Title: Along Comes a Stranger (2/?)
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

Part Two

Jim had been joking when he had suggested that McCoy was a terrible Bible salesman. Except now Jim is fairly certain McCoy hasn’t sold one Bible in the two weeks he has been in Riverside. Gossip travels fast, and even if a housewife had deemed McCoy pitiful and bought a book out of sympathy, word would still spread like wildfire: “Buy from the Bible salesman—he’s as thin as a ghost!”

The man lumbers down the streets of Riverside on foot with his overstuffed briefcase and a grim expression that makes kids’ eyes go the size of quarters. Jim has watched McCoy’s progress, covertly, from The Diner windows or from around a street corner while he is on one errand or another. Today Jim is straddling his bike and juggling a bag of groceries when he spies McCoy trudging across 6th street like the man is on a mission from God.

Of course Jim can’t help himself. Intrigued, he slides off his bike and decides that a bit of walking won’t hurt—even if it is into town instead of out of it towards the farm.

McCoy stops at a crosswalk, waiting for the streetlight to change. Jim, brown bag partially hiding his face, lingers next to a lamppost until McCoy is on the other side of the street. Then he trots after the man. Slowly but surely, McCoy pauses on the steps of the town library, frowning, and Jim has to duck into a nearby store—a lingerie boutique, in which three elderly women gasp when he comes barreling through the door—lest he be seen.

Kirk tries peeking through two window mannequins to determine if McCoy has entered the library but Jim’s effort is waylaid by a sharp rap on his shoulder. He whips his head around and stares at a familiar redhead.

Jim relaxes and lets his bag of groceries drop into a chair. “Gaila!”

Gaila looks nonplussed, one hand on her hip and her bright red mouth pinched. “Jim,” she says, and he blinks innocently. “What are you doing?”

“Uh…” Following a Bible salesman? He beams and points at the rumpled brown paper bag. “Delivering groceries!”

Gaila seems unconvinced as she eyes the bag. Then, turning to address her customers (most of whom either look infuriated or are still giggling behind a change-room curtain), she calls out, “Did someone order groceries?” Tipping the bag open to peer inside, she lists, “Beer, chocolate milk, cereal, donuts… This is serious man-shopping, Jim. In case your teeny brain didn’t notice, we’re all female here, in a women’s lingerie shop.” She bats her eyelashes and pouts prettily to prove her point. Then Gaila drops her playful act and points at the door. “Get out of my store.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, grinning lopsidedly as he collects his bag. Pausing with his back pressed against the door, Jim looks around the shop while he has the chance. Noticing the glare of two women, one of whom who has a hand still pressed to her bosom, his grin widens. “Looking good, ladies!” Jim whistles and winks. Then he is out the door, scuttling out of reach of Gaila’s long manicured nails and her threat to “de-man” him.

He is still grinning once safely down the street, unconsciously walking to the library.

Gaila is a fiery woman, with a temper to match her hair color; she is also just plain gorgeous in Jim’s opinion. They dated once or twice, mostly for show because they both only wanted bed partners. The novelty of that relationship wore off not long after it began, and Gaila and Jim parted ways on good terms. When he feels lonely, he thinks about calling her; but Jim never does, knowing that the comfort would be short-lived and, somehow, he simply wants more than he used to.

Jim stops in front of the library and looks past its steps to the double doors. He stands there for a good number of minutes, tugging at his bottom lip and cradling his beer and donuts. Finally, since there is no good—sane—reason to continue loitering (that’s what Deputy Rand will charge him with, if the man is around), Jim winds his way back to his motorbike.

He can’t stop from wondering, however, exactly what Leonard McCoy thinks he will find in this small nobody’s town. Whatever that something is, Jim doubts it can pay for the motel.

Thinking of more questions than answers, Kirk resolutely tells himself to quit thinking altogether. He enjoys the wind in his hair instead, racing home.

“A strange thing happened today,” Jim’s mother says as she chops tomatoes for their salad.

Jim pauses in the task of smearing barbecue sauce on the ribs he plans to grill. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” answers Winona, distracted by a search for dressing in the refrigerator. Then she remembers what she was about to tell Jim. “You know that Bible salesman—the one you gave a lift to the Star Hotel?”

Jim works really hard not to squirm and say neutrally, “I think so.” Winona’s sidelong glance at him says he isn’t fooling her. He ducks his head and announces, “I think these are ready,” holding up the plate of ribs.

She motions him out the door. “Go get them started. The gossip can wait.”

He quips, “Food before gossip? What is this world coming to?”

They share a laugh, faces nearly identical in their mirth.

At the Kirk kitchen table in late afternoon, Jim attempts to clean barbeque sauce from his fingers and says, too casually, “So tell me…. about the salesman.”

“Oh!” Winona sips at her iced tea, then leans forward to explain. “Well, you probably know that he eats most meals at our diner.”

Jim says nothing of the “our” because he is long used to the slip. Winona’s grandmother owned The Diner decades ago but when she passed and left it to her son, Winona’s father sold the restaurant, saying he knew nothing of that kind of business and didn’t want to know, either. It’s no secret that Winona, who worked at The Diner into her teens, felt more than heartbroken. She had had a dream it might be hers one day. Winona confessed to Jim once that if she hadn’t met Jim’s father George, she might have attempted to buy the establishment back, laughing sadly “I would have named it something strong and smart, worth visiting, like… like, The Enterprise Diner. Imagine, Jimmy—your mother as an entrepreneur.” Instead, a young Winona fell in love and married. George Kirk went to war and she carried Jim until the news of George’s death, giving birth to her baby prematurely from the shock of the news. After that, raising little Jimmy became a priority. In the scheme of things, a dream ranks much lower than a son.

Jim determinedly draws his attention back to the conversation. His mother is saying: “He comes in like clockwork—at seven-thirty in the morning for two cups of coffee, at a quarter ‘til one—chicken salad on rye—and, for dinner, the special at eight o’clock, no matter what it is, even Hikaru’s meatloaf, which I swear is as hard as a rock!”

Jim nods in agreement. Hikaru Sulu is a decent cook, but strict with schedules. When it’s meatloaf day, The Diner cook makes meatloaf, despite that everyone in town avoids his meatloaf like the plague, yet would willingly pay an arm and a leg for Sulu’s famous beef stew.

“Of course we always have regulars, Jim, so that’s not what was strange. Today, Mr. McCoy didn’t show up for lunch.”

Jim’s stomach does a sudden flip. “You think he’s left town?”

“No, no,” his mother waves off the notion as though it is ridiculous. “What I mean is, he skipped lunch, and instead—” She hesitates like a great storyteller at the height of suspense; Jim encourages her, “C’mon, Mom!” to finish.

“—someone else showed up. Looking for McCoy.”

Jim blinks, taking a moment to comprehend the implications. “The law?” he asks, feeling unusually dry-mouthed. Jim has to swallow some water from his glass to ease the sensation.

Winona shakes her head. “No, not a policeman.” She stands up abruptly, saying, “Just a minute.” When Winona returns from the laundry room, her waitress’s apron in hand, she holds out a small business card for Jim to take.

He looks at it carefully and frowns. “How do you even pronounce—? Something, something Spock, Attorney at Law. A lawyer? Why’s a lawyer looking for McCoy?”

Winona collects her dishes. “I have no idea, Jimmy. Maybe he inherited a family fortune.”

Jim pictures McCoy—brown coat, brown hat, brown hair, good-looking (and, okay, so that doesn’t make his point)—trying to think of the man as anything other than nondescript, like a lordling in coattails holding a wine glass. The vision tickles him, actually.

His mother doesn’t understand his chuckle. She looks pointedly at his dinner plate, and Jim sighs, carrying his own dishes to the sink. After scraping the food into the disposal and rinsing them off for a run through the electric dishwasher, he leans against the kitchen counter, elbows propped and listens to his mother hum as she cleans. The sound of it never fails to bring up good memories of his childhood.

Shaking himself away from the past, Jim muses. “Are you suggesting McCoy didn’t show at the diner because he doesn’t want to be found by this Spock guy?”

Winona says, “Why else would he pass up our chicken salad on rye?”

Jim crosses his ankles and turns his head to stare out the kitchen window at the distant wheat fields. “So if he knows Spock is in town, he will lie low. Meaning, no dinner tonight at the diner.”

Winona towels her hands dry and faces him. “We have plenty of the ribs left. Some salad, too, and maybe corn on the cob?”

Jim smiles. “You’ve a heart of gold, Mom.”

She laughs and pulls him into a hug. “It must be genetic, then. I love you, Jimmy.”

He drops his head onto her shoulder, just briefly, and tightens his arms. “Love you too.”

Then she lets him go, amused at his silly grin, and begins to pull out Tupperware to pack a dinner for an undoubtedly hungry man named Leonard McCoy.

Jim is prepared to sweet-talk the elderly lady who runs the motel office. He finds a young man (can’t be older than sixteen, Jim decides) behind the counter instead.

“Hello?” Jim calls out, shifting his two bags of dinner. Winona Kirk doesn’t believe in economy, not when it comes to feeding people.

The guy beams broadly at Jim, face as innocent as a babe’s, and says, “Hello! Vould you like a wroom?”

Riverside isn’t exactly the backwoods of America but Jim hasn’t heard an authentic Russian accent since his days at Iowa State University (and those days were very brief).

He smiles carefully. “I’m sorry, I have a, uh, delivery for Mr. McCoy and I forgot his room number. I’m from The Diner,” Jim adds helpfully.

The boy nods vigorously, saying, “Yes, yes, I can help!” as he skims through the motel registry. “He’s in Room 26. That’s at the end.”

Jim says, “Hey, thanks” and reaches for the door but the office attendant has hurried around the counter to get the door for him. “Thanks again,” he remarks as he walks out of the office. When Jim glances over his shoulder, the guy still has the door ajar, watching Jim make his way to Room 26. Jim tries not to feel paranoid; the boy is simply curious, bored, or both.

Jim sets down one of his bags with care, then knocks on the door. When no one responds, Jim knocks again and hopes fervently that McCoy is in his room and Jim won’t be caught red-handed in a lie. Then the closed room curtains rustle just enough to give away someone’s presence inside. Jim raps more sharply on the door the third time around and says, “It’s Jim—Jim Kirk.” Then, for good measure, “Don’t make me pick the lock.”

He listens to the sound of a chain being drawn back. Then the door cracks open and Jim gets a good look at one of McCoy’s eyes—which is, again, a light brown. “You know how to pick locks?” asks the salesman.

Jim lifts his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. Then he holds up the plastic bag in his left hand. “I brought your dinner.”

“I didn’t order any food.”

Jim sighs exasperatedly. “No, but we didn’t think you’d be at the diner tonight.” He shakes the bag enticingly. “There are ribs in here.”

The door opens further, a hand snaking out, but Jim dances back with his prize. “Nope, you gotta let me in first.”

McCoy jerks the door completely open and glares at him. “Fine,” he snaps. “Come in, you overgrown baby.”

Jim grins in triumph, slides past McCoy and into the small motel room. He immediately begins to unpack the food, announcing each item as he does so. Finally finished laying out the meal, Jim turns around to find McCoy staring at him, face unreadable.

“What?” he asks, self-conscious. “You’re not allergic to blueberries, are you?”

“No,” the man says, shaking his head. “The cobbler sounds good. …My grandma used to make it all the time.” McCoy flinches after he says that and takes a step back, away from Jim.

Jim makes a show of tucking his hands into his pockets and tries not to do anything to alarm McCoy. “I guess,” he says, “I ought to go now. Enjoy the food. I’ll give your compliments to my mom.”

Jim’s hand is on the doorknob when McCoy says roughly, “Wait.”

He turns, a clear question in the line of his body and on his face.

McCoy lets out a deep sigh. “I can’t eat all that. Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

When Jim reaches for the dessert first, McCoy remarks dryly, “I doubt that’s how your mama imagines a man starting a meal.”

He laughs. “Oh, definitely not, but I’ve already had my fill of the rest. ‘Sides, her cobbler is fantastic.” He digs for another plastic spoon and offers it to McCoy with a hint of if you dare.

The man quirks his mouth and takes a big bite of the cobbler, closing his eyes and making an appreciative noise afterward. Jim has to look away, suddenly hot-faced, and distracts himself by removing the lids from the other Tupperware dishes.

They enjoy the food in silence for some minutes before Jim decides to pry. When he lays down his fork, McCoy does too. The salesman wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at Jim expectantly, one eyebrow lifted.

Jim pulls his hand out of his pocket and, with it, a card which he hands to McCoy.

The man glances at the card, then slowly stands up and walks to a small waste bin. Jim watches him rip it into pieces and let them float down to join the other trash.

“Are you in trouble?” Jim blurts out, his mouth suddenly betraying him.

The look Jim is given is half-amusement, half-surprise. “No, I doubt it,” Kirk is told.

“Then, why—?” Jim gestures at the waste bin.

McCoy cocks his head, studying Kirk. “You make it your business to know too much, kid. I could ask you the same: why?”

“Because my life is boring?” He makes it a question.

“Is that why you follow me around town, too?”

Jim opens his mouth but nothing smart comes out. He fights down a blush. “Sorry.”

Surprisingly, McCoy laughs. The laugh is deep, genuine, filled with a hint of a man Jim thinks he would like to know better. Then McCoy turns away abruptly, like he had forgotten where he was or how he was supposed to be feeling.

Jim hesitates for only a second before rising. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I get it—personal business and all that. I won’t ask, if you don’t want to talk about it.” He swallows, saying out of nowhere but meaning it, “I won’t tell this… Spock where you are. You have my word.”

A hand on Jim’s shoulder stops him from leaving.

McCoy is assessing Kirk, looking more tired than Jim has ever seen him. “Why would you do this for me, Jim?” the man wants to know.

He responds easily, “Why not?” With a wavering lift of his mouth, Jim lets himself out of Room 26 and heads for his mother’s truck parked next to the motel office. Jim is completely unsurprised to note the blond-haired Russian standing at the office window, staring unabashedly at Jim.

No doubt wondering why a delivery boy spends a half hour with a customer, Jim thinks.

He puts the truck into reverse and peels out of the Star Motel parking lot, all the while glancing back in the rearview mirror of the truck.

Jim stomps through the kitchen door, wondering how he managed to walk through a mud puddle when it hasn’t rained in days. “Hey, Mom, I guess I ought to tell you that he liked—” he begins to shout.

Winona appears at the kitchen door, saying low and fierce “Jim” and that shuts Kirk up like no other warning could. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides and looks into her face.

“What is it?”

She bites her lip and deliberately glances in the direction of the stairs.

Jim is past her in an instant, already trying to remember where he keeps his baseball bat. Except he doesn’t have time to pull it from the hall closet before someone comes down the staircase. Jim stills, staring up into the face of a man with sharp cheekbones, neatly cropped black hair, and the calm expression of somebody who knows where he is and what he is doing. It’s not the look of a criminal or a serial killer.

Jim swallows when the man descends the last steps and says, “Mr. Kirk, I presume?”

He drags in a breath to answer, voice short and suspicious, “Yes. Jim Kirk. What are you doing in my mother’s house?”

A finely shaped eyebrow rises. “I am renting a room from Ms. Kirk” is the answer.

Jim steps back, pivoting, only to find his mother right behind him.

“Jim,” Winona says, “this is Mr. Spock. He is in town for…”

“An indeterminate amount of time,” Mr. Spock replies smoothly.

“For a while,” finishes Jim’s mother. “On business. He’s a lawyer, Jim.”

Jim puts his back to Spock and hisses, “Why are we renting to him?”

His mother gives him a warning look. “You know I rent out the guest bedrooms to supplement my income.”

Yes, he knows that. The Kirk house has been an unexceptional bed-and-breakfast for years, since Jim was about ten and his mother told him they needed to the extra money to keep the farm. People in town will recommend their home to decent-looking folk who need a room for the night or the week and don’t like the look of the Star Motel.

What he doesn’t understand is why his mother would rent to Mr. Spock. Of course, by her expression, she doesn’t understand why he thinks she shouldn’t. Realizing she won’t budge, Jim makes one last appraisal of Mr. Spock and says, “Welcome. I hope you’ll find your stay… enjoyable.”

Then he goes back to the kitchen, not waiting for a reply (which he knows is rude), and pops the top off a beer he keeps in the back of the refrigerator.

Winona eyes the bottle in his hand and crosses her arms. “Don’t be angry, Jimmy.”

“I’m not. I’m just, shit, I don’t know what I am right now.”

“Don’t use that language, either.”

“So I should pretend I didn’t hear you cussing at the dryer last week?”

She answers primly, “Exactly.”

Jim dumps the rest of the beer down the sink drain then throws it away. “Mom, I don’t understand. What if—“ He trails off.

“What if what? Look, baby, we’re not doing anything wrong. Whatever business is between Mr. Spock and Mr. McCoy—well, we aren’t involved.” She touches his arm. “And we shouldn’t take sides.”

“I know.” He sighs.

His mother smiles. “Now what were you going to say earlier? Tell me, just don’t shout it.”

Jim scratches the back of his head. “The guy liked your cobbler,” he says, being purposefully vague.

Her eyes are smiling along with her mouth. “That’s good. Seems you enjoyed a second helping, too.”

He squirms. “How did you know?”

She pulls at his ear. “Your tongue, Jimmy. It’s blue.”

He groans and puts a hand over his eyes, hoping Mr. Spock wasn’t observant enough to pick that detail out. Then Jim straightens, rolls his shoulders, and grabs his jacket. “I’ll be right back.”

Winona is putting away the dishes in the dishwasher. “Jimmy, it’s dark. You know I don’t like the thought of you traveling so late.”

“I won’t be long,” he calls halfway out the door. “I just need to pick up some clothes.”

Then Winona is on the back steps, saying, “Whatever for?”

He pauses before pulling on a helmet. “If Spock’s staying here, so am I.”

She rolls her eyes but Jim knows she will be glad to have him in the house. Besides, Jim can’t think of a better way to protect his mother and keep an eye on Mr. Spock at the same time.

The ride to his small apartment seems short, hastened by an anxiety and an excitement that Jim can’t quite figure out. He tosses three days’ worth of clothes into an old camping backpack, grabs his work shoes, and is on the road again in fifteen minutes.

For the first time in a long, long while, Jim thinks his life is about to take a turn from “boring.” But exactly where it’s headed next, he has little clue.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Along Comes a Stranger (1/?) – from May 5, 2011
• [Masterpost] Riverside ‘verse – from April 19, 2012