Jim Kirk did not believe in no-win scenarios.

Unthinkable odds? Sure. Hundred to one chances? Absolutely. Million to one chances, with the outcome looking bleak to the point of despair? Why not; just let him at it and get the hell out of the way.

Whether it was charting his own young destiny in the windswept fields of Iowa, overcoming Hell in the scorched battlefields of Nazi occupied Europe, or securing justice in the mean streets of San Francisco, Jim trusted himself to find that one yes scenario out of a hundred that screamed no and pluck victory from the jaws of defeat. That it was usually done through a twisted combination of tenacious skill and, admittedly, sheer dumb luck didn't matter one bit to him. He had faith in his system of doing things, it had made him good at his job and at life, and he'd be damned if he was going to let a mishap in the line of duty change all that.

So when the doctor started throwing around phrases like "incurable acrophobia" and "nothing can be done" and "cause for a leave of absence" to describe Jim's newfound condition, he only half listened, smiled at the man, took the little prescription note for pain scribbled out in an illegible hand, and left without a backward glance.

Because he would beat this; he had to. There was no other possible scenario.

•

"Tomorrow's the day, Bones." Jim frowned as his cane fell to the floor, again; balancing things on one finger was apparently harder than it looked. He reached down for it and winced.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but the day for what? And was that wincing I heard?" Leonard McCoy asked, not bothering to look up from his drafting table by the window. He was wearing the kind of clothes he typically liked to work in, a combo of slacks and sweater vest with a white button-up shirt underneath, open at the collar and sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked a bit rumpled from his time hunched over the table drawing but otherwise presentable.

"Pshhh, No." Jim straightened up on the sofa facing the table and adjusted his own suit and tie, like a child caught in an act of wrongdoing. "And if I was wincing, which I most definitely wasn't, tomorrow's the day I finally get this ridiculous...thing taken off! After tomorrow the mere act of bending over will no longer be this awful event causing sounds you definitely aren't hearing." He looked over at Bones and grinned, his mind going to bad places, first and always. "And by bending over I'm of course referring to—"

"Ah, so the corset's coming off at last, Jamie-Boy?" McCoy looked up this time, brown eyes locking onto blue, smirking as Jim's face formed a horrified scowl of displeasure.

"Chest compressor, Bones. Compressor. Not corset, for the thousandth time. And Jamie-Boy, really?" He slumped into the couch and ran his hands through his dirty blond hair, well aware that he was coming very close to pouting like a five year old. "I think letting you meet my mother after the accident was the biggest mistake I have made to date, which, as you know, is really saying something."

Why he had ever allowed himself to believe that allowing his mother, the formidable Winona Kirk, to interact with his best friend would be a good idea, he didn't know; never had he seen two people gang up so fast on a poor broken man in a hospital bed. He wouldn't be surprised to learn at this point that they were secretly braiding friendship bracelets for each other or swapping family recipes. Though the idea of Bones making his mom's famous lasagna for him on a regular basis was awfully appealing...but now was not the time for that.

"There are some things that wound a man to the core, Bones, and at the top of the list is being called their mother's pet name for them while being shoved into feminine-sounding undergarments. Honestly, if you won't spare my manhood the tiniest bit of dignity after everything that's happened...do me a favor, just cut my balls off right now with your sharpest Exacto knife and be done with it. I can feel them shriveling up as we speak, swear to God."

"There are plenty of people in San Francisco who will vouch for the size of your manhood, Jim, you don't need me to confirm it for you." Bones rolled his eyes at the wicked smirk on Jim's delighted face and resumed sketching. "Forget I said that. Poor choice of words."

"By which you mean amazing choice of words."

McCoy ignored him. "Besides, plenty of men wear corsets nowadays, it's nothing to get all worked up over."

Jim arched a brow. "Plenty, really? I need names."

"Which of course I'm not going to give you."

"And which I bet you've learned from hands-on experience." His eyebrows waggled suggestively. "Speaking of which, how's your love life anyway?"

"None of your damn business, and if you keep following that train of thought I will find a very creative use for my extremely sharp Exacto knives."

Jim didn't need Bones' angry glare or tone of voice to know just how much he wanted this conversation to end; Jim refused to humor him and grinned instead. "I'm serious, Bones, when's the last time you went out with anyone? Male or female, doesn't matter to me, as you are very well aware."

"Extremely. Sharp. Knives. And my old medical scalpels are just down the hall."

Jim rolled his eyes and decided not to push it; his friend's eyes, suddenly narrow slits, were as close to murdering daggers as he wanted to get. "You're no fun today, Bones."

"Don't be such an infant. And if you would stop bothering me and let me get some blasted work done so I can make this deadline, as I've been asking you to do for the past hour, I guarantee you'd find me in a better mood. Why don't we try that theory out and see if it sticks?"

He didn't like trying out that theory because, well, that theory was boring; it required Jim shutting up and Bones not paying any attention to him for long periods of time. But Jim did care about his best friend, and tried to be a good friend as much as he was able, and could see that under Bones' usual gruff facade lay an undercurrent of very real tension.

So he kept his mouth closed and eyes shut and peacefully rested, thinking of all the things he could do tomorrow once the...chest compressor came off and he was a free man. Gradually, a comfortable level of silence drifted over the two of them and filled up the apartment.

Since Jim had time to kill, he spared a minute or two to cast his eyes about. Not much had changed since he'd last been here; the living room walls were the same shade of burnt yellow trimmed with blue that they always were, the shelves crammed with art supplies and the familiar selection of books that Jim had no plan on ever reading but nonetheless enjoyed looking at. There were some new sketches pinned to the walls and of course the bra doohickey by the table, but other than that he could see no major differences. It was a comfortable bachelor's apartment that fit its owner perfectly, and one of Jim's favorite places in the world, though he saw no reason to come out and say so.

Bones worked quietly, rerolling his sleeves to the elbow, unconsciously running a hand through his short yet somewhat floppy brown hair in that way he always did when he was trying to solve a frustrating problem, sharpening dulled graphite pencils and turning out sheet after sheet of discarded renderings.

Gradually Jim could see the tension visibly ease from his strong, wide shoulders and handsome features, eventually replaced by an obvious aura of satisfaction. Jim knew from countless hours of McCoy watching that it meant he had figured out a solution to his blasted design problems. Finally.

Jim being Jim, his curiosity got the better of him, and he hoisted himself off the couch, careful to not jostle the area where the compressor was wrapped around his midsection. As he walked over to his studiously drawing friend, his gaze first studied the odd-looking brassiere perched above the drafting table, then drifted down to rest on the papers scattered across the table's angled surface.

Bones' rendering of the bra was, as always, technically flawless. The woman wearing the bra in his drawing (sadly, she did not come with it, unless Bones had stashed her somewhere in his apartment that Jim hadn't noticed) was proportionally exact; if there was one thing Bones knew well it was the anatomy of the human body, something he had retained from his days studying medicine. She was, however, drawn in a style that was uniquely Bones', with a curve of her magnificent golden head and a glint to her sky-blue eyes that was undeniably captivating.

Bones had a gift for bringing personality in his illustrated models to life, although they were no more flesh and bone than the two dimensional paper they were created on. It was what made him so sought after as a fashion illustrator, kept him in his nice studio apartment on Telegraph Hill with a breathtaking view of the San Francisco hills. It also paid for his art supplies and the obscene amounts of alcohol he drank (which he constantly argued was a legitimate art supply, a comment that Jim always ignored.)

This gift Bones had was one of the first things that Jim had been attracted to—way back during their time in the war together, sketching their buddies in his pocket sketchbook with amazing realism—even though his own interest in art was almost nil. Well, that and Bones' oh-so charming personality. Jim grinned at the thought and shifted his attention to comparing the real bra to the drawings in closer detail; Bones' renderings were fine, but as for the bra itself...

"What on earth are they making you draw?" He poked at the bra a little as he scrutinized it, ruining its placement on the thin piece of wire holding it aloft over the table. McCoy swatted at his hands; Jim's reflexes were too good for McCoy to get an actual hit in, so he settled instead for his trademark glare.

"It's a brassiere, Jim. You know about them, and I'm pretty sure from hands-on experience."

Jim grinned, enjoying his own words being thrown back at him. "Oh trust me, Bones, I know. But they're making you draw something that's not finished; it doesn't even have straps yet!"

"Ah see, that's where you're wrong, kid." Bones' eyes lit up. "It's revolutionary design. Some young Scottish aircraft engineer—name of Scott, from down the peninsula—worked it out in his off hours. It works on the principle of the cantilever bridge. See this piece here?" He pointed to a band near the bottom of the cups that circled around the sides but didn't connect, right where a women's rib cage would be. "That's the part that does all the actual work a bra should do, no back or shoulder straps required. I'm pretty damned impressed in spite of myself, that the kid examined the bare bones of its basic function and design and came up with a radically new solution."

Jim smiled, pleased; "bare bones" was McCoy's much-beloved catch phrase, as he was a minimalist at heart. How many times had he dragged Jim to some godforasken museum and talked his ear off about a stupid rectangle painted white or something, soliliquizing at large about how the artist had whittled it down to its simplest, purest form, gotten to its essence, distilled it, and all those other artsy catchphrases Jim could honestly care less about? Hence the affectionately coined nickname. If Bones was throwing around his favorite term and waxing poetic, then this engineer must definitely be a genius, and Bones was most definitely in a better mood.

Which also meant Bones' theory was right after all. Damn. If pressed, Jim would deny it to the grave.

"That's some hobby to have, Bones; very enterprising of him. And highly altruistic I'm sure." He grinned broadly; McCoy caught the expression and smirked.

"You're just jealous because he'll soon be making piles of money from a hobby that basically let him think about women's breasts all day."

Jim laughed. "You got me there old man. Who knew that discovering a space-age uplift could be so rewarding?" Designed by a Scot named Scott no less. The world was a bizarre place.

"Mighty impressive for a kid to figure out in his spare time." McCoy paused, then continued on. "Speaking about spare time, what about yours? What are you going to do now?" Bones was concentrating on his drawings and kept his voice seemingly light and impersonal, but Jim sensed it was a loaded question. So naturally he decided to keep his answer flippant and evasive.

"What, after the chest compressor comes off? I think you mean who, not what, Bones." As if on cue came his trademark lecherous grin.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Get your mind out of the gutter for five minutes." He set his pencil down and looked at him, really looked at him. "What are you going to do after tomorrow and with the rest of your life, Jim? You told me you were planning on quitting the police force, which is a damn shame as you made a mighty good detective. Is that still your plan?"

So he had been right about the loaded question thing. Jim let out a breath, steeling himself for a conversation he had been putting off for as long as possible. "I have no choice, Bones."

Bones snorted. "That's a lie and you know it. There's always a choice, you're just being idiotic. There are still plenty of police jobs available to you; I realize they may not lead to being Chief of Police someday, like you wanted, but—

Jim laughed, bitter and hollow. "Yeah, Bones, I really see myself at a desk job. Mr. office grunt, pushing papers and filing away cases conducted in the field that should have been mine, day in and day out, all because off my...condition. Fine," he growled, sensing that Bones' new look of displeasure was related to his constant use of euphemisms, "my acrophobia. I can't climb a set of goddamn stairs some days without having a full blown panic attack." He looked down at the loathsome cane in his hand, his voice soft yet full of steel. "I refuse to allow myself to settle for an ordinary life, Bones. I can't do it, and I won't, police force be damned."

"Ordinary is a subjective term. And everyone has phobias, Jim; don't feel so put upon. Mine's aviophobia, yours is acrophobia."

"Yeah, but yours hasn't exacly forced you to resign from a job you love and, pardon my humility, are damned good at, now has it?"

"True. But it dashed any plans I might have had in the war of being a fighter pilot."

Jim looked at him in disbelief. "Since when was that ever a dream of yours anyway? Like you really wanted to be shoved into a tiny cockpit; coffins with wings I believe you called them. You were born to be the best damn medical officer in the whole army and you know it."

Bones brushed off Jim's compliment, but smiled. "Maybe so. Nothing wrong with being where you'll be of the most use."

"I should hope not. You saved a lot of good men, including me if you recall, so I believe I do know what I'm talking about. And I also know what I'm talking about when I say that my acrophobia still trumps your aviophobia any day of the week."

"If you say so." McCoy looked at him, his concern obvious. He stood up from the table and came over to Jim, brushing his hand over Jim's forehead, as if checking for a fever would solve the problem. "Have you had any dizzy spells this week?"

Jim pulled away from Bones' touch. He didn't begrudge him the contact; he knew his friend's medical training was hard for him to shake, even now, and that his own foolish actions didn't any help in keeping that training at bay. But that didn't mean he had to like being fussed over like a child. Especially because Bones' medical diagnoses usually involved swooping in with hypodermics full of God knows what; Jim often suspected it was more of a passive aggressive device that Bones used to get back at him rather than a strict medical necessity.

"A few. And if you keep clucking over me, mother hen, I'll have one right now out of spite." But his voice carried no real sting; his needling and wheedling aside, Bones was only trying to help, after all. And finally paying his full attention; about time.

Having all that concerned energy focused solely on him loosened something up inside, allowed some of his bravada to slip and left him a bit more honest. "Plus I'm still having that same damn nightmare almost every night." Bones' brows furrowed, knowing exactly what that meant.

As much as Jim loathed the vertigo that came from the acrophobia, loathed his ridiculous compressor, and loathed seeing the dreams he had planned for his life as police chief slip away, he felt like all of that could be manageable if only the nightmares would stop. They were the one thing he could not escape or compensate for, and for a man who believed that anything was possible, the idea of his brain betraying him so completely was hard to take.

Jim suddenly felt very exposed. He stepped away from Bones and went over to the panel of windows that wrapped around a full wall of the sunny apartment, careful not to get too close to the edge lest he aggravate his vertigo, and studied the landscape beyond. Coit Tower was no more than three blocks from Bones' place, and it loomed large on the right side of the view. He could feel his fists clenching and made no move to stop them.

"I can't let let this thing lick me, Bones, let it demote me to a sad half-person, trapped into a life I don't want by my own goddamned mind."

McCoy's posture softened, and he came over and gently reached out, resting his hand on Jim's tense forearm. Jim let him do it in spite of feeling very raw inside; the warm contact was reassuring. "I know you won't. But you need to find something to do while you're working this thing out or you will go crazy. I know you."

Bones' words unwound something in him and helped dissipate the anger. He looked over at him with a grateful smile.

"Way ahead of you. I have developed a theory of my own of how to get rid of this damn acrophobia, and my first order of business is to test it, right here, right now, with you as my witness."

"Oh really, Jim?" Bones arched one brow. "A theory that the doctors haven't discovered yet? Forgive me for not turning to you earlier for your expert medical opinion; seems awfully narrow-minded now that I think about it. By all means, enlighten me on your brilliant and peer-reviewed cure for acrophobia."

Jim didn't know why Bones had to be so damn sarcastic about it; all good breakthroughs had to start somewhere, right? He grinned and put on his best persuasive face.

"Hear me out, Bones. I believe that if I gradually adjust myself to ever increasing heights in stages, like a kid slowly wading into the ocean, bit by bit I can lick myself of it."

"Jim, I took the liberty of talking to an ex-colleague of mine also living in the Bay area, who specializes in psychology. Not that I don't trust your doctor to know what he's doing, but as he strongly felt nothing could be done—"

"—which is complete and utter bullshit, by the way—"

"Yes, Jim, you've expressed to me many times just how you feel about your doctor's diagnosis." He said it the way a parent explains something for the hundredth time to a very small child; patiently but with a hint of exasperation. Which he knew drove Jim up the wall, damn him. "Anyway, Christine is the head physician over at the Park Hill Sanitarium, so I figured she'd have a better grasp on the modern techniques for curing what you have than he would. And don't look at me like that, I don't think you're insane. I just thought a second opinion by an expert in the field couldn't hurt any."

Jim was sure the look on his face spoke volumes about how little he trusted this doctor friend of Bones' to find a solution that would top his own. I mean, not that she couldn't, it was just that his idea was so badass. "And what are her amazing theories?"

"Well, that it's possible the dreams you are experiencing might be psychological manifestations of your guilt, and that once you forgave yourself for what happened that night they would go away, perhaps forever. She feels talking about what you experienced might be the best way to do that." Bones saw Jim's look of disbelief but kept going. "As for your acrophobia, because of the type of trauma you suffered, she thinks it will take another great shock for you to get over it, similar to the one triggering it in the first place."

Jim furrowed his brow. "And in your personal medical opinion, you agree with her that these are bona fide ways to cure me? Discussing my feelings and putting myself through even more trauma? What, watching one guy fall off a roof wasn't enough, I apparently need two now?" Jim looked into his eyes, his annoyance obvious. "Pardon my skepticism, Bones."

"Dammit, Jim, I'm an artist not a doctor. But as horrible as it sounds, she says that's what it'll take to snap you back to normal and I believe her. And since you're not going to be hanging off of roof ledges again any time soon, I think it's safe to say that any cure for your acrophobia involving heights will be long in coming. That includes this cockamamie scheme of yours."

"You were one once," Jim pointed out, clinging to anything that would help him change the subject.

Bones looked over at him, confused. "Was what once?"

"A licensed physician."

"You want more clarification in my expletives?" Bones sighed, sounding a bit put upon. "Fine. Dammit, Jim, I'm an artist not a medically licensed physician."

Jim cocked his head, considering. "It doesn't have the same ring to it, does it? Not as dramatic. Never mind; just go with the first way you said it and I'll just pretend it's more accurate than it actually is."

"Jim, so help me..."

"So, back to my theory!" He chirped, jumping away from a glaring Bones and running over to the kitchen, returning with a footstool and holding it up proudly. "Behold, step one. Literally."

Bones rolled his eyes at the admittedly horrendous pun and looked at the object critically. "A footstool, really?"

Jim set the stool down by Bones and shucked off his deep brown suit jacket, tossing it onto the nearby sofa."Well, I was going to start off my experiment with the Golden Gate Bridge," said Jim amusedly as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, "though I quickly realized hey, what kind of crappy challenge is that for an ex member of San Francisco's finest? But for you to be involved I needed something more portable and readily available. So I figured what the hell, let's go with the footstool." He stepped on it and looked straight ahead.

"See, Bones? Up...," he looked up to the ceiling, "...down..." looked down to the floor, "...up...down." He steeled himself for how his body might react, but felt nothing. He looked over at Bones and grinned. "Not bad for my first test run, eh? Cross footstools off the list, my friend."

"I'm so proud." The sarcasm in Bones' voice belied his eyes, which showed he was getting more interested in where this experiment was headed despite himself. "Here, Rapunzel, let me get you a higher tower to perch on." He went over to his closet and began rummaging around.

Jim arched a brow. "Rapunzel? Really?"

"It's a children's story about a princess that lives in a tower; Joanna used to love it when I'd read it to her."

Jim rolled his eyes; maybe so, but he wasn't Bones' little girl, now was he? "No, I get the story reference fine, Bones, what I don't get is why I'm the princess in this scenario."

"And you never will; that's the beauty of it. Now try this one instead." Bones returned with a multi-tiered monster of a stepstool; more like a mini ladder than anything else. Jim decided to ignore his friend's incorrigible grin and got on the first step and did his test; no reaction. He went up to the next step; same thing. At the third step he glanced over to where Bones was now eyeing him critically, back in doctor mode and watching for for any telltale signs of Jim's vertigo to appear, and shot him a grin.

"Look at that. Kirk four, vertigo zero. Next thing you know we'll be heading to the Top of the Mark for a celebration drink, and look out of those giant windows and toast to kicking acrophobia right on its ass."

"Careful, kid. You're not Jackson Pollock yet, after all."

Jim gave him a blank stare. Bones stared back.

"Jackson Pollock? The artist who died last year, painted by getting up on stepladders and drizzling the paint down onto the canvas? Good Lord, I've know I've told you this before; please tell me you haven't forgotten already."

Jim gave him a look. "Painting with the canvas on the floor? You do realize how odd your artist friends are, right?"

"I'll be sure and tell them at the next gallery opening. Or you could come with me next week and tell them yourself."

"Maybe I will; it's a date then." Jim grinned as Bones rolled his eyes then looked away, tugging at his sleeves again.

Finally the name came to him. "Oh, right, the guy whose last name I mistook for a racial slur! The one whose work looked like it had chocolate syrup dripped all over everything."

Bones sighed. "Yes, Jim, that would be the one. So glad to know just how your skills in deciphering one artist from the other are strategically honed, for future reference."

"Look, unless you add the phrase 'bare bones' when introducing an artist's work to me, I assume they're not important enough to remember. So really, if you're upset about me forgetting Polock you only have yourself to blame." Jim purposely mispronounced the name.

"Pollock!" Bones corrected loudly, giving him a death glare. Jim smiled; God, Bones was fun to tease sometimes. When it came to art the man was like a sensitive brown-haired balloon, easy to pop. "Get up on the next step, idiot."

Jim reached the next one fine, and started looking up and down proudly. Then his eye strayed over to the window, and from his position on the stepladder he caught a glimpse of the street below. Four stories down.

Jim's body tensed up. He could feel the room spin, heard a gasp that only could have come from his mouth. He felt strong arms engulf him and a familiar voice fervently saying his name just before everything around him went black.

::

Author's Notes:

I plan on listing my refs, research facts, direct quotes from Vertigo I used, and other misc stuff related to writing the fic at the end of each chapter. So very very tl;dr; will not offend me if you skip it, I promise. Let's begin:

• I set the story in 1957, the year of the Vertigo screenplay I was able to find online. Hitch usually set his later stories in the present, so it seemed logical to set it then, plus the year 1957 dovetailed really well with the history my story revolves around and with everything I wanted to happen.

• The title comes from the original French story that the movie was based on. I like the obvious tie-in with the movie, plus I feel the title is a perfect summary of everything the story is about. So it worked out perfectly, hooray.

• Midge has a relatively small role in the movie compared to the leads, perhaps for time reasons, but Bones demanded a larger presence in my version and I was more than happy to give it to him. So trust me, he will be around quite a bit.

• According to my version of the Vertigo screenplay, Midge's apartment was originally in the Russian Hill area just like Scotty, but according to the Hitchcock Wiki (and confirming via street view on Google Maps) it was actually filmed in the Telegraph Hill/North Beach area. Same views and everything. So there you go.

• I'm trying to insert little bits and pieces from the two movies as much as possible. Jamie-Boy kind of sprung from Midge calling Scotty Johnny-O (and from the awesomeness that is the TOS ep "I Mudd"), though in this case Bones uses it as a way to antagonize Jim and not just as a pet name. And I like the idea of his mom giving it to him; Winona doesn't appear much, but I'm going to include her where I can.

• Bones illustrating underwear makes me smile. :D All the bra and cantilever bridge stuff comes from Vertigo.

• Yeah, modified how the nickname Bones came to be. Hope it still makes sense.

• Hitch was quoted once as saying that when he was thinking up his next idea for a film, he would choose a location and then set a story around it. He chose one of the Vertigo screenwriters specifically because of their extensive knowledge of San Francisco. Because of this the movie becomes a great "portal of the past" in seeing SF as it was in the late 50's. So it was very important to me that the city became another character in the story, a silent observer watching with us as the events unfold. Because of this I decided to leave the SF in my AU as it was back then; no changes, no modern Trek technology or situations. It is hopefully, if I've done my job right, the only unchanged character in the entire story. Thus I have worked very hard to be as accurate as I can as far as locations and events the city and the time period, to do San Francisco justice. If I've failed, please let me know so I can change things.

• I am a major, major Hitchcock geek. And while I love and respect utterly everything that he accomplished with Vertigo, I quickly realized that I needed to make this story my own. So this is no Vince Vaugh Psycho remake with all the shots aligned just as Hitch did them; this is taking the basic plot and pieces of his brilliant movie and reworking them into something that can successfully coexist with the Star Trek universe. So while there are deliberate changes, I hope my love for the original Vertigo as is comes across.

• The version of Vertigo that we know and love was made around 1956-1958, in a fascinating period of American history. In San Francisco in particular, abstract expressionism took hold and was reshaping the arts. The Beats (old-school hippies) were in full swing; Ginsberg had recently shocked the world and was accused of indecency for his recitation of Howl. Because of this, I felt that a story taking place in San Francisco in this period, with homosexual relationships in the foreground, would not only be an interesting change for the movie's original main characters but also be historically relevant. I don't know how much of the spirit of that period is getting into the story, but I wanted to let you know it's in my mind as I write it. Since my Bones is an artist living in the city who knows everybody, I might try to include more of it later on.

• Top of the Mark is a restaurant at the very top of the Mark Hopkins hotel in the Nob Hill area (yes, original name is original.) It apparently has an amazing panoramic view of the city; definitely a place to avoid if you have vertigo and don't want to cause a scene.

• Jackson Pollock died the year before my story takes place; most of his drip paintings were done in the late 40's a decade earlier.

• When I told my sister that I had an idea for a ST AU fanfic, and that instead of putting the prompt up on the Kink!Meme that I would write it myself, her exact reply was "you mean with sentences? And paragraphs?" D: Epic fail is epic, because yeah, story writing and I have long been estranged. Like years and years estranged. And then Kimk!Meme ended, so I had no choice but to write it. But I hope if my writing is really rusty it can be overlooked to appreciate the idea I'm going for, if not the execution.