Starlight

04.09.09 | 18 | McCoy/Kirk | Slash | 29,702 words

Summary: Jim is an actor, Bones is a writer.
Warnings: N/A
Spoilers: N/A

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"Oh! How about this one? It's about a young cocky arrogant guy who changes his life by becoming a police man and fighting drug barons. Hmm? That sounds good! I like it! It sounds fucking brilliant!"

Jim glared at Scotty from across the table, only just resisting the urge to slam his fist down hard on his salad. "How is that any different from that last one?"

Scotty once again failed to disguise that the cogs were turning and he was about to reinvent spin. "Well, that one was was about a young cocky arrogant pilot who changes his life by raising fucking cows in fucking France. I mean... there were fucking cows in it."

"Scotty," Jim warned.

"J.T, look--"

"Do not call me by that name," Jim said.

Scotty put his hands up in surrender. "Fine. James. Jimmy. Jim. Laddie! Look, you're fucking hot shit right now. Everyone wants a piece of J.T. Kirk. You're box office gold, sweetheart. Sadly that means you get offered parts what put bums on seats in the first place."

Jim stared out of the window, seeing the stupid Hollywood sign mocking him from a distance. "I dunno. Shouldn't I be branching out or something?"

"Not unless you're a fucking tree!" Scotty said. "Snap out of it!"

Jim sat back, slightly affronted, replying with a surprised, "Scotty."

"Your last movie made millions. Millions. You really want to make some hippy dippy piece of shit where they make you wax your own fucking eyebrows? I've been there, laddie, I know what it's like and it's fucking shite. You'll understand when you go days without a decent shag or espresso, whatever drives you mad first. I'm telling you, Jim, do not screw up in this town. There's no such thing as a second chance."

"What about Mickey Rourke?"

"Do you see him walking around with a fucking Oscar?"

Jim glared. "You're an asshole, man."

"Whatever works, darling, whatever works," Scotty said, before snapping his fingers at a waiter and shouting, "Are you unscrewing that bottle with someone's arse or am I going to have to get my own drink?"

Jim slid down in his chair and put his shades on. This was one more restaurant he'd be avoiding for a while.

***

Friday night schmoozing was the worst. It meant finding a fake date since he wasn't seeing anyone and grinning at a lot of people he didn't really want to know. By the end of the night, he lost his fake date and found a very real bar. He was on his third beer when someone took up the stool next to him.

"Mr. Kirk, Christopher Pike. Pleasure to finally meet you."

Jim turned to look at the man, smiling politely and offering a hand. "Mr. Pike."

"You're a hard man to get in touch with," Pike said. "Monty seems very protective of you."

“Monty.” Jim laughed. "Scotty is a complicated guy."

Pike smiled, nodding. "I've been trying to get him to forward a script to you. I don't suppose he's said anything."

Jim really hoped it wasn't one of those one in a million awful pieces of crap Scotty had labeled as gold. "Um, I can't really say."

"Story about a widower who tries to track down his father's long lost car. Takes a road trip instead of grieving. Meets some interesting people. Finally runs out of road. Meaning of life stuff," Pike said with an amused smile.

Jim shook his head. "No. I think that one must have passed me by."

Pike nodded. "I was hoping you might want to consider it."

Jim thought about it. He wasn't doing too bad. Money, nice house, nice car and clothes. Lots of girlfriends. Some discreet boyfriends. Also, on screen action man antics were fun and Scotty was kind of right about Hollywood. "I dunno. It's not really me, you know?"

"So, what? You're going to spend your whole life playing cocky arrogant heart-of-gold smartasses? Take a chance, Kirk."

"Chances don't always pan out, Mr. Pike."

Pike seemed to be looking Jim over very carefully, smiling at something private. "I knew your father, you know. He wrote one novel. A novel no one thought would see the light of day, but he wrote it anyway. Made a lot of people angry, including your mother. Best damn thing I've ever read."

Jim pulled a face. "Really? That's supposed to persuade me into saying yes?"

Pike grinned and got up. "No. It's supposed to make you consider being selfish. You're young enough to bounce back in a dozen meat-head roles if this doesn't pan out."

"You seem pretty sure," Jim said.

"You've got that spark. Same spark your old man had. You can do better. Think about it."

And Pike was gone. The guy was hell of a charmer.

"Jimmy! Jimmy, sweetheart," Scotty was calling, forcing Jim to turn on his barstool and face a very amorous Scot. Scotty grabbed Jim's face in both hands and planted a kiss on his mouth.

Jim laughed and shook his head once Scotty let go. "Had a few drinks, Scotty?"

"I am fucking off my tits," Scotty said, laughing. "You know why?"

Jim shook his head. "Please don't tell me if it's illegal."

Scotty seemed to think it over and then grinned dopily. He said, "Okay. I won't. Shhh."

Jim laughed, pulling Scotty onto a barstool. "Hey, Scotty. You know a guy called Pike?" Scotty frowned, shaking his head. "Christopher Pike."

Scotty seemed to zone out for a minute and then looked at Jim. Jim could see Scotty adding five and five to make fifty-five. "Oh that fucking bastard. He fucking got to you."

***

"A fucking widower looking for a car and meeting freaks across America. What the fuck kind of shitty film is that?" Scotty asked, holding an ice pack to his head and accepting a coffee from Jim as they sat in Jim's kitchen.

"I think it sounds interesting," Jim said. "Scotty, I think I want to do this."

"Oh god," Scotty groaned.

Jim gave Scotty a stubborn look. "Scotty, I'd rather you were on board with this. You're not just my agent. You're my friend. An asshole, but my friend all the same."

"Fuck you. You're fucking ruining my fucking life you fucking fucker," Scotty said, looking utterly miserable.

Jim stared. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

***

After much flailing, crying and chest beating, Scotty decided to give Jim his support, complete with every expletive known to humanity. Jim was excited. Way more excited about this movie than any other. It would be called quirky. It would probably win stuff at Cannes. Be one of those movies you have to watch before you die. It would mean being able to keep his shirt on in the next bunch of photo shoots. Hopefully.

"You mean one of those movies that grosses a packet of peanuts and a fucking hot dog," Scotty had said.

"Do you have to be an asshole?" Jim had asked.

Scotty had replied, "It's in my blood!"

Jim ignored Scotty's misery. He was just too excited. He was practically vibrating with excitement as he sat in his trailer. In fact, he vibrated all the way to where the funeral set was still being finished off. Jim didn't really need to be around yet, but he felt he should just soak in the whole experience and also this was a good place to hide from Scotty's tantrums.

“J.T. What are you doing here?” Pike asked.

“Jim, please. Seriously, I have no idea how the whole J.T. thing started.”

“I've been told it was on Twitter.” Pike said with a frown. “I'm not really sure what that means.”

“Everyone stop what they're doing please.”

Pike and Jim turned around to see a man who could have been a cardboard cutout he was so still, neat and pristine. Tall and thin and with a posture that ridiculously exceeded being simply good posture, the man walked onto the set, hands behind his back, wearing a smart black suit. His eyebrows were a bit too well groomed and his haircut placed him as a Beatles fan or just into retro fashion. Everything about him added up to Jim expecting to hear something he didn't want to hear.

“Damn it,” Pike was muttering.

“What?” Jim asked.

“Spock. He's a studio exec. Means bad news,” Pike said.

“I am afraid I have to confirm your suspicions,” Spock said, voice oddly soft as it was firm. “We cannot proceed with this project. It appears the studio does not own the rights to this script.”

“What do you mean the studio doesn't have the rights? This script's been knocking around for years,” Pike said.

“That much is true. But it appears the rights were never officially secured. The author of the original novel contacted the studio and made a very... forceful request that we not proceed with this project,” Spock said.

Jim frowned. Scotty appeared just then and said, “You mean the grumpy fart threatened to kick the shit out of the suits.”

Spock turned to Scotty. “Mr. Scott. As ever you have a knack for being in close proximity when I have unwelcome news to deliver.”

“I can't believe this,” Pike said, storming off with a bunch of assistants and people pulling out phones and Blackberrys.

“Why would Pike start this movie if the author had an issue?” Jim asked.

Spock arched a brow. “It is my understanding that the author had a change of heart while the project was changing hands. When the project was canceled altogether, it appears no one resolved the remaining issues.”

Jim shook his head. “Wait, so how did he even find out it was back on?” There was silence. And then Spock and Jim both turned to look at Scotty who looked incredibly shifty. “What did you do?” Jim asked quietly.

“What? Me? Nothing! I would never... ever, really, Jim! Jimmy! Baby!”

“I will kill you, Scotty,” Jim warned.

“All right, fine. I may have accidentally tracked down his number and let it slip that his pride and joy was about to be cannibalized by that arty farty fucker Pike and that the actor playing a role that requires quite a lot of gravitas was the one and same twinkie who appeared shirtless in no less than twelve magazines this month,” Scotty said. “The operative word being 'accidentally'.”

Jim lunged at Scotty, but Spock was able to restrain him freakishly easily, one arm securing around Jim's waist. “I am afraid I cannot allow you to harm Mr. Scott while you are on the grounds of Enterprise Studios. Might I suggest we all step outside?”

Jim shrugged away from Spock. “Forget it.”

He gave Scotty a parting look and walked away.

***

Scotty turned up at Jim's place in the morning, looking aptly guilty. Jim stared at him with muted hostility for a moment before walking away, leaving the door open behind him. Scotty followed him all the way into the bedroom where Jim resumed packing.

“What's going on?” Scotty asked.

Jim turned around and glared. “Not cool, Scotty. What you did? That was not cool. You're supposed to be my friend.”

Scotty nodded. “I know. And I'm really sorry. I just... Jim, you're a fucking star. I just don't want you to mess it up by starring in one of Pike's little Indie Picasso pieces of shit.”

“So what if I do mess up?” Jim said. “I mess up. It happens.”

Jim turned back his packing, but Scotty was grabbing his arm and turning him about. “Jim, I'm really fucking sorry. I mean it, man. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, you know? You being my meal ticket and all.”

Jim stared and then gave in with a sigh. “Asshole.”

Scotty grinned and gave Jim a hearty hug before sighing and nodding to the holdall on the bed. “So. You can stop packing now?”

Jim shook his head. “No. I still have to go on this trip.”

“Pleasure, right? Because you'd tell me if it was business. Because we're still in business, right?”

“Scotty, quit worrying. I don't think I could get rid of you if I tried. I'm going up to Colorado.”

“Colorado? What the fuck's up there?” Scotty asked.

“The writer.”

Jim turned at Spock's voice. Scotty was staring at Spock who stood framed perfectly in the doorway. “What the fuck's this hobbit doing here?”

“Hobbit's are small,” Spock pointed out.

“Do I look like I give a flying fuck?” Scotty turned to Jim. “Seriously, what's going on?”

“Spock,” Jim said, “has been kind enough to offer to accompany me to Colorado to meet the guy who can make this movie happen. We're going to see if we can talk this McKay into handing the rights over, for a nice price of course.”

“McCoy,” Spock corrected. “Also, it would be prudent to point out that you may have underestimated the resolve of Leonard McCoy, Jim. I have heard he is so strong of will and hard of fist, that many an executive at the studio has soiled their undergarments just on hearing his name.”

“Which is why they're sending a robot,” Scotty said flatly.

“Mr. Scott, please decide whether I am a hobbit or a robot. The likelihood of me being both is ridiculous even for the purposes of your insults.”

“What? You could be a hobbit robot. You'd be a hobot,” Scotty said. Spock arched a brow at him and somehow made it look as though he was rolling his eyes without doing so. “Either way, why's the pointy-eared princess going with you?”

And then Scotty was slumping on the floor, Spock's hand between Scotty's neck and shoulder, a calm look on his face.

“What the hell was that?” Jim asked, staring.

“The inevitable ending to any and all conversations I have with Mr. Scott.” Spock peered down at Scotty, his mouth pursed all innocent and sweet. Jim could have sworn it was masking a look of utter satisfaction. “I think it's time we departed, Jim.”

Jim made a face at Scotty. “We can't leave him like that.”

“It would be unwise to bring Mr. Scott on the trip,” Spock said.

“Why?”

Spock seemed to stiffen. “He has an unhealthy fixation with my ears which almost always results in the surfacing of some quite negative emotions. Violent emotions.”

“Come on, Spock. If he gives you any trouble, you can just--” Jim wiggled his fingers in Spock's direction.

Spock seemed to think about it. “You make a valid point.”

With that, Spock picked up Scotty and slung him over his shoulder, while Jim told himself he totally wasn't impressed by Spock's freakish strength or uber neatness. Well, maybe a little, he was human after all.

Outside, they waited until a rather luxurious looking travel trailer backed up into the driveway, a woman sitting in the driver's seat. “I thought you said it was just one passenger,” she said.

Spock gave her a small bow of the head. “There was a change of plan.”

She rolled her eyes and nodded. “Fine. All aboard.”

Jim looked up at her and put on his hundred watt grin. “Hey. Jim Kirk.”

“I know who you are,” she said with an amused smile. “You want to get inside, Jim Kirk?”

“You have no idea,” Jim said quietly, flirting power on full.

Jim heard something fall inside the vehicle. Something Scotty sized. Spock stuck his head out of the door, seemed to avert Jim's gaze completely and said, “Inside please.”

Jim jumped in and took a look around. It was roughly the size of one of the better range of trailers when filming, the driver and passenger seats plush and comfortable, a small seating area, some kitchen space, a toilet and small bedroom.

“Nice,” Jim said with a nod. “Hey, I can probably use the experience of this trip for the movie, you know, if it all goes ahead.”

“Except in the movie the protagonist does not have a comfortable trailer, but a motorcycle,” Spock pointed out.

“Well, except that.”

“And he is a grieving widower.”

“Okay, that too.”

“Not a movie star.”

“I get the point.”

“And alone.”

“Hey, Spock, how about we get moving?” Jim said with a smile, patting Spock on the arm.

“Very well,” Spock said and nodded to the woman who had been watching both men with amusement. She gave Jim a smirk and swiveled about in her seat.

Jim jumped into the passenger seat next to her, still working the charm. “Didn't get your name.”

“Didn't give it,” she said smoothly.

“Well, are you going to? Or am I going to have to guess?” Jim asked with a smile.

“Uhura.”

“Uhura? Uhura what?”

“Just Uhura.”

“What? Like Madonna? Cher? That kind of thing?” Jim asked, grinning at her, watching the way she seemed to find him amusing, the way he made her smile.

“Why not? It's not bad company,” she replied.

“I dunno. I think you're selling yourself short,” Jim said.

Uhura laughed. “You did not just try a line on me, did you?”

Jim grinned. “Did it work?”

“Hell no,” she said.

“So, tell me, Uhura, how did Spock get you to come along? You must have better things to do with your time,” Jim said.

Uhura shot him a glance before turning her attention to driving. “Oh, I've got better things to do. One of them just happens to be here.”

Jim frowned. Then he turned back to see Spock depositing Scotty on one of the cushioned built in benches before straightening out his attire. Jim turned his seat to stare at Uhura.

“Spock? Are you kidding me?”

Uhura seemed to sigh before she said. “Trust me. He's worth it.” Jim slumped in his chair. “So, Mr. J.T. Kirk. What's in Colorado?”

Jim swiveled the chair to look out at the road with a sign. “A guy who owns a story. I am going there to be very persuasive so I can be in a movie he wrote.”

“What's so special about the movie?”

Jim frowned. He hadn't really thought about it. It had just struck him as something he needed to do. “I dunno. I have a feeling there's something really big waiting at the end of this movie. Like I'm being pulled towards it.”

“Oh, that's totally destiny and stuff,” Uhura said. “I think maybe the cosmos is guiding you.”

“That is a most illogical assumption,” Spock said, coming to stand between them. “The cosmos is incapable of determining the paths you choose to explore. As for destiny. A ploy we use to comfort ourselves when our plans fail.”

“Who votes for the killjoy to go to the back of the bus?” Uhura asked, putting up her hand.

Jim instantly shot his hand up in agreement. Spock seemed to do a minute eye manoeuvre that implied major eye-rolling in a universe where he did that kind of thing, and then turned to leave.

“So, you say you feel like you're being pulled towards this place?” Uhura said.

Jim nodded, utterly serious. “Totally. This script? It's awesome. Exactly the kind of movie I wouldn't watch. You know, the kind that gets awards. But that's not all. I have this gut feeling. I have to see this guy and get him to say yes.”

Uhura nodded back. “Intense.” And then she added, “And don't think I can't see you making you're 'that is so illogical' faces back there.”

“I assure you I am doing no such thing. Flawed reasoning usually speaks for itself,” Spock answered from his seat.

Jim made a face and looked at Uhura. “You sure you want to stick with that guy? I mean, I know you can't see it right now, but I have many hidden depths. Not just this winning smile.”

Uhura laughed hard. “Boy, you're really something.”

“Indeed,” Spock said, as if magically appearing between their seats. He laid a hand on Jim's shoulder “Out of the chair please.”

Jim eyed the slim fingers on his shoulder, almost feather light. As silent threats went, they were very effective.

***

Scotty was rubbing his shoulder and grimacing where he sat, while Jim was killing bad guys on the Playstation. “I can't believe you let him do that,” Scotty said.

“What? I didn't know he was going to go all Xena on you,” Jim said, blasting another ship before peering over his shoulder to see Spock in the passenger seat, absorbed in whatever Uhura was saying. “He's an interesting guy, Spock.”

“Yeah, if by interesting you mean psychotic bastard,” Scotty said, fidgeting to get comfortable. “You should have left me. Traveling makes me cranky.”

“Shouldn't notice too much of a difference then,” Jim muttered.

Scotty sniffed and looked past Jim. He gave Jim a conspiratorial smile. “She's nice. Think she might be up for a little jiggery pokery?”

“She's dating Spock.”

“What?” Scotty spat. “Oh that's it. I think hell's going to freezing over next. And there's Satan's little helper.”

Jim turned to see a bemused Spock, ever elegantly poised. “Jim.”

“Spock,” Jim said.

“Please remind me of your answer when I asked you to check what the driving conditions would be like if we were to undertake this trip immediately.”

Jim thought it over. “I think my exact words were, dude the weather's going to be frickin awesome.”

Spock nodded. “And where in the confines of 'frickin awesome' would you place the current snow storm?”

Jim was silent for a moment and then sheepishly replied, “I like snow.” Spock gave him a judging look, which kind of looked like all his looks, but Jim just found it more judgy. “Sorry, man.”

Spock turned stiffly and went back to Uhura's side and sulked in the most dignified manner Jim had ever seen.

***

They finally reached Sidewinder, Colorado around midnight. The snow was thick on the ground and obscuring everything in sight while in the air. Uhura, prepared for all weather was wearing a fake fur pulled from her emergency trunk. Next to her, Spock was looking pale as an icicle while Jim shivered in his expensively useless jacket.

“I believe this is the correct house,” Spock said, a barely contained shiver under each word.

Scotty knocked back some brandy from a flask and said, “This place looks like something out of the fucking Munsters.”

They all looked at the dark, foreboding and gloomy farmhouse, lights on inside, smoke billowing from a chimney. Everything about it said 'go away'. But every urge in Jim's body said to go forward.

“Let's go,” he said, stepping forward and sinking into a dip in the ground filled with fresh snow, while Uhura and Scotty yelled out in surprise. Spock pulled him out and shook him free of snow and Jim nodded. “Thanks, Spock, looks like I got a little excited.”

They all made their way to the porch, Uhura knocking on the door until someone swore inside at which point Uhura quickly decided to shove Jim in front of the door. After a while it was yanked open hard by a very irate looking man leaning on a pair of crutches, right leg in a cast below the knee. His hair was slightly overgrown and messy, heavy stubble decorating his face along with a deep set frown.

“You Mormons sure are persistent. Preaching even in this weather,” he all but growled at Jim.

Jim stared, open-mouthed. “Mormon? No, I'm Kirk. J.T. Kirk,” he said, all most adding the words 'move star' to his introduction.

The man eyed him with suspicion. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

Jim turned to stare at Scotty. “He doesn't know who I am.”

Scotty looked gobsmacked. “What the hell kind of place is this?”

That was when Spock moved past them all and said, “Mister McCoy, could we possibly come inside and talk?”

“Spock?” McCoy said, staring. “Oh no. Hell no. I know what this is about and the answer is no. Goodbye!”

He started to close the door when Uhura stepped up and said, “Mister McCoy, I've been driving for hours and the only reason I agreed to come here was because I admire your work and I've wanted to meet you for so long. One writer to another, at least let us come inside and warm up a little, please?”

McCoy was looking at Uhura, no doubt falling for her charm and sweet sincerity. “That was good. You ever think of taking up acting, Miss?”

Uhura gasped as the door shut and turned to Spock. “Totally immune to my wiles! Can you believe it?”

Spock arched a brow. “I cannot.” Then he turned to Jim. “Jim, I feel your wiles maybe of more use in this case.” He banged on the door and then shoved Jim at McCoy when it opened.

“Oh, hey, again,” Jim said as McCoy stared at the man standing practically in his pockets. “Look, you've obviously made up your mind, but seriously, it's freezing cold out here, man.”

McCoy gave them all an irritated glare and then nodded at Jim. “Fine. You can come in and warm up and then leave.”

Jim smiled and nodded at McCoy. “Thank you.”

McCoy limped away in front, telling them. “Whatever. Just remember, you try anything funny, I've got a gun.”

***

Jim stepped into the house, rubbing his hands together as he watched Uhura remove her coat and drape it around Spock's shoulders. Scotty saw it too and rolled his eyes, walking down the hall and into the living room. McCoy went on ahead and through a door at the end of the hall. Jim watched him for a moment before following the others into the living room.

It was a largish room with more of the dark wood floor in the hall, covered with thick rugs. There was a roaring fireplace in the opposite wall, a low square coffee table between it and the comfortable looking couch, which had flat cushions at one end and a patchwork throw at the other.

The TV was on in the corner, muted, probably because of the book on the coffee table. Jim picked it up as Scotty took the TV remote and started to put the volume up before flicking through the channels. Uhura went for a large bookshelf while Spock sat down in the armchair closest to the fireplace, looking like a furry icicle.

Jim held up the book and said, “Didn't they just make this into a movie?”

Uhura turned from the bookshelf to stare at the book. “Twilight? Really? It's like finding out about Santa not being real all over again.”

Jim shrugged and put the book down, “Why didn't you say you were a writer?”

Uhura went back to eying McCoy's books. “I didn't want you to get all weird and stop acting natural.”

“Why would I stop acting natural just because you're a writer?” Uhura clamped her mouth shut and seemed to be concentrating very hard on a book in her hand. Jim blinked. Then he turned to Spock. “Spock?”

Spock stretched his hands towards the fire. “I assure you there is no need for concern. Uhura is simply searching for suitable characters for her new script.”

Jim swiveled back to Uhura. “Excuse me?”

Uhura made a face. “Look, I'm just looking for interesting character traits, nuances, background and stuff. It's not like the movie is going to say 'oh by the way the jerk who saves the day is modeled on the winner of the MTV award for Best Butt Shot'.”

“Oh great. It's fucking shitting shit loads of snow out there. We're bloody stranded,” Scotty growled. Everyone turned to stare at him. “What? She's basing a character on you. Big deal. So someone'll mention it in Wikipedia or after you're dead. Do you really give a fucking tit?”

“I do as it happens, Scotty. I give both fucking tits,” Jim said dryly, folding his arms across his chest and looking pretty damn determined.

Uhura sighed. “Fine. I can see this bothers you. You're off limits. ”

Jim frowned. “Really? Just like that?”

Uhura smiled an amazingly sweet smile, bright and sparkly. “Sure.”

Jim nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks... I'm... thanks.”

Uhura went back to McCoy's shelf and Jim turned to look at Scotty who was staring at him and shaking his head.

Jim blinked, turned back and smiled. “You're lying.”

“Gee, I guess I wasn't swayed by your good looks and boy next door charms after all,” Uhura said smoothly. “Also, get over yourself, Kirk. You really think there's much to write about some vacant Hollywood humping machine?”

Jim offered up a smirk. “That's unfair, I sometimes hump outside of Hollywood too.”

Uhura laughed. “Figures.”

Jim offered a wry smile and turned to leave. Walking into the hall he peered at the room at the end. It was emitting all kinds of welcoming fragrances. Something hot, tangy, bready and so fragrant Jim could actually taste apple pie in his mouth. And freshly ground coffee. God, he'd kill for some coffee right now.

He looked back into the living room where Spock now had the remote control and was channel surfing with a look of intent, Uhura was sitting in an old wooden chair in front of the bookshelf and running her fingers across the spines as she looked from book to book and Scotty was standing by the windows, eyes on the stormy weather outside.

Jim frowned at them, feeling that odd movement of deja vu in his chest, as if for a moment his body had buzzed apart and re-aligned itself, leaving his heart skipping a beat. It was strange how sometimes something could appear to have been done before, many times before even, no matter how impossible it seemed.

Jim shook it off and headed for the kitchen to make nice with Leonard McCoy.

***

Jim walked into the perfect square of the kitchen, where he was hit by a wave of welcome heat from the large black stove by the far wall on his right. The large kitchen table had a folded paper on it, crossword half done, a notepad with scribbles and a shut laptop. McCoy stood opposite, back turned towards Jim. He was flipping through a magazine on the counter, leaning on one crutch and keeping his weight off his right leg, the coffee pot in front of him beginning to erupt into the odd bubble now and then.

McCoy actually seemed like a pretty laid back guy from this angle. Emphasis on pretty, Jim thought, though he would never confess to his mind's use of that word. McCoy was tall, broad shouldered and lean, even under the thick black sweater. The jeans he was wearing were old, frayed and worn. Thick hair, dark and in need of a cut.

He didn't look like any of the writers Jim had met. What the hell was this guy doing up here? Was Sidewinder even on a map?

“You gonna say something or just stand there all day?” McCoy asked lazily, still flipping through the magazine.

Jim smiled. “Thanks for not letting us freeze to death.”

McCoy stopped flipping through the magazine, his body completely still and his eyes obviously drawn to something. He picked up the magazine and turned around, hobbling towards the table using one crutch.

“That you?” he asked, slapping the magazine down on the table.

Jim picked it up and looked at the black and white single page shot, him, open shirt blowing backwards, glistening torso, pale dilated eyes staring straight into the camera with his mouth slightly parted. It was one of those pictures where if he looked long enough, it became harder and harder to find himself in the image.

Jim put the magazine down and gave McCoy a wry smile. “I hear they sold a lot of copies that month.”

McCoy snorted. “I bet they did... J.T. Your agent come up with that damn fool name?”

Jim made a face. “It was an Internet thing.” McCoy frowned. Jim said, “The Internet is a global network of--”

“I know what the Internet is, smartass,” McCoy said and it made Jim laugh because these day people were all about schmoozing him. With the exception of Scotty, nobody really spoke to him on the level. Or called him a smartass for that matter.

The coffee was bubbling with some ferocity now and McCoy turned back towards it, getting a cup and pouring.

“I'd love a cup actually,” Jim said. McCoy sighed, grumbled a little and retrieved another cup. “Milk and sugar.”

“Milk's in the fridge, sugar's to your left,” McCoy said, placing Jim's cup on the table before bringing his own and retrieving a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket before he sat down. McCoy lit up, picking up the magazine, folding it in half and holding it up to eye level, squinting through the smoke at the picture of Jim

Jim eyed him for a moment and then decided to fetch himself a bottle of milk and the jar of sugar, helping himself to a search of the kitchen drawers, eventually finding a spoon. Mixing in the sugar and milk, he promptly returned the items. It was unlikely McCoy would endure an outsider's laziness in his home.

Jim sat down at the table, adjacent to McCoy, peering down at the outstretched leg as McCoy seemed lost in thought, bringing his cigarette to his mouth and putting the magazine down. “How d'you do that?”

“Someone broke it because I wouldn't mind my own business,” McCoy said.

Jim nodded. “I guess you were in no shape to outrun them.”

McCoy stared at Jim. Maybe he was more used to people taking his bullshit too. Jim offered him a smile, a truce if the other man was willing. McCoy rolled his eyes. “Fell off the roof fixing a leak,” McCoy said flatly.

Jim frowned. “You know, you could have gotten someone else to fix it. Like, you know, a professional.”

“I guess I never thought of that. Plus, I would have just loved the company,” McCoy said, employing some stellar sarcasm. Jim opened his mouth to retort, but McCoy had tensed up and it seemed he had no intention of letting Jim getting another word in. “Look, you want to stay out of the storm, fine, stick around. You want to make best buddies so the studio can use my script? Forget about it. My answer is no.”

Jim put his coffee down. “Well, it wasn't always no.”

McCoy pulled a face. “It is now. Unless that counts for nothing. And seriously, why is this a big deal? You're a big star,” McCoy said, nodding towards the magazine. “You miss out on one movie, you'll get another. You do this movie and you'll probably--”

“Change a few misconceptions hopefully,” Jim said, turning the magazine over to hide that damn picture.

McCoy shook his head and laughed. “Let me guess. You want to become a serious actor.”

“I just want to do something different,” Jim said evenly. “Something I haven't done what feels like a million times before. Come on, man, you don't care that the book is out there.”

“It's bad enough that piece of crap is out there. I don't need it splashed across a big screen,” McCoy said roughly, throwing the cigarette into his coffee cup. He got up, stumbling as he reached for his crutches, but still finding time to tell Jim, “And I definitely don't want some shirtless wonder from Hollywood to come up here and tell me how I feel about my own damn book.”

“Shirtless wonder,” Jim muttered as he watched McCoy leave, all tension and anger coiled around the crutches. “You have no idea how drunk I had to get for that.”

***

Jim waited a few minutes before leaving the kitchen (and disposing of the annoying magazine on McCoy's table). As he walked back to the living room, he could just about hear McCoy's voice from the room across the hall. He was talking to some guy called Bob and it all sounded very urgent. Unable to make much of it out, Jim joined the others.

Scotty was still by the window, frowning. Uhura had moved to the couch where she was scribbling something on a pad of paper and Spock was sitting next to her, Uhura's coat now serving as a blanket, his eyes fixed on the TV. Jim sat down on the armrest of the couch, eyes on CNN.

“Jim. Are you all right?” Spock asked.

Jim smiled and nodded. “Sure.”

Spock gave him a nod that seemed to indicate he wouldn't pursue his line of questioning. Next to him, Uhura continued scribbling away.

“What are you writing?” Jim asked. Uhura looked up, blinked and opened her mouth to speak. Jim held up a hand. “I don't want to know.”

She smiled and continued writing as Scotty came over and said, “It's easing up out there. Not sure about traveling this time of night though.” Jim gave Scotty a look. His friend had the decency to look a little guilty. “Look, even if I hadn't cocked things up for you fantastically, do you think this film could have gone to print without his consent? It's better to be out of it before you get invested, trust me on that. You want to blame anyone, blame the studio for slipping up.”

“It doesn't matter either way,” Jim said. “The guy's made up his mind.”

“Clearly he is as obstinate now as he was three years ago,” Spock said.

“And you've still got a knack for stating the obvious, Spock,” McCoy said from the doorway. He walked in and handed Scotty a piece of paper. “That's an address. Motel about twenty minutes from here. I've booked you some rooms. Should get going before the weather turns, which it will. Map's on the other side.”

Jim looked at McCoy, the other man eying him as he gave Scotty the paper. There must have been something in Jim's look because McCoy looked away, clearly troubled. Scotty meanwhile made a face at the paper and went to Spock, slapping the directions into the other man's hand.

“I'm terrible with directions. Machines on the other hand, they're a dab hand at this kind of thing,” he said as Spock did no more than lift an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving up ever so slightly.

“Look, sorry the trip was a waste of time,” McCoy said, moving away from the door. “You better get moving before the blizzard really hits.”

Uhura got up and slipped into her coat, which Spock was holding out for her and Scotty nodded to McCoy, already on his way out.

Spock stopped by door and shook McCoy's hand with a firm, “Leonard.”

“Spock,” McCoy replied politely before Spock left the room.

Then Uhura shook McCoy's hand with a smile. “I hope we'll meet again. Under better circumstances.”

McCoy gave a nod, evading her eyes and looking somewhat embarrassed. Then Jim was left alone standing in the middle of the living room. McCoy looked up at him and held out his hand. Jim took it, shaking it firmly. He wanted to say something about the crushing disappointment he felt, something about the way he felt his meeting McCoy was supposed to have a purpose. Something was supposed to happen here.

Instead he offered up his best smile and nodded. “Well, good luck with this. Whatever it is you're doing here.”

McCoy's mouth stretched at the corner to accommodate the smallest of smiles. “Sure. You too, Jim. Good luck.”

And then Jim was leaving, walking back into the cold, McCoy closing the door behind him.

***

“At least look at the map like you need to see where you're going, you bloody robot,” Scotty said from the passenger seat as Spock drove calm and well within all regulations of the road.

“He said he didn't want his crappy book splashed across the big screen,” Jim said dryly, Uhura sitting across from him. Jim sighed, swiveling his chair side to side before crossing his legs. “Well, that's that, I guess.”

“You think it's crappy?” Uhura asked, totally judging on Jim.

He made a face back at her. “No. That's what he said. I haven't even read the damn book. Can't be too different from the script.”

Uhura shook her head. “Listen, Hollywood, how about you... oh I don't know try and read the book? For all you know, the best stuff might not even have made it to the script. Or you know, the worst stuff even.”

“I was going to, but then I figured I already had a handle on this character and maybe the book would screw that up. Not that this will be a problem now,” Jim said with a tight smile.

“Good,” Uhura said, reaching for her bag, unzipping, rifling through it and then pulling out a small battered book. She held it out.

Jim blinked. “Are you serious? You keep a copy with you?” Then he laughed. “You're not up here for inspiration. You're stalking McCoy.”

“Am not,” Uhura said. “I just happened to bring a copy when I found out where we were going. I thought maybe he could sign it for me.”

Jim grinned. “And marry you?”

“You're such a dick,” Uhura said, Jim snatching the book from her before she could change her mind. She gave him what was an obviously fake smile. “I can use this. You just added a whole new facet of being a jerk to my new character.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. McCoy,” Jim said with a smile.

Uhura gave him the skunk eye and pulled out a pad of paper, furiously scribbling until they reached the motel.

***

Bones came to a stop in the middle of the dust path. The sky was a bloody red in the distance, the dark encroaching behind him and his bike had long stopped purring, spluttering to a standstill. Bones tiredly lit up his cigarette, sitting back and looking at the sinking sun, counting places that throbbed with pain across his body. Leg screaming where it had twisted, lip throbbing where it split and skin stinging where his face had been scratched and cut.

It still wasn't enough. The surface pain was never enough to drown out the memories in his head or the constant thoughts about an empty future where life had become a mountain with no promises at the top and just too hard to climb. He could die right here and it wouldn't fucking matter. Not to him and sure as hell not to anyone else.

Thwap!

Jim looked up from where he sat reading in the small waiting. Scotty was holding a hand to his cheek, mouth hanging open as he stared at the brown-haired middle-aged lady with owlish glasses behind the service desk.

“First of all, you ought to be ashamed talking to a lady with such a potty mouth, Mister, and second of all, your friend could be Paul Newman and I still wouldn't be able to conjure up a whole new set of rooms. This is all I've got and we're only doing this as a favour to Leonard because he's a sweetheart. How in God's name he knows someone like you, I have no idea.”

Spock stood next to Scotty, staring at him. “Fascinating. I have never seen you at a loss for words, Mr. Scott. It is most... interesting.”

Jim turned to Uhura who seemed to be drawing all kinds of charts on her pad of paper. “This book's kind of intense.” Uhura looked up at him and stared. He rolled his eyes. “I'm just saying. It's pretty heavy going. The script doesn't go into half of the stuff in this guy's head.”

A shadow fell across both of them and Jim looked up to find Spock, Scotty behind him and still looking a little stunned.

“I am afraid you and Mr. Scott will have to share a room. It appears the motel only has two rooms available. I believe one of them is a storage room with a bed.”

“Shotgun on the nice room!” Jim yelled just as Uhura opened her mouth.

Uhura stared open mouthed. “You can't call shotgun on a room!”

“You can call shotgun on a shotgun as far as I know,” Jim said fluttering his eyelashes and smiling.

Uhura looked up at Spock. Spock said, “I believe those are the rules. We will simply have to make as much use as possible of all available space.”

Uhura stared at Spock. Spock just looked... well Spocky, but the ends of all the lines of his face did seem to imply strange affectionate curves of mischief. And Uhura's skin had taken on a flushed tinge high up on her cheeks. “Well,” she said, “Shotgun is shotgun.”

***

After guiding a still stunned silent Scotty to the bed, Jim jumped aboard himself, putting a few coins into the slot above it and lying back as it began to vibrate. He opened up the book and continued reading, Scotty lying next to him in a waking coma.

It was about an hour later that Scotty sat up and said, “She slapped me!”

Jim put the book down on his stomach. “You've never been slapped before? I find that very hard to believe for many reasons.”

“I can't believe this,” Scotty said. “My mother never so much raised her voice around me when I was a wee boy. And that woman, she slapped me. Look, right across the face!” Scotty pointed to the offended cheek.

“Well, Scotty, sometimes you can be a wee bit annoying,” Jim said.

Scotty frowned. “What? Really?”

“You can come on a little strong,” Jim said with a nod. “You need to relax a little.”

Scotty seemed to be thinking about it long and hard. Then he fell back in a deflated heap and sighed. “I wasn't always like this. It's Hollywood. It changes you.” Jim reached out and patted Scotty's arm. Scotty threw it aside. “Piss off.”

Jim laughed and went back to his book.

***

It was about three in the morning when he finished reading. His eyes were stinging and tired and his neck hurt at the slightest movement. Jim got up and walked around the room. As books went, it was a good book, as good as any other book. But all Jim could think of was Bones. All that anger and pain.

Uhura had been right about the script. It was all surface. Everything that was Bones was in the narrative, in the character's heart and head. The script had a pale imitation. A man who was brooding and moving, whereas the man in the book was angry and running.

And all Jim could think of was McCoy whose soulful eyes hinted at everything his roughness tried to hide. Everything he had locked away in this harmless looking book. Jim stuffed the book into his pocket and left the room, jogging down the hall until he found the unmarked room Uhura and Spock were sharing.

Uhura answered, way too awake for this time of night and wrapped up in her fur. “Kirk. It's three in the morning.”

“I need a favor,” Jim said. “I need your keys and your coat.”

Uhura frowned. “What the hell for?”

“Well, coat because I didn't really come prepared for the weather and it's getting pretty bad out there and keys because I need to go and see McCoy.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Why? Is that a real fur?”

“Forget the fur. You can't just drop by the house of a guy who threw us all out. Especially in this weather. It's getting bad out there.”

“So give me the keys before it gets worse,” Jim said. “Or I'll just find another way, Uhura.”

Uhura was silent for a long time and then she angrily muttered, “Should never have given you that stupid book,” and disappeared back into the room.

She returned with the keys, handing them over and then took off the coat to reveal a very distracting lacy bra and panties.

“Seriously, if things don't work out with Spock,” Jim said.

Uhura shoved the coat in his face and pushed him away, closing the door with a resounding slam.

***

Ten minutes into the journey Jim realised that the only person who could probably navigate the map on the dashboard was McCoy, Spock or God. He was left to squinting past the snow outside the window, looking for familiar landmarks, one of the most prominent ones being snow. And then something darted across the road.

“Fuck!” Jim yelled, swerving. The next thing he knew, he was driving less and nosediving more. “Shit!”

Jim gripped the wheel hard as he was thrown off the road and sliding somewhere on a downward trajectory which ended only when the block of darkness ahead out to be bushes and maybe a fence, which not only stopped the moving vehicle, but smashed through the windscreen, narrowly missed Jim, broken wood just grazing the side of his face.

Jim switched off the still running engine and took off his seat belt before falling out of his seat. He somehow managed to crawl to the door, his bones feeling as though they had all been shaken loose. The first thing that confronted him on opening the door was the strong gust of wind slapping him in the face. He walked a few steps before falling onto his knees and wrapping Uhura's fur coat around himself the best he could.

“Damn it!” he yelled, the coat way too small to offer any real protection. No wonder women were always cold. Their fucking clothes were never big enough.

Jim pulled out his cellphone, flipping it open and jabbing the speed dial for Scotty. He didn't even know why he felt so surprised when the phone showed no signal. He trudged back up the snow bank and to the road. The snow flurry was so thick it was hard to see what was on the road or not. And then he remembered the thing that had darted across earlier. It could be anything. A yeti, a serial killer, something even worse. “This is just great!” Jim shouted at no one in particular.

Now he was left with a dilemma, head back to the motel and die of exposure, or continue onto McCoy who would be growly and unsympathetic and probably send him straight out again, which ultimately meant... also dying of exposure.

In the end, he figured the motel was closer and started moving, pulling the coat as tight as possible around himself. After a while, he didn't know how long he'd been walking, but he did know he was getting considerably colder and the snow was getting heavier.

“Hey! Hey you!”

Jim stopped and turned around, searching for the source of the voice. There was a small light nearing and eventually it turned out to be attached to the hand of a man wearing a coat that only left his eyes visible.

“Are you crazy?” the man asked. “What the hell are you doing out here, son?”

“I had an accident, drove off the road. You have any idea how close I am to Sidewinder Motel?”

“Not close enough,” the man said. “Look, I got a truck back here. Town's out of my way, but you can come back with me and call someone if you like.”

Serial killer, Jim thought. But then, it was freezing cold and Jim knew how to use his fists as well as his charm. He gave the man a nod. “Thanks, buddy. Appreciate it.”

“No problem, this way,” he said, trying to talk over the din of the wind, grabbing Jim's arm and pulling him along until they reached a pick up truck.

Jim got in, feeling colder now that he could completely concentrate on the temperature rather than having to move in it. The door on the driver's side opened and the stranger got in. Jim peered at him through his shivering, only catching blue eyes hidden in the parka's hat. The man started driving, eyes ahead, focusing on the road as Jim warmed his hands on the heater.

“Nice coat,” the man said, a smile obvious in his voice.

Jim closed his eyes and laughed. “Yeah. Borrowed it from a friend.”

“Good friend?”

Jim frowned. “Yeah,” he said, because oddly it felt that way. Like maybe he had Uhura had spent years flirting and rolling their eyes at each other. Jim nodded.

“What's so important in town that you had to come out in this weather?” the man asked.

“Actually, I was heading out of town to see someone,” Jim said, looking across at the man again. “I guess it wasn't meant to be.”

The man nodded. “I guess not.”

Jim nodded slowly, looking out of the window. The snow was coming down like some end of the world movie. Maybe it was the end of the world, who knew. These things were unlikely to announce themselves. The truck slowed down as Jim's rescuer wound down his window to look outside. As he dd, Jim saw lights in the distance, familiar yellow beacons in the dark night. Jim rolled down his window and tried to get a better look.

“Mind rolling that back up, son? It's damn cold in case you didn't notice,” the man next to Jim said.

Jim rolled it up and said, “Sorry. Listen, you have any idea who lives over there?”

The other man leaned forward, squinting at the lights. “I might not be sure, but I think that's where the local celebrity lives. Some hot-shot writer from down south.”

“Leonard McCoy, right?”

The man shook his head. “No idea what his name is, kid.”

Jim unbuckled his seat belt. “Sir, you have been a tremendous help. I can't thank you enough.”

“Hey hey, where are you going?”

“The hot-shot writer's house,” Jim said with a grin. “I'll be okay from here. Thanks again.” Jim reached past the coat and into his jacket pocket, getting out a pen and the book Uhura had given him, He scribbled down his number on the empty page at the back of the book and tore it out, handing it to the man. “If I can ever do anything for you, that's my number.”

The man frowned at the number on the paper, but nodded. “Sure. Okay. Hey, I didn't even get your name.”

“Jim. Jim Kirk.”

The man shook Jim's hand and said. “You go safely now, Jim.”

“You too, Mr.--?”

“George, Just call me George,” the man said with a nod.

Jim blinked at the man for a moment. It wasn't every day that men with your dead father's name turned up calling you son and pulling you out of a snow storm. Jim managed a smile despite an old sting renewing itself in his chest.

“Thanks for everything, George.”

Jim climbed out of the truck and watched it drive away. Then he turned to look for the lights in the distance and started walking towards them.

***

Between the truck and the house it looked like a ten minute walk at best, but Jim could swear the house was moving further and further away. By the time he fell on the porch with a thud, his sneakers were sodden along with his socks, the snow had melted through his jeans all the way up to his thighs and Uhura's coat looked like a limp rag. The walk had taken it out of him and he was aching, feeling bruised, and confused.

The door opened and Jim could see an upside down McCoy peering down at him, eyes wide and face scrunched.

Jim pointed at him and said, “I can explain,” and promptly passed out.

***

In his dream it was thundering and raining and there was a screech of tires and he felt like he was squinting into the sun and his father was waving and grinning at him, the same bashful wave and grin that always ended with him getting up and running off out of view.

Jim's eyes snapped open and he held his breath for a moment, his heart somewhere in his mouth, galloping so fast he thought he might be sick, He let go of his breath, shuddering as it was released.

Jim's head rolled to the side and he recognized McCoy's coffee table and his ever muted TV. The man himself was there too, almost horizontal in the armchair adjacent to the end of the couch on which Jim was lying. McCoy had his injured leg propped up on the table, the other one stretched out on the floor. He was holding the magazine Jim had put in the trash in one hand and there was a cigarette in his other as he frowned at the page before him before absently taking a drag.

He looked at Jim then, turning the page around to show Jim that photograph. “I have to admit, I thought a lot of inventive tampering must have gone into this shot, but colour me embarrassed to find out this is all hundred percent you.”

Jim looked down at himself, naked except for the scratchy checkered throw that was only covering him up to his hips. Jim tiredly and somewhat petulantly grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to his chin as McCoy set his magazine down, put his cigarette between his lips and got up, reaching for a single crutch he had balanced by the fireplace.

“My bedroom's first on the landing. Get some clothes. You know where the kitchen is if you're hungry. Call me if you feel like you're dying. And be sure to take a look out of the window. I'll be in the study,” McCoy said, issuing the orders as he walked out of the room and the door to his study slammed shut.

***

After more drifting in and out of sleep and realising it was past noon, Jim decided to attempt McCoy's list. First of all, the clothes. Jim spent a good ten minutes gathering the throw around him and climbing up the steep hardwood stairs that might as well have been a mountain from the way his body was struggling to move. He stood around looking at the bedroom a while, the large bed made up and looking as though no one had slept in it recently, maybe ever. There was a wooden dresser and closet too and Jim grabbed a pair of worn out jeans and an old gray sweater, stealing a pair of socks too from the underwear drawer.

It was as he was pulling on the jeans that he saw a reflection of himself in the full length mirror by the door and the bruises that accounted for the aches. They were mostly littering his left side over his ribs and his chest. There was a nasty cut and some scratches on his face and McCoy had bandaged something up on his forehead. He could hardly remember the accident that had caused all this.

Grimacing at his own reflection, he pulled the sweater on and went in search for the bathroom before making his way back downstairs. In the kitchen he poured himself a coffee and made a quick turkey sandwich as he looked through his belongings on the table, which consisted of his wallet, his cellphone and the book Uhura had given him. Jim finished his sandwich and picked up the book, very slowly going to the back where he remembered tearing a page and giving it to the man in the truck.

He nodded when he saw the page. Of course it wasn't torn. Of course you didn't get rescued by men with your dead father's name. Jim shut the book and swallowed down the embarrassment and disappointment. He sighed and muttered, “Well, I'm not dying, so it's the window next.”

He stood by the sink and cleaned the steamed window with his hand to find the blizzard in full swing. “That's bad.”

“Yeah,” McCoy said, walking into the kitchen and falling into a chair at the table. “Let's see how worse it can get though. I think it's time we had a little talk, don't you?”

***

By talk McCoy actually meant he was going to make every angry face he knew and use the word 'damn' a lot.

“Again, I can only say I am very sorry to have caused you any inconvenience,” Jim said amiably. He had no choice but to be amiable, he was wearing the guy's socks.

“You're not sorry. You're insane, walking around in a damn snow storm at four in the morning. What kind of idiot does that? And I already gave you my answer,” McCoy said. “What the hell made you think you could change my mind?”

Jim shrugged. “I don't know. But sitting here, talking to you, I can't agree more with your conclusion that I'm an idiot,” Jim said dryly, flashing McCoy a smile. “You're obviously quite immune to people trying to reason with you and a smarter person would have figured that out sooner.”

McCoy laughed. “Don't make it sound like I'm refusing to give up a kidney to a dying man. Like I'm being mean and stubborn or selfish. I have my reasons. Not making this movie isn't the end of your career.”

Jim looked at the book on the table, worse for wear after surviving the snow, battered but still readable, He didn't realise until now how much he wanted this from McCoy. Didn't realise how easy it was to resent the other man for withholding it.

Jim sighed, rubbing his face. “It's your story, man. It's up to you what you do with it. I just, it was three in the morning, I finished reading it and next thing I knew I was out there, trying to get to you. Hoping I could say something that would change your mind. But I can't and now you're snowed in with an idiot, apparently.”

McCoy looked at Jim, the hardness in his eyes softening just a little as he shook his head. He reached for the book, picking it up and showing it to Jim.

“I look at this book and I remember a time I'd rather forget. Don't ask me to let some guy put this on a movie screen just so he can add a trophy to his mantle. And I am sorry if this role meant a lot to you, but there'll be other roles and writers who aren't selfish assholes like me.” McCoy leaned back. He seemed tired, like it had cost him a lot to say what he would later feel was too much. His brow was furrowed again, voice unsteady when he said. “Play a damn vampire or something.”

Jim nodded, forcing a smile. “Okay. No movie.” He held out his hand. “Truce.”

McCoy eyed the offered hand suspiciously, but shook it nonetheless, nodding back.

***

Jim was watching the snow from the living room window. It was all very picturesque and postcard perfect, but he was ready to go home now to his very angular house, with his very blue pool, under a very blue sky, the ever shining sun and always someone close on hand to dish out a little temporary happiness.

Instead he was here, in fucking Sidewinder, in a house that belonged in a Hitchcock movie with the world's most agitated man. Not that the man in question was really giving Jim much trouble. After their brief conversation, McCoy had retreated to his study again, which left Jim alone. Detached and floating in a depressing snow globe.

Scotty was probably worried sick by now and the phone lines were dead. Probably served him right for many reasons. Spock and Uhura were probably... doing naked things that Jim should have been doing. The trailer was trashed, aptly, and his imagined dead father was out there somewhere driving a pick up truck.

And not a blue pill in sight.

Jim ventured out of the living room, finding the door to McCoy's study still shut. He slowly climbed the stairs and decided there was at least one way of occupying his time here. He'd already seen one bedroom and the bathroom. But there were two more doors and an attic. One room was a plain bedroom, maybe a guest room, more dark wood and oddly gray atmosphere. The other room was filled with boxes and furniture. There were lamps, books, paintings, stuff you inherited and gave a way or put in boxes and locked in small rooms. The attic was locked. Figured. That's where everyone kept their best secrets.

Jim made his way back down quietly, heading for the kitchen. There was door in there that led into the brick building he could see from the window. The garage was freezing cold, the lights bright but still not reaching all the corners. McCoy had a shiny black pick up truck parked inside and the shelves held tools, toolboxes, cardboard boxes, tins, and a variety of storage containers. The thing that peaked Jim's curiosity was in the dark corner at the back of the garage, hidden under a green tarp which was covered in dust.

Jim went to it, obviously. He touched the top, pressing his hand down on something solid, curved. And then he was pulling back the tarp to reveal a black motorcycle, one that had done a lot of miles judging by the scratches and dents alone. Jim new this bike. In the book, McCoy had said it probably looked like a roach in the desert, parts of it catching the shine of the sun, other parts dark and hidden.

The door creaked. Jim turned turned to see McCoy standing there, his face partially hidden in the shadows. Jim stared at him and from the privacy of the shadows, McCoy was staring right back.

“I was--”

“Forgetting your manners?” McCoy asked.

Jim had no answer for that. He had been snooping after all. “Sorry, I just...” he flashed a smile, the one that always worked and scratched the back of his head. Then he pointed at the bike and very casually asked, “This yours?” which was met with judging silence. “You don't seem the type.”

McCoy limped forward on one crutch, his eyes on the bike. “Belonged to someone I knew.”

Jim nodded, carefully watching everything that passed across McCoy's pale face. “Ever try it?”

McCoy was lost in thought for a while. Then he slowly nodded. “No. It's not for me.”

All too late, Jim suddenly felt the compulsion to apologize and mean it, but the moment had passed and McCoy was standing there with sorrow-filled eyes. But this damn house and this miserable man, they were getting under his skin, He wanted to know the man who was hiding everything away behind locked doors and fading pages.

“Phone's working,” McCoy said, turning away from Jim to look at the bike with full attention. “I suggest you tell your friends you're not dead.”

Jim nodded. “Thanks.” McCoy didn't turn back to face Jim, effectively closing another door. Jim made a face, at a loss for what to say that would redeem him from being a complete dick. In the end he turned and left, leaving McCoy alone, just the way he liked.

Later he would find the key from the kitchen door lock gone, the garage looking like a snow-battered tomb from the window.

***

“Jim! You're alive! Oh, thank God!” Scotty all but shrieked down the phone. “Where the hell are you?”

“I'm at McCoy's,” Jim said, one ear on the phone, the other on the sounds coming from the study. Clinking of glass. Opening and shutting of drawers. Muttered curses. Slamming of a door. “Stuck here until the weather passes.”

“Well, that's good isn't it? Get on to persuading Mr. Misery to say yes. It's not like he's going to throw you out.”

Something fell over with a thud in the next room and there was more cursing. Jim grimaced. “I don't know about that, Scotty. Guy's pretty complex.”

“Bloody writers,” Scotty said, without any real venom. Jim frowned at the phone.

“Scotty, is everything okay?” Jim asked. “You sound different.”

There was silence for a moment and then Scotty whispered, “Well, Sylvia prefers for people to not swear.”

“Sylvia?” Jim asked.

“The very nice lady who gave us our rooms,” Scotty said and Jim could hear a woman laugh in the background and call Scotty a sweety.

“Really? And why exactly do you suddenly think she's lovely, sweety?” Jim asked.

“My new room's got cable,” Scotty said.

“You're a whore, Scotty,” Jim said.

“Well, we've got both of the oldest professions covered then. Look, I've got to go. Sylvia's baking a cake and I said I'd try it. You stay put until I come and get you. And you can be the one to tell Uhura you smashed up her poncy little writing wagon. She's got Spock all feral.”

“Fine. Go lick Sylvia's spoon.”

“Oi!” Scotty said as Jim grinned and put the phone down.

***

Resigning himself to the fact that the only thing he could do that wouldn't piss McCoy off was to sit still in one place. He spent the evening vegged out in front of the television, flicking from one show to the next. There was some Christmas miracle flick on, even though Christmas was a good five weeks away. Jim watched it from his boneless position half way down the couch, legs on the coffee table, eyes turning to sleep-heavy slits and the remote loose in his hand as it rested on his stomach.

It was some crappy movie about a dead guy visiting his grieving family. Bullshit, Jim thought, continuing to watch just to feel resentful and sore. McCoy's book made more sense. The ghosts of the dead didn't come back to visit. It was the living that turned into ghosts. Pale and hollow imitations of what they used to be, maybe even of what they could be. Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out Uhura's battered paperback. He was more than certain the sight of it would make McCoy ram his crutches up Jim's ass.

He flicked though it, stopping at the end of a chapter, Bones riding away from some motel. His continuing search for a car he never found and finding the grief he never outran. Not enough fucking road. You can run and run, but you always end up where you started. The more you run, the more often you end up where you started.

Jim heard the click of the door to the study opening, the light thump of McCoy's crutch on the wooden floor as he walked across the hall. Jim closed the book and replaced it easily, and then turned his head as McCoy walked into the room looking sleep-ruffled, hair pointing in odd directions. He sniffed and blinked at the screen.

“What the hell's this?” he asked, clearing his sleep-filled voice.

“That guy's dead. He's visiting for Christmas,” Jim answered. “Everyone's spooked.”

McCoy made a face and sat down on the couch next to Jim. “No one likes unannounced guests.”

Jim laughed as McCoy propped his leg on the coffee table and seemed to melt back against cushions. Jim held up the remote. It was the manliest peace offering he could think of. McCoy arched a brow at him and then nodded, taking the remote and proceeding to flick until he stopped on an old black and white movie.

Jim went back to his sleepy watching and then finally gave into his earlier compulsion. “I'm sorry about earlier. I clearly overstepped the line. I should have known better. This is your house and I'm your guest.”

McCoy snorted. “You're an asshole is what you are.”

Jim nodded. “Nevertheless, I am a very sorry asshole.”

McCoy turned to stare down at him with a frown and then he did something Jim sadly hadn't expected of this man. Something he wanted to see again. McCoy broke out into a slightly surprised grin, laughing quietly before looking at the screen and snorting, “Unbelievable.”

Jim smiled and allowed himself to be momentarily caught up in staring up at McCoy, who's mouth still had fading curves of amusement around the corners.

***

Jim was speeding down a deserted road, everything around him looking bleached and bright, the sun hot and white in his eyes. The wheel of the car felt good in his hands and he felt completely free and the more he pushed down on the pedal, the more it felt like a huge weight was lifting from his entire body.

But something was wrong. The dream skipped over the memory of the police cars. Jim frowned at the outstretched road narrowing into the distance. Jim's heart sped up, beating like a drum and his fingers went to the volume on the radio until all he could hear was the music and engine.

He slowly smiled, pushing the pedal flush against the floor of the car and speeding forward like a fucking rocket. He bet his father had never driven the car like this. He looked at the cliff edge approaching, one hand on wheel, other reaching for the door handle and then a sharp turn to the right and--

***

Jim sat up with a gasp, face flushed and body shaking. He covered his mouth and swallowed down the noise bubbling up from his throat before flopping back down and breathing, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Shit,” he whispered.

It looked as though he'd fallen asleep and McCoy had covered him with the scratchy blanket and left. Jim sat up and pulled off the blanket looking at the clock on the wall. Three in the morning. No wonder he felt tired, not to mention hungry. Jim got up and creakily made his way into the hall. The study door was open wide, the light on. Jim wandered over to the threshold of the room, idly scratching his chest.

He hung off the side of the door frame and peered inside. The room smelled like cigarettes and coffee. And something that was maybe just McCoy, which made Jim frown at his own observation. The study had an old leather couch against the wall, a stereo next to it on a small chest of drawers, headphones trailing onto the floor.

Jim stepped further in, looking at the large wooden desk by the far window, occupied by a computer and printer, while another desk on its left and against the wall was covered in books and newspapers and notepads, coffee cups, ashtray and assortment of overflow. On the wall, above the desk, there was a board with numerous things tacked onto it. Jim resisted the urge to look and put his hand on the doorknob, pulling the door to look at the wall behind, all occupied by a huge bookshelf, a comfortable looking armchair in front of it.

There was a small TV on the coffee table in front of the couch and more papery clutter, books on shelves above the couch, on top of the mantel on the fireplace opposite the couch, a stand with walking sticks in it by the armchair. A complete little sanctuary if this was all you needed, Jim thought. Most people needed more. Jim scratched the back of his head, turning away from the study.

The light in the kitchen was on, but Jim could hear no sounds from within. There was the slightest touch of coolness in the air, enough to send a chill down his spine. Jim stepped into the kitchen, looking around until his eyes fell on the kitchen door, specifically the key that was half-turned in the lock.

He tentatively reached out, finger hooking around the handle and pulling it down. The weather was still terrible, cold and harsh. He ran to the garage in a few quick leaps to stop snow seeping into his socks. The garage door was open and he slipped in quietly, unnoticed under the soft sound of some soulful song on the radio.

Jim stood inside the darkened doorway, his eyes instantly drawn to McCoy who was sitting astride the old bike, uninjured foot flat against the ground. There was a joint hanging from the corner of his mouth and a book in his hands. Jim instantly patted his pocket and found Uhura's book missing and grimaced.

McCoy seemed to notice Jim's presence, turning his head and squinting at Jim through the thick, sweet and heavy smoke. Jim took this as a sign to not get the hell out and ventured further in, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, all under the watchful eyes of McCoy.

McCoy closed the book as Jim neared and held it out to him. “I thought I told you to stay the hell out of here.”

Jim took the book, rolling it up in his hand. “Actually, you didn't. Though I think you might have implied it.”

McCoy arched a brow. “Implied it? You're smart enough to understand the implication, but not enough to actually act accordingly?”

Jim pointed at McCoy. “That. Exactly that.”

McCoy laughed around the joint, shaking his head, “You're really something.”

Jim smiled. “That too.”

“And modest,” McCoy said with a tired smile, taking the remainder of the joint and stubbing it out in the ashtray on the nearby workbench. He looked worn out, like maybe he hadn't slept in years. Like maybe this was what he did every night.

“You okay?” Jim asked.

McCoy rubbed his forehead. “Yeah. Tired.” He looked up at Jim with a frown. “Why the hell are you still up? You should be laid flat out, considering you turned up here twenty-four hours ago with pockets full of snow.”

“Well, obviously you took very good care of me,” Jim said. “Also, I can't sleep when I'm hungry.”

McCoy's frown deepened. “Hungry? Have you eaten at all today?”

Jim shrugged. “Sure, I had a sandwich earlier.”

McCoy nodded. “Oh, great, you had a sandwich. I can tell that to the coroner when the big movie star drops dead in my house from starvation. What's the matter with you? You don't eat unless you have a gopher?”

“No, I just feel weird rummaging around a fridge that doesn't belong to me,” Jim said with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, really?” McCoy said with mock surprise. “Well, that must be why I keep finding you in here.”

Jim blinked and thought this over. “Okay. So maybe you have a point there.”

“Well, I'm glad you agree,” McCoy said, moving off the bike. He looked unsteady as he began to move away from it, but Jim kept his hands to himself. McCoy didn't look the sort to appreciate unasked for help. “Come on, let's eat. I'm starved.”

“Starved, huh?” Jim said, handing him the single crutch McCoy nodded towards. “I'm a spoiled movie star. What's your excuse?”

“You want my excuse?” McCoy asked, heading out of the door. “Shut up, that's my excuse.”

***

Jim sat at the kitchen table as McCoy limped from one corner of the kitchen to the next, making coffee, making sandwiches and taking out an apple pie from the fridge.

“Need any help?” Jim asked, leaning back in his chair.

“My foot's not working. My hands are fine,” McCoy answered as he finished off a sandwich by slapping on a thick slice of bread, making Jim's mouth water.

McCoy continued working in silence as Jim watched him. He wondered if this was how McCoy spent most of his nights. Getting high on old memories, eating sandwiches at three in the morning.

“You lived here long?” Jim ventured.

“About five years,” McCoy said.

Jim bit his lip and told himself not to say it. “Wrote your first book around then, didn't you?”

McCoy stilled, taking a good few seconds before he turned to look at Jim. “You're not real big on subtlety, are you?”

Jim shrugged. “Am I wrong? About the book.”

McCoy turned back to the food. “No. This is where I started writing.”

“What made you come up here? You're obviously not a local,” Jim said. McCoy sighed and brought over Jim's sandwich. “Thanks, this looks great.”

“Yeah, hopefully it'll keep you quiet for a while,” McCoy muttered.

Jim gave McCoy a wry smile. “You were telling me about moving here?”

“The hell I was,” McCoy said, bringing out the coffee cups. “I had an accident. Came up here with a friend to recuperate. Stayed.”

Jim nodded, taking a satisfying bite of his sandwich. “What kind of accident?”

McCoy brought over Jim's coffee, and then his own sandwich and coffee, falling into the seat adjacent to Jim's. “Motorcycle accident. Rest of the details are kind of fuzzy. Wasn't really wearing a helmet at the time.”

Jim gave McCoy a long appraising look and then smiled. “Bones is pretty careless that way.”

McCoy snorted. “Doesn't take a damn genius to make that connection. You can stop looking so smug.”

“The book,” Jim said. “It ends with Bones on the road and then everything goes black. That's the accident.”

McCoy took a sip of steaming coffee. “Yeah. That was the accident.”

Jim pointed towards the door that led to the garage. “And that's the bike?”

McCoy shrugged. “Most of it. A lot of it is new parts.”

Jim looked down at McCoy's foot. “You really fell off the roof?”

McCoy smiled, peering at his coffee cup. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw a couple of walking sticks in your study.” McCoy looked up, arching a brow. “ I didn't go inside. The door was open.”

McCoy shook his head. Then he sighed and leaned back. “Broke a lot of bones in that accident. This leg's got about a dozen pins in it. Had a little too much to drink a couple of weeks ago.” Jim nodded, watching McCoy who's eyes were a little pink. He looked so devastatingly worn out.

Jim reached out and pushed McCoy's sandwich closer to him. “It's good.”

The corner of McCoy's mouth went up a little and he nodded, but Jim could see he was too far gone, back in whatever unpleasant memories he kept to himself.

***

With some coaxing, McCoy allowed Jim to help him up the stairs rather than go ahead and collapse on the couch, where Jim figured McCoy did a lot of his sleeping.

Standing on the threshold of McCoy's bedroom, Jim watched the other man fall back on his bed with a sigh. “Need any help with anything?”

McCoy was quiet and then Jim heard the quiet laugh, smiling as he stood there. “Go to bed, will you?”

Jim pushed away from the door frame. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Yeah. Night,” McCoy said, sounding like he was already drifting.

Jim walked down the hall and into the guest bed room he had been pointed towards by McCoy. He didn't bother turning the light on, sitting down on the bed and pulling his socks off, followed by his sweater. He got up and threw back the sheets, taking off the jeans and dropping them on the floor.

He got in bed with a tired sigh, wrapping himself around a pillow and closing his eyes. As tired as he was, his mind continued wandering towards the man down the hall. Jim imagined him in this house, smoking his sleepless nights away, cigarette hanging from the corner of his belligerent mouth. He imagined McCoy's nights, sitting in his study, pouring his pain onto paper and labeling it as fiction. Jim wondered what was worse. Having your pain preserved in print or in images where you dredged up the past to play someone else's part.

“So, you just like the whole experience of pretending to be someone other than who you are? Is that what you're saying?”

Jim stared at the woman whose face was being obscured by her camera. He laughed. “I dunno. Yes. No. Maybe.” He laughed again. “You know, I thought were going to take the photos first and then do the interview.”

Gaila brought the camera down and grinned. “Oh, trust me, this way is better. Besides, it usually puts the person being photographed at ease. You want another glass of Champagne?”

Jim grinned and shook his head, which was already too light-headed. “No. I'm relaxed enough, trust me.”

“Okay, just look past my left shoulder here. And smile, yeah, like that,” Gaila said, her camera whirring away. “Your brother's an artist, right?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah. He's good too.”

“Hand in pockets, chin out a little. I like that. Are your parents creative types?” Gaila asked.

Jim looked down at his pockets, bare feet feeling a little cold now. “Uh, no, I mean. My dad was. He was a writer. Mom's an engineer.”

“Wow, really? That's awesome,” Gaila said. “Look at the camera? Smile. Yeah. Good. They must be really proud of you.”

Jim blinked, the lights feeling a little too harsh. Still, he smiled one of his million move star smiles. “Yeah.”

“What do they think about you being a big movie star? Eyes on the camera, Jim. Keeping looking at me. Good.”

Jim tried to think. How the hell was he supposed to keep sucking up to the camera while trying to fabricate truths he didn't possess? He grinned and said, “Well, Mom's pretty insufferable. And I think my dad would be pretty choked.”

Gaila lowered the camera and frowned. “Would be?” Then she seemed to glean the meaning, making Jim wondered what she saw his in face that led her to the conclusion so swiftly. “Oh. How long?”

Jim sighed, irritation swirling amongst a whole heap of emotions. “Before I was born.”

“I'm sorry,” Gaila said quietly.

Jim nodded. “It's okay. We about done here? I have to be somewhere else after this.”

“Just a few more shots,” Gaila said. “Stay like that? Turn into the fan, yeah, good. Tilt your head back just a – yeah, that's it, stop. Follow the camera with your eyes, good. Must have been hard for you.”

Jim stared into the camera, the combination of the booze, the bright lights, the cold air from the fan beginning to add up to a distinctly ill feeling. “What?”

“Not having your dad around,” Gaila said. “Did your mom ever remarry?”

And instantly all Jim could think of was Frank, planning on selling his father's car. The car his father bought when he sold his novel. The car he loved. The car he probably would have handed over to his sons. The car that was the only thing left of George Kirk.

It was the whirring of the camera that brought Jim back to the present. He was standing there with his fisted hands in his pockets, his shirt blowing back and making him feel utterly and completely naked. And he was staring right into that camera, his face telling her everything he didn't want to say. He stepped away from the backdrop and started walking towards the door.

“Jim!” Gaila went after him, her hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

Jim turned and looked at her, pulling away from her touch. “I think you've got what you want.”

Gail gave him a guilty look. “I just want the real you.”

“That's a hell of a cheap way of getting what you want,” Jim said.

Gaila nodded. “Sometimes you have to cheat to get what you want. If you were me, you'd understand.”

Jim opened his eyes, shaking his head free of unwanted memories, recent and past. But the camera just kept whirring in the back of his head, over and over. The dark of the room seemed to be interrupted by dashes of light. He turned and sat up to see his father in the corner of the room, waving at him. Then he ran up to the bed, making Jim scramble back and gasp as his father reached out past Jim's face and ran away again, bounding out into the hall. Jim sat there staring at the doorway, eyes wide open.

Jim blinked several times, his eyes feeling heavy, his body feeling heavier as he tried to will himself awake. Wake up, wake up, wake up, he ordered himself, his brain telling him he was awake and looking into the dark room, even though he knew his eyes were most certainly closed.

Jim's eyes finally snapped open and he sat up. “Fuck.”

He sat there breathing hard and grimacing at the bedroom. He could still see the images, his father laughing and talking and then running away. Always young, always full of life. Always out of reach.

Jim threw the covers aside and walked out of the bedroom, dazedly finding the bathroom and splashing cold water on his face until there was no doubt he was awake. He shivered at the smoky slivers of his dream that were still floating around in his head and morosely walked out of the bathroom. The door to McCoy's room was open and he was lying in bed, the only light in his room coming from the occasional revived burn at the end of his cigarette and the soft square glow of the moonlight behind the drapes across his window.

“Why are you up?” McCoy called out, taking the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling the smoke.

“Bad dreams,” Jim said, hovering by the door. “Why are you up?”

McCoy sighed. “Bad dreams.”

Jim leaned against the door frame for a while, his feet reluctant to take him back to his nightmares. McCoy turned his head to look in his direction and then with a sigh he lifted up the covers of his bed. Jim smiled, watching for a moment before climbing into bed and lying back against the pillow, his heart beating a little too fast.

“So. Tell you mine if you tell me yours,” McCoy drawled.

Jim smiled. “Well, I had this dream I was stuck in a house, and there's a blizzard and a bed that burns down because of an errant cigarette.”

There was a rumble of laughter next to Jim. “Is that right?”

“Hmm.” Jim blinked up at the ceiling.

McCoy was moving around next to him, turning on his side towards Jim. Jim looked up at him before he sighed and reached out for the cigarette. McCoy stilled, quiet as Jim took a drag and held the cigarette out, letting McCoy take it back.

“Heard you calling out for someone,” McCoy said.

Jim cleared his throat. “I have these dreams... since I was a kid. Whenever I got sick, or I dunno, stuff was bad, I'd dream about my dad. I saw this home movie once. My mom had a bunch of them and one day I watched one and it was my dad, you know, clowning around with my brother and mom. Laughing and joking.”

Jim stopped, swallowing down a strange tremor, shoving the tip of his tongue into the depth of one tooth as he took a breath.

“What happened to him?” McCoy asked softly, as if someone could hear them here.

Jim thought back to his mother's face, the dead expression as she had told him the story. “There was a thunderstorm. My father was taking Mom to the hospital. This car came out of nowhere, rammed right into them. He died before they reached the hospital. I was born a few hours later.”

McCoy rolled onto his back. “Christ.”

Jim looked at McCoy's profile, lit by smoke and cigarette light. “You think it's weird to dream about someone you never even met?”

McCoy sighed. “No. And it sure as hell isn't weird to dream about someone you wish was around.”

Jim thought about the man in the video, the one video his mother hadn't locked away, so afraid of remembering. He scratched the corner of his eye. “So. Bad dreams too, right?”

McCoy cleared his throat, rolling away for a second. When he rolled back the cigarette was gone and he had shuffled down the bed a little. His arms came up, moving his hands under his head. Jim let his head fall to the side, looking at McCoy lying there quietly, smelling of smoke and a hint of clean sweat.

“Just... same old stuff,” McCoy said, as if he himself didn't understand. “I dream about the crash sometimes. I mean... I don't remember what happened. One minute I was on the road, next minute I was waking up in a hospital. I get these dreams. Of things I don't remember, from before.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know,” McCoy said. “Random images. Sometimes I remember her. My wife.” McCoy was quiet for a long time. For a moment Jim wondered if the other man had fallen asleep, but then McCoy said, “That's the problem with the dead. They die and you're left chasing ghosts for the rest of your fucking life.”

Jim frowned. “She's hardly mentioned in the book.”

McCoy was so quiet Jim could actually hear the stillness of his body, the opening and closing of his eyes, the ticking of his mind. “Should have been wearing a damn helmet,” he said.

Jim sat up and looked down at McCoy. “You don't remember.”

“Took a pretty hard knock to the head,” McCoy said. “I woke up and told the doctors everything they needed to know. And then I asked them if my wife was there. The same wife who died a year before.”

Jim stared at McCoy, whose eyes looked bright even in the dark. “What do you remember?”

“Just the things that make it hard to let go,” McCoy said quietly. Jim curled his fist against the bed, nodding slowly. He lay back down next to McCoy. After a while, McCoy said, “I thought writing that book would make me remember the missing bits. Instead, I ended up writing this thing, disjointed and filled with holes and people think it's a fucking piece of art. I could write a million books and this... nightmare is going to be all anyone ever remembers.”

“Could be worse,” Jim said.

McCoy snorted. “Really.”

“Sure. In my first movie, my character was eaten my a mutant snake. Thanks to the Internet, that's never going away,” Jim said with a sigh.

McCoy was quiet and for a moment all Jim could hear was the wheeze of the wind blowing outside. Until McCoy laughter bubbled out of McCoy, making him shake next to Jim.

“Don't laugh,” Jim said with a grin.

McCoy turned away, still laughing. Jim could see him putting a cigarette in his mouth, quiet laughter still bubbling around it. He leaned turned towards Jim, offering up his pack of cigarettes. Jim slid one out of the pack and placed it in his mouth, watching as McCoy lit his own, bringing the lighter to Jim's one next. He lay back down, one hand returning to the back of his head,

“What did you do next?” McCoy asked and Jim could hear the smile.

Jim took a long drag and then blew out the smoke to let it mingle with McCoy's. “Next. Next I was in this slasher movie. I made it to the end of the movie and then got skewered after the credits.”

McCoy was laughing again, and it was infectious enough that Jim was laughing with him.

“And then?”

Jim grinned. “Then. Oh, man, the next one was bad.”

McCoy laughed. “Well, then I really need to know.”

So Jim told him about all the movies he usually pretended didn't exist anymore,

***

In his dream, Jim was riding a motorbike across a dusty path, coming to stop in front of something bright and magnificent. Only, beyond it being bright and magnificent, it was hard to tell what he was looking at, so he sat there and stared,

“Come on, come with me.”

Jim turned around, pulled by the hand on his shoulder and he stared at McCoy in confusion. “Bones?”

And like the most natural thing in the world, McCoy just pulled him along and Jim went.

***

“Mmm.” Jim made a noise of protest at the back of his throat as the dim light pried his eyes open.

He didn't know what time it was, but he did know it was late, though it felt far too early to get up. His body was still dealing with apple pie, a mile high sandwich and the reintroduction of cigarettes into his life. He buried his face into his pillow for a moment, before venturing to let one eye open.

Sharing his pillow, McCoy was still asleep. His features were more relaxed than Jim had seen them since arriving in Sidewinder. His mouth was slightly parted and his hair was messy and dark against his forehead. Jim lay there very quiet and just watched. His hand seemed to wander across of its own accord, reaching for McCoy, until his fingers touched McCoy's lips, tracing them softly.

“Bones,” Jim whispered, and he had no idea how much he'd been dying to say that name, like maybe the name would slot a piece of some puzzle into place and the universe might make sense.

McCoy's eyes fluttered opened, so much lighter than Jim had noticed before and he was staring right at Jim. “What are you doing?” McCoy whispered against Jim's fingers.

Jim swallowed. “Something really brave or incredibly stupid.”

McCoy's eyes flicked to Jim's frozen hand. Then he looked up and nodded slightly. “If I've figured out anything about you, I'd say you're doing a bit of both.”

And then McCoy's shaking hand tightly closed around Jim's fingers, moving his hand down as McCoy leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Jim's, pushing him back as McCoy's body covered him, his warm broad chest against Jim's. McCoy let go of his hand to stroke up Jim's arm, over his shoulder and then down his back, to his hip and--

McCoy jerked his mouth away and frowned at Jim, his hand patting Jim's ass as if in search of something. “You were pretty damn sure of yourself there.”

Jim stared at McCoy, his mouth still pursed for kissing. He tried to get his brain into gear and guess what the hell McCoy was talking about. “Oh. I always sleep like this.”

McCoy nodded. “Well, I think only an idiot would be complaining right now.”

“And you're definitely not an idiot,” Jim said, sitting up and wrapping his arms around McCoy's shoulders, pushing him down onto his back with a thump.

McCoy looked into Jim's eyes, reaching up and pulling at Jim's lip with his thumb. “Are you still negotiating?” Jim shook his head. “Then what are you doing?”

“I don't know,” Jim said. “Is that okay?”

McCoy's hand moved to Jim's cheek and then carded through his hair, his eyes mapping the movement. “Yeah, it's okay.”

Their lips met again, McCoy's hands warm and firm as they slid down Jim's shoulder blades, exploratory as they went to his sides, thumbs massaging into his skin before his hands slid down and cupped Jim's ass. Jim ground his growing erection against McCoy's, before reaching a hand between them to slip into McCoy's sweats.

McCoy gasped as Jim kissed his open mouth, feeling McCoy's hand in his hair again, holding his head as he demanded more of the kiss, locking their mouths together. McCoy was hard in Jim's hand, slick enough for Jim to start sliding his hand up and down, slow and languid as McCoy closed his eyes, brow furrowed, mouth open and gasping as Jim continued stealing kisses, biting at McCoy's reddened mouth. His fingers closed firmly around McCoy's cock and he began moving his hand in earnest.

“Fuck,” McCoy hissed, the fingers of one hand tight in Jim's hair, other hand fisted against Jim's back, occasionally opening to grasp at Jim, the accidental slip of fingernails on Jim's skin making him harder.

“Bones,” Jim whispered across McCoy's mouth.

McCoy opened his eyes and let go of a harsh breath as he blinked at Jim and then arched as Jim gave a final tug, McCoy coming all over his hand.

Jim mouthed McCoy's collarbone, rubbing his cheek against McCoy's skin, his come-slick hand sliding up McCoy's hip. McCoy was pushing against Jim, pushing him onto his back, finding his hands until their fingers were linked.

“What do you want?” McCoy whispered against the corner of Jim's mouth.

Jim closed his eyes and blindly sought McCoy's mouth, finding it as he licked his own bottom lip, diverting his attention to McCoy's when a kiss was pressed against his own. He let go of one of McCoy's hands, taking it by the wrist and guiding it down to his stomach. He opened his eyes and grinned at McCoy. McCoy smiled back, bumping a hard kiss against Jim's mouth before he moved lower and kissed Jim's chest, his tongue exploring in long sweeps and his fingers scratching through the line of hair that began low on Jim's stomach until his fingers traveled down and found Jim's cock, hard and full.

Jim gave an indecent groan and pushed into McCoy's grasp, squeezing their linked hands, throwing his other arm across his eyes. McCoy's mouth seemed to stop over his nipple, tongue poised in one place. Jim gulped and moved his arm an inch to look down to find McCoy staring up at him, lips pressing down on his skin. His hand suddenly started moving, jerking off Jim in long measured strokes as he moved back up to kiss Jim's neck, his jaw and his mouth again. Jim held onto McCoy's hand, bringing his arm down, around McCoy's shoulder, thrusting into McCoy's strokes and gasping loudly into McCoy's kisses, until he had no idea what his mouth was doing or saying and his body was taking complete control over his brain.

He was vaguely aware of coming at some point. It would explain why he was lying under McCoy like a boneless heap, McCoy's hand wet on his thigh, his head on Jim's shoulder, with Jim's arm thrown out across the bed, his other hand still in McCoy's grip where he could feel the minute movements of his fingers being idly stroked, like a bodily afterthought. Jim managed to lift up his free hand and card his fingers through McCoy's damp hair, pulling up his head to look him in the eyes.

“Did I get the part?” he whispered with a smile.

McCoy's reply was an amused warm look before he pressed a kiss to Jim's chest and let out a small laugh.

***

McCoy was in the kitchen, making breakfast, griping that he was a writer and not a damn gopher. He had asked Jim to open the drapes in the living room and right up until the moment that Jim pulled the drapes apart, this might have been the best morning he'd had a in a long time. The smile from his face slowly fell away until he was left staring out of the window. The snow had settled, the sun was out and the sky was blue, as if the blizzard had never come.

Jim stood looking out at the bright whiteness until his eyes hurt and he had to turn away, finding McCoy by the door, silently watching him. He nodded at Jim. “You all right?”

Jim nodded and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Blizzard's over.”

McCoy nodded, lightly arching a brow at the crutch in his hand as he took a step further into the room. “That's good. Your friends are probably worried sick.” Jim nodded mutely. “And you gotta be sick of all the damn snow by snow.”

Jim stretched to a smile. “Yeah.”

McCoy smiled, nodding. “Come and eat breakfast. It's getting cold.”

Jim watched McCoy turn and leave. He followed without another word.

***

“Car'll be here in the morning. Just be ready,” Scotty told Jim as he sat on the corner of the couch, eyes on the window.

He nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

“You all right?” Scotty asked.

Jim nodded, rubbing at his face with a yawn. “Tired. Haven't slept much.”

Scotty snorted. “I don't blame you. Well, at least you're not stuck at the Bates Motel.” Jim smiled. “All right, look, I've got to go. I said I'd have a look at Sylvia's taps.”

“Is that a Scottish euphemism?”

“Oh, shut it,” Scotty said and put the phone down.

Jim slipped off the edge of the couch and onto the cushion, replacing the receiver on the phone. He picked up the remote and put the volume up. According to the news, the world was still going to hell and there was going to be nice weather for it too.

McCoy joined him on the couch a few minutes later, stretching one arm out across the back of the couch, his other hand on the knee of his propped up leg. “So, what did Scotty say?”

“Says we can probably leave tomorrow,” Jim said.

McCoy nodded. “Good.” He looked at Jim. “Right?”

Jim shrugged. “Sure.”

“Sure?” McCoy asked, his face doing that thing where every inch of it appeared to frown.

Jim picked up the remote and started to surf through the channels. He sighed. “This is what happens when you get to know people before you sleep with them,” he said, shaking his head.

McCoy snorted and Jim felt the sudden presence of fingers on the back of his neck, tentatively stroking. Jim put the remote down and looked at McCoy. “What?” McCoy prompted.

Jim made a face, shaking his head, eyes on the TV. “I don't know. I'm useless without a script.”

When he looked at McCoy, the other man was watching him intently. He sighed and said, “Why'd'you have to come up here?”

Jim laughed. “Actually, what you're supposed to say is, 'dammit, Jim, I don't want you to leave. I may not be your damn gopher, but stay anyway!'”

McCoy gave a small laugh. “That supposed to be me? You're a terrible actor.”

“Well, lucky I have this pretty face, I guess,” Jim said with a wry smile. McCoy's features softened somewhat, his hand leaving Jim's neck and idly stroking his jaw instead.

“Do the movie,” McCoy said, his voice a whisper.

Jim stared at McCoy. “Why?”

McCoy's hand slipped from Jim's face, back to resting on the couch, his eyes somewhere past Jim. “I don't know. I guess... you make the prospect of remembering a little less terrifying.”

“Is that why you don't keep any pictures of her around? Mention her name in the book? Because you're scared?” Jim asked.

McCoy looked as though he might not answer, but then he said, “There's got to be a reason I forgot the things I did. Maybe I couldn't face what that reason is.”

Jim covered McCoy's hand. He couldn't fault McCoy's reasoning. Everyone had things they wished they didn't have to remember.

***

“What was her name?” Jim whispered that night, lying against McCoy's shoulder, the other man's hand limp on Jim's arm where a finger had been stroking moments ago.

McCoy took a long drag of his cigarette and quietly told Jim to, “Go to sleep. You have to be up early tomorrow.”

Jim turned his cheek towards the bare skin of McCoy's arm, his own arm lazily thrown across McCoy's stomach. “When's the last time you even said her name out loud?”

McCoy tensed, moving away just a fraction before Jim heard the soft sound of his cigarette being stubbed out. McCoy moved back in, wrapping around Jim so they ended up spooned together, McCoy's lips softly pressed to the back of Jim's shoulder.

“Why do you want to know?” McCoy asked.

Jim shook his head. “I don't. I just want to hear you say it.”

McCoy was silent for a while, his body tense against Jim's, his hold firm. “Christine,” he said, quietly, his voice quite unlike his own, like the name had unraveled by the time it came to his mouth from wherever he had it hidden.

Jim could hear McCoy take a deep breath, swallowing audibly. “Think you can come down to L.A. some time?” Jim asked.

“Yeah,” McCoy said thickly, while Jim pretended not to feel the warm wetness on his shoulder, “Sure.”

“Promise?”

Jim felt McCoy's stuttering breath, hearing a sniff. McCoy's voice was much steadier when he said, “Yeah. I promise.”

***

McCoy shoved a large green parka into Jim's hand. At this point the only thing on Jim's body that belonged to him were his sneakers. This suited him just fine. He pulled on the parka under McCoy's amused smile as he leaned against the door.

“Oi! We're freezing our nipples off here!” Scotty yelled from outside.

“Shut the fuck up!” Jim turned to yell and then turned back to find McCoy laughing.

“It's a beautiful relationship you two have there,” McCoy said.

Jim pulled the parka around him and made a face. “Okay. I should go. Before I say something really... totally uncool.”

McCoy stepped forward and gently kissed him. “I'll see you in a few weeks.”

Jim nodded. “Yeah you will, unless you want us to turn up on your doorstep again.”

“I will be there,” McCoy said with a stern look.

“You better believe it, Bones,” Jim said with a grin, turning towards the door.

“Hey,” McCoy called out. Very softly, he said, “Stop calling me that, will you?”

Jim shook his head and just as quietly he told McCoy, “No.”

***

Jim got into the car with a grin. Scotty was turning towards him with a smile, which instantly vanished into shock as he yelled, “What the fuck happened to your face?”

Jim frowned and remembered the bruises. “Oh, yeah. The crash. I thought I told you.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way,” Uhura said from the front seat as Spock's eyes peered into the rear view mirror to look at Jim.

“I think it might be prudent to visit a hospital first,” Spock said thoughtfully.

“You look like someone fucking battered you,” Scotty said. “Jesus. The papers are going to have a fucking field day when they see your face.”

“Scotty, we'll just tell them the truth,” Jim reasoned.

“Yeah, because driving up to Colorado in a deathtrap to meet a recluse sounds so much better,” Scotty said. “Fuck.”

Jim looked at Spock. “What the hell is his problem?”

“He misses Sylvia,” Uhura said and Jim new she was grinning.

“She's a sweet lady with a good for nothing son and a useless husband.” Scotty said bitterly.

“You're a fucking complex guy, you know that?” Jim said, staring at Scotty.

Scotty huffed and reached past Jim to open the car door. Jim frowned at him. “Go on, fucking get out.”

“Scotty!” Jim stared.

“You're not coming back looking like that. Stay here until the bruises look like you fell off something cool and then I'll come and get you.”

Jim stared some more before he said, “What makes you think he's going to let me stay?”

“Well, we figured from the way he had his tongue down your throat, he probably wouldn't mind,” Uhura said dryly.

Jim thought of a retort and settled on, “You're assholes.”

“Perhaps next time you will be more private with regard to your dalliances,” Spock said.

“Go on, piss off,” Scotty said. Then he grinned and said, “Go get some TLC.”

Jim was shoved out of the car, watching the door slam shut and the car speed off dangerously. He stood up unsteadily in the patch of snow he'd fallen into. Then he slowly turned and grinned at the house where McCoy was standing in the doorway with a quizzical expression, lighter half-way to his cigarette.

***

There was definitely a celebratory mood in the air, strings of coloured lights sprinkled thoughout the otherwise darkened house and music thumping in the very walls. He walked carefully through the groups of revelers, smiling and nodding at him as he navigated his way through the house.

Amongst the crowd, in the corner of the large living room, Christopher Pike was with Spock, Pike's tie undone, drink half finished, Spock next to him with hands behind his back, clothes immaculate, both of them in quiet conversation. Uhura was dancing with drink in hand, flawlessly in time to the beat with a more manic Scotty who had lost his tie and appeared dangerously happy.

He moved discreetly, his eyes searching out one man. There on the other side of the large window he could see a lone figure standing by the swimming pool, one hand in pocket, the other bringing a cigarette up to his mouth and then away.

He walked through some enthusiastic dancers, using his walking stick to part them, slipping through the doors and into the cool night air, the music revving up behind him, loud and urgent. He went to stand next to the man whose success they were all celebrating tonight.

Bones reached out and took the cigarette from Jim's mouth, stealing it for himself. “Nasty habit. Should give it up.”

Jim turned to look at him with a smile and bright California eyes. He reached down to pick something up and then proceeded to present Bones with a gold statuette.

Bones laughed. “You're not going to sleep it with are you?”

Jim shrugged. “Oscar doesn't mind if you don't.”

“The hell I don't,” Bones said. “Besides, I still remember the movie where you got eaten by a snake. Don't be thinking I'm impressed or anything.”

Jim grinned, idly nodding his head in time to the music, turning to look into the house. Bones watched him as he laughed when Scotty hooted at the top of his lungs, smiling as Uhura tenderly wrapped around Spock to lure him into a slow sway that still managed to find rhythm in the fast pulsing beat of the music. Pike saw them both and raised his glass. Bones nodded as Jim waved to him.

Jim turned and looked at Bones, everything he wanted clearly stated in his eyes as he backed away, past the large window and the doors until they stood in front of the wall. Bones pressed Jim against the wall, walking stick falling from his hand to cup Jim's face instead. Jim opened his mouth like he was trying to breathe Bones in. Bones kissed him, getting his fill until something gold caught the corner of his eye and he looked down to see the statuette still clutched in Jim's hand.

Bones arched a brow at Jim. “You're kind of making me jealous here.”

Jim smiled at him lazily, moving away to place his current prized possession on the nearby table. He came back to Bones with both arms and Bones sank skin deep into him as they kissed with the music beating its way out of the walls and into their bodies.

- the end -

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Notes: Written for the prompt Five AUs in which Kirk and McCoy eventually wound up together, and one in which they always were.
Alternative link: AO3
Part of the Variations on a d-brane (I belong to you) series

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