Work Text:
~~~
The promised warehouse job had proved a bust.
Hunched against the frigid air coming off the river, Kirk trudged back to the rooming house, hunger and futility seeping into his bones. It was a long walk and the closer he got to his destination the thicker the air became. Puffs of coal soot chugged into the night sky from every building. Scarcely aware of his own feet, he rounded a corner and there, standing in a pool of light on the steps of the Methodist church, was Edith Keeler.
A small group of earnest others surrounded her, one of her social reform meetings letting out for the evening. Arms wrapped around themselves, stomping their feet, blowing on fingertips, they exchanged hurried goodbyes and one by one fell away like petals until it was only her under that hazy yellow light.
Maybe she sensed him watching, or maybe it was a kismet thing, her smile like a beacon – here’s your hope, fool, cheer up.
He knew the smile was for him though how she'd recognized him across a foggy dark street was a mystery. Still, he smiled back and they started walking towards each other.
That’s how it always seemed to go with them. Always meeting in the middle of something – a street, a staircase, a sentence, a glance.
~~~
“Mrs. Moretti has ears like a bat,” Edith tells him as they slip into her room.
Just to talk. Shake off the chill with a cup of tea.
She says, “Make yourself at home,” then goes to fill the kettle from the sink in the communal bathroom.
While she’s on that errand, he takes the opportunity to look around.
The room is much nicer than the one he shares with Spock if only for the wing-back chair, needlepoint pillow, and the spindly table next to it with three books and lamp on top.
There’s a decorative screen in a corner and a glimpse of a dresser behind it. A small sideboard with a tea set, cookie tins, canisters.
The narrow desk beside the door is covered in correspondence. He sees an envelope addressed to a senator ready to be posted. Another, opened, has a letter beneath it from Eleanor Roosevelt.
That’s certainly something they can talk about. Something that isn’t about him or Spock, that isn’t “where are you from? who are your people? what are you doing here? why are you both so strange?” He doesn’t want to lie to her and there’s only so much prevarication she’s going to accept. But he wants to be here, with her.
He glances at the bed, then away. That's not going to happen. Shouldn’t.
They’ve only held hands. Once, when he’d walked her home the last time, told her about a book that hadn’t been written yet, charmed her with the whimsy of it and its poignant entreaty "let me help."
The doorknob jiggles and by the time it opens he’s rising from the wing-back chair as if he’d been sitting there all along.
“I had to let the water run for a bit,” she explains, but he notices her hair that had been frizzy from her wool hat is now smooth and sleek.
“The pipes protest a lot I’ve noticed,” he says.
Her answering laugh is breathy. She plugs in the hotplate and puts the kettle on to boil.
While they wait for the whistle, he helps her set up a folding tea table with a woven bamboo top, then carries the desk chair over so they can sit across from each other. She insists that as a guest he take the comfy reading chair. Which is perfect because he’s decided the safest thing to talk about is books.
He holds up one of the volumes, reads aloud, “Orlando: A Biography, by Virginia Woolf." He’s familiar with Virginia Woolf but doesn’t want to risk naming other titles because he can’t remember exact publication dates.
Orlando, Edith tells him is about a nobleman in Elizabethan England who wakes up at the age of thirty to discover he is now a woman—
“Not only a woman, but a woman who never grows older, who lives through the centuries and loves whomever she wants.” Her chin juts out, but he’s not sure what she’s expecting him to say that warrants a defensive posture.
“That sounds amazing. Perhaps you’ll loan it to me when you’ve finished.”
“Oh! Oh yes. Of course. What sort of books do you enjoy reading? I mean, books not written on another planet a hundred years from now.”
He opens his mouth before his brain’s come up with a response. Fortunately, the kettle whistles, and she jumps up to tend it, jostling the tea table.
She’s nervous. So is he.
Why is he so nervous? Books, books, books, books…
Dickens. Or the Bronte's. Those are safe. And really, if he doesn’t reference anything after “All Quiet on the Western Front” he should be fine. But when he asks if she’s read it, her hand stills in the middle of spooning tea into the pot.
She never reads books about the War, she tells him. Won’t. She lost her fiancé in that war. “He enlisted the moment he turned eighteen. We were both so young. Impulsive. Maybe we wouldn’t have married if he’d returned. But we should have had the chance to change our minds.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“What about you? Have you… have you ever been engaged?”
“Yes. Or almost. Twice, in fact. One said no and the other…”
“Is complicated?’
~~~
Downstairs, Spock hears the front door of the rooming house open. Two people enter and stand shuffling off the cold in the foyer. He knows Jim’s stride and Miss Keeler’s as well. He is familiar with the distinctive tread of every person who lives in the building. He can’t escape this knowledge any more than he can escape the noise or the smell or the constant undercurrent of despair.
The couple’s progress up the first flight of stairs is languorous, as if prolonging the journey.
That the captain has returned already means there was no job, which means no money, which means progress on their project will be delayed. Hence the effort to postpone relaying this fact to his first officer.
And indeed, Jim pauses just outside the door of their room. Spock prepares himself for an onslaught of unguarded emotions. Instead, footsteps move away from the door to the staircase and then climb the steps to the floor above.
It is the etiquette of the era to escort a woman to her door even if the risk to her safety is minimal. That is likely the case here. He hears the murmur of her voice. Her door opens with a slow squeak. Closes.
Spock clears a spot on the table for the hotplate and inserts the plug into the light bulb socket adapter overhead. He retrieves the pan of water he’d saved from cooking vegetables earlier and sets it on the appliance to reheat. The captain will undoubtedly require a hot beverage. The nutrients in the water are useful when meals are intermittent.
Though their landlady’s hearing is nearly as keen as his, she has yet to complain about the smell of boiled turnips or the fumes of melting metal alloys. He suspects the mercury-based medication she takes for edema has deadened her sense of smell.
The only other electrical outlet in the room he has yet to utilize. Its purpose is to connect a radio to the antenna in the attic. He thinks he can use it to power the device but he’s still working out the details.
When the vegetable water is hot, he pours himself a cup and warms his hands around it. Stares at the monstrosity he’s constructing.
His complaints about the archaic level of technology had been exaggerated, but the current knob-and-tube electrical systems are not much of a step above stone knives and bears skins. He’s rigged a breaker but he’s not confident it will prevent short circuits let alone ground or arcing faults. There’s only so much he can do given the city’s power infrastructure.
Also, he’s out of solder.
Only two weeks ago the captain had been relentless, pulling extra shifts, working any odd job that came his way to get what they needed, pressuring Spock to work faster— “McCoy could already be here, could already have changed the future.” Lately he only side-eyes the mess and bites his lip as he steps around it.
Admittedly, late winter in New York City during a severe economic depression is not optimal for anyone’s mental hygiene. Spock has difficulty meditating, Jim gets very little sleep, and the lack of nutritional food is beginning to take a toll on them both. Even so, he’d like to think his friend is clear-headed enough to avoid… entanglements, especially the sort that would be difficult to untangle should they find themselves stranded here permanently.
But, after forty minutes and no sign of James Kirk, entanglement seems an inevitable outcome.
~~~
Edith has a plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He’s got the radiator at his back and a knitted afghan draped over his lap like an old lady.
“My father retired from military service,” he says. Not too vague, not too specific. “My mother was an engineer for a while.”
She is so excited by that, his mother in a man’s profession. “And your father was all right with it?”
He’s taken aback for a moment, “why wouldn’t he be?” on his lips. Then—
“She stopped working when she had my brother and me.” Not permanently, of course, but Edith nods because that’s how it is in this time and place.
Her father was a wealthy businessman in Manchester, England who died when she was four. The trust fund he set up for her enabled her to come to New York when she turned twenty-one. “There’s not much left of it as you can imagine. But I get by. I’m quite frugal.”
She stops, giggles softly and shakes her head.
“What?” he asks, smiling.
“I’m frugal in all things but sugar for my tea.” She peers into the depths of the porcelain cup. “I refuse to use any less than two lumps.”
“I’ve never seen you sugar your coffee though.”
She makes a face. “I don’t think the coffee at the mission can be redeemed with sugar, do you?”
He huffs a laugh. They continue to smile at each other, until the good feelings stretch out and turn into something else.
He shivers suddenly and she catches it like a yawn. The radiator has long-stopped hissing.
“I should be going.”
She reaches across to grasp his hand, to stop him though he hasn’t moved. The blanket slips from her shoulder, pools in the crook of her arm.
His face gets hot. His heart races. The cortisol flush of excitement, the in-love dopamine giddiness. It gallops ahead of his good sense.
“I know it’s forward of me,” she says, looking into his eyes, squeezing his hand hard. “But people waste so much time waiting for good things to happen—"
“I want to kiss you too,” he blurts out. They both laugh in the stupid, bashful way of teenagers.
She pushes her chair back and walks around to his side of the table. He pulls her onto his lap. And they kiss and kiss like idiots.
~~~
At 0200 Spock emerges from deep and useful meditation.
Jim has not returned, but he is not surprised at this. It only serves to firm his resolve. The device must be finished as quickly as possible. Spock cannot be spared from this task yet reliance on the captain’s ability to earn extra funds is not sustainable in the long term.
Therefore, after weighing ethical concerns against the grim blank future the Guardian showed them, he has chosen the most logical course of action. The lesser of two evils, as Dr. McCoy might say.
He exits the sleeping house armed with logic and lock picks, unburdened by guilt.
~~~
Kirk gets back to the room at five, Spock is bent over his creation. The soldering iron sports its finest tip. Smoke curls up delicately. The space is already redolent with the piney rosin scent of solder.
“You’re up early,” he says, tossing his coat on his bed. He’s still feeling a little punch drunk, tender and wild and sheepish all at once. He’d dozed off in the chair with her in his lap, both of them wrapped up in dopey contentment and her granny’s afghan.
Spock doesn’t answer. It’s an observation of the obvious requiring no response. Yet Kirk can’t help feeling he’s getting the cold shoulder.
Probably his own guilt talking.
“Or you haven’t been to bed at all,” he adds, sitting next to his coat. The thin mattress sinks a little into the bed slats.
“Correct,” Spock says. His voice is hoarse. Is he coming down with something? Neither of them can afford to get sick.
“Looks like you made some progress though.” He leans forward, seeing for the first time the suggestion of microchip technology Spock has improvised in macro form with all the mad assurance of a Dr. Frankenstein. All it needs now is a really big tesla coil and stray body parts.
Spock turns his head, and his eyes, huge behind the safety goggles, nearly makes Kirk lose his shit. He swallows a loopy, totally inappropriate giggle. A second later the high from last night dissipates. Exhaustion washes over him.
“I didn’t make money last night,” he confesses. “There wasn’t any work. When we got to the warehouse, a sign on the door said it was shut down until further notice.”
“I assumed as much.” Spock sets the soldering iron in its cradle and removes the goggles. “I heard you come in last night. With Miss Keeler.”
Of course he did. Kirk squeezes his eyes shut a moment, clamps down on knee-jerk defensiveness. He sighs. “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t sleep with her.”
Spock’s left brow shoots up. “I didn’t ask.”
“You assumed.”
“I believe you are conflating an assumption of events that might lead to a specific outcome with a judgment regarding said outcome.” He stands up and reaches to carefully disengage the soldering iron from the light socket above the table. The bulb swings like a spotlight but all Kirk can see is how his friend’s ribs stick out beneath the layers of clothing.
“You are human,” Spock says. “Humans require regular social interactions and tactile reassurance.”
“You make us sound like infants in an observational study.”
Spock graciously ignores the snide tone. “That is not my intention, Captain.”
Extraneous bits and pieces from his work are returned to the cracker tin – the notebook with his schematics, pencils, metal snips, tiny screwdrivers, a small coil of wire, a container of solder paste—
Wait. Didn’t he tell me he was out of that?
Kirk rubs his face tiredly. Maybe it was something else. “So. You’re saying you’re not judging me.”
“I am not. Though I-I do have concerns I wish to address."
Yep. Last night’s high is officially over now. “Is it a long list? Because we’ve got work in forty minutes and I still need to shave.”
Spock goes still – utterly, not-of-this-earth still. An indication of intense active emotional suppression.
Damn it.
Kirk sighs, “I’m sorry, Mr. Spock. What’s concerning you? Tell me.”
“A discussion for another time perhaps.” The Vulcan armor is firmly back in place. “You should attend to your hygiene.”
~~~
The day they arrived in New York City the weather was in the high sixties Fahrenheit. Relatively mild for February, Spock learned. Apparently, the week before several unhoused people had died on the streets when the overnight temperatures dropped to seven degrees.
He was grateful the captain had thought to take the heavy coats along with the other garments. Still, it was only one set of clothes for each of them and they had no clear idea how long before McCoy arrived. It could be days, but he suspected he’d erred on the side of caution in his calculations. Probably weeks.
The captain had confidently assured him their wool shirts were resistant to body odors and that denim jeans could go without being washed for at least a month. The same could not be said for underwear. Despite the moisture wicking, odor neutralizing, thermoregulating technology of their twenty-third century undergarments, regular laundering was still necessary. In this case by hand. In a basin. With a bar of lye soap. He was grateful they dried quickly.
After two weeks it became quite clear the captain’s confidence about the odor neutralizing properties of wool had not taken into consideration ten-hour workdays in a soup kitchen, or that over time, unwashed denim trousers could practically stand up on their own.
One evening, when the captain was working late Spock was disturbed by an insistent knock. He pulled on the unpleasant wool watch cap and opened the door.
Edith Keeler stood smiling before him, holding a bottle of vodka in one hand and a small decorative container with a bulb atomizer in the other.
“Good evening, Mr. Spock. I’ve come bearing gifts.”
Not only was liquor currently illegal, but she’d been quite vocal in her strictures against its use in her establishment. She did not strike him as a hypocrite, but many people in this era preached one thing and did another. Perhaps she had something she wished to celebrate. Though the perfume atomizer was baffling.
“Miss Keeler. Jim is not here.”
“Oh, I know. These are for you.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “I do not imbibe. Thank you.”
“To freshen your clothes, silly! It’s an old theater trick a friend showed me. Actors are drenched with sweat by the end of a performance as you can imagine, but costumes can’t be cleaned every night, so they get sprayed with a little vodka and hung to air dry.”
Ah. Of course. “Alcohol neutralizes odors. And as vodka itself is virtually odorless—” he broke off as the underlying motivation of her offer occurred to him. “Obviously working in close proximity with me, with us, has become too unpleasant to continue without intervention.”
“Oh, nonsense. You’ve been at the mission during dinnertime. You and Mr. Kirk are among the least offensive odors. The cabbage soup alone—”
When she saw he didn’t share her amusement she mistook his reticence for something else. Her cheeks flushed and suddenly she was looking everywhere but at him.
“I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Spock. I have a bad habit of running roughshod over people when I think I know what’s best. I meant no insult, truly. I saw a need and had a ready solution for it. Everyone’s in the same boat you see.”
“It is I who must apologize, Miss Keeler. Thank you. This is indeed a clever solution. I can only hope it proves efficacious.”
Relieved, she handed him the bottles. “Honestly, I thought we’d have more clothing donations in the poor box by now. But people are holding on to everything. So many have found themselves in circumstances of the sort they could not have imagined.” Her gaze shot up, sharp, assessing. “But you seem … uniquely uncomfortable.”
And there it was, that wry intellectual appraisal, as if she knew he was not human but was too polite to say it out loud.
“I am somewhat disconcerted you took note of it.”
“Well, it is part of my mission to alleviate suffering.” The skin around her eyes crinkled in a way he recognized as teasing. “I mean, goodness, that hat. You are either very cold or very vain.”
“Vain?” It wasn’t as if the hat made him look better. “How so?”
“As in hiding a bald spot.”
“Ah. No. I am merely unaccustomed to cold weather.” Not a lie. “I’m having difficulty acclimating.”
She sighed, “Aren’t we all?”
He then politely invited her inside. She politely refused. And soon after he was eagerly testing the vodka solution on his shirt.
~~~
Now Spock gazes at the unsettling image of her photograph beneath the headline,
SOCIAL WORKER KILLED.
He reads the short article. Reads it again.
Hit by a truck while crossing 21st Street. Taken by ambulance to Bellevue Hospital. Pronounced dead on arrival. Then one brief sentence about the 21st Street Mission.
Her death will occur (or should have occurred) this year, in 1930. He knows because he’d set the search parameters for local events in 1930. But when he attempts to scroll up to the newspaper’s masthead for an exact date, the circuit breaker pops, a connection sparks and the image melts away. He’s left with a dull ringing in his ears and a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach that is not hunger.
He is still staring at the screen when the captain breezes in, asking about bearskins and stone knives – humor to facilitate a progress update.
Spock releases the breath he’s been holding. Acknowledges a truth he feels with the certainty of fact.
No matter how this mission resolves itself, in failure or success, the outcome will be tragedy.