Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Michael

 

Laira's hair lies in a mess of waves across the red pillowcase. Michael should have braided it again before she fell asleep, but she faded so quickly after lunch that it didn't seem worth the hassle. Slipping off her boots, Michael unbuttons her jacket, then hangs that on a hook on the wall. Rubbing her forehead, she replicates tea and brings the mugs to the bedroom. They have just over an hour before they're supposed to meet Saru and T'Rina for dinner at the RomuloVulcan fusion restaurant. It's T'Rina's favorite at headquarters, and Michael's only ever tried a handful of Romulan things. Laira's been there - multiple times - T'Rina's one of the closest people she has to a friend.

Michael sighs, sitting down on the bed and opening her communiques. (Laira's really). She spent every hour since lunch trying to sort them into what Laira actually needs to reply to personally, and what she could just sign off on, but they're all so dense and full of politician double speak, hinting and negotiating, that she can't just skim them: she has to listen to the whole thing and study the nuance of their voices and repeat the strings of words.

"Remind me to never, ever win an election." Michael mutters to Laira's side of the bed. Laira's still asleep enough that she doesn't move when Michael runs her fingers through her hair.

Even her years of study into xenoanthropology, and her years in Starfleet have not prepared her for the carefully cloaked rudeness and veiled threats. They hide fear of abandonment and scarcity, scant resources, and a lack of talent, that Michael's only experienced for a brief year. Life after the Burn was their reality, and it's hard to let go of, even with starships flitting all over the galaxy and a wealth of dilithium.

Michael sorts, and adds notes, shunting several messages off to the vice president who seems to enjoy a difficult conversation.

When Laira finally stirs, Michael strokes her head. "Your job is brutal."

Laira's sleepy laugh is worth all the sentences Michael took apart multiple times in her head. She hums in agreement instead of lifting her head, but her eyelashes flutter.

Laira sighs and rolls over slowly, rubbing her forehead as she smiles up at the ceiling. "What brought on this revelation?"

"When someone's rude to a Starfleet captain, they're up front about it. You're the President of the Federation. Sixty member worlds, one of the strongest interstellar alliances in the galaxy, and so many of the messages you get find ways to dig at that and be subtly annoyed, or they bury their meaning in metaphor and double speak so I can't tell they actually mean to say 'fuck you we don't want any dilithium' until I've read it four times."

Chuckling, Laira starts to sit up, but that stops when she lifts her head.

Michael sets down her tea, forgetting her holo. "Rough afternoon?"

"It's fine." Laira makes that little noise when it's not fine, but she'll insist it's nothing until the very last moment. 

"That bad?"

It takes a breath or two for Laira to smile again. "I got hopeful after the last few days."

"The days where you didn't try to work your punishing job while you adjust to a huge physical change?"

Laira drags herself up, resting her head on her knees. "That's far too logical."

"Sorry, force of habit." Michael runs her hand along Laira's arm then takes her hand. Her skin's cool, not damp. Maybe today hasn't been that bad. "Are you all right for dinner?"

Lairs nods, sneezes twice into her knees and sighs. "I will be."

"If you're not okay-"

Laira waves her off, patting her hand. "I'm all right enough for dinner with friends. Maybe not any of the restaurants where you can watch the stars spin."

"Pilot eyes failing you?"

Wincing again, Laira rubs her temples, then brushes tears away from her eyelashes. "Not flying through any asteroid belts today."

"Is it spinning or foggy?"

"Hmmm?"

Michael reaches over, moving her hair out of her face. "If the room's spinning, it's probably an inner ear problem, and Hugh says there's not much we can do for that. But if it's just foggy, dark around the edges, you're lightheaded?"

Laira hums an affirmative noise.

"That's likely low blood pressure and that we can mitigate a little."

"That's fortunate."

Michael kisses her forehead and leaves the bed for the replicator. "Hugh says your Bajoran side is trying to build new blood vessels but your human side can't keep up with the increase in blood volume."

"And Cardassia hasn't figured out the hitchhiker is there yet?"

"I don't think their intelligence is up to the task."

"Funny, famously in the past they were much quicker on the uptake. Must be me."

Calling up the hypospray Hugh suggested from the list, Michael replicates it and returns to the bed. Laira tilts her head to the left, exposing her neck and waiting for the look, or the lecture.

Michael kisses her instead and retrieves her tea. "That should help, but—"

"Be gentle?"

"Please."

Swinging her feet experimentally over the edge of the bed, Laira squeezes her hand and dismisses her. "Go get dressed, I'll drink my tea."

Michael reminds herself not to worry, which usually has the opposite effect. "Do you know what you want to wear?"

"I hadn't thought about it." Laira sips her tea, then stands, reaching for her robe where it hangs on the wall. She's more steady on her feet than Michael worried, so maybe it won't be as difficult as she feared.

"Mind if I choose something?"

"It would save me the trouble." Laira takes her tea to the vanity, sitting down to put on her makeup and do her hair. Michael lingers in the closet doorway, watching her shake her hair out against the green silk of her robe. Laira has so much more hair than Michael thought before she ever saw it down, and it falls almost all the way down her back when loose. It's beautiful.

"We don't have to eat at a restaurant, you know."

Laira finds her in the mirror and mock glares at her, head tilted. "We talked about this."

"We have plenty of time to--"

Laira sneezes once, then twice, burying her face in her elbow. When she can breath again, Laira shakes her head. "T'Rina and I often have dinner in public. The next step in my relationship with you would be us spending time together."

Michael starts to protest again but Laira shakes her head.

"We have to be seen in public, together. Start--"

"Creating a logical timeline," Michael finishes. "We could start that on days when you feel better."

Laira's little smile is that coy one Michael used to hate; the one full of secrets. "I don't know how many of those we will have to work with."

"Not helping."

Laira finds her gaze in the mirror, staring into her with those damn blue eyes. "I will be all right, Michael."

Michael stares into her, and nods. They'll make it work. She takes a breath, changes the subject. This will be fine. "I never used to wear anything other than my uniform. Philippa would tease me. Tilly too, when I joined Discovery." Michael forces herself away from the door into the closet to choose clothing. Removing her shirt, she drops that into the laundry.

"What changed?" Laira calls from the bedroom. "You brought enough to start filling that giant closet."

"I had time, I got a lot from Philippa when she left."

"All that black leather?"

"I think she had one shirt that's another color." Michael chooses a deep red top for herself and pulls it on over her bra. Stepping into civilian boots is still strange, but she's getting better at it. Captain Michael Burnham is another creature and whenever she's in uniform, she sends a different message. Staring at Laira's very spartan side of the closet, Michael shakes her head and turns to the replicator. She'll need to replicate something again, because Laira rorates through her suits like they're her uniform, but this is fun.

"Was it that shirt?" Laira asks over her shoulder when Michael emerges from the closet, holding clothes for her.

Glancing down, Michael smiles at her shirt, trying to imagine Philippa rolling her eyes. "No, she'd want this to be tighter."

Smiling into the mirror, Laira adds sparkles to her eyelids.

Laying the blue sweater dress she just replicated onto the bed, Michael sits beside it and watches Laira finish her makeup.

"What?" Laira asks as she picks up her lipstick.

"You're good at that."

"It's like armor, put it on before battle." She expertly colors her lips and smiles into the mirror again. "Also, I like sparkles."

"They look good on you, I-' Michael pauses, looking away, then back sheepishly. "I like watching you."

Smiling more brightly, Laira searches for words. Turning towards Michael, she starts to blush. "I don't recognize the dress."

"It's new, I'm trying to work my way through the patterns in your clothing replicator."

Laira tilts her head, chuckling. "That will take you awhile."

"Guess we better make this last," Michael teases, reaching up to her shoulders to help remove Laira's robe.

"It's a huge database."

Glancing down at Laira's belly, Michael eases her robe off her shoulders. "We have years."

Touching her belly then pulling her hand away quickly, Laira looks up at Michael, her eyes huge and bright. "I haven't thought of a relationship in terms of years before."

"I haven't either," Michael admits, her hands resting on Laira's bare shoulders. "But we'll be sharing a person for the rest of our lives."

Nuzzling Michael's hand, Laira raises her eyeridges. "I can't imagine that at all."

"I bet it gets easier." Michael strokes her cheek. "Maybe when she feels like something more than a terrible case of the Crestian flu."

"Oh I've had that."

"Yeah?"

"This is worse."

Michael kisses her forehead, first one ridge, then the other, holding her face. "I'm so sorry."

Laira rests her hands on Michael's arms, then shuts her eyes. "I don't think I am."

"Well, make it through dinner first."

Stepping out of her nightgown, Laira walks to the bed, caressing the dress before she pulls it over her head. "You have quite an eye."

"Thanks." Pulling Laira's hair free from the dress, Michael caresses it for a moment, trying to decide how to braid it. "Something simple?"

"That would be nice." Laira pulls on her leggings and boots, then sits on the corner of the bed so Michael can braid her hair. "Vance's daughter didn't recognize me the first time she saw me with my hair down. She said it made me look like a different person."

"It's a lot of hair." Michael works on the braid and Laira reaches up to pat her hand. "I like getting to see all the sides of you. Madam President, Laira the space pilot, Laira who hates getting up—"

"My dad called me princess."

"Mine used to call me Michael the second. Michael Burnham-A when he was in the right mood."

"You had the same name?" Laira asks, getting to her feet and smoothing her dress. "Does that mean we'll just call our hitchhiker Michael-B?"

"Well, that does have a ring to it."

Chuckling softly together, they reach for their badges.

Laira nods again, learning closer. "You worry so loudly I can hear you vibrate."

"Must be your Cardassian hearing."

"Must be."

Michael touches her head to Laira's shoulder, just for a moment, and they beam to dinner.

---

 

They did not choose one of the restaurants with a view of space, fortunately. It's a quiet, intimate space, with Vulcan and Romulan art on the walls. The host leads them to a compartment made of warm wood walls, with a low table on the floor, surrounded by cushions. Once they're sitting, Laira's hand in hers, she relaxes.

The replicator within the table creates glasses of water, and Laira lazily scrolls through the menu for tea.

The walls are covered with tasteful pieces of art from Ni'Var artists. The older pieces Michael recognizes, at least the early styles, but the newer ones, especially the ones where they intersect: blending styles and colors are unknown to her. Some only seem to be vaguely Vulcan, but Michael can see the roots. Romulan art has broader strokes, brighter colors, but the logic suffuses all of it in neat patterns.

Sitting up from where she's gotten comfortable on Michael's shoulder, Laira nudges her when Saru and T'Rina arrive. Setting down her tea, Michael wraps their hands together, and Laira grabs her hand a little tighter. It's instinctual - the quiet search for support - and Michael's chest warms.

After pleasantries and greetings, T'Rina and Saru sit with them at the table for the traditional Vulcan meal. They went to several of the botanical reserves on Ni'Var and could excitedly carry the entire conversation. Which is charming, and funny; Saru's so animated when he's pleased, and the trip's brought him great joy. So has T'Rina, from the way they look at each other.

Living with Sarek and Amanda taught her much about the Vulcan expression of love, and how subtle it can be. It's early for either of them to call it love, Vulcan courtships can last for decades, but the warmth between them hangs in the air like the mists of Kaminar.

T'Rina sits across from them, perfectly poised. Saru has to fold his long limbs to get comfortable but he must be getting used to how how often Vulcans use cushions.

Laira shifts positions on the cushions on the floor next to their low table, pulling in her knees, then leaning closer to Michael. She ignores the first course, and picks at her bread. It might help if she eats more of it, but it's a struggle on the hard days. Nothing tastes right.

The second course arrives and Saru tells a lovely story about some exquisite cactus blossoms opening in the dead of night, demonstrating the flowers with his long fingers. That grove is known as one of the most romantic on Vulcan, and if that's where T'Rina brought him, this is a serious relationship. Saru won't know the significance of it, so she'll have to save that for a good day.

Michael and T'Rina share a look over the soup, one of those silent glances that's full of things unsaid. For all the moments T'Rina reminds her of Sarek, she's more open, more comfortable with her own feelings. Maybe it's the Romulan influence. Michael can see why Saru's so smitten: T'Rina's an astonishing woman, and clearly very fond of him. In all the years she knew him on Shenzhou, Saru didn't date. Didn't show any interest, but now—

Laira smirks at her behind her tea. Michael still doesn't know how close she is with T'Rina or how much they talk. Laira's been so sick since the warp bubble that even living with her is full of mysteries. Michael doesn't know who she calls after a hard day or who makes her laugh.

Would it be better to be where Saru and T'Rina are? Sharing little parts of themselves in a carefully titrated fashion, walking through flower gardens and taking slow steps instead of jumping in all at once?

"I look forward to showing you Kaminar, T'Rina. Though we will have to discuss suitable breathing apparatus so you may see it properly."

T'Rina tilts her head and Michael knows intrigued. "I have not yet had the opportunity to experience an aquatic world. Some on Ni'Var enjoy the exploration of underwater caves. I have not made an attempt."

"Bet you'll love it," Michael teases, making Saru click his tongue and look down before he and T'Rina discuss the advanced in underwater breathing technology.

Michael's listening. Then she's not, because Laira's hand finds hers and it's colder than it should be, even damp with sweat. She swallows, looking down, and Michael passes her water glass. Laira takes a sip, swallowing again, hard, and nearly spills it setting it down. She's holding her composure together as a feat of iron will, but biology can't be reasoned with or overcome.

They should go. Finish the courses in their quarters, give up on whatever political need this fulfills. It's too much. They can wait.

"Laira?" T'Rina begins, reaching out. Her hand hovers over Laira's for a moment, and something shifts in T'Rina's eyes. They widen, lose focus for a moment, and then her entire concentration is on Laira. Eyes locked, they stare at each other, still not touching because sharing contact with a touch telepath of T'Rina's skill is profoundly intimate.

Allowing T'Rina's hand to touch hers is confessing everything - the baby, the depth of her discomfort, her feelings for Michael - all of it is just beneath Laira's skin.

Laira looks at Michael, asking without asking.

Michael smiles, wishing she could make any of this easier. Laira can tell her.

Turning her hand in the table, Laira offers her palm to T'Rina and nods.

T'Rina lowers her hand to Laira's, all control and patience. They touch, and both of them shiver, Laira exhales, then breathes again when T'Rina does. A mind meld would be more orderly, faster, more intimate, this is a connection. T'Rina's features soften, and she nearly smiles, almost. She blinks too fast and Laira starts to blush and then they stand, hands linked.

T'Rina must be sharing her control, because Laira's steady again. That's a temporary fix. If it gives her some time without the nausea, Michael's grateful.

"Laira and I will return shortly, please continue to socialize in our absence."

Saru's confusion flits across his eyes and Michael chuckles.

"There's often part of a double date where where you split into different sets of two. It gives you time to discuss your romantic partner with your friends."

Nodding as he understands, Saru picks up his tea. "You have a moment to approve of my relationship with T'Rina, and in turn, I approve of your relationship with Laira."

"Exactly." Michael tears a piece of bread, trying to find a still place in her emotions. Saru will be thrilled about the baby, of course, but it's not something she can rush into. "You two are adorable together."

Sipping his salt tea, Saru finds Michael's eyes. "Forgive me if the inquiry is unwelcome, may I ask to her health?"

There it is. "She's been ill."

"Since the warp bubble?"

Michael nods, looking down at her plate. "We created things, in there. We shifted reality."

"They're a very dangerous phenomenon. You're both fortunate we were able to get you out before it collapsed."

She looks up again, reaching for him. "We brought something back that's making her sick."

"Something?"

"Someone-" Michael starts to smile and had to stop, taking a breath. "A hitchhiker."

"An entity?"

She squeezes his hand within hers. "A baby."

"I haven't heard anything about a baby." Saru fusses with his napkin.

She needs to be more direct, but she's stumbling. "We wanted- I had to make sure Laira was all right, because it's our baby, hers and mine."

His tone shifts from incredulous to gentle like a pop of the spore drive. "Your baby? You are having a baby?"

Laughter bubbles in her chest and her eyes sting. "We are - Laira is - she's our baby - it's- it's why she's been so sick."

"I assume this is not something you intended."

"The bubble—"

"So it is a gift."

"It is."

Michael shakes her head, wiping tears out of her eyes. "It's not ideal. Laira wasn't prepared and her position is so demanding."

"She is our leader, that is a position that takes much, to be sure, but Michael--" His eyes glow with happiness

"I know."

"This is happy news." Saru hugs her over the table, his long arms holding her tight. "I am so pleased for you both."

Closing her eyes, she relaxes into him. It will be all right. This is a happy thing. It is, they're thrilled.

"You will be the most wonderful mother, Michael."

"Thank you, I—"

Their comms chirp, interrupting that thought.

T'Rina's calm voice wouldn't sound concerned to anyone else, but the urgency flashes to Michael. "Captain Burnham, Captain Saru, your presence is requested."

They stand together, Saru's hand in her shoulder. "I hope Laira is all right."

"Thanks."

The warmth of his hand remains on her shoulder and they beam away together.

Laira's - their - quarters are dark, aside from the light of the ships in the viewports, a single light from the bathroom. That kind of night then.

Saru tilts his head, confused.

"She gets nauseated, hormones interact badly, it's been hard."

"We could have made alternative arrangements for dinner."

Michael sighs, leading Saru towards the sound of voices in the bathroom. "It's another one of those politically delicate situations. The warp bubbles have to stay under wraps, dating the president is complicated, being pregnant in office is more complicated still."

"Surely the Federation has experienced such a thing before."

"Not since before the Burn." Michael pauses, shaking her head. "I don't know the whole of it, not yet. United Earth's rejoining is controversial for a minority who fears change, and their progressive government has some strong opposition. Distractions might be perceived poorly."

Saru's expression turns stern. "A child is gift."

She pays his arm, grateful. "I know."

"I cannot speak for the rest of the Federation, however, Kaminar will be thrilled to celebrate this with you and Laira."

"And us with you."

Laira's voice shifts, and even though Michael can't make out the words, concern makes a vice out of her chest.

T'Rina's calm voice follows

Michael's about to head in and Saru grabs her arm.

"Wait." There's a softness in his eyes.

"What?"

"Let them finish their conversation."

Of course he can hear them, his hearing is so much better than hers "Is she all right?"

"She seems to be fine. I believe there is something she needs to say."

Michael tilts her head. "To T'Rina?

"Give them a moment." Saru tilts his head, then takes a breath, so full of affection that his smile radiates. He looks at Michael with such tenderness that she's warm. He's listening so intently he doesn't seem to realize he's speaking. "She loves you."

"What?" For a moment Michael can't breath, and her heart rushes in her ears.

"She has been struggling with finding an opportune moment to tell you. She worries it is too soon or that she will make you uncomfortable." He pauses, touching his face and beaming. "She loves you, Michael. Is that a feeling you reciprocate?"

Michael's cheeks burn and she looks down, then away anywhere but at Saru, but he knows her too well. "Sarek told me to never regret loving someone. I've tried not to, even when—"

"Love has been difficult."

"Difficult and rewarding." Michael takes a breath, calming her emotions, not shoving them away as he thought she had to, but acknowledging them, giving them space. "I do love her, and I know it's soon."

"Are there time constraints on the development of love that I have not been made aware of?"

"No-"

"Then-" Saru pauses, and shrugs. "I believe she would benefit from hearing how you feel."

Michael squeezes his arm, grateful again for his love. "Give us a moment?"

He tilts his head towards the elegant dining room. "T'Rina and I will replicate the next course of dinner. When you're ready, you can join us."

"Beat a shuttle bathroom, doesn't it?" Michael teases, walking in slowly.

T'Rina sits with perfect posture on the floor, as if she's about to lead mediation. She tilts her head, placing the joke. "They are rather small in comparison."

Laira sits against the wall, eyes closed, head back, and not even er flawless makeup can make her look a comfortable color. "I'm sorry, Michael."

"We're spending time together," Michael says, making careful eye contact with T'Rina. "That was the whole point."

Laira makes a disgusted sound instead of answering, keeping her eyes closed.

"We'll be out in a moment. Saru's setting the table to continue dinner." Michael conveys her thanks with a nod, and T'Rina rises.

"I will assist him."

Michael sits down next to Laira and the toilet, folding her hands in her lap.

"They may as well eat without us."

"I'm sure they'd be fine with that."

Opening her eyes purely to glare at Michael, Laira wipes her nose on the back of her hand. "What a spectacular evening."

Michael shrugs, slide the glass of water closer on the immaculate floor. "Saru and I had a wonderful conversation."

"The first time we met T'Rina had to explain that no, I could not fly through an ion storm with a concussion. She even helped me clean blood off the console."

"See, what's a little vomiting after that?"

Laira ignores the water, both hands on her stomach. "This is not how I used to spend my evenings."

"Wrecked your life, didn't I?"

Her little laugh stings, and Michael adores it anyway. "This is mostly my own doing," Laira insists, shutting her eyes tight. "Not being able to control myself is more challenging than I thought."

"It's just another ion storm, maybe it's all right to wait and try flying through it tomorrow." Michael rises on her knees, then touches their foreheads together. She holds Laira's face in her hands. "I'm going to say this because I want to, not because you need to hear it or I feel obligated or anything like that."

Laira makes a little sound, but it's more cheerful now.

Michael kisses her nose. "I love you."

Laira's eyes snap open, huge and blue and bright with feeling. "Now?"

"I was planning on it being a lifelong thing."

Taking a breath, Laira sits up into her, holding her shoulders. "How can we—"

"Logically, we take one day at a time."

"We barely made it through dinner."

Michael shrugs, drying Laira's eyes with her thumbs. "We made it."

"That's an incredibly low standard." Laira's hands find hers and squeeze.

"We can save high standards for easier things."

Resting her forehead against Michael's, Laira sniffs, then starts to relax. It takes a breath, and a moment, then she sighs. "I don't have a family to introduce you to."

"Your mother's family on Earth-" Michael doesn't get to finish her thought. Laira rocks forward and retches. It happens so fast that Michael's almost slow to catch her air. They spend much more time with the threat of her vomiting than the reality of it and Michael's surprised - and shouldn't be - by how fast the conversation is gone.

There's nothing else to say after that. She mutters nonsense, keeps Laira's braid behind her shoulder out of the way, and waits. No one's fallen out of a wormhole through time and space this time, but this is almost as life changing. Michael thought she'd have children, someday. When she had time, when she had stability. Now she has to make that happen. Create it out of what they have. Make a safe space to land, so this crash landing into a family keeps them all safe.

"You know, Tilly used to tease me that I hadn't had the full Starfleet academy experience. Never got really drunk after a final. Never locked myself out of my dorm. Never held my roommate's hair back."

Laira spits, wipes the back of her hand against her mouth and finally sits back. She accepts the water glass and studies Michael. "Do you want me to look you out of our quarters some night, for the experience?"

"You can't tell me, then it's not a surprise."

"Right." Laira sips some of the water and spits it out. "I'll have to let you forget you mentioned it."

"That would work." Michael settles against the wall next to her, hands folded. Her thoughts drift, through tomorrow, and next week, and how much she misses her ship. The stars are home, always have been, but if she needs the ground for awhile. These quiet stars around headquarters will have to do. Home is here. It has to be.

"Are you ready to go back to dinner?" Laira surprises her, getting to her feet.

"You're all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm getting good at this."

"I'm sorry."

Laira wrinkles her nose and her little smile does something to Michael's heart. "I'm still not."

They stand, facing each other, hands finding each other's.

"If you're sure-" Michael starts.

"I love you," Laira interrupts.

Michael smiles, then chuckles, and her heart could power the whole damn station. "You didn't have to say it."

"I did, and thank you."

"For what?"

Laira touches her face, her fingers cool on Michael's skin. Her eyes are eternity. "For you."