim steps forward, Scotty pushes his face guard back into place and fires a blow-torch at his intruder.
Jim jumps back, hands flying up, palms out placatingly. “Whoa! I like my eyebrows.”
The man cuts off the blow-torch, motionless for a moment before tossing the torch toward a cluttered side table. Then he pulls his helmet off and rakes back sweat-matted hair. “What happened with the rabbit?”
“Spock bartered for one.”
“One of mine would’ve suited,” Scotty mutters.
“Actually, Spock might swing by later. He was intrigued by the idea of using one of your…” Jim stares at the various objects around the office, some with faces, some without. “…inventions in his show.”
“Ye don’t say.” Hearing that appears to mollify the tinker. “Want food? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Jim follows Scotty through another door to a tiny room with a cot. Scotty sits on the cot, leaving the floor to his guest. He takes a pot off a single, portable stove-eye burner and wipes the pot’s inside with a pair of gray coveralls near to hand. When the man produces a ramen pack and tears it open with his teeth, Jim says, “Bones is gonna kill me for eating that.”
“More for me then.”
Jim sighs. “Fine. Got any chopsticks?”
“Probably under the bed.”
Four ramen packs and an empty pot later, Jim rests his head against the edge of the cot, legs stretched out in front of him. “Pavel robbed another store.”
“What kind?”
“Jewelry. Took the gold.”
Scotty’s sigh is notably sad. “‘Twas bad for him the last time. After the third night, I woke up and he was gone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What’s the point, lad?” Scotty says, enough of an echo of Gary’s sentiment in the remark to make Jim want to plug his ears. “There’s no cure for the Madness.”
“Not yet.”
Neither man speaks after that for a long while. At the point when the empty pot starts smoking on the stove-eye, Scotty rouses himself from the corner of his cot, dropping the tablet he had been playing a game on by Kirk’s head, startling Jim. He switches the power off to the burner, then walks out of the room. His voice drifts back, with a note of coaxing, “I want to show you something.”
Jim finds Scotty in the main garage, peeling duck tape off a cardboard box. “Show me what? Is it new?” He grins. “Can I sell it?”
“Sell this, and I’ll be interested to see who offers me money for your head first, the cops or the Blood,” Scotty retorts, reaching into the box. When he turns toward Jim, he is cradling something inside his cupped hands.
Jim stares at the little thing, made of burnished copper, trying to figure out what it is.
“Go on,” urges his friend. “Pick it up!”
Jim does. Almost immediately, he hears the soft whir of minuscule gears spinning. It unfolds six insect-like legs from its body and starts to crawl along his palm then up his wrist. “Scotty, what’s it doing?” Jim watches it pause to inspect his sleeve, pawing at the cotton weave with the two front legs. “What is it?”
“A spell-spider.” Scotty gently pulls it from Jim’s arm. The little creature folds up into a ball again. “The wee beauty is sensitive to magic. ‘Course, practically everything in this creepy town is. That’s why I moved out here.”
“Because magic and modern tech don’t play well together.”
“Right! Half the time my inventions don’t want to power up or, if they do, nearly explode in my face. The way magic fluctuates around the border, ye can’t ever tell if it’s helping or hindering things. So the farther away, the better, I say! And your Pointy Ears made a good shield. Since it went up, I haven’t had one clock ticking backward.”
“Weird.”
“Eh.” The man shrugs. “Weird to some, normal to others.”
“And the spell-spider?”
Scotty strokes the shell of the creature, grinning. “She’s the first thing I made that likes the magic.”
“What does she do?”
Scotty frowns. “Why does she need a purpose? She just is.” He grins. “I named her Lucky.”
Jim groans.
Scotty cackles, whispering softly to the spell-spider, “Lucky #1, meet Lucky #2.”
“Shut up.” Then Jim thinks about what the man said and narrows his eyes. “Why am I number two? I’m the original.”
Scotty’s expression softens slightly. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you defend your gift, Jim.”
Jim shoves his hands in his pockets, saying nothing. He hates that nickname–and the others that have been bestowed upon him over the years because of his strange ability to ‘see’ good omens (even if none of those omens seem meant for him). His peculiar gift makes him one of the most well-liked people in Riverside.
It also makes him one of the most despised too. In other words, how folks feel about him is a strongly divisive subject. When he can offer lucky tidbits to brighten their days, they love him. But there are some people who never inspire one of his good visions, not even of something small and mundane like finding a five dollar bill on the ground. Jim has learned to avoid the ones who reek of misfortune by instinct alone; but word tends to spread if he appears to be avoiding someone. “Lucky boy Jim Kirk blacklisted so-and-so!” That creates paranoia among people, even his closest friends, like nothing else can. Then when something bad does happen to that person (and inevitably it does), usually the blame lands on Jim.
So, whether Kirk is being thanked or cursed, he is always a spectacle, always an easy target.
Lucky is one of the nicer nicknames, actually. In high school, a bully named Finnegan used to laughingly call him the Wisewoman. “Look, it’s old Wisewoman Kirk!” he would cry to the pack of boys who followed him. “Hey, Jimmy, tell us who’s getting lucky tonight!” Of course, Finnegan never asked that stupid question again after Jim finally snapped back, “Me, with your mom!”
Scotty snaps his fingers in front of Jim’s face. “Hey, Jim. Where’d you go?” His gaze lights up. “Did you see something? Am I coming into a windfall? Please say I’m—”
“Definitely not,” Jim replies, rolling his eyes when his friend looks crestfallen. He claps a hand to Scotty’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. That could change someday.”
Scotty’s expression turns sardonic.
“Yeah, maybe not,” admits Kirk.
“You know, Jim, change only comes from being proactive. If we went to the race track and you used your little…” Scotty waggles his fingers at Jim. “…to guess the winner…”
Jim backs up, shaking his head fiercely. “No, no, no. I don’t do that.”
Scotty has latched onto his own idea with vigor. “But think of the money we could make!”
Jim jerks his phone out of his pocket and puts it to his ear. “Hello? Bones? Emergency? Yup, on my way.”
“—millionaires—!”
“Gotta go, bye, Scotty!” yells Kirk as he swiftly backs out of the garage.
He tucks his phone into his pocket again once out of sight, sighing in relief. Scotty is a good friend, all things considered, but some ideas are just too far into the danger zone. And Jim’s been there before. At some point, a man has to learn from his mistakes.
He is seated on his motorcycle, ready to crank it, before he notices the red envelope peeking out from his messenger bag. He removes the envelope and opens it, reading the card inside.
thy leash becomes thy heart
by my side, each day and night
nothing can keep us apart
“Wow, okay,” he says aloud, struck the subtle creep factor. Spock must have been in charge of writing this one.
There’s no other explanation for the awkward phrasing. Spock doesn’t always comprehend the nuances of human communication, tending to expect that a spoken or written statement adheres to its plainest definition. It is possible Spock could make the mistake of assuming the message is romantic. McCoy would have used basic, sappy wording.
Jim shakes his head, deciding to laugh it off. The cuteness of receiving these love letters from Spock and McCoy outweighs their peculiarity. One of his partners must have slipped the envelope into his bag before he left the apartment this morning.
He starts up his bike and heads for the nearest road leading out of town. When the last city marker fast-approaches, Kirk closes his eyes as he crosses it. He opens his eyes a second later to discover he is speeding down a familiar dirt lane. The Kirk homestead comes into sight after the next bend.
His shoulders relax.
Home, sweet home.
Related Posts:
- River Bound (5/5) – from February 27, 2018
- River Bound (4/5) – from February 27, 2018
- River Bound (3/4) – from February 22, 2018
- River Bound (2/4) – from February 14, 2018
