The BLTS Archive - Bourbon by Brighid (earthstone@lycos.com) --- DeForest Kelley is dead, and the world will never be the same again. This was in lieu of flowers. This has been published, in a fan mag. In Italy. In Italian. How's that for strange? --- He held himself too straight, too tall; he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb in the gritty old bar, and yet no one challenged him. There was something in his walk, a sense of purpose in the way he moved that spoke of a man on a mission. He slid through the room like a ghost in his long, grey robe, sailed right over to the bar and arranged himself on a stool with all the grace and hauteur of a Siamese cat. A moment later he threw back the hood, and it all sort of made sense. A Vulcan. I swear to god those ones are half cat. It's not like we never got them in this part of the world, but Georgia wasn't a hub for offworld business, not really, so when those ears and eyes showed up, the room got real quiet for a moment. Quick enough, though, the pool and the music and the conversation just filled the empty bit back in again. He didn't seem to notice at all. He was probably middle-aged or just getting there, though it's always hard to tell on a species so long-lived. He had a strong face, kind of lean and saturnine and carved from stone from all I could tell. Only, when he waved me over, his eyes weren't quite right. They were flat, focused, like what you'd expect from a Vulcan, but I swear to god, just beneath the calm surface, there were riptides going on. I half- thought that I might be pulled into his gaze, might well drown myself in it. "How can I help y'all?" I asked softly, wiping the counter and setting a coaster down. Retro, but it was our claim to fame, and it worked well enough. "A bottle of bourbon and a glass," he replied, his voice sandpaper on silk. I tried not to look surprised, but some of it must've shown through because he raised an eyebrow at me. I averted my eyes and went to get what he ordered. It was real stuff, and I brought him a bottle of the best because I didn't think he'd accept anything less. He paid me for the bottle, and then, with almost clinical precision opened it up and measured himself a glass. Over the course of the next three hours, he drank steadily, finishing the first bottle and making heavy inroads into a second. I was tempted to cut him off, but hell, I'd never even heard of a drunk Vulcan, let alone seen one. Besides, something told me he wasn't going to take no for an answer. He wasn't a bad drunk, anyway. His movements simply became more focused and precise as the evening passed, but he remained quiet and mannerly. About two-thirds of the way through the second bottle, another man came up alongside him, shorter with dark brown hair gone mostly silver and a slim body, just thickening with age. His face was tight and drawn, marred by tiredness and grief. "Spock," he said, and the bells and whistles went off. It had been in all the news, and suddenly I understood why this man, this Vulcan was here, getting drunk. I'd cut my eyeteeth on stories of the Enterprise, on Kirk who'd disappeared and Spock who'd been rumoured to have gone to Romulus and McCoy, one of the oldest, most respected admirals in Star Fleet. Only McCoy had died last month, quietly and alone in his private home here in Georgia. "Pavel," Spock said, his voice polite and as far away as Vulcan itself. "I'd heard you'd come back," the one called Pavel said, his accent thick and odd amidst our soft, southern drawls. "Sulu told me you'd be here. And here you are." "Here I am," Spock replied gravely, with the solemn dignity only Vulcans and the profoundly drunk can manage. "Why are you here?" "To take you home," Pavel replied, equally grave. "You shouldn't be alone, not like this." "McCoy was alone." Spock lifted up his glass, swallowed down the last mouthful in it. "I am simply respecting a human tradition. I am sitting a wake for him. It is a debt between us, one to be honoured." "So we buy the bottle and share it between us," Pavel said gently, reaching out and covering the Vulcan's hand with his own. It was, from what I knew of Vulcans, a gross breach of etiquette. The Vulcan, however, simply closed his eyes, without pulling away. "But he would not want you here, alone. If he were around here he'd call you a pigheaded jackass and haul you out by your pointy ears. Which is what I'm about to do, if you don't come quietly." Spock shot Pavel a dry look, and raised a single eyebrow. "I remember a time when you were a respectful ensign, Pavel Chekov," he said at last. "I'm older now," the other man grinned. "And this is something I owe him and Kirk and you, a debt to be honoured." The Vulcan inclined his head in acknowledgement, then turned his gaze away, staring off into nothing. "I never told either of them, you know," he said quietly, to no one at all, and his dark eyes were so dry they burned. Pavel gripped the hand his covered. "They knew. We all knew," he replied quietly. "Now take your bottle and let's go find a place to remember Leonard McCoy properly." I watched the smaller man lead the Vulcan out though the bar and into the night, the tall Vulcan walking with careful dignity and straight shoulders that hid nothing at all. I served a few more customers, and then went into the back and bawled so hard I thought I might break, crying the tears that Spock of Vulcan, Spock of the Enterprise, couldn't manage to give up even with almost two bottles of bourbon in him. --- The End