Chapter Text
Michael
"Mom and dad usually don't let me come to work dinners." Adezie Vance sets the table, neatly arranging the forks by the plates.
"We were trying to not make it a work dinner." Michael finishes her coffee and sighs. "We did try, we meant to stop talking about work."
Adezie nods to her. "I know you'll try to not make it work."
Michael chuckles, and hands her cloth napkins. "It's somehow always work isn't it?"
"They're busy. Mom works all the time too."
"My birth parents used talk about engineering and science over the table before I understood what they were saying, and once I was old enough to get it, I was too far invested. I wanted to be an engineer too."
Adezie smiles at that. "Mom's work is very different from dad's. Being a chef sounds more fun than being an admiral. I think Dad liked being a captain better, but I was really little when he had his own ship."
"Did you get to see him much when he had a ship?"
Shaking her head, Adezie folds a napkin into a neat triangle. "Oh no. It was just mom and I on a starbase for a long time. We'd see him a few times, but the Emerald Chain—"
Michael touches her shoulder. "It was the Klingons when I was younger, and we were allies with the Andorians."
"That's so different."
"Isn't it?" Michael folds the last napkin and hands it over. "Bet you learned a lot about how replicators work from your mom."
"A replicator is only as good as the original recipe, and the molecular arranger. Both are important." Adezie sets the napkins on the plates and glances over at the living room, where Laira and Admiral Vance have been discussing negotiations with Andoria in soft voices over glowing holos for the last hour or so. "Don't worry, they'll stop when mom gets here. Mom and dad have a deal."
"Good, Laira and I haven't worked it out quite as well."
Laira sneezes three, four, eventually six times, in the living room and Vance's serious expression breaks into a smile.
"Maybe it'll be different when you have a baby."
"It'll have to be."
Adezie nods, tapping through the replicator menu. "You know, Laira has the fancy replicator."
"Fancy?"
"Mom says some of the most difficult cuisine to replicate is Bolian, because some much of it is so acidic, and it's molecularly complex. If you see this one-" she points and pauses, letting Michael read it.
"Gondas oranatazydes?" Some kind of Bolian stew, Michael thinks, but she's never had it
"Then you have the fanciest replicator database the Federation makes. Only one version has it." Adezie leans closer to Michael. "We can't eat it though."
"Too acidic?"
"It would melt your tongue."
Michael chuckles with her. "That doesn't sound good."
"Do you like hasparat?"
"I hadn't had it until we got here. Bajor wasn't in the Federation yet."
"Hasparat's really good, it's kind of spicy though and maybe—" she pauses, because she's one of the most thoughtful kids Michael has ever met.
"Laira likes decapus salad, and makapa bread. I've heard foraiga is good, but I haven't had it." Michael glances down, then looks back up at Adezie. "Sometimes, lately, she just eats the bread."
"Dad worries about her."
Michael pats her shoulder. "It's just for a little while." It's sweet that Vance worries, and charming than Adezie knows about it. They both look over towards Laira's desk, but Vance and Laira aren't working anymore. They sat down while Michael wasn't looking, and Laira's head in her hands, leaning forward. Dammit.
Michael watches for a moment, trying to guess what she needs. Laira might just be dizzy, and Vance rubs her shoulder. Grabbing a cold glass of water from the replicator, she looks to Adezie, ready to apologize for neglecting her replicator duties.
"I got it. I'm good at setting it all up." She waves Michael away as if she were much older. Something in her expression says she does this often.
"Thanks."
Kneeling down in front of Laira, Michael hands the water to Vance, then touches Laira's knees. "What happened?"
Laira's her eyes remain closed, her eyeshadow glinting in the weak light. "I got dizzy."
Vance chuckles. "I'm sure it's my fault for asking about building another spacedock."
"Entirely." Michael rubs Laira's knees, then touches her cheek. "Dark around the edges?"
Laira's tone cracks with annoyance. "It was all dark."
"Did you stand up too fast?"
"I was standing." Laira opens her eyes slowly, and it takes her a moment to focus on Michael's face. "Then I couldn't."
Vance hands over the water, careful to cradle Laira's hands around it. "We do need another space dock."
Laira's soft little laugh aches in Michael's chest. She takes a sip of her water, and her hands seem steady.
"Is it getting better?"
"The sparkles are gone."
"White or gold?" Vance asks, with a smirk.
"Does the color matter?"
"I always see gold when I hit my very hard head on anything."
"Silver," Michael says, taking the half-empty water glass when Laira shakes her head. "but it's more like ribbons, falling sparks. Been awhile since I hit my head that hard."
"If I'd hit my head, this would make sense." Laira glares down at her, then shuts her eyes, frustration tinges her voice. "I didn't take anything. Today was an easy day."
Vance raises his eyebrows, as if easy is a very relative term for the embodiment of the Federation. "Only eight hours of meetings, less than usual."
"You're not helping."
He smirks at Michael, pats Laira's hands and stands. "I'll go help with dinner then."
Laira glares at him for a moment, then shuts her eyes. That little wince is about as much as she'll allow herself to complain, so Michael touches the back of her neck, running her fingers over the tight muscles where Laira's head meets her neck.
"Drink your water."
Her first breath is fast, but the second is slower, calmer. "It's the same water, but it-"
"Tastes funny." Michael finishes for her. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not-"
"You're allowed to be annoyed about it. You didn't ask for it."
Laira looks at the water glass, but she wrinkles her nose and ignores it.
"Even if you did," Michael says, half-teasing, but there's a truth to that. She drops her hand to Laira's, wrapping their fingers together. "It must be so frustrating."
"It's fine." Laira sighs, again, then drinks her water as if it's from the bitter salt seas of Ni'Var. "I did this to myself, after all."
Michael kisses her forehead. "You can't blame yourself for an anomaly that rare."
Laira shrugs, fidgeting with the glass in her hands. "Maybe my first thought during a spatial anomaly shouldn't have been 'I want to have a child with you.'"
"Was that the real reason you came onto Discovery to vet me? That whole Voyager-captaincy thing was just a ruse?"
Finally Laira smiles, coy and amused, but she looks a little less pale. "It was, it really was. I didn't care about Starfleet at all, just whether or not you'd be a good parent."
"Luckily for me, I passed?" Michael chuckles, setting down the glass and reaching for Laira's hands to help her up.
Laira's fingers grabs hers, tight, and she pauses, looking directly into Michael's eyes, deeply serious. Her eyes are so damn blue. "You're the only person I can imagine doing this with; you are the best choice." Laira kisses her cheek when Michael can't speak, and then slips past her.
There's no time to chase her and ask her to clarify, or insist that there are hundreds of better potential parents than her, so Michael stares at Laira's back, smiles, tries not to blush and fails utterly.
Ronia Vance beams in from work and everyone's distracted welcoming her, so Michael takes a moment, retrieves Laira's glass and stares at it, smiles at it, holds it like an idiot because Laira held it and Laira loves her and Laira wanted to have a baby with her—
When Michael looks up again, dragging herself back to the present Adezie smiles at her over the table, arms folded. She tilts her head towards the chair beside Laira then winks.
"Going to come eat, Captain?"
The agreement happens so quickly during the debate than Michael barely has time to glare across at Laira how much she hates this idea before it has been proposed, voted on, and settled. Laira, and Discovery, are going back to the 10C to ask for help with the static warp bubbles.
It's the worst idea. It's objectively a terrible, awful idea and so unnecessary because they're so close to being able to add a spore drive to all ships that want one - except their prototype doesn't install on every ship in an instant like Tarka's and their prototype means every ship in Starfleet will need a refit and spore bay but—
They're going. Laira's face is set and Michael's not going to be to argue with the fucking president, but that doesn't mean she hates it any less.
The Vice President even has the gall to suggest Michael go to Ni'Var and keep working with the propulsion engineers there, but she could have strangled her with her bare hands and that carries really well to a Betazoid, so that idea dies early.
The Romulan scientist, Dr. Veddra, will just have to come to the edge of the galaxy. It must be perfectly safe if they're sending Laira - now - Michael has to remind herself that they don't know. Maybe they would have voted differently, maybe she could—
Laira doesn't want it to be public. She's not ready and she's the one pregnant. Michael respects that, she has to, but she also hasn't had a knot in her stomach this stubborn since Leland. She tries to chase it away by looking at their mission, plotting a course, analyzing the galactic barrier transit and pondering ways to strengthen the shields, but it's useless.
They nearly died. Billions of lives were at stake, and death caressed them, multiple times, but they succeeded.
Narrowly.
Laira takes a moment, touches her hand, then her cheek, and they linger, almost kissing, almost embracing. 'I love you' drifts over her lips, but she doesn't say it, not here.
Michael hates this.
Laira knows.
They're going anyway.
Kovich, Laira, Vance and the vice president disappear into Laira's office to plan the handover and what she'll have to deal with in Laira's absence. Michael doesn't actually have anything to do. She's going nowhere, so she leaves, heads for the lounge, because she needs a drink if she has to go back to the 10-C. Tilly's still in class, Discovery's jumping to Ni'Var and Earth, so she only has herself to drink with.
She finishes one shot quickly, letting it numb her tongue. The cocktail she broods over, letting her mind wrap itself around the logic of this while her heart flames.
"Rough day, Captain?" President Montgomery takes a seat beside her, drink in hand.
Michael lifts her drink, nods to the president of United Earth and then takes a long sip. She'll need it if she's going to talk. "I hate this mission, ma'am."
Montgomery nods, tapping her glass with a finger. "Too dark out there past the edge of the galaxy?"
"I've been in a toxic subspace void, and a collapsing universe. Both of those were pretty dark, and no, I didn't like either of them."
"You had company in your collapsing universe." Montgomery lifts her glass to Michael, and finishes her drink. "Laira's a riot if you manage to keep her from hustling you out of your starship."
Michael winces, shaking her head while Montgomery laughs. "Laira needed some help."
Montgomery nods, waving down the server for another round. She orders something Michael's never heard of and the server disappears to fetch them. "She does look tired."
Of course she does, Laira's carrying the Federation and a baby, that's a lot. "She is tired. She didn't stop, not after the DMA, or the 10-C, even when—"
Montgomery waits, head tilted, smiling in interest. "When what?"
Toying with the rim of her empty glass, Michael shrugs. "You've read the classified report."
"The astrophysics went right past me, but it got really interesting in the last part." Montgomery's eyes twinkle. "Odd side effects for an anomaly, don't you think?"
"It's thought based."
"And her thoughts were fairly flattering towards you, Captain." Montgomery accepts the drinks from the server and winks at Michael. "I've known Laira a long time, and she doesn't fall—"
"Like a two-year-old into a well?"
Lifting her glass, Montgomery chuckles. "Historically not." She lifts the cherry from her drink and takes a sip. "Seems you're extraordinary."
Toying with her own cherry stem, Michael sniffs her drink and tries to determine what it is. "I'm a wrecking ball."
That gets a laugh, head back, eyes shining. "She didn't call you that."
"Oh she did."
"And you still—"
Instead of falling like a child, Michael fell like a meteor, changing everything in her life. Michael nods. "She grew on me."
"That can be good." Montgomery looks at her glass with an innocent expression. "Since you're growing in her."
Michael has to swallow hard not to spit out her drink. The hitchhiker's in the unredacted report, and Laira might have mentioned it, but she's still not prepared for the very wicked smile on the president's face.
"Congratulations for that, by the way. You really must be someone extraordinary, Captain Michael Burnham." Montgomery's smile cracks her face and she starts to laugh. "I never thought Lar-Lar would actually do it."
Michael's had enough real liquor that by the time she returns to their quarters her lips are pleasantly numb and her awareness is a little off. Laira's not back yet, so she peels off her suit jacket and slumps on the sofa in her tank top, water in hand.
Take the ship to the edge of the galaxy, cross the galactic barrier (that they barely survived the first time), ask the giant floating jellyfish monsters for help before the warp bubbles destabilize subspace and warp travel, hold the galaxy together just long enough to make the spore drive's new prototype interface work—
Totally easy, they can do all of this. No problem. It'll be fine, the 10-C don't have similar enough digestive systems to be offended if Laira throws up in front of the anyway.
President Montgomery's laugh rings in her ears, but it's the softness of what she said that clings to Michael's thoughts."I think she's wanted this for a long time. You just weren't here yet."
Michael doesn't believe in fate, or predestination, and the paths that led her here have a thousand on discovered branches. This journey hurt, and she lost so many people. Is that what scares her, losing Laira, losing the future that barely exists yet? She wants this, and it's logical to fear losing it, but she can't logic herself out of being afraid. Being angry. Hasn't she done enough for the galaxy? Why does it need Laira?
Why now?
She finishes her water, replicates some more, then paces instead of sitting. The warp bubbles are a subspace problem. The 10-C understand subspace better than any species they've ever encountered. They have empathy, they might be amenable to assisting them again, but that might take weeks of negotiating, digging through linguistics, figuring out how to ask about a phenomena they barely understand of a species that only just stopped killing them. Though, they were apologetic. It's not terrible, not nearly as dangerous as their first trip, and yet...
Michael runs a hand over Philippa's ancient telescope. The metal's cool under her fingers, worn by centuries of hands. If Philippa was with her, what would she say? How would Philippa help her hate this less? "We don't chose our missions, Michael. We control how we approach them. We decide what to do with what we're handed, even if we hate what's in our hands."
She hates this. Laira and the baby are the most precious - vulnerable - parts of her life, and sending them beyond the galactic barrier makes her want to punch someone. She hasn't been this mad since Laira— Michael pauses, chuckling to herself. Of course, it was her. It had to be.
Touching the telescope again, Michael thanks it for being part of Philippa, for bringing her to her mind, with all of Philippa's calm. She'd be so amused by Michael being involved with someone like Laira. An ambassador like Sarek, a politician, which is worse still, and yet, Philippa would be proud of them. She'd be enamored with the baby, demand holos every chance they could send them.
Taking a breath, Michael lets her thoughts drift to Gabrielle, still on P'Jhar. The monastery doesn't have direct communications, but messages can be left, and Gabrielle writes back to Michael when she can. It's not the right way to find out about a grandchild. Michael will need to wait until she can see her in person, but...telling her they were dating might be all right.
Michael starts and stops, gets some tea and tries again, happy with her message on the third try. It's to the point enough that Gabrielle should be pleased with it. Absolute candor can be difficult to get right.
Michael plays it back, listening for little mistakes. Did she say too much? Did she ask for too much? Gabrielle's free to come and go from P'Jhar
Laira's hands wind around her waist and then she's wrapped up in Laira's arms. Michael didn't hear her come in while she was fussing with the message to Gabrielle. Laira leans down, kissing her neck and Michael's warm.
"Will your mother be able to see you?"
Michael wraps her hands around Laira's. "I'd like her to see us."
Laira kisses her neck again, humming a response in the affirmative.
"I want her to meet you. Really meet you, I know you met, but—"
"It's different." Laira squeezes her again, then slips away, pulling her hair out of its updo so it falls heavy onto her shoulders. "President of the Federation sending you on a life-threatening mission to bring in someone dear to you is very different from I'm dating your daughter. The latter's so much more intimidating."
Michael chuckles, watching Laira take off her jacket and sit, hair falling loose down her back like a princess from one of Amanda's books. "I've never talked to my mother about dating anyone."
Pausing while she removes her makeup, Laira smiles as she processes that thought. "She was gone for that part of your life."
"She watched me."
"She saw it, that doesn't mean you knew she was watching." Laira wipes the makeup from her face and removes her blouse, sitting in front of the mirror in her delicate tank top. "I never talked to my mother about dating either. My father's crew gave me a hard time, but spacers have their own rules."
"Couriers did too." Michael walks towards her, running her fingers across Laira's bare shoulders. "Tilly and Stamets helped me with one of my first dates. Sort of, just dancing with someone at a party was so--"
Laira raises her eye ridges, smirking. "Terrifying?"
"Awkwardly yes."
Turning, Laira stands, and takes Michael's hand as if they're about to dance. "Should I avoid asking you to formal functions?"
"Do we dance in this century?" Michael slips into her arms, swaying in the bedroom without music. "I might have gotten better at it."
"Good." Laira leans close to her forehead, pressing their faces together. "I have to attend many formal occasions, and I'd hate to go without you."
"I nearly strangled the vice president because I didn't want to go on a mission without you."
Laughing, Laira pulls back and nods. "I haven't seen her make that face in awhile."
"I hate this mission."
Laira kisses her forehead, then her cheek and then they're kissing, wrapped in each other and everything is right with the galaxy. "I know."
"I don't like putting you in danger."
"I'll be on the best ship in the fleet, with the best crew." Laira pauses, then touches Michael's lower lip. "Unfortunately, the best captain isn't available right now."
"Saru is a good captain."
Laira lifts Michael's hands and kisses them. "My favorite captain took a break."
"Wonder why she did that?"
"I hear she got pulled into politics."
"How dreadful for her."
Standing on her tiptoes, Michael rises up to kiss her firmly. "It's been horrible, every moment of it."
Later, when Laira's wrapped around her, Michael plays with her hair. Trailing her fingers down Laira's bare back, she tries to make sense of her feelings. It's enough, isn't it? She came ahead in time, her crew left everything, and then they saved the galaxy again, lost her relationship, gained one - grained everything - but she's tired. Not tired like Laira, who could easily take several naps a day, tired in her soul.
Maybe the galaxy could stay saved for awhile. A few months, so Laira feels better, maybe a year, so the baby's here and someone else can deal with whatever the next problem is.
There are other ships, other captains, this doesn't have to be them, doesn't have to be her crew, but Laira's the best negotiator. Discovery has the best crew and this should be Michael's mission. Saru can handle it. She'll have to let him; she can't take the ship back. She can't even be his first officer right now because she stepped back.
For Laira.
For the hitchhiker.
Because Michael doesn't know how to be captain and partner and mother. She doesn't know how to balance the galaxy and her life. She can save lives, fight to the last, but a handful of lives, a tiny family, is something she hasn't had since she was a child. Amanda, Sarek and Spock loved her, but they were different from her parents. That quiet safety she had as a child hasn't been with her since they died. Does she want that back? Do they build that together? Does it start at the end of the galaxy, where the stars are few?
Laira sighs, shifting against Michael's chest. Is that where they started? Michael loved Book, and sometimes love is letting go.
Sometimes love must be holding on.
Her badge is on the nightstand and she can't read it. She'd have to get out of bed to work, and lying here it's just Laira's breathing and her heartbeat.
Philippa used to tell her to let things happen. Trust the crew, let them do their work. Trust her family. Trust herself. The other Philippa wanted her to love, in her own prickly way. They'd both be proud of her now, wouldn't they?
They would both want her to be happy.
Is she?
Laira sighs and Michael finds her hand. She whispers, nuzzles her hair, and Laira quiets. This could be what happy and content feels like; where it starts.
They board Discovery at 0800. It's not that early, but Laira's half awake, and Michael can't help thinking fondly of the coffee in the mess hall. She's not the captain, so they don't have to be on the bridge, but it's one of the strangest experiences she's had lately to sit in lounge and let everyone else move around her. Black Alert sounds through the ship. She doesn't need to be on the bridge. This is Saru's mission.
Laira reaches across the table, and her fingers find Michael's. "It's strange being here, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
They jump and they pass through the mycelial network, stretching and twisting before they pop back into space. It's more disorienting here than on the bridge. (She's supposed to be captain, after all.)
When they're back, Laira smiles at her over coffee, then squeezes her fingers. "When you're ready, there's some treaty language I need to get through before we get out of communications range entirely."
"Andoria?" That's what she was working on before they left, wasn't it?
"Nothing that complicated. Tellar Prime and United Earth, technical and scientific exchange." Laira rubs her forehead and Michael's stomach knots. They can't have an easy day, can they?
Laira rolls her eyes when she catches Michael's. "I'm fine."
"I didn't say anything."
"You don't have to say anything, Michael, you have the loudest eyes."
"I do not." Michael releases her hand to grab her coffee. "How can eyes be loud?"
Laira leans back, both hands on her cup. "You worry so much it vibrates like a bad plasma conduit."
"It does not."
"Hmmm." Laira opens her work, letting the glow of the holopadd fill the air between them.
"It'll be a long day if you have a headache already."
"I don't have a headache."
"Hmmm," Michael echoes from her side of the holo.
Laira starts to laugh. "I also don't sound like that."
She absolutely does, and Michael's right, but this is as close as Laira will get to agreeing. "I'm getting more coffee. Can I bring you a hypo?"
"Is it for you?" Laira avoids meeting Michael's eyes.
"Yes, it is for me, so I don't worry. Your head doesn't hurt at all." Folding her arms, Michael waits.
Laira studies the ceiling as if Discovery herself can somehow help her. "Then fine, painkiller thirty-six, for you, and more coffee."