Title: Along Comes a Stranger (10/?)
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 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Part Nine went up yesterday. Please read it first if you have not!

Part Ten

Jim boggles at Spock. “How do you keep doing that?!” He stares at the row of perfect strikes on the overhead scoreboard, wondering if the computer is boggling over Spock’s ability too. Kirk tells the man seriously, “You should bowl professionally.”

“I am content with my current profession,” Spock replies as he resumes his seat in one of the plastic chairs.

Jim is certain he has no chance at winning this game. Nevertheless, he hoists up his bowling ball and tosses it down the lane, not bothering to watch if it rolls into the gutter or strikes down a few pins.

Spock wants to know, “Are you tired?”

“I’m depressed,” Kirk moans in despair. “Your superior skills depress me, Spock.” He peeks from under his lashes at the other man to make sure Spock isn’t taking him seriously.

The lawyer merely responds, face calm, “Bowling is a science. If I maintain the correct balance of weight while I aim and throw the ball and also apply a substantial force during the toss, the ball eliminates all the pins at the end of the lane. Is this not the purpose of the game?”

“Yes…” Jim says slowly, “but nobody gets all those things perfectly each time. It’s human nature to err, if only by a margin.” He eyes Spock. “Are you certain you aren’t, like, a terminator or something?”

“What is a terminator?”

Jim makes a noise of disbelief. His list of ‘things to teach or show Spock’ now has its tenth item. They might need a movie week at this rate. It’s amazing how smart and worldly Spock is, yet how he sadly lacks knowledge in pop culture.

“Never mind,” Kirk tells his bowling partner. “I’m going to get a beer. You want a beer?”

“No, thank you.”

Jim shrugs and trots over to the café area of the bowling alley. When he returns with a mostly full bottle of beer in hand, Spock is seated perfectly still. Yet Jim gets the impression that were the man anyone else, he would be fidgeting.

Spock does not look at Jim when he speaks. “If you wish, I can show you how to improve your score.”

Jim sets aside the bottle and trails his fingers along the smooth surfaces of the bowling balls on the top rack. He tries to make his “Okay” as nonchalant as possible.
Jim finds the bowling ball he has been using and slips his fingers into the three finger holes. He hesitates a moment before taking up his usual beginning position.

Is it normal to be so hyperaware of Spock standing behind him? It’s definitely not normal to shiver when those fingers (elegantly long fingers, Jim notes, the kind a musician might have) adjust the angle of his arm.

Then Spock slowly circles to face Jim and says, “Walk forward.”

Jim wets his bottom lip. “You’re, ah, blocking me.”

“Walk forward,” Spock repeats.

Jim does. Spock walks backward at the same time. Spock’s eyes are not on Jim’s but rather watching Kirk’s hips, his legs. Jim realizes that Spock is analyzing the way he moves, and Jim halts, embarrassed.

“You need to allow more of your weight to settle on your right foot when you step forward to release the ball.”

“What else?” Jim asks.

Spock shifts, reaches out, and slides his hand along Jim’s forearm. His fingers linger on the inside of Jim’s wrist. The touch isn’t meant to be intimate but Jim feels warm anyway.

“Do not bend your wrist,” advises Mr. Spock. He steps to the side, out of the way.

Jim resumes the starting position again, jokes “If I strike out, I’ll buy your dinner” and bowls. His fingers don’t seem as reluctant as before to slide out the holes and the ball hits the lane with barely a thud. The aim is not dead-center but the momentum is great. The ball knocks down over half of the pins. Maybe Spock knows what he’s talking about, amateur bowler or not.

He turns. “I’ll buy dinner anyway.”

“Shall we finish this game?”

“Let’s not,” Jim says cheerfully. “We both know you won.”

He tosses his newly opened beer in the closest trash can and they turn in their shoes. The guy behind the front counter congratulates Spock on his lucky strikes.

Spock replies, “I have more faith in talent than luck, Sir.”

Jim grins. “Then lucky for you, Spock—you’re talented!”

Spock does not laugh but somehow Jim can tell he is amused.

Dinner is less adventurous. Jim avoids the nearby steakhouse, bypasses Rick’s since the club satisfies most male appetites except the eating kind, and he winds up pulling the truck into a shopping center parking lot. Spock raises his eyebrow but does not comment. Jim merely says “Trust me” and climbs out of the cab.

Tucked between a laundromat and an independent grocery store is a small space for a business. There is no name, only a small, half-broken sign that flashes Open in the corner. Its windows are tinted for privacy.

Jim does not hesitate to enter the establishment, and Spock follows.

The restaurant is gorgeously decorated on the inside with an heavy Asian influence: gold tablecloths, tapestries lining the walls, palm foliage—reds, greens, and browns. The main room is packed with people. Jim smells the faint scent of incense—something sleepy, like sandalwood.

They stand just inside the entrance until one of the waiters has a second to spare. Jim greets the young man. “Table for two, please.”

“Reservation?”

“No.”

The man frowns at the open notebook resting on a short podium. “We might not have an available table—I’m sorry.”

Jim laughs, which startles the waiter. “You’ve always got room for me.” He holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Jim Kirk and this is Mr. Spock. Can you tell Gary we’re here?”

The man looks dubious. “Sir…”

“Just let him know, or—“ Jim pretends to consider the next option. “—I can find him in the kitchen myself.”

“No! Wait here, please.”

Jim winks over his shoulder at Spock who says, “I take it you are well-acquainted with the owner.”

Jim simply smiles. The waiter hurries back to them. “Mr. Mitchell sends his regards, Mr. Kirk. If you will follow me, we have a table ready.”

They are given a table near the back wall, shaded by bamboo screens to allow for privacy. Jim has nicknamed this special area the Emperor’s Table, held in strict reserve for the best paying customers. Jim, of course, only makes a modest living but knowing the owner and chef of The Jade Leaf has its perks.

Jim picks up the tiny Thai Buddha statue in the middle of the table and turns it about in his hands. “Gary Mitchell was the head cook at The Diner for almost fifteen years.”

Spock looks up from his perusal of the menu.

“Then he just split one day, hardly gave notice. Bob—Robert Wesley, I mean—“ Spock, no doubt, knows of Riverside’s mayor. “—gave Sulu the position. Anyway, turns out that Gary decided that he had wasted enough time ignoring his dream—he told me that before he left—and took the next international flight out of the US to Thailand. He said he learned the art of making great food, not simply decent food, while he was there. Having tasted his curry, I have to agree.”

“When did Mr. Mitchell return to Riverside?” Spock inquires.

“Oh, about six, almost seven years ago. He came back and opened up this place. It’s super popular. We have the Chinese restaurant on Main but it can’t hold a candle to The Jade Leaf.” Jim catches Spock’s mutter. “What’s fascinating?” he asks, curious.

“It would seem that Riverside is a fascinating town,” Mr. Spock explains, and Jim thinks the man is hedging but does not call him out on it. “Those who leave find themselves returning; those who run find themselves unable to leave.”

Jim is quiet for a moment. He replaces the Buddha on the table. “Maybe it’s… natural, Spock,” he says, “Maybe this is the true center of the universe and no one has realized it.”

Spock observes his teasing smile. “Except you,” adds the lawyer.

“Except me,” he agrees.

Strangely, Jim does not tense under those dark, piercing eyes; in fact, he does the opposite—he relaxes. Spock could ask Jim to reveal all his secret thoughts and, without a care, he would. It no longer matters that Spock knows who Jim is, what he wants, because they both essentially are the same in the most important way.

They are willing to let McCoy go, pain or not.

Jim understands how Spock feels; he shouldn’t, not this quickly, but he does—and so Jim understands, sympathizes, even wants to comfort Spock as he is unable to comfort himself.

The waiter interrupts the silence between them, placing spring rolls and a sweet dipping sauce between them. Jim orders red shrimp curry, extra hot; Spock orders the pad thai dish without meat.

Kirk sighs theatrically when the waiter is gone. “You couldn’t have gotten something other than pad thai?”

“Peanuts are not to your liking?”

“I’m allergic to peanuts. If I eat your food, this dinner won’t end well.”

“A travesty,” says Spock, eyes shining in the flickering light of the small arrangement of tea candles on the table. “Perhaps you should concentrate on your dish instead of mine.”

He resists the urge to poke out his bottom lip in a pout. “How cruel.”

“Yes,” Spock responds, “I am… difficult on occasion. Or so I have been told.”

Jim snorts. “Bones.”

“Precisely.”

Thinking of Leonard McCoy, Jim takes a sip of his water to combat scratchiness in his throat. When he thinks he can speak normally, he asks gently, “Have you spoken to him?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Spock folds his hands in his lap and turns his face away, studying the tapestry on the opposite wall. Jim feels bad, as though he has spoiled the easy atmosphere they had going. But Spock surprises him by talking about Leonard.

“I assume that Mr. McCoy will acclimate to the idea. He is not an unreasonable man.”

“Bones says you two spent most of your senior year at Georgia University together.”

“That is correct. We had similar aspirations. It was not difficult to combine our schedules in the evenings. I… I sometimes find myself reliving those days. They were memorable.”

Pleasant, Spock means. Jim runs his fingers through the hair at his right temple. “You must think I’m—” He stumbles, unable to find a word that doesn’t sound like easy or crazy or some combination thereof. “I mean, the way I have—become attached to Bones in such a short time.” Jim winces. “I know what you must think of me, Spock. Honestly, I do.”

Spock looks at him, then. “You were surprised by your response to Leonard McCoy.”

Jim nods.

“I was also, when I first realized the true depth of my affection. I understand, Jim.”

“Understanding won’t help either of us.” Jim leans back into the hard leather of the booth. “What are we going to do?” The question is more serious than he meant it to be.

“I will return to Boston.”

Jim is sidetracked. “You don’t sound like a Bostonian.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry?”

“My father is a British official from the Philippines. My mother is American. I was born prematurely during a family visit in Boston, though my parents returned to the islands and I spent a majority of my early childhood there. Whenever my father traveled for extended periods of time, my mother and I accompanied him.”

“Now I understand your lack of accent. You’re an abroad child,” Jim concludes, intrigued by the offer of such personal information.

“So it would seem.”

Jim polishes off his share of the spring rolls. By the time his stomach is gurgling for more food, he has traded a handful of stories with Spock. He learns that Spock likes Boston well enough but the weather is too cold for a man who grew up in tropic heat. Spock’s mother and father are currently in Italy, and he has not seen them for several years.

Jim launches into an animated retelling of the time he almost burnt down The Diner in an oil fire while attempting to ‘out-cook’ a certain man…

A voice interrupts, growling, “I don’t remember it being that funny, Jimmy.”

Jim grins at the middle-aged Gary Mitchell. “Your chef’s hat is crooked, old man.”

Mitchell says, “I’m not wearing a hat. I won’t fall for that trick.”

“No? Too bad. You used to be fun.”

“I used to be young, except I now have gray hair because of a certain rambunctious kid by the name of Kirk.”

Jim looks around innocently. “Where?”

Mitchell drags him up by the collar. “C’mere, boy.”

Jim gladly returns the hug. Then he introduces his dinner companion. “This is Mr. Spock.”

Spock shakes Gary’s hand. Gary ignores Jim’s whine about the missing curry. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Spock. Jimmy, this guy is so respectable-looking. What in God’s name is he doing with you?”

“Ouch, Gary. That stings.” Jim plops back into the booth and plants his elbows on the table. “Spock’s a lawyer.”

Mitchell eyes Kirk. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

Jim rolls his eyes. “I have amended my evil ways.”

Mitchell crosses his arms, looking too much like he used to when Jim was a boy and had done something bad, such as switching out the sugar and salt containers. (That had been a fun day for everyone at the diner, until Gary chased the thirteen year-old mischief maker around the parking lot with a spatula and Winona made her son apologize with sincerity to each traumatized customer.)

Jim shoots a help me out look at Spock.

Spock is obliging. “I assure you, Sir, that Mr. Kirk is not in immediate need of a lawyer.”

The chef’s mouth twitches. “Can’t blame a man for wondering, Jimmy. Not after that time I bailed you out of county jail.”

“I wasn’t even seventeen!”

“But you were old enough to know better.”

Jim’s face feels hot. He pins his gaze to the table. Gary leans over and ruffles his hair.

“Okay,” says the man, “I’ll stop embarrassing you in front of your date.” He adds in a loud whisper, “This one might be good for you. Teach you some manners.”

Jim sputters but Gary is already striding away, chuckling and quite content with his revenge on Kirk. The waiter pops in to refill their water glasses, and Jim dares not glance over at Spock. The awkward moment is broken by the savory smell of curry. Dinner has arrived.

Jim is soon distracted with placating his growling stomach. The conversation is not exactly verbose but it’s well-mannered and rather enjoyable. Jim coaxes Spock into trying some of his curry sauce, and Jim bemoans the fact that he can’t steal the bean sprouts off Spock’s pad thai, lest he taste a hint of peanut and die. Spock is sufficiently amused by Jim’s histrionics and flashing grin.

They finish the meal, sharing for dessert a fried banana topped with vanilla ice cream and honey. Jim notes that Spock seems to have a sweet tooth that rivals his own. A third thing they have in common, he thinks wryly.

The sun has long since set when they journey back to the farmhouse. Jim turns the truck onto the long dirt road that leads home. Spock stares out the passenger window in silence, and so Jim’s mind wanders. He realizes, momentarily disconcerted, that he has been living at the farm for almost a month. It’s past time he went back to his apartment. Bones won’t want to rent the extra room, not now. However living alone again is somehow significantly depressing to Kirk.

“Jim.”

He catches the hushed but intense way Spock calls his name and automatically begins to brake the truck to a stop.

“What?”

They are in sight of the back of the house, yards away.

Spock says, too quietly, “McCoy.”

Jim looks ahead, to where he hadn’t really been paying attention, and sees a figure hunched on the stoop of the kitchen. The truck’s headlights illuminate the man well enough that Jim sees a bowed head and that the man’s hands are jammed into his hair.

It’s Bones.

“Is he—?“ Jim swallows hard. “Shit, he’s waiting for us.”

It’s not likely that McCoy has not heard the roar of the engine. Jim can’t simply put the truck in reverse and run away. And he wouldn’t run if he could.

Jim parks the truck by his motorcycle, switches it off, gathers his courage and gets out. Spock is close on his heels.

It doesn’t take long to delineate that Bones is drunk. The smell alone is heavy, like whiskey or a liquor equally as strong. When McCoy lumbers to his feet, he sways slightly.

“Spock,” slurs the man in a gravelled voice. Then Leonard tries to leave the steps and trips over himself.

Jim catches him without thinking, saying, “Whoa! Hang on, Bones” as he tries to steady the intoxicated man. Bones sags against him, chest to chest, but he is looking at Spock. His eyes are dark green tonight, Jim notices immediately.

“Spock,” Leonard repeats. When McCoy reaches for the lawyer, Jim has no choice but to give Leonard up. Spock does not appear disturbed or even uncomfortable when McCoy mumbles into Spock’s neck and hugs him tightly. Spock rests a hand at the small of Leonard’s back, and the world darkens even though it is night-time. Air has been sucked away, leaving Jim to claw at his jacket zipper and jerk at its collar.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

He closes his eyes, wishing he didn’t hear McCoy crying over and over again “S-Sorry, Spock. I’m s-sorry.” When Jim opens his eyes again, something rips through him at the sight of Leonard kissing Spock and he turns away blindly.

Light is shining through the kitchen windows. Safety. Jim bounds up the stairs and pulls at the doorknob, not thinking about keys, unable to think at all. The door is unlocked, however, and he almost falls inside.

“Jim?”

He manages to gasp out, “Mom.”

Winona hurries over and takes his face between her hands. “Baby, what’s the matter?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re so pale!”

He almost leans on her, needing comfort, but a flash of McCoy in Spock’s arms burns in his mind’s eye. Jim retreats instead.

Winona looks from him to the door and back. He realizes that he did not pull it closed behind him. She can probably see them both, posed in a lover’s embrace in a halo of moonlight. Jim goes to the sink and leans over it. Kirk’s control is scattered, gone.

“He was drunk when the girls brought him over,” Winona is saying from somewhere behind him.

And she didn’t let Bones in?

He must have said that out loud because his mother responds sharply, “I would have made him sleep it off but he insisted on waiting. Said he had to see—” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

Jim laughs, a liquid and rough sound. “He had to see Spock.” Jim straightens and turns to her. “It’s fine,” he says.

“Oh, Jim.”

“It’s fine. I—I’m going to bed. Spock will take care of McCoy.”

Jim walks away, his feet automatically carrying him up the stairs (though he has to brace his hand on the wall several times to get up them) and to his bedroom. He drops onto his neatly made bed, not bothering to undress, and curls up. Then Jim shoves a pillow over his head, hating the terrible ache in his throat. If he sheds a few tears, he rinses away the evidence in the morning.

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