Title: Along Comes a Stranger (3/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Pairing: Kirk/Spock/McCoy
Summary: AU. Jim’s life in Riverside is uncomplicated until two men, both equally mysterious and compelling, arrive in town, bringing with them the promise of change.
Previous Part: 1 | 2

Part Three

In early morning, Mr. Spock enters the kitchen of the Kirk farm and announces “I slept well” like Jim had bothered to ask.

Jim hadn’t asked because Jim’s best intention is to keep stuffing scrambled eggs into his mouth so he doesn’t get into trouble by speaking his mind.

Winona Kirk, standing in front of the stove flipping bacon in a skillet, turns to smile good-naturedly at her house guest. “Would you like some breakfast, Mr. Spock?”

“Tea would be pleasant, Ms. Kirk.”

Jim mumbles “Tea for breakfast?” while still chewing.

“Jim,” his mother comments though she isn’t looking at him, “swallow your food first, then talk.”

He tries to downplay the chastening (geez, he’s an adult!) but such a feat proves difficult, especially with Spock, in a perfectly pressed suit, staring on as Jim blushes like a school boy. The lawyer blinks once as whatever interesting quality Jim might have momentarily had passes.

Jim wants to shake loose from the feeling of Spock’s eyes on him, so he proclaims loudly, “Time to go! Thanks for the eggs, Mom.”

Jim takes his plate to the sink, kisses his mother on the cheek, and collects his jacket and change of clothes for work. Pausing at the kitchen door, he turns toward the pair of people, remarking, “You know where I’ll be”—though it’s more of a warning that he knows where Spock will be and not to try anything funny in Jim’s absence. Nodding to the now-seated lawyer (who looks quite foreign in a country kitchen), Jim says politely but pointedly, “Mr. Spock.”

“Mr. Kirk,” is the lawyer’s prompt reply, complete with an incline of the head, “may you arrive at your place of work safely.”

As Jim revs the engine of his bike, he wonders if Spock even knows how out-of-place a fancy lawyer is in Riverside, Iowa. Here, the best lawyer is also the manager of the town’s only casino. That man, one Mr. Harcourt Mudd, is slick-haired, loves gold rings, and only wears a jacket (but no tie) if he goes to the courthouse. Even then Mudd is liable to be accenting a track suit with his jacket, certainly nothing more decorous.

No, not many folks in Riverside are from old (or new) money—and if they are, they only flaunt it a little, maybe through the kind of car they drive or in the small details, like owning a silk pocket handkerchief instead of a cotton one. Spock, however, is both visually elite (in the properly straight line of his back and the lack of dirt beneath his fingernails—Jim noticed that first) and elite in personality and behavior, too: reserved countenance; erudite speech; and in the way Spock pays for a meal or cab ride—never once glancing at the bill pulled from his wallet and never asking for change.

Plain men like Jim always have to count their cash and save their spare quarters in a jar for pipe-dreams.

Thinking of Spock makes Jim wonder for the umpteenth time, bereft of any answers: How is threadbare McCoy connected to an obviously successful man like Mr. Spock?

“Long lunch?” calls Jim’s boss over the drone of music from an old radio.

Jim unbuttons and removes his shirt, exposing a dingy white tee beneath, and steps into his mechanic’s overalls. Once he is properly attired, he investigates what Jose is up to, finding the older man waist deep in engine parts. “Hey, you need some help?”

“You didn’t answer my question, chico.” Jose can be like a dog with a bone sometimes, hard to shake loose from a particularly obnoxious question.

Jim shrugs casually.

Jose hands Jim a rag and a small valve to polish. Then Jose repeats, like Jim expects, “So… long lunch.”

“Man, why aren’t you a cop or something?” Jim props his hip against a work table and cleans the dirt from the corners of the valve, resigned to an interrogation.

Jose says, “When you don’t come in on time, I worry, comprende?”

“Bullshit!” Jim almost laughs. “You like to live vicariously, don’t deny it.” He follows the words closely with a put-upon sigh, and Jose snorts. Jim decides to save his boss from having to ask a third time. “I had lunch with a friend.”

“Not at your mother’s diner,” Jose adds matter-of-factly.

Jim is startled. “How did you know?”

“Because,” explains the dark-haired man, using his socket wrench like a pointer, “the diner is left from our parking lot. You went right.”

“I was at the Star.”

Jose rolls his eyes, clearly convinced of why Jim would be at a motel during lunch hour. “Dios. Was she pretty, at least?” Then he looks at Jim appraisingly. “The redhead, si?”

“No,” Jim corrects hastily. (And why did his voice just squeak? He’s not fourteen and Jose is not his father.) Realizing what his boss must be thinking, Jim begins, “C’mon, Jose, do you really—?” At the man’s smirk, Jim folds his arms defensively, forgetting about the dirty rag in his hand. “I was with a guy, all right?”

Now Jose shrugs and says almost piously, “I do not judge.”

Jim doesn’t deny that he bats for no team in particular, so to speak, but he does defend his honor—and McCoy’s. “It was the, um, salesman.”

Jose blinks. “Salesman.”

“Jesus, Jose, you do realize this garage is in a city in state in a country on a continent of planet Earth? There’s a whole world outside, and lots of people—like salesmen—out there, too.”

Jose’s look says he gets Jim’s point—and Jim had better shut up fast. “Who is the salesman?”

Jim’s boss drops all pretenses of being more interested in work than gossip. Jim supposes even the stoutest of men can sometimes be akin to a bored housewife at the dinner party.

“Well,” Jim begins, settling into a comfortable slouch and a story, “his name is Leonard McCoy, from Georgia—“ Jim drawls this for effect like McCoy would. “—and he sells Bibles. I mean, I think he does.” Jim had snuck a peek into that ancient briefcase and found it still packed with product.

Is McCoy pretending to be a Bibles salesman—and if so, why?

It can’t be that the man doesn’t know his scripture. Just two hours ago, McCoy had taken a long look at Jim upon opening his motel door to find Kirk grinning on the other side and said, “As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly.” Jim, of course, had balked with “No way, you just made that shit up!” The man simply replied, “Proverbs 26:11—new international version. Go educate yourself.”

Jim now resolutely believes Riverside’s good reverend is keeping the wrong (less interesting) biblical edition in the church pews.

He hadn’t been able to convince McCoy to leave Room 26 but, luckily, Jim had come prepared with fast food. They had one burger with fries apiece, Leonard washing down the food with something that smelled alcoholic while Jim drank tap water.

Neither McCoy nor Jim is any closer to figuring out why they seem drawn to each other. (Though, Jim admits that he could be wrong and the feeling isn’t mutual.) He doesn’t ask, and McCoy doesn’t say whether or not he appreciates Jim’s company. But Jim did discover something of importance today, and he is flying kind of high in the aftermath.

He found the perfect nickname for Leonard McCoy.

“Yo, Jim!”

Kirk jerks his head up, surprised that his thoughts had drifted so thoroughly off-track. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “What was I saying?”

“The Bible salesman who doesn’t sell Bibles.”

Jim blinks. “Er, that about summarizes him.”

Jose shakes his head, his mutter so low that Jim can’t quite make out the words. They are, without a doubt, uncomplimentary.

When Jose is done swearing in a mixture of Spanish and a language that might be Portuguese, Jose shakes his wrench at Jim, a telltale sign of an impending lecture. Jim inwardly cringes.

“I know Jim Kirk,” Jose begins solemnly, “and Jim Kirk is not a God-fearing man. What you said about this McCoy—it tells me nothing of why he interests you.” Jose’s English is as flawless as his Spanish. It should be; the man grew up in Cincinnati before moving to Riverside to care for an ailing aunt. (“The only true love I left back home—the Cincinnati Reds, my friend,” Jose once remarked to Jim as they listened to a radio broadcast of a local baseball game.) “I think that whatever does interest you may lead you into a bad situation, Jim.”

“I don’t know what it is about him, Jose,” Jim says softly, thinking. “There’s… not anything in particular. Bones is just a guy down on his luck.” He smiles ruefully. “You know us Kirks—bleeding hearts.” He meant to say that sarcastically but mostly it’s true and they both know it.

Jose eyes him and repeats, “Bones?”

Jim grins, unrepentant, his euphoric feeling returning. “McCoy’s new name. How do you like it?”

“Probably as much as your McCoy does. Though it’s better than Mr. Nibbles,” Jose says, sighing and scratching the side of his nose.

Jim instantly glances about. The stray tuxedo cat likes to hang out in the alley behind Jose’s Auto Repair Shop. Unbeknownst to Jose, Jim keeps cans of Fancy Feast hidden in an old toolbox to feed Mr. Nibbles. This, Jim knows, is probably why Mr. Nibbles continues to show up; fairly regular meals and Jim’s predilection for cuddling cute kitties makes for a decent life for an alley cat.

Jose’s “I said no, Jim. No cats in my garage!” is a dream-killer.

Jim wonders if Sulu likes cats. Or Bones. Yeah, Bones because the man is obviously lacking in good company (barring Jim of course).

Jim congratulates himself on another winner of a nickname. Granted, he doesn’t know how McCoy feels about “Bones” because Jim has only called him that once—after their somewhat conversationally stilted lunch, a talk which mainly consisted of McCoy’s monosyllabic answers to Jim’s curious questions. Until, that is, Jim asked if McCoy had a single outfit, seeing the same clothes on the man again, and McCoy had laughed too bitterly and retorted, “I’m piss-poor, kid. Got nothing left but my bones.”

If Bones is that poor, then he certainly can’t refuse a little help from Jim. Maybe tonight or tomorrow night, Jim decides, he can coax the salesman out of his hidey hole and on a small adventure. Jim has dealt with stubborn people before, and Winona says Kirk stubbornness can trump regular, old stubbornness any day. (Of course she pointed out that she was a Kirk by marriage and not liable for Jim’s eccentricities.) He believes without a doubt that Bones will cave after an hour of wheedling.

Jim always stops by The Diner, if not for food then for company. It’s practically his second home.

Uhura pushes aside Jim’s half-eaten tuna melt and leans across the counter on her elbows, smiling. Jim leans in, too, with a grin that means he is fully prepared to play her game. She wrinkles her nose, not appreciative of his tuna-breath, and offers him a mint. He pops it in his mouth with a salute than makes her bat at his head.

The Diner is quiet business-wise in the late afternoon. Its typical background noises prove soothing to a man in need of peace: the low hum of the ice machine; the scrape of utensils against dishes and clink of glasses; muffled sounds of Sulu in the kitchen.

Uhura’s “How’s McCoy?” wipes the grin right from Jim’s face. He immediately hisses “Shh!” and looks purposefully over his shoulder at a booth occupied by Mr. Spock. The lawyer is surrounded by papers, his expressionless face giving nothing away as he organizes them into stacks, pausing once and a while to peruse a highlighted note or a handwritten comment.

A strange, twisty feeling returns to Jim’s gut as he studies Spock’s profile.

“Jim!” Uhura snaps his name like she has said it several times already.

He looks sheepish before sobering. “You can’t talk about McCoy here,” Jim whispers.

She tips her head at Spock. “I’ve seen him in town, snooping.”

Jim pictures a tall, impeccably dressed man at a street corner, observing everyone and everything with calm, dark eyes. Jim shudders and swallows a mouthful of coffee, then shudders again at the unpleasant coldness of the coffee.

Uhura refills his mug without a word, turning the mug’s handle toward Jim. They both study the steam rising into the air for a second; Uhura’s face is speculative, Jim’s pensive.

“You’re really into the guy, aren’t you, Jim?” she asks softly.

He shakes his head, a quick denial. “No—no way. I don’t know him.”

“Then why do you care?” Jim sounds like more of a mystery to Uhura than the stranger Leonard McCoy.

“Bo—” Jim coughs, covering up his slip. “He’s got a good reason to hide,” Jim says. At the waitress’s knowing look, Jim defensively adds, “And he’ll tell me why, I know he will.”

“Sure, Jim, but don’t hold your breath, okay?” she advises.

Then a customer interrupts their heart-to-heart by approaching the cash register and Uhura sighs, returning to work and leaving Jim to contemplate if it’s possible that he might attracted to McCoy for reasons other than being nosy.

Two nights later, Jim wheedles as planned and McCoy breaks down just inside of a ten-minute onslaught of Kirk puppy-dog eyes. McCoy repeats more than once that he is only participating in Jim’s proposed plan of action because Jim has caught him at his weakest moment of mental fortitude—utter boredom.

Jim ignores McCoy’s complaints about the motorcycle helmet aggravating his claustrophobia.

“Whatever, Bones,” Jim tells the man who is obstinately attempting to get comfortable behind Jim on the bike (which, in Jim’s opinion, is impossible to accomplish). “You’re just mad that you’re wearing the helmet and I’m not.”

“Sometimes I think your brain is already mush, kid—“ is McCoy’s retort. An elbow jabs into Jim’s side as the man latches onto Jim’s jacket, undoubtedly feeling unbalanced. “—which means you cracking your unprotected head on the asphalt couldn’t damage it any worse. But my brain is in good shape, and I want to keep it that way!”

“You are always this bitchy?”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m being a nice guy. You haven’t seen daylight in almost four days—” Jim cuts his eyes at McCoy. “—which is bad unless you’re a vampire and sunlight is evil.” Jim adds sweetly, enough to irritate McCoy, “So if you’re a vamp, could you please refrain from biting my neck while I drive?”

He feels McCoy seething through the leather of his jacket. Jim laughs, loud and pleased, and starts the bike. McCoy’s grip tightens until Jim thinks the man might be trying to suffocate him via hug.

The ride is short by Jim’s standards but apparently long and deadly by Leonard McCoy’s.

McCoy slides off the bike after Jim, saying in a slightly breathless voice, “We didn’t crash.”

Jim’s sidelong glance is amused. “We might have if you had kept leaning the other way around that curve.”

McCoy’s face flushes. “Damned unnatural” and “laws of physics, my ass” the man mutters as he follows Jim into the consignment shop.

Jim nods to the shop-owner and heads directly for the racks of the men’s clothing. He is skimming over the sizes, trying to decide what might fit McCoy best when a low and hissed “Jim!” catches his attention.

Jim turns and blinks. “What, Bones?”

McCoy hesitates but lets the nickname slide. “The sign on the door says this place is closed.”

Jim blinks again and purposefully looks around. “Lights are on, door is unlocked, and—oh look—there’s Mrs. Giotto. Hi, Mrs. Giotto!” He waves enthusiastically at the woman.

McCoy looks like he wants to sink into the floor when the woman beams and waves back. Jim turns to the rack next to him and grabs a shirt, holding it up. “What about this one?”

“No.”

He presents another shirt.

“No.”

After rolling his eyes at the vehement rejection, Jim spies a winner. He grabs it and holds it against McCoy’s chest, eyes twinkling. “This one, definitely, Bones.”

The look on McCoy’s face is priceless. “I’m not a flamingo, Jim.”

“Really?” Jim rocks back on his heels in mock surprise. “I thought you had come all the way from the glades of Florida…”

“Georgia.”

“…for the winter.”

“It’s summer, and flamingos don’t migrate to Iowa.”

“Oh Bones, you know so much!”

“Up yours.”

Bones is the mouthiest Bible salesman Jim has ever met.

They continue their banter while they look for McCoy’s new wardrobe until Jim is certain McCoy has forgotten about the mystery of Mrs. Giotto’s shop being open past normal closing hours. He likes Mrs. Giotto—was good friends with her son in high school (then Sammy went to college and stayed, and Jim didn’t)—and he loves her giving nature. She had easily agreed to Jim’s idea, patting him on the shoulder and saying, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Jim figures scripting quoting is a bonus—something Mrs. Giotto and McCoy have in common.

An hour passes by quickly and when Jim and McCoy make their way to the front of the shop, Jim has an armful of clothes with a pair of shoes balanced precariously on top. He dumps everything into a big black trash bag that Mrs. Giotto is patiently holding open.

Jim glances at McCoy, sees the man searching his pockets, and shakes his head. “No, Bones.”

“I won’t accept money,” adds Mrs. Giotto meaningfully when McCoy looks at them, taken aback. She pushes the bag into Jim’s chest and he automatically wraps his arms around it and waddles toward the door—or where he thinks the door might be. The bag is blocking a majority of his view.

Kirk hears Mrs. Giotto behind him.

“Jim tells me your name is Leonard McCoy.” Jim catches her silent rebuke that he failed to introduce them properly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My, aren’t you handsome?”

Jim cackles into the plastic of the trash bag. Mrs. Giotto is sweet but devious—and the town matchmaker. Jim can almost hear the gears in her head turning at the prospect of a fresh sacrifice to the deity of love.

“Welcome to Riverside, Leonard. Oh, I can call you Leonard, can’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s fine.” McCoy clears his throat. “Ma’am, I appreciate your kindness but, uh, I can’t accept—“

“Oh look, Jimmy’s at the door. Won’t you get it for him, Mr. McCoy? There’s a dear.”

Jim whines for good measure, “Bones, c’mon.”

The door almost whaps Jim in the face when McCoy jerks it open. Luckily, the blow is deflected by the bag of clothes; Jim pouts at McCoy nonetheless. Once out of Mrs. Giotto’s shop, Bones seems disinclined to help Jim maneuver down the sidewalk. In fact, if Jim didn’t know better, his new friend might be pissed.

Okay. Bones is very much pissed. But Jim has never claimed to be a saint, and he has a secret love of being sneaky. Bones will get over it, and Jim won’t have to see the same shirt three days in a row.

Setting down the bag on the seat of his bike, Jim looks dismayed.

Next to him, McCoy’s bitchiness has found its voice again. “So how do we get home, genius?”

“We’ll put it between us.”

“Hell no! There’s no room! I’ll fall off.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re an idiot!”

Jim turns and snaps, “Do you want to sit upfront then?”

“I can’t drive a motorcycle.” McCoy looks pale at the thought.

Jim’s anger is gone as quickly as it surfaced. “It’s okay. We’ll be fine, Bones.” He gives the bag to McCoy and climbs onto the bike. “You may need to iron the clothes when you get home but I promise… we can do it. Trust me?”

McCoy settling in behind him with the press of the bag between them is answer enough.

They make it back to the Star Motel without incident. Jim feels rather proud of his careful driving and slow-taking of the turns in the road. McCoy, on the other hand, goes straight for his flask of whiskey once safely on two feet again. Jim is left behind to tug the bag of clothes into the motel room and shut the door.

“Bones?”

McCoy is limp on the bed, an arm over his eyes. “What, Jim?” comes the ragged words. “For God’s sake, what now?”

Trying not to feel hurt, Jim occupies himself with sorting through the shirts and pants, folding them and wincing at their numerous wrinkles. Jim accidentally bumps his elbow when he searches through the tiny motel closet for an iron. At Jim’s half-hiss, half-whimper, McCoy rolls off the bed and to his feet, asking, “Shit, kid, what did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing,” he grits out, lowering his arm to his side. “Just knocked my funny bone.”

“Oh,” says McCoy, “okay.”

They stare at each other for a solid minute. Jim swallows, caught by McCoy’s eyes, and his mouth apparently detaches from his brain and confesses, “Mr. Spock’s staying at my farm.”

That couldn’t have come out worse unless he had said “I’m in cahoots with the devil and his name is Spock.”

Jim jumps in before McCoy can say anything and attempts to save what little camaraderie they have. “I mean, he’s renting a room from my mom but that has nothing to do with you, I swear.”

McCoy’s eyes have darkened, which Jim finds unsettling. “Spock being in Riverside has everything to do with me.”

“He doesn’t know where you are.”

“Doesn’t he?” asks McCoy in an odd voice.

Jim isn’t meant to answer that; he couldn’t if he was supposed to. Instead he apologizes. “I’m sorry, Bones.”

McCoy turns away, saying, “Doesn’t matter.” Then after a pause, he adds softly, “Thank you for telling me.”

Jim shifts uncomfortably, not knowing what he should do. His mouth hasn’t reattached itself to his brain yet, unfortunately. “Will you leave?”

McCoy’s reply isn’t informative at all. “I don’t know.”

“What can I do to help?”

The man makes an aborted gesture. “You’ve done plenty, Jim. I don’t know why but you have.”

“Love thy neighbor,” Jim quotes badly.

McCoy’s mouth quirks and he raises an eyebrow. The tension breaks. McCoy walks over to the table and drops a hand onto a stack of shirts. “It’s late, Jim. You should go.”

Jim has always been the type to buck against an order, implied or outright. He crosses his arms and argues, “What about Spock?”

McCoy frowns at him. “Spock isn’t your problem.”

“He’s in my mother’s house. I’d say that kind of makes it my problem, too, Bones.”

“Jim,” McCoy says and Jim can hear a hint of humor in his voice, “Spock isn’t a whacko. He’ll leave eventually and your mother will be fine—except for missing the generous rent money, I expect.”

Jim stares. “Are you saying you know him?”

McCoy’s face smoothes out. “That’s not your business.”

“Bones! Fuck. Seriously? You show up saying you sell Bibles—which, by the way, you don’t sell at all—and then this rich lawyer shows up, too, looking for you but without telling anybody why—“

“Jim.”

Jim isn’t feeling the need to be fair right now. “—and you don’t want to be found. Which kind of makes people think you’re crazy or dangerous or both, Bones, did you realize that? All I get from you—me, the guy who brings you food and takes you shopping—“

“I didn’t ask for your help, Jim! I just want to be alone!”

“—is a big, fat ‘It’s none of your God-damned business!’” Jim finishes grandly, certain his body must be vibrating as intensely as his voice.

McCoy’s mouth presses into a thin line but he isn’t yelling back anymore. “What do you want from me?”

“I want a reason to trust you,” Jim says.

At McCoy’s silence, Jim realizes that he just crossed a line that he can’t backpedal over. He also realizes that McCoy is either going to follow him over that line or leave him alone on the other side—and effectively end whatever relationship they might have before it begins.

McCoy chooses. He offers to Jim, albeit tiredly: “Spock is my lawyer.”

Winona would say Jim could catch flies with his mouth hanging open like it is now. “What?”

McCoy shrugs as if to say I told you an explanation would be pointless.

Jim shakes his head slowly, his brain trying in vain to connect tiny, tiny dots. “You’re being stalked by your own lawyer? Whoa.”

McCoy looks like he can’t decide between making fun of Jim’s slapped look or bitching about the fact that he is being stalked by Spock.

Jim settles onto the edge of the bed and folds his legs Indian-style. “Tell me,” he commands.

McCoy makes a gesture somewhere between I can’t and what is there to say? “Jim…”

Jim isn’t afraid to ask. “So you hired Mr. Spock… why?”

McCoy’s Adam’s apple bobs. When the man faces away, only to stare at his reflection in the dresser mirror, McCoy curses and closes his eyes.

Jim waits patiently, knowing that waiting is all he needs to do.

Finally McCoy lifts a hand, running his fingers through his hair, and opens his eyes again. Once he is facing Jim, he holds out that same hand. They both inspect it, Jim seeing nothing unusual. McCoy sighs softly, barely a whisper of air, and says, “I hired him for my divorce, at first.”

Jim bites his bottom lip, hating the look in McCoy’s eyes—it’s pained, almost despairing.

“My wife—ex-wife—wanted everything, Jim. Which would have been fine,” McCoy clarifies, bitter, “except there was Jo to consider.”

“Jo?” Jim’s heart pounds suddenly because McCoy says the name in a gentle, almost reverent voice.

“Joanna.” McCoy’s eyes are more green than brown now. “My daughter, Jim. My baby girl.”

Jim says nothing as McCoy sags next to him on the bed; Jim looks away, too, to give the man time to collect himself—and wipe his eyes.

“How old is she?”

“Six. She just turned six.”

Too young to be away from her father, Jim thinks. He wonders what kind of woman would not let a decent man like McCoy near his own kid. The thought of Joanna—like a young Jimmy—sitting by a window, only to waste a wish on a shooting star for a visit from her father makes him miserable and a little angry. Jim slides off the bed, startling McCoy.

“That’s not right.” Jim wants to say more but finds that he cannot without compromising a deeply personal issue of his own.

McCoy regains his voice. “What?”

Jim drops the motel curtains back into place from where he had lifted them in an unexplicable need to see the night sky. “Your child is only six years old, Bones. How can it be fair to Joanna to deny her one of her parents? It’s not like you’re a crappy father.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need evidence of something that’s obvious. You wouldn’t be this heartbroken if you didn’t care about her.”

McCoy shakes his head. “There’s a lot more to parenting than loving somebody, Jim. I—I made some mistakes. I hurt my wife.”

“And she hurt you back,” Jim finishes. “Did you cheat on her?”

McCoy reddens but says, “No, I didn’t cheat on her. I also didn’t try very hard to fix the problems in our marriage. We just, we weren’t going to work,” he concludes, sounding like he has said that many times before.

“So Mr. Spock,” Jim tentatively asks, trying to steer the conversation away from a potentially devastating emotional minefield, “is here to collect his fees?”

McCoy’s bark of laughter is like a gunshot shattering silence. “Hardly. He’s been paid, Jim. A lawyer always gets paid, no matter the outcome for his client.” After a brief pause, McCoy confesses quietly, “We lost the custody case.” McCoy’s shoulders slump in defeat.

Jim wants to comfort the man, he really does. McCoy won’t want comfort, though, or pity. Instead, Kirk rubs a hand against the back of his neck and stares at an oil spot on his left tennis shoe.

“It makes no sense,” he says without warning.

McCoy doesn’t reply, doesn’t do anything but look like a man in mourning.

Jim tries again, a hint of fierceness coloring his words. “Bones, it makes no sense. Why would your divorce lawyer be here if it wasn’t important? I gotta tell you, man, Spock doesn’t seem the type to track you to Iowa just to say how sorry he is.”

The man snorts, some life returning to his eyes. “Spock’s an idiot. He doesn’t know when to quit. We didn’t win, and he won’t let it go.”

“And you have?”

McCoy jerks to his feet, looking like he wants to punch Jim. “Don’t dare judge me like that, kid. I fought, damn you. I fought for her.”

The words come rushing out before Jim can stop them. “Maybe you should have fought harder.” He blanches upon hearing himself, salvaging nothing with a regret-filled “Bones.”

He learns that Leonard McCoy has a temper. “Get out” is low and seething, said between clenched teeth. McCoy’s hard grip bites into Jim’s upper arm as he drags Jim to the door, wrenching it open, and shoves Jim outside. “Leave me alone,” the man tells Kirk, meaning it. The door is slammed shut.

Jim waits for a moment, listening to the rattle of the security chain being slid into place. Then he backs away from Room 26, wishing not for the first time that he had sense enough to think before he speaks.

It’s close to midnight when Jim tiptoes into the farmhouse. With a nearly inaudible sigh, he sheds his jacket and hangs it by the kitchen door, then removes his boots to carry upstairs, intent on not waking his mother. He is twenty-five years old and he feels like he is sneaking in past curfew. For Jim, the irony is almost hysterical.

Jim stops cold in hallway as someone calls softly, “Mr. Kirk.”

Looking up, he finds Mr. Spock silhouetted in a soft light at the top of the stairs. For a moment, Jim’s voice abandons him; but when Spock descends the stairs quietly, his brain restarts and Jim backs up until he is in the middle of the downstairs living room.

Like a ghost Spock follows him, his shadow stretching across the floor until Spock steps from the dark hallway and into the archway of the living room. Jim hastily flips on a lamp, needing to give Spock more of a solid presence.

“What?” he says, then feels immeasurably stupid as Spock simply pins him with a stare.

“Mr. Kirk,” the lawyer repeats, and Jim finds himself interrupting without meaning to.

“Jim. Not Mr. Kirk.”

Spock locks his hands behind his back, and Jim is glad he had the chance to see that they were empty before they were tucked out of sight.

“Jim,” begins Spock. “Was your evening a success?”

What? Jim almost echoes the word but manages not to. “Does it matter to you?” he asks instead.

“Yes, when Mr. Leonard McCoy is involved.”

Jim’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t—“

The lawyer raises a hand to forestall a lie. “I know of your acquaintance with Mr. McCoy. Mr. Rand, a deputy of the Sheriff’s department, I believe, informed me that you two were—“ Something flickers through Spock’s eyes and then is gone like a flame being tamped out. “—acquaintances. I must admit, I was surprised to learn that Leonard has a connection to Riverside, Iowa.”

Oh but how lies always come back to bite Jim in the ass.

Jim says nothing so Spock continues. “It has been my impression over the last month that Mr. McCoy’s trek across the states is spontaneous and unpatterned.” He considers Jim. “Perhaps I was mistaken.” Spock’s tone indicates that he doesn’t really believe this and that he is even less inclined to believe that Jim and McCoy are old buddies.

Jim slips his hands into his jean pockets. “I’ll ask again, Mr. Spock: Does it matter?”

Spock’s silence has an eerie quality.

Jim is determined to regain ground. “How I spend my time—or who I spend my time with—is really none of your business.” That’s ironic, too, that he is tossing McCoy’s words into Spock’s face.

“I find myself in a quandary, Mr. Kirk,” Spock says (and Jim almost winces that they are back to formalities). “I cannot approach Mr. McCoy without inciting McCoy’s need to flee; nor can I leave Riverside until I have spoken with him. I require your assistance, Mr. Kirk, if I am to make progress.”

“Why?” he asks, wanting to understand Spock’s reasoning as much as McCoy’s reactions.

At Spock’s measured stare, Jim has a feeling he is being weighed, judged—and approved of. The lawyer explains calmly, “Leonard and I are involved in a personal matter which remains unresolved. It is my duty as a… colleague and friend to help him.”

Spock hesitates over “colleague” but not “friend.” Jim’s curiosity reaches an entirely unprecedented level.

He decides to promise what he can because he wants to help McCoy, too; his promise is also somewhat conditional—an unspoken condition Jim has no doubt Spock comprehends—because Jim is not completely convinced of Spock’s candor.

He tells the guy, “I agree that McCoy needs help. If I think you can help him, then I’ll help you.”

Spock nods curtly like he expected no less of Jim. “Then we are of an accord, Mr. Kirk” is the man’s cool remark, and Spock merges back into the shadows of the hallway as silently as he had appeared from them.

Jim sits, spent, in a nearby chair for a long while, needing the time to recover—and to plan.

I know this story is slightly off-the-wall. I hope y’all are enjoying it! I do foresee drama, and not solely when Spock and McCoy square-off.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• Along Comes a Stranger (28/28) – from July 10, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (27/28) – from July 9, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (26/28) – from July 5, 2011
• Chapter of Doom – from July 4, 2011
• Along Comes a Stranger (25/28) – from June 30, 2011

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