Disclaimer: Although in my daydreams, they're all mine, I am obligated to formally state that none of these characters belong to me.

Mommy McCoy

Captain's Log:

Stardate 4620: We're beaming down to the surface of the planet Er-tong with an away mission team of Mr. Spock, Lieutenant Uhura, Ensign Chekov, and myself. This planet, as far as we know, is chiefly uninhabited. However, seismic interruptions have caught the attentions of the Federation, as the planet's surface is not known to have any notable earthquake faults. In addition, there have been oddly high emissions of an as-yet-unidentified gas emerging from quake-caused fissures. Our mission is to investigate these earthquakes and discover their origins.

"Scotty, you have the con," Kirk had said, his trademark grin spread wide across his face.

McCoy stood anxiously by the transporter. It had been more than three days since the expedition team had beamed down to the surface of Er-tong. They should have been back several hours ago. No distress signals had been sent, nor had Kirk contacted the Enterprise.

How could he help but worry? There was any number of disasters that Kirk could have gotten into on the planet. There could be toxic gases, there could be ballistic missiles disguised as flowers, there could be crazy ex-wives hiding behind every tree. McCoy scowled again.

"Don't fret, Bones," Scotty said. "There's been no bad news. Just give it a bit of time."

"I'm a doctor, dammit, not an optimist," McCoy growled.

As he glared at the engineer, a sudden beep pervaded the still air of the transporter room. Four glowing dots appeared on the screen. "Kirk to Enterprise," a thin, oddly high-pitched voice said. "Beam us up!"

"Thank god." McCoy allowed himself a small smile.

Scotty's fingers flew across the console. "All right…incoming…3, 2—hm, that's odd—1!"

"What's odd?!"

"The readout's showing that the incoming beings are well, smaller, than they were when they beamed out."

"What?!" McCoy blanched. He opened his mouth to begin a furious tirade about the stupidity of space when four crumpled figures materialized on the transporter pad.

Out of one of the huddled masses on the floor rose a small, but resolute figure.

McCoy and Scotty gaped. There was no doubt as to the identity of the being—that sandy hair and confident stance could only belong to Captain James T. Kirk.

But this Kirk was rubbing his eyes sleepily. This Kirk was pursing his lips like he was about to throw a temper tantrum. This Kirk was about three years old.

The little boy blinked slowly and fixed his gaze on the good doctor.

What happened next had many possible descriptions.

The adult Kirk would have called it hilarious. Uhura would have called it sweet. Spock would have called it the natural animal process of filial imprinting. McCoy could only describe it as pure horror.

"Mommy?"

"Ah, hell no!" McCoy shouted. "I am NOT your mommy! I'm a doctor!"

The other figures rose—clearly small, toddler-aged versions of Spock, Uhura, and Chekov. They gazed impassively at McCoy for a fleeting moment. Then, all together, they pounced.

"MOMMY!"

~tbc~

A/N: Was it awful? Was it okay? Was it--dare I ask--funny? Let me know! =]