Title: Friends with Benefits

Author: whatshouldntbe

Fandom: Reboot XI/AU

Universe/Series: Part of the 'What Shouldn't Be' series

Rating: R (NC-17 over all)

Word count: 11000+ for this part, Indefinite so far

Disclaimer: I own Star Trek as much as I own the Sun, which means not at all.

Warnings: always!girl Kirk, angst, action, language, infidelity, rom-com humor, sexual situations, violence, possible amateur world-building

Summary: Jim doesn't end up at Starfleet.

;

Chapter 1

Uncle Frank isn't very smart. But Jim is. She's smarter than half of the people in Riverside. Or even in all of Iowa. Of course she's never been any further than the borders of Riverside, and so she can only assume she is. And she thinks about it all the time. Leaving that is; just to find out for sure who else is out there. She wants to know what the world has to offer her when this hellhole of a farm Uncle Frank calls home only offers her misery. Jim admits to being wild like a caged animal. Hell, she's a Kirk. It comes with the territory. It's probably why she can't identify with all the other kids her age. She likes to act out when Uncle Frank pushes her too far. Just one word about her parents is all it takes these days, and he knows that.

James Tiberius Kirk is already a thirteen-year-old delinquent because of that man.

Can't be helped, really. Puberty is taking over, pumping unbridled adrenaline and hormones through her veins. She's bleeding from places she'd rather not bleed from and has no one to talk about it to. The anger from absent parents curls deep within her and drives her to lash out at the world, trying to serve back the unfair hand in life she's been dealt. It's so goddamn unfair sometimes. As she gets older, she gets angrier, more questioning. Why did her dad have to be a hero? Why did her mom leave her behind? Why the hell was she named after men she barely knew?

Sometimes Jim would like to believe that maybe her parents didn't know she'd be a girl. Or perhaps they had some sort of foresight for her personality. Maybe they saw her in her dark blue overalls, rolling around on the ground, throwing untamed punches at Johnny, the boy who can not keep his goddamn hands to himself, in the middle of recess for all to see; trying to prove herself (to them) that's she not just some pretty pig-tailed girl who tolerates being doted on.

Maybe they knew she was the kind of girl who likes to pick up old parts from the junkyard so that she can start putting together some mode of transportation for herself. When she was seven she had made her own scooter. When she was ten it evolved into a bicycle. And now she was working on building her own motorized bike. The building for it is a little early. She wont be able to ride it tills she's sixteen, but she'd rather start now and have something to look forward to. No more Uncle Frank lugging her around when he damn well pleased.

The more Jim thought on these things, the more she at ease with the name she felt. And then she was glad she bore the name. It was a good strong name to have, despite the lack of what it said she should have between her legs. It didn't matter. Because she'd rather not be a Pam or some Suzy Q. People will take one look at her and take in the pretty blue eyes, the long corn-colored hair, those pouty pink lips and the golden tan of her skin, and they would just coo and fawn all over her. Then when she told them her name (James Tiberius Kirk) and they saw that determined and hard look in her eye, recognized that last name, they fumbled and thought twice, trying to figure her out and coming to no conclusion. And then she'll open those pouty pink lips, reveal just a little of her genius, and crush them, right along with their idiotic preconceived notions.

Why was it so hard to believe that the beautiful blonde girl with sky blue eyes was actually intelligent, and that her life goals did not include being some kind of shallow model? Good looks, though helpful at times, didn't earn her a whole lot of respect.

But that's the way of things. Humans can't seem to understand her. Maybe that's why she finds herself in her own company instead of the company of others. Jim will spend hours sitting on top of the roof of the house while Uncle Frank drinks himself into a stupor. As he thumps around in the living room, cursing and knocking over furniture, probably looking for her, his personal punching bag.

She'll lie back on that roof and ignore all the angered grunts and shouts and nasty little tricks he tries to use to goad her into coming out so he can have some fun. She'll let down her hair up here, literally as well as metaphorically, because it's the only place where she feels comfortable. She knows it's strange to wear your hair in a ponytail all the time, at least, that's what all the other girls say. They don't understand, and often say that if they had 'such nice long hair', they'd do all sorts of things with it. Jim doesn't. She can't explain why she refuses to let her hair down in the presence of others, or why she keeps it in the same ponytail everyday. Probably one of those defense mechanisms she's read about. She does like to read, to learn.

She refuses to skip a grade; doesn't need people to talk about her more than they already do. She's mostly self-taught anyway. Sometimes she spends hours at the library after school, just so she won't have to go home right away, and just read.

She'll read and read so that when she's forced to come home, she'll have hours of subject matter to think about, to distract her when she eats whatever slop of food Uncle Frank is kind enough to make for her. Then quickly she'll make her way up to the roof. She'll lay back and watch the stars, feeling a twinge in her heart that tells her that up there is where she really belongs, not down here. Gravity's been unkind to her, arresting her to the soil of Earth, when all she wants to do is float away. Maybe somewhere up there, her mother can be found. It's wishful thinking; she knows the truth of it all. Uncle Franck never lets her forget that she's not wanted. By anyone on this planet.

So she can't be blamed for thinking her happiness lies with the stars.

Crash.

"…you hiding at you little shit? Come out here!"

Thump. Thump. Crash.

Jim sighs and rolls over onto her side as her uncle breaks through the haze of her thoughts. The wind picks up a little and plays with the long waves of her blonde hair, sometimes pushing it over her cheek and towards the corner of eyes like a golden curtain. She kind of hopes Uncle Frank will trip and crack his head open on a piece of furniture. She doesn't wish for him to die, no, unfortunately he is all she's got left. She just needs him incapacitated for a few days.

CRASH.

"…little bitch. I'll sell that piece of junk car, you just wait. Daddy's not here to stop me now is? Sell it, make a nice penny. Hm? What do you say Jimbo? How much do you think I can get for a legend's pretty little corvette?"

CRASH.

Jim sits up immediately, no longer able to ignore her raving uncle. He wouldn't dare. He wouldn't dare.

CRASH.

And then Jim remembers all those times, all those strange faces that came and went. All of them huddled around her father's car with uncle Frank, gazes assessing, sizing the worth of it. Jim hadn't thought much of it at the time. Thought her stupid uncle was just showing off. He does it all the time. With her, with the car, with anything that can make him seem less of a worthless pile of garbage.

THUMPTHUMPCRASH.

"Got a good little deal for it, did I mention? Got a guy who's coming in the morning Jimmy. Gonna come and get it. Maybe I oughta buy you a nice little doll? Give you a percentage of what I get. Was your dad's car after all, you should get something shouldn't ya Jimmy?" It's obvious he's stumbling around in her room now, trashing it with the hand that isn't holding the bottle of liquor. It's fine. She's learned never to keep anything important in her room, in the house.

CRASH. THUMP. THUMP.

Ice cold fire and rage, so much rage flutters through her veins. He's gone too far this time. Too far.

When Uncle Frank finally passes out in the bathroom, Jim spends the rest of the night cleaning the house and plotting.

So really, she can't be blamed when she rises with the sun the next morning, swipes the keys off of uncle Frank's nightstand and hops in her dad's cherry red corvette. Before she knows it, she's whipping down the road. Minutes later Uncle Frank seems to shake himself into consciousness and realized what's happened. He calls, cursing her and yelling all sorts of unspeakable things, threatening to call her mother and whip her ass so hard she'll see the same stars her dead father did. Jim cuts the line off mid-rant and pops the top, shoving a pair of black sunglasses on her face.

Up ahead there is a boy holding out his thumb in the universal sign for hitchhiking. Jim grins, honking eagerly, waving and laughing out an almost maniacal 'Hey Johnny-boy!' as she swerves past him. She sees his dumbfounded expression in the rearview mirror before its blocked by a state trooper on his bike. Uncle Frank must have called the authorities. And seriously, she's not just gonna pull over when asked to, she's on a roll. She just whips a hard right and continues towards the canyon.

There is a moment where she embodies adrenaline, thinks about staying in the car, going down with it, joining her father in the great beyond. But she's already spun the car to the side, popped open the door and is clawing violently at the edge to keep from going over. Her hair's a mess and there's dirt on her cheeks, jeans and t-shirt. She pulls herself up, grinning ferociously, heavily satisfied and tugs off the glasses, tossing them over her shoulder as the trooper steps down from his bike, asking for her name.

And just like everybody else, she lets him know exactly whom he's dealing with.

888

Uncle Frank is not pleased.

How does she know this?

Tarsus IV happens.

The famine happens.

Governor Kodos happens, and then the massacre.

And even when she's safely back on earth sometime later, she'll never talk about it. Never explain why she was able to survive when many others did not. Never could explain how hungry she was, and how it took over, making her so willing.

She'll never forgive Frank for it. Never.

Nothing will ever undo the horrors she bore witness to.

888

You could even say that she became even more reckless after the fact. Sometimes being so close to death can either settle and subdue you or make you ever more stormier than you were before. Jim had seen these two paths and had taken the stormier road. By the time she's seventeen, she's all cunning and all about having a good time in the company of others.

She still doesn't let her hair down (literally), she never will. No one can ever earn that right.

Besides, sex is no different with or without your hair being down. Jim doesn't care enough to test it, but she does test the sex. With males and females and aliens, and why should she limit herself in this profound experience? Of course it hadn't been profound the first time she tried it, with Johnny of all people, and she had been fifteen at the time. There had been pain and discomfort and Johnny just didn't know what he was doing cause it was all over before she could blink.

She didn't let that discourage her though, she doesn't believe in no-win scenarios, and what people might call promiscuous, she thinks is a healthy dose of sexual revolution. If guys and Orions can do it, why can't she? And she's smart; she knows she can reproduce, so she takes the necessary precautions to ensure she doesn't. She's fucking up her life, sure, but why should she take the responsibility of fucking up an innocent kid's life?

She doesn't just sleep with everybody. She probably sleeps with more women than she does with men. She's always careful whom she chooses. She has her secret little process of elimination. Sex takes up some of her time; the other part of it is spent fucking with the people of Riverside. Hacking into different databases, hotwiring cars and vandalizing here and there. She's a troublemaker, not a rebel.

Idle hands are the devil's workshop after all. So what happens when those idle hands belong to a genius?

Frank had finally learned to leave her be. Jim didn't want his support anyway. That's probably why when she saw the 'Help Wanted' sign at her favorite bar, she decided maybe she'd be good at bartending. She was self-taught after all and she'd read about all the great little drinks they were expected to make. The manager had protested at first, she was underage, but then she batted her eyes and twirled the end of her ponytail and made him laugh. He laughed and couldn't deny she was good. And if a pretty little thing could keep the customers coming back every night, he might just take the risk. All she had to do was lie about her age and never do anything more than a little heavy flirting with the customers. He said that's what got his last bartender in hot water, and the costly damage to his establishment had been unforgivable.

So Jim took the job, bartending the bar just on the edge of town, near Riverside's shipyard, batting her eyelashes, grinning coyly and earning sizeable tips. Tips that got her packing and moving into her own place. Finally free from Frank, who had been eyeing her with a suspicious look of lust as of late. She couldn't risk it. She knew the warning signs. All he needed to do was to drink himself into a stupor, make a move and she'd be hauled away for killing the bastard because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

She does not tolerate being manhandled by anyone.

But she's gone before he can try. And she's happy, really. She's got a decent job and she's taking care of herself. And she tries to convince herself that nothing is missing, ignoring how the night sky still calls out to her. Or how her talents feel wasted on drunk and horny patrons who forget that they already tipped her, and will tip her again. And for a moment, the pretending goes pretty well.

That is, until she arrived.

Jim wasn't stupid, she knew what was happening, what all those red uniforms meant. She knew where they came from and where they were going. She knew why they uncomfortably reminded her of what her father was, and what he had done. But Jim's never anything but stubborn, and played dumb when they came around and talked enthusiastically about just what they planned on doing in those red uniforms.

Bartenders were supposed to be a listening ear, unfortunately. But this night, when she came in, Jim didn't mind so much. The dark beauty had strolled up to the bar, all curves and slanted eyes, wrapped perfectly in that regulation uniform and long dark hair reaching down to her waist. She picked up a menu, ignoring the drools and the stares left to right, and rattled off all the drinks she wanted. Jim grinned and waited patiently, even suggested a drink, which was well received, and pounced.

"That's a lot of drinks for one woman," Jim says, not even sparing her own hands a glance as she makes them. She's got this, and she's kind of showing off too.

The dark beauty lifts an eyebrow before dropping her gaze back down to the menu.

Jim presses, "How about a shot of jack on me?"

"My drink's are on me, so no thanks," she replies evenly, not even sparing Jim a glance.

Jim smirks. She loves a challenge. God, Mr. Demo was gonna kill her for what she was about to do. "Don't you even wanna know my name before you just reject me?"

"I'm fine without it."

"You are fine without it. Very."

Silence.

"If you don't tell me your name, I get to make one up for you."

Her eyebrow twitches with a hint of annoyance. "Uhura."

"Well don't that just beat all? That's exactly what I was gonna make up for you. But, they don't have last names on your world or something?"

A sigh. "Uhura is my last name."

"They don't have…first names on your world?"

"How are those drinks coming along?" Uhura replies sweetly.

Jim grins. "My name's Jim by the way, thanks for asking."

Uhura looks unimpressed.

Jim rolls her eyes and starts putting some of the drinks on a tray. "So you're a cadet, what's your focus?"

Uhura straightens and cocks back her shoulders with pride. "Xenolinguistics. And you have no idea what that is," she says, giving Jim an assessing gaze.

Jim can feel the judgment, she's familiar with it. Her grin slips just a little, and that competitive edge comes out before she can bottle it back up again.

Challenge accepted.

"Linguistics," Jim starts, finishing the last drink and leaning forward against the bar. Uhura lets Jim into her personal space, recognizing the challenge, and Jim starts falling for her again. "The study of alien languages, morphology, phonology and syntax."

Uhura grins slow but sure. "I'm impressed," she admits, leans in a bit more, and then lowers her voice, "I thought you were just some pretty farm girl who sells moonshine and keeps her redneck cousins out of jail."

Jim doesn't take the jibe personally. She can tell Uhura is warming up to her, and if she plays her cards right, Jim can win her over. "Ah, so you are familiar with the Dukes of Hazard. You know, I get that all the time. S'pretty decent show when you get into it. I wouldn't mind showing you my own little collection."

Uhura throws her head back and laughs out loud, drawing the attention of the other patrons.

Jim thinks, mission accomplished. That is, until some dumbass intercepts before she can claim her prize.

"Aren't you supposed to be serving drinks? I'd like a few, you know, today if you're done trying to fuck this cadet on top of the bar."

Uhura hisses and Jim rears back, assessing the guys and the few goons that lurk behind him. "Relax Cupcake, you'll get your turn."

Cupcake licks his lips. "Now there's an idea," he says with a wink.

Jim frowns. "Fuck off. I don't have time to play around with idiotic giants who have little baby dicks."

Cupcake snarls. "I'd watch it if I were you missy. Maybe you didn't notice, but there are five of us and only one of you."

"Then go get some more guys and then it'll be an even fight," Jim grins and leans forward, patting Cupcake on the face.

Cupcake snarls again, grabs her wrist with bone-crushing force and yanks her over the bar. Jim manages to grab an empty vodka bottle on the way of being hauled over and smashes it over his head with it. He drops like a rock and the other goons move in.

And that's when the real destruction starts.

The bar is in a frenzy, watching the spectacle as five guys try to swing at Jim and fail when she roundhouse kicks them all in their face. She manages to keep them all down, but at a cost. She's so busy with the five of them that she misses as Cupcake regains his bearings and lands a powerful punch to the side of her face. She stumbles back, still caught in surprise, as another punch catches her in the bottom of her lip. Uhura yells and jumps on Cupcake's back, hitting him in the back of his head when he doesn't listen to her protests. Jim takes a moment to drop to her knees before Cupcake and punches him right in his junk.

Again, he drops like a rock.

Jim pants from the adrenaline rush of it all, climbs to her feet and assesses the damage. All of them are on the ground, laying in piles of broken glass and the splintered wood the tables that collapsed when she threw them at it. A smile starts to spread and she winces when pain laces her jaw, and she thinks better of having a celebratory grin. Uhura is staring at her with an almost awe-struck gaze that morphs into something thoughtful, and as Uhura opens her mouth to voice these thoughts, a loud whistle pierces the all too quiet atmosphere and the entire group of red uniforms stand at attention.

An older gentlemen, which Jim's libido acknowledges that he is quite good-looking, is standing in the doorway with his head cocked and amused look on his face as he sizes up the situation. It's then that Jim realizes what she must look like, standing in the midst of it all, and she kind of wants to laugh. But there's too much pain in her jaw, and her eye's throbbing with an oncoming black eye, and she is so fired, she just knows it. Before she can escape with all the dignity she has left, the old man introduces himself as Captain Christopher Pike, and how he would like a word with her.

He makes sure to clear out the place before they have their little chitchat. Uhura actually pats her on the shoulder on the way out, looking somewhat apologetic and Jim watches her go, well, watches those legs walk away, and sighs a little regrettably herself. Not the way she wanted to end the night. Captain Pike sits down and motions to the seat on the other side of the only table in the bar that's still in tact. She sits down reluctantly, and by the look in his eye, she's not sure if she's about to get her own little reprimand.

What comes next is a complete surprise.

"Enlist? Ow, fuck," Jim holds her jaw with the bag of ice her manager was kind enough to give to her right as he fired her. Mr. Demo had an unyielding nature, but he was still a softie at heart. She knows he doesn't really want to fire her, but he'd warned her about his intolerance for heavy damage in his bar. Jim works her jaw slowly, "Wow, you guys must really be low on your quota."

"Not at all," Pike replies smoothly. "But I'm no fool, James. I know something extraordinary when I see it. I know that instinct of leaping without looking when I sense it. And in my opinion its something Starfleet's been lacking. You, James, I know who you are."

Jim stiffens in her seat. "And who am I Captain Pike?"

"Your father's daughter," he says.

Jim wants to say 'fuck you' but she's got a little respect for her elders. "Are we done?"

"I looked up your file while you were being fired. Your aptitude tests are off the chart. So what is it? You like being the only genius-level offender in the Midwest?"

Jim grins slowly, ignoring the pain in her jaw, and lets her eyelashes flutter. "Maybe I love it," she says lowly, seductively.

Pike sighs. "Okay. Okay. Maybe you do," he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief and tosses it to her as he stands. "Maybe you can settle for a less than ordinary life. But you feel like you were meant for something better. Four years, and you could have your own ship. We're leaving tomorrow, shuttle for new recruits leaves at 0800-"

"Goodnight Captain," Jim says and turns away from him.

Pike stares at her for a little longer before he turns and heads to the door. Before he leaves, he pauses and says, "You know your father never made captaincy, hadn't even graduated, but he still managed to save over a billion lives, including your own. I dare you to do better." And he's gone.

Jim just sits there. She lowers the bag of ice and runs her tongue over her bloody, swollen lip and winces when she comes in contact with the split. She glances down at the handkerchief Pike left behind, and as she picks it up, she realizes that her knuckles are bleeding also. She frowns and gazes at the floor, Pike's words swirling around her head.

Pike is the reason why she rides through the night, trying to think up all the little reasons why she shouldn't go. Jim doesn't—isn't surprised when she finds more reasons to leave than to stay. But she is surprised that she actually throws all caution to the wind, says fuck you very much to Pike's dare, and rides off into the sunset.

Well, if the sunset is Georgia, then yes, that's certainly where she rides off to. Though that had not been her intention at all. And everything that followed after could be said the same.

888

It happened like this.

That night—or perhaps it was morning—she left Riverside, Iowa with nothing but the clothes on her back, all the money she had left (a good 3,000 credits from big tips and crazy saving) and the bike she built with her own two hands, taking her anywhere she needed to go. She didn't have anything of sentimental value back at her apartment, so that why she chose to skip a trip there altogether. If she had to be honest, her bike was the only thing of importance to her. She hadn't even given a thought to driving around and bidding farewell to her friends. She had none, at least not any real ones. Just because the word buddy was accompanied by the word fuck did not allude to any depth in that relationship. So she kicked up the dust under her heel and that was as close as a goodbye that Riverside, Iowa was going to get.

And Frank—well fuck him too.

It only took an hour of driving to reach the border of Iowa, and when she pulled into a gas station to fill up, she decided that investing in a road map would be worthwhile. So she bought one and used the length of her arms to spread it open as she leaned against her bike and used her baby blue's to scan the whole thing. As she looked it over, she gave the East Coast a perpetual middle finger because—just, no. Starfleet was in that direction, there was just no way.

That being said, she had the whole West Coast and Midwest and Deep South to consider. She must have stayed leaning against her bike for a good fifteen minutes, ignoring all the cat-calls of those dumb redneck truck drivers, and finally came to a decision. She was going to make a life for herself in Miami, Florida. She was already a qualified bartender, all she would need to do was make it legal and she could really do something there. After all, Miami was known for many things and clubs and bars were one of them. If she worked hard enough, she could open up her own bar, rack in some celebrity clientele and have it made well into retirement.

Jim liked this plan. She loved this plan. She was going to stick to this plan.

So she folded the map down and put it into her back pocket, straddled her bike and drove until she reached Chicago. She checked into a hotel that night, and skipped the sightseeing in favor of walking the streets in search of a clothing store. She found one and didn't make a fuss about what she picked. Just some new jeans and a shirt to replace the ones she was currently sporting. After she stopped at a Thai restaurant and got some tofu, she showered, threw out her old clothes, and kept only her leather jacket and boots. She fell into bed the minute she was done eating, and was fully prepared to leave as soon as she woke up the next morning.

And leave she did, but it wasn't in the morning. She had been so exhausted from the drive before that she hadn't woken up till sometime the next evening. She quickly hopped out of bed and got dressed, cursing because she had missed her checkout, which meant she would have to pay for a second night. She grumbled and stumbled and staggered her way around the room and eventually down to the lobby where, lucky for her, there was a guy at the reception. A grin here, a coy look there and she was able to leave and hit the road without even having to pay for the extra night.

Sometimes it was fun being a girl.

Five hours on the road found her down in Indianapolis, Indiana and an hour and a half after that, Lexington, Kentucky. And sometime after that she's in Nashville, Tennessee. It's only when she reaches the border of Atlanta, Georgia does she make herself pull into at the upcoming truck stop for a quick rest. It's well into the early next morning, mostly around nine or ten. She parks her bike next to a gas pump, and ignores the catcalls of a group truckers huddled off to the side between two massive trucks. She flips them off without so much a glance and heads inside the tiny gas station.

Jim walks up to the counter where there is a half-bald, large spectacle wearing man sitting behind it with a magazine, looking as though he could care less about anything. He flips to the next page lazily as he says, "Lookin' to fill?"

"Pretty much," Jim confirms, resting her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket.

"Uh-huh," He says as he flips to the next page. "Pump number?"

"Uh—" Jim twists her head and squints her eyes to see though the dirty window to where her bike is and can vaguely make out the number. "Six, I think." She turns back just in time to see him sigh long-sufferingly and slap down his magazine to ring her up.

"Ground vehicle?"

"Yeah."

"You want it full?"

"Yeah."

He nods and mutters out the price while his hand extend towards her expectantly.

Jim gives him her credit chip and winces slightly as he roughly swipes it several times. To distract herself from the sight, she glances down at the rack of magazines below the counter.

The man sniffs and hands her back her credit chip. "That should do it."

"Thanks," Jim says and pockets her credit chip, doing a bit of mental math to see where she is.

Just as she turns to exit, the man, picking up his magazine again, says, "Hot chocolate."

Jim frowns. "Excuse me?"

The man, yet again, lets out a long-suffering sigh as he points to the sign hanging directly above him. "Hot chocolate's free on Thursdays for the ladies." Shaking out his magazine as though it were a newspaper he continues, "Yeah. Was the wife's idea. Said it'll draw more in of the lady clientele. And well—my wife done gone up with the good Lord some months ago—figured I'd keep doin' what she had in mind. So if you lookin' to get warm, cause it is a bit cold out, you can head on over to the left and help yourself to that machine right there."

Jim glances over to where he gestures his head and sees two blocky glass machines, gurgling the brown liquid with steam coming up from the top. Never one to say no to some free chocolate, she says, "Thanks."

The man grunts and engrosses himself in some article. "Hot chocolate's free but if your lookin' for marshmallows it'll cost ya."

Jim slides over to the machines and takes one of the medium-sized Styrofoam cups. Pressing down on the nozzle, she fills the cup up somewhat above it being halfway and glances around. "Hey, you have a ice machine?"

The man glances over the edge of his magazine at her with a raised brow. Then indicates to the right with his head. "Ice is around back. Should be a shovel, just knock at it and scrape out what breaks off."

Jim nods and scuttles over to the freezer box to do just that. She's not one to drink hot liquids; she has Frank to thank for that. And because of one particular traumatic experience, she'll never touch her tongue to anything hot that comes in liquid form ever again. Albeit, she does have her moments when it comes to food even, but she's working on getting over that.

Jim chips away at the block of ice in the freezer box and uses the hand shovel to scoop it out and dump a few chips into her cup. She drops the shovel back in and slides the door close as she slaps a lid on her cup and takes a few tentative sips. It tastes lukewarm and a bit watery but that's something she's used to so she doesn't mind as much. She swirls her cup around gently, mixing the ice in more properly as she mutters another thanks and exits the station.

Jim lifts the cup to take a few more sips but pauses with a frown instead when she sees the group of truckers all crowding around her bike. They're all in a tight knit circle, like they were attempting to levitate her bike with some weird séance chanting. She just takes a breath, juts her chin (which is admittedly still a little sore from her last tussle a couple of days ago) and keeps her expression blank.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" Jim asks when she reaches them.

They all turn towards her with a dark grin. They take turns eyeing her and Jim does her best to school her expression and not roll her eyes.

"We was just admirin' your little thing here," one of them says.

Another says, "Your boyfriend know your takin' his bike for a joyride? He the one that give you that shiner?"

They all chuckle.

Jim smiles tightly. "Now boys, I'm not looking for any trouble. I'm just passing through."

They all glance at one another.

Jim takes a leisurely sip from her cup.

"You look like trouble gal," says the guy standing at the front of her bike.

"Pretty girls like you are a dime a dozen."

"We just wanted to say welcome, anyway," someone else says. "We even filled you up, so you ain't got to worry about that."

"We thought it'd be nice if we showed our own brand of courtesy."

"Hopefully it'll convince you to stay."

Jim eyes them all, but keeps her expression neutral. She counts heads and there are about seven of them. While she would be able to take on four on them—five if she's quick enough—she'd still be in danger of being outnumbered. She doesn't feel like being gang rapped in the back of some gas station by a bunch of fat, shovel-faced, pedostache wielding truckie weirdoes. Her best option was to just bow out gracefully.

"I should really get going, so—excuse me," Jim says and waits patiently as they all snicker and step back to give her some breathing room. "Gentlemen." Keeping her cup cradled in one hand while she kicks up the kickstand and revs the engine. She doesn't look back as she exits out the truck stop and heads southbound for the heart of Atlanta. Nothing seems wrong the drive over, but it isn't until she exits off the ramp and onto the streets of the city does she realize there is something very wrong with her baby. It's nothing subtle, but she'd be the first to know if something is even the slightest askew, and this was one of those cases.

Even though Jim doesn't want to, she pulls into a nearby garage. She'd much rather fix her bike herself (hell, she'd built it, why wouldn't she?) and it's uncomfortable for her to watch someone else paw their greasy hands all over but she's reminded she's far from home. Being far from home meant being far from her own little workshop and spare parts. She does not have the means to fix her bike up herself. She isn't even sure if she has the means to let someone else fix it for her.

Vick & Vickers Auto Shop

That's what the sign says as she drives into the small lot, already riddled with junk parts and immobile ground vehicles and hovercars. Jim frowns and maneuvers very carefully around it all until she finds herself at the entrance of the garage. The door is already lifted and a few employees are scuttling about with parts in their hands and motor oil all over their gray jumpsuits. They seem mightily focused, and they barely notice her as she cuts the engine. She vaguely notices the Latino music playing in the background.

Jim clears her throat loudly. "Excuse me."

One of the employees' stops and gazes at her considerably before saying, "Algo que quieras?"

Jim feels both of her eyebrows lift. She can somewhat recall the Spanish classes she took in her first year of high school, but not so much since she hadn't been all that interested in learning a new language at the time, too caught up in the left over anger and grief of Tarsus IV.

"Señora, algo que usted quiere?" he repeats with a frown.

Jim scraps together a reply, "Yo necesito ayuda—uh—pero yo no soy bueno—con—con el español. Persona con Inglés en—esta lista?"

"Ah, sí," the man wears an expression of understanding. "Wait—a minute—okay?" he says with a thick accent.

Jim can only nod and watch as he disappears. She takes that time to finish off the rest of her hot chocolate, which is completely cooled and watered down by this time. She downs it and throws it in a near by garbage bin that just so happens to be sitting against the wall where there is a clock.

12:34 p.m. is what it reads.

"Yes, hello, hello," a voice says from behind her.

Jim turns and is greeted by the sight of an older man with salt and pepper hair, a slightly rounded middle and kind brown eyes. He has dark skin, much like the other employees, and his voice is heavily accented. As she shakes his hand when he offers her one, she wonders if they are all Dominican. Jim knew a girl back in grade school that looked the same and spoke the same, and she was Dominican.

"I am Miguel," he greets. He is eying her face curiously, but Jim says nothing of it. His gaze lingers particularly on her black eye.

"Jim."

"Ah, yes," Miguel nods as if he approves of her name and Jim finds that just a bit amusing. "You need help with your machine?"

Jim gives a half-shrug. "Well I just need a diagnosis. Then I guess we'll both know if it needs help or not."

Miguel nods and turns, "Ey, ven ahora. Rápidamente, por favor." He signals to his younger companion, the one that was the first to greet Jim before. He drops whatever it is he is doing and saddles up beside Miguel. Throwing an arm over his shoulder, Miguel says, "This is my nephew, Juan Carlo. You two have met, yes?"

Jim nods.

"He will look at your machine, okay? No charge," Miguel waves his hand with the negative. "We find something—then we tell you how much to fix—okay? But when we look—we don't charge."

"Alright, sounds good," Jim replies with a small smile.

Miguel gives an approving nod and turns to Juan Carlo, exchanging words with him in Spanish before they separate. "Okay—he's going to look the bike over. You come in and sit in office. You like banana bread? My daughter—she bakes sometimes. She goes to the school for cooking," he explains as he leads her deeper into the garage and back to where his office is. The office is not very spacious, and it has only about three chairs, a work desk, a refrigerator and a water cooler. "Please sit," he gestures to one of the seats against the wall.

Jim sits carefully and glances around. She shakes her head when he reappears with a plate of carefully sliced banana bread. It smells good, but she wouldn't dare touch it. "Thank you, but I can't accept."

"You don't like?" Miguel asks with a confused furrow of his brow.

Jim doesn't want to offend. "I'm allergic."

"Ah," Miguel says and nods. "Okay—you thirsty? Anything you want to drink?"

"No I'm fine, but thank you very much."

Miguel chuckles and sits across from her, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead. "You sound different. You don't have the same accent as the other people who come."

Jim smiles. "That's because I'm a northerner," she says. "Iowa."

"Ah," Miguel nods. "Okay. You move here?"

"No, I'm passing through," Jim clarifies.

"You look very young—you remind me of my daughter," Miguel says and then he gestures to his own eye. "Please—tell me how this happened."

Jim touches her black eye. "You mean this?" She watches as he nods. "Had a bad run in with a couple of guys. You should really see them, I think I came out pretty alright compared."

Miguel winks and shakes his fist. "Now that's the way."

Jim chuckles.

Juan Carlo appears in the doorway a minute later with a grave frown on his face. "Tío," he begins but then pauses to shake his head.

Miguel stands and Jim does as well. "Ha encontrado el problema?"

"Sí, pero la señora no va a gustar."

"Vaya por delante y decir."

"Alguien puso diluyente de pintura en y se mezcla con el motor. No lo puedo durar mucho tiempo."

"Ah," Miguel replies very sadly.

Jim feels her concern increase. "What did he find?"

Miguel turns to her with a frown. "He thinks someone put the paint thinner in your engine."

Jim hands immediately curl into fists. Those fucking truckers!

"You will have to replace the whole thing—ah, one moment," Miguel turns and grabs a PADD. He works a hand over it for a minute or so before he turns it towards Jim. "This will be the price."

Jim winces as she sees the number. Even in installments, it's well beyond the means she currently has.

Miguel notices her reaction and glances at Juan Carlo. "Déjanos. Vaya, vaya. Cierre la puerta detrás de ti," he says, doing a shooing gesture with his free hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jim sees Juan Carlo nod and exit the office, closing the door behind him. When they're alone, she says, "I can't—afford that. There's no way," she admits. Anxiety begins to gnaw at her gut, forming a slight stomachache. Now what was she to do? She didn't come this far just to be stuck where she hadn't planned.

Miguel nods. "I understand—I thought as much. But you are a nice girl. I have a good feeling about you. There will not be much I can do, even in being reasonable." He turns and grabs a business card, signing his name against the blank side of it. "Mira—I have a son—he is my oldest. He has a shop in Savannah—he can be fair, but only to those I personally send." Miguel slides the card in her hand and cradles them with his own. "I like you—this is rare. I know you can go anywhere and they will treat you unfair and say this for this just because the model you have is rare, yes? But I tell you—go to my son—his name is Luis Miguel and his address is on the card. You give him the card—" Miguel let's her hands go and shakes his head along with his hands. "He tell you, no problem—and he work with you. Okay?"

Jim nods. "Thank you, very much."

Miguel waves her off. "You have enough time to make this trip, so you go and as soon as you're into Savannah, you see my son."

Jim nods again.

"Good, now go," Miguel shoos her with a smile.

Jim returns the smile and exits out the office and out the garage to her bike, which is still parked where she left it.

Jim's got a three and a half hour drive ahead of her. She prays she can make it that far.

888

Savannah is a big place full of small towns.

At least that's the way Jim views it. It kind of reminds her of home—well maybe not home, but of Iowa. She find's Luis's shop without getting too turned around (thanks to the help of a few locals) and when she arrives she finds that Luis looks every bit like his father. He also has that warm friendliness about him as well, and he lacks the thick accent that his father and cousin have. Jim figures Luis must have been raised in the states, but again, she's not sure where they're from originally.

Luis diagnoses the bike once more and understands the problem immediately. He apologetically admits that the replacement will be expensive and it will take some time to find the right part. Maybe even months, but Jim knew that. She had been afraid of that, always been afraid of that, which is why she always took such good care of her bike. It had only been luck when she'd found a working engine in that old junkyard back home, and she'd paid a hefty price for it too, since they were so hard to come by like that. You either had to have ground vehicle engines imported or handmade. That alone costs an arm and a leg.

"You tell me how much you have, and we can work from there," Luis says.

Jim fidgets with a sigh. "I have about 2,789 credits left, but I know that's not enough, even if I gave you every dime I have."

Luis nods sadly. "Well, if you have time to wait, I can look around and see if I can track down a used engine. I know some guys who have shops that specialize in this. I'll do that and give you a quote on the best price."

Jim sighs. "That's fine. Anything would be helpful at this point. How much—"

"This I'll do for free. I know you might have to pay quite a lot so I won't charge for fees and services," Luis says.

"Oh my God, thank you," Jim says, laughing a bit wearily.

Luis shrugs with a grin. "It's rare I see a woman so passionate about her vehicle. And lucky for you, everything around here is within walking distance." He winks and shuffles off to help another customer.

"Yeah, lucky," Jim mutters as she rubs the back of her neck and tries to think. Looks like she was going to be stuck here for quite sometime. She thinks of all the pros and cons. She wonders if it would be easier to just buy a new car, or even least expensive.

But you wont do that. You can't leave this bike, not when it has a piece of your father in it. The only piece you have left.

Jim probes her black eye with a scowl. She is unwilling to admit it but she has a personal tie to the bike. The night before she drove the corvette off the cliff, she'd taken a small part from it and wielded it into her bike. Which cements the fact that her plans to travel to Miami are screwed, utterly and thoroughly.

"Fucking truckies," Jim growls and winces when she pokes the tender skin of her bruised eye a little too roughly. She sighs and turns to exit Luis's shop, heading in no certain direction. It is a small town, so everything is within walking distance. Her stomach growls and she rubs it faintly, her feet leading her to the diner that's a couple of blocks up.

Mom & Pops Family Diner

That's the name of the joint, and it certainly owns the name well. The diner, like most of the shops in town, is themed to follow architectural designs found in the 21st century. She finds a quiet little booth in the back and enjoys a moment to just sit and relax. Her stomach rumbles all the more and her frown deepens. She's hungry, but at this point, she's not sure if she can even afford ordering a cup of lemonade. Everything she has will have to go to the repair of her bike.

Jim sighs and doesn't even bother looking over the menu. She just crosses her arms and hunches down in her seat as far as she can, eyeing the napkin dispenser, the ketchup and mustard bottles and eventually the salt and pepper shakers. But it's hard to ignore the way her stomach is growling, enticed by the tantalizing aromas of the diner. It's also hard to ignore the curious stares she's getting. From the ten other people that's in the diner as well.

Jim really should have bought some sunglasses and a baseball cap when she had the chance. Everyone is looking at her like she's sporting the phrase 'NEW TO TOWN' right across the middle of her forehead. Seriously, was she being obvious or something?

"You're not from around here are you?" a warm voice, tinged with a lazy drawl of that southern twang, says to her immediate right.

Jim turns her gaze away from the bowl of sugar packets and up to the smiling face of slim brunette with bright green eyes and a graceful beauty that said she should be auditioning to be Miss Universe and not a waitress. Her hair was a mess of brown waves, and that waitress uniform—maybe it was called a work dress—complete with a white apron, fit her curves so ridiculously that Jim could keep herself from admiring it.

Jim glances back up to see her grinning at her knowingly. "Sorry sweetheart, I'm spoken for," she teases.

Jim grins kind of sheepishly, feeling caught in the act. "Sorry," she mutters and straightens.

"Oh, I don't mind really. Makes me feel good about myself," she admits. "Name's Diane Treadaway. But everyone around here calls me Dixie," she offers the hand that isn't holding the small writing pad and pencil.

Jim takes it. "Jim. Just Jim."

"Well Just Jim, if you will excuse my nosiness, just where are you from?" Dixie slides into the booth, right across from her.

Jim finds this a little amusing. She glances around and sees there aren't that many customers, but she still doesn't want to get, what seems like could be her first friend, in trouble.

Dixie notices and chuckles, waving a hand carelessly. "Oh don't you worry about them, most people around here look after themselves. All I'm really good for is refillin' their cups when the coffee gets low. And I'm married to the owner, so I won't get a talkin' to. Well—if he knows what's good for him I wont." She nods firmly.

Jim laughs a little, liking Dixie all the more. "Is it that obvious I'm new?"

"In a place where everyone knows everyone? You bet," Dixie confirms. "And sometimes—we can even smell ya'll too. If you don't smell like Georgia, well you ain't from around here," she winks.

Jim laughs again. "The scent of Georgia, huh? Is that a perfume I can buy in stores to avoid this problem? I don't need the attention. Just what does a Georgian smell like?" she asks curiously.

"Oh well—depends on where in Georgia you hail from really. City folks smell like glass and rubber. Country folk smell like corn and the pages of the bible. And us in-betweeners—or townies, if you prefer—smell like syrup and the sun I suppose." Dixie's beautiful face twists with deep thought. "And that ain't exactly somethin' you can buy in stores. You gotta let the air fester in your skin—and that usually takes a good month or two."

Jim grins. "Lucky for me, I'm looking at a long-term engagement with this town."

"This here town got a name you know, and you should learn it if you really plan on staying as long as you say," Dixie says, wagging a stern finger at Jim. "We go by Hudson Hill—sometimes Bayview—and though we seem like a curious bunch, we are friendly, if not direct. Mostly direct though. We don't believe in beatin' around the bush."

"Sounds like my kind of temporary place," Jim grins.

Dixie guffaws. "Oh you. You ain't gonna wanna leave, you'll see. Just give it some time."

"Time is all I have currently," Jim admits and flushes a little when her stomach growls.

"Ah shoot. I'm so busy flappin' my gums I didn't think to take your order." Dixie shuffles out of the booth and stands at the edge of the table, pencil poised at the ready over her miniature notepad.

Jim fidgets and glances down at the table. "Uh—I don't really have—I mean—"

"This one's on the house, you bein' new and all," Dixie winks. "Tell you what, I'll bring you the house special. You're fine with roasted chicken and mashed potatoes right?"

Jim's stomach gurgles in agreement and her cheeks go a little pink. "Yeah. Just—um—no gravy, please."

Dixie nods vigorously and jots it down. "Sure thing, sweetheart. You want a side of corn or green beans?"

"Green beans."

"Okay, I'll even add a biscuit in there for ya," Dixie dots her notepad with a smile. "Be right back with that."

Two minutes later and Dixie is right back with her order, setting her plate before her with an award-winning smile and joining her once more for company. She sits and chats animatedly as Jim clears her plate, unable to hold in the mouthful of compliments that seep out with every bite. Dixie finally looks sheepish and admits that while they replicate all other foods, she always home cooks the house specials.

"People mostly come around just for that," Dixie admits. "My husband always jokes that it's my golden hands that keeps him in business, but I say that with or without me, he'd do just fine. This is a family business, you see. Been in Clay's—that's my husband's name by the way—been in Clay's family for generations. And when we have kids, I suspect he'll want to pass it along to them."

Jim chews and nods.

Dixie goes on explaining that she's about three months pregnant, and that she found out the day before. She hasn't told her husband yet, but she wanted to wait until the weekend, when it was his birthday and surprise him. She then invites Jim to come to the birthday bash, saying that it will give her a chance to meet the rest of the folks of Hudson Hill. Jim just replies an affirmative; she doesn't have anywhere to be or anything to do.

When Dixie offers her a slice of cherry pie, Jim has to decline. It's only by Dixie's persistence does she explain vaguely about her food allergies. Dixie eases up just a little but still looks somewhat put out. Jim grows a bit fonder of Dixie because of this. She decides to distract the beautiful brunette by telling her about where she came from, why she was so far from home and her current predicament.

"Oh my," Dixie says, propping her arm against the table and resting her head in her hand. "You know I thought you seemed a bit down, but I couldn't be sure. And you look young, how old are you?"

"I just turned seventeen last month," Jim says.

"Well it seems you need a job—not to mention a place to stay."

Jim nods at the truth of it.

"Well," Dixie says thoughtfully as she straightens. "I can't exactly help you in the job department, or with a place to stay. We've got enough people on our budget here, and if I could fire one of them and get you on board I would Jim, but as is, I can't. Plus my sister's husband is staying in our spare room. They're kind of goin' through if you know what I mean, and he's takin' shelter with us till they can sort things out." Dixie sighs as she thinks on it. "But I think—well, I can't be sure—but I think I know a place you can go. Just till you get on your feet. She's a real sweet woman, feisty at times, but as sweet as a sugar plum." Dixie flips her miniature notepad open to a blank page and doodles down a name and an address. "You like apples right?" She rips the sheet loose and hands it over.

Jim takes it with a slight frown. "Uh—yeah—practically my favorite fruit. Or food in general." Her gaze drops to the piece of paper. "Eleanora McCoy?"

"Mhm," Dixie nods. "She's been lookin' for an extra set of hands to help her out with her apple orchard. She lives alone—and while she ain't exactly a old shut-in, it's still too much for her to handle by herself. She's got a boy but he's a Doctor—remember I mentioned my sister's husband? Yup, that's him and he spends all his time in his clinic that's a mile to the west of here—and also to be honest, they ain't on speakin' terms either, but you didn't hear any of this from me. Momma McCoy's gotten offers but she's real particular. I think she'll like you though, and she's even offerin' room and board with full time pay."

Jim glances back down at the paper more considerably.

"Just go on tonight, Jim, she don't bite—much," Dixie's eyes are twinkling. "I can drive you even, if you're lookin' to hitch."

"No thanks," Jim says as she pockets the address. "Just point me in the right direction and I'll walk. I might be doing a lot of that for the time being, so I should get a head start on it. It'll help me learn the land."

Dixie smiles. "Well alright, I'll let that one slide since you're new. You should know that we Hudson Hill folk don't offer things lightly, and we sure find it offensive when a person declines our spectacular show of neighborly-ism." Dixie's smile shrinks into a small grin. "Beware, Jim, we're naggers. We like bendin' willpower until you succumb to our friendliness."

"My poor resolve, how will I ever last?" Jim teases and laughs in surprise when Dixie flips her off.

"Laugh now, you'll see. Most people are overbearin' twits thinkin' they got somethin' to prove. And well—ah shoot, I wont get into it. You'll see soon enough unfortunately. Come on, I'll send you off with a plate. It's getting' late." Dixie scuttles off, disappearing in the kitchen as Jim waits by the register, which is located at the front of the diner. She reappears with several containers in a large plastic bag. She smiles and guides Jim out the door, giving her a hug and sternly making sure that Jim promises to come by as often as possible.

Jim does and follows the direction of where Dixie points when they separate. Knowing that Dixie is most likely still watching, she throws up her hand in a backwards wave before the gathering darkness wraps around her, making her invisible. The walk to the McCoy Manor takes a good forty-five minutes until she reaches the end of the drive that leads further back. She walks up the driveway and can't help but to covet the apple trees she passes. They look very ripe and supple. These trees straddle both sides of the driveway and stops short of the Manor, but even Jim can tell that behind the décor southern structure of the place, there's just a whole field of these apple trees.

Jim walks up the white steps, across the grey of the porch planks and to the cherry brown screen door. She rings the doorbell once—twice—and then waits. There is absolute silence that follows, but the front room lights were on so Jim knew there had to be someone around. After a few minutes of continuing quiet, she rings the doorbell a few more times.

"Alright! Alright! Hold your horses, I'm comin'!" a voice says from the other side of the door. A few clicks of locks being loosened and the door opens just a crack. A hazel eye pokes out and eyes Jim. "Well—you lookin' to sell me somethin'?"

"No," Jim says.

"Well I ain't convertin' either, so you can take your twisted version of Jesus Christ—blessed be his name—and just get."

Jim has to smother a grin. "No ma'am, I'm not a convert. I'm actually quite the nonbeliever."

The door widens enough to expose a scowl. "That's no good. A pretty gal like you should have somethin' she believes in."

"Oh, I've a few, but none that have anything to do with what can be found in the bible," Jim confesses earnestly.

The door opens completely. "My God, I do believe you were sent to me so that I may save your poor soul." Eleanora eyes Jim more carefully. "Just how old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen? What do your parents think of you bein' off this late?"

"I have none, so there's no one to worry," Jim admits with an indifferent shrug.

Eleanora's face softens slightly as she gazes at Jim's black eye. "Well come in, it's gettin' cold out. No sense in you gettin' sick. Let's take our debate to the foyer where we can argue like civilized beings." She pushes open the screen door and steps back, gesturing for Jim to enter.

Jim does and walks just a few paces before she stops dead. The house is unfamiliar to her and she isn't sure which direction to turn.

"To the left—you sit yourself over in that chair and I'll get us somethin' to drink," Eleanora says.

Jim nods, and crowds into the living area, sitting carefully on top of silk-cushioned chair that's besides a cherry wood tea table. Jim glances to and fro, taking note of all the pictures of family and friends and fancy furniture and silk curtains and—is that a Persian rug? Do they seriously still make those? This woman sure lived in style. Seems like the apple business paid off very well.

Eleanora returns with a tray of cheese and white wine. "I had thought to make tea, but I feel as if it's too late for that. You don't mind do you? Doesn't seem as if you would but I have been wrong before."

Jim smiles and accepts the half-full glass when offered. "Not at all," she replies.

"I know your not legal, but I always thought such a thing is fine as long as your in the right company." Eleanora sighs. "Now," She starts. "You've come lookin' for a place and a job? Diane called a little before you showed up. Seemed convinced I would like you, I suppose she was right, she's got a good instinct usually so I trust her by her word. I set up the room already, you can blame that for why it took me so long to come to the door."

Jim chokes on her first sip and coughs into her wine glass, partially from shock and amusement. She clears her throat and swipes the back of her hand against her mouth. "You mean you knew that I—"

Eleanora quickly interjects, "I wouldn't say that, I didn't very well have an idea to what you looked like, I had to be sure. You never know who comes knockin' these days. Mrs. Kennelly got robbed just the same way, and well, I'm alone on this big orchard, I imagine myself an easy target—or perhaps, not so much, now that you're hear. You look like a fighter—if that black eye is anythin' to go by." Eleanora gracefully sips from her glass. "Just how did you come by that?"

Jim shrugs and explains as best as she can.

Eleanora sniffs and looks mildly amused. "Well, I suppose," and she leaves it at that. "Now, about the matter of what I expect you to do," she puts down the glass on the table. "There are about sixty trees on this land, and they've all come into their prime so there's fruit that needs to be picked. I can't manage all that on my own, I prefer to stick to the books. I have a lot of clientele, some here in state but most out. You'll have to check the fruit and make sure it's properly packaged and delivered to the town post office in time. I cannot tell you how ornery my customers get when the apples come even a day late. It'll be hard work, you're the only one I've hired so far, I'm still lookin' for a few more hands and hopefully they'll be found sometime soon. I will pay you for every minute of your time—and since you are the only one, it should be quite sizable."

"I don't mind hard labor, I have some past experience in that department," Jim admits, explicitly not thinking about her time on Tarsus.

Eleanora gazes at her with a small hint of fondness. "Well I do think I made the right choice in lettin' you in my house. That's the kind of attitude I like." She nods approvingly before she stands to her feet. "I'm off to bed, you should as well, we've got us an early start tomorrow. What's your full name?"

"James Kirk."

"Huh," Eleanora says thoughtfully and narrows her eyes. "I got one rule, James, and that's for you to not bring any friends back to my house. You're a pretty girl, I know it'll only be a matter of time before you get some suitors—put the cheese away will you, the kitchen is around the steps—goodnight Jim." She glides out of the room gracefully, leaving Jim to her thoughts.

Jim smiles slightly and downs the rest of her wine. Despite how things have turned out, it might not be so bad after all.

"Only time will tell really," Jim mutters.

Author's Note: Please comment. Does it sound like I'm begging? Cause I totally am.