Keep Calm and Conceal Vulcans | STXI | PG-13 | 2/?
Title: Keep Calm and Conceal Vulcans (2/?)
Beta: rainbowstrlght
Series: STXI AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~4,700
Warnings: The MIB are here!
Summary: A 21st Century AU; In a time when alien life has yet to be discovered, Spock's ship crash-lands in Jim Kirk's cornfield. But, dammit, this is real life - not an episode of The X-Files!
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
A/N: Check out some beautiful FANART by the always talented and fabulous makowe_pola!
Chapter One
Oh, shit. The Smoking Man from The X-Files was here.
Okay, he wasn’t smoking.
And he wasn’t in a trench coat.
But he was old?
But not really.
“Is this your property?” the man in black camo asked mildly.
Jim leaned in the doorway and crossed his arms, refusing entry. “Last time I checked.”
“What’s your name, citizen?”
“Who wants to know?”
The man’s voice went steely. “The United States Army. What is your name?”
“I’m James Tiberius Kirk. Who’re you?” Jim inwardly kicked himself - too sarcastic, too obvious.
The stranger gave a moment of pause to that, his eyes squinting briefly.
“Sergeant Pike. Tell me, Mr. Kirk - were you aware of a disturbance at approximately one-hundred hours?”
Jim blinked owlishly, knowing it probably wouldn’t take much effort to con this blockhead into believing he was some dumb-ass farm hick.
Pike coughed and clarified, “One-hundred hours. One in the morning.”
“Oh, you mean that big ol’ boom?” Jim responded eagerly, imitating his Uncle Frank’s accent. “Somethin’ fell, good ‘n proper in my field! You here t’pay comp’nsation for my damaged crops?”
Sergeant Pike gave him a quiet once-over, before his voice took on an air of resignation. “Did you approach the fallen object, Mr. Kirk?”
Jim scowled. “I ain’t stupid, Sarge! I went t’the edge of the field and that was that. Not gonna bother trudgin’ ‘round that corn ‘til the sun’s shinin’.”
Pike arched a brow slowly. “And you didn’t call the police immediately?”
The guy was sharp as nails; Jim would give him that.
“Well...” Jim smiled sheepishly. “I kinda wanted my face in the local paper, y’know? Figured if I called in the morning, it’d be more fun to take a picture with it in the daylight. Which side you think is better - my right or my left?” Jim presented each side of his face with a flourish, and began to comb back his hair with his hands.
Pike snapped, “What exactly did you see, Mr. Kirk?”
“Um.” Jim dropped his hands and pursed his lips in deep thought. “Somethin’ big and shiny and smoking. It was a weather satellite, wasn’t it Sarge? I hear ‘bout them fallin’ on people sometimes, y’know.” Jim leaned in conspiratorially. “You should get that looked into.”
The Sergeant did not look impressed - very MIB cool. He didn’t even lean away from Jim’s invasion of personal space.
“Have you seen anyone suspicious on your property in the past four hours?”
“What, like - aside from you, and your super-secret black uniforms? Not a soul.”
Narrowed, gray eyes cut at him. “You’re sure about that?”
Jim sighed and threw up his hands. “What d’you expect me t’say, Sarge? You just woke me up in the middle of the night ‘n started questionin’ me about a weather satellite. That ain’t my business, crops are.”
“You were sleeping fully dressed?”
“I fell asleep watching Nick at Nite. Gotta love Mork and Mindy.”
They both stared each other down for what felt like an eternity. Mostly because Jim was really hungry, and all he could think about was if he’d left a half-eaten bag of peanut M&M’s in the kitchen.
But finally, Sergeant Pike seemed to back down. “Yes, of course. Well, we’ll be removing the satellite ASAP, and I’ll have a couple of men remain in the area until we’re certain the area is secure.”
Alarm bells went off in Jim’s head, but he shrugged. “Long as y’don’t scare my cows.”
Pike aimed a strange, searching look his way, before he firmly saluted and retreated into the darkness. Jim could see the dimmed headlights of several automobiles, and heard the low murmur of tense voices.
Weather satellite. Ha! That didn’t even work on television.
As soon as the door was locked, Jim turned to high-tail it back to Spock. At least this time he noted Gumby at the base of the stairs, and had time to leap over the dog on his way up - Olympic medal in the high jump, hell yeah! - okay no, but Jim could dream.
Jim slid down the corridor in his socks and nearly ran face-first into the bedroom door. He ended up bursting through like Cramer from Seinfeld, and he was kind of very glad Spock hadn’t seen it.
Swinging open the bathroom door and flicking on the lights, Jim launched himself into the tub with Spock. The Vulcan blinked at him rapidly, and Jim conspiratorially snapped the shower curtain shut around them - as if that would keep out Army spies? It wouldn’t keep out the Smoking Man.
“The Men in Black are here,” Jim reported, shifting awkwardly in the tub so that his feet were on either side of Spock’s naked hips.
Spock snapped his knees shut, and stared at Jim. “To whom are you specifically referring? Who are the Men in Black?”
“Okay, they’re not exactly MIB, but it’s the Army,” Jim whispered, leaning in. “They’re all in black, too. Like Special Ops or something.”
“Are you cognisant of what a Special Operations Unit truly consists of, Mr. Kirk?”
“Shut up, and don’t ruin my delusions. All I do know is that they know what’s in my field. Which means you, Spock, are a wanted man - uh, alien.”
Spock was silent for a long moment; apparently deep in thought, as he blankly stared at his thighs.
Jim frowned and slouched back in the tub, hanging his arm over the side. “They’re probably gonna search the house at some point.”
“Your assumption is logical.”
“Maybe a full-body cavity search, too.”
“Implausible.”
Silence descended, and their eyes met warily. Jim chewed on his lip and shrugged.
“Listen... I’m not exactly sure where to you hide you, man. It’s not like my house is full of trap doors and shit. This isn’t Scooby-Doo.”
Confusion flitted across Spock’s face, but he nodded. “We face several conundrums.”
Jim nodded soberly back, but kept his words light and optimistic. “None that we can’t handle.”
Spock flicked a brow. “How have you come to that conclusion?”
Jim picked at a hangnail and jerked a shoulder. “We just take the easy stuff first, right? File down the list to something manageable.”
The Dora band-aid was the only thing perking up Spock’s wan visage. Jim wondered if the Vulcan default state was emo-pale, or what. But Spock took a small breath, and Jim thought he looked about as tired as Jim felt.
“Until I am able to devise a more efficient course of action, your amateur plan must suffice.”
“You’re so generous.”
“I do not believe that I am. What is the first order of business?”
A slow smile teased Jim’s mouth, as his eyes drifted from Spock’s face to take in the dark whorls of hair dusting across his chest, and the stiff set of smooth shoulders. Spock must be feeling the chill, and yet it was Jim’s arms which prickled.
“Clothing. I mean, unless you’re channelling the Terminator, and want to be naked in every scene of this movie.”
“This movie?” Annoyance darkened Spock’s eyes. “Are you suffering from hallucinations, Mr. Kirk?”
“No.” Jim’s sigh was forlorn. “I just always thought it’d be cool if my life was actually like The Truman Show, and one day I realised I was the star of the world.”
“Somehow I do not find it difficult to conceive that you believe yourself to be the permanent centre of attention. Your egotism appears boundless.”
Jim grinned and winked. “Ya got me there.”
“I do not have you anywhere,” Spock icily replied.
“You could have me if you want. That’s an invitation.”
Jim might as well have been making eye contact with the tub faucet, for all the reaction Spock gave him. Seriously - was this guy really the Terminator?
“Are you a robot?”
“I believe we previously established that I am, what humans categorise as, an extraterrestrial.”
“Just checking. You’re not here to kill anyone, are you?”
Spock blinked. “I am certainly not.”
Jim aimed a narrowed look over Spock. “Okay, cool. I guess you clear the list of things I don’t allow in my house.”
“Murderers and robots?”
“That, and Girl Scouts. I don’t trust their little freckled faces.”
Spock’s gaze flitted towards Jim. “You have sparse freckling.”
“Yes, because it’s totally not creepy that you’ve noticed that.” But Jim’s cheeks were heating. “Do you want clothes, or not?”
“I would appreciate -”
Spock froze.
Jim sat up, and his hands went to Spock’s knees as he scooted forward. “What - what is it, Spock?”
But Spock was already up and out of the bath, and dashing into the bedroom. Jim followed clumsily, and nearly knocked himself out on the showerhead as he leapt to his feet - he really was destined to die in his bathroom ala Psycho, wasn’t he?
A splintering crack in the bedroom alerted Jim to Spock on his knees, yanking up an ancient floorboard.
“What the hell, man?” Jim hissed in a stage whisper - as if the MIB were in the room right now, or something. “That’s my floor! Like, I walk on that on a day-to-day basis, and gaps aren’t exactly ideal on what is meant to be a flat surface. I don’t know if you guys love walking on potholes or something wherever the hell you came from, but it’s not cool here.”
He was still being ignored. Jim flailed his arms. “I will turn you the hell in right now, naked or not.”
It was then that Jim noticed Spock’s transmitter lying beside his kneeling form. Once Spock had bent back the end of the floorboard, he snatched the contraption and -
Broke it into several pieces.
Jim gawked as Spock dismembered one of the sexiest examples of technology he had ever seen (seriously, if Jim could have sex with a phone...), and placed them under the plank.
With little exertion, Spock pressed the wood down and slammed the nails in place with the side of his fist. The board was a bit wobbly after Spock’s Hulk-Smash! moment on it, but once more, Jim’s floor looked very... floory. So that was a plus.
“Okay, um - what the hell is going on?” Jim sputtered, and tugged off his glasses to rub at his tired eyes.
He was used to going without sleep for long periods of time - World of Warcraft was addictive, okay? - but this night was ridiculous. What with aliens in his back yard, and the military scouring his property, and naked dudes giving him an Extreme Home Makeover - yeah, he was basically surviving on very little rest, and even less explanations.
And Spock was not helping, because now he was silently stalking around Jim’s room and closing curtains, and he really didn’t seem to care that Jim could totally see that amazing ass - not that he was looking, because he’d very honourably left his glasses off, and hooked them in his shirt collar. Spock was just a very sexy blob at this point, and that was definitely for the best.
Jim felt annoyance spark. He whistled sharply, like a master calling his dog. Incidentally, the sound of Gumby’s nails scraping manically across the hardwood floor downstairs indicated the dogs impending arrival.
“Hey, you, Jolly Green Giant - listen up. You’re staying in my house, and I think it’ll be in our best interests if you explain to me exactly what you’re doing. Because right about now it’s no skin off my back if I let those guys know I’m housing one of Santa’s real-life elves, all right? It’s my way, or the highway.”
Spock’s gaze drilled into Jim’s, and his face and shoulders looked fashioned from steel. “I can only assume that as the military is suspicious of my existence, they will be sweeping the area for radio signals on all frequencies.”
Jim hummed in acknowledgement, and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, right - gotcha. Distress signal’s gonna haveta wait.”
With the gears in his head turning and mulling and rolling, Jim wandered towards his closet doors and yanked at one of the handles. He wasn’t exactly messy, but he wasn’t particularly neat; so it came as a pleasant surprise when a miniature avalanche of pungent clothing did not heave forward onto his feet. Jim did a mental victory dance as he arbitrarily yanked a flannel shirt from a hanger, and grabbed a pair of jeans and clean boxers for Spock.
“Hey, Spock?”
Spock accepted the clothes offered to him with a dubiously winged brow. “Yes?”
Jim turned to face the closet and put his glasses back on.
“Maybe I’ve spent too much of my life watching the Sci-Fi Channel - and I know you crashed here and all - but don’t you have some sort of mission on Earth? I mean, you don’t just arbitrarily land on a planet. You may be able to travel through space at warp or whatever tech you might use, but everything is still huge distances apart.”
He was met with silence, and a rustling of clothes. Jim pressed on with a frown Spock wouldn’t be able to see. “You were in our orbit, weren’t you? What was your actual mission before you crashed?”
When Jim turned, it was to find Spock concentrating hard at the floor. Jim opened his mouth, but a jarring clatter of fist to wood cracked the moment into mayhem.
Their eyes met in tandem, and Jim was whispering, “Hide, hide!” while dashing from the room without a look back. He knew that wasn’t a very specific request, but hell, it didn’t seem like they were going to make it out of this one so soon, anyway.
“Coming!” Jim hollered, as he rushed downstairs. Adrenaline pumped hot though his veins, and flushed his cheeks and brightened his eyes. Despite the apparent peril of him and Spock’s situation, Jim found that he had to tamp down the grin that threatened to break his hassled facade.
Come on - no one could deny that this was barrels more fun than spending the night watching an Iron Chef marathon (and that was a lot of fun, okay).
Jim barely had time to crack the door open, before swarms of black-clad officers spilled through like angry ants. With a perturbed, “Woah there, G.I. Jane,” Jim took a hasty step back and fisted his hands at his sides, as he surveyed the silent precision with which his house was searched.
Sergeant Pike was last to step into the foyer, with his stride calm and assured before he paused beside Jim. They exchanged suspicious looks, and it was Jim’s glare that coloured his face now.
“I’m pretty sure I have rights protecting me from this bullshit, Sarge.”
“Try and bring it to court, son.”
“I’m not your son,” Jim hissed, but he remained still. He couldn’t even flick his eyes to the stairway, which several men had taken up. “Unless you’re Uncle Sam himself, and even then that makes me your nephew, if anything. What exactly are you looking for?”
Pike blinked, and appeared as if he repressed a smile for a moment. “We looked you up - necessary procedure. It seems as though you’re far more intelligent than I gave you credit for, Mr. Kirk.”
Their exchanged looks clearly illustrated that they both knew the hick act wouldn’t last anymore.
“Most people are. What does that have to do with anything?”
Pike folded his arms over his chest, and searched Jim’s purposefully blank expression. “A genius-level repeat offender, who doesn’t go poking around when an unidentified object crashes in their backyard? That’s a thin story, Mr. Kirk.”
It really was. Brain fart on Jim’s part.
“All right, all right, old man - I barely saw it from afar, okay? What’s the big deal?” Jim replied breezily. He considered Pike’s unflinching demeanour with a wariness that Jim didn’t show. “I looked, it was dark - I saw a big silver thing, then I went home. I still wanted my picture in the paper. Have you seen me? Does my file mention that I was child model - you can tell, can’t you?”
Pike considered him in such a curious way, that it had Jim struggling not to shove his daddy issues in a sack and beat the Sergeant over the head with them.
Jim rolled his eyes. “You know, you’re making a bigger deal of this than necessary. Is drama an extra elective in Super Army Soldier School?”
“Are you finished, Mr. Kirk?”
“Never.”
Clear! came from upstairs, and Jim’s shoulders sagged slightly with the relief. Maybe Spock could stick to ceilings, after all.
Sergeant Pike looked doubtful, but his piercing whistle resounded through the house. Everyone - including Gumby - regrouped and headed out the front door.
“Gumby, hey!” Jim slapped at his thighs at the entrance of the door. “You’re not joining the Army - get back here.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet, Mr. Kirk,” the sergeant quietly warned from behind.
Jim knelt to ruffle his wiggling dog’s ears. He nuzzled his face into the scruff of Gumby’s neck. “Lucky I’m a good survivor, then.”
Now was probably not a good time to have a Destiny’s Child song stuck in his head. I’m a survivor, I’m gon’ make it...
Jim cleared his throat from the giggle that rose, and stood. He faced Pike with hands on hips, and inclined his chin to steadily meet the Sergeant’s eyes. “I don’t think this is working out between us, Sarge. You’re just too serious and overbearing for me. I mean, coming into my house in the middle of the night, in search of my secretive lover? That’s a bit much. We should probably end it here and now. I hear the Army has plenty of options. You’ll get over me, if only a little.”
Pike give him a final lingering, narrowed look, before he departed from the porch without a salute. With the pastels of early morning seeping across the horizon, Jim watched the dark, distant Hummers rev to life and set off in a long, imposing line.
Jim flicked them off.
“Assholes.”
Then he remembered Spock.
“Crap.”
Jim rocketed up the stairs, flinging himself into his bedroom.
“Spock?” he called, dropping down to check under his bed - and, consequently, inhaling two weeks of dust. Jim came up sputtering and smacking himself on the nose, to get a dust-bunny off.
That was pretty much when Spock’s feet caught on the ledge of an open window, and he levered himself in from his hold on the roof gutter. He caught a nice glimpse of Jim essentially slapping himself, before the extra presence in the room came to Jim’s attention.
Jim yelped and leapt to his feet, still sniffling pathetically.
“Spo - choo!” he sneezed helplessly -
Right in Spock’s face.
They both stared at each other - Spock looking very close to strangling Jim, and Jim trying very hard to look apologetic, when he really just wanted to laugh.
“Ah - uh - sorry,” he mumbled with a hiccup of restrained mirth.
“Excuse me,” Spock said between his teeth, and turned on his heel for the bathroom. This really wasn’t his night.
Jim grimaced as he heard the water running. “Did you hide on the roof?” he called through the door.
After a pause, Spock quietly replied, “Indeed.”
“Good one.” Jim must have been exhausted not to have thought of that - but from his window, that was almost an impossible climb for a mere human. He wasn’t Spiderman; although apparently Spock was.
“Your dwelling provides very little options.” Spock came back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, with what Jim might have imagined was a wince. “I would not be so foolish as to seek refuge beneath a bed.”
“Ha - ha,” Jim said sourly, but he was grinning. Their gazes held for a warm moment, before Jim’s stomach made itself known with a burping growl. Jim had to restrain the urge to say, feed me Seymour! He managed - somehow.
Instead he said, “You hungry too? Or do you like, eat from your hands or something? Or do you eat? Oh oh,” Jim exclaimed, ignoring Spock’s open mouth, “Or do you feed off the sunlight? That would explain why you’re green. Do you use photosynthesis? Are you part plant? Oh my god, do you ever -”
“Mr. Kirk,” Spock interrupted sharply, with his lips tight. “I consume food in the same fashion as a human. And to answer your seventh previous question, yes, I require sustenance.”
“... Light sustenance?”
Spock blinked once. “No.”
“Okay, well, I tried.”
“You certainly did.”
Jim offered a bright smile that morphed into a yawn. He turned towards the doorway, and shoved his glasses atop his head. “Follow me if you want to live.”
“Pardon me?”
“What - oh. It’s a line from Terminator. Never mind.” Jim meandered into the hall, expecting Spock to follow. “I just meant food was this way.”
“You utilise an unfamiliar form of English,” Spock noted from behind him, as they head down stairs.
“Not really.”
“You would benefit from speaking in a logical manner.”
“Well, it all makes sense in my head, and that’s all that really matters to me.”
“An inefficient form of communication.”
“Yes, teacher,” Jim replied with a hefty sigh, as he waved Spock into the expansive cream and yellow kitchen. The cabinets and wall paint had faded by sun and time, but there was a lingering warmth to the room that made Jim more comfortable here than anywhere else in the house - unless you counted in front of a computer.
“Um,” Jim began, and stuck his head in the fridge, while Spock efficiently shut the curtains. “I haven’t been shopping in... a while. I can make pancakes. Do you like pancakes? We’re having them.”
Spock stood in the centre of the kitchen - he might as well have been naked for how comfortable he looked. Thankfully he wasn’t, or they’d be choking down burnt breakfast instead.
Jim smiled, taking pity on the poor guy. It had been a long day. It was dawn, and they’d slept only a handful of hours. “Have a seat, Spock. Relax. You’re under house arrest until whatever lackeys Pike has left to watch us have fucked off. You might as well get used to it. Let me cook - I’m not great, but I can make a pancake without setting off the fire alarm.”
Dark, doe-eyes flicked between Jim and the small, round dining table; as he nodded and sat stiffly.
Gathering ingredients from here and there, Jim hummed a Queen song under his breath, and let Spock be - if just for a moment. Jim wasn’t a fan of silence; too much prevailed over his life, and Jim didn’t particularly enjoy being left with his thoughts.
Tonight had been the first night in over ten years in which Jim had not fallen asleep with the television or radio on.
When four pancakes slowly puffed up on the griddle pan, Jim faced Spock and leaned his hip on the counter. “So...”
Spock stared at him blankly.
Jim chewed on his lip, distracted slightly by an itch between his shoulder blades. “I feel like this should be a sitcom or something.”
“Sitcom?”
“Like, a T.V. show.”
“I see.”
“Actually, you kind of remind me of C3P0, but not gay.”
Spock’s brows shot up. “Should I recognise the being you are referring to?”
Jim poked at his pancakes with a spatula and flipped them, pleased with their golden colour. Take that, Aunt Jemima.
“Uh, yes? He’s only one of the most famous androids ever.”
Spock got that crinkle above his nose that was actually way too adorable for an adult. “Androids do not exist on Earth.”
“He doesn’t exist on Earth. He’s from space.”
There was a definite hint of incredulity to Spock’s voice when he uttered, “Space? Humans have not explored beyond their solar system. How have you come across this knowledge of androids?” he demanded regally.
“From Star Wars, obviously,” Jim replied. He itched to mess with the pancakes before they were finished.
“What?” Spock snapped, clearly nearing the end of his rope with this line of conversation. “Am I to gather you are speaking of a fictional character from a work of film?”
“One of the greatest film series of all time, yeah. Minus the one with Jar Jar Binks - oh my god, I wanted to smother him in his sleep. And also young Anakin, like, cried all the time, and I kind of wanted to punch him in the mouth. But other than that, they’re a must-see. I can’t believe you haven’t watched ‘em.” Jim caught Spock’s severe look and grinned. “Okay, I can believe it - but still. We should have a marathon together.”
Spock didn’t agree or disagree, which Jim took as assent. It was nice to have someone around to watch movies with, or talk to (read: talk at, in most cases), or just hang out with.
Okay, ‘hanging out’ had consisted of bullet wounds, naked aliens, sleeping with a gun, soldiers invading in the night, roof-hiding, and another guy wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed and getting pancakes made for him (which Jim just didn’t do for anybody), while the sun rose in golden pink.
Still, it felt nice. And it had only been a day - less than a day.
Jim plated the pancakes and set them on the table; turning away to gather two glasses of orange juice and forks and syrup. Spock ended up eating his plain, but Jim drowned his poor pancakes in delicious liquid sugar and happily dug in.
He finished long before Spock did; who ate like an extra straight out of a BBC historical film. All delicate and precise and stuff. Head bowed slightly, Jim could stare at the thick, inky crescents of Spock’s lashes catching the dim light of the sun. His ears were impossible to stop staring at, now that Jim had nothing better to do. They looked carved from marble - not real at all, and definitely better than anything Maybelline could ever invent. The pale, sage pallor reminded Jim of the green Connemara marble of one of his mother’s old family brooches.
Jim hadn’t realised he’d reached out and softly brushed his fingertips over the velvety peak, until Spock jerked back with a narrowed glower. His sharp gaze scanned Jim’s features, as if grasping for answers.
Jim slumped back in his chair, and fiddled with his fork, “Sorry,” he apologised, sounding anything but. “I just can’t get over -” he waved his hand to encompass Spock. “All of this. You. You’re so... cool.”
Spock nodded, his eyes flitting to Jim’s hands. “I acknowledge your inevitable fascination with my anatomy, but please refrain from physical contact unless completely necessary. Our culture values privacy.”
Jim gave the thumbs up and a grin. “Gotcha. No touching. I’ll try my best, but no promises. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not actually perfect.”
“I do not find that difficult to comprehend at all,” Spock replied without hesitation.
“Hey now!” Jim lightly kicked Spock’s shin under the table. “I’ve only made like... one mistake in the epic history of my life, all right?”
“I am dubious to inquire, but I find that curiosity has prevailed. What was your single mistake?”
“Eating all of my Halloween candy in one night.”
Spock flicked a brow. “That is hardly a notable error. I was under the impression that the average Earth child was a particularly illogical being.”
Jim leaned his elbows on the table and considered Spock with a slow smile. “It happened last year.”
“Oh.”
“On the plus side, I didn’t leave it on top of the fridge, forget about it for a year, and then eat it even though the chocolate was sometimes this weird white, dusty colour. Like a ghost chocolate.”
Spock cleared his throat and stood. He looked down at Jim - and yes, he definitely looked somewhat perturbed. “I require further rest for optimum efficiency.”
Jim’s smile widened as he looked up. “All right. Good morning, Spock.”
“Good morning, Mr. Kirk.”
Chapter Three
Beta: rainbowstrlght
Series: STXI AU
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~4,700
Warnings: The MIB are here!
Summary: A 21st Century AU; In a time when alien life has yet to be discovered, Spock's ship crash-lands in Jim Kirk's cornfield. But, dammit, this is real life - not an episode of The X-Files!
Disclaimer: Somewhere over the slash rainbow of my mind, it happened. But not in Kansas, unfortunately.
A/N: Check out some beautiful FANART by the always talented and fabulous makowe_pola!
Chapter One
Oh, shit. The Smoking Man from The X-Files was here.
Okay, he wasn’t smoking.
And he wasn’t in a trench coat.
But he was old?
But not really.
“Is this your property?” the man in black camo asked mildly.
Jim leaned in the doorway and crossed his arms, refusing entry. “Last time I checked.”
“What’s your name, citizen?”
“Who wants to know?”
The man’s voice went steely. “The United States Army. What is your name?”
“I’m James Tiberius Kirk. Who’re you?” Jim inwardly kicked himself - too sarcastic, too obvious.
The stranger gave a moment of pause to that, his eyes squinting briefly.
“Sergeant Pike. Tell me, Mr. Kirk - were you aware of a disturbance at approximately one-hundred hours?”
Jim blinked owlishly, knowing it probably wouldn’t take much effort to con this blockhead into believing he was some dumb-ass farm hick.
Pike coughed and clarified, “One-hundred hours. One in the morning.”
“Oh, you mean that big ol’ boom?” Jim responded eagerly, imitating his Uncle Frank’s accent. “Somethin’ fell, good ‘n proper in my field! You here t’pay comp’nsation for my damaged crops?”
Sergeant Pike gave him a quiet once-over, before his voice took on an air of resignation. “Did you approach the fallen object, Mr. Kirk?”
Jim scowled. “I ain’t stupid, Sarge! I went t’the edge of the field and that was that. Not gonna bother trudgin’ ‘round that corn ‘til the sun’s shinin’.”
Pike arched a brow slowly. “And you didn’t call the police immediately?”
The guy was sharp as nails; Jim would give him that.
“Well...” Jim smiled sheepishly. “I kinda wanted my face in the local paper, y’know? Figured if I called in the morning, it’d be more fun to take a picture with it in the daylight. Which side you think is better - my right or my left?” Jim presented each side of his face with a flourish, and began to comb back his hair with his hands.
Pike snapped, “What exactly did you see, Mr. Kirk?”
“Um.” Jim dropped his hands and pursed his lips in deep thought. “Somethin’ big and shiny and smoking. It was a weather satellite, wasn’t it Sarge? I hear ‘bout them fallin’ on people sometimes, y’know.” Jim leaned in conspiratorially. “You should get that looked into.”
The Sergeant did not look impressed - very MIB cool. He didn’t even lean away from Jim’s invasion of personal space.
“Have you seen anyone suspicious on your property in the past four hours?”
“What, like - aside from you, and your super-secret black uniforms? Not a soul.”
Narrowed, gray eyes cut at him. “You’re sure about that?”
Jim sighed and threw up his hands. “What d’you expect me t’say, Sarge? You just woke me up in the middle of the night ‘n started questionin’ me about a weather satellite. That ain’t my business, crops are.”
“You were sleeping fully dressed?”
“I fell asleep watching Nick at Nite. Gotta love Mork and Mindy.”
They both stared each other down for what felt like an eternity. Mostly because Jim was really hungry, and all he could think about was if he’d left a half-eaten bag of peanut M&M’s in the kitchen.
But finally, Sergeant Pike seemed to back down. “Yes, of course. Well, we’ll be removing the satellite ASAP, and I’ll have a couple of men remain in the area until we’re certain the area is secure.”
Alarm bells went off in Jim’s head, but he shrugged. “Long as y’don’t scare my cows.”
Pike aimed a strange, searching look his way, before he firmly saluted and retreated into the darkness. Jim could see the dimmed headlights of several automobiles, and heard the low murmur of tense voices.
Weather satellite. Ha! That didn’t even work on television.
As soon as the door was locked, Jim turned to high-tail it back to Spock. At least this time he noted Gumby at the base of the stairs, and had time to leap over the dog on his way up - Olympic medal in the high jump, hell yeah! - okay no, but Jim could dream.
Jim slid down the corridor in his socks and nearly ran face-first into the bedroom door. He ended up bursting through like Cramer from Seinfeld, and he was kind of very glad Spock hadn’t seen it.
Swinging open the bathroom door and flicking on the lights, Jim launched himself into the tub with Spock. The Vulcan blinked at him rapidly, and Jim conspiratorially snapped the shower curtain shut around them - as if that would keep out Army spies? It wouldn’t keep out the Smoking Man.
“The Men in Black are here,” Jim reported, shifting awkwardly in the tub so that his feet were on either side of Spock’s naked hips.
Spock snapped his knees shut, and stared at Jim. “To whom are you specifically referring? Who are the Men in Black?”
“Okay, they’re not exactly MIB, but it’s the Army,” Jim whispered, leaning in. “They’re all in black, too. Like Special Ops or something.”
“Are you cognisant of what a Special Operations Unit truly consists of, Mr. Kirk?”
“Shut up, and don’t ruin my delusions. All I do know is that they know what’s in my field. Which means you, Spock, are a wanted man - uh, alien.”
Spock was silent for a long moment; apparently deep in thought, as he blankly stared at his thighs.
Jim frowned and slouched back in the tub, hanging his arm over the side. “They’re probably gonna search the house at some point.”
“Your assumption is logical.”
“Maybe a full-body cavity search, too.”
“Implausible.”
Silence descended, and their eyes met warily. Jim chewed on his lip and shrugged.
“Listen... I’m not exactly sure where to you hide you, man. It’s not like my house is full of trap doors and shit. This isn’t Scooby-Doo.”
Confusion flitted across Spock’s face, but he nodded. “We face several conundrums.”
Jim nodded soberly back, but kept his words light and optimistic. “None that we can’t handle.”
Spock flicked a brow. “How have you come to that conclusion?”
Jim picked at a hangnail and jerked a shoulder. “We just take the easy stuff first, right? File down the list to something manageable.”
The Dora band-aid was the only thing perking up Spock’s wan visage. Jim wondered if the Vulcan default state was emo-pale, or what. But Spock took a small breath, and Jim thought he looked about as tired as Jim felt.
“Until I am able to devise a more efficient course of action, your amateur plan must suffice.”
“You’re so generous.”
“I do not believe that I am. What is the first order of business?”
A slow smile teased Jim’s mouth, as his eyes drifted from Spock’s face to take in the dark whorls of hair dusting across his chest, and the stiff set of smooth shoulders. Spock must be feeling the chill, and yet it was Jim’s arms which prickled.
“Clothing. I mean, unless you’re channelling the Terminator, and want to be naked in every scene of this movie.”
“This movie?” Annoyance darkened Spock’s eyes. “Are you suffering from hallucinations, Mr. Kirk?”
“No.” Jim’s sigh was forlorn. “I just always thought it’d be cool if my life was actually like The Truman Show, and one day I realised I was the star of the world.”
“Somehow I do not find it difficult to conceive that you believe yourself to be the permanent centre of attention. Your egotism appears boundless.”
Jim grinned and winked. “Ya got me there.”
“I do not have you anywhere,” Spock icily replied.
“You could have me if you want. That’s an invitation.”
Jim might as well have been making eye contact with the tub faucet, for all the reaction Spock gave him. Seriously - was this guy really the Terminator?
“Are you a robot?”
“I believe we previously established that I am, what humans categorise as, an extraterrestrial.”
“Just checking. You’re not here to kill anyone, are you?”
Spock blinked. “I am certainly not.”
Jim aimed a narrowed look over Spock. “Okay, cool. I guess you clear the list of things I don’t allow in my house.”
“Murderers and robots?”
“That, and Girl Scouts. I don’t trust their little freckled faces.”
Spock’s gaze flitted towards Jim. “You have sparse freckling.”
“Yes, because it’s totally not creepy that you’ve noticed that.” But Jim’s cheeks were heating. “Do you want clothes, or not?”
“I would appreciate -”
Spock froze.
Jim sat up, and his hands went to Spock’s knees as he scooted forward. “What - what is it, Spock?”
But Spock was already up and out of the bath, and dashing into the bedroom. Jim followed clumsily, and nearly knocked himself out on the showerhead as he leapt to his feet - he really was destined to die in his bathroom ala Psycho, wasn’t he?
A splintering crack in the bedroom alerted Jim to Spock on his knees, yanking up an ancient floorboard.
“What the hell, man?” Jim hissed in a stage whisper - as if the MIB were in the room right now, or something. “That’s my floor! Like, I walk on that on a day-to-day basis, and gaps aren’t exactly ideal on what is meant to be a flat surface. I don’t know if you guys love walking on potholes or something wherever the hell you came from, but it’s not cool here.”
He was still being ignored. Jim flailed his arms. “I will turn you the hell in right now, naked or not.”
It was then that Jim noticed Spock’s transmitter lying beside his kneeling form. Once Spock had bent back the end of the floorboard, he snatched the contraption and -
Broke it into several pieces.
Jim gawked as Spock dismembered one of the sexiest examples of technology he had ever seen (seriously, if Jim could have sex with a phone...), and placed them under the plank.
With little exertion, Spock pressed the wood down and slammed the nails in place with the side of his fist. The board was a bit wobbly after Spock’s Hulk-Smash! moment on it, but once more, Jim’s floor looked very... floory. So that was a plus.
“Okay, um - what the hell is going on?” Jim sputtered, and tugged off his glasses to rub at his tired eyes.
He was used to going without sleep for long periods of time - World of Warcraft was addictive, okay? - but this night was ridiculous. What with aliens in his back yard, and the military scouring his property, and naked dudes giving him an Extreme Home Makeover - yeah, he was basically surviving on very little rest, and even less explanations.
And Spock was not helping, because now he was silently stalking around Jim’s room and closing curtains, and he really didn’t seem to care that Jim could totally see that amazing ass - not that he was looking, because he’d very honourably left his glasses off, and hooked them in his shirt collar. Spock was just a very sexy blob at this point, and that was definitely for the best.
Jim felt annoyance spark. He whistled sharply, like a master calling his dog. Incidentally, the sound of Gumby’s nails scraping manically across the hardwood floor downstairs indicated the dogs impending arrival.
“Hey, you, Jolly Green Giant - listen up. You’re staying in my house, and I think it’ll be in our best interests if you explain to me exactly what you’re doing. Because right about now it’s no skin off my back if I let those guys know I’m housing one of Santa’s real-life elves, all right? It’s my way, or the highway.”
Spock’s gaze drilled into Jim’s, and his face and shoulders looked fashioned from steel. “I can only assume that as the military is suspicious of my existence, they will be sweeping the area for radio signals on all frequencies.”
Jim hummed in acknowledgement, and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, right - gotcha. Distress signal’s gonna haveta wait.”
With the gears in his head turning and mulling and rolling, Jim wandered towards his closet doors and yanked at one of the handles. He wasn’t exactly messy, but he wasn’t particularly neat; so it came as a pleasant surprise when a miniature avalanche of pungent clothing did not heave forward onto his feet. Jim did a mental victory dance as he arbitrarily yanked a flannel shirt from a hanger, and grabbed a pair of jeans and clean boxers for Spock.
“Hey, Spock?”
Spock accepted the clothes offered to him with a dubiously winged brow. “Yes?”
Jim turned to face the closet and put his glasses back on.
“Maybe I’ve spent too much of my life watching the Sci-Fi Channel - and I know you crashed here and all - but don’t you have some sort of mission on Earth? I mean, you don’t just arbitrarily land on a planet. You may be able to travel through space at warp or whatever tech you might use, but everything is still huge distances apart.”
He was met with silence, and a rustling of clothes. Jim pressed on with a frown Spock wouldn’t be able to see. “You were in our orbit, weren’t you? What was your actual mission before you crashed?”
When Jim turned, it was to find Spock concentrating hard at the floor. Jim opened his mouth, but a jarring clatter of fist to wood cracked the moment into mayhem.
Their eyes met in tandem, and Jim was whispering, “Hide, hide!” while dashing from the room without a look back. He knew that wasn’t a very specific request, but hell, it didn’t seem like they were going to make it out of this one so soon, anyway.
“Coming!” Jim hollered, as he rushed downstairs. Adrenaline pumped hot though his veins, and flushed his cheeks and brightened his eyes. Despite the apparent peril of him and Spock’s situation, Jim found that he had to tamp down the grin that threatened to break his hassled facade.
Come on - no one could deny that this was barrels more fun than spending the night watching an Iron Chef marathon (and that was a lot of fun, okay).
Jim barely had time to crack the door open, before swarms of black-clad officers spilled through like angry ants. With a perturbed, “Woah there, G.I. Jane,” Jim took a hasty step back and fisted his hands at his sides, as he surveyed the silent precision with which his house was searched.
Sergeant Pike was last to step into the foyer, with his stride calm and assured before he paused beside Jim. They exchanged suspicious looks, and it was Jim’s glare that coloured his face now.
“I’m pretty sure I have rights protecting me from this bullshit, Sarge.”
“Try and bring it to court, son.”
“I’m not your son,” Jim hissed, but he remained still. He couldn’t even flick his eyes to the stairway, which several men had taken up. “Unless you’re Uncle Sam himself, and even then that makes me your nephew, if anything. What exactly are you looking for?”
Pike blinked, and appeared as if he repressed a smile for a moment. “We looked you up - necessary procedure. It seems as though you’re far more intelligent than I gave you credit for, Mr. Kirk.”
Their exchanged looks clearly illustrated that they both knew the hick act wouldn’t last anymore.
“Most people are. What does that have to do with anything?”
Pike folded his arms over his chest, and searched Jim’s purposefully blank expression. “A genius-level repeat offender, who doesn’t go poking around when an unidentified object crashes in their backyard? That’s a thin story, Mr. Kirk.”
It really was. Brain fart on Jim’s part.
“All right, all right, old man - I barely saw it from afar, okay? What’s the big deal?” Jim replied breezily. He considered Pike’s unflinching demeanour with a wariness that Jim didn’t show. “I looked, it was dark - I saw a big silver thing, then I went home. I still wanted my picture in the paper. Have you seen me? Does my file mention that I was child model - you can tell, can’t you?”
Pike considered him in such a curious way, that it had Jim struggling not to shove his daddy issues in a sack and beat the Sergeant over the head with them.
Jim rolled his eyes. “You know, you’re making a bigger deal of this than necessary. Is drama an extra elective in Super Army Soldier School?”
“Are you finished, Mr. Kirk?”
“Never.”
Clear! came from upstairs, and Jim’s shoulders sagged slightly with the relief. Maybe Spock could stick to ceilings, after all.
Sergeant Pike looked doubtful, but his piercing whistle resounded through the house. Everyone - including Gumby - regrouped and headed out the front door.
“Gumby, hey!” Jim slapped at his thighs at the entrance of the door. “You’re not joining the Army - get back here.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet, Mr. Kirk,” the sergeant quietly warned from behind.
Jim knelt to ruffle his wiggling dog’s ears. He nuzzled his face into the scruff of Gumby’s neck. “Lucky I’m a good survivor, then.”
Now was probably not a good time to have a Destiny’s Child song stuck in his head. I’m a survivor, I’m gon’ make it...
Jim cleared his throat from the giggle that rose, and stood. He faced Pike with hands on hips, and inclined his chin to steadily meet the Sergeant’s eyes. “I don’t think this is working out between us, Sarge. You’re just too serious and overbearing for me. I mean, coming into my house in the middle of the night, in search of my secretive lover? That’s a bit much. We should probably end it here and now. I hear the Army has plenty of options. You’ll get over me, if only a little.”
Pike give him a final lingering, narrowed look, before he departed from the porch without a salute. With the pastels of early morning seeping across the horizon, Jim watched the dark, distant Hummers rev to life and set off in a long, imposing line.
Jim flicked them off.
“Assholes.”
Then he remembered Spock.
“Crap.”
Jim rocketed up the stairs, flinging himself into his bedroom.
“Spock?” he called, dropping down to check under his bed - and, consequently, inhaling two weeks of dust. Jim came up sputtering and smacking himself on the nose, to get a dust-bunny off.
That was pretty much when Spock’s feet caught on the ledge of an open window, and he levered himself in from his hold on the roof gutter. He caught a nice glimpse of Jim essentially slapping himself, before the extra presence in the room came to Jim’s attention.
Jim yelped and leapt to his feet, still sniffling pathetically.
“Spo - choo!” he sneezed helplessly -
Right in Spock’s face.
They both stared at each other - Spock looking very close to strangling Jim, and Jim trying very hard to look apologetic, when he really just wanted to laugh.
“Ah - uh - sorry,” he mumbled with a hiccup of restrained mirth.
“Excuse me,” Spock said between his teeth, and turned on his heel for the bathroom. This really wasn’t his night.
Jim grimaced as he heard the water running. “Did you hide on the roof?” he called through the door.
After a pause, Spock quietly replied, “Indeed.”
“Good one.” Jim must have been exhausted not to have thought of that - but from his window, that was almost an impossible climb for a mere human. He wasn’t Spiderman; although apparently Spock was.
“Your dwelling provides very little options.” Spock came back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, with what Jim might have imagined was a wince. “I would not be so foolish as to seek refuge beneath a bed.”
“Ha - ha,” Jim said sourly, but he was grinning. Their gazes held for a warm moment, before Jim’s stomach made itself known with a burping growl. Jim had to restrain the urge to say, feed me Seymour! He managed - somehow.
Instead he said, “You hungry too? Or do you like, eat from your hands or something? Or do you eat? Oh oh,” Jim exclaimed, ignoring Spock’s open mouth, “Or do you feed off the sunlight? That would explain why you’re green. Do you use photosynthesis? Are you part plant? Oh my god, do you ever -”
“Mr. Kirk,” Spock interrupted sharply, with his lips tight. “I consume food in the same fashion as a human. And to answer your seventh previous question, yes, I require sustenance.”
“... Light sustenance?”
Spock blinked once. “No.”
“Okay, well, I tried.”
“You certainly did.”
Jim offered a bright smile that morphed into a yawn. He turned towards the doorway, and shoved his glasses atop his head. “Follow me if you want to live.”
“Pardon me?”
“What - oh. It’s a line from Terminator. Never mind.” Jim meandered into the hall, expecting Spock to follow. “I just meant food was this way.”
“You utilise an unfamiliar form of English,” Spock noted from behind him, as they head down stairs.
“Not really.”
“You would benefit from speaking in a logical manner.”
“Well, it all makes sense in my head, and that’s all that really matters to me.”
“An inefficient form of communication.”
“Yes, teacher,” Jim replied with a hefty sigh, as he waved Spock into the expansive cream and yellow kitchen. The cabinets and wall paint had faded by sun and time, but there was a lingering warmth to the room that made Jim more comfortable here than anywhere else in the house - unless you counted in front of a computer.
“Um,” Jim began, and stuck his head in the fridge, while Spock efficiently shut the curtains. “I haven’t been shopping in... a while. I can make pancakes. Do you like pancakes? We’re having them.”
Spock stood in the centre of the kitchen - he might as well have been naked for how comfortable he looked. Thankfully he wasn’t, or they’d be choking down burnt breakfast instead.
Jim smiled, taking pity on the poor guy. It had been a long day. It was dawn, and they’d slept only a handful of hours. “Have a seat, Spock. Relax. You’re under house arrest until whatever lackeys Pike has left to watch us have fucked off. You might as well get used to it. Let me cook - I’m not great, but I can make a pancake without setting off the fire alarm.”
Dark, doe-eyes flicked between Jim and the small, round dining table; as he nodded and sat stiffly.
Gathering ingredients from here and there, Jim hummed a Queen song under his breath, and let Spock be - if just for a moment. Jim wasn’t a fan of silence; too much prevailed over his life, and Jim didn’t particularly enjoy being left with his thoughts.
Tonight had been the first night in over ten years in which Jim had not fallen asleep with the television or radio on.
When four pancakes slowly puffed up on the griddle pan, Jim faced Spock and leaned his hip on the counter. “So...”
Spock stared at him blankly.
Jim chewed on his lip, distracted slightly by an itch between his shoulder blades. “I feel like this should be a sitcom or something.”
“Sitcom?”
“Like, a T.V. show.”
“I see.”
“Actually, you kind of remind me of C3P0, but not gay.”
Spock’s brows shot up. “Should I recognise the being you are referring to?”
Jim poked at his pancakes with a spatula and flipped them, pleased with their golden colour. Take that, Aunt Jemima.
“Uh, yes? He’s only one of the most famous androids ever.”
Spock got that crinkle above his nose that was actually way too adorable for an adult. “Androids do not exist on Earth.”
“He doesn’t exist on Earth. He’s from space.”
There was a definite hint of incredulity to Spock’s voice when he uttered, “Space? Humans have not explored beyond their solar system. How have you come across this knowledge of androids?” he demanded regally.
“From Star Wars, obviously,” Jim replied. He itched to mess with the pancakes before they were finished.
“What?” Spock snapped, clearly nearing the end of his rope with this line of conversation. “Am I to gather you are speaking of a fictional character from a work of film?”
“One of the greatest film series of all time, yeah. Minus the one with Jar Jar Binks - oh my god, I wanted to smother him in his sleep. And also young Anakin, like, cried all the time, and I kind of wanted to punch him in the mouth. But other than that, they’re a must-see. I can’t believe you haven’t watched ‘em.” Jim caught Spock’s severe look and grinned. “Okay, I can believe it - but still. We should have a marathon together.”
Spock didn’t agree or disagree, which Jim took as assent. It was nice to have someone around to watch movies with, or talk to (read: talk at, in most cases), or just hang out with.
Okay, ‘hanging out’ had consisted of bullet wounds, naked aliens, sleeping with a gun, soldiers invading in the night, roof-hiding, and another guy wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed and getting pancakes made for him (which Jim just didn’t do for anybody), while the sun rose in golden pink.
Still, it felt nice. And it had only been a day - less than a day.
Jim plated the pancakes and set them on the table; turning away to gather two glasses of orange juice and forks and syrup. Spock ended up eating his plain, but Jim drowned his poor pancakes in delicious liquid sugar and happily dug in.
He finished long before Spock did; who ate like an extra straight out of a BBC historical film. All delicate and precise and stuff. Head bowed slightly, Jim could stare at the thick, inky crescents of Spock’s lashes catching the dim light of the sun. His ears were impossible to stop staring at, now that Jim had nothing better to do. They looked carved from marble - not real at all, and definitely better than anything Maybelline could ever invent. The pale, sage pallor reminded Jim of the green Connemara marble of one of his mother’s old family brooches.
Jim hadn’t realised he’d reached out and softly brushed his fingertips over the velvety peak, until Spock jerked back with a narrowed glower. His sharp gaze scanned Jim’s features, as if grasping for answers.
Jim slumped back in his chair, and fiddled with his fork, “Sorry,” he apologised, sounding anything but. “I just can’t get over -” he waved his hand to encompass Spock. “All of this. You. You’re so... cool.”
Spock nodded, his eyes flitting to Jim’s hands. “I acknowledge your inevitable fascination with my anatomy, but please refrain from physical contact unless completely necessary. Our culture values privacy.”
Jim gave the thumbs up and a grin. “Gotcha. No touching. I’ll try my best, but no promises. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not actually perfect.”
“I do not find that difficult to comprehend at all,” Spock replied without hesitation.
“Hey now!” Jim lightly kicked Spock’s shin under the table. “I’ve only made like... one mistake in the epic history of my life, all right?”
“I am dubious to inquire, but I find that curiosity has prevailed. What was your single mistake?”
“Eating all of my Halloween candy in one night.”
Spock flicked a brow. “That is hardly a notable error. I was under the impression that the average Earth child was a particularly illogical being.”
Jim leaned his elbows on the table and considered Spock with a slow smile. “It happened last year.”
“Oh.”
“On the plus side, I didn’t leave it on top of the fridge, forget about it for a year, and then eat it even though the chocolate was sometimes this weird white, dusty colour. Like a ghost chocolate.”
Spock cleared his throat and stood. He looked down at Jim - and yes, he definitely looked somewhat perturbed. “I require further rest for optimum efficiency.”
Jim’s smile widened as he looked up. “All right. Good morning, Spock.”
“Good morning, Mr. Kirk.”
Chapter Three