Work Text:
“Oban fourteen,” said the low, familiar voice of the woman who slipped onto the stool next to him. “Neat.”
Jim’s eyes flicked to his left.
She looked so ridiculously out of place sitting next to Jim in those tailored slacks and that expensive looking shirt. Jim, who hadn’t even bothered to shower or change since Enterprise had limped back to Earth. Jim, whose socks were still damp with whatever he’d waded through on the Narada. Jim, who still looked like he’d gotten into a bar fight just last night. Far too many more important things to do than change his socks or get his face fixed.
The sapphires glinting in her ears brought out the blue in her eyes as she thanked the bartender for her drink, the dim yellow light catching on the flawless diamond on her left hand as she pulled it closer.
Vice Admiral Cornwell looked as though she should be sipping champagne with her pinky out and nibbling caviar-topped hors d’oeuvres with high-ranking dignitaries, not slumming it at this plebeian bar where Jim was willing to bet the bartender didn’t even know the difference between Champagne and Prosecco, the uncultured swine. How someone as refined and elegant as Katrina Cornwell had ended up with Christoper Pike, a man who came with horses and mud and a life in the middle of nowhere, Jim would never understand. Love was weird like that. Makes people do strange and stupid things.
“How did you find me?” Jim asked, turning his attention forward once more and finishing off his own far less sophisticated drink of choice before signaling the bartender for another. He hadn’t told her where he was going when, unable to stand the waiting any longer, he’d stormed out of the waiting room at Starfleet Medical…oh, it had to have been several hours ago by now.
“Chris said to check the local dive bars.” From the corner of his eye, Jim watched her raise her glass to her lips. “This one was the closest,” she said and took a sip.
Jim chuffed in amusement, and then her words sunk into his whiskey-addled brain. He looked up sharply, his breath catching in his throat.
“James.” One long-fingered hand settled on his wrist. Her skin was soft, warm, her nails perfectly manicured and buffed almost as shiny as the diamond on her engagement ring. “He’s going to be okay.”
At those words, Jim looked down at the sphere of ice peeking out of the amber liquor in his glass and let out a shaky breath.
He wanted to cry in relief.
He wanted to bow down at her feet and beg for forgiveness.
He wanted to toss back his drink, ask the bartender for the bottle, and forget this entire fucking day.
But his glass was in his left hand, the one her hand was currently resting on.
He could pick up the glass with his other hand, or pull his arm away from her entirely. But then her grip tightened, as if she knew what he was thinking and wanted to keep him from the whiskey. It would be easy enough to break her grip, but she overpowered him.
“Thank you. For bringing him home.” Her words were rough, choked, and Jim looked over, saw her wide green eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and he realized that her grip wasn’t tight to stop him from drinking, but to rein in her emotions.
Suddenly, he felt like an ass for having run off and left her to wait alone while her husband underwent major surgery.
Unable to speak, Jim nodded.
Katrina blinked, squeezed his wrist in acknowledgment, and pulled her hand away. Then, with one quick motion, she proved Jim’s earlier assessment entirely wrong and threw back the rest of her drink, not even blinking for the burn of it. He was impressed. Maybe she did fit in here.
“Now,” she said, pushing the empty tumbler towards the other side of the bar, “if you’re done trying to drown yourself in cheap whiskey, he asked to see you.” She slipped off her stool, high heels clicking on the faux-wood floor. Draping her jacket over her arm, she looked at Jim expectantly.
“Right.” Jim downed his drink in one swallow and stood, gesturing for her to proceed him. “After you, Admiral.”