A/N: This story introduces my OC, Amani Kirk, AKA Jim and Nyota's daughter! I plan on writing more with her, especially in post-Motion Picture stories, but this is my first story where she's featured. This story is also written in present tense, which isn't normal for me, but for some reason it worked for this particular tale.
"I kind of like this. I'm going to get one myself." -Captain Kirk, "A Piece of the Action"
Hovercars dominate the twenty-third century. Hovercars with autopilot systems so the passengers don't even have to worry about driving it. But if anyone is going to ask "where's the challenge in that?"—it's Jim Kirk.
Which is why, almost as soon as they're off the Enterprise and Jim's accepted the position of admiral (over everyone's protests) and he and Nyota have an apartment in San Francisco, she's not surprised when she finds him poring over catalogs of "vintage reproduction cars, circa 20th-21st century—remodels, replicas, and originals with newly-installed eco-fuel systems on sale for as low as 30,000 Federation credits!"
For months, he simply researches. Studies. Skims through catalog after catalog. Clicks picture after picture on the Federation internet.
One summer evening she pauses on the kitchen threshhold, clad in pajamas that can no longer hide the gentle but unmistakable rounding of her abdomen, and watches him. He's sitting at the kitchen table, leaning on his folded arms, his hazel eyes intense as he pores over yet another catalog, and she wonders for the millionth time if this obsession is just a way of coping with his admiralty responsibilities.
On the Enterprise, he never thought of his work as a burden.
But now he has no ship. No crew. Just a desk at the Admirality.
To a mind as sharp and brilliant as Jim Kirk's, 20th century cars probably are a lot more interesting than the aforementioned desk.
She approaches him. Jim acknowledges her presence by sitting up a little straighter and lifting one of his hands to touch her when she wraps her arms around his neck from behind.
"What are you doing?" she murmurs.
"Indulging my…childish fascination," he replies in that warm, smooth tenor, slightly edged at the moment with wry humor. "That garage is sitting empty downstairs. What if I…"
His voice trails off; he shrugs a shoulder against her. Nyota hugs him a little tighter, brushes her lips against his cheek.
"Do you want a car, Jim?"
He sighs—or is he groaning?—and slumps against his elbows. "Would you think any less of me if I said 'yes?' "
Nyota giggles. She can't help it. She unwinds her arms from around his neck and he turns disappointed eyes up at her—until she walks around his chair and settles into his lap. He grins and leans back, running his hand over the four-month-old baby-swell while she grabs the catalog and settles her head on his shoulder.
"Of course I won't think any less of you, you dear overgrown little boy," she whispers. "Now, which one are you thinking about getting? A BMW or a Volkswagon…?"
He picks a convertible Mini Cooper.
And Nyota Uhura Kirk quickly regrets her encouragement of this hobby, because as soon as she gets into it, she realizes that her husband has no idea what he's doing.
It's a warm afternoon; she's finished with her work at the Academy, and Jim had intended to go straight to the antique car dealer once he wrapped up some loose ends with Admiral Ciana. When he barrels into the apartment she's sitting on their bed, organizing her holos from the Enterprise with a bittersweetness she still hasn't gotten over.
(The holo-photo albums she's going to send Sulu, Chekov, Scotty, McCoy, and Christine for everyone's first Christmas back on Earth will be beautiful. She'd make one for Spock, too, except photo albums aren't permitted on the mountains of Gol.)
But then Jim is crashing into the bedroom and she gladly puts the happy-sad memories on her back burner. She hasn't seen him this happy since she told him he'd be getting a miniature Kirk for Christmas. She lets him seize her by the hands and pull her to her feet—and then she shrieks as he scoops her up into his arms and carries her down to the ground floor and out onto the street.
The little convertible sits on the curb. Nyota's mouth falls open.
"What do you think?" he asks proudly.
It's smaller than she expected—but then, antique cars aren't nearly as roomy as hovers. But Nyota doesn't say that out loud. She simply smiles brightly at it, and then at Jim.
"It's adorable," she says, in the same tone she once used to describe a tribble.
Jim is unimpressed. "Cars aren't 'adorable,' Lieutenant Commander."
She raises her eyebrows. "Well, excuse me, Admiral."
He smirks and lowers her to her feet, darts a few steps ahead of her, opens the passenger door. Nyota puts her hands on her curvy hips and tilts her dark head to the side.
"Now, Jim?"
"Now," he says firmly.
"But where are we going? Surely you're not going to waste fuel on a joyride—"
"Humor me, Ny?"
The hazel eyes go all puppy-dog on her and Nyota feels something melt inside. He hasn't had any adventures, any adrenaline surges, any kind of real fun since they left the Enterprise. He hasn't even had Dr. McCoy or Spock to tease and cajole. She's got her own sense of humor, of course, that often has him laughing out loud—but she knows she's not the same, and if she disappoints him now…
No, I can't do that to him. He needs the encouragement. Now more than ever.
"Okay," she says, soft and smiling. The relief and delight on Jim's face confirms that she is doing the right thing, even if means she's leaving behind her pet project.
She settles into the passenger seat. Jim gets in on the other side.
"You do know how to drive, right?" she asks.
"Of course. Spock and I—" Jim stops, his face clouding over at the mention of his best friend, but he gathers himself up quickly with a deep breath and a quick, hard blink. "Remember Iotia 2? I drove a car on that planet."
Nyota smirks. "Oh, you mean the planet where you made up fizzbin?"
Jim turns the ignition. "The very one."
She laughs. "I rue the day I let you try to 'teach' me tha—"
The car lurches forward. Nyota screams, clutching the arm of her seat, and slams back against her seat when Jim hits the brakes. He scowls, jaw flexing the way it used to when he engaged in staring contests with Klingons on the Enterprise viewscreen.
"Hang on, hang on," he mutters. "I'm still getting the hang of it."
Nyota stares at him. "You drove like that all the way from the car lot?"
"I got here in one piece, didn't I?"
"How long—"
The car takes another violent forward plunge and this time, when Nyota shrieks, she grabs his arm. Jim swerves around a hover parked a few yards ahead of them and into the middle of the street. Nyota holds onto him for dear life as they heave forward and stop, heave and stop. In comparison to the quiet hum of a hover, the engine roars. Nyota grits her teeth to keep them from clacking against each other every time Jim hits the brake.
But then, after about an hour, their stops become less frequent and much less violent. Nyota lets herself breathe again while Jim drives very slowly, and then a little faster, and then a little faster still, until the wind streaks through her hair. She's giggling with nervous excitement and he's actually grinning with pride, satisfaction, and undeniable relief. Round and round the block they go until she catches neighbors peering out of their windows to watch Starfleet's youngest admiral and his wife make a bizarre memory.
She doesn't care. For once Jim isn't thinking about his lost ship, his lost friends, his lost crew.
It's just the two of them and the car, and she has no problem with that.
Fifteen years later the apartment on the bay front is still there, along with the garage, and the little Mini Cooper. A tall, slim girl with milky-brown skin and hazel eyes and a head full of thick, curly brown hair, she pulls open the creaky garage door and lets her upper body peep through.
Clanks and thuds drift up to her from the little car.
"Daddy?"
No answer. The girl tugs at the long sleeves of her pale-blue sweater and makes her way slowly down the stairs. She can see her father's legs sticking out from underneath the car.
He hasn't driven it since he and Mama and Amani got home from the training cruise.
Since we got home, and Spock didn't.
"Daddy?"
Something clunks underneath the Mini Cooper. "Yeah, honey?"
The fourteen-year-old rubs her ankles together. "Daddy, Mama says it's time for you to come in. Bones and Pav and Scotty and Sulu are gonna be here in an hour."
Daddy gives himself a push; the creeper slides him out from underneath the car. Amani Winona Kirk—the daughter of an admiral and a lieutenant commander—she looks down at her father, at the sweat and grease smeared all over his face and the exhaustion in his hazel eyes. Her young heart twists at the anguish tearing him up inside out, no matter how much he tries to hide it.
"An hour, is it?" he asks.
Amani nods. Daddy sits up with a groan, pulls a towel out of his jeans' pocket. He wipes his face with it and sighs, stares off into space.
"I didn't realize I'd been down here…so long."
Amani shoves her hands into her own pockets. "Are you okay?"
He looks up at her, blinks…and the tension in his face relaxes. A little. He pats the spot on the creeper beside him. Amani sits. They've had more than one meaningful talk sitting here in the garage. She'll tell him anything and everything while she hands him tools and he gives the Mini Cooper a few affectionate "tweaks."
Mama often watches them from the top of the stairs with an amused smile. She says "antique car mechanic" will be a noteworthy addition to Amani's resume when she follows her own dream of enlisting in Starfleet.
But right now, the future isn't on anyone's mind. Amani still feels like someone used a Klingon disruptor on her. Too much has happened all at once. First, the exhilaration of being able to go with her parents aboard the ship she used to call home—the ship where her parents met and fell in love. Then, the unease of a simple training cruise turning into a rescue mission. Then, the battle. Khan.
Khan.
He killed her godfather. Not with his own hands, of course—but if it weren't for Khan, Spock would still be here. Bones wouldn't be sitting in a psychiatric ward somewhere. Mama wouldn't be crying more than Amani has ever seen her cry before. Daddy wouldn't be walking around like a zombie.
Oh, and throw into the mix the fact that Amani has a big brother now that she never knew she had.
Yeah. It has been a week.
She sits on the creeper beside her father and doesn't say anything for what feels like a long time. Daddy doesn't speak, either. He leans his elbows on his knees and folds his dirty, oil-streaked hands and stares at nothing in particular. He looks like he's trying not to feel.
"I'm sorry about the Enterprise," Amani whispers.
Daddy blinks, looks down at her. She bites her lip.
"Mama told me they're decommissioning her. I'm so sorry, Daddy, I'm—"
Her vision hazes. Her parents married on the Enterprise. She wasn't quite three when they brought her with them on the ship's Second Voyage (as the history books already called it). She was almost eight when the voyage ended and her parents decided to take Earthbound postings…at least for a while.
She learned how to read on the Enterprise. How to swim. How to ride a bike.
She got chicken pox on the Enterprise. Bones made her stay in Sickbay and Aunt Chris gave her oatmeal baths. Spock taught her how to find constellations in the night sky.
She remembers Mama bringing her to the bridge not long after they'd first boarded the Enterprise. Mama deposited her in Daddy's lap with a teasing smile and a comment about how starship captains weren't exempt from fatherly duties. Daddy didn't seem to mind. He read to her and let her draw pictures on his datapadd while he signed reports and gave orders…and when she got bored, he let her scramble off his lap and toddle to Spock's station. He had calmly lifted her onto his knee and let her smack her fat little palms all over a pre-cleared screen, just so she could gasp and giggle as it lit up in response to her actions.
So many memories. And now the ship is being decommissioned…
And Spock is dead.
Spock is dead.
Amani drops her head against her father's shoulder with a sniffling, shuddering breath. Daddy leans towards her. She feels him kissing the top of her head. She doesn't even mind when he gives up on keeping her clean and wraps an arm around her. She tucks herself into his shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut while he rubs her shoulder and whispers, hoarsely, "It's okay, Cupcake…it's okay…"
It'll never be okay again. But with the metallic smell of tools and car and oil and sweat filling her nose and her father's strong arms around her, the world does feel smaller. A little safer.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Did I ever tell you about this car?"
Amani lifts her head and blinks back tears. "About you and—on Iotia Two—"
Daddy smiles tiredly. "I know I told you about that. Only half a million times." He shakes his head, lets his gaze drift to the Mini Cooper. "No…there's another story. About my buying this car."
Amani sniffled and sits up, her hip still pressed against his so he can keep a hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing, firmly grounding her to reality.
"This car," Daddy begins in his slow, measured way. "I bought this car after the First Voyage ended. Spock had gone back to Vulcan, and Bones was mad at me and had stomped back to Georgia. He'd probably say I deserved it. Somehow…I don't doubt it."
Normally, Amani would laugh. She doesn't today and Daddy doesn't seem to expect it.
"I needed the distraction," he murmurs. "I didn't want to think about Spock…purging himself of emotion because he'd realized that my decision to leave the Enterprise had torn him to pieces. And he was ashamed of it. God, it hurt."
The pain in his voice tears Amani to pieces. Her throat burns as she hugs his arm, squeezing him tight. Daddy seems to remember she's there, that he isn't talking to himself; he sits up straighter and rubs her shoulder a little more briskly.
"I thought for certain your mother would say 'no' to a car," he says wryly.
"Mama loves the car."
Daddy chuckles. "I didn't think she would after I nearly broke her neck stopping and starting the first time I took her for a ride. But I was so hell-bent on keeping that car…on having something to work on so I could forget…that I drove her around this block over and over again until I got it right. And do you know what she did?"
Amani shakes her head. She hasn't heard this story before, and there's something new in his eyes, a flicker of light that wasn't there five minutes ago.
"She just held on…and let me," he whispers.
Amani frowns. Mama isn't a control freak; she doesn't see why this is so significant. Daddy
must understand her confusion, because he squares his shoulders and clarifies in the blunt,
plain-spoken terms she's always preferred even over Spock's long-winded explanations and Bones' cloudy metaphors.
"Your mother understood that I needed time to heal. She didn't make fun of me for this…fixation on an antique car. She didn't even threaten to get out of the car when I could've given her whiplash, slamming on the brakes the way I did for the whole first week. She was just…patient with me." He paused, then added softly, "Just like she was always patient with all of us."
"Just like I'm being patient now. You won't be thanking me when our guests arrive and you still haven't had a shower, though."
Daddy and Amani both jump, jerk their heads towards the stairs. Mama is leaning on the bannister, her lovely dark face all made-up for company, her vivid clothes draping prettily over her small, curvy frame—but her expression is gentle and slightly amused. Amani feels Daddy stiffen—not uncomfortably, but because he's at attention.
He may be an Admiral, but Mama still has him wrapped around her little finger. She can do it without even trying.
And maybe, Amani thinks, it's because she doesn't try and never did. Amani Kirk isn't a sheltered ignoramus: she knows all about her father's reputation when he was younger. Females practically threw themselves at him, human or not, and he hadn't exactly ignored them. This new half-brother of hers is proof of that.
And yet her father had married his fiercely loyal, brilliant, soft-voiced, mischievous communications officer. Not a princess, or a queen, or a galaxy-renowned molecular biologist—but a woman who started out quite simply as his friend.
"Jim, they'll be here in forty-five minutes," Mama says. "I don't mean to nag, but—"
"I know, I know." Daddy pushes his hands against his thighs and stands up. His knees creak and Amani realizes, not for the first time in the last few days, that her father is getting older, that he's no longer the trim, smooth-faced young captain she's seen in Mama's holo-albums. There are lines in his face that weren't even there a week ago.
"You all right?" Mama whispers as he takes the steps with weary slowness.
"Yeah." He says it a little too quickly. Mama reaches out, touches his arm. Daddy looks at her and Amani catches it: the way the flinty defensiveness melts out of him the second they make eye contact. Mama tilts her dark head to one side, but to Amani's surprise, she doesn't say anything. She just smiles gently, and lifts her face when Daddy leans forward to steal a quick kiss.
She's holding on and letting him grieve. Just like she did all those years ago with the car.
Only this time, Spock's not coming back.
But they can still be patient. Amani and her mother, they can still hold on tight.