Juxtaposition

By Alone Dreaming

Rating: T or PG-13 for a bit of language and suggestive themes

Disclaimer: I do not know Star Trek. If I did, this would not be under fan fiction.

Warnings: Jim in leather pants, Chapel's Fiance, long, thoughtful paragraphs, alcohol, pretty crack!fic

Author's Note: I never thought I would use the words crack!fic to describe something I've written but that pretty much sums this up. It really, really doesn't have much plot and is an excuse to put Jim into tight leather pants because God knows he'd look really good in them. Blame it on watching a few episodes of Jeremiah and seeing how good that man looks in a pair of leather pants. So, um, enjoy.

If someone had told Christine Chapel two days ago she'd be sitting in a bar, dressed like a hooker, with James T. Kirk, she would've smacked that person with the nearest, hardest object at hand. Then she would've laughed herself silly because the notion would've been absolutely ludicrous. After all, on the Enterprise, it is a well-known fact that McCoy's pet nurse does not put up with nonsense and James T. Kirk is nothing, if not nonsense. That, and the rumor mill confirms this, combined with the fact that she hates chauvinists (she's been told it relates to Daddy issues but doesn't put much stock in psychology), womanizers (she's been told it relates to poor choices in boyfriends but will justify even the worst of them) and reckless, somewhat suicidal bastards (she's been told this has to do with self-preservation and vehemently agrees), makes James T. Kirk her embodiment of unbearable. Her friend Nyota Uhura finds Kirk to be irritating but a good person; Chapel isn't sure what she thinks. She'll never purposely bring the Captain to harm (despite the often well-thought out plans of how she would dispose of him if she had a chance) and she always makes certain he has expert care within the sick bay. She'll play his games, trade witty repertoire until the shift's done, but the fact is she has no affection for him at all. So, it makes sense that she would never in a million years picture herself anywhere in the vicinity of Kirk except for when he comes down to sick bay or when she's sent up to the bridge; they will not ever hang out in a bar, while she's dressed like a groupie and he could almost pass for a strung out rock star.

Upon thinking this through, she tosses back a shot and gets an eyebrow raise. Fuck, this is almost surreal and, she supposes, fairly ironic. Here she is, in fishnets, a lacy bra, a skirt too short to really be considered clothing and boots with heels that make her taller than the Captain. She's even got colored streaks-- bright blue and green-- in her blonde hair which has been lightened to the point that it almost looks white. And next to her, leaning heavily on the bar, is James T. Kirk, sipping a beer and looking the perfect mixture between brooding, misunderstood artist and arrogant junky. She doesn't like the fact that her mind keeps noting how nice his chest looks-- even with the fake tattoos (or is that one fake? She can't be sure)-- bared for all to see in an open black vest and how cute his ass is in tight leather pants. Because she refuses-- even on her death bed or his death bed-- to admit that there's something attractive in him be it physical, spiritual or something in between. When the barkeep offers her another shot (free for the "gorgeous lady"), she takes it and tosses it back a little too fast. This is for Roger, she thinks as it burns it's way down her throat. All for Roger.

But that tosses in new anxieties which have her ordering a beer and have Kirk raising an eyebrow at her. What? She silently dares him to say something. After all, he's told her that this is a sealed deal, that all she has to do is be here to confirm that it's Roger before the plan's enacted. So what if she's trashed by the time they leave? The one thing she can do in any state of being ranging from half-dead to pleasantly happy is identify Roger. In a room packed full of identically dressed people, she can zone in on him without having to work at it. Besides, she can handle her alcohol, thank-you-very-much; funding her pocket money during her academy days consisted of out-drinking other cadets. She can keep a level head after ten shots of vodka much less two shots of something and a beer. And, she won't tell anyone this, especially not Kirk, the alcohol is the only thing keeping her steady enough to continue with this practical joke life's pulled on her.

Wanting Roger back drives part of her but it's a double-edged sword. He's been gone three years now, three long years. For the first, she was hopeful and searched and wore the engagement ring and vehemently told anyone who tried to say two fateful words (ones that Kirk doesn't believe in) that they could shove it where the sun don't shine. The second year rolled around and, out of public eye, she mourned. The ring moved from her finger to a chain around her neck where it bumped against her heart with every step she took and reminded her persistently that he was still out there, somewhere, even if he wasn't coming back. By year three, this year, where she's sitting in a bar, a rock band groupie, she wears the ring only sometimes, when she's feeling lonely or sad. She was almost over him until it was brought up that he'd been found on the slave market; the shock of it had her sitting in her bed for a day and a half until Leonard dragged her out for food and Nyota had a stern talk with her.

What will he say when he sees her, when he notes that she doesn't have the ring, when she tells him (if ever) that she's had plenty of casual sex since she gave up hope, when he figures out she stopped searching? He always said what he loved most about her was her direct attitude and her unfailing self-assurance. Right now, she wants to hedge the truth and feels completely out of her league. He always loved her natural beauty, too; what will he say when he recognizes her with her tattoos, her hair, her heavy eyeliner? Does she really want his first look at her since he disappeared to be her looking like a whore? Admittedly, she's never been a prude but this is far different from her normal dress, her normal appearance; her simplicity drew him to her in the first place. Could he still love her this way, even if it is a farce?

On top of all of this, she's not exactly the same person he loved back then. Three years changes anyone, even if those years are normal. Since he's been gone, she's experienced the world, worked on a starship, made new friends, lost old ones; she's become the head nurse in an elite sick bay under one of the youngest captains in history. She's dealt with trauma that most people don't experience their whole lives, much less when they're only twenty four. Sometimes she wears make up to work and she actually preens a little before she walks into the infirmary. Parts of her have learned to compromise, to endure, instead of being so incredibly stubborn; she has, for example, learned to enjoy caramel-praline ice cream and developed an intolerance for green tea. They used to have a mug together every night before bed and now, she's not sure she can drink it.

She doesn't think about him changing because it's too much at the moment. Her minds buzzing with everything she's done since, with all of her deficiencies and she takes another shot to calm it down. Kirk's chatting with the man next to him in an unfamiliar drawl that makes him sound like he's some combination of drunk and high. She finds herself staring at the necklace draped around his neck, staring at the way it rises and falls as he breathes. Immediately, her mind starts to picture all the fun ways to get that off of him and follow it with the vest and then those-- She has to shake herself to keep her mind from going further down the rabbit hole. She's not attracted to him, she reminds herself, even if he pulls off rocker nicely and his arms look well muscled and his jaw chiseled.

She finishes her beer.

Logically, she would find him appealing. He's reminiscent of all the men she dated before Roger; illogical, difficult, stubborn, quick to make decisions and slow to think things through. Physically, he's well-built with an all too sexy shit-eating grin and those gorgeous, fall-into-me blue eyes. But the fact is, he's not what she needs. Christine Chapel-- after many a mistake-- discovered that as much fun as the rebels were, she wanted a man whom she could depend on. Yes, James T. Kirk is charming in his never fail outlook but he's also the person that, when he finally does fuck up, will fuck up so tremendously that catastrophe only covers a small portion of it. She's seen it happen, been a part of the happening, and knows that she can't stand that. That's why she said yes to Roger who's handsome, stable and loves her more than she loves him. Because her grandmother always said that a man who thinks you are the most beautiful woman in the world and who loves you more than you love him is the perfect one to marry. He'll take care of you, she said to Christine when she was fourteen and too bored to listen.

She remembered anyway.

"Wanna dance?" A husky voice rumbles in her ear. She takes in the guy with too much brawn and not enough brains, and wonders if it would be a good distraction. Ten minutes on the dance floor puts her ten minutes closer to getting this over with so she can go back up to the Enterprise and shed this guise only to assume another.

"Can I help you with something?" Kirk asks the man before she gets a chance to respond. Resentment bubbles up like the beer that's swishing in her nervous stomach and she wants to tell him she can take care of herself. She can't though. It's for Roger.

The man's eyes narrow at Kirk's tinier form. "Asking the lady for a dance, asshole. Back off."

"Listen, tiny," Kirk drawls. From the corner of her eye, she can see a taunting grin on his lips. "She's my girl so I think you oughta back off. If she dances with anyone tonight, it's me." And to sell it, he moves off his stool so his chest brushes her back. "Got it?" His arm wraps around her possessively, burning hot against her flesh. "Or you wanna start something? I think I saw some Seekers in the corner. They looked bored."

Tiny cracks his knuckles as though he's going to start something Seekers or no. "Why don't we let the lady decide?"

"I told you, she's mine," Kirk repeats, his face now close to her neck, booze breath on her cheek. "See." And he grabs her arm so she reveals the tattoo, a series of numbers on her wrist. "Now, go."

Tiny looks at the numbers, his face suddenly disgusted. He turns his back, muttering, and disappears into the mass of bodies on the floor. Kirk doesn't pull away until he's completely gone, his cheek against hers, his arm about her. Every bit of him touching her burns, burns, like the alcohol in her belly, and it's the same good sort of pain. The primal urge in her, encouraged by the narcotic power of whatever's in her system encourages her to turn into him, to capture his lips and make him into her possession. Even the anger at being referred to as his-- she's never been anyone's except for Roger's-- can't overwhelm the heat between them.

"That was close," he whispers, his mouth brushing her ear. "Don't let your guard down and don't leave my sight. I don't want to get someone back just to lose another."

"I can handle myself," she manages weakly as he pulls away, her libido on overdrive. Her hands are close to snatching him back so she can see if the rumors about him are true. The alcohol rolls heavily into her throat and she swallows in confusion. She hasn't had so much that she should be sick already.

He winks at her, cocky again, which cools her as effectively as a cold shower and she scowls in return. Before she can tell him that she doesn't appreciate being patronized, a man approaches the two of them, dressed in a mostly see-through pair of pants and a top hat, his over thin form decorated with a mass of intertwining ink. His hollow eyes fixate on the two of them and he stops in front of Kirk.

"Your package is in," he says simply, viewing her with obvious interest. "Is this the intended partner?"

Kirk's hand lazily caresses her arm. She shivers just a little and wants to hit herself for it. "She is. Pretty, right?"

"A fine match," the man agrees as two others come up behind him, holding up someone between them. "You have the money, I assume?"

"Of course. Just need to make sure that he's everything that's been promised."

The circus man steps away and reveals, between his two flunkies, Roger. She knows it's Roger even though he's thin enough for his ribs to be easily counted and his hair's grown long and matted. It's the same contours of the face, though his cheeks have hollowed and his skin is dirty. From her position, she can see the slight white scar under his one arm which came from not getting a cut treated that should've been. At night, her hands used to seek it out, running a finger over it and wondering at how distinguished it made him. It was his wild boy mark, she teased back then, even though he was so conservative, so good, so not that. It's the only place on his body that gave her the sort of heat that every part of Kirk's body gives her. He blinks at them as though he's seeing something else and even though they are glassy, she doesn't doubt they are the same. It's her Roger. Her Roger, seeing her like this, in this place, as he is.

She has to lean against the bar to keep herself upright and even then she's half-swooning. Kirk steadies her, frowning as she sways, his facial expression radiating annoyance while his eyes show question and concern. She wants to bat that overheated hand away, to fall out of reality by herself so she can come to terms but he's not letting go and, even if he did, now is not the time. A swallow keeps the alcohol down and determination gets her focused.

"He's in piss poor shape," Kirk notes, pulling her to her feet and making it look as though he's impatient. "You think he's up to being a match?"

"He's got it in his head that he's going to escape," the man answers. "And so we keep him a little bit... subdued. No worries, a solid meal and he'll be more than able to do whatever you need. Now, the coin?"

Kirk meets her eyes another time, questioning her before letting go of her arm. Her feet stay under her and she folds her arms across her chest, trying to look insolent as she does so. It's not so difficult, really, as she has so many emotions rolling around in her she's feeling pretty pissed. Her fingers slide into the wrist band on her left arm and she presses the button there, hoping that this goes off without a hitch, like Kirk said. Kirk, meanwhile, grabs Roger's chin and tilts his face from side to side. He doesn't look very impressed by what he sees.

"I don't know. Looks pretty run down, like he's dying or something," Kirk comments. His other hand goes to Roger's arm and squeezes. "I don't think he can do anything. You have a refund program?"

"Sir, I assure--"

But whatever skinny slime ball intends on assuring she has no idea. The world spins in glorious gold and soon she's standing on the transporter pad on the Enterprise, trembling. Everything's glowing white, a little too bright for her maladjusted eyes. The room's swaying like an actual ocean boat. Next to her are Kirk and Roger, one who looks utterly pleased with himself (which she hates him for), and the other who looks a mixture of confused and too exhausted to really care. Even as she gazes on them, Kirk is forced to catch Roger who folds in on himself.

She can't move even as Leonard rushes in to tend to his new patient and Kirk starts giving Spock orders. It's a strange juxtaposition in front of her and her woozy head is having difficulty processing. On one side, she has what she has always been attracted to, the wild boy, the man without a care, the man who rushes into everything no matter what the price, the man who is what he is and the world can deal with it, the man who can wear a pair of skin tight leather pants with ass windows and a vest well, the man whom she could love without compromise, forever, unquestioned, and on the other side, she has what she needs, a balanced person, a man who dresses in suits, a man who has a life plan, a man who judges before he leaps, a man of society who obeys the rules and insists others do too, a man she's going to marry, who loves her more than she loves him, a man with no real excitement but complete safety. A clash of two different worlds, two things she wants and as she stands there, she's starting to wonder if maybe, she's not allowed to have either of them. Her fingers wrap around the chain on her neck, the ring that's hanging there and she has the sudden, inexplicable need to cry.

"You okay?" Nyota's there now, touching her arm, comforting, cool.

"It's really him," she croaks out, her throat swelling. She's not exactly sure what she means by it.

"He'll be all right, Chris," Nyota comforts. "If anyone can make him well, Gruff can."
She nods, trying to swallow down the saliva in her mouth and to blink back the tears. Her forearm drags across her eyes, no doubt smudging her make up as she does so. Roger's loaded onto a stretcher, Kirk's standing up, arms crossed, and Spock's disappeared off to the bridge. There's only her, Nyota, and a few ensigns now, and it's still too crowded for her tastes. She needs to go, to change, to make sure Roger's okay but her legs have glued themselves to the spot.

"Didn't I tell you it would go over without a hitch?" the ghost from her past, now a figure in her present says, looking entirely too proud of himself.

"Yes, you did," she replies faintly.

Somehow, she doesn't quite agree.