Work Text:
"I think you've had enough, Captain," says the girl behind the bar. She's got that tone in her voice, the tone that says before she took this job she spent a lot of nights telling a lot of guys to quit while they were ahead, 'cause if they passed out and drooled on her bar they'd wake up in the county lockup. Come to think of it, Kirk's not entirely sure this isn't the same girl from Riverside that used to tell him that on a twice-weekly basis. But when he squints up at her in the hopes of figuring it out, there's three of her, and it's making his head spin.
"Enough? Come on, I'm fine." He sits up straight, as dignified as a man who might be too drunk to walk can possibly be, and points at the bottle in her hand. "Pour me another, that's an order." He's still not done loving the novelty of the people-have-to-do-what-I-say thing; he's not sure he ever will.
"If you end up in sick bay, I don't want a lecture from Dr. McCoy," the girl mumbles, pouring from a few bottles. Jim's not sure what the drink's called anymore, but he's had four of them and they are tasty. "He wouldn't lecture you," Kirk scoffs, waving one hand dismissively. "And I won't end up in-- seriously now, I am not even drunk," he insists. "Look, I'm going to go sit over there if it'll make you feel better." He points to a table, then picks up the drink and gets to his feet. After only a few seconds of making sure he's not going to fall over, he walks (very carefully, though he's hoping it looks effortless) over to the table and sits.
It feels a lot less fun and a lot more pathetic now, sitting at a table in a slightly shadowed corner of the ship's bar, when there aren't more than a dozen other people in the entire room and he's the only one sitting alone. It's not going to stop him from finishing his goddamned drink, though, and maybe when he's done he'll go raid Bones's stash. He wouldn't mind being too drunk to think, that's for damn sure. Anything's better than being crushed under the weight of his own brain obsessing over his sad little crush on his own goddamn first officer. His own first officer who happens to be Involved-with-a-capital-I with his communications officer, who he knows could kick his ass twice before breakfast if she so chose. He's pretty sure even making a pass at her boyfriend would invoke that choice, so he hasn't done it-- just, you know, manfully continued on existing, and trying not to think about this (the three words are linked in his mind by now) sad little crush.
Though really, when Jim stops thinking about it and just actually feels it, it's a lot more than little. It's a lot more than a crush. A hell of a lot more. But that makes it even more weird and pathetic and terrifying, which aren't things the new-made Captain of a Starfleet flagship ought to be buried under-- thus, the bar. Thus, the drinking.
He almost falls out of his chair when someone speaks from right next to him. He almost does it again when he sees that someone is Spock. Spock, who looks unruffled, but might possibly be laughing at him-- that's what the oh-so-slight lift to the corner of his mouth means, Jim's pretty sure. "Spock," he drawls, trying to make believe he didn't just have a small siezure in front of him. "Whassup."
Spock inclines his head. "May I join you?" he asks, and Jim waves at the chair. "Course, siddown, get a drink." He's drunk enough to forget that Vulcans can't get drunk. As Spock sits, he notices something off in the Commander's face, and his eyes narrow in concentration (well, one of them does, anyway). "What's wrong? There's a -- you look funny. Funnier." Spock's eyebrow twitches and Kirk realizes he said the last word out loud. "Woops." Spock doesn't answer and Jim brashly forges ahead. "Whatsamatter, Uhura making you sleep on the couch or something?" Because he's a masochist, really, and he can't think of anything he'd rather talk to Spock about than his goddamn girlfriend.
Spock takes a second longer to breathe; Jim supposes that's Vulcan for sighing. "Lieutenant Uhura and I are no longer-- your question is invalid," he says, interrupting himself halfway through. Jim's eyes widen and he feels like even more of an ass than he has all night. "I'm sorry," he says awkwardly. Spock gives a single negating shake of his head. "Thank you, but it is unnecessary. It was not-- we parted amiably." The sentence isn't as definitive as Spock probably wants it to sound; more like they parted ambiguously and Spock's hoping she's not secretly planning to kill him. It's what Jim would be worried about, anyway, if it was him.
He tries-- really tries, harder than he would for probably anyone else-- not to be at all glad, not to feel in any way hopeful or grateful that this is one less obstacle standing in his way. And if he weren't well on his way to being shitfaced drunk, he probably would've succeeded. But being that he is two-and-three-quarters sheets to the wind, and twice the horny asshole he is under normal (sober) circumstances, he just gives Spock this lazy grin and leans in with his elbows on the table. "Must really suck not being able to get drunk now, huh," he comments.
"You appear to have imbibed enough for two," Spock returns, his mouth tight with suppressed humor. Jim lifts one hand, conceding the point. "Is that what you do? When this-- this kind of situation occurs for you?" Spock doesn't seem to have planned to ask the question; he almost looks surprised that he's spoken.
"When I get dumped... which I'm sure it'll shock you to hear happens all the time... I drink myself stupid and get laid by the first person who'll have me." It's the blunt truth, and if he puts a little extra something in the leer he shoots across the table, a little heat and invitation, well, who could blame him? It's not like he's got the self-control God gave a chimpanzee right now anyway; even if he wanted to be subtle, it's just not in his vocabulary.
What surprises him is that Spock gets that he's leering. He sees it register in the Vulcan's dark eyes, the quirk in one corner of his lips, and the way his chin lifts a fraction of an inch before he speaks again. Of course there's no hint of suggestion in his voice, but knowing it's there under the surface makes Jim's mouth go dry. "So that is what you would advise me to do, then?" Spock asks softly. "Distract myself with the first available party?"
Jim leans in even closer and gives Spock his very best charming smile, full of promise and desire. "Works for me every time."
Spock smirks, then, unrestrained and full of irony, and Jim can't help but react, his eyebrows shooting up and a delighted grin shooting across his face. His pulse is gunning and he dimly realizes he's too drunk to be overwhelmed by the fact that this is actually fucking happening. "Then I will defer to your expertise," Spock says, meeting Jim's eyes for a hot lingering moment, during which Jim's stomach drops all the way into his feet and he tries not to groan. Spock's mouth curves again, and Jim grabs the glass in the center of the table and downs the rest of what's in it. "Come on," he says, standing and reminding himself how not to fall over. "Lessgo."
He doesn't have to look back to know Spock's following him.