Summary: Kirk and Spock have fallen into a crooked parallel dimension: not in their time, not in their universe, our favorite platonic duo must find their way home. NOT slash. Rating for language and grown up situations.

This was meant to be a quick Author's Note… "Meant to be" being the main laughable phrase there…But you might want to read it since it's probably the only time you'll see a header on this story beyond a basic disclaimer.

Well, first off I must offer the not-so-standard, cover-my-posterior in case of some idiot with a law degree decides to try and get some money from a broke college student due to what I've written, disclaimer/author's note: the original Star Trek series (TOS) originally aired approximately 18 years, 9 months, and a few weeks before I was ever born.

Given that, it is physically impossible for TOS to be mine, unless I go the way of Jules Verne and bust out the time machine and for the life of me I can't get past 85 mph before the damned cops pull me over so time travel seems to be out of the question. The Reboot 'verse, from which this is mainly based, isn't mine either, nor is any other random timeline information from the multiple cannon universes that I choose to incorporate.

Super thank you to the Vulcan Language Dictionary and any other source I dug up to make sure my Vulcan translations were correct; however, most Vulcan will be in-line translated or simply italicized and marked as Vulcan since I'm lazy at three am. Since I am a second-generation nerd, I'm actually fluent to a conversational level in standard Vulcan, though my father, who is fluent in Vulcan AND Klingon the super nerd he is, insists I am far too expressive in my pronunciations when I get riled. But whatever; I utilized several websites to make sure my translations/spellings were correct. If I get them wrong, please let me know. ^_^

Also, I know it's weird to do an AU (alternate universe) of an AU; I hope you enjoy my attempt anyway. I appreciate any reviews, especially critiques; readers are, of course, loved from the underside of the ninth circle to the outer thermosphere and back again three times.

Edit: Son of a gorram line break. What the hell does a girl have to do in order to get a line break to stick around here?

Edit, the Sequel: Apparently I've had the ROUGH DRAFT posted the entire time and didn't notice. Erk. So, now I've –tried- to fix the format and all the little mistakes I missed the first time. I promise chappy two is on its way!

Edit the Third: Frack me, the formatting on this sucks. Fixing it, I swear; trying to get all of them pretty much the same. Ta!

Edit the Fourth: Please, please, please I hope this is readable.

On with the story!

It had been three days since Captain James T. Kirk of Starfleet, Commander Spock of Vulcan, the Ambassador Blitzes and his aide/professional kiss-ass Mr. Zenith of Alpheratz Prime had crash landed on what they had initially assumed to be the planet Earth. They had been in transit from where the Enterprise was docked at Starbase 7 to Starfleet Headquarters via the Alpheratzian transportation shuttle when they had encountered an odd ion cluster storm about ten miles from the upper atmosphere of Earth.

The same period of time, minus a few hours of being unconscious and/or taking care of those that were, had passed since they realized, as Captain Kirk had put it, they "weren't in Kansas anymore". The Earth they landed on didn't seem to have their frequency. Or any frequency they tried. Or anything beyond basic orbital satellites and a single Starbase above the atmosphere that the long range sensors could pick up. All of which had confused and then concerned the Captain and his First Officer.

. . .

Tapping into local radio frequencies, somehow in the antiquated FM wavelength, had garnered them the information that it was about an hour into January 1st, 2010.

"A bright new year to you all!" the cheerful radio announcer had said, slightly slurred words audible over the sounds of celebration in the background and the clink of half-full glasses was sharp over the FM broadcast. "It's bitchin' cold, but at least there's snow on the ground and more to come! Traffic-wise, stay off the Dan Ryan if you know what's good for ya..."

. . .

A thorough study of sensors showed that they were in the state of Illinois, in the heartland of what was known as the United States of America in the time they found themselves. Temperatures were in the lower 20s Fahrenheit and there was at least three feet of snow on the ground in the general area. They had spent most of their first two days surveying their surroundings, making sure they weren't going to become bear food or something similarly unpleasant then attempting to make basic repairs on the much damaged shuttle.

"So...we're in Illinois. About thirty miles from Chicago?" Kirk had asked reviewing the information Spock had pulled up on the slightly-scorched Padd as they walked around the perimeter of the shuttle, trying to locate the hull breach that was letting all the warm air out of the shuttle.

Snow crunched underfoot, loud in the relative silence of the forest. Kirk had enjoyed about three minutes of the pristine snow, much of the stuff being melted initially by their rather sudden arrival only to have the shuttle buried under another seven inches of snow the first night after their crash.

"Yes, Captain. Our current location is approximately 36.8 miles from the city limits of the metropolis known as Chicago." Spock's nose had turned green with the cold, being almost the only thing exposed to the frigid temperatures. An emergency blanket had become a makeshift head and neck wrap for the temperature-sensitive Vulcan; thankfully there had been more appropriate cold weather gear stowed in one of the overhead bins, dense enough for the typically frigid temperatures of Alpheratz Prime

"Approximately," Kirk found the exact amount of the estimate amusing, chuckling.

. . .

"How in the seventh star is this funny, Kirk?" the Ambassador Blitzes had demanded, slamming a bandaged fist onto the charred side of the shuttle. Clad in the typical garb, the Ambassador had no issue with the cold, being from the polar planet himself. Likewise, his assistant was comfortable, almost enjoying the weather that reminded him of home, ignoring his hot-tempered superior in favor of enjoying the landscape.

Kirk scowled, drawing himself up to his full high and glaring down his nose at the slightly shorter Alpheratzian male. "Do try to stay calm, sir," the human had said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Remain calm? Remain calm? Who do you think you are?" Ambassador Blitzes roared, scaring several birds out of the trees above them. Snow thumped to the ground in the wake of their escape.

. . .

Kirk rounded on him, the PADD still clutched in one hand.

"With all due respect sir, we are two hundred years plus in the past, injured and with a broken shuttle, in the middle of winter, also devoid of any long-term survival supplies because of your xenophobic paranoia. Had you agreed to take either the instant transport or one of the Enterprise shuttles, as proper Starfleet protocol dictates, even if we were still in this situation, at least we would have a chance of adequate survival without discovery! As it stands now, we are, quite simply, fucked. It's a tossup between humor and violence at this point, Ambassador. Which would you prefer?"

Silence had been his answer.

"Now, then; which way do you think we should head, Mr. Spock?"

It had been a day and a half since the ever-graceful Mister Zenith had accidentally dropped all of their rations into the little bit of river still actively flowing and watched them float away instead of calling for assistance. It had been a full day since their last meal.

"All right, we're going into town," the Captain had decided about ten minutes after the sun rose.

Off they had set, unfortunately having to leave behind Spock's emergency blanket scarf in favor of being as inconspicuous as possible.

While James T. Kirk didn't usually frequent local greasy spoons unless nursing a hangover, the flashing neon "Open" sign and scent of oil fried everything nearly made him want to weep in gratefulness. The quartet escaped the snowy outdoors in favor of the well-warmed diner as the bells of a nearby church rang for the start of the 8 o'clock mass.

. . .

The interior was a study of faded color and gleaming appliances, all with a thin coat of cleaner or grease on them. Booths ran along every free wall, a bar top seating area stretched from the far end of the diner to where it smacked into the register counter and the bakery case.

"Thank you, please come again!" the waitress called to the departing quartet of loudly still-intoxicated college kids that had been half asleep in the booths since a little after four that morning.

. . .

With a sigh, she pocketed the measly three dollar and fifty cent tip they had left in return for taking up a booth and a half for the last four hours; resisting the urge to curse the obvious road trip kids until she was blue in the face, she started dragging the leftover plates into the bus bin, stacking the glasses before stashing them. Another thirty seconds of the diner shuffle and the table was set to rights, place mats already down on the clean table and smiley face made from ketchup just an irritating memory.

Amelia, or Am as her name tag said, gave her bandana a nudge back with the back of one hand, taking a mental inventory of the current customers as she glanced around the mostly-empty diner.

Three construction workers sat at booth seven, within three steps of the jukebox that was thankfully silent at the moment and good old Johnny in the third seat of the bar, just out of arms reach of the baked good case as he was every Tuesday morning. A young mother and her temperamental two year old son had just finished their breakfast, cheese omelet and chocolate chip pancakes and bacon respectively. Amelia gave a nod as the mother raised a hand to signal for the check.

All in all, it wasn't the busiest morning ever, but lunch rush would be flowing in soon enough. With a groan for the twinge in her lower back, she hefted the full bin on one hip, thinking dark thoughts in the general direction of Miles, the useless bus boy and dishwasher.

. . .

'Is it against company policy to "accidentally" drop some the dishwasher's cell phone in the wash sink if they won't stay off it while on the clock?' Amelia wondered as she slid behind the counter, wandering the length of the serving bar.

"More coffee, gentlemen?" she asked as she paused to shift the bin higher on her hip. She thought their heads looked like bobble heads on a dashboard when going down a country road as they nodded vigorously, only slightly out of synch with each other. "Comin' right up, guys."

Someone smacked the counter bell as she swung through the swinging door to the kitchen.

"Be right with ya!" Amelia called, practically tossing the bin up onto the sink shelf. "Miles, there are dishes to be done."

"Yeah!" came the distracted answer from near the back door.

"Miles! Dishes, now please," Amelia repeated rolling her eyes as the counter bell was smacked again.

"Yeah, I'll be right there, Am," the pimple-faced, barely legal kid pulled his mouth away from his cell phone long enough to answer Amelia. "I know, baby, but I'm at work and-"

"Dishes, now, pipsqueak!" the cook, known as Critch, snapped, waving the carving knife at the kid from the prep table. "Tell yer girlie you're on the clock an' Imma kick your ass if she calls ya again 'fore you leave."

"Yessir, Mister Critch," Miles scrambled to do as the burly man demanded, "right away, sir."

. . .

Miles had just seen the sunny side of twenty one a week before, Amelia remembered with a smirk. He was so hung over the day after he had thrown up by the dumpster just from the smell.

"Thank you, Critch, my darling," Amelia smiled, snagging another pot of coffee from the hot plate and heading out of the galley style kitchen. She grinned as she heard the splash-clatter-curse that meant Miles was actually doing the dishes. "Grab a seat, I'll be right with you," Amelia said cheerfully to the quartet of guys standing awkwardly at the front counter as she practically zoomed by.

. . .

"Refill, Johnny?" she asked the grizzly bear of a man hulking over a massive plate of scrambled eggs. He grunted in response, holding his cup out. "There ya go, hon; fresh from the drip. Your pancakes will be out in a sec."

Johnny mumbled something resembling thanks around another mouthful, barely halting the shovel of food from the plate to his mouth.

Moving away, Amelia ripped the check off her order pad after drawing a smiley face under the total and dropped it next to the mother who was currently trying to pull her hyper toddler from under the table. It took another minute or two to get over to the new occupants in booth twelve sans coffee pot, but Amelia made it.

. . .

"Sorry for the wait, gentlemen; and welcome to Donna's Diner*," she smiled at them, reaching over the table to pull the menus out from the end of the table. "Can I get anything started for you? Drinks, perhaps?"

The four exchanged glances, a beat of awkward silence sat heavily around the table. The older two looked at the younger expectantly, as if waiting to follow their example.

"Okay then! I'll give you guys a few minutes. Yell if you need anything, okay?" Amelia's cheerfulness continued, even if the lack of response was strange. She wandered away from the table, cleaning up the mess the mother and child had left behind, glancing over a time or two at the quartet.

. . .

Jammed into the left booth were the older two of the four. The eldest was pushing his mid-fifties or so, if the deep frown lines, receding hairline, and, what hair there was, going gray were any indication; he was a dead ringer for an unpleasant businessman or long standing governmental toady. His posture was stiff and he was obviously uncomfortable in the diner, especially sitting next to the mousy pipsqueak that kept calling him 'sir'.

'So, gopher and boss man are out for lunch… But what's with the other two?' Amelia wondered to herself, pulling Johnny's pancakes off the pass-thru to deliver them.

The blonde seemed incapable of sitting completely still, blue eyes constantly flicking around the room. The 'devil can kiss my ass' smile was screwed in place, it seemed, especially when the older guy leaned closer to whisper something to him.

'Oh yay, whispered arguments,' she thought with a roll of her eyes.

. . .

While the diner had a good clientele base, it was mostly from State Street and Interstate 90* that wound past a stone's throw and drainage ditch away from the diner's front door. The middle of nowhere was a bit of an understatement as the town seemed to reside smack dab in between a bunch of corn fields, cow pastures, and something resembling a city of farmers and those trying to escape the city.

"God dammit, Kirk! This isn't some damn cultural excursion! Our splitting up is not a good idea; what are you going to do, go gallivanting around with the local for some color?" the older man snapped, barely audible over the racket of the jukebox.

The jukebox kicking out Bon Jovi's "Wanted, Dead or Alive" drowned out the rest of their conversation, for the most part.

The fourth sat perfectly straight next to the window, surveying the whole of the diner from time to time, but mostly just staring at her; when he turned his head slightly to respond to something the blonde said, Amelia's eyes widened when she noticed the pointed ears.

"No way," Amelia muttered under her breath. "Cosplayers here? We're practically in eastern Bumblefuck!" It made sense, what with the two on the right being in what could pass for regulation blacks and the mousey guy was carrying a nifty iPad looking-thing with the Starfleet emblem embossed on it in gunmetal gray.

Amelia hurried over, intent on finding out what a bunch of possibly cosplaying nerdlings like her were doing just off the highway and halfway to Nowheresville.

. . .

"Ready for drinks, then?" she smiled, cheeky in response to the scowling old man. "If you haven't had a chance to glance over the menu, we have Coke products like: Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Strawberry, Orange, and Grape Fanta, Dr. Pepper, root beer, lemonade, sweetened and unsweetened tea, and a couple of assorted juices. Oh, and water," she added as an afterthought. "Of course we have water."

"Coke for me," the blonde said the flirtatious grin apparent as his default expression. "If you please, sweetheart." At the disapproving eyebrow arch from the pointy-eared guy, Amelia struggled not to burst out laughing, the Spock eyebrow making her want to make a snarky comment. That urge was less successfully smothered.

"Well, even if I don't, I'll be nice and bring it to you anyway since I like not getting fired," Amelia returned with a grin, jotting the beverage under 'seat 1'. Big flirt equaled big tip, if cards were played right. . 'Kirk and Spock cosplayers. So much win.'

The blonde laughed, slouching in the booth seat. "Thank you… Am? Amber or Amanda?" he asked, referring to the name tag with a nod.

"Ah, so close and yet so far. It's Amelia, like the adventurous wench that got herself lost in the Bermuda Triangle," she answered, turning her attention to the old man with a slight shift.

"Sweet tea," the old man snapped, irritated by the Kirk look-like's flirting.

"Okie dokie; lemon or no lemon?" Amelia briefly imagined gagging the unpleasant man with said citrus, trying not to giggle at the mental picture. She must be punchier than she though, being so easily amused.

"No lemon." Whatever stick was up his butt must have been a big one with as grouchy as he was.

"All right then. And for you?" she asked the mouse, who echoed the sweet tea, no lemon. 'Joy, a mindless worker drone; who were these two supposed to be?' she wondered. "And last, but not least, what about you, darlin'?" she asked the stoic man in the corner. 'Kirk and Spock maybe? Kudos for not breaking character, seriously.'

"What types of tea do you have?" he asked, glancing over the menu but not seeing a list.

"We have your basic herbals: chamomile and mint, and then we have a berry mix, lemon zinger, Irish Breakfast, and a Pomegranate Spice mix that's made by a local florist." Amelia glanced over her shoulder as Critch called 'order up!' from the pass-thru and slapped the bell several times. "Be right there, Critch!" She returned her attention to the Spock cosplayer. "What'll it be?"

"The Pomegranate Spice, please." Amelia half-expected him to follow it with "it seems the logical choice" or something there similar, but he didn't.

"All right, give me a few minutes and I'll have those for ya. Go ahead and glance over the menu and let me know when y'all are ready to order. The specials today are steak n' eggs with hash browns and toast; the vegetarian chili and a side salad; and pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and veggies." She managed to rattle off the specials in one mostly-unhurried breath, frowning when Critch smacked the bell again. "Yell if you need anything!" She hurried off to deliver the order and cash out Johnny so he could get back on the road.

An hour later the diner was almost fully packed and Amelia was still the only server on the floor, half of the cosplaying quartet still took up booth twelve and the phone was ringing again.

Amelia practically dove over the counter to grab the phone from the hook, knocking down the pen holder with the cord.

"Dam- Ahem. Donna's Diner, this is Amelia." She had a tray of drinks balanced in her left hand, the phone squished between her right shoulder and her ear. "Stephanie, I swear to- No! You can't- But-No! I'm not- Seriously, you can't-"Amelia sighed as Stephanie continued her tearful begging. "Fine. But Donna's going to hear about it this time. I'm not covering for you again. Yeah, whatever. Save your thanks for someone who isn't pulling a double for your ass." She slammed the phone back down with a scowl, taking a deep breath to calm herself.

"Hey lady? Our drinks?" a chirping twit called from table three. "Sometime today would be nice!"

"Coming right up!" Amelia said smile screwed back on despite the desire to scream as Critch smacked the order bell.

"Order up!"

"Be right there! Mitch, bus tables!" she called back into the kitchen. "Now, pipsqueak!"

. . .

Amelia hauled ass around the diner for ten minutes straight, breathlessly leaning against the side of booth twelve. "Still doing all right, gentlemen?"

"Yes, thanks," the Kirk guy smiled. "Do you want a hand?"

Amelia stared blankly at him. "With what, hon?"

Kirk choked on a chuckle, glancing around. "This, hon," he echoed her endearment, motioning to the packed diner. "You're running yourself crazy around here and Stephanie just called out."

"How the hell did you-"

"My buddy here had great hearing," Kirk smiled, jerking a thumb towards Spock, who nodded.

"Ah-huh. Well, unless you want to work for your meal, I'm afraid it's not possible hon." Amelia huffed in annoyance when Critch smacked the order bell. "Coming!" She turned back to Kirk. "But thanks for offering. Refill on your tea, babe?"

"No, thank you," the man she had nicknamed Spock in her mind said, response terse as she was feeling.

"Okie dokie!" It was smile or scream at this point. Amelia hurried away, blowing her hair out of her eyes.

. . .

Ten minutes later, Amelia slid back into the kitchen to dump her bus bin and saw Miles on his cell phone again. "Miles!" she snapped, scowling at the guilty look he shot her. "Your ass better be calling the Pope or your mama better be dying if you're on the phone again."

"Tiffany's in labor," Miles said, looking slightly ill, shutting the phone.

"Who?" Amelia heaved the bus bin onto the sink, pressing a hand to her lower back. "Who's in labor?"

"My girlfriend, Tiffany! We've been together since middle school; she comes in all the time. She's kinda hard to miss."

Amelia flipped through her mental Rolodex. "Pregnant chick with purple hair?"

"Yes! She's in labor!" he said again, weaving a bit as his pallor went waxy. "Oh god, I'm gonna be a dad…"

"Fuck me," Amelia sighed, shoving Miles down onto the overturned milk crate so he didn't fall down. "All right, put your head between your knees and breathe, kid. I'll be right back."

She snagged the order off the pass thru before Critch could smack the bell.

Critch grabbed her arm before she could pull the last plate. "Listen, we can't run this place just you an' me, girlie. We ain't that good."

"Yeah, I know. But I have an idea, darlin'; just call Missus D and let her know Stephie called out and Mitch's lady is popping. I'm snagging some temp help."

"Wait, the preggie with the funny hair's his girl?" Critch wiped his brow with the back of his arm. "Well fuck me."

"That's what I said," Amelia smirked, scooping up the three platters and swinging back out of the kitchen.

. . .

After depositing the meal to booth seven, bussing booths eleven and fifteen, refilling the loud schmucks at table three for the fifth time, Amelia paused again at booth twelve. "You still wanna help out, Blondie?"

"Yeah, me and my buddy here," Kirk jerked a thumb back towards Spock, who was watching silently. "We want to help."

Amelia tapped her order pad against her leg as she thought for a moment, her decision made when the order bell and the counter bell rang almost simultaneously.

"All right. You're on drinks and bussing, Blondie. Do you mind doing dishes, hon?" she asked Spock. "We have some huge gloves if you're weird about getting your hands completely icked up by the sinks."

"Dishes should be a satisfactory assignment," Spock said, arching a brow as table three whistled for her attention. "Is that… regular treatment as a server?"

"Indeed." Amelia snorted in amusement, smacking a hand over her mouth when the eyebrow went up.

"I would most certainly prefer to do dishes," Spock said dryly.

"Okie dokie. What are your names, again?"

"Uh…" Kirk and Spock exchanged a glance.

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Okay, so you don't have to bullshit me, how about you tell me what I can call you or you get stuck with a nickname I give you," she sighed, holding up a finger for patience when someone called for her. When silence only greeted her promise, she smirked. "All right, you're Jim and you're Spock. Deal with it." She shoved the bus bin at Spock and headed off to booth three.

"Fascinating."

"Well, then, Spock, shall we?"

Six hours later, shift change finally hit and the three of them stood outside the diner. Amelia dropped the tailgate of her emerald green truck, spotted with rust, and flopped backwards. She cushioned the back of her head with her arm, stretching her tired body across the slightly dirty bed.

"Owe. I think I want to take a week off and sleep. And get a massage." She groaned as she tried to wiggle into a comfortable position on the unforgiving metal. "So where are you guys staying?" Amelia asked them on a sigh, sitting up and giving a giant stretch when getting comfortable was impossible. Another shift and she was laying back down, this time dangling backwards off the tailgate with her feet hooked in the netting along the side of the truck bed.

"We have no clue," Kirk answered honestly. "We don't have anywhere to go, really. And with our share of tips, I don't think we have enough for a hotel."

She looked at them, upside down as she was, and studied them for a moment.

Spock still had water stains where the apron hadn't been appropriate cover, and Kirk looked ready to fall over and sleep for a week like she wanted to. "So you don't have anywhere to stay?"

"That is correct," Spock said, looking uncomfortable as his shoe gave a pathetic squish.

"Not so much on forethought? Just came to Elgin with no transportation, no place to stay and no money?"

"It was not intentional-" Spock began, what passed for a frown on his face placing a crease between his eyebrows.

"Okay then. You can stay with me."

"Are you sure that's-" Kirk began.

"You're arguing?" Amelia sat up enough to glare at him.

"No, no; thank you, thanks very much." Spock inclined his head in gratitude.

"Welcome." She flopped back down. "We'll head out as soon as I feel like moving." Thunder rumbled overhead and all three looked to the sky. "Make that as soon as I think it'll start raining, snowing, or otherwise precipitating on me," she grumbled as she levered herself up. "All right, boys, let's get goin'."

Another Author's Note:

*The diner is based off a place I actually went to, called Alexander's Restaurant in Elgin, Illinois. It really is halfway to Eastern Bumblefuck out there; nothing but highways, trees, and a few subdivisions. Somehow, Elgin is the eighth largest city in Illinois, current population estimated over 100,000 people, but it still manages to be in the middle of nowhere and the sidewalks roll up at 8:30pm. I don't get it. I never have. Lol.

Super sorry for the re-post insanity, but I'm trying to get it in a readable format. _ Let me know how it looks, darlings!

Also, reviews are loved. ^_^

~Eva