[Fic] Under the Dark [Chapter Two]
Under the Dark
kototyph
» Chapter Rating: NC-17
» Classification(s): Supernatural, Mystery, Suspense, Romance, Action/Adventure
» Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, Uhura/Scotty
» Summary: Spock might be Riverside's first ever vampire, but forgive Deputy Kirk for not being overly enthusiastic about it.
Chapter Two - Dreams and Reality
Three Years Ago
It was nearly four in the morning when the Greyhound finally rumbled to a stop outside the Grabbit Kwik at Route 22 and I-80. Jim, who had slid into a light doze sometime before they crossed the border, was jostled into consciousness by someone's duffel bag smacking him in the face.
"Sorry, man," someone said, and then they were moving past him. Jim lifted his head and blinked around owlishly as the cabin lights came on and more people began to pile into the aisle.
A glance out the window confirmed that they'd reached the Route 217 exit, the closest to home he was going to get, and so he muffled his wide yawn with a fist and began the delicate process of easing his shoulder out from under his seatmate's scruffy cheek. The poor guy looked rough, tired and road-battered enough that Jim hadn't had the heart to wake him after the third time his head drifted to rest on Jim's collarbone. He felt doubly guilty when even his careful movements startled the man awake with a gruff "Hngh?" Bloodshot eyes focused groggily on him and then away, the man grumbling an indistinct apology.
It was late March in Iowa, which should in theory have meant weather gentle as a lamb but had actually manifested as ice crystals stinging against Jim's cheeks like tiny razors, driven by a harsh wind from which his thin leather jacket offered no protection. He slung his battered backpack higher and jogged the fifty feet to the gas station, already mentally debating which of his local ladies might be best to call for a ride and a proper welcome-home fuck. Actually, now that he thought of it, didn't sweet little Marlena work at the Grabbit Kwik? If she was working tonight she was definitely top of his list, with those pretty doe-eyes of hers. First things first, though; he was two steps and one bad joke away from pissing his pants.
Jim Kirk liked to travel light, or rather, he didn't really care about material possessions and tended not to miss them after his carelessness resulted in their disappearance. While patting his hands dry he discovered that once again, he'd lost his phone, and instead of rushing back onto the bus to scour the seats and the floor he wistfully resigned himself to a cold and lonely night on the highway- at least until George got the message he'd leave from the Grabbit-Qwik's payphone and Aurelan guilted him into picking up his baby brother, even though it was an hour's drive from the university.
When Jim strode whistling out of the restroom to place the call, he was surprised to see his bleary-eyed seatmate from the bus standing in front of the coffee drink display, glowering uncomprehendingly at the scores of shiny metal spigots and levers. He had a 32-ounce Jumbo Gulp cup clutched in both hands like a talisman to ward off the demons of sleep, if only he could find the right tap.
"Me, I'd stay clear of the froo-froo stuff," Jim offered. "Truckers don't drink that crap and the attendants get lazy. Never clean the machines."
"Don't recall askin' your advice," the man growled, southern accent as tar-thick as blackstrap molasses on his lips.
"It's free," Jim answered impishly. "Regular roast's to your left there."
In the merciless florescent light of the gas station, Rhett the Grouch looked surprisingly less disreputable; only real linen and cotton could wrinkle like that, after all, and the creases in his pants were still sharp as razor blades. He'd brought in his wallet and nothing else, Jim noted, meaning he was continuing on to more westerly climes. Des Moines? Omaha? Who the hell knew.
Jim grabbed a portable cup himself and found the French Roast, while the man from Dixieland scanned the left side of the counter hazily. He couldn't resist a further, "Down one. Over one more. That's it."
The man's scowl deepened, but his mouth crooked a tiny fraction of an inch and when the coffee startled flowing he sighed rapturously.
"Name's James Kirk," Jim announced, offering him a hand. "I prefer Jim."
The man sized him up over the rim of his Jumbo Gulp before taking the hand and shaking it firmly. "Dr. Leonard McCoy, at your service."
Jim rested a hip on the counter and said, "Hey, doc, if you've got the money for a taxi, we can get out of this awful weather and I'll put you up for the night."
McCoy's eyes narrowed faintly. "That's awful kind of you, Mr. Kirk, but I've got a ways yet to go on that damn bus, and I don't want to spend a minute longer on the road then I have to."
Jim smiled. "I just thought I'd offer, seeing as that bus you love so much rolled out two minutes ago."
One glance out the window proved it true, and proved that the good doctor McCoy could cuss a blue streak wider than the Mississippi.
Those half-remembered curses lingered in his head as he was jolted straight from dreams into reality by the frame-rattling bangs shaking his door. "Jim, you lazy ass, aren't you up yet?"
As soon as he had the presence of mind to, he yelled, "Goddamn it, Momma, it's my day off!" It came out a bit muffled, as he neglected to lift his head from the pillow it was mashed in to answer her.
"I don't give a rat's ass if it's your day off or Good fucking Friday!" Winona shouted, the full edge of her wicked temper softened by the old plaster walls and sturdy oak door. "It's almost noon and you're changing the oil in the Jeep today!"
Goddamn military mothers who still kept goddamn military hours. He felt like he's gone ten rounds with Andre the Giant, having spent his night slogging through mud and rushes with the rest of the department as they combed the river for the vampire and the Craters. Jim had dragged his aching body into bed just as the sun had started shining-something Winona knew, damn it, she'd been up and on her second cup of coffee when he'd crawled in the front door. She'd had the gall to laugh at his sorry ass.
"James Tiberius Kirk! FRONT AND CENTER!"
The navy had done him no favors when it finally removed Admiral Kirk from active duty.
"I'm up, I'm fucking up," he groaned, rolling onto his back and rubbing at his gummy eyes. The light, it burned.
"Lunch is on the stove," was her only answer, and he heard the floorboards creak as she walked away, apparently satisfied.
When Jim had first returned to Riverside after years of footloose travel and then three attending the police academy, the Kirk house had stood empty for a decade. He and Sam had lived there off and on with their grandparents, dropped off like so much extra weight while their mother shipped out to less child-friendly climes. Jim had always remembered the farmhouse as crowded and noisy and charmingly kitschy, but he'd found it clean as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. Tiberius and Mary Kirk had quietly passed away within months of each other, and a few elderly aunts had methodically stripped the house bare, with Winona's full blessing. He might have protested if he'd known, but from ages fifteen through twenty Jim Kirk had pretty much fallen off the face of the earth. Even he didn't remember all the places he'd been.
He'd worked on the house pretty much incessantly, that first year back when he was still adjusting to the job and the small town and living like a responsible adult. He'd painted the walls and refinished the floors, and Sam had snuck around behind his back to force furniture that matched on him. Aurelan, then pregnant with George III, had snuck behind both their backs to make new appliances magically appear in the empty spaces between the cabinets.
Jim had been settling into a comfortable, if a bit lonely, confirmed bachelorhood rattling around a huge old farmhouse, wondering if he should get a dog or maybe try to keep a woman around longer than a weekend. Then he'd answered a routine domestic and found Nyota locked in her father's closet, hands belted together and her face a mess of old and new bruises. Less than a month after that, Winona had shown up on his doorstep with her sea bag on her shoulder and a tired, sour scowl, retired kicking and screaming after thirty years of service.
And that was how Jim Kirk, bad-ass sheriff's deputy and one sexy motherfucker, had found himself living platonically with one of the hottest girls in town and his mom.
At least he'd kept the master suite on the first floor, so he could stumble naked out of bed and into the bathroom without offending anyone's delicate feminine sensibilities. He'd barely sluiced off last night so he took his time now, letting the stinging hot water sooth sore muscles and unglue his eyelids from each other. Fuck mornings, anyway, but bless Aurelan's practical little heart for the new, massive water heater in his basement.
He could hear muted voices from the kitchen as he toweled off, pulling on grease-monkey jeans and a white tee he might have worn in high school. He heard a high-pitched giggle as he stepped out into the hall, and then Joanna was running around the corner and tackling him like a midget linebacker in pink overalls.
Instantly, his morning got better. "Heyheeey, its Jojo! What're you doing here, babycakes?" He grabbed her tight in a bear hug, swinging her around a few times before setting her down again. She immediately reattached herself, winding her arms and legs around his waist like a koala.
"Ms. Winnie's gonna babysit me 'cause daddy's working," she informed him, and shrieked with laughter as he bounced down the hall and she slid to his knees. "Faster!"
Bones was sitting at the table with a plate of something black and lumpy and what was probably his seventh or eighth mug of coffee, raising his eyebrows at Jim and the gap-toothed terror still wound around his legs. "Joanna, darlin', leave the man be."
She released him with a giggle and Jim eased himself into a chair with a wince. "Ouch."
Bones set his mug down as Jo scrambled around the table to climb into his lap, wrapping an arm around her loosely. "What, not sleeping well, princess?"
Jim groaned. "Not hardly. I had a hell- a heck of a night," he amended quickly as Jo beamed across the table at him. "I must have crawled through every inch of woods within a two mile radius of the river. Twice."
"I heard," Winona said, sliding over Jim's very own plate of Black and Lumpy. "Robert Wesley stopped me out by the road on my way to get the mail, wanted to gossip."
The Kirk farmstead was over a hundred years old, the property bought in 1892 by thrifty Englishman Billy Kirk, and in their heyday Billy's children had owned most of the acreage south of the river. By the time the farm passed to Jim's grandfather, there wasn't much of that land left, and Winona had disposed of the rest when they were kids. Wesley was their closest neighbor to the west, and owned and planted the fields surrounding the Kirk farmhouse. This year he'd put in sweet corn, which was great; it was no fun to pick-and-run when the crop was feed corn or soybeans.
"Yeah?" Jim said, pouring a little cream in his mug. "What'd Bob have to say?"
Winona sat back on the window seat overlooking the back garden, cradling her own coffee and pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Not much. One of the Wesley brood was at Scotty's last night and saw Nancy getting handsy with some stranger, and was there when the police showed up. Then there's Jemma Dubeck, whose husband was working the switchboard. Apparently she's telling anyone who'll stand still long enough that Riverside's had its first vampire attack, and it's the same vampire who's killing girls in Iowa City."
"First attack on a vampire," Jim corrected quickly, seeing Bones stiffen. For whatever reason, Leonard McCoy liked the undead even less than Jim did. "I don't think it's related."
Winona looked positively delighted. For a woman used to commanding hundreds, the tranquil fields of southwest Iowa offered few challenges and fewer diversions. She was not a member of the Ladies Auxiliary, because she was not an auxiliary anything-she was a proud veteran of two foreign wars, thank you very much. In place of that, she now gardened militantly, watched her soaps religiously, cooked constantly-although not well, see Exhibit A: Black and Lumpy- and gossiped like a two-cent snitch in lockup.
"Someone attacked a vampire?" she mused. "Isn't that a little backwards?"
"Joanna," Bones said suddenly. "Why don't you go play in the living room for a bit? Maybe get your stickers out?"
"I wanna hear too," she protested, wiggling around to face him. "Was it a bad vampire? Mrs. Lee says they can be bad or good, just like reg'ler people, but we still shouldn't talk to them if they're strangers."
Her father gave her a stern look and lifted her off his lap. "A vampire is always bad, and don't you forget it, young lady. Off you go."
"But Daddy-"
"Now."
"Fine," she sighed petulantly, and trudged sullenly out of the room.
Jim eyed him. "Hard words."
The doctor grimaced. "When something's that dangerous, I figure it's best not to split hairs."
Jim thought about arguing, but shrugged. It wasn't like he totally disagreed. "Maybe you're right, but last night it was the vampire that got attacked. Think Nancy Crater's a v-juice junkie and grabbed him for the fix."
Winona actually gasped, and Bones looked horrified. "V-juice? As in, vampire blood? She drinks it?"
"It's green, you know?" Winona said conspiratorially. "I've heard they call it a 'Shamrock Shake' in Hollywood."
"Ugh!" Bones said with real feeling.
"You have awful taste in women," Jim told him.
"And don't I know it," Bones snapped back, looking ill. "Did it die?"
"What?" he asked, confused.
"The vampire? It died?"
Jim shook his head. "No, no. I chased Nancy to the river, and Robert was there too, the poor schmuck, and they've got the vamp pinned to the ground. I step out, I tell them they're under arrest and they bolt. I can't just leave him- it- the vampire there, so I wait for backup, get all the needles out of him, and when I look away he frickin' disappears."
"So it's still out there," Bones said, half to himself. "Jesus."
"I'd be more worried about the Craters, although they're probably halfway to Toledo by now," Jim said. "Nancy at least was loose a few very important screws, and mad enough to rip my face off and feed it to me."
"Eeww!" Jo said from the living room.
Bones rounded in his chair. "Joanna Beth McCoy, what have I told you about eavesdropping?"
"I didn't drop anything," Jo insisted as she padded back into the room, coloring book and markers in hand. "The little hand is on the nine already, and you're gonna be late."
"Damn- darn it," Bones said in exasperation as he caught sight of the wall clock. He rose to dump his dishes in the sink and rinse out his mug. "Thanks for the coffee and… food, Winona. I'll be by around eleven for the little terror."
"Daaaaad," Jo whined as he crouched to give her a hug and a big smacking kiss to the top of her head.
"Bye, sugar," he said with real affection. "You be good for Ms. Kirk."
He left the room, and Jim called "What about me?" after his retreating back. He got a monosyllabic grunt in return.
"Sometimes I don't feel like your daddy loves me anymore," he confided to Jo, who was hoisting herself into Bones' vacated seat and spreading her half-colored pages all over the table.
"Goodbye, Jim," came Bones' annoyed voice from the foyer. Jim grinned.
After that, the conversation moved on to more genteel topics, like the town meeting being held Tuesday. The hot topic of the evening would be whether or not to sell some county land out by the highway to developers looking to build a Walmart; Winona was against it on principle, Jim liked the idea of the jobs it would bring with it, and Joanna was deathly bored by anything Walmart-related or adjacent. She managed to steer the conversation towards her summer camp play quick enough.
"I'm gonna be a starfish! There's a song and a dance, and our costumes are a million times better than the stupid dolphins."
"Dolphins stink," he agreed, pushing his chair back. Winona glanced up from the mail and tsked.
"Oh, Jim, you didn't even touch your French toast."
He looked down at the Black and Lumpy still filling his plate, and forced a casual shrug. "Just not hungry, I guess."
He was halfway out the door when something occurred to him. "Hey, Mom?" he asked, feeling a little colder even in the sudden heat of the summer afternoon.
"Mmm?" Winona looked up.
"Nyota's out?"
"Grocery shopping. Why?"
"She… she hasn't brought anyone around recently, has she? A date or something?"
"I'd be the first to cheer if she did," Winona said bluntly. "That girl needs a little more fun in her life."
He licked his lips. "So no guys? Nobody new?"
"Nope. You know something I don't?"
"Wish I didn't," he said under his breath, and stepped outside into the sunshine.
The farmhouse had a detached garage big enough to store combines in, but at present all it housed was Winona's Jeep, Jim's truck and a bunch of wrecks, some dating back to Great-Grandpa Roman's day. He parked the Jeep in the driveway and rolled out his favorite leisure project, his grandfather's original 1948 Harley Davidson panhead. There was a picture, somewhere in the albums in the attic, of Tiberius astride the bike with Mary in his lap, both of them laughing like loons and so obviously in love Jim felt a sympathetic ache in his chest whenever he looked at them. It was nice to know love like that existed, even when he'd probably never experience it himself.
While he waited for the Jeep to drain and worked on the motorcycle, he left the police scanner on and listened to the routine chatter of the sad sacks continuing the search for the Craters. He wanted to know the second they found them; the expression on Nancy's face before Robert pulled her away gave Jim honest-to-God chills.
"Finnegan here. Stop the presses, people, something's been rooting around in McCullough's old barns, over."
"Giotto here. What'd'ye think it is this time, Finnegan? Coons, kids or real live fugitives, over?"
"Deputy Finnegan, this is Dispatch. The sheriff confirms that the barns in question were searched and cleared at 0900, over."
The line picked up a muffled snigger from Finnegan. "Copy that, Dispatch. Over."
Jim was under the car wrestling a new filter in place when the scanner crackled to life again. "All units, this is Dispatch. We've received a tip from the hotline that places persons matching the fugitives' descriptions entering a vacant mobile home in the Sunrise Mobile Home Village off South Scott Boulevard. The sheriff requests that deputies Giotto and Finnegan respond, over."
"Ha," Jim said with satisfaction as the deputies rang in. That's what you get for goofing off on the air.
He was a bit less amused when Giotto reported in twenty minutes later, breathing hard and speaking curtly. "Dispatch, this is Deputy Giotto requesting backup and crime scene investigators. On locating the vacant mobile home, we observed a prone male figure from the front windows. Upon entry, death was confirmed and the body tentatively identified as Dr. Robert Crater. No sign of Nancy or the Buick."
There was a short radio silence, and then "Copy that, deputy. The sheriff requests that all units respond to Deputy Giotto's 20, over."
Well, there went his day off.
By the time Jim reached Sunrise Village, the place was swarming with badges. The case had originated in Riverside and by extension Washington County, but Scott Boulevard was technically in Iowa City limits and thus under Johnson County jurisdiction; it looked like everyone and their brother had shown up to the intercounty pissing match. He spotted Giotto standing off to one side and made his way over, skirting CSIs and beat cops.
"Hey, Cupcake," he nodded in greeting. "What's our position here?"
"Nice of you to join us, Kirk," Giotto growled, "and fucked if I know, that's our position. I call for backup and two minutes later the ICPD shows up sirens blazing and hustles in on our crime scene like it's backstage at a Ke$ha concert."
"I'm impressed by your knowledge of pop culture," Jim told him. "Really. But what about Pike? Shouldn't he at least know where we stand?"
Giotto cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "He's tied up with some suits. They showed up five minutes after the police and grabbed him when he pulled in."
Jim turned his head and sure enough, the sheriff was standing in the street with two men in black. They looked like suits always did, cookie-cutter and shifty in dark sunglasses and two-piece-and-tie ensembles that had to be absolutely sweltering in this weather.
Jim glanced back at the mobile home, the sheer number of law enforcement officials recalling ants at a picnic. "Where's Finnegan?"
"He took Sulu and the new kid in with him. They're in holding pattern around the body until Pike says boo."
"I'm going to go talk to him, then," Jim decided. "It's better than standing around with our thumbs up our asses."
As he walked away, Giotto called after him, "You know if you'd done your job last night, we wouldn't even be here!" Jim gave him the finger.
The sheriff and suits were in such deep discussion that they didn't even notice his approach until Pike happened to glance over and meet his eyes. Chalk it up to imagination, but for a second he could have sworn that Pike glared warningly at him.
He frowned back, but the sheriff had already turned to the suits with a smile and was saying, "Gentlemen, this Deputy Kirk, one of mine."
Jim tipped his head politely and opened his mouth to ask to borrow his sheriff back, but the taller suit beat him to the punch with, "That's Deputy James Tiberius Kirk?"
"That's right," Jim admitted cautiously, looking back and forth between the two men. "You have the advantage of me, Mister…?"
With a smooth, well-practiced motion, the first man reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a badge. "My name is Agent Komack, and this is my colleague, Agent Morrow."
"Pleasure to meet you," Jim lied, shaking their proffered hands.
Morrow smiled humorlessly. "Deputy Kirk, we're in town investigating the deaths of Marlena Moreau and Janice Rand."
Jim slanted a look at Pike. "And, those cases have been linked to the Craters?"
The two agents exchanged significant glances. "That remains to be seen," Komack allowed, "although it's certainly possible. Correct me if I'm wrong, deputy, but you knew the two murder victims personally?"
Jim nodded slowly. "Yeah, you could say that. I dated Marlena in high school, and saw Janice a few times almost two years ago now." A little of Jim's impatience leaked into his voice as he said, "I'm sorry, agents, but is this really the best place for this? We're standing in an active crime scene."
Pike's lips thinned. "Son, why don't you go get Giotto and help M'Benga? I'll be with you in a moment."
That was Christopher Pike, never one to let you step too far over the line. Jim ducked his head. "Sure thing, sheriff."
Komack looked like he may have wanted to argue, but didn't say a thing when Jim turned to catch Giotto's eye, waving the other man over as he started walking towards the coroner's van. Jim glanced back over his shoulder, and Komack was watching him leave while Pike and Morrow continued their conversation. Jim didn't like the look in his eyes; a cold, intense focus that reminded him of a wolf looking for the weakest in the herd.
"So, who're the MIB over there?" Giotto said lowly as Jim reached him.
Jim gave a careless shrug, deliberately shaking off the disquieting sensation of being watched. "Apparently the Feds are in town."
"Oh, great," Giotto muttered, and they walked into the house after the medical examiner.
When Jim came out of the house next, the suits were gone.
He drove back home in the gradually deepening twilight, moon still low in the sky and waning as he crossed the river at Vine Street. He drove east, towards home, and watched the red fade out of the sky like blood in water in his rearview mirror.
What had happened in that mobile? Nancy was crazy as a shithouse rat and perfectly capable of savagely murdering her husband, but Robert Crater had died violently enough that there was some question whether Nancy, even in the withdrawal-induced rage Jim had been witness to last night, would have been able to inflict that kind of damage. Option two, then: the vampire had somehow tracked the Craters to the mobile home, and killing Robert had distracted him long enough for Nancy to get away in the Buick.
The second option was plausible, Jim thought, following the meandering shore road. But somehow improbable. Jim had never seen a vampire killing first-hand, but if the reports were true there wouldn't have been enough of Nancy left to fill a thimble, let alone up and drive away.
Only the thinnest rim of light on the horizon remained when he turned onto to the farm's quarter-mile drive. The Jeep was still out and he parked beside it, the motion-sensing lights flicking on just in time for him to avoid hitting the oil pan. As he was climbing out of the truck the back door was flung open and Jo appeared at the screen, waving manically. He waved back, but even out on the driveway he could smell something burning and hear the thin blare of the smoke alarm. Upholding discretion as the better part of valor, he cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, "Tell Winona I'm gonna get the paper, okay, Jojo?"
When he heard her "Okay!", he slammed the truck's door shut and started back down the gravel drive on foot.
There was enough light to see, barely, but halfway to the main road he found himself wishing he'd thought to grab a flashlight. He'd never been afraid of the dark, not as a child and certainly not as a grown man and a sheriff's deputy, but the darkness reminded him of that night on the roadside, eyes like starless infinity and the cool metal of a muzzle pressed to his forehead. He'd woken up in a cold sweat more times than he cared to remember in the last week with that voice in his head like honey and chilled wine, cold and sweet and stupefying. He would have done anything that vampire damn well asked, and he knew it, but he'd still stopped the Craters from draining it. Here, in the dark with his memories, that sounded like the worst mistake he'd ever made, and Jim had plenty to compare it to.
It was breezier now than it had been the last few nights, a bit more wind breathing through the line of trees that separated the drive from the fields, bringing the smell of dry grass and warm earth. The evening edition that was usually just haphazardly tossed in the general direction of the house had been carefully slotted into the mailboxes across the road; maybe Winona had made good on her threat to wait in the bushes for the kid that delivered it and give him a piece of her mind. Then again, Jim didn't see any obvious bloodstains as he jogged across the asphalt, so maybe not.
On this side of 130th, the ground sloped abruptly away into the river valley behind a small perfunctory guardrail, the river snaking fifty feet below. From the house's wraparound porch you could see both the English and the Iowa rivers, but from the road it was just the latter. In the daytime a man could see for miles from the top off the bluff, the patchwork hills rolling off into the distance like God's own quilt, and at night the lights of River Junction and Lone Tree twinkled like fallen constellations.
Jim took a step closer to the edge to admire the view, and somewhere behind him a car revved to life. He turned towards the sound, curious, and brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden glare of the headlights.
He didn't realize until a moment too late that the squealing tires and roaring engine were coming directly for him.
A second later, the car's front bumper smashed into the guardrail, catching his hip as he lunged to the left. The impact was glancing, but his whole side went numb as he hit the ground and rolled. Behind him, the car pealed out in reverse, and he staggered to his feet and started running for the treeline, splinters of white-hot pain shooting down his leg. It wouldn't be enough, he realized with growing panic, even as he put all the strength he had into every lurching step; he was the middle of the road and the driver in the, Goddamnit, in the black Buick Regal had already switched gears andwas flooring it-
This time the collision was strong enough that Jim rolled up into the windshield, feeling the glass crack and spiderweb with the force of impact. The car screeched to a halt and he tumbled bonelessly off the hood, hitting the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.
He lay there on his side, too stunned for a moment to do much more than let the breath hitch in and out of his lungs, sharp stabbing twinges all through his chest and bone creaking and rubbing where ribs had broken. Something was wrong with his pelvis, a brilliant starburst of pain streaking through his body when he tried to move his legs, his stomach strangely full and heavy. The phrase internal bleeding flittered through his mind, too quick to latch on to as something thick and vicous started seeping into his eyes.
He waited for the wheels to spin forward again, crush his skull and end it, but somewhere above the screaming pain he heard the car door open, and footsteps coming towards him. The world exploded into kaleidoscopic, red-edged agony, a Technicolor hell of pain, forcing his breath out in a winded grunt and his stinging eyes open wide, just in time to see Nancy Crater raise the tire iron again, her face a mask of bloodlust.
Things went a bit… fuzzy. Later, when Jim couldn't shunt the memory away, he'd tell himself his eyes must have closed. It was certainly more plausible and far less unsettling than the night opened up and swallowed the woman whole. He was vaguely cognizant of movement, of sound, loud, horrendous noises and bright brittle screams from somewhere in his periphery, but none of it seemed very important. He blinked, and watched his blood seep into the rough-paved asphalt, and choked out a wet laugh. He couldn't feel his legs anymore.
In a bit it all seemed to die down, and Jim became aware of someone crouching over him.
"James, can you hear me?"
It was the voice. The one from his dreams. Jim wondered if he was dreaming.
"James?"
If so, he wished it weren't so cold. The pain was almost completely gone now, which was nice, but the cold was getting unbearable.
"You are very badly injured."
Well, no shit Sherlock. Most people didn't walk away from a fight with two thousand pounds of steel unscathed. Jim tried to laugh again, and it bubbled horribly in his throat.
Instantly, a cool palm was cupping his cheek. "You must stop that. You only hasten your death."
Jim subsided and lay still, oddly soothed by the touch.
"You must answer me clearly now, James. It is in my power to heal you. I offer my blood freely to you once more, without conditions. Will you-?"
Jim was already shaking his head minutely, gurgling, "Nrnnnm, dun wunnit…"
"Hush." A second hand joined the first, fingers splayed at precise angles over his forehead and cheekbones. "You refuse?"
Don't want to be a junkie, he tried to say. His lips shaped the words, but all that came out was another pathetic gurgle. Don't want to be like her.
"What if I could assure you you would never been like that creature?"
Wouldn't believe you, he thought hazily. The darkness was growing somehow more profound, the edges of his vision blanking out and going black.
That voice, which had been so emotionless and cold, seemed closer and warmer now, leaking anger and a bit of desperation. "You have rescued me from true death, James, and I have done little but bespell and frighten you. I will be forever guilty in the eyes of Surak."
I don't want to die, came a sudden tiny whisper from somewhere deep inside him. I don't want to die.
Long fingers stroked his cheek. "Then you will not."
The hand drew back from his face, and when it returned it was to press fingers wet with something salty against his lips. "Drink," the voice insisted.
It was-and more was pooling in the palm, running down in rivulets from the gash in the wrist that Jim traced with his tongue, ignoring the pain and his own small, hurt noises to reach for the arm attached to that wrist and bring it closer, so he could fit his mouth around the wound and drink.
His limbs grew lighter, his mind clearer as though he were transforming from bone and flesh to light and air, curling himself around his prize and suckling until it closed. He felt the fleeting urge to rip into the yielding flesh with his teeth, to take more, and horror washed over him. It too faded into the strange lethargic bliss that had overtaken his body. Someone was gently brushing his hair back from his face, and he smiled drowsily without opening his eyes.
"Thank you," the voice whispered. "My debt is paid."
"Anytime," he murmured, only half aware of what he was saying.
"I hope for both our sakes it is not a common occurrence," the voice responded quietly. "Though since I have come to live among humankind, I have found myself pushed to violence far more often that I had supposed I might be."
"Nyota will do that to a man," he said dryly.
There was an astonished silence, and then a brief, rusty-sounding chuckle. Startled, Jim looked up to meet the vampire's gaze- and his eyes were the rich velvet brown of the finest Swiss chocolate, like cinnamon and chestnuts all the best things Jim had ever tasted.
"Now sleep, James."
He slept.
Author Note: It occurs to me that people unfamiliar with Star Trek: the Original Series might be asking themselves, "Where the hell are these weird OCs coming from?" Professor Robert and Nancy Crater are the very first villains in the very first episode, The Man Trap. Finnegan is this random douche upperclassman that torments Kirk at Star Fleet Academy and again on Shore Leave. Admiral James Komack of Star Fleet almost got Spock killed in Amok Time (the pon farr episode!). Admiral Henry Morrow of Star Fleet is just generally an uptight dick in several Star Trek movies, including The Search for Spock and The Voyage Home. I'll put in more author notes as other minor characters get introduced.
<< Previous Chapter | Next Chapter >>