I.
He was convinced nothing good happened on birthdays. He knew this even before meeting Jim Kirk, before that the kid's entire future got blown to hell in a head-on collision made with Kelvin debris. Kirk certainly had no reason to celebrate, that was for damn sure. So McCoy wasn't sure why he even bothered finding him today. Should've been a non-issue.
And yet.
McCoy shook his head, more upset with himself for caring than anything else. He couldn't get it out of his damn fool head that everyone deserved something special on his or her birthday. Even if that birthday was hella crap with the worst memories ever.
He snorted as he nudged the weird little cupcake in his new friend's direction. The cake was lopsided and rather ugly, but that was because McCoy made it himself – not from a replicator, not from any fancy cookbook...just his Nana's simple recipe handed down through generations of McCoys who couldn't cook worth a hill of beans. Well, that was wrong. Some could cook. He just wouldn't count himself among them.
Jim scowled at the floppy confectionery. "That nonsense supposed to be for me? I thought I told you I didn't want anything."
"Tough," McCoy growled, stabbing the center of the cupcake with a partly melted birthday candle. He lit it with an old fashioned butane lighter and ignored how Jim glared at the flame. "Happy fuckin' Birthday, Jim."
Jim ogled the cake, favoring it with a short, tight smile as he blew out the candle. He accidentally dusted his dorm desk with a light spray of wax, which elicited a small throaty chuckle from him. "Heh. Thanks, Bones."
"You're' welcome," McCoy said, clinking his whiskey glass against Kirk's before downing the contents.
Kirk's expression turned pensive as he turned the cake over in his hands. "Happy fuckin' Birthday, indeed."
II.
Only Jim knew exactly where he was and why, which was why Jim couldn't let him stay there. The Enterprise's Chief Medical Officer had taken the rest of the afternoon off and none had seen hide nor hair of the man for six hours. Jim would've rescued Bones a few hours ago had it not been for a tough negotiation with a tight-assed diplomat with delusions of mediocrity, but he was finally free now.
His expression sobered; fat lot of good that did now.
Jim crossed his arms and casually leaned against the doorjamb after buzzing twice. He received no response, which didn't surprise him. "I'm coming in, Bones," he announced, and thirty seconds later he used his command override to enter McCoy's quarters.
The room was midnight dark - so dark Jim could barely see; so quiet, it could've been a confessional. He nearly called for Bones again, but then he heard the soft, hitched breaths in the darkest corner. As his eyes adjusted he caught a hunched head between its knees - an outline acting as still and unresponsive as an artist's wood mannequin. Kirk approached and coughed softly; hot, whiskied fumes hovered near, stinging the air like rank perfume.
"Couldn't get through," McCoy mumbled to his knees. His drawl was a messy slur, churned thick from grief and booze. "Never home."
"I'm sorry," Jim murmured. He plucked the empty bottle from his friend's hand then guided him to the edge of the bed, avoiding a small, rolling sea of discarded empties. Jim wrapped an arm around Bones' shoulders and was not shocked when McCoy collapsed into him, weeping wretched, bitter tears. The doctor's inebriation - and pride - would prevent him from remembering what happened come morning, so the realization that Leonard would end up crying himself to sleep hurt neither man, in the end.
Jim consoled the older man while tapping down his own bitter rage. Every year, Leonard McCoy yearned to wish his daughter a Happy Birthday. And every year his ex-wife prevented him.
III.
As communications officer aboard the Enterprise, Lieutenant Uhura was privileged to discover many strange things about people - human and otherwise. While translating communiqués between Admirals and Captains of different races and biologies, it was only logical that she would eventually stumble upon an Andorian captain who demanded a recipe for authentic plomeek soup. It was also only logical that her translation of said soup recipe would help calm a heated debate (since said Andorian captain contracted a crazy space flu after visiting Enterprise). In short: Of course said Andorian captain blamed Captain Kirk for the sickness and of course the universal translator suddenly malfunctioned making communications worse and of course the Andorian refused to speak Earth standard (while Jim Kirk was stuck trying to remember the third person plural regional dialect of a northwestern Andorian province) as angry words were exchanged. Only by Uhura's own recommendation of plomeek soup, and explaining its curative properties amongst Vulcans (a lie, but it translated well) calmed the Andorian captain, and her translation over subspace apparently saved the Enterprise from a horribly embarrassing interstellar incident between two friendlies. Or perhaps it was her timing of translating said third person plural, seconds before a truly nasty, colorful metaphor could be spit through the intercom by one Captain James T. Kirk.
The day actually brought a giggle to Uhura's lips as she shuffled tiredly to her room post shift. Sure, she could have taken the day off, but why? She was doing what she loved. And even if everyone forgot the date but her it wasn't a big deal. She fell back against her bed, one shoe on and one shoe off, and nearly shut her eyes when Kirk paged her because the Andorian couldn't understand a portion of the the recipe, and Kirk couldn't explain it.
Uhura huffed and crammed her shoe back on. Didn't anyone speak Earth standard anymore? How difficult, really, was "one part plomeek" in Andorian?
Still, half of her hoped...really hoped. Part of her had a feeling, but she didn't want to consider it. She knew body language as well as the spoken word, and she could feel the vibes, even with Spock on that away mission. But thinking and hoping weren't the same as being and doing, were they? And maybe it really was the Andorian. And wouldn't that be embarrassing.
She wanted to believe in the fairy tale like some wretchedly weak Cinderella, but she was too old for such things, and as she threw her shoulders back she stepped on the Bridge, expecting the same nonsense she'd left but somehow worse.
"Surprise!"
Uhura chuckled. Her smile was genuine after the bridge crew shouted and showered her with streamers, and then someone handed her a wicker basket filled with Doctor McCoy's horribly ugly – yet surprisingly tasty – birthday cupcakes. Her instincts were dead on; they really did have the best crew in the fleet.
"Thanks, guys," she said, gazing shyly at the basket. "But you really didn't have to."
Her brows knit slightly; everyone's body language had subtly changed. She didn't expect the twinkle in Chekov's eye, nor did she expect the smirk on Dr. McCoy's face, nor the nudge and nod from her captain forcing her to check over her shoulder. And she certainly didn't expect Spock to stand indulgently before her, hands folded behind his back, reciting such illogical sentences as, "Due to a surprisingly opportune encounter with the USS Potemkin I found I had 3.5 additional hours within my schedule and I was able to rendezvous with the Enterprise at this particular point in time."
Uhura held her breath and found Kirk's face. He said nothing, but his stance explained so much more. How many strings did he pull, she wondered? How many favors did he owe now...?
Thank you, she mouthed to him.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Jim fired back as the couple exited to the turbo lift, while Leonard McCoy muttered sotto voce: "or if you do, at least use protection."
She would always look fondly on that day as the best birthday she almost missed.
IV.
Everything about it was highly illogical.
Spock turned the instrument carefully in his hands, baffled by its mere existence. Logic dictated that the original would have had to have undergone an improbable number of quantum anomalies to be within his hands as it had been presumed destroyed with Vulcan, and the only other Vulcan who could have possibly owned this particular heirloom would not have logically carried it aboard an aircraft destined for Romulus. And even if that were so, that he had transported such an artifact across the galaxies, the craft he had chosen had long since perished with the destruction of the Narada. Spock had seen to that himself.
His brow furrowed. Or perhaps he did not know himself as well as he thought.
He didn't quite sigh as he gently placed the instrument in an honored corner of his quarters. There was much to understand and so little he did.
"Bridge to Commander Spock."
"Spock here," he said, noting the voice of Jenkins on Beta shift. He toggled a few switches, activating the two-way screen. "Go ahead, Mr. Jenkins."
"Receiving an incoming communique from New Vulcan, marked urgent and private for your eyes only. Do you accept?"
His eyebrow quirked with amusement. His timing was impeccable, as always. "Please patch it through to my personal console, Lieutenant. Spock out."
Nervousness was an extremely human emotion, but Spock indulged briefly in it; he was half human after all. And what being would not feel some momentary lapse or pang of tension, seeing a walking, breathing version of Self, several decades hence?
Spock stood with his hands loosely behind his back, unconsciously at parade rest. "Ambassador," he intoned when the visage (his visage, his older Self) filled the screen.
"Commander. I trust you are well?"
"As well as can be assumed."
The alternate him nearly smiled, which was, to say the least, quite unusual. Apparently his control had slipped well into his older years. "And I will assume that you received my package."
Spock paused, still uncertain of the correct words. Too many emotions pulsed through him and so many - too many - thoughts were illogical inconsistencies. "Yes," he murmured after a small sigh. "However--"
"You have some concerns. Some...questions, perhaps."
"This lute," Spock blurted, and the emotional rush pained him. "However did you obtain it? Logically it should no longer exist."
"Your logic is not at fault," the Ambassador murmured, and Spock watched as the Ambassador's lip quirked - a grin, surely. Reaching for the lyre, an instrument of great worth now as it was quite extinct, Spock indulgently rubbed his fingers across the frame and the weathered gouges. Every bump, every nick the same - from the time he accidentally dropped it as a child, to the inscription from his father, in his perfect script. He found every nick, every bruise, every knot within the wood. As his fingers caressed the frame he could find no words. Each gouge - whether purposed or not - brought back new, unhindered floods of memories, of Old Vulcan and his childhood. Beautiful memories, all. Of his youth. Of his mother. Of his home.
"How can this be?" His voice trembled as his emotional control stretched taut to breaking. "How did you find it?"
"I cheated," the elder Spock said, and there was no mistaking the small, hidden chuckle as the younger Spock blinked in surprise.
"Explain?"
"Are you familiar with Surien?"
"Of course," Spock said gently. He caressed the lyre once more and plucked one of the strings. The sound stirred something deep within, something both fearsome and glorious. "Surien was a master luthier, one of the premiere artisans on Old Vulcan."
"Is," the Ambassador corrected. "On New Vulcan, rather. Our father commissioned him long ago for your original instrument and he was able to replicate that replacement by memory alone."
"Impossible," Spock said automatically. He was being impudent, he knew, but he felt it was his right, since he was essentially arguing with himself. "The wood is extinct. The gouges, the scratches--"
"Surien has a near eidetic memory for his instruments. He can recall with precision each one he creates and can mimic older constructions perfectly. Many Vulcans have sought his services to repair family treasures, or to replace stolen or destroyed priceless heirlooms."
Spock frowned at the screen, shaking his head imperceptibly. "But such an undertaking cannot replicate scratches. It cannot replicate exanimate forests."
"True. However, Surien did have some wood preserved in his off-world workshops, for non-Vulcan customers seeking unique treasures. As for the information for which Surien had no knowledge, I provided my own limited memories. And I convinced our father to repeat his dedication to the reproduction."
Spock ran his fingers across the fret once more, feeling far more than he could ever express which was good, as logic was the only thing not failing him at the moment. "To...present such a priceless treasure on a trivially minor occasion as one's birthday--"
"Our birthday," the Ambassador gently admonished.
"--our birthday is...highly illogical."
"Perhaps. But there were many nights I sought comfort through Lieutenant Uhura's voice and my--our--lyre onboard the Enterprise. It was well worth the price paid, Commander, so instead why not call it an investment in both our futures?"
Spock's eyebrow quirked at the consideration. He had become quite emotional in his old age. Curious indeed.
"Live long and prosper, Commander."
"Live long and prosper, Ambassador," Spock said; he waited a beat longer than necessary to turn from the screen.
Highly illogical. More than wasteful. Overly indulgent.
Still. He would remember the true price paid and treasure it. Always.
V.
Sickbay was an abject mess. Christine chuckled as she tugged a streamer wrapped 'round a biobed and toed a pile of multicolored confetti littering the floor. She'd only had two drinks from the mysterious sugary sewage doubling as punch, but she still felt giddy from it. Most of how she felt was due to lingering excitement for pulling together Doctor Leonard McCoy's Super Duper Invisible Birthday Bash in little more than two hours. The hard part had been keeping Len from his own Sickbay while she, Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, and Rand hurriedly decorated the place while Jim - and even Spock! - ran him crazy around the ship on trivial medical "emergencies." God, was he livid when he returned. But it was totally, totally worth it to see the shock on his face. It'd been a while since the bridge crew let loose, and although the Captain staved off his third cup, even he got a kick out of ribbing his best friend with the most juvenile presents...good Lord. Len was turning thirty-three, not six! Although honestly, some of the gifts were nowhere near a six-year-old's level.
"Nurse." Christine lifted an eyebrow and checked the third bio-bed. McCoy was on "paid administrative leave" for the next two days by order of the Captain, because what Kirk didn't drink he apparently dumped into his CMO's glass. Who passed out an hour into his own party. "The hell...what th' hell was in that punch?"
Chris laughed. "You really don't want to know, Len. And stay down - I want to make sure you don't have alcohol poisoning."
McCoy snorted and sat up unsteadily, gazing blearily around his sickbay. "Screw that. I'm a McCoy, dammit. We got livers'a steel--"
Christine rushed over as he nearly tipped over backwards, and she had to cover her mouth with her hands to halt the rather unladylike snorts of laughter. McCoy scowled at her, angry that he had to be helped but grateful nonetheless for the assist.
"And apparently bones of spaghetti," she muttered in his ear.
He waved her off and she propped him up. One of his legs dangled the edge of the bed while the other kept him from toppling over again. "Heh. 'Bones' of spaghetti. That's damn-fan-hilarious."
"Len, you're wasted."
"Indeed I am, ma'am," he sighed. His crooked smirk sent a small thrill through Chris. But then, who wouldn't get turned on by that country charm? "Who th' hell came up with this shindig, anyhoo? My soon an' comin' hangover has to thank the lug properly."
She shrugged and hid the full truth from him. "Who knows? I think everyone pitched in. It's not like you've had a proper birthday since you've been on this boat."
"'Cause I'm always busy."
"Bullshit," she chided softly. "You work through them on purpose, you idiot. You keep saying birthdays are good for morale, but then you don't celebrate your own. You're nothing but a hypocrite."
"Am not."
"Are too," she said, pulling up a chair. His eyes lazily followed her and hovered over her cleavage. Although Chris was flattered, the feminist in her wasn't having any of it. "Eyes here, Len."
"Aw. C'mon, Chris. Hell, it's my birthday. An' we could...y'know--" He waggled his brows and she rolled her eyes at him.
"No, you horny old bastard. You'll regret it when you sober up. Besides, you still have one more birthday gift to open and I want you to open it while it's still technically your birthday." She scratched the back of her neck and sighed softly. "Although to be honest I don't think you're in any condition to appreciate it and I don't feel like dragging your drunk ass to your office."
McCoy yawned and scrubbed his hands across his five o'clock shadow. "Got 'sprays if ya need me sober."
"Which are wickedly uncomfortable at this stage of inebriation as you well know, Doctor. You'd be a royal bear if I gave you the 'cure' now."
He shrugged and rested his head against his knees. "Just sayin'."
She briefly checked the bio-bed readouts. Satisfied, she looked at him pointedly. "Do you think you can walk?"
"Mebee. Long as it's not a straight line."
"Okay. Let me help you up--" Chris nearly screeched when he leaned his entire body weight into her and his arm brushed against her breasts. Then she saw the wicked grin marching across his face. "Dammit, you did that on purpose!"
"Damn straight," he muttered, and he winked at her. "Man's gotta have something soft to land on."
"I ought to let you fall."
"An' break your hippocratic oath?"
"That's not what would break if i let you fall. And I'm not a doctor!"
"Yet," McCoy emphasized, waggling a finger in her face.
Chris snorted and smacked his hand. Len wobbled a bit, but he kept his word and walked - albeit shakily - without too much additional help to his office. She grimaced. "You haven't even read my thesis."
"I read part of it," he admitted as she guided him to his couch. McCoy immediately stretched out his long legs and tucked his hands beneath his head. "You were workin' on it after hours an' forgot to log off the terminal."
It frustrated her that he read any of it at all - she wasn't nearly ready to present, and she was twice as anxious that he'd actually read it. She worried about Len's opinion more than anyone else's for some fool reason beyond her.
"Well?" Chris folded her arms across her chest.
"Well what?"
"Am I on the right track?"
It took McCoy a few seconds to realize she was referring to her thesis. "Oh, yeah. I think so. Still, you may wanna checkJSMA, Volume 560..." He waved his hand absently and closed his eyes. "Number Eighty. Page fifty-two."
Chris blinked. "How can you possibly remember that?"
He yawned again and rolled on his side. "Habit. Memorized journal articles durin' my residency days an' never stopped."
"Blessed Aunt Mary's bloomers," Chris said, shaking her head. She scanned his desk for the small disk she'd placed there earlier and absently tapped it. She sat on the desk's edge and glared at him. "And you're drunk, to boot. Doesn't seem fair."
"Heh. Learned to memorize the summaries drunk so I'd never forget 'em."
"Old wives' tale."
"It worked."
"You're just a lucky SOB."
"Smart SOB."
"Smart-assed SOB," Chris countered. "Anyway. Here's your present."
She waited for him to open his eyes again. "It's a vid. But only watch it when you can appreciate it."
"Why? Is it you in a bikini?"
"No, and you're going to really regret saying that. Never mind. Just...watch it when you feel like it."
She got up and wiped off her sweaty palms on her tunic. She wasn't sure why she was nervous; she felt similar with the knowledge that he'd read her thesis. Part of it. But this was a lot more important than her thesis. Crap. Mr. Spock would've said she wasn't behaving "logically" enough and she would have agreed. There was too much at stake, and she wasn't sure if she'd overstepped her boundaries as friend and co-worker.
Chris felt his eyes follow her to the door. "Happy Birthday, Len," she said with a small smile. "For all you've done, you deserve it."
***
Bones wasn't sure what the hell Chris was talking about as she left his office, but he couldn't say the view was bad as her hips swayed passed. God, he was getting as bad as Jim Kirk. He was sure the bastard put some kind of crazy alien aphrodisiac in his damned punch. Didn't make a lick of sense that he was as eager as a fifteen-year-old on his first try. Kirk probably wanted him to "get lucky" or some shit.
"Smarmy bastard," Bones grumbled. He'd put a little something extra in Kirk's hypo during his next round of allergy shots, something that would turn his urine neon green.
Smirking, Len stared at the disk on his desk. If he sat up the world would twist and bend like a broke carny ride but he was curious to see what Chris got him. Probably one of his old Journal of Starfleet Medical Association articles declared for sainthood. He steadied himself and shoved the vid disk into his monitor. Maybe it was some old news report highlighting some research shit back at G--
"Hi, Daddy!"
"Oh...my God--"
Leonard couldn't move, couldn't speak. His breath caught in his throat and he had to grab the couch with trembling hands and slowly sit back down. His baby girl was grinning at him. She was missing her two big chompers and she couldn't look cuter if she tried.
"I know Mommy says we can only talk once a while an' she says when an' how long, but Miss Christine an' Mr. James an' Miss Nyota said I could talk to you from school. My teacher said I could have extra time at lunch if I wanted!"
Leonard sat statue still as if moving would break some sort of spell. He blinked rapidly, realizing tears were falling from his eyes, and he hastily wiped them away with the back of his hands. He couldn't see his own baby girl if he was blubbering like one.
"I made you a picture, see?" She pointed to a crayon scribble of three stick figures and a flying cow. Or at least it looked like a flying cow."That's Mommy an' Mr. Chris an' that's you. An' that's your ship."
"Flying cow...ship, right," Leonard whispered. He wiped his eyes again. "Miss you, little monkey. Miss you loads."
"My teacher said I can talk as long as I want. She'll send you my vid, and you can send me something back! Daddy, can you send me a pony? I want a giant purple space pony, this--" and she reached her arms wide, wider than the screen's capability to compensate "--big! Do they have giant purple space ponies where you are? Mommy says our backyard isn't big enough."
He couldn't stop grinning as Joanna told him all about her life at school, her life at home, and how Chad McMannis kept pulling her hair at recess. He must've played the vid ten times before realizing he had a new Earth standard address that he could send a reply. He hastily grabbed his PADD and scribbled it down. Jocelyn couldn't stop that, now could she? She could try, but come hell or high water he'd fight. He didn't have custody, but dammit he'd be in his Jo's life whether Joss cared or not. And now he could communicate with her whenever he wanted to and the school would let him.
"Thank you, Christine," he murmured. "You, and all Enterprise's damned crazy miscreants."
And as far as Leonard was concerned, there wasn't another happier man in the whole fucked-up universe.