Chapter Text
“We have a potential customer,” Bones tells him as he and their two would-be clients, two Vulcans - one older, one younger - sit down next to him at the bar table in the corner.
“Oh yeah?” says Jim, like he’s surprised.
More specifically, like he hasn’t been watching them for the past ten minutes. It hadn’t escape his notice when some old Vulcan dude approached Bones when went to get them more drinks. It only took him a split-second, though, to deduct that the guy was no threat to them. And with any luck they could get some money out of it, too.
So Jim had sat there, sipping his whiskey and watching them talk (definitely business; Jim knows Bones’s Business Face), when the old Vulcan pointed over his shoulder toward someone at the bar. Jim followed the gesture and…
And hello, gorgeous.
Jim’s only got a view from behind from where he’s sitting (which is to say, the best view), but if he had to guess he’d say the guy’s just a kid—or, well, just a kid for a Vulcan, which is to say about Jim’s age. He looked ridiculously (adorably) out of place with his perfect posture and clean clothes and lithe figure.
The front’s probably even better, Jim thought, staring at the kid over his glass, half-hoping he’d sense his gaze and turn around.
It seemed like he wasn’t the only one whose attention had been grabbed by the beautiful kid at the bar, though. He watched as the Greohban next to the Vulcan starts saying something clearly not very friendly (probably jealous, poor guy). The Vulcan responded briefly, obviously something unsettled but polite, and then a Human was tapping him on the shoulder and saying something.
Well, at least Jim couldn’t disagree with their tastes.
Of course, that’s when it all went to hell, and suddenly the Human was pulling a phaser, and then Jim was on his feet without really thinking about it (to do what, he didn’t even know), and then the older Vulcan—the one who’d been talking to Bones—intervened, and then there was a flash of light and two quick whirring sounds, almost like a deluminum propellor, and by the time the smoke cleared, the kid’s attackers were dead.
So, yeah, Jim looked a lot closer at the older Vulcan after that. His first thought was, of course, sugar daddy. But then he realized that he and the younger Vulcan shared such a striking resemblance… They could almost be the same person. He’s probably the father. Grandfather, even. Or maybe uncle?
Equally interesting was the weapon he’d used. That bright flash, and that sound…
He’d almost say it was a lightsaber, but those don’t exist in real life.
Still, going from the glimpse he gets as the two of them sit down next to him… It sure looks like a lightsaber.
“And who’re you?” he asks, leaning back.
“I am Spock,” says tall-pale-and-gorgeous. Jim was right, the view’s even better from this angle, and getting it all so close up and personal? Rawr.
The old Vulcan doesn’t say anything, which is weird, but to each his own, right? So Jim goes on ahead.
“Jim Kirk,” he says, lifting his chin in greeting. “Captain of the Enterprise. Where you headed?”
“The Alderaan system,” says the old Vulcan.
“And you’re looking for the Enterprise to take you there.”
“Indeed,” says the old Vulcan. Geez, he talks like he’s about ten billion years old. “If it is a fast ship.”
“Fast ship?” Jim repeats, incredulous. “You’ve never heard of the Enterprise?”
The old Vulcan looks politely confused. “Should I have?”
“It’s the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs!”
“That is fascinating information, Captain,” says the old Vulcan, “as there is no way to complete the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. The route is fifteen parsecs long.”
Jim looks at him. And then…
And then he can’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. “You’re not completely stupid. That’s good news for you, ‘cause I don’t take completely stupid passengers. In my line of work it can make the difference between a good smuggler and a dead one.”
“We are gratified to have passed your test,” says the old Vulcan mildly. “Now I am curious to see whether you meet our requirements.”
Jim looks at him, eyebrows raised. “I’ve outrun Federation starships—not the local bulk-cruisers, mind you. I’m talking about the big Corellian ships now.” From their expressions it’s obvious they have no idea what he’s talking about, and Jim sighs. “She’s fast enough for you, old man. What’s the cargo?”
“Only passengers. Myself, the young one, two droids, and no questions asked.”
Now doesn’t that sound suspicious. He’s been in too many tough spots with the authorities to not want at least an idea of what he’s dealing with here. “What is it? Some kind of local trouble?”
The Vulcan tilts his head. “Let us just say we would like to avoid any Federation entanglements.”
Ah. Jim understands that perfectly. “Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? And it’s going to cost you something extra.” He considers his prey for a moment. They’re obviously desperate, obviously running from something. Most likely it’ll end in nothing but a couple days with some delicious eyecandy; then again, people get killed for stuff like this. He’s more than justified in milking them for all they’re worth. If the price is too much they can always find someone else.
Though that would be a shame, he thinks, glancing again at Spock.
“Ten thousand in advance,” he says at last.
“Ten thousand credits,” Spock repeats. It’s the first time he’s spoken. “For that price we could purchase a new starship.”
Jim licks his lips, leans forward, looks him right in the eye. It’s half-flirtation, half-challenge. “But who’s gonna fly it? You?”
Spock’s eyes flicker from his mouth to his eyes. “Indeed. My piloting skills are significantly above average. There is nothing obligating us to entertain your preposterous notions of—”
“We haven’t that much money with us,” the old Vulcan interrupts. “But we could pay you two thousand now, plus fifteen when we reach Alderaan.”
Seventeen. Well, that’s… that’s astronomical. They could definitely buy themselves a new ship with that money, and a nice one at that.
Who are these guys?
Well. Whatever. “No questions asked” they said. Whoever they are, they’ve certainly piqued Jim’s interest. And his wallet.
“Okay,” he says. “You guys got yourself a ship. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready. Docking bay ninety-four.”
“Ninety-four,” the old Vulcan confirms.
“I must object—” Spock starts.
“Kirk is an excellent pilot,” the older man replies. “Not entirely trustworthy as an individual, perhaps. But he will guarantee our safe arrival at Alderaan.”
Bones stiffens with anger beside him, but hey, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. Jim gives his customer a smile with far too many teeth, more shark than Human. “You don’t know anything about me, old man.”
The old Vulcan looks at him.
“You used to be a Starfleet captain,” he says, very quiet. “You are currently a fugitive and a smuggler with a truly impressive price on your head. The Federation seems to be rather desperate to reclaim you.”
Spock is staring at him.
Jim’s smile slides right off his face.
“You’ve done your research,” he says flatly.
“Why were you dismissed from Starfleet?” Spock asks, rather judgily.
“I wasn’t dismissed,” Jim snaps. “I resigned.”
“Then why are you now a fugitive?”
Jim shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”
“I am at a loss as to why you would presume to trust an unsavory and untrustworthy Human such as this one,” Spock says to the old man, as if Jim and Bones aren’t there. “As is to be expected from a place like this.” Which, you know, ouch. But Jim has to admire his honesty.
“Why you—” Bones starts, but Jim puts out a hand to stop him.
“It’s fine, Bones.” He looks at Spock. “Let’s just say I saw some stuff I wasn’t supposed to see. Some stuff that turned me off being a Federation drone forever. When I didn’t fall in line like the rest of the sheep, they set out to keep me quiet in a more permanent way.”
Spock is silent for a while, seeming to consider that.
“It appears,” he says at last, “the Federation has been conducting a great deal of disagreeable undertakings. Your mistreatment is only one more example of their injustices. It is past time that their tyranny was brought to an end.”
Jim laughs, surprised and strangely pleased by his matter-of-fact idealism. “Big words from a moisture farmer.”
The reaction that gets is more satisfying than it probably should be—surprise, and something else, like a suppressed indignation. “How—?”
“Well,” Jim drawls, enjoying the tiniest flicker of impatience in the Vulcan’s expression. “You’ve lived on this rock your entire life—it’s a good enough guess. Almost everybody’s a moisture farmer, considering ninety-five percent of the planet is sand.”
Spock raises one eyebrow. “And the other five percent?”
“These venerable folks,” says Jim, indicating the sketchy dive bar. “Lowlives, criminals, scum of the earth.”
“You appear to be very comfortable in this environment,” the Vulcan notes dryly, but not without some amusement, and Jim grins.
“You’re just bitter ‘cause I’ve got you pinned.”
“No,” says Spock, to his surprise. “You do not. I am no moisture farmer. I am training as a Jedi knight.”
Jim blinks.
A Jedi knight, huh. Well. That’s a new one.
Still, Jim once ferried a girl who thought she was a wombat. You meet all sorts on this job.
Makes for the most interesting sex, anyway, in his experience.
“You do not appear surprised by my claim to be a member of an Order thought to be extinct nearly two decades ago,” Spock remarks, tilting his head curiously.
Jim leans back and gives him a lazy grin. “With a face like that, you can be whatever you want.”
There’s a flicker of something Jim can’t quite catch before Spock’s expression flattens back to nothing. Well. He has the Jedi dispassion down, at least.
“Can’t imagine the Federation would be too happy to have a Jedi on their hands,” Jim remarks casually, and Spock stiffens. Jim waves it off. “Don’t worry, I’ll still help you. I don’t care about the whys as long as I get my money.” This is when he notices the entrance of two—no, three—oh, holy Jesus, four imperial stormtroopers. They head over to the bartender, and Jim knows they’re asking all the wrong questions. “Speaking of,” he murmurs, jerking his chin toward the bar. “Looks like somebody’s beginning to take an interest in your handiwork.”
Spock moves to turn, but at the same moment the bartender point toward them.
“Get down!” he hisses, and pulls the Vulcan under table.
The floor is sticky and there’s barely enough room for both of them between the table and Bones and the old guy’s legs, but they manage. Sure enough, he can see the stormtroopers heading in their direction
“What—” Spock starts, and Jim slaps a hand over his mouth. He stiffens in surprise.
Jim puts a finger to his lips. Spock narrows his eyes but nods. Jim removes his hand, oddly reluctant to end the contact.
They watch the stormtrooper’s legs pass slowly by the table, shoulder-to-shoulder, their hearts pounding, trying to take slow, shallow breaths.
Finally, they leave. Jim waits until he can’t hear the familiar heavy steps of their armor, and then…
“Out the back door,” he mutters to Spock, who stares back at him. “Go! We’ll meet you there. Docking bay—”
“Ninety-four,” the Vulcan finishes. And then he’s climbing out and he and the old guy are disappearing into the crowd.
“Seventeen thousand!” Jim breathes when they’re gone, settling back into his seat. “Those guys must be either stupid or crazy. I’m gonna go with crazy, ‘specially the younger one. Cute, but crazy.” He grins at that. “Just my type.”
Bones rolls his eyes. “Is there anything that isn’t your type?”
“Good point,” says Jim agreeably. And then, “You know what would be really hot?”
“No,” Bones mutters. “But I imagine you’re about to tell me.”
“Seducing a Jedi.”
Aaand yup, Bones looks about 170.1% done. “Jim…”
“Or someone who thinks he’s a Jedi, anyway.”
“Jim, I swear to God—”
“C’mon, think about it!” He throws an arm around his friend’s shoulders and waves a hand dramatically in front of them. “Beautiful guy, recently embarked upon an ancient training involving a vow of celibacy, meets devilishly handsome space pirate… It’s like the plot of a romance holovid!”
“More like a porno,” Bones grumbles.
“Even better!”
His First Mate groans.
———
He’s finally gotten Bones out of the cantina (supposedly so he can work on the ship before takeoff but really so Jim can finish off his drink without his First Mate’s Judgmental Eyebrows of Doom getting in the way) and is just about heading out when he spots an old buddy of his.
Which is never a good thing.
Maybe he’s not here looking for me, Jim hopes fervently. Maybe he won’t recognize—
“Going somewhere, Kirk?”
Dammit.
“Finnegan!” he says cheerfully. “Long time no see!”
“Yeah,” says Finnegan, with a smile just as fake as Jim’s own. “Why don’t we sit down? Catch up a bit.”
“Actually…” Jim starts, before he feels something hard and cold being pressed into his side. A phaser. “Actually I find your argument very compelling.”
The phaser shoves harder into his ribs, forcing Jim to back up into his old seat. Finnegan sits down in the chair across from him.
“Admiral Marcus wants to talk to you,” he says, amiable enough.
Jim smiles mirthlessly. “I’ll bet he does.”
“Oh, and does he,” says Finnegan, his voice almost conversational, despite the phaser pointed at Jim’s chest. “He’s put a price on your head so huge every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you. I’m lucky I found you first.” He raises an eyebrow. “Of course, if you want to give me that money instead I might just forget I ever saw you.”
“How much?” Jim asks, out of pure morbid curiosity.
“Six million.”
He almost chokes. “Six mill—that’s insane!”
“That’s life as a bounty hunter. And this?” He indicates the phaser. “This is my own special touch, because your bounty can be collected with you either dead or alive. I just prefer dead.”
“Aww,” says Jim. “You always say the sweetest things.”
Finnegan scoffs. “I can’t believe Marcus is still extending the offer to reinstate you.”
He is? The smuggler rolls his eyes. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I were, but no. All you have to do is promise to keep your mouth shut and follow orders, and you could come back and work for the Admiral tomorrow.”
“Over my dead body,” Jim mutters.
Finnegan smiles a nasty little smile. “If you insist,” he says, and his finger tightens on the trigger and—
Bang!
—And Finnegan slumps forward, his phaser clattering to the floor.
He doesn’t move.
Jim pulls his own smoking phaser from beneath the table and gets to his feet, ignoring the sudden silence, the other patrons looking on in amazement and a little bit of fear.
He flips the bartender a credit chip for the drinks.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, and saunters out.