There are distinct advantages, to being a somewhat embarrassingly well-known starship captain.
He is always offered shore leave on the first rotation (and never takes it), his cabin aboard this beautifully repaired Enterprise is bigger and has more amenities than any other cabin aboard other than reserved guest quarters. There's maybe ten people aboard, maximum, who will call him out if he ignores regulations for some reason, and only like, two of them will actually do anything about it. His name carries obvious weight and more obvious privilege, though less of the former than most beings seem to think, and both come in handy when he needs to bluff his way out of a bad situation or call in a favor. If he ever is fortunate enough to retire from the 'Fleet instead of dying on-duty, he'll have enough of a 'Fleet pension to live however he wants, anywhere in the galaxy he wants.
But then there are disadvantages, as well.
It's pathetic enough regularly being a third wheel, but when it extends to being a fifth or seventh (or ninth or worse), he draws the line. Command can be and is a lonely thing, and though his crew typically seem pleased to see him in most situations, he knows better than to constantly play the clingy puppy trying to tag along hidden in a suitcase.
Spock and Uhura are already way too tolerant of Jim's overbearing presence hampering the smooth development of their relationship, as time is a precious commodity on a starship. And he's learned over the years that no matter how kind Bones is, the man needs alone time to recharge just like anyone else does – more so, since his profession is emotionally draining even on the best of days. Even if he'd die before turning Jim away or saying anything to that effect.
It makes shore leaves a painful dance between flying solo to get anything and everything out of his system (or into it, as the case may be), or tentatively feeling out who he can get away with tagging alongside to whatever activities are planned at the location of choice. At this point, well on his way out of his immature twenties, neither option would be his first preference.
That is the biggest disadvantage, but there are others.
For one, he does not like the 'Fleet mandate that the Captain's safety is paramount in an emergency, and he does not like being told to stay back from landing parties until Security has beamed down first. For another, it may look like he spends 90% of his day sitting in a comfortable chair doing basically nothing, but the stress of captaincy is no small matter, and he actually works more hours than anyone else on the ship. Except Spock, because Spock's ridiculous.
And, what he hates the most, he has the non-monarchial equivalent of a Royal Guard everywhere he goes on shore leave.
Every. Single. Time.
Oh, they're subtle enough, most of the time, and he would rather they do their jobs too well, than not do them well enough; but it's a huge pain in the ass when he's on the aforementioned solo missions. The first few instances, he'd made a hide-and-seek game out of it, curious to see how dogged their determination might be to actually keep him in line of sight, but upon being very kindly and firmly chewed out by his Security Chief after the third time, backed up by a scowling Montgomery Scott who was nowhere near as kind once the redshirts had left the room, he finally agreed to stop trying to lose them, falling back on just ignoring them entirely. It just makes no sense to him. They're not even armed, as carrying a phaser is prohibited in most spaceports.
He is not that important of a target, anyhow.
It's particularly annoying, because before they launched on this five-year mission, he made a very strict point of not even giving an appearance of flirting with anyone under his command, and he has continued to honor that since they launched into deep space. He fought hard enough to get back to that chair, through Marcus and Khan and two therapists and months upon months of grueling physical recovery, so he is not about to let his own stupidity or hormones do anything that would get him in trouble. While there's technically very few regulations against it, all it takes is the accusation, the threat of a lawsuit or some quid pro quo, and the 'Fleet would toss him out on his ear and hand the Enterprise to Spock – and after all this? Jim will die (again) before doing anything to endanger his command.
So, he finds his niche as a third wheel aboard ship, and if he goes a little overboard once in a while when on leave, well. He's damn well entitled to, he thinks.
But it's a little hard to concentrate on finding that fine line between expressing immediate, very immediate interest in sex with fantastic chemistry and no strings attached, and not coming across as a total creep, particularly when there are two or three very burly redshirts of various species determinedly following you into every bar or club in a spaceport and remaining within yelling distance.
Most of his liaisons seem to take it in stride, once they recognize him or at least buy his explanation, but it's still awkward as hell. He doesn't blame anyone, particularly women or smaller species, for nope-ing the fuck out as soon as they see his unrepentant entourage.
Tonight is no exception; he has exactly four hours of leave before he has to return to the ship to oversee the engine retrofit with Scotty, and he wants to make the most of them. The clientele of Starbase Thirty-Three is a little rough, given its close proximity to the edge of charted space, but it's no less safe than any other Federation outpost, and he has no trouble finding an appropriate dive bar for the evening, one targeting civilians rather than 'Fleet officers, recommended by a very friendly local who clearly had no idea who Jim was, even though he was in uniform.
He keeps that option on the back burner as he settles in at a tiny table, back to the wall, and casts a careful eye around to place any members of his crew who might have the same idea and/or don't need insight into his private affairs. A few stragglers on the outskirts in a variety of civilian fashions, all seemingly enjoying themselves and unaware of his presence, one of his yeomen and an Ops lieutenant laughing over top of bright neon pink drinks at the bar, and…two highly conspicuous redshirts slinking into a table at the back, sending him an apologetic look and shrug as they start to fiddle with the holographic menu.
He snorts, tipping his glass their direction with a clink of ice cubes, and promptly ignores them for the rest of the evening.
Ninety minutes in, and he's not really making progress in the finding-company department, probably because he was stupid enough to come down to the 'Base in uniform. But he's found it cuts down on explanations a lot quicker if he does, and it also doesn't hurt to remind everyone in an establishment that someone in authority is lurking around. There aren't many ships in orbit right now, and it's a bit of an unspoken custom for the ranking officers to loom in the background, so to speak.
Typically, he'd leave that kind of thing to Spock, but Spock hates shore leave in all its incarnations with a quite logical icy passion, and Jim's not heartless enough to make it an order unless Spock legit needs a break from the ship (or vice-versa, as the case may be and has been, on occasion).
But that said, he's striking out tonight, and time is ticking. He's about to give up and lead his entourage on a merry chase around the edge of the entertainment district just for fun when in his periphery, he notices the body language of his yeoman change abruptly, and the Ops lieutenant deliberately putting down her drink with a thud he can hear over the noise around him.
Great. Sleazeballs are common to every planet, unfortunately, and there goes the final hope for any plans he might have tonight.
He sighs, tosses back the last of his whisky, and brings the glass along as he meanders up to the end of the bar, several meters and a couple of customers separated from his people. He sets the glass down, casually inspects the sign advertising a variety of overpriced, watered-down drinks, and then glances along the polished faux-wood bar top, raising an eyebrow in question as Barrows sights him.
Though she clearly relaxes slightly, she half-smiles, and shakes her head, nodding toward the Ops lieutenant, who seems to be in an increasingly heated conversation with a couple of Delosian males to their left. Hadley is half-Arcturian but presents as human, meaning the two idiots probably have zero idea she could bench press them both with one hand, but still.
Jim turns back to signal the bartender, a much put-upon hulking humanoid who easily could be the bouncer and who seems to be completely oblivious to any behavior surrounding, but he doesn't even have time to order before commotion explodes a few meters away. His Ops lieutenant has the larger of the Delosians in a dangerously painful armlock, face down on the bar, within five seconds of whatever he said, and the half-dozen patrons around her scatter like so many ducks being frightened by a hound dog, not wanting any part of the drama.
The second Delosian clearly wasn't expecting that, and makes a run for it. Jim shoves his stool backward as he stands, tripping the idiot into the nearest table. The man glares at him, but pales slightly upon seeing his sleeve stripes, and promptly takes his leave, followed shortly by his companion, once Lieutenant Hadley releases him.
Jim glances at his two guard dogs, still sitting in the back of the room, and jerks his head toward the door. They nod, slipping out of the bar to make sure the idiots are actually gone and not just lurking around waiting for his people to leave. He then shuffles a few meters to his left, signaling the bartender again.
"Sir," Hadley says blandly, reseating herself with an unruffled smile.
"Lieutenant," he replies, amused. "What are we drinking this evening?"
Barrows snorts into her nearly-empty glass as the bartender looks Jim up and down, smirks, and sets a violently magenta be-umbrellaed monstrosity in front of him, complete with twirly straw and glittery scarlet sugar around the rim.
Jim chugs the glass in one loud slurp through the stupid straw and puts the tiny umbrella behind his ear with a shrug.
Hadley's quiet laugh is reward enough for the horrible aftertaste of fruit-flavored sugar and whatever god-awful excuse for tequila that was.
"I'm guessing those idiots weren't Starfleet, or they'd have known better," he observes once the bartender has moved back to another customer, after a snort of grudging amusement. "But I can have someone track them down if you need or want to press charges."
"Nah, we're good here, Captain." Hadley eyes him with tolerant affection. "But it's appreciated, anyway."
"Understood." He sets the empty glass back on the bar and slides off the stool, still grimacing against the aftertaste. "I'll leave you to it, then. Need anything before I head out?"
"Your credit chip, Captain. That was my refill you just drank, sir."
He laughs, and tells the bartender to put the rest of the drinks on his tab, then returns to his table to grab his communicator, which had fallen out of his pocket onto the bench seat at one side. A sudden head rush has him momentarily blinking in surprise and sitting down heavily on the padded bench. Maybe that tequila was some serious stuff, despite its taste.
Or maybe he's just getting old, which is much more likely. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and the lightheadedness fades quickly enough; but it's clear he's done for the night, if he wants to be alert for Scotty's rambling engine-related monologue in a couple of hours.
He's not twenty-two anymore, unfortunately, and he's dead sure not going to slink into Sickbay tomorrow for a hangover hypo like half the lower decks, thank you very much. Bones would never let him hear the end of it.
A lazy trip to the lavatory to splash water on his face doesn't do anything to banish the fuzzy taste of cheap booze and sugar syrup, and the night seems to be a wash anyhow, so he just chills for a few more minutes, fingers tapping impatiently on the table, and waits for his redshirts to return to the bar. After about ten minutes of waiting, he's had enough. He doesn't have all night, and if they decided to track the Delosian idiots halfway across the starbase or something, he isn't going to just sit here and wait when he has a mountain of paperwork he could be catching up on. Giotto can take it up with them.
The quiet of the lamp-lit night and its warm, flower-scented breeze is peaceful and soothing after the noisy clamor of the bar. It's the kind of night he loved to sit in the back of a truck bed and just spend the night star-gazing, back in Riverside what seems like lifetimes ago. The street is basically deserted, but he's only gone a few meters toward the public transport station when his head spins suddenly, and nausea curls hot and unpleasant in his stomach. A dim, hazy halo seems to ooze into existence on every street-lamp, and doesn't go away when he shakes his head, ignoring the way it increases the rapid beat of his pulse in his ears. A wave of weird heat washes over him, further blurring the lights and catching painfully somewhere in his lungs.
Shit.
Drinking something you didn't physically watch the bartender make? That's a rookie mistake.
He's still aware enough to determinedly fumble his communicator out of his pocket, knowing there's no way in hell he should be trying to reach a public transport station in this condition. But his clumsy fingers don't want to work properly, and the instrument drops into a cloudy puddle with a dismal splash. Bending down to pick it up is also a huge mistake, because the dizziness ratchets up by warp factor ten and somehow his knees and one hand end up in the same puddle, three points of ice amid the burning nausea.
Footsteps, more than one set, on the street nearby send a wash of genuine, chilling fear down his spine, and he can't catch his breath. He's in trouble.
Bones is going to kill him.
And whoever that is, almost on top of him as he struggles to move uncooperative limbs, is definitely not wearing a red shirt. Blurry as his vision is, he can see that much, and while his brain isn't interpreting things correctly, he knows that's not Standard they're speaking, it's Delosian.
Even the predatory tone gives him the creeps, and that's enough.
From out of the shadows, a blindingly blue streak of light and scorched tang of ozone startle him, sparking a firestorm of adrenaline to chase out a little of the fogginess. The dark blurs disappear, followed by two loud thuds, and he blinks cluelessly at the now-empty street. They hadn't even gotten close enough to touch him, so what happened?
"Captain!"
That is definitely a red shirt, and he will never, ever, ever ever ever complain about having an entourage again.
"Sir, are you all right?"
Even blinking is painful, but he tries again to focus and finally registers that it's actually not a red shirt, it's a red dress.
"Yeoman?" he mumbles, squinting watery against the light.
"Yes, sir, it's me. Are you okay, Captain?"
"Not sure." He squeezes his eyes shut and re-opens them, but the blurriness is just as present. "Roofied?"
"We think so, sir. The glass had some kind of cloudy residue in the bottom of it, we didn't notice until you left. Your boys still weren't back, so we came after you, just in case."
A chirp from a communicator. "Aye, sir, still here. Fucking assholes," he hears Lieutenant Hadley mutter somewhere to the left, accompanied by what sounds suspiciously like a kick from a steel-toed boot and an indecipherable few seconds of static-filled dialogue. "No, he was in uniform, so I assume they're just particularly stupid civilians. Understood, sir. Hadley out."
His lips twitch, even if it feels like his eyes are rolling a little in his head. "How…you stun them?" he asks, glancing in the direction of the motionless bodies.
Barrows's lips curve in a smile. "You'd be surprised what we can hide under these tiny skirts when we have to, sir. Don't ask and we won't tell."
He barks a laugh, slightly drugged though it sounds, and it seems to draw Hadley's attention. She moves toward them, phaser still set on stun but aimed safely at the ground nearby.
"Oh, yeah," she says, grinning down at Barrows. "The Commander is pissed. Also, Giotto is probably going to leave your guard dogs here on the 'Base when we warp out, Captain. Where the hell are they?"
"Not their fault," he mumbles, leaning wearily back against the brick wall behind them. "'M good at ditching 'em. My fault. Shouldn't've left without them."
"You didn't know, sir. And if anything, we should've seen it coming. We're used to watching our drinks."
"Better me than you." His eyes finally close.
"I strongly disagree, Captain," she replies, in a gentler tone. Gods, his head hurts so much. "Easy, sir. You're going to be fine. Tonia, is he okay to transport?"
Barrows's small fingers find his wrist, clearly checking his pulse, and then just as quickly are gone again. "I think so. Should have Medical waiting though. The glass is in my bag, they may want it for testing. Oh, and someone should go back for the bartender. He may be innocent, but I'm not betting on it."
"Agreed. Medical's already on standby in Transporter Room Three, so just be prepared for the full McCoy experience. I'll wait here for Giotto. You take him up, make sure Medical has all the info they need."
"Understood." The mechanical snap of a comm-unit flipping open. "Barrows to Enterprise, two to beam up."
Spock is indeed pissed, McCoy's ten-minute rant against Jim's danger-prone predilection for poor life choices does horrify the poor yeoman, and Giotto does threaten to leave the unfortunate Security men on the starbase, which Jim puts a stop to once he can see straight again and his body has flushed a particularly nasty derivative of polyrophynol from his system.
(Fortunately, he has a metabolism three times faster than any other human thanks to a genocidal sociopath's blood-serum. It comes in handy.)
As it turns out, the Delosians had been smart enough to know they were being followed, and had given his team the slip some six blocks from the bar. Rather than continue pursuit, the two Security officers had promptly made a full written and verbal report describing the two and left it with the nearest 'base authority station, which in retrospect was probably not the right decision, all things considered.
However, it was an honest mistake, and his people are young. And Jim's given them enough trouble before that he doesn't feel right sanctioning anything stronger than a warning in this case. There's no permanent harm done, and the only thing that happened is a clear demonstration of why every crewman deserves to be on the Enterprise as long as they want to be. He has the best crew in Starfleet, and he will always have the best, from yeoman to ensign to commander and every rank in-between.
Besides, hell hath no fury like a Vulcan scared, and watching Spock calmly and with exceedingly logical precision verbally eviscerate the two redshirts the following morning in full view of a terrified team of nurses is far more entertaining than anything he'd have gotten up to last night.