Chapter Text
Laira
Michael's hand holds hers like a tractor beam, as if she's an errant shuttle unable to dock on her own. She has no thrusters or sensors it seems as they stand in sickbay, hand in hand.
Dr. Culber is charming, and warm, carrying the same kind of smile as Michael. There's a gentleness to him that goes past professional; he's Michael's family.
The little hitchhiker's family. Laira's too, when she remembers how that feels.
Michael squeezes her hand, drawing her attention. "My quarters?"
Her home. Laira nods, speaking keeps eluding her.
"Zora, beam us to my quarters, please." And they pop from sickbay to Michael's quarters. The lines are antique, like the rest of her ancient ship, and it's familiar now, even homey.Its been years since she was on one ship enough to feel like home. Headquarters is an extension of her position, not home, but the reds and oranges of Michael's quarters, are her, and Michael tugs at her like an anchor, promising safe harbor. That feeling's been gone so much longer than home. Laira's eyes sting, and she sneezes, and again, and the third time Michael laughs, turning to her to wipe her eyes.
"Are you all right?"
Disconcerting, surprising, wonderful, unreal — what words does she have?
"With what part?"
Michael smiles, brilliant but gentle. "Let's start with physically."
Her body's strangely distant, like she doesn't know how it works, but nothing hurts and she's not dizzy. Without a chorus of complaints, her body seems closer to her own.
"I might be hungry."
Michael chuckles, then kisses her cheek. "I am, so you must be. Sit, I'll get food."
When Michael releases her hand, Laira touches her cheek, as if she'll be able to feel where Michael's lips were.
President Rillak has been served by so many people, on so many planets. She'd be fine. Laira sits on Michael's red sofa and wraps her hands around her knee as Michael walks back and forth from the replicator to the table.
Michael's mind continues on, logical and organized. Eating is good and normal and expected and Dr. Culber said she wouldn't be nauseated again until tomorrow.
Will it feel real tomorrow? How is pregnant meant to feel? She could have asked Michael to carry the little hitchhiker, or let her grow externally, without all of the chaos but she doesn't want to let her go. Michael would keep her safe. Michael would probably have a much easier time of it, carrying a hybrid child as a human would be easier. Humans are so adaptable. Her mother had an easier time than her grandmother.
She's being selfish, yet she does not want to stop. Laira squeezes her fingers, resisting the urge to hold the baby with her hand. She's barely more than a blob of cells right now. She won't know. It doesn't matter, she's being sentimental. Michael's not going to judge her. She's already thrown up in Michael's lap. They're past little things like quiet self-recrimination.
"Hey."
"Sorry."
"Sorry?" Michael crouches down in front of her, hands on Laira's knees. She looks up, smiling and paitent. "What's on your mind?"
"I can't hold a thought."
"That's why you're going to eat."
Laira shuts her eyes, take a breath, tries to guess what Michael put on the table. It doesn't smell familiar. She's eaten enough Vulcan food that she should recognize that, but perhaps Michael's idea of Vulcan food would be more than nine hundred years old and she won't recognize it, but this isn't Vulcan. It smells sweet, rice and something. Some dishes from Earth remind Laira of her mother but they're so different depending on which replicator she uses or who programmed them.
When she opens her eyes again, Michael's still there, smiling. "It's all right."
"How can you say that?"
Michael waves the table over, giving up on the idea of eating sensible in chairs. She sits beside her, their legs touching, and the warmth of her is something to ground herself with. Michael picks up one of the rolled pancakes from a plate and passes it over.
"You wanted this."
Michael means the baby, of course, but Laira answers as if she were only.talking about the pancake. "I don't know what this is."
Michael chuckles. "Take a bite."
It smells like nuts and something sweet. Not really eating while they were trapped has made her so much more hungry than she realized, and the first bite sends a shiver through her.
"It's good, right?"
This dinner has a story, and Michael will tell her, but for the moment, that slips aside as Michael shows her how the rice is eaten with their hands in this dish and explains the spices she doesn't recognize.
Laira wasn't hungry, she thought. She wouldn't have said she was, if anyone had asked. By herself in guest quarters, she might have sat a long time before she realized how much she wanted to eat.
Michael touches her cheek, wiping sauce away with her thumb. That smile is the one that crackles through her universe whenever it appears. "I'm glad you're hungry."
"I didn't think I was."
"Funny how that happens." Michael passes over another one of the rolled up pancakes and their fingers touch, lingering together.
She's only shaken Michael's hand once, maybe they touched in passing before the shuttle, but now her hands are intoxicating, like the warmth of her mouth. Laira should be able to have more coherent thoughts, find words to 'you kissed me and I—' but they're not in her head.
Part of Michael's growing within her and Laira has made words the center of her existence, yet she has no idea how to talk to her.
Michael shakes her hair back behind her shoulders and releases Laira's hand to reach for her tea. "The first time Philippa served me these I didn't like them."
"Oh?"
"I thought they were too sweet, Vulcan isn't known for desserts, and I wasn't very polite about it."
"You weren't diplomatic about her food?"
"I was so blunt when I came aboard the Shenzhou, all logic and science, and I never smiled."
Laira covers her mouth, smiling around her bite of the pancake. Michael still hasn't told her what they're called. "That's hard to believe."
"She was very patient with me when I needed it." Michael leans back, done with the food, her hands wrapped around her tea. "I got a lot of how to be human from her. How to lead, how to interact with peers. She was very diplomatic, when she chose to be. Funny, when she was supposed to be or not."
"I looked for Philippa's service record."
"You did?"
"You talk about her, I wanted to know her."
Michael reaches over, wrapping their fingers together. "Not much survived."
"Other than what you've told me, all we have is a list of commendations and a service record." Laira finishes the last of her pancake and tries to imagine again the woman who replicated these for Michael so many centuries ago. "She'd love to see you as captain."
There's only a hint of sorrow in Michael's dark eyes before her smile overtakes it. "She would. Took a little longer to get there than she thought." Michael runs her finger over Laira's knuckles and her smile softens. "She'd like you."
"She didn't share your dislike of politicians?"
"Philippa would get past it."
"Oh?"
"Knowing I was happy-"
"Are you?" Laira didn't mean to interrupt, but Michael keeps crashing through her control.
"Yes." Michael leans closer, her lips l shining in the light. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Laira's voice catches in her throat, heavy and tight. "A subspace bubble made us parents. "
"Warp," Michael corrects her, again touching her chin. "A warp bubble gave us a choice, we chose to share this." Her eyes fall to Laira's belly, then rise to meet Laira's own. "We'll figure it out."
"Such confidence."
"Comes with the chair."
"That's the trick, reach the captain's chair and find confidence?"
Winking at her, Michael lifts her mouth. They're so close again, lips too close not to connect, but they aren't- they don't—
"Captains never tell their secrets."
Laira's so out of practice with the art of kissing that it feels as foreign as deciphering math equations and hydrocarbon molecules, but Michael leads, bringing their mouths together. She's careful: entreating, not insisting. Kissing her back is easy, instinctual even, and Laira shivers.
"What are we doing?"
"Figuring it out." Michael's hand trails warmth down her neck, and they're closer, kissing again, reaching—
It's foolish.
They're confused. Clearly misguided.
Deceiving each other.
Misleading themselves.
Michael tastes like home. Not familiar at all, like tea and pancakes Laira can't remember the name of; coconut rice that another captain loved on an island Laira's never seen. Nothing about Michael is nostalgic or safe, but she can't stop reaching for her.
Laira sighs against her lips, inhales, and this time she leads, searching Michael's mouth. Exploring's always been something she's left to others, diplomacy follows traditional routes after they've been plotted. This is a much a negotiation as an unknown, leading and following in turn until Michael's mouth's on her neck and she surrenders. Her sigh catches, turns into a weary little laugh.
Michael's hand rests on her shoulder, her thumb on her chest. "Is this all right?"
Nodding is all she can manage, Laira can't trust her voice. When she flew, she had to trust her instincts, avoid second guessing that would turn her into space dust. She's lived with that, kept herself alive, kept the galaxy together, and then Michael makes all of it churn, from the stars to her toes.
She sighs, melting against her. Michael nibbles her neck way up behind her ear and Laira pulls her closer. Her head's been spinning since the bubble, but this is unique. This is wanting, and she remembers how pleasant it is. Michael's hands are as careful as her mouth. Fingers run along her collarbone, along her bare shoulder and she pulls Michael closer, hands on her back.
Michael's braids tickle her shoulder and Laira sinks her hand into her sweater. Her little gasp echoes Laira's and whatever Michael's doing to her neck is destroying her, breath by breath.
Her lips return to Laira's when she's aching, and Michael shifts.on.the sofa, half into her lap and stops. "Still okay?"
"Just okay?"
Chuckling, Michael eases into her lap, thighs over Laira's. "You've been sick."
"I'd forgotten."
Michael's eyes shine, that deep brown endless-- "Good."
Kissing resumes, heavier now, and Michael's chest presses against hers. When did her breasts get so sore? The warmth of Michael engulfs her and Michael's teeth against her lip send electricity along her skin.
One of Michael's hands runs down her side, brushing her stomach and even now their hitchhiker's in their thoughts. Pausing, their foreheads touch as and fingers find each other over the baby.
Really she's a blob right now, but she's shifting the universe around her already. Is this about their tiny being? Connection tugging them closer because it's already forged? Everything between them pulls, and Laira doesn't have the strength to resist.
Why should she? Why would--
Michael holds her cheek in her hand. "You're worried."
"Aren't you?"
"Some, new things are intimidating by nature, but that's the journey, isn't it?"
Michael's journeys end in hope and happiness, connection and wonder. Laira's journeys have been much lonelier, to the point where she can only have this because it's an accident, because she wouldn't dare. Couldn't. It's irresponsible.
Michael is beyond duty and responsibility. Michael took her beyond the galaxy and brought them home. Maybe this is something they can handle together.
"Journeys are lonely things."
"They don't have to be." Michael's hand toys with the hem of her sweater and they kiss again, tentative and sure, shy and enamored. Releasing her mouth, Michael slips from her lap, holding out her hand. "Come to bed."
Barriers contain, then fall. She could decline, retreat; protect herself, but it's too late for that. She wants, not just Michael, but the domesticity, the comfort and partnership. Her relationships have always been so fleeting, a handful of nights together before returning to reality until the next time. Michael won't be her escape, she'll be her universe.
Laira takes her hand and stands, following her towards the bed room. There's no denying how much she wants her, not merely the physical moment together, but Michael, and all the wonderful that comes with her, but it's selfish, profoundly so. She pauses, nearly in Michael's bedroom. "I can't do this casually."
Turning back to her, Michael reaches up, smiling. "And you think I can?"
Laira kisses her fingertips, touching the wedding ring that belongs to them, and doesn't. "I don't think I can do this without falling in love with you."
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."
"Michael—"
"Why wouldn't I want you to love me?"
"I'm not good at it."
"Being loved isn't a skill."
"My past relationships would disagree."
Standing on her tiptoes, Michael kisses her. "Then pick it up as we go." Resting her hands on her shoulders, Michael winks. "Maybe I can teach you a bridge language."
Walking into the bedroom, mouth on Michael's, she lets go of caution. When she and Michael have argued.in the past she's been wrong, needed to shift her perspective, and she's better for it.
The quietest part of her worries that this will be over too soon, because no one she loves can stay with her, but that hasn't stopped her from loving. Grief she carries so much easier than love.
Michael eases her sweater up and off over her hair, exposing the smooth skin of her arms and a simple black tank top underneath. She takes a step towards the bed, guiding Laira closer as together they remove her oversized sweater. Her own camisole is silky, pale blue, not Starfleet and uniform like Michael's. Michael's fingers run over it, up along sore breasts and down to rest on their new little passenger.
"What makes you think I need sex to fall in love with you?"
Laira has no retort for that, and Michael's mouth finds her neck in a way that derails her breath. She shivers, reaching, tugging, and then Michael's tank is off and Laira has most of her beautiful brown skin beneath her fingers. Chasing up Michael's spine, she slips the clasp of her bra open, eases that off of her shoulders, trading kisses as she waits to cup Michael's breasts with her hands. They're heavy enough to fill her hands. Running her hands over her nipples makes Michael sighs into her neck. Heat runs down, settling in her belly, coiling as Michael eases up her camisole.
Michael's much more careful with her bra, but even her gentle fingers ache on Laira's heavy breasts.
"Sore?"
Laira laughs, holding Michael's hands against her chest. "I had no idea."
"Come here." Michael eases them down to the bed, slipping off her trousers. She toys with Laira's thighs, running her hands over her skin. Her leg slips between Laira's thighs as she crawls up to kiss her. They fall into each other, exploring as they kiss. Michael's so distracted by her neck that Laira slides her hand down her firm stomach, searching her way down. She teases, slipping between Michael's thighs and breaking her concentration.
"You're in a hurry."
"You're going to make it impossible for me to think."
"I am?" Michael kisses down her chest, lingering over her belly. "Why do you think that?"
"You're you."
Michael rolls to her side, returning to kiss her mouth. "And that means I'm good at this?"
Parting Michael's thighs, she runs her fingers lower, deeper, and Michael's gasp of pleasure has so much promise.
"I never thought of sex as quantifiable." Michael moans into her neck, fighting to find words. "It was an unknown but not-"
"Is that all right?"
"Yes, fuck, your hands—"
That's a good sign, and watching, listening, to Michael fall to pieces with her fingers inside of her is far sweeter are so much more meaningful than her work. She forgets about the vulnerability of sex, ow much she loses herself in it, falls head over heels for her partners. Laira tries so hard to keep her focus on duty and the Federation that she loses little things, like heat and the pleasure of someone panting into her neck.
Michael. The most exquisitely complex, competent, empathetic person. Their minds were so happy to make them partners and parents and the tiny details - the way her eyes go incredible dark and how she laughs before she orgasms - sink deep into her memory. When she loses Michael, Laira will remember this.
If Michael leaves her any capability of thought. Her smile has that explorer's hunger, and Michael starts kissing her way down Laira's stomach again and when she pauses between her thighs that smug grin speaks volumes.
Of course she'll break her. Laira knew that the moment they kissed, but she - Prophets help her - Michael's mouth is on her thigh and she shouldn't squirm, but Michael grabs her hips.
Her file mentioned Vulcan-like determination and focus and Laira's seen it, admired it, hated it but between her thighs it's consuming.
Michael's absolute dedication to bringing Laira to orgasm whites out her thoughts, silencing the worry she can never force away. It's just Michael, and the braids against her skin and the rising heat in the back of her mind.
She balls her hands into Michael's sheets, gasping in release as Michael's mouth destroys her senses. Her eyes sting, and climax leaves tears on her eyelashes. Catching her breath takes a long time and Michael traces her skin on the way up, like she's building a map.
Michael pauses, then kisses her ribs. "You have a tattoo."
"It's home."
Michael reaches up, resting her hand on Laira's chest. "That's Bajor?"
Of course she knows it. "Where I did most of my flying."
Michael rests on her elbow, studying the tattoo "This is a Starfleet ship."
"What?"
"Your tattoo has a Starfleet ship. Almost looks Crossfield class."
"There's no ship on my tattoo." Could that have changed too?
"Zora, can you project her tattoo?"
"Of course, Captain."
Michael flops on the pillow beside her, then kisses her shoulder. "Don't worry, Zora doesn't watch intimate acts."
"We have had extensive discussions in regards to privacy, Madam President."
Laira's known many AIs, none as complex as Zora, of course, but it's nice to know she doesn't watch. That could be—
The stylized stars of the Bajoran system appear overhead, just as they're supposed to be, but the silhouette of a ship nestles into them.
Michael rests on her shoulder then smirks. "I didn't know you were so fond of my ship."
"I didn't--" Laira starts but it seems she married Discovery as surely as she married Michael in that warp-thought bubble. "I did."
"It's beautiful."
Laira states at it then sits up, studying Michael's naked skin until she finds Michael's tattoo on her ribs. "You have one too."
"I do?" Michael's smug smile turns into a chuckle. "I've never had a tattoo before, you certainly had an impact."
"Zora, can you project Michael's tattoo as well?"
Another glowing star system joins Laira's, hovering overhead. Laira doesn't recognize it until Michael turns it and grins. "That's Ni'Var, and Earth."
It's the same style as Laira's, clearly meant to match, and a little silhouette of Discovery is part of Michael's tattoo as well.
"Our ships match."
"Looks like it's home." Michael turns to kiss Laira's tattoo again, smiling. "No one's tattooed my ship on them before."
Blushing hot, Laira traces the identical ship on Michael's soft skin. How badly did they both want to love to build so much together without even being conscious of it? Could Discovery become home? Could she belong here? Not just in Michael's bed, but with her crew, traveling through space?
Space is calming. Listening to warp, feeling the deck: all of being on a ship feels right. This is Michael's ship, and it's under Laira's skin already.
Michael smiles up at her, lovestruck in a way Laira can't even process. No one looks at her like that.
"Your subconscious must be very persuasive."
"I'm diplomatic."
"Very." Michael pulls her back down, kissing her firmly.
This is just as much of a dream as the shuttle, but it's too pleasant to wish away. She adores this too much already, and it'll leave such scars when Laira loses this. She should pull back, protect her fragile heart, but she's in love.
She's hopelessly, foolishly, entwined, and the dream runs deep through her heart. This is why she tries to hard not to want, not to let herself be consumed by feeling. It'll destroy her when it falls apart, but it's already too late.
Admiral Vance is her fourth meeting, after the Vice President, her science advisors and a long subspace call with the ambassador who took her place at the trade conference she never made it to. Discovering a dangerous spatial anomaly is a good excuse to miss something important, but warp bubbles frothing the fabric of space is a whole new problem.
Her science advisors are excellent, but she misses the way Michael and her crew explain things. Headquarters is home, for now, but the deck doesn't have that funny antique hum beneath her boots. Rubbing her forehead, Laira tries to ignore the foggy sensation between her eyes. She slept well in Michael's bed - in her arms - better than she has in weeks, but she's tired. Dr. Culber warned her, amongst his many warnings, that she'd tire easily, but this is worse than she imagined.
Months of this sensation of being drained, followed by months of other little ailments, exhaustion, sneezing, nausea, and the inevitable itching as her skin changes. She wants the tiny blob of life within her, that's absolute, but facing the endless meetings and hypos and late nights Laira wonders again how she'll manage it.
Dr. Culber's solution to her sneezing works, and she hasn't since she left Discovery, but the dizziness is stubborn, and he said it would increase her nausea, but there's no danger for the hitchhiker, that's what matters. She'll be fine. She'll make do.
Vance knows when he walks in, Michael's told him when she briefed the senior Starfleet officers about the warp bubbles scattered through the galaxy, but she has to put words to it as well. He stands in front of her desk, hiding a smile she's only seen a few times.
His happiness shouldn't surprise her. He's so close to his family, so thrilled to have his wife and daughter back at headquarters with him.
"Admiral."
"Don't get up, please." Sitting down across from her, his smile could power a small shuttle. He sets a box on the desk, sliding it across. "From my wife."
"Thank you."
Nodding, he rests his hands in his lap. "Here we were, trying to find a quiet mission for you."
Chuckling, she looks down at her desk before meeting his eyes. "It's not all—"
"Allow me to offer my congratulations, Laira. It's a hell of a journey, but worth every moment."
That smile of his is as nearly as bright as Michael's, and she envies them both their optimism. Michael will be with her when she can, of course, she'd never ignore the responsibility of a child, but Michael has her ship, and duties, and the new warp bubble problem needs Discovery.
"I feel like the Vice President's barely had time to get over the last time I left her in charge."
"This is for a better reason, a child is a gift."
"I didn't know anomalies brought gifts."
"Space is a place of wonders, it's about time you got something good out of it."
Laira allows her hand to rest on the baby. As difficult as she'll be, she is a gift, and Laira's grateful. Beneath the exhaustion and the strange, hot sensation on the back of her neck, she might even be happy, but she misses Michael and already hates herself for the selfishness of that.
"I'm assigning Discovery to lead the warp bubble task force."
Nodding, she lowers her eyes back to her desk, calling up the next thing she needs to finish. "They can handle it." Michael will hold the galaxy together, as always, and the fame of Discovery will go far towards settling nerves while they deal with the latest problem.
"Indeed they can." Vance stands, smoothing his jacket. "I'll reschedule the security briefing for tomorrow."
"The one at fourteen hundred? That's not necessary."
"We'll do it tomorrow, ma'am." He doesn't patronize her by insisting that she needs a break, or that it's not important. Not fussing is his kindness, and she smiles in thanks.
"Did you see Captain Burnham?"
"Yes, ma'am. She's still debriefing."
She's not gone yet. She'll come say goodbye before she leaves with Discovery. Laira will have that at least.
"Tomorrow then, Admiral."
He nods again, his smile lingering as he leaves. "Madam President."
Laira opens the box from Ronia. She's always so thoughtful. Some kind of candy fills the box, spicy smelling, and she pops one in her mouth. She usually has ginger mixed with other things, not alone, and it's intense. She nearly spits it out into her hand, but it's pleasant after a moment. Maybe it even helps. Dr. Culber wrote a list of things that could help with nausea and sneezing, drawing from as many cultural backgrounds that he and Zora could reference. It's an extensive list and she looked at it briefly without reading it.
She was fine this morning. Sneezing over breakfast with Michael was funny, not frustrating, and she ate without worrying about the creeping tightness resting uncomfortably in her stomach now. Is there a time aspect to this? Does it wait for afternoon and evening? Is it because she's finished more of her work and the meetings she's trying to schedule across the quadrant are more tedious than demanding.
Maybe it was the company she enjoyed, or the mess of hormones coursing through her body gave her a break because it'll be weeks before she sees Michael again. Discovery needs her captain, and the galaxy needs Discovery and any foolish thoughts Laira had otherwise were selfish, and must be set aside. She wanted this, and she'll have to deal with it alone until Michael comes back. Last night, wonderful as it was, isn't the norm. That's not her life.
The door opens silently.
"I'll wait for lunch, Ms. Vriga, thank you." Her youngest aide only arrived from Bajor last month, and though she's years older than Laira was when she flew cargo ships, she seems so young.
Vriga smiles nervously through the holographic schedule. "I'm sorry, Madam President, your lunch meeting is here."
"I don't have a lunch meeting."
"You do, ma'am." Vriga's smile loses some of the tension, and there's a light in her eyes Laira's never seen before. "Captain Burnham is here."
Of course, Michael's stardom would reach to her aides. Laira's going to have to find a way to get used to it.
Sighing, Laira rests her hands on her lap. She's been dreading this goodbye all morning. "Send her in."
Vriga disappears, and Michael walks in, smiling, confident, gorgeous Michael. Headquarters is far from a star, but it's like Michael brings the sun with her, wherever she goes.
Michael waits for Vriga to leave, sets down the bag she's carrying and walks to the desk. "I think I was interrogated less when I was on trial for mutiny."
"Oh?" Laira looks at her hands, fidgeting with a piece of lint on her jacket. "That's unfortunate."
"The warp bubble was easy enough to explain, after the tenth time I think I could walk security through the theory of it in my sleep, but dating you is a little more difficult."
"So I've heard."
"And perhaps if we were just talking about a few dinner dates I wouldn't have had all of Federation intelligence on the other side of the table, but explaining our little hitchhiker wasn't a coup d'état attempt on my part took awhile." Michael circles the desk, leaning on it by Laira's chair. "How was your morning?"
"Fine."
"I see." Michael rests her hands on the desk, already at ease. "Nothing but meetings."
"At least the last one was Admiral Vance."
"I saw him earlier."
"You did?"
"He handles transfers."
"Transfers?"
Puzzled, Michael tilts her head. "I told you."
"I know I—" Laira meets her eyes. "Go on."
"Saru and I needed to work out who he should promote as first officer, and Vance suggested—"
"First officer?"
"Of Discovery."
"Is Saru leaving?"
Michael leans down, kissing her forehead. "No."
None of that makes sense, so Laira stares at her, helpless until Michael finishes her thought.
"We decided Nilsson was the best choice, for the moment, and that lets him bring in a new bridge officer, shake things up a little."
Why is Saru choosing officers for Michael's ship?
"They're heading out in a moment." Michael tilts her head towards the viewport behind them. "I thought we could watch them jump and then get lunch."
"Discovery is your ship."
Michael offers her hand to help her up. "She's Saru's for the next few months."
"What?"
"I've been reassigned."
Standing in the middle of this conversation was a terrible idea, and her head swims. The stars outside the view port turn into bright little lines and Michael's hands grab her arms.
"Hey."
"It's all right."
"You're the color of a DOT." Michael touches her cheek, then stands on her toes to kiss her. "Come sit."
Laira rarely uses the sofa by the view port. Her desk is fine for work, and it's rare that people remain in her office long enough to need to sit somewhere other than the chairs in front of her desk. Michael walks them back and they sit, which is more of a relief than Laira would like to admit.
"How's your stomach?"
"It's fine."
Michael touches her cheek, then kisses her gently. "That great, huh?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Outside the viewer, blue lightning crackles outward from Discovery, and she spins before vanishing into the light.
"They're going to Ni'Var first, picking up some scientists to help understand the warp bubbles left behind by the isolytic explosion and the DMA."
"You're not with your crew."
"That's what I came to tell you." Michael taps her badge and her orders appear in front of them, floating in golden light. "I've been transferred. Scientific and technical aide to the Federation's office of the executive, highest security clearance, effective immediately."
"That's my office."
"It is."
"You did that?"
"Admiral Vance agreed."
"Of course he did."
"Unless you want to explain to the Federation member worlds how a static subspace warp bubble can be safely dissipated through the dynamic subspace inversion possible with a displacement hub spore drive."
"I'd rather not."
Michael raises her eyebrows. "Thought so." She strokes Laira's cheek, then kisses her forehead. "Lie down."
"What?"
"You feel terrible."
"I don't—"
"Uh-huh."
Vriga and Vance didn't say anything, but they wouldn't, they're both far too polite. Laira hasn't throw up yet, but even lying down, it seems like a more frustrating possibility.
"I was fine."
"And now you're not."
She won't reply to that, but Michael shifts the display with her hand. "The circadian rhythms of hormones are different for everyone. Maybe yours are worse in the afternoons."
"How quaint." Shutting her eyes helps a little, though it might be the warmth of Michael's presence.
"We'll work it out."
"Says the person who isn't nauseated."
"What's why I'm here."
"I thought it was for warp bubbles."
"Anything you need."
"You can't just—"
Michael strokes her forehead. "I did. Also, there's a shortage of available living quarters, so I'm moving in."
"A shortage?"
"An allocation problem, I'm sure."
"Of course." That would be Vance meddling, or Kovich. She wouldn't put it past either of them. Laira opens her eyes again and Michael's soft smile hovers over her.
"This is what you want? No starship, no crew, endless meetings-" Laira pauses, wincing. Her stomach roils hard, like she's pushed her old ship past the limits of its ancient inertial dampeners. "You hate politics."
"Maybe I care about a politician."
Laira would argue with her, but it's becoming more likely that she'll vomit with every passing moment. Leaving the sofa, she heads for the bathroom, with Michael half a step behind.
Michael kneels beside her on the floor, all calm. "I knew you had a fancy bathroom."
"That doesn't—" Laira stops, and Michael rests a cool hand on her forehead.
"I'm sorry it's like this."
"Not—" Swallowing holds her stomach down for now, but it feels inevitable.
"I told you I could transfer to headquarters."
They had that conversation a lifetime ago this morning, but it wasn't going to lead to this. This is illogical and nonsensical and there's no reason for Michael to be here, on the shining deck of her bathroom floor. Why would she chose this? Duty would have been enough. They committed to the child, not each other. This is idiotic.
"At least your hair's up."
Laira's weak little laugh makes Michael smile, but her stomach's worse. There must be somewhere Michael's meant to be, something she's supposed to be doing, but she stays. Michael's hand finds hers, slipping into her fingers.
"We're doing this together."
"I think I can throw up on my own."
Michael kisses her cheek. "But you don't have to."