Author's Note: Hello everyone! This is, indeed, my very first Star Trek fic. I couldn't really help it after the release of Into Darkness – can you blame me? Anyhow, while I do have plans in the works for a much longer story, this is just a little bitty fic to get my mind in the right place. It is also a little more comical than what I usually write, but comedy certainly has its place here, I believe. If you enjoy my work, please feel free to check out my other stories (mostly written for the BBC series Sherlock). If you have never seen this show, I can promise you will adore it. For those of us who love fangirling over a tall, pale genius and a blond, brave companion … well, Star Trek and Sherlock are very similar in their ability to deliver said heart-breaking duo. But I digress. This story is based on, or at least inspired by, Regina Spektor's "Bartender". Hearing the song for the first time I couldn't help imagining our dear Starfleet captain pouring his heart out over a few well earned, um, "refreshments"… So please enjoy! And review, of course, reviews are my absolute favorite thing in the world.
It was sickening really. Decorated captains of prized Starfleet ships really should not make a habit of frequenting dive bars … or pouring their hearts out to unsuspecting bartenders.
"Come on, buddy," Jim whined piteously. "Show a little mercy, will ya?"
The man in question rolled his eyes – he was not really unaccustomed to entertaining lonely drunks – especially when starships took their shore leave nearby. In fact, the man could probably make his career blackmailing the decorated Starfleet officers who spilled their secrets over a cold beverage. "Another Romulan ale then, is it?"
Jim's grin broke over his face, shining even through his droopy, bloodshot eyes. But he dismissed the offer of another alien drink. He was back on earth, after all, and what tasted more like the comforts of home than-
"Whiskey," he blurted out, then nodded decidedly, as if he'd made the most brilliant of choices. "No, two shots of wh-whiskey," he hiccupped. "And a beer chaser." Just for good measure.
The bartender sighed, but poured the requested, um, "refreshments".
Jim took the first shot immediately, then groaned.
"The universe hates me, you know," he said matter-of-factly.
"That so?" the bartender asked, barely disguising his lack of interest. But the captain of the USS Enterprise was not fazed.
"Oh yeah," he nodded emphatically. He spread his arms to his sides suddenly and professed: "I'm a damn good-looking guy, don't you think? I-I'm one hell of a catch. I could land any woman … no, hell, I could land any-anyone in this whole d-damn place." Jim's arms gestured the room at large, but the bartender refrained from mentioning that the bar was all but empty, save themselves, a fat retired Starfleet cook down the bar, and a pair of old men dozing over their scotch in a corner booth. Nor did he point out that in his current state – hair ruffled, face shiny with sweat and tears, and eyes bloodshot from drink – the captain looked less than his best.
Jim ignored the man's lack of an affirmative response. "But, of course, who do I fall for? In my infin- inf- infinite stupidity?" Jim took the second shot and let his forehead hit the bar with a wretched groan. "Ugh … a fucking Vulcan. The only sp-species that actually abh- abhors … uh, fucking does not like feelings!"
Jim raised his head and moaned, looking to the man across from him as if begging him to put this pitiful man out of his misery. "It wasn't even my fault," he whined. "Fucking smug, beautiful bastard with his g-gorgeous eyes and stupid little smiles that … that aren't even r-real smiles, and his loyalty, and his making me … making me fucking terrif- ter- scared every time he gets into any k-kind of fucking trouble…"
The barkeep raised an eyebrow, mostly at his patron's outrageous use of profanity, but Jim saw the gesture and groaned.
"Oh no … no, don't do that – not, not that. The fucking eyebrows – always with the fucking eyebrows!"
After a moment, Jim regained his composure and looked at the bartender expectantly. His companion looked back a little warily, unsure what exactly was being asked of him.
"Come on, pal, I'm dying here," Jim gestured his empty glasses. "I'm slowly dying of f-fucking heartbreak here – the least you can do is k-keep the drunks … uh, drinks comin'."
The next two drinks were taken more or less in silence, with only the occasional groan to indicate the captain's obvious, impending death by broken heart.
The bartender was about to pipe up and tell Jim he'd call him a cab when the lovesick drunk interrupted. "Yeah sure, fine, just … just send me back out in the cold, why don't you?"
"Look buddy, we closed an hour ago. Now I let you wallow, but I gotta-"
"Yeah yeah," Jim said again, "You're just as heart- heartless as he is, fucking brilliant, beautiful idiot." By the end of the sentence, Jim was back to smiling like a simpleton.
And it was all so stupid, wasn't it? The old Jim – the pre-Spock Jim – wouldn't have let a stupid crush bring him to his fucking knees this way. He told the bartender so. "He did it. Made me like this. I know I look r-real pretty," Jim grinned drunkenly for a moment, "but I'm a mess. A fucking lo-lonely, pathetic, weepy, mess."
The bartender sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. "You don't say?"
Jim took the last swig from his beer and ignored the bartender's obvious attitude. "Oh god," he moaned miserably. "Loving that man is going to be the fucking death of me."
Because that's what it was, even Jim's soggy brain knew that. It wasn't just a "crush", never had been. Jim knew in deadly, exact detail what it was. Standing close to his first officer was like standing beside some terrifying supernova – brilliant and all-consuming and pulling him further and further in by the second. He wanted Spock's body, he wanted Spock's mind, his very being. If he could consume the man and make him a permanent part of himself, he would have done so. It felt as essential as breathing, to have Spock in him and with him and always, always beside him.
"I'm gonna die," Jim decided miserably.
And the bartender would have replied – the words were on the tip of his tongue. But then he was staring over Jim's shoulder and Jim was tilting his head as far back as he could to see what the distraction was...
Then he fell off his stool.
Spock was standing over him, hands clasped behind his back, one eyebrow was raised in a way that would translate into human speak as, What are you doing on the floor, you sad, sad human?
"Captain?" Spock questioned calmly. The deep baritone of his voice striking straight to the very core of Jim's person.
"You're the devil," the captain croaked from the floor.
The bartender interrupted then. "You'd better get him outta here, he's a mess."
"And you're a – a dirty, rotten traitor," Jim glowered at the bartender.
But Spock nodded once and bent over to help hoist his captain back to his feet. He paused only a moment to offer the bartender a neat stack of human currency for Jim's drinks and say primly, "I thank you for keeping the captain company during his rather questionable choice of recreation, and for not allowing him to come to any harm due to his inebriated state."
Jim groaned from his place hanging off of his first officer's shoulder, but there was the slightest hint of a devil-may-care grin on his face. He winked once at the bartender and said, "I suppose there are worse ways to go, eh?"
Spock cocked an eyebrow in confusion, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at the left-hand corner of his lips, and Jim swore his heart stopped. Oh yeah, death by love surely wasn't the worst death out there.
Jim closed his eyes and let Spock carry him home…
A/N: What did you think? Too silly for my first foray into Trek fiction? Perhaps. But I couldn't resist … Please let me know what you think!