Kirk reclined in his chair, sighing as it creaked. McCoy leaned over, to refresh the contents of his glass.
"Don't see what's taking Spock so long," McCoy shrugged, "I'm trying to save him some."
Kirk held the glass above his face, and peered up through the hazy beverage.
"I'm sure he's being very thorough about the paperwork," Kirk affirmed.
"That sounds about right. I think teaching'll suit him just fine."
The younger man set his glass on the low table before them, between two dust-riddled boxes. He had not had time to unpack, since his rushed return to San Francisco. Permanent, he reminded himself, I've got plenty of time.
"I hope so," Kirk sighed, "Promotion was the worst thing that ever happened to me."
"I told you."
"I know."
The cups were pressed together on the table. Uncomfortably, Kirk shuffled and crossed his legs.
"If I could do it all over again," he said slowly, "I wouldn't take it. I'd never take it."
The pause spread between them like a drop of ink, messy and meaningless.
"What would you do? If you could do one thing differently…" he continued, folding his hands together in a way Spock often demonstrated.
"I don't know," McCoy spoke into his glass, "I – well… I guess I'd spend more time with Joanna."
Kirk's nod was slow and reassuring.
"David," he mumbled to himself.
"Marcus?" McCoy confirmed.
"Yeah."
Later that evening, they wove through the crowded hall to meet Spock. The Vulcan stood amidst colleagues and crewmen, internally shrugging when begged to repeat his experience.
With a knowing grin, Kirk reached to shake his hand. The connection was brief. Warm.
You cannot live your life 'over again.' Spock presented, with the best of intentions. Kirk drew his hand away, and barred it behind his back.
Cold. Incomplete.
Concerned with the interpretations of his crew – his friends – Spock chose not to take Kirk's hand again. He waited for McCoy to repeat the gesture.
It cannot literally be done. Relay that to the Ca—to the Admiral.
McCoy tapped Kirk on the shoulder, whispering the words against his neck.
"Congratulations, Spock," Kirk said. This was accepted as a response to his apology.
McCoy ensured the presence of everyone and their glasses.
"To Spock," he said, "May the logical choice be the right one."
The cups clinked together, two at a time. Then, three.
Just after midnight, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy found themselves in the lonely apartment. Spock occupied his preferred chair, and stared across at his friends, who were forced to share the other. McCoy complained, at first, but recalled the age of the room and compared it to that of their relationship.
"Admiral," Spock began, "You are troubled."
McCoy understood this as a request for diagnosis, and set his hand gently over Kirk's.
"Yes, Spock. I am."
"Do you disapprove of my decision?"
"No… it just gave me a lot to think about."
"Yes," Spock said, trying and failing to sort through Kirk's thoughts. Some escaped, and combined with the ever-ambitious passions of the doctor.
Their hands remained linked.
"Have I told you of the initial segment of my curriculum?" Spock continued, staring intently at their hands.
"No," said McCoy, absently sifting his fingers through the admiral's, "What's that got to do with anything?"
"It is a genetic experiment, which the Federation wishes to fund."
"I don't like the sound of that, Spock."
"You will, Doctor, if you can force yourself to listen. Essentially, it will offer the chance to live 'all over again.'"
Kirk glanced at him, eyes wide. Every light in the room was off, and the only glow remained within the depths of the fireplace.
...
"This," McCoy vowed, "is the single most ridiculous thing I have ever been a part of."
Kirk smiled, and offered his hand.
"The data so far has been most promising," Spock assured, scanning through it on his tablet.
"The data, Spock, doesn't say anything about your performance as a parent."
"No; that cannot be accurately predicted."
"I can't believe we're doing this."
Kirk twisted the ring on his finger. Spock's was kept on a chain around his neck. As was McCoy's, when maintaining his medical practice.
"The result," Spock said, "Will be female. That is the intention of the program; to aid in population growth."
"There's that tender side I was looking for," shrugged McCoy, "The result you're talking about is your daughter too, Spock."
"Partially," said Spock.
Kirk watched them, eagerly glancing up from the charts he held.
"What'll she call us?" McCoy asked, bored of the silence.
Kirk turned to look at him.
"I'm not worried about it."
"The more logical approach," Spock presented, "Is finding what we shall call her."
...
The baby was called daughter, when Spock consented to holding her. She was wrapped entirely in yellow blankets, gifts from friends. He ventured to press two fingers against her face. She smiled up at him.
Her smile was a constant, as she grew.
Darling, she was called, when McCoy was alone with her.
They sat in the recliner, watching the fireplace. He braided her hair.
She became sweetheart, when she bargained for one more bedtime story.
Kirk sat beside her, kissed her forehead, and told her tales of his time in space. Spock, collecting her toys and putting them away, did not correct the details. McCoy stood in the doorway, and nodded.
She tugged the blanket up over her face, politely retiring from the conversation.
"Goodnight, Stella," McCoy said first. Then Kirk. Then Spock, accompanying it with a gentle kiss from his fingers.
...
The matter of her name required no serious debate. It meandered through playful arguments, then insistent modesty. Her birth was defined as alien, therefore she required no surname.
"Then it's gotta be something unique," McCoy said.
Kirk presented his answer one night, tangled up in their bed. He stretched to reach the ancient lamp, and pulled the chain to ignite it.
"Was this influenced by a dream?" Spock asked, somewhat envious of the human concept.
"Lack of," he said, tossing a hand toward the skylight. None of them had slept restfully; she was anticipated to arrive within the week.
"Constellation," McCoy echoed, "I like it."
"It is fitting," Spock said.
"The final piece of our family," Kirk grinned, "Among the stars."
"Ours," Spock repeated, fondly.
"Ours," McCoy assured.
...
"Once she starts asking questions," Kirk whispered, "She's your daughter."
Spock raised an eyebrow.
Stella was finally asleep in her room, free of the constant procession of admirers. Many were prefaced, by Kirk, with the terms 'Aunt' or 'Uncle.' McCoy agreed that formal language was best, while Spock insisted her Vulcan part would lock away the information for later.
"I do not estimate verbal communication for several months," Spock said. Jim had placed both hands on the Vulcan's shoulders, and they pulsed against the heartbeat, crawling up from his side.
"She's only, what?" McCoy paused, "Fifteen percent Vulcan?"
"Sixteen-point-six-seven percent, Doctor."
"Thank you." The roll of his eyes was practically audible.
Kirk offered a gentle laugh, until McCoy held a finger to his lips. Spock always admired this gesture.
"If you wake her up," McCoy said, drawing his finger toward the girl's bedroom, "She's yours."
...
Thunder tapped the windows of the old apartment. Its many windows welcomed the lightning.
As the rain began pattering against the roof, they found their bed suddenly smaller.
Stella knew which side to approach. She also knew it was rare to find Daddy there. He often slept in the middle.
She pressed soft breaths against his face, whispering his assigned name until he turned to face her. His eyes opened, one at a time.
"What is it?" Kirk asked. He had learned not to ask 'what's wrong?' as this awoke McCoy instantly, without fail.
She pointed to the portal in the ceiling, a fine stage for the dancing lightning. Her remarks were soft but stiff, as she presented her fear: all of the stars were falling at once.
"It's just a rainstorm," Daddy assured her. She shook her head, until earning a friendly and exaggerated sigh. Kirk held up the blanket from his shoulder, and watched her snuggle beneath it.
He stroked her hair with one hand, and Spock's, distractedly, with the other.
In the morning, the connection seemed to speak on its own, she's yours again.
...
Most mornings, Father sat down with her, on the carpet as she requested. Daddy prepared himself for work. Papa resigned himself to making breakfast. Most days, he had to insist on having Jim eat with them.
Otherwise, Kirk would sit at the table and watch, and talk, and always leave two minutes too late.
"Eat," McCoy often advised, setting a plate before him. Generally, Spock nodded and repeated the comment. Then, Jim would eat. Only then.
Today, he ate and smiled. He would not be late for work. Uncle Sulu, he said, would be taking over his daily lecture. The girl was delighted; it was rare for her whole family to spend the day at home.
Stella let Papa cut the banana pancakes into smaller pieces. She pressed her back against his chest, as he leaned over her chair. She rustled against his shoulders, stretching to hum into his ear. He kissed the top of her head, and set the fork down in front of her.
Spock told her about replicated foods.
"These are not replicated," he said, in conclusion. He was accustomed to eating traditional earth foods, by now.
"I'll take that as a compliment," McCoy said. Stella giggled, unaware, and immediately moved her chair to be between them.
Originally, the square table housed one chair at each side. Now, invariably, they were arranged in a single line, with Stella in what she insisted was the 'middle.'
Kirk's smile was light, overflowing with approval. He slipped the ring from his finger, to remind himself of its reality. He squeezed it in one hand, hard.
Spock watched, while McCoy was occupied by Stella's illustrations, done in chocolate syrup.
The Vulcan slipped his ring from beneath his shirt-collar. Kirk swore the smile was mutual.