Leonard McCoy was having a bad week, scratch that, the past month and a half had been hell. He glared at the dingy establishment as he bent over with a threadbare cloth to wipe the messy table of yet another stingy customer that hadn't tipped.

Until recently, Leonard McCoy had been everyone's typical well-established small town southern doctor, that was until his wife of twelve years decided he could no longer satisfy her extravagant wants and ran off with the local, single, rather rich, bastard town lawyer. As much as he hated to admit it, his darling daughter Joanna was probably better off with her mom and her mom's new boyfriend, considering where he was now standing. He sighed deeply, stuffing the rag into the oversized pocket in his apron. While he would have preferred to stay at his practice, his divorce had shaken the small town and the way he and his wife did finally split was by no means pretty.

McCoy spared a glance at his newest customer; he was a rich boy; that much was clear by his thick vintage leather jacket. He wore wire framed glasses and had a funny piece of hair that stuck up. "Can I take your order?" he asked the boy with a small and unintentional frown.

"Dude!" the boy exclaimed excitedly, sounding like an idiot from the 21st century. "Do you have hamburgers? Oh, no, wait, what year is it? Oh that's right, you wouldn't have hamburgers now," the boy rambled slightly.

McCoy sighed, wondering if this rich boy had been watching too much TV lately. "Can I take your order?" he asked again, a slight hard edge to his voice.

He smiled, eyeing him in an almost fond way. "I guess I'll take fried chicken and roast beef and tea. I'd also like green beans and mashed potatoes," he glanced up for a moment. "You can do that, right?"

McCoy nodded, squibbing on his pad, wondering faintly how it had come to this. He had once had a life; a good life and where was he now? Waiting tables at a greasy diner to spoiled rich kids. He growled under his breath as he left. Damned rich kids.

McCoy brought the boy his order a few minutes before five thirty. He placed the dishes quickly on the table and attempted to disappear into the shadows, with no luck either. The blue-eyed boy looked up for a quick moment and studied his form. "You, Leonard," he frowned, eyes narrowing as he read McCoy's name tag. "When was the last time you ate? You don't look all that good."

"That's none of your business sonny," McCoy snapped even as he swayed slightly on his feet. In fact it had been a while; a day and a half at the least, McCoy didn't really remember all that well.

"Like hell it is," the boy snorted. "Sit," he ordered.

McCoy still in shock, obeyed, and took a seat next to him.

"My name's Alfred, by the way. Alfred F. Jones. Do you want some chicken?" he offered, waving his hand in the general direction of the platter of chicken.

McCoy shook his head. "No thanks kid, I'm not hungry," he denied easily, his growling stomach betraying him.

Alfred gave him a doubtful look, snorting again. "Sure you aren't," he agreed pushing a plate full of food toward him. "And don't call me 'kid' or 'sonny', I'm way older than I look, promise."

McCoy honestly doubted this fact, he hardly looked any older than nineteen, but he was hungry and he was giving him free food; at least he hoped it was free, because if it wasn't, McCoy wasn't sure he would be able to pay him back.

"What's the matter with you?" Alfred asked through a mouthful of green beans. "You're plenty old enough to have a good job and the like; you don't strike me as someone that would have spent their school years goofing off."

McCoy glared at the table, picking at the fried chicken skin. "Listen," he managed after a long moment. "You seem like a nice guy and I appreciate your concern but I'm not going to drop my problems on you like a weak-willed pansy."

"Your choice, dude," Alfred said cheerfully. "Hey, do you feel like a drink?" Alfred cocked an eyebrow at him. "Hm," he mused. "You sure look like you could use one. Bartender, give me two beers over here."

That was how McCoy found himself spilling the beans to Alfred only a few hour later, not that he was sober enough to realize it. "And . . . and then she left me! She left me for that damned rich playboy," McCoy managed, taking another swig of the amber liquid.

"Sorry dude," Alfred said as he patted McCoy's shoulder. "Hey, have you thought of joining Starfleet, they could use people like you, smart, capable."

"I hate space," McCoy said shortly, glaring at his half empty bottle. He laughed bitterly. "Damn optimisms, 'glass is always half full'," he slurred a bit drunkenly, rolling his eyes violently.

"Well, dude, I think you should think about it, hey, I think I have their card somewhere . . ." Alfred trailed off, digging in the pockets of his jacket. "Ah, here we go!" he smiled brightly, extracting the plain white card. He tucked it between McCoy's hands and clasped him on the back warmly. "Well buddy, I've got to head out, don't do anything stupid, okay?" Alfred said cheerfully. He dug in his pocket and dropped a fifty. He stood and filed out with the rest of the last minute customers, leaving McCoy snoring softly into the table.

When McCoy awoke several hours later with a terrible headache he found clutched in his right hand a slightly crumbled and damp business card for Starfleet. For one fleeting moment he thought about joining, ignoring the fact that he absolutely hated space. He shook off his fear, he had to get over it at some point, besides, his ex-wife had gotten the whole damn planet in the divorce anyway, so why not?