Title: Along Comes a Stranger (1/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Disclaimer: Lord knows, I own nothing affiliated with Star Trek – the show or the movies – except these silly fiction ideas.
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.

Part One

It’s a beautiful day—gentle weather, a slight breeze, and nothing but miles of wheat. Jim couldn’t ask for anything sweeter, except company. As it stands, he has no one with which to share a beautiful day such as this. Perhaps his lonely circumstances take away some of the shine of his joy; perhaps, despite Jim’s carefree grin and cheerful wave at a neighbor driving along the dirt road bordering the Kirk farm, he wishes he was elsewhere.

Jim Kirk is a local mechanic. He likes working with his hands, and not simply because it is one of the few trades which legitimately pays the rent in this small town of Iowa. Jim is a man who needs to keep busy, his mind as well as his hands, and so he repairs what he can, when he can. If the vehicle or bike or tractor runs better than brand new afterward, well, that knowledge is a personal reward for Jim besides a paycheck. He knows he can create something great from something broken, and machines are very easy to understand, where every part has a purpose.

His friends say if he was half as good at fine tuning people, he’d be a Somebody instead of a farm-boy-turned-mechanic. He might be a wealthy politician (Jim imagines always wearing a suit and tie and cringes) or a wise doctor (to have another man’s life in his hands, God no). Jim’s mother, Winona Kirk, says he need not be Somebody because he is already special—to her, at least. Yet she still laments that he won’t leave Iowa and live.

Jim thinks he is living well enough. He thinks he made the right choice, turning down Captain Pike. Jim’s father is a war hero, decorated after his death in the line of duty, so Jim has a keen understanding of what a career in the military can do to a man’s family. When Pike visited the Kirk’s old farmhouse one day, like a ghost from the past that made his mother pale and retreat to the kitchen, Jim gave the man a chance to speak and then he said what he had to; he said “No, Sir, no thanks. I’m needed here.”

Pike assessed his solemn expression for a moment, making Jim feel much younger than twenty-two but finally yielded. “All right, son. If you change your mind, we could use you.”

You want a man like my father, Jim didn’t say as he led Christopher Pike to the door and out of their lives.

Later, his mother made three of Jim’s favorite dishes for dinner, plus strawberry pie for dessert. She leaned against his chair and stroked his hair. She said, “You didn’t have to do that for me, Jimmy.”

“Wasn’t for you,” he mumbled between bites of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

They both knew what a lie that was.

Still, she kissed the top of his head like he might be seven and silly before walking away. Except Winona turned back to him once at the threshold of the kitchen. “Your father was a good man,” she said, and yes, Jim knows that because she has been saying it since he could understand the words. “I see more of George in you with each day that passes. You would have made a fine officer, Jim.”

They haven’t discussed Pike or Jim leaving the farm since. Jim works to pay the mortgage on the house and land while his mother still waitresses at a local diner part-time, even though Jim insists she can quit. He fixes what people need fixing, he rides his own motorbike down quiet country roads on weekends, and sometimes, just once and a while, he will stop across from a dusty billboard advertising the Glory of the Army, stuck between the Riverside Post Office and old Charley’s Shoe Shop (Open Since 1955). Inevitably, he always turns his bike back towards the farm.

“Yo, Jim!”

Kirk grunts from the under belly of a sagging gas tank and digs a heel of an tattered sneaker into the concrete floor of the garage, scooting himself an inch or two backwards so he can reach his target. “Just a sec!”

One good twist of his wrench and a long exhaust pipe fits back into place. Jim tucks the wrench into his belt and scoots out on his back from beneath Mr. Patterson’s old Charger (the Patterson’s are an old Riverside family—bankers, mostly—and pay in cash). He wipes his greasy hands down the front of his overalls and asks, “Yeah?”

Jose, owner of the garage and the man who taught Jim the trade secrets of being a mechanic, leans out of his office door. “Ms. Kirk called. Said she’ll be late tonight.”

“Thanks,” Jim calls back. “I’ll finish this old gal first. Then I’m gone,” he adds, patting the black surface of the Charger as he walks past it and heads to a small washroom to wipe off the oil streaks he’d absentmindedly rubbed on his face while working.

It is three hours past sunset by the time Jim makes it to The Diner, hands tucked in his jean pockets and his face pink from a brisk ride through the cold air. He pushes through the front door of the diner, the overhead bell ringing sharply twice to announce his presence. The atmosphere of The Diner is sleepy, almost cozy to those who are used to it.

Jim’s mother smiles at him from across the long room, her face lighting briefly to see him, before she returns to chatting with a customer. Jim looks in the opposite direction, counting only a handful of people: in the booths, a mother and two loud kids, a man with his head bowed over his hands like he’s praying, and Janice Rand’s sour-faced father, a deputy of the Riverside police squad. Jim shrugs off a skittering up his spine, remembering how Mr. Rand had eyed him when he escorted Jan to the senior prom. Dating Rand’s daughter had been short-lived, mainly because Jim didn’t enjoy being under surveillance and Rand’s paranoia is infamous. Poor Jan, Jim thinks, and then dismisses the thought.

The diner counter is occupied, as always, by Montgomery Scott perched at its far end, nearest the restrooms. Scotty—that’s what Jim likes to call him and Montgomery doesn’t say otherwise—isn’t quite a homeless man or an utter drunkard but stuck somewhere in between. Everybody in town knows Scotty stays at his mother’s most days but if people find him sleeping on a bus bench or along a church stoop, well, no one bothers the poor man, not even the police. Work is hard to come by these days, and Jim suspects Scotty is one of those so-brilliant-it’s-awkward people that are either wind up millionaires or vagabonds.

Jim decides to put his theory to the test (again) and gets comfortable at the counter two seats away from Scotty—close enough to talk but not close enough to crowd the man and scare him off.

Before Jim can open his mouth, however, he catches the scent of lilac perfume and jerks back on instinct as a menu is slapped down with attitude precariously close to his innocent fingers.

He grins, remarking with charm, “Uhura, where have you been all my life?” and wonders if the waitress will punch him or return his interest.

Nyota Uhura narrows her eyes at him, cocks a hip, and swings her pony like a whip. “I hear people invent new and innovative ways to screw themselves over every day, Kirk.” She bares her teeth, which only adds to her natural beauty despite that she is more likely to bite Jim than kiss him. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll win first prize.”

Jim’s forlorn sigh is entirely fake. “Why can’t you love me? Everybody loves me!” His thumb indicates Scotty. “Even Scotty loves me! Isn’t that right, Scotty?”

Scotty catches the sound of his nickname and blinks, turning to stare at Jim blankly.

Uhura snaps, “Don’t bother him, Jim.” Her voice turns to sugar as she smiles brightly and refills Scotty’s glass of coca cola. “Ignore Mr. Kirk, Scotty. He’s full of himself tonight.”

Scotty takes a long swallow of his drink and then rubs the back of his mouth across his hand. He nods mutely at Uhura, whose eyes soften in sympathy. Jim never realized until now that Uhura was attracted to the silent type; otherwise he would have tried a different tactic.

Too little, too late, he chuckles to himself, knowing that any inclination to flirt and mean it has long since passed between them. Uhura acts more like a sister Jim thought he would have wanted—except now Jim is of the firm opinion that having a sister is severely overrated.

He asks plaintively, “Can I get a cup of coffee, please?”

Uhura seems to deflate all at once, sighing long and low as she adjusts the apron around her waist. “Sure. Hold on.”

Jim is slowly pulling the paper cover off of a straw when his mother approaches his end of the counter. Winona Kirk sweeps back a few loose strands of hair from her face, glancing at Scotty before giving her full attention to her son.

He tucks in his elbows and peeks at her through his lashes exactly like the time, as a small boy, he had collected a shoebox full of bullfrogs and they accidentally ran rampant in her kitchen. It’s his Whatever I just did, I totally didn’t mean to do it look.

Winona reaches out to cup his face fondly, and Jim pulls back, embarrassed. She asks him, “How was work?”

Jim shrugs, then accepts Uhura’s offer of a mug of coffee as she bypasses him on her way to see to the diner’s other customers. He sips at it, remarking, “It was fine—same as usual. I think O’Reilly will be able to pick up his van by Monday.”

“That’s good news. He was in here, earlier, hinting that he hoped you knew what you were doing.”

They both roll their eyes. Jim doesn’t feel slighted by O’Reilly’s talk. O’Reilly is a kind of person who spends his life running from one worry to the next. Jim has heard Jose in the garage’s office this past week, trying to assure O’Reilly that the van was salvageable and, yes, Jose had his best mechanic working on it. Jose won’t gripe about dealing with O’Reilly because he will simply increase the repair fees instead. Jim thinks that is a fair kind of justice.

Jim watches Uhura stack two dirty plates at the kitchen window and ring for the dishwasher. Then Uhura turns and scans the diner. Jim notices that her gaze lingers in one place, so he cranes his neck over his shoulder and stares, too.

Riverside is the type of town where either you’re known on sight, people heard you’re coming (like an out-of-state cousin or uncle stopping in for a visit), or you’re an absolute stranger, subject to suspicion. This one in particular, Jim guesses, is the classic kind of stranger, one who has no real destination and fades into the background of every town he passes through.

Jim has always been curious. Plus, he can see the tense line of Deputy Rand’s shoulders. Whether Jim simply wants to aggravate the lawman or he wants to save the rumpled and miserable-looking fellow from an interrogation, he isn’t sure. Jim slips off his stool, intending to carry out his decision, but is stopped by a sudden, tight grip on his arm. Winona releases her hold on him once he looks at her, startled.

“Be careful, Jim,” she warns him.

He nods sharply then grabs his cup of coffee. The stranger doesn’t glance up at Jim when Kirk slides into the opposite side of the booth. Jim takes a quick moment to assess the man: dark hair, a day’s worth of stubble, clothes that probably need laundering, and long tan fingers, one of which has a prominent white band from a missing ring.

Jim leans back, resting an arm along the top of the booth.

“Hey,” he begins, hoping to get a conversation going.

There is minute of silence. A voice, gruff and Southern-accented, finally says, “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Well that’s good,” Jim replies casually, “because I’m not looking for trouble.”

The man looks up then, and Jim stares into a pair of tired, red-rimmed eyes. He frowns, asking, “Are you drunk?”

A snort combined with a derisive “From coffee? ‘Cause that’s what I’m drinking, kid, in case you’re blind” is the man’s response.

“Not blind,” he says. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.” After a pause, Jim wants to know, “Is the coffee cold?”

He takes the man’s stubborn silence as a yes. Jim signals Uhura who is unabashedly watching their exchange. She strides to the table, heels clicking, and refills their mugs as slowly as possible. The man has inexplicably straightened at her presence and nods, saying gravely, “Thank you, ma’am” when she hands his mug back to him.

Jim studies the face illuminated by lanterns of the diner, seeing the dark circles under the eyes, the sharp lines at the mouth, and a lingering grief, too, which is quickly masked when the man turns to scowl at him.

Jim smiles. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” the fellow counters.

“James Kirk,” he offers without hesitation. “Jim.”

“Not to spoil your evening, Jim, but I didn’t ask for company and I don’t want it.”

He cannot help but bristle at that, except before Jim can think to flip the man off or wonder why he is bothering to be friendly to a bastard, a shadow falls across the table.

“Something going on here, boys?” asks Rand.

Jim watches the stranger’s hand stutter, slopping coffee over the rim of his mug. Then the man carefully sets down the mug and lays both of his hands flat on the table, palms down.

Rand isn’t watching Jim at all, but he can imagine the mean look in Rand’s eyes. Kirk goes with his gut and jumps to the man’s defense. “Nothing at all, Deputy,” he responds pleasantly.

Rand’s nostrils flare like he scents the lie Jim is beginning to think up. Rand doesn’t call him on it, however.

Jim adds, blue eyes meeting the wary ones across the booth, “This is my friend from…”

“Georgia,” inputs Jim’s new friend.

“Georgia,” he finishes with a grin.

Rand shifts on his feet, hands twitching at his sides. Jim automatically tenses, though he is certain Rand won’t pull a gun in the diner. “That so?” asks the deputy flatly.

“Yes, Sir,” is the stranger’s quick drawl. “Leonard McCoy, from Georgia.”

Rand stares first at McCoy, then at Jim for much longer. Jim doesn’t flinch under that searching look; he’s had a lot of practice at not flinching around the law, when he was younger and wilder.

“All right, then,” Rand says. He tips his hat at Jim, face sardonic. Jim understands the unspoken warning well enough: I’ll let you have this one, Kirk.

When the bell rings, announcing the deputy’s departure, Jim relaxes again. So does McCoy, by the look of him.

“What brings you to Riverside, Iowa, Leonard?” Jim doesn’t believe in using formalities unless he’s speaking to the local reverend or a customer of the garage.

McCoy rubs a hand over his eyes and thumps his head against the back of the booth. Then he sighs and twists at the waist to reach under the booth, lifting up and placing on the tabletop a briefcase. Jim can see that it is worn at the edges, almost battered from use. McCoy opens it and turns the briefcase toward him, inviting Jim to look.

Jim stares inside, then laughs before he can stop himself.

McCoy grimaces and hastily shuts the lid, but not in time to stop Jim’s quick fingers from pulling out a Bible. It’s shiny, obviously new, and its binding still smells faintly of plastic. Jim manages to flip through the first five pages before McCoy yanks it back with “You’ll smear the ink!”

Jim bites down on his smile. “You’re a Bible salesman?” he asks, trying not to sound incredulous.

McCoy swallows a mouthful of coffee after having tucked the Bible back into the briefcase and stares into his mug. He quotes humorlessly, “Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure.”

Oh, that should not be funny but it is, and the expression on McCoy’s face… Jim has to cough twice. “Are you—are you here to preach the Word, Mr. McCoy?” This time the Mr. is warranted, Jim thinks, if only because it makes the joke much better.

Apparently Mr. McCoy does not enjoy Jim’s sense of humor. “Just because I sell it, doesn’t mean I preach it.” The man’s hand jerks with a hint of temper, and coffee spills onto the table. McCoy curses sincerely, “Goddamn it!”

Jim widens his eyes. “I’m thinking your sales technique sucks.”

“Shut up,” McCoy tells him sourly as he mops at the spilt coffee with a napkin.

“Hey, just calling it like I see it,” Jim shoots back.

When Jim’s mother appears with a dishrag in hand, McCoy lets her clean up the mess he was making and thanks her politely.

Winona Kirk smiles kindly at Leonard McCoy and asks, “Will you be in Riverside long, Mr. McCoy?” Jim is now certain that he inherited his curiosity from his mother.

“Not sure, ma’am. Maybe.”

McCoy is a gentleman to women and an ass to everyone else, Jim decides.

Winona supplies, “There’s a motel off Route 76 but it’s a bit of a walk.” Before either man can respond, she adds, “Jim, why don’t you take Mr. McCoy in my truck?”

Jim gapes at his mother but she is ignoring him. McCoy sucks in a breath and begins, “No, that’s all right, I could use the exercise…” and Winona runs right over him, too.

“Oh, it will be our pleasure to help, Mr. McCoy. As you can see—” She gestures at the window whose blinds are only half-drawn. “—it’s too dark for you to walk alone. Riverside isn’t an unsafe town but it has its share of muggers and thieves. I know you didn’t arrive by car, so let Jimmy take you.”

When she heads to the cash register, Jim barely spares a glance for McCoy and blocks his mother’s path on her return trip to the booth. Jim whispers furiously, “What are you doing, Mom?”

“Jim, don’t be unkind and make the man walk.”

“That’s—that isn’t what—”

She pats his shoulder. “He seems harmless but if he isn’t, I know you can take care of yourself.”

Jim glances over his shoulder when a throat clears to gain their attention. McCoy is on his feet, wearing a brown coat patched at the right elbow, briefcase in hand and a hat tucked under his arm. The man carefully draws out a wallet from a coat pocket and asks, “How much?”

Winona slides around Jim and presents the bill to the salesman. McCoy hands her more than enough to cover the cost of his coffee and says, “Look I’ll be going now. No ride necessary. Thanks, though.” His eyes dart around the diner before he turns about and heads for the door.

Jim is still for only a second or two; then his mother lifts her eyebrow in his direction and, with a muttered “crap,” he takes off in pursuit of Leonard McCoy, only pausing at the diner’s entrance as his mother whistles sharply and calls, “Jim!”

She tosses him the keys to the truck.

He pockets them and exits the diner, hoping those Bibles will weigh McCoy down just enough that Jim can catch up to him. When Jim does, wincing at the sound of the truck’s brakes (needs to be checked, he notes) as he rolls to a stop beside McCoy almost five blocks down the street, Jim shouts through the window, “Give me break, and just get in!”

McCoy stares at Jim like he has three heads instead of one. “I don’t know you.”

He sighs. “I told you, I’m Jim Kirk and that—” He points in the direction of The Diner. “—was my mother. We’ll both be in trouble if I don’t drive you to the motel, okay?”

Jim thinks McCoy is going to keep walking but he is surprised when the man jerks open the door and climbs into the cab of the truck, settling his briefcase on his knees and then taking off his hat. McCoy’s eyes are not quite green when he turns to look at Jim, face somber. Jim had thought they were brown back at the diner.

McCoy turns his face away, toward the window, but Jim hears the soft words: “Give, and it shall be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, they will pour into your lap. For whatever measure you deal out, it will be dealt to you in return.”

He doesn’t ask when McCoy pulls out a flask from the interior of his coat and drinks. Jim doesn’t refuse the flask, either, when it is offered to him. Together, they sit in silence until the truck pulls into the parking lot of the motel, its badly lit sign flashing periodically in the dark of the night. Jim’s brain likens it to the call of a lighthouse, saying safety is here, come where it is safe. He and McCoy both ignore the fact that the shabby motel looks like the least safe place to be.

McCoy puts away the flask, dons his hat, and says, “Thanks, Jim.”

Jim returns, “You’re welcome” not wanting to say Leonard but not wanting to call the man Mr. McCoy. So he settles for no name at all and McCoy seems to accept that, probably not really caring either way.

He watches Leonard McCoy, man of Georgia and newcomer to Riverside, until the door of the motel office swings shut. Then Jim re-starts the engine of the truck and pulls back onto the road, uncertain of why he feels he is going to see the strange man again.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Along Comes a Stranger (2/?) – from May 6, 2011
• [Masterpost] Riverside ‘verse – from April 19, 2012