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“You must remember, family is often born of blood, but it doesn't depend on blood. Nor is it exclusive of friendship. Family members can be your best friends, you know. And best friends, whether or not they are related to you, can be your family.”
― Trenton Lee Stewart, The Mysterious Benedict Society
Jim's birthday has always been . . . complicated.
It's an understatement, maybe, but it's better than delving into issues that would take days just to cover, much less fully unpack. He's always been able to deal with it, more or less, though he's willing to admit that his coping mechanisms might not have always been the healthiest. That's behind him now; no more getting wasted in dive bars, drinking until he forgets what day it is, drowning himself in booze and brawls and sex with people who don't give a shit what his last name might be. He's moved on, grown up. He's capable of acting like a responsible adult now, like the Starfleet captain he's worked so hard to become.
And he's about ready to fling himself out the damned window.
“—great sacrifice,” the man shaking his hand is saying somberly. Jim doesn't remember his name; he'd tuned out after the sixth or seventh person to offer some minor variation on this message. “Starfleet is lucky to have his son in their ranks these days.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not monopolizing our guest of honor, are you Ambassador?” Admiral Pike steps up from somewhere behind Jim, smiling as he switches his cane to his other hand to offer a handshake of his own. “I was hoping I could borrow you for just a few minutes.”
“Ah, yes.” The lines of the Ambassador's face relax, sobriety giving way to eager interest. “You mentioned that your former first officer had an interesting proposal for me. You'll have to forgive me,” he says as Pike leads him away, “I've had a bit to drink already and her name seems to be escaping me . . .”
“Holding up all right?”
Jim turns, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease as Uhura smiles up at him, looking better than anyone has a right to in the disaster that is the 'Fleet dress uniform.
“Better with an actual friendly face around. Did anyone ever tell you that red is your color, Lieutenant?”
Her smile widens. “All the time, sir.”
“And has anyone ever told you that you are a lifesaver, with a beautiful and generous heart?” he asks, reaching for the champagne flute in her hand.
“Ah, not that generous.” She pulls it away with an arch look and takes a sip. “This isn't for you.”
“Heartbreaker.” He takes a deep breath, glancing around the room at the assembled dignitaries and 'Fleet brass, the giant freaking ice sculpture of the U.S.S. Kelvin towering over the buffet tables. “In all seriousness, this could be worse. I'm sure. Somehow.”
“Klingon invasion?”
“Infestation of Draxxan cloud vipers. Something along those lines.”
“The speech is behind you, at least.” She lifts an eyebrow. “You managed fairly well, all things considered; I was hardly ashamed of your delivery at all.”
“High praise.” It says something unflattering about him, Jim is fairly sure, that trading barbs with her has him feeling more relaxed than he's been all night. “But you're right, at least the worst is over.”
“Nice speech, kid.” McCoy knocks Jim lightly on the shoulder as he joins them, tugging at his collar with his other hand. “You didn't screw up once.”
“Thanks, Bones,” Jim says dryly, and McCoy snorts.
“That wasn't a compliment; you lost me the pool we had going. Would it have killed you to stumble over your words a couple of times?”
“You know, it's times like these I wonder how I was lucky enough to get such a wonderful crew.”
“One of the great mysteries of the universe,” Uhura says with a sharply sweet smile.
“Lieutenant Uhura.” Bones executes a sort of half-bow in her direction that really only works, Jim thinks, because of the accent. “May I say, you're looking absolutely lovely tonight.”
“You may,” she nods in response, eyes sparkling. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, however, some of us still have work to do.”
“What did that mean?” Jim asks, staring after her as she weaves her way through the crowd, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We're on leave, publicity appearances notwithstanding.”
“Forget that.” McCoy tugs at his collar again, wincing as he strains against the stiff fabric. “It's been two and a half hours, your speech is done, let's get the hell out of here.”
“Seriously?” Jim's eyebrows wing up in surprise. “No lectures about responsibility and duty and sacrifice?”
“Your responsibility's discharged; you came, you played the feather in Starfleet's cap, gave the press some pretty pictures. But I swear, if I don't get out of this torture device disguised as a uniform and into some normal clothes, I'm not gonna be held responsible for my actions.”
“Okay, Bones,” Jim laughs, clapping him on the back and leading him towards the door. “Doctor's orders, I guess.”
“Damn right.”
“Are ye not feelin' well, sir?” Scotty appears at their side like magic, carrying a plate heaped with one of everything from the buffet. He frowns suspiciously. “It wasn't the food, was it?”
“I'm fine, Scotty,” Jim says, swallowing a smile, “and so's the food. Bones is just having an allergic reaction to having to play nice with so many people all at once.”
“Brat,” Bones mutters. “Should've just ducked out myself and left you here to suffer through the rest of the night.”
“Are ye leavin', then?” Scotty's eyes brighten; he grabs a handful of some sort of snack mix off of his plate and abandons the rest on a nearby table. “Count me in; the buffet's good enough, but they're only serving that new synthehol rubbish. Come with me, lads.” He pops the handful of mix into his mouth, crunching loudly. “I know just the place to wash that foul aftertaste away.”
Jim shrugs and makes no argument, following his friend willingly towards the exit. He'd only planned on going home, changing into something comfortable, and going to bed with the knowledge that when he woke up, Starfleet brass wouldn't be calling his shots for the next seven days. A drink with a couple of friends doesn't sound half bad, though, and he's learned from experience that Scotty has an instinct for places with good scotch, so spot-on that it borders on the preternatural. It's his birthday, damn it, and Jim figures that he deserves this one thing tonight.
Of course, what he thinks he deserves and what the universe dishes out haven't ever been quite the same thing. They're hardly halfway across the ballroom when Jim spots Admiral Komack making a beeline to intercept, and whether he's figured out that Jim is trying to leave or just wants to shanghai him to glad-hand a few more politicians, there's no way this is going to end in any way but Jim wanting to smash his head against a brick wall for the rest of the night.
“Looks like you boys are gonna have to go on without me,” he starts to say, resigning himself to whatever's coming, when a familiar figure in a crisp blue uniform steps into their path.
“Admiral.” They're close enough to hear as Spock tucks his hands neatly behind his back, nodding respectfully. “I realize that this is meant to be a celebration of sorts, and I have no wish to disturb the festivities, but I wondered if I might request a moment of your time?”
“Commander Spock.” Komack draws up short, forcing a polite smile. “Can this wait?”
“Certainly, sir. I will contact your office to schedule an appointment; we can discuss the budget overages at a later time.”
“Good, you—budget overages?” His face creases into a scowl as he reaches out, stopping just short of laying his hand on Spock's arm as he begins to turn away. “What overages?”
“Sir, if this is an inconvenient time—”
“I wasn't made aware of any budget problems. Is this for the science department in particular, or for the Enterprise altogether?”
Jim watches, struggling to keep his jaw from dropping open as Spock casts a careful glance at the people surrounding him and the admiral.
“Perhaps it would be better to discuss this in private, sir?”
“Yes.” Komack glances around as well, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Let's just . . . follow me.”
“We don't have any budget overages,” Jim protests as Scotty wraps a hand around his upper arm and McCoy shoves none too gently at his back, getting him moving again. “The way Komack's been on my ass, I triple checked every report we filed when we got to port.”
“I wouldn'a worry, sir,” Scotty assures him. “Likely just an accountin' error, happens all the time.”
“You think Spock made an accounting error?”
“First time for everything.” Bones skirts around them, craning his neck towards the door. “Shit,” he mutters, and reaches up to tug at his ear. “There's some sort of bottleneck at the door.”
“Guys—”
“The key is the stance, you see.” They all turn as one as the voice rings out, and Jim runs a hand across his face when he catches sight of Sulu, standing in the middle of a slowly-growing ring of guests and brandishing a toothpick like a tiny fencing foil. A pretty older Betazoid woman wearing the sash of a Federation council member leans in to whisper something in his ear, and he gives her a wink. “I don't mind at all. If you folks don't mind clearing a little bit more space, we'll have a demonstration.”
“What the hell is going on?” Jim demands. “Did someone slip real drugs into the fake booze or something?”
“It's not—door's clear.” McCoy starts forward, leaving Scotty to tug Jim along in his wake again. “Let's go, let's go!”
In less time than Jim would've believed possible, he finds himself herded through the antechamber and into the cool early-spring fog. Just outside the front doors McCoy lets out a whistle and a slim figure hurries up, carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder.
“Chekov?” Jim steps forward as he hands the bag over to McCoy. “All right, someone tell me what the hell is going on here.”
“You got the 'car?” Scotty asks, ignoring him completely, and Chekov nods.
“Third down, zat way.” He points left, towards the bay. “The driver has ze address.”
“We'll meet you there; tell the others we got away clean.”
“Am I being kidnapped?” Jim asks faintly. “Did you all turn into double agents when I wasn't looking?”
“Double agents, no. Kidnapped . . . well, sort of, yeah. C'mon.” McCoy sets off again, and score one against Jim's survival instincts, because he follows after him without a word. He can hear his friend counting off the idling 'cars under his breath, and at the third one he stops to rap against the window. “You've got the address?” he asks when it rolls down.
“Yes, sir,” the driver calls out, and Scotty's already herding Jim into the backseat.
“Go, go!” McCoy says as soon as he climbs in behind them, relaxing back against the seat with a triumphant smile as the 'car pulls away from the curb. He turns to Jim, reaching across Scotty to slap him on the knee. “Happy birthday, kid.”
“Don't take this the wrong way,” Jim says carefully, “but have you all gone completely insane?”
“No more than usual.” Scotty shoots him a speculative glance, reaching for the duffel bag. “Probably not going to convince you of that when we tell you to take off your shirt, though.”
“My . . .”
“Can't go out like this.” McCoy reaches into the bag, sifting through the clothes that Jim can see inside. “Not without breaking about a dozen dress regulations and probably being brought up on charges. Thank god, it's the right bag; no way in hell was I going to put on one of Uhura's outfits if he'd mixed them up again.”
“Damn right you wouldn't,” Scotty says, pulling out a familiar shirt and tossing it at Jim. “I had dibs on her things if that happened.”
“A halter top? With your shoulders?” McCoy snorts.
“You've all completely lost your minds,” Jim says faintly, but he starts stripping out of his uniform top anyway. “I don't know why I'm friends with any of you.”
“Because we're the ones who hauled your arse out of the worst publicity stunt Starfleet has pulled in the last decade.”
“Fair enough.” Jim pulls the shirt on; it's one of his favorites, worn cotton that settles against his skin like a cloud. He reaches into the bag as well and feels a sudden sharp pang when he pulls out his old leather jacket. “You guys didn't have to do this.”
“No, we didn't,” McCoy agrees, tugging his own jacket out of the bag and stuffing his uniform top unceremoniously inside. “But we did it anyway.”
Jim doesn't know quite what to say to that.
The ride isn't long; they've hardly finished changing when the 'car stops and they pile out onto the sidewalk in front of a bar just far enough away from campus to be mostly free of carousing cadets. It's dim and noisy inside, warm from an early crush of bodies, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer and the sound of mingled music and laughter.
“Thank god we can finally take these things out.” Scotty tugs at his ear, digging in with his fingers until a small transmitter pops out. “Did yours sort of pinch? Mine pinched a bit.”
“You guys were wired?” Jim says, watching wide-eyed as McCoy pulls a transmitter from his ear as well.
“The lovely Lieutenant Uhura was our eyes and ears,” Scotty says cheerfully, moving to the bar and signaling to the bartender. “Giving us our marching orders.”
“Jimmy!” He turns just in time to see Gaila beaming up at him before she darts in, landing a kiss against his cheek and pressing a beer into his hand. “Happy birthday.”
“You too?” There's laughter bubbling up in his throat now, helpless and warm. “I didn't . . . thank you.”
“Come on.” She tugs at his arm, tilting her head towards the back of the room. “Christine's holding our tables.”
“Chri—” Jim does laugh now, and follows without resistance. “I don't even know why I'm surprised.”
“Well, you always were a little bit dim.” She winks at him. “Good thing you're pretty.”
“You're on a three-drink limit tonight, Jim,” McCoy calls sternly after him. “Don't forget it.”
Christine rises to meet him when they make their way to where she's sitting, holding three empty tables with what appears to be smiles, charm, and sheer force of will. She pulls him into a hug, warm and friendly as her chin settles briefly on his shoulder.
“Here's the man of the hour. You make it out of purgatory okay?”
“It was touch-and-go for a minute, but I don't think we were followed.”
“Glad to hear it,” she laughs. “Pike promised he'd cover for you. Now sit down and tell me about what you have planned for your leave.”
Chekov and Sulu are the next to arrive, making their way over with their drinks as the others cheer their arrival. Gaila steals Chekov's scotch and soda, smiling wickedly at his protests.
“You're too young to drink,” she says, taking a sip, and laughs loudly when he lunges at her to steal it back.
“Councilwoman Kestra asked me to tell you that she wishes you a happy birthday,” Sulu leans over to shout at Jim over the ruckus. “There was something about her daughter, too, but that can wait for now,” he grins.
Uhura walks in next, moving through the crowd like she owns the place, hair swinging in a curtain around her shoulders and a shot of Jack Daniels in one hand. Jim feels recognition hit him like a kick to the chest, and he gets to his feet as she greets the rest of the crew with a wave and a smile.
“Thanks for this,” he says as quietly as he can while still being heard over the noise. “Really.”
“It was a team effort,” she says with a shrug, smiling up at him. “But you're welcome.”
“So.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders as he winks. “Buy you a drink?”
Her smile widens and she holds up her glass. “Already got one.”
“Can't blame a guy for trying.”
“Actually, I can. But I suppose I'll let it slide this time.”
Jim is halfway through his second beer, almost doubled over with laughter at Sulu's recap of his fencing demonstration, when he looks up and sees Spock, decked out in his Vulcan civilian best, heading for their tables.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“My apologies,” Spock says when McCoy begins to berate him. “Admiral Komack proved more difficult to shake than I had anticipated. I believe he's still in his office combing through the Enterprise's financial reports for this tour.”
“We went over those reports three times already,” Jim reminds him, and Spock arches an eyebrow.
“Indeed. However, the admiral seemed disinclined to believe me when I realized that I had made a mistake in my calculations after the fact. I'm certain that he will find himself fully satisfied once his own inquiries are complete, whenever that may be.”
“I didn't know you were . . .” Jim's cheeks are beginning to hurt from smiling so hard, but he can't fight the warmth that's building in his chest. “I'm glad you showed up.” He looks around at his assembled friends, and his smile only grows wider. “All of you.”
“Well, since the gang's all here,” Scotty says, thumping a fist on the table, “let's have some words on the occasion!”
“To the captain,” Spock says, lifting his glass, and the others follow suit. “On the anniversary of his birth. Without your presence, our lives would be . . . decidedly less interesting,” he finishes dryly, greeted by a chorus of laughter.
“And to my crew.” Jim lifts his own glass. “The ride wouldn't be nearly as much fun without you.”
Cheers ring out and they all drink, more toasts shouted out in a messy tangle of voices. Christine and Uhura are arguing over the merits of Cardassian Sunrises over good old fashioned tequila; Sulu and Gaila are whispering to each other, something that can only end in disaster; McCoy is trying to tell Spock that he can't toast with water, planet of origin be damned. Jim sits back amidst it all, relishing the feeling of being exactly where he wants to be.
It feels good, on his birthday, to be with his family.