[fic] Thursday's Child (ST AOS)
Thursday's Child
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Rating: all ages
Ship: none, or embryonic McCoy/Spock
Summary: “You know,” he says, “if the Benthe really thought giving us this kid would make us stop arguing, they didn’t do a whole lotta thinking beforehand. And they sure as hell don’t know us.”
A/N: 1,600 words. For princess-mir, who requested baby fluff on the st-xi-kink-meme. Well ... there is a baby. And Leonard's kind of a sap. Apologies to the Gershwin brothers, for what I've done to "Summertime." No mpreg.
Leonard is singing. He feels vaguely ridiculous, but his small audience has stopped crying and seems engrossed, so he keeps it up, making up the lyrics as he goes:
“Enterprise,
Where the livin’ is scary
Missions are deadly
And the captain’s insane.
Oh, your Spock-daddy’s nuts
And your Bones-daddy’s grumpy
But hush little baby
Don’t you cry.”
He goes on for a few more stanzas. Fortunately, the baby falls asleep just as his throat begins to hurt. Swaddled in a cotton blanket, he lies curled on Leonard’s chest, butt in the air, one tiny hand wrapped around Leonard’s index finger, and his pink lips folded in a pout. Leonard cranes his neck and presses his own lips gently to the silky-fine dark brown hair.
He lies back with a sigh and stares at the ceiling.
After a while, the door chimes.
“Enter,” Leonard says softly.
It’s Spock. Standing at ease, he says, “I had thought to find you in Sickbay.”
“Keep your voice down.” Pushing himself off the bed, cradling the infant against his chest, Leonard says, “Too much activity. Too many people cooing over him. I thought he’d sleep better here.”
“You should have informed me.”
The words Oh, so suddenly you do care, you emotionless asshole? jump to his lips, but he swallows them back. The corners of Spock’s mouth are turned slightly downward, and there’s tension in the line of his shoulders. He’s agitated, Leonard realizes. For Spock.
“Sorry,” he says. “Wasn’t thinking. He was wailing his head off, and…” He looks down at the baby and finds himself half-lost in the gentle curl of those dark, dark lashes. “Damn it, Spock, he needs a name.”
Without missing a beat, Spock says, “Why, then, have you not yet assigned one to him?”
“Why have I…? Da-” He shakes his head. “I thought,” he says instead, his gaze still on the infant’s relaxed features, “it was something we should come up with together. Since he’s ours.”
“The extent to which he is ‘ours’ remains to be determined. Unless you have already conducted the DNA analyses I suggested?”
There’s doubt in his tone, and anger burns in Leonard’s belly. In a tight voice, he replies, “No, I haven’t. Just a standard exam, to see if he’s healthy. Which he is, in case you were wondering. I’ll get to the rest, but… Spock, look at him. Look at his ears. You can’t deny he’s part Vulcan and part human.”
“I cannot deny his appearance. However, without careful and extensive study of his genetic makeup, I cannot accept your conclusion. I speak from a scientific standpoint. Moreover, I advise you not to become overly attached to him.”
“Too late,” Leonard murmurs, hoisting the baby so he can press his cheek to the soft hair.
“I feared as much. You must be aware, Doctor, that Starfleet is likely to insist he be removed from the Enterprise and brought to a research facility.”
Leonard sighs heavily. “You know, Spock, sometimes I wonder…”
“What do you wonder, Doctor?”
If you have a heart at all. “Nothing. Never mind. Believe me, I’ve thought of how Starfleet’ll react. I don’t give a rat’s ass. And before you tell me I’m being overly emotional - I’m a scientist too, damn it. I want to know where he came from as much as you do. But you don’t understand. I’m not sure you can understand…”
“What is it that your considerable knowledge of Vulcan psychology leads you to believe I am incapable of understanding?”
Leonard doesn’t miss the sarcasm - in the words if not the tone - but he ignores it. “When Joanna was born, I knew without a doubt that she was mine. I don’t mean biologically, even though she is. I can’t explain it in terms of logic. The connection was immediate, it was emotional, physical, and profound. She was mine, and I’d’ve done anything in the universe for her. Anything.” He closes his eyes, and for a second he’s back in Atlanta, cradling his daughter for the first time.
Spock is quiet for a long moment. At length he says, “And you are saying that you feel the same … connection … toward this … child of indeterminate origin?”
“I dunno, Spock,” Leonard says wearily, opening his eyes. “It’s a similar connection. Jo may not have been grown in an alien lab like this fellow here…”
“I see. I must remind you, Doctor, that the Benthe are moderately empathic, and you have, on occasion, proven particularly susceptible…”
“Are you suggesting I’m being manipulated? Spock, it’s a baby. Anyone with an ounce of empathy - and I’m not talking about mind-control, I’m talking about the ability to feel for another hu-”
Perhaps sensing the tension in the room, the baby makes a choked little sound, then starts to cry. Leonard shoots a See what you did glare at Spock, then rises, rocking the baby gently in the crook of his arm. “Shh,” he murmurs. “There, there.” The baby’s diaper doesn’t seem full, so Leonard carries him into the head, where he left the bottle of formula. Hitching him closer, he tries to get him to accept the rubber nipple.
“You know,” he says, “if the Benthe really thought giving us this kid would make us stop arguing, they didn’t do a whole lotta thinking beforehand. And they sure as hell don’t know us.”
“Perhaps,” says Spock from right behind Leonard.
He flinches. “Damn it, man. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I was not sneaking. I do not think that he is interested in the bottle.”
“I can see that! Of course he’s not interested. He’s uncomfortable. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
“I do not see how,” Spock remarks blandly. “Given the fact that you have been holding him all this while, and I have not yet been permitted.”
Leonard drops the bottle back onto the sink and whirls to face Spock. “Permitted? Are you suggesting I-” He stops abruptly. A subtle change in Spock’s expression, one he can’t even describe, causes him to flush with shame and drop his gaze to the now-squalling infant. Somewhat to his surprise, he hears himself say, “Would you like to hold him?”
“I would not object,” says Spock, “if you were to hand him to me.”
That’s a yes. Sort of.
“All right,” says Leonard. “Well. Sit down.” He pokes his chin in the direction of the toilet. When Spock is seated - stiffly - he holds the infant toward him, instructing him to, “Hold him like I’m holding him. See? You gotta support his little head…”
“I understand.”
He seems to, though Leonard doesn’t imagine he’s held very many babies in his life. They’re a sight, the pair of them. Except for the nose and chin, which are definitely Leonard’s, they look alike. Oh, the eyes are dark blue, but they’ll turn brown eventually. The baby’s soft cheeks, which were pink while he slept, are now splotched greenish as he cries. The tips of his ears are pointed. Somehow, though - and this is an observation Leonard knows he’ll be keeping to himself - he smells like he belongs to both of them. Not that he smells like either one of them. It’s just, when Leonard kissed the soft hair and inhaled … he knows what he felt.
He moves a little closer to Spock and crouches beside him.
Without looking up, Spock says, “He is still crying. I do not know why he is still crying.”
“I thought you were a touch-telepath.”
“I am, but he is too young to formulate thoughts. All I can sense are emotions, and chaotic ones at that. Fear. Confusion. I do not know how to communicate our intentions to him.”
“Talk to him.”
“He would not understand me.”
“Hell, I don’t understand you half the time. But he’ll understand your tone. If you know any lullabies, sing to him. It’s what I was doing before you came over.”
Spock slants a glance his way. “Perhaps…” He starts to pass the baby back, but Leonard stops him with a hand on his arm.
“You hold him,” Leonard says. “I’ll sing. How’s that?” Spock does not reply, so he gathers his breath and starts:
“Enterprise
Where the livin’s excitin’
You never know
What you’re goin to find
But you got my heart
And you got his logic
So hush little baby
Don’t you cry.”
His cheeks burn with embarrassment and he has to stop, but at least the baby’s stopped crying. Now he’s just lying in Spock’s arms, blowing bubbles against the blue uniform shirt.
“It would seem he has a curious affinity for the sound of your voice, Doctor,” Spock says.
“How ‘bout that?” Leonard reaches over Spock’s arm and pokes the baby’s nose gently. Once more, the tiny hand latches onto his finger. “Good grip. I think he’s got some of your Vulcan strength. Yes you do, yes you do. Look,” he continues, his gaze on the drying cheeks, “I know I’m probably one of the last people you’d want to have a baby with, and I know you still have questions about where he came from. So do I. But he exists. He was entrusted to us, and I want to do right by him. I think you do too.” He clears his throat. “Incidentally, I was thinking about names, before. I was thinking David.”
“A human name.”
“It was my father’s name.”
“I see. I have no objections to David.”
“Good. Actually, I was thinking his full name should be David Grayson. I know that’s two human names, but…”
“David Grayson is a satisfactory name.”
Something in Spock’s tone hooks Leonard and he glances up. Maybe it’s his imagination, maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he swears there’s a glimmer of wonder in the brown eyes that he’s never seen before, and a lift to the corners of his lips.
“We’re not giving him away,” Leonard says. “No matter how the Benthe made him, no matter what Starfleet says.”
Spock’s gaze settles on Leonard. “No,” he says, “I do not believe we are.”
3/24/10
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Rating: all ages
Ship: none, or embryonic McCoy/Spock
Summary: “You know,” he says, “if the Benthe really thought giving us this kid would make us stop arguing, they didn’t do a whole lotta thinking beforehand. And they sure as hell don’t know us.”
A/N: 1,600 words. For princess-mir, who requested baby fluff on the st-xi-kink-meme. Well ... there is a baby. And Leonard's kind of a sap. Apologies to the Gershwin brothers, for what I've done to "Summertime." No mpreg.
Leonard is singing. He feels vaguely ridiculous, but his small audience has stopped crying and seems engrossed, so he keeps it up, making up the lyrics as he goes:
“Enterprise,
Where the livin’ is scary
Missions are deadly
And the captain’s insane.
Oh, your Spock-daddy’s nuts
And your Bones-daddy’s grumpy
But hush little baby
Don’t you cry.”
He goes on for a few more stanzas. Fortunately, the baby falls asleep just as his throat begins to hurt. Swaddled in a cotton blanket, he lies curled on Leonard’s chest, butt in the air, one tiny hand wrapped around Leonard’s index finger, and his pink lips folded in a pout. Leonard cranes his neck and presses his own lips gently to the silky-fine dark brown hair.
He lies back with a sigh and stares at the ceiling.
After a while, the door chimes.
“Enter,” Leonard says softly.
It’s Spock. Standing at ease, he says, “I had thought to find you in Sickbay.”
“Keep your voice down.” Pushing himself off the bed, cradling the infant against his chest, Leonard says, “Too much activity. Too many people cooing over him. I thought he’d sleep better here.”
“You should have informed me.”
The words Oh, so suddenly you do care, you emotionless asshole? jump to his lips, but he swallows them back. The corners of Spock’s mouth are turned slightly downward, and there’s tension in the line of his shoulders. He’s agitated, Leonard realizes. For Spock.
“Sorry,” he says. “Wasn’t thinking. He was wailing his head off, and…” He looks down at the baby and finds himself half-lost in the gentle curl of those dark, dark lashes. “Damn it, Spock, he needs a name.”
Without missing a beat, Spock says, “Why, then, have you not yet assigned one to him?”
“Why have I…? Da-” He shakes his head. “I thought,” he says instead, his gaze still on the infant’s relaxed features, “it was something we should come up with together. Since he’s ours.”
“The extent to which he is ‘ours’ remains to be determined. Unless you have already conducted the DNA analyses I suggested?”
There’s doubt in his tone, and anger burns in Leonard’s belly. In a tight voice, he replies, “No, I haven’t. Just a standard exam, to see if he’s healthy. Which he is, in case you were wondering. I’ll get to the rest, but… Spock, look at him. Look at his ears. You can’t deny he’s part Vulcan and part human.”
“I cannot deny his appearance. However, without careful and extensive study of his genetic makeup, I cannot accept your conclusion. I speak from a scientific standpoint. Moreover, I advise you not to become overly attached to him.”
“Too late,” Leonard murmurs, hoisting the baby so he can press his cheek to the soft hair.
“I feared as much. You must be aware, Doctor, that Starfleet is likely to insist he be removed from the Enterprise and brought to a research facility.”
Leonard sighs heavily. “You know, Spock, sometimes I wonder…”
“What do you wonder, Doctor?”
If you have a heart at all. “Nothing. Never mind. Believe me, I’ve thought of how Starfleet’ll react. I don’t give a rat’s ass. And before you tell me I’m being overly emotional - I’m a scientist too, damn it. I want to know where he came from as much as you do. But you don’t understand. I’m not sure you can understand…”
“What is it that your considerable knowledge of Vulcan psychology leads you to believe I am incapable of understanding?”
Leonard doesn’t miss the sarcasm - in the words if not the tone - but he ignores it. “When Joanna was born, I knew without a doubt that she was mine. I don’t mean biologically, even though she is. I can’t explain it in terms of logic. The connection was immediate, it was emotional, physical, and profound. She was mine, and I’d’ve done anything in the universe for her. Anything.” He closes his eyes, and for a second he’s back in Atlanta, cradling his daughter for the first time.
Spock is quiet for a long moment. At length he says, “And you are saying that you feel the same … connection … toward this … child of indeterminate origin?”
“I dunno, Spock,” Leonard says wearily, opening his eyes. “It’s a similar connection. Jo may not have been grown in an alien lab like this fellow here…”
“I see. I must remind you, Doctor, that the Benthe are moderately empathic, and you have, on occasion, proven particularly susceptible…”
“Are you suggesting I’m being manipulated? Spock, it’s a baby. Anyone with an ounce of empathy - and I’m not talking about mind-control, I’m talking about the ability to feel for another hu-”
Perhaps sensing the tension in the room, the baby makes a choked little sound, then starts to cry. Leonard shoots a See what you did glare at Spock, then rises, rocking the baby gently in the crook of his arm. “Shh,” he murmurs. “There, there.” The baby’s diaper doesn’t seem full, so Leonard carries him into the head, where he left the bottle of formula. Hitching him closer, he tries to get him to accept the rubber nipple.
“You know,” he says, “if the Benthe really thought giving us this kid would make us stop arguing, they didn’t do a whole lotta thinking beforehand. And they sure as hell don’t know us.”
“Perhaps,” says Spock from right behind Leonard.
He flinches. “Damn it, man. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I was not sneaking. I do not think that he is interested in the bottle.”
“I can see that! Of course he’s not interested. He’s uncomfortable. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
“I do not see how,” Spock remarks blandly. “Given the fact that you have been holding him all this while, and I have not yet been permitted.”
Leonard drops the bottle back onto the sink and whirls to face Spock. “Permitted? Are you suggesting I-” He stops abruptly. A subtle change in Spock’s expression, one he can’t even describe, causes him to flush with shame and drop his gaze to the now-squalling infant. Somewhat to his surprise, he hears himself say, “Would you like to hold him?”
“I would not object,” says Spock, “if you were to hand him to me.”
That’s a yes. Sort of.
“All right,” says Leonard. “Well. Sit down.” He pokes his chin in the direction of the toilet. When Spock is seated - stiffly - he holds the infant toward him, instructing him to, “Hold him like I’m holding him. See? You gotta support his little head…”
“I understand.”
He seems to, though Leonard doesn’t imagine he’s held very many babies in his life. They’re a sight, the pair of them. Except for the nose and chin, which are definitely Leonard’s, they look alike. Oh, the eyes are dark blue, but they’ll turn brown eventually. The baby’s soft cheeks, which were pink while he slept, are now splotched greenish as he cries. The tips of his ears are pointed. Somehow, though - and this is an observation Leonard knows he’ll be keeping to himself - he smells like he belongs to both of them. Not that he smells like either one of them. It’s just, when Leonard kissed the soft hair and inhaled … he knows what he felt.
He moves a little closer to Spock and crouches beside him.
Without looking up, Spock says, “He is still crying. I do not know why he is still crying.”
“I thought you were a touch-telepath.”
“I am, but he is too young to formulate thoughts. All I can sense are emotions, and chaotic ones at that. Fear. Confusion. I do not know how to communicate our intentions to him.”
“Talk to him.”
“He would not understand me.”
“Hell, I don’t understand you half the time. But he’ll understand your tone. If you know any lullabies, sing to him. It’s what I was doing before you came over.”
Spock slants a glance his way. “Perhaps…” He starts to pass the baby back, but Leonard stops him with a hand on his arm.
“You hold him,” Leonard says. “I’ll sing. How’s that?” Spock does not reply, so he gathers his breath and starts:
“Enterprise
Where the livin’s excitin’
You never know
What you’re goin to find
But you got my heart
And you got his logic
So hush little baby
Don’t you cry.”
His cheeks burn with embarrassment and he has to stop, but at least the baby’s stopped crying. Now he’s just lying in Spock’s arms, blowing bubbles against the blue uniform shirt.
“It would seem he has a curious affinity for the sound of your voice, Doctor,” Spock says.
“How ‘bout that?” Leonard reaches over Spock’s arm and pokes the baby’s nose gently. Once more, the tiny hand latches onto his finger. “Good grip. I think he’s got some of your Vulcan strength. Yes you do, yes you do. Look,” he continues, his gaze on the drying cheeks, “I know I’m probably one of the last people you’d want to have a baby with, and I know you still have questions about where he came from. So do I. But he exists. He was entrusted to us, and I want to do right by him. I think you do too.” He clears his throat. “Incidentally, I was thinking about names, before. I was thinking David.”
“A human name.”
“It was my father’s name.”
“I see. I have no objections to David.”
“Good. Actually, I was thinking his full name should be David Grayson. I know that’s two human names, but…”
“David Grayson is a satisfactory name.”
Something in Spock’s tone hooks Leonard and he glances up. Maybe it’s his imagination, maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he swears there’s a glimmer of wonder in the brown eyes that he’s never seen before, and a lift to the corners of his lips.
“We’re not giving him away,” Leonard says. “No matter how the Benthe made him, no matter what Starfleet says.”
Spock’s gaze settles on Leonard. “No,” he says, “I do not believe we are.”
3/24/10