Stella enjoyed having time alone. Mostly because, if she felt the need to call or question things, she would be answered by every possible parent. Immediately.
She had found a mountain of boxes in the back of the closet in Daddy's office. They were never unpacked; there was no need for substitution or sentiment. The boxes contained all the things that reminded Kirk of the others. But they were there, and the boxes were eagerly forgotten.
Some were too heavy. Deciding not to call for help, she left these alone and skimmed all she could reach.
She lifted the lid of the lightest box, and was thorough in emptying it. Her imagination was invited to pick up something bright.
A shirt; blue.
Having shaken the dust away, she tugged it over her head. Her wrists were caught only halfway down the sleeves, and she flapped them in delight. She considered it a dress, and rolled the sleeves up as tightly as she could, before wandering to the kitchen.
She would walk regally. She would be a princess.
Papa saw her first, sitting at the table and reviewing submissions from Spock's students.
"That's one of Father's shirts," he told her, even though she did not ask, "Daddy would love to see it."
She agreed on wearing it until he arrived at home.
"Oh, Stella," he said, upon opening the front door, "Where did you find that? I've been looking for it for years."
She was hoisted onto his shoulders, placing both hands on his head and letting the sleeves dangle between his eyes. When they reached her room, she sprawled across her bed and requested a story:
"About the shirt," she proposed, dragging the sleeves over her knees.
The story took several consecutive nights to complete. It encompassed their meeting – Daddy's and Father's – and all of the trips they took together.
"Papa has one like it, too," Daddy said, in breathless conclusion, "Do you wanna hear that story?"
Her quick nod seamlessly combined Papa's authenticity with Father's alacrity.
She wore one of the fabled shirts to sleep every night, until both were haunted by holes. Papa offered to repair them, after digging through medical displays to find a needle.
…
One of her earliest observations was met with pride. She approached Spock, as he was setting up the chessboard.
When she reached for his chest, he did not retreat. After four years of careful experiment, he knew she possessed no Vulcan intuition of touch.
She peeled the chain from beneath his shirt, and stared intently at the ring.
"You all have one like this," she announced.
"Yes," Spock said. He substituted 'that is true' for the more affectionate 'you are correct.'
"Why?"
"It is a human tradition," he said, "It displays marriage. You have learned about this; they serve as a physical reminder of an emotional connection."
Spock aligned the game-pieces, while Stella watched.
"Do you have further questions?" he began, as she jumped into the seat across from him.
"Can I play with you?"
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow, and peered at her from between two pawns.
"If you allow me to teach you."
She argued that she had watched Daddy play with him before, and could copy the memorized patterns.
"There are hundreds of trillions of patterns. While your memorization is admirable, it is not logical."
Stella shrugged, and allowed Father to teach her the names and directions of each piece.
They remained there, late into the night. Kirk arrived home, and found them too entranced to notice. He placed a hand on each of their backs.
Slowly, they turned.
"Father taught me it," she said.
"Did he let you win?"
Stella shook her head.
Spock offered an incredulous expression, while Kirk laughed and pulled a chair up beside their daughter.
"Maybe together," he said, "Two is always better than one."
…
Sometimes, Stella wore glasses.
The reasons all revolved around Daddy: she shared his allergy, but also desperately enjoyed emulating him.
Spock created them for her, after McCoy guessed at their prescription.
She kept them in a case on the mantelpiece, as she enjoyed sitting and reading before the fire. Spock procured a collection of genuine paperback books, and checked her progress daily.
When she reached to tuck her hair back, the glasses slid further down her nose. She sighed and corrected them, after setting down her book. She would remember the page she was on, and the sentence.
She returned her focus to the story, mouthing the words as she read. Daddy taught her this method, and she always thought of him when wearing her glasses. Father's lips did not move when he read, nor did Papa's. She wondered if they remembered any of the words, that way.
McCoy was almost afraid to approach her, and interfere with the world her mind was creating.
But he took another step forward, each time she shoved her hair out of her eyes.
"Here," he said, tapping her shoulder then pointing toward Daddy's recliner, "Come sit with me."
Her eyes protested, in a way McCoy found warmly familiar; with or without the glasses, they were Kirk's.
"You can read to me, if you want."
She agreed, and described the braids she wanted in exchange.
When Daddy told her stories, he never read them. Spock said they were all true, and that he had merely memorized them. She tried to make up a story, and blend it with those within the book. She began by ceremoniously removing her glasses, and setting them on the table.
"That's exactly what your Daddy would do," McCoy said, meticulously separating strands of her wavy hair.
She beamed.