Chapter 12: Driving and Drinking
All the easy jobs were done. They had cleaned everything as best they could, organized everything in disarray, thrown everything away that was of no use to anyone now and probably never was. The amount of work left was indescribable. But number one on the priority list was fixing the roof. However, despite the boxes of things in both the basement and the garage, there were not any shingles, nor was there any plywood necessary to repair the roof. That necessitated that they go into town.
But to get into town, they needed a car.
Jim rolled up the garage door for the second time that day. Dust-like dirt billowed across his face and he coughed, waving it away as he ducked into the dark, cool space. It was noon, and the sun seemed to be doing its best to kill him, even in his white cotton undershirt and lightest pair of jeans. (He had never really been a fan of the pajam-pants, worn by the city dwellers.) Spock however, seemed totally fine, even in his black, long sleeve star fleet regulation fatigues. He wasn't even sweating. Damn green-blooded hobgoblin, to quote Bones.
Spock ducked under the door as well, and Jim watched with fascination as the second eyelid slid back as he stepped out of the yellow dust cloud.
"Captain?" He questioned, and Jim smiled to cover his embarrassment for staring too long.
"Ready to get to work?" He said while turning to face the ancient car.
It wasn't beautiful in any way. It was a transition model of car, from fifty or so years ago when they began reworking the infrastructure with superconductor grids. It had wheels, but they folded up into the dull gray chassis when running on the magnetic grid. Everything about the car was dull, flat, and planar. The parts that weren't gray were orange brown with rust, and the windshield had faded to this odd off green color that reminded him faintly of Orion vomit. But it was the only way to get back into town.
"This may take a while. It's in worse shape than I remember." Jim took a slow walk around he car, wiping off spiderwebs as he went.
"As it should be Captain. I still do not see the benefit in retrofitting this vehicle. It is cleaner and more efficient to beam from location to location."
"Maybe, but I'd prefer it if we had some reliable way to get out, you know?" Jim responded, heaving the old blue tool kit from its place on the rotten stairs to its new home beside the car. It hid the gentle flutter of his hands when he held something heavy. He couldn't for the life of him get them to stop shaking. Sometimes it was barely noticeable, but sometimes it was so horrible he couldn't hold onto anything at all. Like this morning, when he was brushing his teeth, it was so bad that the toothbrush dropped seven times into the sink before it was thrown across the small space, slid off the shower curtain, bounced off the wall, and splashed into the toilet. That was another thing they needed to get in town.
Jim unfolded his rolling bench and sat on the edge, watching Spock watching him.
"You should really change your clothes."
"Unnecessary Captain, as I am quite comfortable," Jim rolled his eyes as he rolled back under the car with a pen light, trying to determine how much of the wiring had been eaten by mice.
"But you'll be filthy," Jim argued as he rolled back out to rifle through his tool box, removing a small device he had cobbled together in his youth to eliminate rodents if they infested the car. ironically, it looked a bit like a mouse.
"Negative Captain, I am quite capable of remaining clean," Spock removed another rolling bench, crisply extended it, and proceeded to sit beside Jim.
It was odd, seeing Spock there on Sam's bench. No one had used it since Sam turned eighteen and left as fast as his own two legs could carry him. That's not really true though. Wen Jim was eight Sam had startled to show him how the car worked, and Jim became fascinated with automobiles. It wasn't too long before Jim was showing Sam, four years his senior, things the boy had never thought of. It wasn't long after that when Sam worked with Jim less and less, until he stopped fixing the car all together.
They both lay back and roll under the car, Jim spraying nano foam to eat away the corrosion, Spock examining the wiring with slight prods and twitches, not drastically altering anything.
"Captain, I am unfamiliar with this machine and the principals of its design." Spock finally revealed after a few minutes of prodding. Jim couldn't help but snort, removing his hands from the over zealous computer interface.
"That's because there aren't any Spock. This things a piece of crap." Spock twisted an eyebrow upwards.
"All machines must be designed and planned. Even those created by humans." Jim couldn't help it, he really shouldn't have, but that snarky human comment did him in. He reached forward with his blackest, grimiest finger and starting at Spock's temple, dragged it down, over the cheek bone, down the plane of the face and over the jaw. The entire time Jim was tickled by snippets of emotion. Annoyance. Exasperation. Good Humor. It was odd, because Spock's face remained perfectly blank.
Jim ran out of black as his finger slid over his commanders jaw. However, his index finger continued to travel downwards, slowing and lessening pressure. Jim became fixated by the smooth, almost soft feeling to Spock's neck, rotating slightly so his nail began to drag along the skin as well.
Jesus, what was he doing?
"You're half human Commander," he emphasized Spock's title as Spock was so fond of. "And now you are dirty."
Jim realized how sexual that line was only after he'd flashed Spock a teasing smile and gone back to work. So many things could have gone wrong with that. The most worrisome of which was the fact he'd almost trailed that finger up over Spock's collar and down his first officers chest.
The car was finished by seven o'clock at night. That's how horrible time had been to the already ancient and battered machine.
"Thank God it works," Jim uttered as he slid out of the drivers seat of the now purring machine. While it still looked horrible, it sounded fantastic.
"Illogical, for if there is a deity watching over all of creation, it is unlikely that he she or it in any way aided us in fixing the car." Jim let him finish because arguing only seemed too make Spock more set in his ways.
"Well we did it just in time. Come on, lets go inside and change," not that Spock really needed too. Despite a few speckles of grease on his hands, the only mark on him was the now slightly smudged line of oil Jim had a painted there.
Jim was walking up the newly mended porch steps when it happened. A quick cool slide down the back of his neck, distinctly finger shaped and distinctly grease smelling. Jim paused and turned slowly, to find a perfectly static Spock, hands folded neatly behind his back, giving him a blank look.
"Spock," he started, but had to pause to shake his head, too astonished to continue. "Spock, did you just wipe grease on me?" There was barely a pause.
"Affirmative, Jim." Jim began to chuckle, turning back to the house.
"You are making progress. The revenge was good, but admitting to it is poor form. We'll work on it."
The house just seemed brighter, walking through it after everything they'd done over the past few days. Light actually shone through the windows. The curtains were white and not gray, the floor shone, actually shone, thanks to the cleaning bots efforts. All the broken, rotten things were gone, leaving holes in places, but they could pick up new things when they went into town.
Not tonight though. The one supply store in Riverside (basically the place with the biggest replicator) closed an hour ago. But Spock didn't know that. But the bar was open all night long.
Jim rifled through his chest of drawers, putting his hand on his leather pants for a moment before moving past them and pulling out his favorite pair of dark jeans, a pale gray button-down, and a comfortable blue jacket. It was too hot for his leather jacket, too bad really. And he was a star fleet official now, be probably shouldn't go bar hopping dressed like a teenager. Actually, he probably shouldn't go bar hopping at all.
"I'm going to go change, I'll be right back," Spock nodded but did not look up from his suit case, white hands stark against the entirely black interior. By the time Jim returned, mentally reminding himself to pick up a new toothbrush at a convenience store, Spock had cleaned up and changed. Well, it was hard to tell. He was wearing the same black fatigues he'd been wearing since they'd arrived in Riverside. Not that Jim was complaining, Spock looked fantastic in them, lean and tall, the black perfectly complementing his coloration. Like right now, with the setting sun outlining him in gold, all Jim wanted to do was to rip those clothes right off and not-quite-make-it-to-the-bed. But he didn't.
"Spock, why don't you wear something else? You've been wearing fatigues since we got here. We're no where near Star Fleet, except for their shipyard a county over."
"I do not see your point Captain," his brow wrinkled slightly. "These clothes are the logical choice for our activities since our arrival, and also appropriate for our planned activity this evening." Jim replied absently, kneeling by Spock's suitcase and rifling through the clothes, ruining their perfect folds and crisp edges. He was probably invading Spock's privacy, but it was too late now.
Anyway, there was nothing really to invade. The majority of the clothes were the same black fatigues Spock had been wearing, one blue Active Duty shirt, and his gray dress uniform.
"Spock, you should have brought some non-issued clothes," Jim chuckled, turning to see his first officer looking rather stiff (more so than usual) by the door to their shared bedroom.
"These are all the clothes I own, Jim."
Jim's chest crushed inwards and he took a short breath, trying to cover the sudden, suffocating sorrow that broadsided him with that single, quiet sentence. Spock had nothing at all. Everything he'd ever owned had been swallowed into a black hole. Not just clothes, but servers with family photos, precious heirlooms, baby clothes, that one childhood stuffed animal. Gone, forever. He had no property, no inheritance, nothing but what Star Fleet gave him. This suitcase not only contained all the clothes Spock owned, but everything he owned.
"Oh," Jim started, clearing his throat and keeping his back turned to his number one. "Well, I might have something's that will fit you." Jim pulled open some drawers, pulling out a pair of jeans that had always been too long for him, a narrow white T-shirt, black leather belt (Spock had narrow hips), and a gray jacket. "Here, try these, they should fit. " Spock nodded, accepting the clothes. Jim waited a moment, before remembering 'Vulcan' and retreating to the hall way, letting the door click behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, before standing straight and shaking his head, retreating down the hall and into the bathroom. He shouldn't be listening for the drop of clothes on the floor. How old was he, twelve?
Instead he stared at himself in the mirror, unbuttoning a few buttons, moving his collar from the inside to the outside to the inside again, and yes, gelling his hair. Jim hadn't gelled his hair since he'd become a Captain. No time really, he had more important things to do than worry about his hair. Jim eyed his guy liner for a moment before tossing it back in the drawer and turning into the hall. He wasn't a teenager anymore.
Perfect timing. Spock was just opening the door, faint frown on his face. Jim had to cover a laugh. Spock looked like he was wearing someone else's clothes. First, he'd tucked all of the t-shirt into the jeans and belted the belt way to tight, lifting the jeans too high, revealing his ankle. He'd buttoned every button on the suit jacket, causing it to be too tight around his chest.
"Jim, these clothes do not fit. I also do not find any logic in 'dressing up' simply to go to a supply store."
"The clothes don't fit because you're not wearing them right," Jim couldn't hold back his chuckle any longer and approached Spock, undoing his belt and whipping it off, having to pause for a moment to stop his hands from their next automatic motion, which was to unzip the pants. Instead he simply tugged them down slightly, revealing a sliver of hipbone. Jim then unbuttoned the jacket and rolled up the sleeves, and as a last second thought, slicked Spock's hair back with the remainder of gel on his hand.
Jim stepped back to admire his handiwork, slightly disappointed. Spock looked fantastic, but he still looked extremely uncomfortable. While the clothes fit him, he didn't fit the clothes. Or the hair really. Jim never thought he'd say a this, but the bowl cut was sexier.
"Jim," Spock started, but the Captain held up his hand.
"I know. Change back into your fatigue shirt. But leave the jeans!" The door closed and in less than fifteen seconds, the real Spock reappeared, (he'd fixed his hair, go figure, though he had kept the pants on) , much happier expression on his face, but not a smile.
It was maybe five minutes into the smooth car ride that Spock spoke again.
"We are not going to the supply shop." It wasn't a question.
"No, we're not," Jim said, fiddling with the radio, trying to find some music and not just hours of advertisements.
"Where are we going?"
"My favorite bar," He finds a satisfying station and returns to the drive. He hadn't driven in a very long time, come to think of it, he hadn't flown in a long time either, not since the shuttle on—
His hand began to rattle, so badly Spock had to notice. God was on his side however because they transitioned onto a metallic grid, and the cars autodrive kicked in, sending them jumping form eighty to two hundred miles an hour, meaning they'd be in town center in about ten minutes. To cover the shaking he moved his hands to his lap and smiled, continuing his story. "The only bar that still likes me."
"I find it difficult to believe that any establishment would dislike you Jim,"
"Oh ha ha, buildings can't like people. You know what I meant." The eyebrow swung upwards.
"I also find it difficult to believe that any human would dislike you in a purely social situation, for your disposition is generally referred to as 'charming' by other humans." Jim winked, and Spock's double laughing out loud for the first time in a while.
"I think that was a compliment. But you didn't know me before Star Fleet. This bar only likes me because it was the first one I used to hit. As you move down the line the dislike tends to increase. There are quite a few bars in the area I'm not allowed into anymore. Like the one where I first met Pike." Jim pauses for a moment, waiting for the crushing, destroying grief. But it doesn't come, just soft sorrow, but also the joy associated with the memory. He was finally starting to heal.
They walk into a packed bar. Music was blaring in the background, loud enough to be felt, but not loud enough to give you a heart attack. People were everywhere, mostly young, and for the first time, a lot seemed younger than him. Well, it was more of a club than a bar.
"So is that you're latest catch over there?" She swung her blond hair in Spock's general direction, to where he was standing stiffly in a corner, refusing the plethora of drinks offered to him by young women and men alike. Some were just intrigued by the fact he was Spock from the U.S.S Enterprise and half-Vulcan. Others had less harmless thoughts in mind, Jim could recognize the signs. "A Vulcan is pretty impressive, even for you Kirk." King poured him another beer.
"No," Jim turns back to the beautiful blond bartender to take a drink. "We're just friends. He's my first officer, Ester."
"Mhmm," she murmurs. "Because you glance longingly across the bar at all your friends every ten seconds. There's a little something there, don't deny it hon."
"More than a little something," Jim grumbles, turning back to the bar and taking another long draft of beer. That red head halfway to feeling Spock up was too hot for comfort.
"What was that? An admission? Jim, I've know you for years, and though I haven't seen you in a few, I know enough about you to say you take what you want, whatever it is. So what's different now? You obviously care for this man, and he's pretty damn handsome if I do say so myself, so what's holding you back?" Jim finishes off his beer and pushes the glass forward. Ester fills it up without prompting and reaches under the counter for another glass.
"I love him," Jim mumbles into his drink, taking another big swig. Ester puts the glass on the bar and gives him a wide eyed, parted mouthed look.
"What did you just say?"
"I'm drunk," Jim says, giving her his best I'm-really-very-handsome-don't-you-think smile.
"No you're not and that's not what you said. But take this and go save Mr. Spock." Jim took the offered beer and winked at her, to which she rolled her eyes. As Jim weaved across the floor he shook his head and set himself into charming mode, which would be necessary to peel this woman off Spock.
"Hi Spock," Jim grinned and walked nearly into the man, pressing their shoulders together, the one that wasn't occupied by a wandering, green fingered hand. "Hello beautiful. I'm sorry, but my friend and I need to go. We're meeting his girlfriend at a diner in town." Orange lips pout but the Orion girl backs off, melting onto the dance floor of swirling, happy bodies.
"Thank you, Jim." Spock nearly sighs as they move to the other side of the bar, away from too-interested parties.
"Don't thank me yet. You're either drinking this, or dancing."
"Captain," Spock actually does sigh, "as I have informed all those who have offered me a drink this evening, I am Vulcan, and Vulcans do not consume alcohol." Jim groans.
"Spock, A, you're half human. B, I'm not everyone else, I'm your friend. And C, I will make you dance if you don't drink." Spock paused and pursed his lips for a moment, eyeing his Captain thoughtfully.
He took the drink.
I think I'm going to shoot for updating every other day. Every day it too difficult.
Now canon is really loose on whether or not Vulcans are affected by or drink alcohol, and there is the alcohol verses chocolate debate, but I read Wikipedia, and they seemed to believe alcohol does affect Vulcans, so that's what I went with. that's more important for the next chapter, not so much this one.
I also apologize for Jim's fashion sense. He got it out of a J. Crew catalog.
-Natcat