Chapter Text
If you asked Jim Kirk, he would have told you that life was a lot easier before his mother had to go and marry that pompous ass. That ass's name was Franklin Lloyd Timberland, a man who made his fortune on crushing the dreams of others and cheating every stock he came across. To little Jimmy, Frank was the alcoholic who smashed his father's photo frame and drove Sam to run away. To his mother and likely a lot of people, Timberland was one hell of a breadwinner.
It was Frank who sent Jim off to some boarding school far from home, who took some perverse delight in making the boy feel inadequate for simply existing, and whose favorite hobby was to make sure George Kirk's name was synonymous with slander in the Timberland household. Well, there were a lot of other going-ons that happened in-between but all you need to know is that Jim went to Starfleet at some point and never made it out.
At some point, the young Kirk returned to rural Iowa to take over his late father's farm. Frank died of stroke some time after and Winona inherited the fortune, which meant Jim was next in line, Sam's name having been scratched out of Frank's will and all.
Ah yes, how could we have forgotten. A man named Christopher Pike, an old friend of the late Captain Kirk, stopped by to tell our young man that a very wealthy, very powerful individual within the Federation had his interests at heart. And this was how Jim made the acquaintance of Alexander Marcus (Lord).
Jim started a new life in upper San Francisco and met a good number of people afterwards. Being a bitter, dare-devil sort of individual, James T. Kirk knew exactly how to handle this newfound fortune.
"Damn it, Jim!" Bones cursed, casting his friend that look which said I-will-eat-you-alive-or-so-help-me, as they sprinted down the road, avoiding yet another fatal collision with a speeding hovercraft. "Always- always ends like this when I'm with you!"
"I know you love me too," was Jim's retort between breaths.
He turned, grinning, and immediately stopped in his tracks when that bulk of a man- Cupcake, as Jim had so affectionately dubbed him- blocked the path ahead. Oh shit. It was a bit late for curse. Jim crashed into the man and the two went down flailing and punching. One muscly arm rammed into his nose and Jim gasped, the blood clouding his vision.
"There you go again!" Bones hissed, coming to his aid.
It would have been two against one if Cupcake's security buddies hadn't joined the fight. Jim received a punch to the gut, then a straight shiner in the eye before he was slammed on the pavement and handcuffed. Bones was doing no better, shouting expletives as they pinned him to the wall with a split lip. Now he owed Bones fifty drinks, if he counted that last time.
The pair was unceremoniously shoved into the law cruiser and an hour later, Jim found himself cuffed to a chair, a robot questioning him in a room that looked like it would squash them both if they acted out of turn. It had been a bit intimidating the first time around, but now he was used to it.
"James Tiberius Kirk, you are charged with trespassing, jaywalking, assault, and petty theft," the automaton said, glaring at him with as much emotion as a robot could muster.
"Hey, hey, I was invited fair and square."
"Citizen 34X9900-1254 Federation Earth: Nyota Uhura, says otherwise. You, James Tiberius Kirk, arrived in her residence uninvited and stole 8 microchips that were not in your possession. This is trespassing and theft. In addition, you insulted officer Hendorff and resisted arrest."
"Pfft, Cupcake's always on my case."
"This is the thirty-first time you have resisted arrest. One) Stealing pastries from Sir Garok Two) Assaulting Lord Harrison Three) Shirking your duties-"
"Okay, I get it. You might want to shut up now."
"You have a fine of three-hundred credits and a sentence of one month in jail. If we calculate your previous trans-"
The robot never got the chance to finish its speech. The doors slid open and a very disappointed, slightly miffed Christopher Pike was standing at the entrance.
"Come out, Jim. I've paid bail."
Jim wanted to grin but the look in Pike's eyes kept his mouth shut. But he had to ask, "And Dr. McCoy?"
"Paid for himself."
I'm not sneaking you out of there next time! Bones had cried, to which Jim had said, Gaila wanted me there!
That's your problem, Jim. Think everyone thinks like you. If she was serious, she wouldn't let her roommate call the cops on you, Bones then said, hard eyes softening at the dejected look in young Kirk's eyes.
Call me if you need any patching up. I'm going to sleep, were Leonard McCoy's parting words.
Then Jim had been left with Pike, and after seeing to it that his nose wasn't broken, the older man launched into a harsh lecture on how Jim was wasting his life and what a shame this was and how much better he was than this.
Just a small mistake. Not the first time anyway, Jim had said.
Believe whatever you want about yourself, but you're better than this, Jim. I know that, were Pike's parting words.
And then Jim had gone home, stumbling into his spacious apartment with a bit of an ache in his face and a smudge of drunkenness. Gaila's microchips had been returned to the law department- shame, he was planning to use them to prank the boys at the club next time. Spoiled lot would deserve it. Jim didn't often feel lonely, at least not since he was a snot-nosed brat.
But he felt a bit alone standing there. The holoscreen was on, running noises behind him. The floor was littered with clothes, sweatshirts, jackets, fur jackets, button-ups, T-shirts, dirty laundry, new socks, a bunch of articles he meant to clean up but never did. The couch was clean, unstained and empty. Only the Starfleet uniform lay clean and tucked away in his closet. The kitchen light was shining but Jim was in no mood to look at the stark whiteness of it all. He considered a sonic shower, but didn't have the drive.
He didn't want to call Bones. In all honestly, Leonard McCoy was his one real friend. Sure, he was gruff and a bit older and not one of those "heir" types, but McCoy had heart and he cared and he had yet to break Jim's trust like everyone else. He had lots of other friends, but they didn't get him as well, probably wouldn't try either. And it was all so achingly empty.
Pike was disappointed. Well, too bad for him. Jim wasn't George Kirk and never would be.
Marcus was a slimy bastard too, lord or not. And Jim hated him with every new meeting. No, calling him was out of the question too.
He was a little too hurt by Gaila than he cared to admit. So no calling her either. And certainly not that roommate of hers. Did everyone take him for a fool? So Frank had been right. Sam too.
Taking an ice pack to his nose, Jim decided to just screw it all and go to bed. He fell asleep blissfully quick, not even bothering to shed his shirt.
As expected, Jim woke with a horrible headache. His nose was less swollen, at least. He flipped on his side, the alarm buzzing. Cursing, he struggled to turn it off before remembering that he didn't set the alarm last night- or rather 3 AM. And that buzzing didn't sound like the alarm either.
It was really loud, an echo-ey sound. Brrrinnnnnggg. Something like that. It kept going. He groaned.
The doorbell.
Jim fell out of bed and crawled forward, pulling his crooked pants up, running a hand through his exhausted face. The bastard at the door had a pattern- he'd ring for fifty seconds, then give five seconds in between, then ring again. The fact that Jim bothered picking this up told him he was a little more awake. Brrrinnnnggg. Damn it, this guy had nerve.
"I'm coming!" he growled.
Jim only remembered what he must have looked like when he finally got to the door. He punched in the security code and waited for the door to slide open. He knew his hair was a clumped yellow mess of disarray. He stunk of sweat, blood, and beer. His shirt was tattered and stained with said blood and said sweat and said beer. There was a purple shiner below his left eye, his nose was red, and his face must have been a pale, mottled thing. Not to mention the dark circles around his already sorry looking eyes.
Maybe that was why he could only stare with an open jaw when the door revealed his new guest.
Of all the things, it was a Vulcan. Jim closed his eyes and opened them again to make sure he was seeing right. Pointed ears, curved to a tip. Definitely Vulcan.
The Vulcan was one of those tall, dark types with eyes that just read I'm-smarter-than-you, and from what Jim could see under that bowler hat, sleek black hair. He was in an equally dark suit and tie, one pale hand holding onto a suitcase, the other a thin umbrella. Compared with Jim's post-misery hunch, the Vulcan might as well have had a ruler for a back.
"Who's funeral is it?" Jim found himself saying.
The Vulcan lifted one slanted eyebrow in response.
"Nevermind. Who are you?" And what the hell do you want with me?
"My name is Schn T'Gai Spock. Mr. Kirk, your application to the Fennydmede center has been approved. I am your new valet. My services start today and shall continue until you deem no longer necessary."
He spoke with a voice as deep and grim as Jim had expected. He continued staring at the Vulcan until the words sunk in.
"Oh. OH. You're my new valet?"
"That is what I said, sir. From this day forth, I shall be your personal gentleman."
"Oh. Um, I didn't expect it- you- so soon."
"..."
Jim groaned, stepping back, gesturing for the Vulcan to step in. He did after a muttered "thank you, sir." The door slid and clicked locked once more.
"So what do I call you, valet?"
"It is customary to address me by my family name, sir. But humans tend to have difficulty in pronouncing the syllables. In such a case, sir, I have been given permission to say: you may call me Spock."
Spock showed himself into the living room and surveyed the area. Jim could have sworn he did the Vulcan equivalent of a frown. And he had to admit that if he was in Spock's shoes, he would have high-tailed it out of there.
"So Spock, I guess you need a room too. I've got a spare one down the hall."
The Vulcan stared at him blankly.
"I could show it to you later."
"Very well, sir."
"And you mind dropping that?"
"Dropping what?"
"The sir? I'm no sir. Just call me Jim."
Spock contemplated this before speaking: "I would prefer not to, sir." And then he was off, setting his case and umbrella against the wall, and making a beeline for the kitchen. Jim followed, calling after him, something along the lines of "what the hell, man?"
But Spock must have some kind of alien superpower because by then, he was already synthesizing a glass of mud-colored fluids. "It will be sour on your taste buds, sir, but this source of sustenance harbors the right amount of protein and supplements to reinvigorate your person."
"I'm not drinking that crap."
"I suggest you do, sir. And this 'crap' as you put it, is a source of high nutritional value, highly suggested in the event of over-consuming alcohol."
"Give it here."
Jim dunked down that drink in two seconds flat. It was horrible. Really, he wanted to retch. He probably did because Spock's arms were around him when he stumbled, surprisingly firm and solid, with some statement of "I do not advise drinking so fast, sir." And Jim probably said something along the lines of "easy for you to say."
When he regained himself, Jim stepped away from the valet's arms. His head was a hell of a lot clearer and he felt like he had just taken ten straight cups of coffee. He still felt like crap, but he felt like good crap. Eyes widening from being revived, Jim let out a long relieved sigh.
"Holy shit. That was some strong stuff, S-"
Maybe it was because his head and vision were a hundred times clearer. Or maybe it was because Spock's hat was off. Because Jim momentarily forgot what he was going to say when he looked at the Vulcan again. Bowed lips, smart eyes, clean skin. There was a sensuous mystery in Mr. tall dark and handsome, and Jim quite suddenly decided then and there that his valet was a smoldering pile of hot Vulcan.
Maybe this valet was worth keeping around after all. He made good eye candy and crappy energy drinks, if nothing else.
"Sir?" Spock inquired.
"What? Oh, I'm fine. Think I'll go wash up. You okay on your own?"
"I believe so, sir."
With that, Jim left, feeling far more refreshed and cockier than he had ever been. A sonic shower, a quick shave, and some heavy tooth-brushing later, Jim left the bathroom smelling a lot less like beer and a lot more like detergent, his hair darkened and matted with water, a towel wrapped below his waist. And for a minute, he thought he stepped on the surface of an alien planet.
Because for once, the living room was clean, all that dirty laundry gone, the shirts and jackets off the floor. The carpet looked like it had just been vacuumed. And Spock was standing beside the couch, hands folded behind his back, looking just a little too smug and arrogant for a Vulcan. Then again, all Vulcans seemed smug and arrogant to Jim. Not that he'd actually met any before Spock.
"Sir," Spock greeted.
"Where are my clothes?"
"The dirtied articles are in the wash machine. I have hand-washed the ones that require it. The rest of your clothing has been rearranged and set into your room. You will find them folded by alphabetical order and hung up by color palette."
Jim offered him a crooked grin.
"Well, I guess I could get used to this."
"Very good, sir."