Archive of Our Own

Captain James T. Kirk stared at the mirror and frowned. It definitely wasn’t the lighting in here. His eyes were looking, well, a bit green. Or brown. “Hazel”, he supposed his mom would say. Surely no amount of absinthe last night would have changed his eye color, even if it was some seriously good shit they’d broken out to celebrate their latest against-the-odds survival?

Best be on the safe side, Kirk thought, and banged the comm switch with one hand while he reached for his uniform gold with the other. “Bones?”

A very harried-looking Doctor McCoy appeared on the terminal screen. “This really isn’t a good time, Jim, so if it’s a hangover remedy you need I can only suggest—”

“It isn’t. Bones, my eyes have changed color.”

“Really?” The man sounded surprisingly uninterested. “Look, I just got a report of a crewman found dead on deck twelve, was just gonna call you. You’d best meet me down there, assuming this whole eye thing ain’t about to kill you?”

“Two minutes.”

Bones closed the connection without another word.

Kirk didn’t like the sound of crewman found dead, but at least it hadn’t been crewman found murdered, yeah? Total bright side. He pulled on his shirt, checked his boots weren’t too desperately in need of a polish (could he ask his yeoman to do that kind of thing? On the grounds that’d give him more time for actually running a starship?) and that his hair was still awesome. Ninety seconds later he was stepping out of the turbolift on deck twelve.

“Deck twelve” had been specific enough a direction; as it turned out, the dead crewman was slumped just outside the turbolift doors as if he’d been making for it when he died. Bones was crouched over him, running his tricorder through the air inches above the red uniform shirt.

“Ensign Green,” Kirk murmured, recognising the pallid face and the mullet cut. “He’s, what, twenty?”

“He’s dead, is what he is.” He was lifting the man’s eyelids, muttering.

“Natural causes?”

“Not likely. His routine physical was last week, fit as a damn fiddle. Perfect health. Where’s that idiot with the gurney got to?”

Kirk hung around sickbay while the doctor worked, his gut telling him that this mattered. Bones grew more and more visibly perturbed as each procedure was performed on the corpse, as each new test result came in.

“It’s impossible,” McCoy said at last, leaning his hip against the spare autopsy table.

“What is?”

Bones frowned the frown that made him look fifteen years older. “That man—” he pointed, in case Jim could have forgotten already “—died of classic infantile onset Tay-Sachs Disease.”

“Infantile?”

“It’s fatal by the age of six or so—or it would be, if anyone was actually born with it anymore. And Green was fine last week. It’s as if he went through the whole long, slow decline in five minutes. Which is impossible. I need to spend some time with his complete medical history. Coming?”

But their path from autopsy room to McCoy’s office led them through the main sickbay ward, which was jam-packed with people apparently needing treatment. It was loud, and it pissed Kirk off to see such disorder on his ship. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle.

“Right,” he said, when the room went quiet to look at him funny. “What’s going on here?”

A nurse and another doctor—Chapel and M’Benga, Kirk’s brain supplied helpfully a split-second later than he would have liked—stepped through the crowd.

“They started coming in half an hour ago, Doctor,” Chapel said gravely. “These are just the ambulatory ones.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“All kinds of things. Ensign Smith’s nose has been altered, she says. Benson’s suddenly become short-sighted.”

“Several are noticeably shorter or taller than they were yesterday,” put in M’Benga. “Jones has suddenly acquired third molars and of course they’re impacted. And in the next ward—”

After that it got really busy, and Bones shooed him away.

Since a good portion of his crew seemed to be holed up in sickbay clamoring for attention, Kirk figured he probably ought to be doing something a bit more useful than hanging around waiting for answers anyway. McCoy would call him when he had anything. So he headed for the bridge.

“Spock’s through here,” Bones said quietly, leading the captain down the hall to a private room that afternoon. “Had to sedate him, he was a bit … agitated.” He keyed open the door, and the pair of them stepped in.

Spock lay peacefully on a biobed, his soft slow breaths and the faint chirps of the monitoring equipment the only sounds in the room.

Kirk went closer, gazed down at the familiar face of his first officer made strange by the replacement of the angular Vulcan ears with the black-furred, highly mobile ears of a cat. Kirk found he wanted to touch those ears far more than he’d wanted to touch the old ones, and Spock’s old ears were the sexiest damn ears he’d ever seen.

“Is he—I mean, when you say he was ‘agitated’—?”

Bones made a great fuss of checking equipment Kirk knew for a fact was self-maintaining. “He seemed stressed, rather emotional—for Spock—but still him. We should talk in my office, Jim. Just thought you’d like to check in on him.”

Kirk hovered a minute more, feeling that if it were any of his other people he would just make contact, hold a hand, pat a forehead, but as it was Spock that just wouldn’t be right, would it? It would be like taking advantage of his unconsciousness to violate his people’s touch taboos—well, that was how Spock might see it, anyway.

So he followed McCoy mutely back out of the room, up the corridor, through the main sickbay—which appeared to contain just a couple of patients now—and into the good doctor’s office.

He knew it was serious when Bones did not even glance at the bourbon bottle. They sat. Kirk waited. Eventually, Bones appeared to grow tired of drumming his fingers on the table and not telling his secrets.

“I need it to be clear that what I’m going to tell you is very much in the capacity of ship’s surgeon to his captain, yeah? It’s my job to tell you what you need to know to keep the ship and crew safe, and it’s your job not to go blabbing people’s confidential medical crap unless it’s for the good of the ship, you get that?”

Kirk nodded gravely. In time, he knew, such things would no longer need to be spelled out between them. For now, it was not a reminder he could take offense at.

“Something happened to the whole ship about eight or ten hours ago, Jim. Far as I can figure, what it did was undo certain types of medical procedure folks’d had done very early on in life. Your eyes, for instance. Yesterday you had perfectly normal blue eyes, today they’re perfectly normal hazel. It’s not in your file, but I’ll wager your ma had them altered soon after you were born. Fairly safe inexpensive procedure to perform on a baby, you only have to modify genes in and around the eyes. It’s cosmetic only, you’ll still pass on the genes for hazel eyes.” He gave that a moment to sink in, apparently expecting a minor explosion.

“My mom had my eyes changed? She didn’t like the color?” Reminded her of someone? Didn’t remind her of someone enough? Yeah, that’d be it.

“That’s my guess. People do this stuff all the time. Then there’s Smith. The genetic manipulation she’s had done is on her file. Had her nose reshaped shortly before she enrolled at the academy. Good, pricey genetic work, not surgical, no scars. But she woke up this morning with her original nose and she sure ain’t happy.”

“And Green had Tay-Sachs, so that would have been detected and corrected before he was even born.”

“Uh huh. And for some reason, not only was that alteration reversed overnight so his body couldn’t break down gangliosides right, but it’s as if the damage he woulda sustained living with that disease since birth was all done in the space of minutes. You want my advice, Jim, you go through all the sensor data we have to find out what happened, where it happened, when it happened, and how the hell we can keep it from ever happenin’ again.”

Kirk’s first response to this was to offer to get Spock on it right away. But Spock, of course, wasn’t in any fit state.

“Um, what about Spock? The kitty ears?”

Bones sighed and leaned back in his desk chair. “It’s not just ears. The changes to his genome are pretty staggering. Beyond what anyone on Earth would attempt. But then, when you think about it there was some serious science involved in just getting the guy born. Look, as far as I can figure the Vulcans didn’t get what they expected when they whipped him up in the lab. I suppose I can’t be sure that the unwanted genetic code wasn’t the result of some fool experimentation with non-human, non-Vulcan DNA. But my guess’d be that somewhere way down the evolutionary line Vulcans had ancestors who were kinda catlike, just like you and I had ancestors way back who were kinda gibbon-like.”

“There’s nothing on his file about any tampering?”

“Nada. Not even two lines about how he was even conceived. And it wouldn’t be right to call New Vulcan ‘til I’ve had a chance to speak to him, decide how badly his mind’s affected.”

Somehow, the thought of Spock’s mind being ‘affected’ bothered Jim more than the thought of poor dead Ensign Green whose parents he was going to have to write to. That was likely not a very captainly attitude, but there it was.

“Cheers, Bones. Keep me informed. And do get some sleep, yeah?”

“Why certainly, Doctor Kirk.”

Jim grinned, but not until his back was safely turned.

When Spock woke the world smelled different. He began to stretch, then registered simultaneously that he was somewhere in sickbay and that he was restrained. An odd, frustrated growl forced its way up from his chest. He closed his eyes a moment, murmured a soothing mantra a few times under his breath, and successfully suppressed the frustration.

“Nurse?” he called, somehow instinctively certain that the person nearby was the woman, Chapel.

Sure enough, the doors swished open and Nurse Chapel came in. Her gaze roamed him briefly and her stern face broke into a smile. “Mister Spock,” she said. “Still defying little rules like elimination half-lives, I see.”

Spock reached the obvious conclusion. “I was deliberately rendered unconscious?”

She made a small sound of amusement. “Doctor McCoy claims you were being ‘uncooperative’. I’ll get him, in a moment, he’ll want a word. Do you need anything? A drink, perhaps?”

Even though he was not thirsty, something in Spock could not resist the opportunity to take in fluids. He accepted the offered straw and took several long sips of water.

Chapel smiled as she set the cup aside. Then she reached out, and Spock wasn’t fast enough to protest. She stroked his ear. And it twitched.

Clearly, something unusual was going on here.

The paperwork involved in simply reporting a problem of this scale was apparently endless, Kirk noted with a sigh and a curse-word or seven. Injuries, deaths, people not turning up for their shifts because they were injured and/or dead, not to mention invisible inexplicable space hazards, all had to be noted/catalogued/explained/excused/described/waffled about on the correct Starfleet forms in the regulation font and size using the appropriate vocabulary. It wasn’t as if the universe was hanging on correct completion of these forms, exactly, just that mistakes on these forms tended to generate new forms exponentially. Best to view each and every form as an enemy out to get him and see that he stabbed it to death with his stylus just right on the very first attempt.

He’d been at it for two hours and did not feel as if he was winning, so it was with great relief that he looked up at the sound of his door chime.

“‘S’open,” he called.

The doors parted and Spock walked in. It was difficult not to look at those ears—but, he soon discovered, it was even harder not to stare at the long, black, furry tail that hung down behind.

“Hiya, Spock. Should you be out of sickbay? You’re still, um—” He gestured at the evidence.

Spock nodded his grave, tiny nod. “Cat demon heritage must be dealt with in utero, as was standard practice on Vulcan at the time of my conception. It would seem that my condition was detected and treated prior to my birth, and that our recent … incident unwrote some extremely complex and extensive genetic manipulation. As I am now fully grown, the effort required to alter every cell in my body is too great even for Vulcan scientists.”

An uncomfortable pause, as if he was remembering how few Vulcan scientists remained alive in the universe.

But Kirk was stuck at, “Cat demon?”

Spock’s tail waved unhappily, peeking first around his body to the left, then the right. “Vulcans share a recent common ancestor with a species not unlike your earth domestic felines.”

Kirk couldn’t help his grin. “Your grand-daddy was a sweet little kitty-witty?”

Spock, of course, gave no obvious emotional reaction and simply answered the question. “My paternal grandfather was a Vulcan, as was his grandfather. Were you to trace any Vulcan family line back approximately ten million years, however, you would find a creature which somewhat resembled a panther though built on a smaller scale.”

“Okay, I gotcha.”

“On occasion there are … throwbacks.”

“Who look like you? I mean, like you do now?”

“So I have heard. The technology to detect and correct the condition in a developing foetus has been available for many generations, however.”

Kirk considered this. “And they didn’t tell you? I mean, your folks didn’t tell you that you were a ‘cat demon’ originally?”

“I fail to see the logic in doing so. The condition had been corrected. I was no longer a cat demon in appearance or temperament, and few, if any, of those defective genes remained to be passed on to my own offspring—who would, of course, be subject to prenatal screening and treatment as I myself was.”

“I see. Embarrassing problem solved, no need to admit it to the kid.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You disapprove?”

Kirk shrugged, although he thought he kinda might disapprove at that. “Not my place. Why’s it so embarrassing, though?”

Spock looked as if he very much did not want to answer. His tail, which presently stuck straight up behind him so that its tip was visible over his shoulder, twitched visibly. Eventually, however, he spoke. “Cat demons can be somewhat … volatile. The feline instincts impair the individual’s ability to function logically.”

“I see. So you’re telling me you aren’t fit for duty?”

That had an effect on Spock. He straightened, though he had hardly been at ease before, and gave his commanding officer the most impassive of impassive expressions. “On the contrary, Captain, I am fully prepared to resume my role at this time.”

Kirk couldn’t help it, he prodded. “Yeah? And I won’t find you leaving hair-balls on the science station or shredding people’s uniform pants?”

“Certainly not.”

“No sudden fits of playfulness, no sleeping on random yeomans’ beds, no purring on the bridge?”

“Captain—”

Okay, so clearly that had stung. Bad captain. Bad.

“It’s all right, Spock. I’m assuming Doctor McCoy has cleared your return? Then welcome back. You’ve been missed.”

Spock offered his slightly more formal nod. “Thank you, sir.” And he turned and left the room, his graceful stride as feline as ever, his long black tail swishing behind him.

Spock was … prickly, Kirk thought. He tolerated less teasing than usual before going off in a Vulcan I’m-not-huffing-I’m-simply-returning-to-my-post-now huff. His tail, which emerged from his standard uniform pants in a rather intriguing manner, batted back and forth in disapproval any time someone got too close. Except Kirk himself, for some reason. If he went over to see what his science officer was up to, Spock tended to lean towards him as if gravitationally attracted, and the tail was quiescent.

Spock’s ears rotated in response to sounds, some of them sounds Kirk couldn’t hear, and he flinched at loud noises. Spock had lectured Ensign Baker about the inappropriateness of wearing strong perfume on the bridge, though Kirk’s nose could only barely detect the fragrance. (He’d been lecturing a fair bit lately, particularly after meal-breaks. Kirk suspected the guy was conflicted over a sudden un-Vulcan desire to eat fish.) On away missions, Spock seemed to have acquired a sudden skill in tracking. Clearly, some of Spock’s senses had been improved by his little transformation. So not all bad, really.

This changed about two weeks after The Incident, when Spock began glaring at him. And brushing up against him so often that it couldn’t be accidental. And blowing off their chess games because he required meditation. He wasn’t sure whether, in aggregate, this behaviour meant Spock hated him suddenly or what. If Spock were human … but Spock wasn’t human. Wasn’t even half-Vulcan any more, not exactly. Spock was unique. Spock was just Spock. And hadn’t the first clue what the man—Vulcan—cat—whatever was thinking anymore.

There was only one logical course of action, Spock mused as he stalked the captain silently through the corridors of the USS Enterprise. Instinct, stronger than human, stronger than Vulcan, urged him to mate, to breed. This was inconvenient, and somewhat galling, but when the need was strongest he found it difficult to remember why he minded. In addition, he was now the sole living representative of a unique intelligent humanoid species, and thus it was his obligation to preserve that species through finding a mate and bearing young. Instinct told him that bearing young would pose no difficulty; logic told him to listen to that instinct. At least, he thought it was logic. It was surprisingly difficult to think clearly about these matters. Spock gave his body a little shake as he walked, shrugging off the nuisance that was over-abundant thought on a topic already decided. He would breed.

The mate selection he had made, too, was logical. His intended mate had become the leader of a large group through fighting for dominance, defended his own with great verve, remained capable of reasoned action even after sustaining much damage, was in excellent physical health, and—to judge from the frequency with which he undertook it—found the act of mating itself no hardship. No better candidate offered himself in the immediate vicinity, and Spock did not care to go looking beyond his own unusually wide territory.

The timing was excellent. Spock sensed himself to be fertile at present, and would probably remain so for several days. The ship, meanwhile, was currently on a cargo run which would take at least a week to complete. The captain had taken the opportunity of the straightforward mission to rejig crew assignments so that senior officers might rest and greener ones take more responsible duties for a while. Spock found this decision to be an excellent one, proof that the captain’s decision-making as well as his physical charms constituted—

“So, you’re coming in, then?” Kirk said, lounging against a wall near the door to his quarters and clearly unsurprised to see him.

Spock froze, ears rotating, folding back. He raised an eyebrow.

The captain grinned. “You don’t have to sneak up on me, you know. You’re always welcome.” He keyed open the door and went in.

Spock followed. It was clear that the captain planned to be co-operative. Spock sought to encourage this attitude by shoving the tough little human against a wall and kissing him with great thoroughness. Spock’s body grew aroused and he thrust the evidence against his mate’s hip, deriving pleasure from this friction.

A hand caught in his hair, tugged gently. Spock permitted his captain to breathe.

“Um, okay,” said the captain, somehow making it a question without the benefit of raised eyebrows. His cheeks had more colour and his newly-brown eyes were bright. “Don’t want you to think I’m objecting, but what the hell’s going on?”

Spock blinked, which as far as Kirk could tell was the Vulcan equivalent of looking hopelessly bewildered. “I am not desirable to you?”

Damn it, the man looked actually hurt. Kirk sighed and stroked one of those delightful ears. “Of course you’re desirable,” he soothed. “I’m just a bit surprised, is all. Usually folks give me some warning before they jump me.”

“I will endeavor to employ less subtlety in future.”

Kirk grinned and figured, hell, he could press Spock for his reasons later. Right now, there seemed to be hot crazy sex on offer—and who knew what a real live Vulcan cat demon might be like in bed?

Forceful, as it turned out, seemed to be the best word. He actually heard fabric rip in Spock’s haste to get their clothes and boots off. So he was a bit surprised when Spock suddenly turned and walked away without a word.

Next thing he knew, an impressive spike of lust stabbed Kirk in the groin. Spock was on his knees and elbows on the bed, ass high in the air, tail curled to the side, and looking at him with an expression that was equal parts come hither and oh won’t you please please pretty please. It was, in a word, irresistible. And Kirk was not a man who was known for resisting things at the best of times. He made a visit to the, ahem, entertainment drawer and fished about. The first lube he came up with was strawberry scented and he tossed it back and found something else. Then he was on the bed and oh, god, Spock was so fucking hot around his fingers and what would it be like when—

Spock’s long, light, surprisingly powerful tail struck him in the face. Kirk took this to mean he should hurry the hell up.

Tight as a Ferengi at a charity gala, Kirk thought as he worked his way into the unbelievable heat of Spock’s ass. For an uncomfortable moment, the thought that he was fucking his first officer—blatant fraternization, hello—intruded. But then Spock bucked beneath him and they were off.

It wasn’t the longest ride of his life—Spock being exceptionally squirmy, though pleasant, did not help his staying power—but it was hot in every sense of the word and fuck that tail stroking his back in time with his thrusts was the absolute best kind of maddening. Kirk came apart with a happy cry, caught his breath, then brought Spock off with two sharp strokes of that wicked green cock. Semen spurted, the smell of it not quite right, not quite human. Spock yowled mournfully as Kirk withdrew—then immediately got up, stalked off, and locked himself in the bathroom for half an hour.

This, Kirk thought, running a hand through his hair, was not the reaction he ordinarily got.

He’d given up and was just getting dressed when Spock returned, still naked, very light on his feet. He climbed onto the bed on all fours, hunkering down low, tail high, then turned the strangest look on Kirk. Sort of hopeful and pleading and imperious at the same time. As if they weren’t finished yet and Spock damn well wasn’t going to have him think otherwise.

Works for me, he thought, and began undressing again.

Reporting for duty on time did not appear to be high on his first officer’s priority list for once, Kirk noted as he was dragged up to full wakefulness by the sensation of his morning wood being slowly enveloped in heat.

“Morning,” he grumbled, while his body tried to decide whether it was more pleased at being sexed up than it was annoyed at being woken.

“Captain,” Spock replied, as if he was faintly offended that Kirk would want to speak at this time.

He managed to pry a sleepy eye open, and there was Spock, perched serenely on his cock like a statue of fucking King Arthur on his throne or something, hair perfectly smooth as if he’d stopped to comb it before waking him, furry triangular ears pointed up, and that long black tail wrapped around him like a stole.

Chest, ribs, waist, so smooth beneath his fingers, so inhumanly warm. Beautiful, really, you couldn’t fit a word like “handsome” to Spock. And that cock—he raised his head to admire—so similar to his own and yet a bit green, a bit juicy-looking, a—

“Fuck,” Kirk groaned as his morning alarm sounded, harsh and strident and irritating as it was meant to be.

Spock took him literally and began to move, lifting himself easily on those skinny-strong legs and then dropping down again, tight, so tight, around Kirk’s cock.

“Computer,” he gasped, “turn the fucking alarm off already!”

Silence again, but for the panting.

And then Spock leaned forward, reached out, and those warm alien fingertips settled on his face in precise arrangement.

A stream of filthy thoughts and images flooded Kirk’s mind and he spasmed, body and mind, coming so hard and loud that for long moments noise and heat and pleasure were the entire universe and he forgot entirely about his other senses.

When his mind returned to its usual semblance of order, Spock was walking away. He still had the hard-on from green-hued-hell, but his gait was loose and easy and his tail held at a jaunty angle.

Kirk hoped he wasn't going to take quite so long in the bathroom this morning or the captain was going to be late for the main duty shift.

After the elapse of eighteen standard days, Spock knew from some instinct that he had been successful. He did not, however, know how successful he had been, and it therefore seemed prudent to visit a doctor. He therefore slunk down to sickbay during that portion of the second shift he usually devoted to tedious science department paperwork, time having been made available by the simple expedient of foisting off said paperwork onto the nearest available Ensign seen to be not in strictest possible compliance with all Starfleet regulations. Spock normally allowed his subordinates considerable leeway, knowing as he did that their non-Vulcan heritage rendered some relaxation of correct protocols necessary and occasionally even efficient. But he felt no particular guilt at having this time punished Ensign Jorkin for an error he would typically have ignored. Rank, as the humans said, hath its privileges.

“Well, hi there, Spock,” drawled McCoy in his overly familiar way. “What can I do you for?”

Spock permitted the sickbay doors to close behind him but did not venture within hypospray range of the CMO. “I would prefer to discuss my concerns with Doctor M’Benga in the first instance.”

“I’ll just bet you would.” McCoy’s smile had, Spock thought, a faintly menacing quality to it. “As you can see—” McCoy waved an arm, unnecessarily “—he’s not here. In fact, unless things get real busy around here, he won’t be back on duty ‘til Tuesday. That’s the day after tomorrow, in case our puny Earth days confuse you.”

Spock’s hands jerked slightly as if wishing to enact physical violence upon someone, but fortunately they were behind his back and out of sight. The swishing of his tail, however, which was not entirely under his conscious control, might have been taken for an indication of displeasure.

“So what’ll it be?”

Spock did not want to wait another two days. He needed—he wished—to know at once. He could tolerate McCoy’s attempts to enkindle an emotional response for as long as it took to get his answers, and McCoy could—whatever his faults—be trusted to keep confidences where appropriate. Spock bowed his head slightly in a show of agreement and, since examination would be required, ventured across to install himself upon the nearest biobed.

McCoy’s gaze went straight to the indicator lights as he activated the equipment. “Looks normal—for you, anyway. What seems to be the trouble?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Is every visit to sickbay necessarily the result of some ‘trouble’, Doctor?”

“You tell me.”

Spock controlled his desire to sigh loudly, but could not prevent the sudden twitch of his tail’s last few inches. “I believe I have conceived offspring, Doctor. I wish to know how many and in what state of health.”

Some thirty-six seconds passed before Doctor McCoy seemed able to speak. When he did, his utterance, unsurprisingly, was illogical. “Say that again? I don’t believe it.”

“How would repeating myself render my statement more credible?”

McCoy muttered something idiomatic, which Spock was distracted from translating by the welcome purr of the tricorder as the human finally began his scans. Spock had obtained a medical tricorder on his own initiative, of course, but had been unable to interpret the results to his satisfaction. The good doctor might know even less about cat demons than Spock did, but he had a wider general knowledge of humanoid species and their various reproductive processes and strategies. He also had access to more specialised equipment than Spock’s department could requisition without even human eyebrows being raised. Within fifteen seconds, McCoy had brought over some of that equipment and was employing it with expressions of—if Spock discerned correctly—fascination and faint horror.

“Three,” he said at last. “Possibly four. Quite difficult to tell at such an early stage. Can’t give you sexes. Can’t tell you much, really. No signs of problems. The three I’m sure of all read substantially human. That’s about it, really. Are you taking any vitamin supplements?”

Spock lay back and allowed himself to be lectured on the supreme importance of nutrition at this crucial juncture. He found he did not need to devote a great deal of attention to the information thus imparted, and could allow most of his mind to focus on the important thing.

He was pregnant. At least three offspring. He would not be the last of his kind.

Very slightly, very carefully, Spock smiled.

Spock seemed to have grown tired of him a couple of months back—it happened, even to Jim Kirk—so he was a little surprised when the Vulcan suddenly seized his wrist in the empty turbolift and brought it to his tummy. (His rather rounder than usual tummy, he’d been noticing, but he didn’t think comments like You’re getting a bit podgy there, man, you wanna come thrash me in the gym or something? were likely to improve his working relationship with his first officer terribly much, especially when said first officer was no longer his lover.) Spock’s tail shot out with unerring accuracy to strike the button that stopped and sealed the lift. Kirk’s interest spiked. He wasn’t one to say no to a bit of random lift sex now and then.

And then, beneath his hand, something moved. A sort of roiling, not at all like muscle shifting or digestive gases moving around or anything he’d ever felt in a man’s body. He frowned.

Spock was looking down at him, a certain eagerness or anticipation about his eyes.

“What?” Kirk said, and sounded rather stupid in his own ears.

“Your offspring,” Spock said matter-of-factly. “I understand that humans find the sensation of a foetus ‘kicking’ an important spiritual milestone.”

Kirk froze. “Are you telling me you—that you’re—”

“Breeding,” Spock confirmed, and there was an undeniable air of pride about him.

Kirk slapped him—or he would have, if Vulcan reflexes weren’t so damn quick. Memories of Carol surged up, only it was worse to be betrayed by someone he trusted as deeply as Spock.

Spock’s ears folded down close to his head. “I do not comprehend your reaction, Captain.”

Kirk kicked him in the shin, successfully. Spock did not so much as blink, though presently he took hold of Kirk’s free wrist in a presumably pre-emptive action. “You didn’t tell me, you bastard.” Another thought struck. “Fuck. Please tell me you didn’t come to me just to get knocked up.”

Spock was silent.

A slap in the face now seemed too good for him. Kirk wilted. “Mister Spock, I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be requiring your assistance on my inspection tour of engineering. Kindly report back to the bridge and resume your station.”

Spock frowned and let him go. Kirk turned his back on him and started the turbolift moving again.

“I do not understand him,” Spock admitted, sinking more comfortably into Lieutenant Uhura’s favourite armchair without disturbing Yeoman Rand in her attentions to his cuticles. “He is angry that I have conceived his offspring, and yet he is also angry that I did not tell him at once that I had done so. If he finds the idea so distasteful, why is he not pleased that he did not have to assimilate it for three point four months?”

Nyota looked up from the inadvisable colour modification she was making to Nurse Chapel’s hair. “There may be certain cultural differences here of which you’re not aware, Spock. In general, human couples plan their families together, and the father is involved throughout the pregnancy.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “In what way would it be possible for him to be ‘involved’? I am the one carrying the offspring.”

“A human male would probably want to know about it as soon as you did, see all the scans, fetch you all the strange foods you’re craving, and encourage you to natter on about babies. You haven't let him do any of that.”

Spock thought about this for a time, grateful for the quiet of Nyota’s living area. She had been assigned, he knew, what were supposed to be the captain’s quarters. Jim had preferred to reside among his officers, not in these larger more luxurious quarters that were somewhat remote from the rest of the crew.

“How can I remedy the situation?”

“Wait ‘til he’s not in a huff, for one thing,” Rand said, completing her work and sitting back on her heels to eye him critically.

“That may take a while,” put in Chapel. “Just between the four of us, I think the captain has special reason to react badly in this situation. At the academy, I knew a girl named Carol Marcus. She dated Kirk; he was as serious about her as I’ve ever seen him about anyone, and she seemed pretty smitten too. And then one day she dropped him, began outright avoiding him around campus. Six months later she gives birth to a bouncing baby boy. He was teething when I got my orders, and she’d only just told him. In a letter. Not very sporting.”

There was, Spock reflected as the manicure implements and hair products were put away and the wine and chocolate produced, some definite benefit—beyond the opportunity to practice social interactions with humans—in his having continued to attend these evenings once his personal relationship with Nyota was dissolved. Also, his fingernails had never looked so neat and aesthetically pleasing prior to his acquaintance with Miss Rand.

Kirk looked up from his antique copy of Sports Illustrated as someone settled beside him on a neighboring beanbag in recroom four. This really wasn’t Spock’s sort of place, but whatever.

“Hi,” he ventured, not entirely sure he was ready to be back on speaking terms with Mister I’ll-use-you-for-a-sperm-bank-if-I-want-to.

“I find myself irrationally preoccupied with the idea of consuming cacao-based foodstuffs at this time.”

Kirk looked at him. Not like Spock to blurt out sudden confessions. “You’re craving chocolate? Doesn’t chocolate get Vulcans high or something? Or does that not apply to Vulcans who are also cat demons?”

“I do not know. The desire, at any rate, is for the taste rather than any resulting intoxication. Furthermore, I have lately found myself unusually attracted to raw Earth onions. Perhaps you might join me in consuming some?”

Yep, Kirk thought, I am definitely sensing an olive branch here, even if he’s so clumsy he’s just about beating me over the head with it.

“No thank you, Mister Spock. But you’re welcome to go ahead without me.”

“Captain,” came Spock’s cool voice over the communicator, “I would appreciate it if you would deign to meet me in sickbay.”

Worry hit him hard, making Kirk feel queasy for an instant before he got himself under control. “Is everything all right?”

“I have no reason to think otherwise.”

“I’ll be down in a minute, then.”

“I shall be suitably surprised if you manage that, Captain, given that on average the turbolift requires—”

Kirk clicked his tongue. “You know what I mean. Kirk out.”

He got down there in just under ninety seconds and the first thing he saw was that damn eyebrow, which was attached to Spock, who was lying on a sickbed with his uniform shirt off and a definite bump on display. That the bump had a furry black tail curled protectively around it did not make the scene any less strange.

“Damn it, Jim,” came Bones’s dulcet tones, rating about a six on the disgruntlement scale, “you’d better be here with another alien STD and not as the father-to-be.”

“Sorry,” Kirk replied, feeling suddenly a lot more cheerful, “no weird crotch-related symptoms to report. Hiya, Spock.”

“Captain. Your arrival is timely. I believe the good doctor is just about to start gripping his talismans and waving his divining rods.”

Kirk grinned. Spock had asked him down here just because. Because he wanted to, or whatever. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and took up a post leaning against the nearest wall.

Bones glared, but it was the I’m-fond-of-you-really-you-great-lug glare, not the bona fide Skin Removing Glare of Doom.

“It make any difference to you if I don’t wear gloves for this?”

“Little,” Spock said, “though I would appreciate it if you endeavoured to remain calm while making direct skin contact.”

“Gotcha.” He reached out, and Kirk felt an irrational surge of jealousy as McCoy’s hands began feeling around Spock’s swollen belly, gently moving the tail aside. Then the tricorder came out, along with various other bits and bobs. A full body scan appeared on the nearest screen, which the doctor turned so they could all see.

“Definitely four,” he said. “And they’ve all successfully migrated forward from the area where fertilization took place to the, ah, let’s say uterus and not think too hard about it, that you didn’t used to have. Some new structures are forming; my best guess is that, like a human woman, your body will become capable of lactation by the time gestation’s done, and I’m guessing this other thing will take the place of a birth canal.” He pointed at Spock’s perfectly-normal looking happy trail.

“I’m not promising that you’ll be able to give birth without surgical intervention, but it looks like your body’s gonna give it a shot.” McCoy allowed a few moments for this to sink in.

Spock, now propped up on his elbows, appeared to absorb it with equanimity. “What can you tell me about their health and genetic characteristics, doctor?”

McCoy frowned at his tricorder a minute. “They look healthy enough, all growing nicely, all fairly active in there. Spines look good. One is female, three male—except that clearly that’s not good enough, is it, because you’re pregnant and we consider you male. Okay, three of them have penises, one does not. One reads as XY, one as XX, one I can’t make out and the other’s following the Vulcan scheme with regard to sex chromosomes so I haven’t the first clue. The smallest one does not appear to have a tail.”

Spock nodded slowly and lay back, to stare at the ceiling for some time. “Assuming,” he said at last, “that their development proceeds according to general humanoid norms, how long do you anticipate before they are ready to be born?”

McCoy rubbed his ear absently. “I don’t think they can follow the usual pattern, frankly. Clearly you’re set up for multiple births, yeah? I don’t see how they can possibly be as large as human or Vulcan kids when they’re born. For one thing, you’d be completely helpless seven or eight months in. Your body isn’t built for that strain, your back won’t cope and you’ll struggle to walk. No, my guess is these little ones will be born very small, perhaps in as little as a month’s time, and they’ll grow like Topsy from that point on.”

“I see.” Spock’s frown was just perceptible. “You are sure that the smallest lacks a tail?”

“Not a hundred percent. It could be there, just not so obvious as on the others. Does it matter to you?”

“It would not be logical to be concerned at such a trifle.”

But he was disappointed, Kirk could hear that. He squelched the urge to go over and hug the guy or something. Spock would not appreciate that, and it would send entirely the wrong message.

“Captain. We need to talk.”

Yeah, Kirk thought, ‘cause that’ll be more fun than a slap in the face with a wet fish. But what he said was, “Guess so. In you come, then.” With a casual wave he offered Spock the run of his quarters.

Spock waddled in. He didn’t have the hugest tummy Kirk had ever seen, but it was pretty damn big on that tall, still-skinny frame of his. Spock must’ve gone up several sizes in the uniform department, and Kirk noted that his current blue tunic had slits cut in the side seams so that the stretchy black undershirt beneath showed in a long black triangle over each hip. He helped himself to Kirk’s bed, removed his boots, and propped himself up on pillows. Instantly, he appeared comfortable, even relaxed. For a second, Kirk almost expected him to purr. Instead he yawned and hid it quickly behind a hand. Since when does Spock yawn? Kirk thought. Had he ever seen another Vulcan yawn?

“Captain, I must inform you that Doctor McCoy has employed his authority as Chief Medical Officer to have my shifts reduced from tomorrow. Apparently it is not appropriate for a pregnant person to work two eight-hour shifts daily.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Not really appropriate for anyone, Spock. You’re supposed to have time for play as well as sleep and work, ya know.”

“I have not observed you abiding by this precept.”

Kirk pushed his faint guilt at that away. “Yeah, well. Captains are exempt. So you’ll be splitting your time between science and bridge? Or what?”

“Splitting my time seems the most logical course.” Another yawn. “But I wished to speak with you about … other matters. Will you not sit?”

“Am I gonna need a drink for this?”

“Unknown.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kirk decided, and found himself a bottle and glass before taking a chair.

“For Vulcans, reproductive biology is an uncomfortable topic. The urge to breed is very strong, much stronger than in humans. It is a biological imperative capable of reducing a logical, intelligent Vulcan to the level of a beast. Fortunately, the interval between such outbreaks of hormonal madness is reckoned in years.”

He gave Kirk a look, and received an eye-roll in response. “Okay, I’m with you so far.”

“Cat demon heritage is considered undesirable chiefly because this imperative, though weaker, is far more frequent.” His tail flicked unhappily, and Spock watched it for a moment as if annoyed at its misbehaviour. “A true Vulcan in a breeding frenzy is dangerous. In contrast, I believe I was merely … insistent. My thoughts were muddled but I remained capable of reasoning. I did not wish to be the last of my kind, thus breeding appeared the logical choice. And yours were the best genes available.”

“Yeah, well, I am all kinds of awesome.”

“It did not occur to me that you would not understand this. Is the primary purpose of mating not procreation?”

“You think when two guys fuck they’re trying to procreate?” It was hard not to laugh at the image that invoked, of two hot young studs very earnestly trying to knock each other up and failing, having to repeat the exercise over and over again…

Spock frowned a tiny bit. His ears rotated slightly, like radio telescopes tuning in on some new star. “I regret causing you discomfort, Captain.” His eyes closed briefly. “There are many things about humans I still do not understand. You would wish to commit yourself in some way to the upbringing of our offspring?”

“Of course, you ass.” Jim’s drink sloshed as he slammed the glass down on the table and promptly forgot about it.

“I see.”

Evidently, from that tone, he didn’t see at all. Kirk wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Spock so confused about anything.

“Look, Spock. Let’s just put all that stuff behind us and go on from here, yeah? So you’re pregnant with my kids. Great. I’m sure I’ll be a super-awesome dad and I’ll be wrapped around their little fingers in no time. But what about us?”

“Us, Captain?”

Jeeze, someone needed a bit of therapeutic strangulation here, and for once it wasn’t Jim.

“Do you want me, Spock, or is it only my little swimmers that interest you? Because if you want some kind of ongoing relationship here, you need to fucking tell me about it, okay?”

That little half-frown again. “I am pregnant, Captain.”

Grrrrr. “SO?”

“What would be the purpose of engaging in further sexual—”

“Gee, I dunno, pleasure?” He stopped to calm his breathing and compose a speech about companionship and falling asleep in another person’s arms and becoming such a great team that nothing in the universe could faze you, and how a long-term relationship really mightn’t suck, even with James T-for-tomcat Kirk, but then Spock had to go and open his mouth again—

“You anticipate sexual congress proving pleasurable despite my current condition?”

Kirk gave up. He growled and jumped the bastard—okay, so it was among the more gentle of his jumpings, but it got the point across. And Spock had him pinned to the mattress five seconds after the first kiss broke.

“Captain?”

Stars, he actually sounded shocked. Kirk beamed up at him. “Jim. Just try it. Jim.”

“I believe I have called you ‘Jim’ on a number of—”

“Do it now.”

“Very well. Jim.”

It surprised Spock that he reacted so strongly to the captain’s touch. He supposed that the parts of him that were Vulcan and human must account for it, instinctively recognising sexual activity as having some purpose—strengthening pair bonds, encouraging relaxation?—beyond procreation. But it was odd, because he had felt no desire for such activity prior to being accosted in this manner. The cat in him found it all highly illogical.

They stripped, a highly inefficient joint effort, and because they were touching Spock felt his mate’s desire spike when his belly was revealed. It struck Spock as odd that the evidence of pregnancy could be found so appealing, though the proprietary air with which Kirk examined it went some way towards explicating the matter.

Spock found himself actually trembling as he handled his mate’s penis, and for the first time he began to feel how long it had been since they had last been intimate.

“You see my point,” Kirk said, smug, just as if he had read the thought.

Spock did. He assumed the position.

“Better,” Spock admitted. He was massaging Christine Chapel’s bare left foot, a task he found curiously agreeable despite all that the Vulcan education system had had to say about the evils of unnecessary physical contact. The woman was relaxed, so her thoughts ran in gentle currents, easily blocked or filtered and posing no threat to his sangfroid, and the ability to sense and share her pleasure made him highly efficient at this task as well as providing a benefit for them both. “I believe I may say that we are, once more, getting on well.”

“Mmm,” said Chapel. “I’m glad. You didn’t need the stress of a cold war with the captain on top of the whole pregnancy lark.”

“I do not feel that—”

“Figure of speech,” she grumbled, briefly lifting a slice of cucumber off one eyelid to glare at him.

In the corner, Nyota was still wrapped up in the latest Vulcan-language periodicals he had received from the new colony. Part of him wished she would relocate to this rug, close to him. During the last two days, Spock had felt an unaccustomed desire to be close to people, to be held and pawed and generally have attention paid to him. It was a new facet of his feline instincts which he found faintly irritating but not actually disturbing. It did not occur to him to wonder why this change should have been sudden.

Spock was cooler around his cock than he’d come to expect, but Jim was too distracted by the tight/warm/Spock aspects to pay this observation much mind. Beneath the arm he’d thrown possessively forward across Spock’s belly a baby moved and a fast alien heartbeat ticked. He liked having Spock on his side like this, though apparently any deviation from doggy (kitty?) style was unspeakably perverse to a cat demon and so he’d really had to argue for it the first time. Fortunately, the bigger the kids got, and the more awkward Spock’s belly therefore became, the more he recognised the logic in adapting their “mating procedure”.

“Jim,” Spock croaked, squirming irritably, “you are thinking too much.”

“Yeah? If I had a starship for every time someone’d said that to me—wait a minute, I do.”

Spock, of course, did not laugh. Instead, he employed the subtle hint of grabbing Kirk’s hand and drawing it down to his cock. Which was big and hard and green and had been leaking over that swollen belly which was somehow freakishly sexy and—

Spock squirmed again, almost vigourously enough to knock Kirk backwards off the bed. In retaliation, Kirk bit him on that spot where shoulder becomes neck. There was a more or less permanent greenish mark there these days. Spock went still while Kirk sucked that love-mark in deeper, and merely trembled hard from head to toe when he came.

Mine, Kirk found himself thinking, and Spock shuddered in his arms.

Since it was April first back home, Kirk was not entirely surprised when the big ornate desk in his office hissed at him as he drew back his chair. He was surprised, however, when closer examination revealed the naked form of his first officer curled beneath the desk, lying atop a couple of bloody blankets and a stolen rug and with something small, wet, and wriggly attached to one of his four new nipples. Kirk found himself, inexplicably, entirely lacking curse-words to fit this occasion. Or any words, really.

“Spock?” he managed, crouching down at a safe distance.

Spock looked at him, eyes slightly mad, expression grim. But presently he seemed to soften as if in somewhat delayed recognition.

“Jim?” he said, after a moment, his voice a bit shaky but very earnest. “I will return the rug.”

Okay, so clearly giving birth drove Vulcans loopy. “Of course you will,” Kirk said gently, reaching out to pat Spock’s hand. “But how are you getting on there? May I see the, um—” kitten “—baby?”

Spock shook his head very rapidly back and forth for several seconds, as if the idea terrified him.

“Okay. Listen, I’m gonna need to get Bones up here.”

More head-shaking.

“It’s either he comes here, or you go to sickbay, yeah? Where you should have gone some time ago, by the look of it.”

“He will not interfere.” There was a growl in Spock’s voice now, and his tail appeared to be considering strangling someone.

“Nope. Not unless he has to. But you want to be sure those other three get born safely, don’t you?”

Spock looked doubtful, and pulled his knees protectively up towards his tummy. One big hand hid the child from view.

Bones was there three minutes after Kirk put through the call, looking as if he’d been dragged from some much-needed shuteye. He peered under the desk and scowled.

“Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor not a ve—”

“Don’t you say it,” Kirk warned, not liking the chances of Spock being able to take a joke right now. “You be good, or else.”

Beneath the desk, Spock hissed his agreement with that sentiment.

Later, Kirk mused, he would be reminding Bones of the way his surly demeanour slipped right away to be replaced with a calm, gentle competence as he helped Spock deliver and clean the babies. Even Spock seemed to find the doctor’s presence soothing—or at least he did after the third baby needed a good deal of help to start breathing. Kirk himself wasn’t able to be terribly useful; there wasn’t even room for him to get to Spock and hold him. (Not that he was sure he wanted to be useful, anyway; this whole “miracle of birth” thing looked rather grisly and horrifying from this safe distance.) It was not, in fact, until the four children had been safely born, cleaned up, fed their first meals from the Spock buffet, and had fallen asleep, that Spock could be persuaded to emerge from under the desk.

“You’re coming to sickbay,” McCoy said, in the voice of someone who would cause bloody mayhem if one more person said no to him today.

“Very well, Doctor, if it will please you.” Spock appeared to be ensuring for the fourth time that all of his children were tucked securely into someone’s arms.

Jim had not yet been allowed to hold one, but he’d had a good long peek at the little girl and been struck simultaneously by the thought that it was an ugly, wrinkled little thing and the feeling of overwhelming cuteness. Whatever. They went off to sickbay, Spock striding as regally through the corridors dressed in only a blanket as any ancient monarch might have done in gold-trimmed robes of finest purple velvet.

As if by telepathic signal, all three on-duty nurses were drawn to McCoy’s side to help him with the process of checking babies and—um, birth parent?—Spock were in good shape. Kirk was able to get a better look at the nearest two kids, and noticed for the first time that their eyes seemed to be stuck shut like new-born kittens’. The closest one was about as long as his hand, but looked finished and quite healthy as it lay on the bio-bed clutching the tip of its little slender tail in one tiny fist. They both had teeny-tiny pointed ears, one set furry and one set classic Vulcan.

“Well done, Mister Spock,” Nurse Chapel was saying. “They’re perfect, and just adorable too.”

“Indeed,” Spock said, but he sounded chuffed. That would be the cat demon side messing with the Vulcan control again, Kirk supposed. “Captain?”

Jim jumped, but hurried quickly to Spock’s side. He reached out a hand for Spock’s, thought better of it, patted his shoulder instead. “How you doing?”

Spock’s earnest expression caught him. “I require …” His gaze darted back and forth between the occupants of the room. Then he shifted slightly on the bio-bed so he could speak closer to Kirk’s ear. “I must have a safe place, Captain. You will ensure that my quarters are secure, and warm, and free of this ridiculous human over-lighting? Quiet, too, and there must be no visitors prowling around.”

Paranoid much? “Sure, I’ll go do that now. Shall I wait for you there?”

Spock visibly relaxed, his ears unfolded and his tail ceased its anxious waving. He nodded. “Please return for us in one half hour if these fools have not let me go.”

Kirk gave him another reassuring pat and went on his way, wondering just how long it was going to take before he had his sane, rational Spock back. He needed his lover, and his beloved Enterprise needed her first officer. And, apparently, some kind of crèche.

Spock stepped back into the welcome warmth of his sanctuary again, managing with some effort not to turn to check that he had not been followed. The room smelled good, and when some small noise turned his attention towards the corner where the food synthesiser resided he understood why, for there was his mate dividing a selection of roasted vegetables from a platter across two plates.

“Hi. Haven’t set up anywhere for the kids to sleep, wasn’t sure how soon they’d be crawling and it seems like that’d make a difference. I got us dinner, though, figured you might be hungry?”

It was suddenly exceedingly difficult not to purr. Spock permitted his human to see a small smile, then crossed the room to lay his burdens down in the centre of the bed. Then he found he could not leave them, so he, too, dropped down onto the mattress. He was tired and he hurt, but at least he had his offspring now, safe and sound and out of him.

The captain handed him a plate and a fork, and Spock was too hungry to say thank you, too hungry to keep from the food for even a moment. He dug in. His human set a second plate on the edge of the bed and sat down on the floor to eat, which he did quietly and without filching anything from Spock’s plate which was fortunate since Spock’s control wasn’t solid just now and he was feeling remarkably defensive of his food.

“Dessert?” Kirk said, rising to take their empty plates away. “Drink?”

“Warm soy milk, with cinnamon, would be very welcome.”

And it was. Spock sipped and could not keep from purring, though he had hope he was keeping it quiet enough for human ears to miss.

“So,” Kirk said, his brown eyes sparkling, “I’m a dad, huh?”

Spock raised an eyebrow and resisted the unusual urge to make a humorously insulting remark. Or a painful one, perhaps, if he should remind his human that he already had a son who was probably deeply engaged in the applied study of bipedal locomotion by now.

“Whatcha gonna call them, do you think?”

“I believe it would be appropriate for two of them to receive human names, or names of meaning for you. George, perhaps?”

The captain pulled a face. “Some reminders a guy doesn’t need every day, ya know?”

Spock supposed this was so. “It is common on Vulcan to commit names to offspring in the first few minutes after birth. However, I do not consider it imprudent to wait some period to garner an idea of the personalities of each.”

“No hurry, you mean. Can I—I mean, would it be okay if I, you know, held one?”

Spock assented, only to find that something about the sight of one of his young supported so gently and carefully in his mate’s arms broke an emotional dam inside him. For several minutes he was overwhelmed with emotions he could not name, did not recognise.

“Aurelin,” Kirk murmured softly, almost to himself, rocking the small child with infinite care, “for my late sister in law? Or perhaps … Amanda Aurelin?”

Spock considered this for several seconds and found it a worthy choice. But it was too soon yet to be obliged to use his mother’s name on a daily basis. “Aurelin Amanda,” he offered, “with your surname, I recommend, given that it is an Earth name.”

“Can you teach me yours?”

“Given sufficient time, I might teach you to butcher it.”

Kirk grinned. “I think we have a bet, Mister Spock.”

“Spock?” Sarek said, his eyebrow rising alarmingly as he lurched forward, closer to the screen, staring. And that was when Kirk realised that Spock hadn’t told his dear old dad about the cat demon thing.

Spock did not appear at all guilty or worried as he faced his father’s image, though his tail had snaked around the back of Kirk’s chair in what might have been a comfort-seeking gesture.

“One of the elders is here,” Sarek said stiffly. “I believe our conversation would benefit from his involvement. If you do not object, my son?”

Whatever Spock’s response, it was apparently given in the secret Vulcan language of minute facial twitches, for Kirk neither heard it nor saw it.

Sarek’s image left the display, and footsteps could be heard trailing away into silence.

“He means,” Spock offered helpfully, “that he hopes the presence of another will curb the worst excesses of my unacceptably emotional temper.”

“Or he just doesn’t have a darn clue what to say to you.”

“That is a possibility.”

“Or he just needs to step out for a mo so he can scream where you can’t hear him.”

“That is not.”

The Vulcan elder turned out to be someone very familiar indeed. And the universe didn’t explode, which was always a bonus.

“Ambassador,” said Spock, bowing his head as if unwilling to meet his other self’s gaze.

“Commander Spock. Captain Kirk. It is most agreeable to see you. I must, however, observe that there have been … changes since last we spoke.” There was a twinkle of mirth in the old brown eyes.

“Yup,” Kirk said, grinning. “Didja know he had these cat demon genes? There was a little accident or spacial phenomenon or some such oddity—these things happen to us rather a lot, you know, but can’t complain. Anyhoo, lots of my crew had their noses reverted to earlier forms and suchlike. I used to have blue eyes, you know. Poor Spock got stuck with a tail. And a desire to, um, well, this is awkward—”

Spock’s tail flicked out to strike him in the side of the head. It wasn’t painful, but it did shut Jim up.

“Being uncertain of the proper mode for such a disclosure, father, I delayed informing you.”

“Can it be reversed?” Sarek said, quite calmly and reasonably in Kirk’s opinion.

Spock’s tail swished angrily.

“No,” Kirk put in quickly. “Not likely. And I don’t think Spock would go for it, anyway. Besides, he’s dead helpful on landing parties, sniffing things out, climbing trees and such. He’s a much better mouser than Keenser. And he’s happy—in a very Vulcan way, of course.”

“Also,” said Spock, tail still swishing, and with a hissing tone to his voice, “we have offspring. Four. A healthy contribution to re-population efforts, I am sure you will agree.”

“Four?” Sarek repeated, as if that was the only word he’d heard and he was waiting for the rest.

“Yours, Jim?” murmured Elder Spock.

Jim couldn’t contain his fierce grin. “Mine.”

The old man dipped his head in the suggestion of a bow. “My congratulations. You must all visit when convenient. Perhaps you might arrange an interval of shore-leave, Captain, for your entire crew upon New Vulcan? It is hardly a pleasure planet, but I believe there are ample—”

“Four?” Sarek repeated. “Four—grandchildren?”

“Affirmative, father. One female, three male. At least insofar as I may be considered male. Jim has named the female Aurelin Amanda. I hope you will approve of this choice.”

Elder Spock’s eyes still sparkled. “In this case,” he said with all apparent gravity, “I believe I may safely contrive for T’Pring to accept Stonn’s extremely unorthodox offer for her hand. Will you require a Healer to sever the Bond?”

Spock—the real—no, the other—this was confusing… Jim’s first officer looked at him. “I do not believe any assistance will be necessary… at this end. The Bond has been dormant for some time; it may have perished spontaneously in the trauma of our planet’s demise. Indeed, I am somewhat surprised to hear that T’Pring lives still.”

“She would have made trouble, anyway,” Elder Spock was saying, apparently to himself—himself himself. “It is for the best. Let Stonn take her, and hope his blood is never found impure. Let Stonn claim her, and take pains never to become a legend…”

Kirk cleared his throat. “Right, if that’s everything—” he managed a smile “—how about we say our farewells and clear this channel for some other ridiculously awkward conversation?”

It was amusing that three Vulcans who all claimed not to suffer such things as embarrassment could agree so quickly and so vigourously with that suggestion.

“Next time,” Kirk said softly, glancing towards the crib that held four infants all cozied up together before snuggling once again into Spock’s chest, “you need to talk to me about the breeding, yeah? We need to decide like grown-ups, not hormone-driven animals, whether we can handle more kids.”

Spock frowned, feeling the logic of the scolding, and the ear he wasn’t lying on started an irritable tic. “I am not sure that will be possible, Jim. I was, as you say, in heat, and my thought processes still appeared logical to me even when I was…” He could not immediately find words to describe his highly questionable conduct.

Kirk smirked. “Throwing your commanding officer against walls and demanding he screw you silly?”

“Indeed. It would seem probable that when my body once more decides that mating season has arrived—and it may be soon—my behaviour will be similar.”

“Okay. Then we’ll be speaking to Bones about contraceptives, because it’s difficult enough to run a starship while raising four babies, I don’t want to have to try it with four terrible toddlers and half a dozen newborns.” He shuddered delicately.

“Agreed,” Spock said, and tried to squelch the tiny part of him that, yes, he could admit it, wished to bear more offspring as soon as possible.

“Christopher,” Jim murmured suddenly, “after Admiral Pike. For the one with the grey ears.”

Spock pondered this for a moment and found it good. “Skon. The child who lacks a tail. For my father’s father, who translated Surak’s teachings into English, another kind of bridge between our worlds.”

Jim smiled. “Skon,” he tried experimentally. Frowned. “Help me get a bit closer to that vowel sound?”

Spock obediently repeated the name, then gave it again in its un-transliterated form.

Jim pulled a face, then made another attempt. Spock nodded his approval. Improvement had been made, and it pleased him that his mate should make such an effort. Vulcans were quite accustomed to having their names simplified for human tongues and human typesetting.

“Okay, so that just leaves one little baby Kirk-Spock with no name.”

Spock gazed at the children. Aurelin was just visible, her tail poking out beneath the pile of brothers keeping her warm. Skon was examining his surroundings with one newly-open eye, which was still blue but would not likely remain so. One of the ears of the unnamed boy could be identified, most of it obscured by one of Christopher’s limbs but the distinctive, hairless Vulcan pinna tip clearly apparent. The child’s tiny fist closed on a tail, brought it to his mouth. He chewed with his toothless gums, not seeming to mind that it was someone else’s tail and that someone was not in favour of such familiarity at this time. Kirk jumped at the injured squawk from the child, but Spock calmed him with a hand and the cry was not repeated.

A shot of something wicked zinged through Spock as he looked at that infant. “Leonard,” he said firmly. “That child’s name is Leonard.”

Kirk’s laughter could be heard several cabins away.