Just Dance

AN: Inspired by "Just Dance" by Lady Gaga!

Disclaimer: SSDD!

Rating: T
Warnings: Alcohol abuse

The music was loud, thrummed in his ears and it was perfect. There was probably a regulation against this, or against how drunk he was, but that was just it; he was too drunk to care.

All his muscles still ached. He didn't show it, but he felt it. Being here, where the imperative was to dance, his muscles and joints screamed against it. He took another shot of something he couldn't remember and let some blonde pull him onto the floor. Every one he past was a blur, moving too fast from his brain to keep up with. It was a rush and when the bass kicked up he fell into the beat quickly and the blonde was right up against him.

She could twist her hips in the most amazing way.

When the song was over, the dull roar in the back of his mind starting to grow in intensity and that meant it was time for another shot and he stumbled back to the bar, nearly falling over himself for a minute, and used the ledge as leverage to keep himself up while the bartender rolled her eyes and sent another one down the counter. As he threw the drink back, he was vaguely aware of the fact that somewhere between his entrance to the club and now, he managed to lose his communicator. He wondered briefly if that would be a problem before the warmth of the alcohol drowned out the thought, the sensation rising up through him and muffling everything inside his head.

He couldn't even remember where he was anymore. But it was alright because he had wanted to get lost; he wanted to forget, if only for a little while. The past eight months had been harder than he anticipated, the last two weeks grueling and dangerous and painful and he had garnered more scars in the past month than he had in years previous.

The song that came on drowned out even the alcohol and he was led out to the floor again, and he willing followed. If this song lasted forever, he wouldn't mind. He just needed to forget everything. He was going to be okay. Even as a migraine clawed in, he was going to be okay.

He found himself at the bar again, leaning back against the counter, watching the dance floor with interest, but he couldn't see straight and that made it all the more interesting. The girl he was talking to seemed to expect more out of him than he was willing to give and he wished he could shut his mouth because he knew what he was absent-mindedly saying to her was only making situations worse and somewhere along their conversation she must have tried to get his shirt off because it was now inside out. She kept prodding, trying to get him to give in, but he was just lucid enough to know that she wasn't what he needed nor wanted, so if he could keep his playboy mouth from saying something completely ridiculous between now and whenever he was thrown out, he might be able to avoid her advances.

He asked her where he was and she just smiled and asked him where he wanted to be and he wanted to be in an overly sweet voice that smelled like cosmopolitans and he turned away from her. The bartender shook her head and headed towards the other end of the bar and he turned back around.

The girl narrowed her eyes and stomped onto the floor and he watched her skirt sway back and forth and tried to cool his thoughts. He felt like he was overheating.

His eyes scanned the dance floor, checking out everyone, seeing so many women he would have stumbled over himself to sleep with, but sitting here, as drunk as he was, he didn't want a single one of them. Even that one girl with most amazing hips he couldn't find an interest in.

The music got psychotic, uncontrolled, crazy and it made his head swim. He tried to come back, but his mind was drifting elsewhere and he was reeling and there was a hand on his arm, strong and controlled and he wondered if perhaps it was a bouncer, ready to throw him out into the cold. He hadn't been rowdy or crude or anything. He was just drunk as Hell. Had they changed the rules since he's been away?

His head rolled boneless on his neck, eyes falling back into his head. He groaned, felt the noise rise up from his stomach, felt it vibrate in his throat. He was so painfully aware of every sensation, even the burning touch on his arm. He was shaken, he was sure of it, but he couldn't ground himself anymore. He couldn't feel the barstool, he couldn't hear the music, he only felt his breathing, that touch, could only hear his heartbeat. It was weird. He'd never felt like this before; then again, he'd never let himself drink this much.

He was starting to forget what had driven him to this point.

That was frightening.

He felt the heat on his shoulder lift him up and soon he was hit with the stalling coldness of something outside of where he had been. His vision was starting to clear a little, and he was aware, peripherally, that he was walking, his arm over someone's shoulders, and he leaned in, but was pushed away. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't protest, sure he didn't want to be left out here stumbling aimlessly where he knew tomorrow when he was lucid, Bones would give him an earful. Why was Bones his mother away from home?

He felt weightless for a second, and then he was being led again, and a door opened and he was brought into his room. The lights were too bright and he groaned, turning to bury his face in a shoulder that wasn't his. The lights dimmed to command and he was pushed away again.

Soon, Bones' gruff voice filled his ears and the all-too-familiar pinch of a needle in his neck snapped him back a little more into the real world. His hand instinctively flew up to the site of injection, lightly rubbing the sore spot, his usual response a slur on his tongue that he swallowed with a bit of nausea and a light-headed feeling.

He heard two voices, but he stopped paying attention, focusing on the rhythmic throbbing of the injection site, trying to quell the need to throw up because his legs felt weak and he wasn't going to make it anywhere near a toilet or a sink, and while he had no qualms with throwing up in front of Bones, because he's seen it all before, it was for the sanctity of his yet unidentified guest that he wanted to keep whatever wanted to get outside inside.

Whatever Bones' injected him with was starting to drive out the alcohol, work it out of his system, the faintest tendrils of it twisting faintly inside of him as the were dissipated. He sighed in relief, the nauseous feeling finally retreating before he was suddenly struck with another wave.

He had gotten drunk off his ass. He had no idea what time it was or for how long he was out. He really hoped his stupid and rash decision hadn't done something he would regret.

When he was met with McCoy's less than approving face he was prepared for the worst.

"Do you have any idea how intoxicated you were?" Bones' asked with that motherly tone of his.

"No, I don't, actually."

"You had alcohol poisoning."

His eyes widened and his response was lost. He swallowed hard. His mouth went dry.

"And you weren't responding to our hails. I was really concerned."

"Sorry."

"Sorry does not make up for the fact that you nearly drowned yourself in alcohol, Jim. If I hadn't sent someone to find you, God only knows." The gruff voice snapped with an edge and a worried softness at the same time. "You really shouldn't be allowed to go anywhere by yourself any more. You got a death wish?"

"I'm really sorry. I just needed to forget everything for a while. I didn't know I had gone too far."

"Well, you're one lucky bastard." Came his friend's reply, voice considerably less angry.

"I guess so."

Bones clapped him on the shoulder and left after checking him out once more.

"I'm leaving you with a baby sitter for a while." The voice of his best friend called as the good doctor left, the door sliding shut before he could protest.

Baby sitter?

"Do you require anything, Captain?" The familiar voice of his First Officer rang in the silence, cutting his thought off and answering the question as to whom Bones implied with 'baby sitter.'

"No." He responded, eyes searching the unusually darkened room for the origin of the voice. "Was it you who carried me back here?" He asked suddenly.

"Yes, Captain."

"Sorry. That must have been uncomfortable for you."

"Your apology is not needed. I was concerned for your safety." Spock stated, somewhat uncharacteristically.

"Thanks." He looked down at his hands. "You really don't need to stay. I won't say anything to McCoy if you don't." He said, trying to joke like he normally did, but his voice sounded hoarse and foreign to him.

"Your offer is unnecessary. I intend to stay."

His eyes narrowed slightly at that tone. He was unsure what it meant.

"Suit yourself." He added with a tone that seemed to reflect his confusion, but he refused to look back at his First, opting, instead, to fall back onto his mattress to stare absently at the ceiling.

"I was very concerned when you didn't answer." Spock said suddenly.

"Were you?" He sounded a little snide to himself. He wondered if it transferred.

"I was." Spock said, his voice falling flat again, perhaps in response to him. "Your tone is unwarranted."

He was taken aback by that comment and sat up bolt upright to look straight at his First, trying to gage exactly what was going on. When their eyes locked, something inside of him melted at the intensity. He jumped, honest to God, jumped when Spock stood up abruptly and crossed the room fluidly and gracefully before he could even get a handle on what was going on. The medication was making him groggy.

The last bits of whatever thought process he had left vanished when he caught Spock's gaze again. It was heavy and passionate and so foreign that he didn't know what to do with it.

He cautiously reached out, fingertips grazing that pale cheek, the contact brief, as he drew his hand away quickly. The fire that raced through his fingers jarred him and he held his hand out just far enough that they didn't touch. He extended both hands, tentatively holding the face between his hands as the rest of his body leaned forward, bringing them close together.

He was definitely still in that bar, drunk off his ass. There was no other explanation.

He closed the distance.

Flames rushed through his veins, up along his arms, into his body. Their lips met, and another surge crashed into him.

He was definitely still drunk.

Wasn't he?

Hands glided along his arms, encased his own and pulled them away. Even in a hallucination he wasn't in control. Seriously?

But when he was pushed onto his back, all protest fled. He didn't want to be in control. This was far better. The hands on him were unbearably hot and his entire body felt far too cold and craved the touch desperately, his back arching when the heat dissipated. His muscles started to ache, joints growing stiff, just as they had in the club, a dull reminder of his body's current weakness and he groaned. When those hands were on him, he couldn't remember that pain.

The heat was bleeding every thought out of him. He needed it back. He didn't even have to open his mouth to beg. But everything went dark and he swore in his head.

He really hated hypo-sprays.

Seriously.

When he could regain what he laughably referred to as consciousness some few hours later, he expected to be in an alley or something, but he was in his bed. He tried to remember how he got there again.

He was carried. He remembered that. He remembered Bones jabbing him in the neck again. He remembered Spock was there. But he wasn't sure if everything he was remembering was real or fabricated. His body was stiffer than it had been yesterday, creaked and cracked when he tried to move and his head throbbed with the aftereffects of Bones' medication and mild sedative.

He tried to sit up, but his body had better ideas, and he settled to just roll over onto his back. He cracked his neck to relieve the tension and again tried to push himself up into a sitting position. He groaned loudly into the silence at the effort, but managed it.

He reached his arms over his head, feeling and hearing his back crack and his muscles stretch the burn bringing life into him.

"Doesn't that hurt?"

His eyes widened and he turned his head towards the voice to see his First at his desk on the other side of the room.

"What?" He asked stupidly. Spock didn't repeat himself. "You're… okay."

"Excuse me?"

He laughed at himself and slid off the bed, running his fingers through his hair.

"You stayed all night?"

"Even after you fell asleep on me." Spock added, a mocking tone in his voice as his head tilted slightly to the right.

His jaw nearly dropped.

"That… what?"

Spock only stared at him as his tried to understand what he was passing off as Standard for the moment.

"That really happened?" He asked, dumbfounded. His mind nearly stopped working when he saw the corners of Spock's mouth rise in the smallest of smiles.

He was going to be okay.

AN: So I'm amused with the ending of this.