Chapter Text
Laira
She turns to her side, trying to convince herself she can just go back to sleep. She's too warm to keep lying on Michael's chest, but moving to lie on the bed instead doesn't cool her.
Dammit.
Laira takes a breath, opening her eyes reluctantly in the darkness of Michael's quarters. Somehow here feels more like home than her own rooms at headquarters. Even though she's only spent a handful of nights on Discovery in Michael's quarters, there's a peace here she wants to wrap herself up in, like it's the sheets on Michael's bed. Sitting up, she smiles down at Michael, asleep on her back, braids on the pillow.
She'd be awake in an instant if Laira asks. All she has to do is touch her, or whisper her name, and Michael will be awake.
She should sleep. This is nothing.
Rubbing her eyes, Laira swings her feet over the side of the bed. Her toes find the cool deck and out of the blankets, she shivers. Stars fly past in blue lines. This time the mycelial network only got them within twenty-three light years of the barrier. Something Stamets can't explain, something they just have to work with. A day and a half to reach the barrier, an uncounted part of time to pass through, then the Ten-C.
Leaving the bed, she grabs her robe from the chair and pulls it on, though sweat makes the silk stick to her skin. Laira stops, taking another breath to try and still her stomach, but it's a lost cause. Stripping the robe off, she leaves it on the counter by the sink, and waits, hands on the sink.
She should really be better at this. Repetition is supposed to improve her skills, however, this is like that brutal sharp turn between R'Xylis and Zhouwen, no matter how many times she does it, it goes wrong.
With the bathroom door closed, Michael shouldn't hear her throwing up.
Let her sleep.
Their demanding little hitchhiker can keep her company as she washes her mouth out. Water's so sweet that she has to force herself to swallow it. Wiping tears from her eyes, Laira leans over the sink, not trusting her body to be done. She's nearly ruined a few meetings that way, but this is over for the moment. It's rare that this hits in the middle of the night, but everything about this is strange.
She should go back to sleep, but her adrenaline's up. Lying there will just wake up Michael, who has been so worried. Now that she's thrown up, her skin's less sweaty, and her robe slips on.
The vice president has exquisite taste in clothing, and the robe's incredibly beautiful. Not something she ever would have replicated, but her taste tends towards old sweaters and flightsuits. Starfleet uniforms aren't bad either, really, but that's not—
Laira didn't intend to end up on the bridge, but it's so late that the rest of the ship seems asleep. She's not sure how long she's been wandering, it's so rare to not need to be anywhere that she allows herself to walk without purpose. Then the turbolift opens on the bridge. It's even dim, as if reminding her she should be asleep, but Commander Owosekun turns in the captain's chair and smiles in welcome.
"Madam President—"
"Please, it's oh-three-hundred." Laira smiles, shaking her head. "This is hardly an official visit."
"Well then," Owosekun stands, waving her hand across the nearly empty bridge. "What can we do for you?"
Glancing down at her feet, Laira sighs. "I couldn't sleep."
Owosekun smiles, then taps the back of the captain's chair. "Come, sit."
"Sit?"
"Joann hates being up there." Detmer says from the conn. "You'd be rescuing her from it really."
"Protocol says someone has to sit there, not that it really matters at oh-three-hundred when the president's—" Detmer stops, then turns in her chair, starting to flush pink. "Sit, the view's nice."
The viewscreen's bright with starlines as they warp to the galactic barrier, and it's hardly going to be different in the chair, but it is Michael's chair.
Not at the moment, of course, but the ship is Michael's home.
"Michael won't mind, neither will Captain Saru." Owosekun returns to her familiar place at OPS. "You can say it's a historical experience."
"We've had two captains from another universe, only one who was really lying about it." Detmer taps a control and turns again to grin at Laira. "Captain Pike, who really should have made history enough that you know about him. Admiral Cornwell—"
Laira strokes the back of the chair. "I've heard of Pike, he captained the second Enterprise, and Cornwell had a few ships named after her."
"Good." Owosekun taps her console. "Then Saru, then Michael, now Saru again—"
"Michael will be back." Laira sits, sinking into Michael's chair, on Michael's bridge. The leather creaks a little, antique, like the metal of the armrests. She can't help looking for the little burr Michael's told her about in the dark. Her thumb rubs across it, rough and almost sharp. "You're right about the view."
"It's better in front." Detmer teases, pilots are all alike, no matter what century they're from.
Laira laughs."Of course it is." She drags her hair through her hair, playing with it lazily.
Owosekun checks a few more things on her console, taps the programmable matter, then turns. "Why can't you sleep?"
"Truly?"
Detmer turns as well, not all the way, curious but cautious, like a draka looking at a new toy who hasn't decided if she'll hate it or not. "If you're just trying to find something to look at, the view from Michael's quarters is also pretty spectacular."
"I had to throw up." No point in hiding that. She doesn't need their political capital, and they won't make her life more difficult.
Owosekun's face softens - all sympathy and warmth - while Detmer stiffens.
"I'm sorry—"
Laira holds up a hand before they can be too nice. "It's not bad."
"Not bad now," Detmer corrects, innocently moving her hand through the programmable matter on her console. "It has been bad."
Laira laughs, and forces her shoulders to relax. "It's been wretched."
Detmer casts her eyes to Owosekun and shakes her head.
Owosekun reaches over, patting Detmer's arm. "It's not like that for everyone."
"Something living inside of you is—" Detmer shudders. "Sorry.'
Laira waves her apology away, fidgeting with her sleeve. "Doctor Culber will often mention parts of it that are coming later and they don't seem real, so I understand your revulsion."
Owosekun chuckles a little. "That's very diplomatic of you to say."
Detmer rolls her eyes, turning back towards the viewscreen. "She is a diplomat."
Studying Detmer, Owosekun beams at her with the kind of naked affection that tingles to look at. "Laira used to be a pilot, so there's hope for you, Keyla. Maybe there's some diplomat in there somewhere. A next evolution for your macho side. "
Detmer scoffs and they laugh together, teasing each other.
Owosekun - Joann - used her first name, without blushing or hesitation. Laira leans back a little, settling into the Michael's chair as she toys with her hair. Before Michael, other than a handful of the very highest ranked Starfleet officers and planetary leaders, Laira's first name was becoming a footnote in her official biography.
Detmer - Keyla - stands, waves her console into autopilot. "Do you want to try it?"
"What?"
Even Joann tilts her head at that idea.
"We're at warp, and space out here is pretty empty. You'd have to try to fly it into a star if you wanted to." Keyla takes another step back, freeing up her chair. "It might help you not want to throw up."
Laira slips from the captain's chair and takes the few steps towards the pilot's console. Sitting down, she runs her fingers over the programmable matter, letting the ship get to know her. "Or I throw up on your controls."
Keyla's little scoff makes Joann laugh, and they both stand behind her, explaining how the old controls are different from what she grew up with, how the programmable matter works with the 900 year old ship underneath.
This is much more familiar than the captain's chair. The stars are so close she can touch them and the ship races away beneath her fingertips. Laira sighs then starts to smile." This is like home: the hum of the ship, the changing pressure of the programmable matter controls on her hand, cool and gentle, and the viewscreen bringing the stars to right in front of her.
"I've never flown anything like this. Cargo vessels are big, especially the sublight ones, but those turn like a drunk gormagander. Discovery turns on a nanite, I've seen what you can do with her."
"Still not over that six seconds?" Joann says, touching her shoulder.
"Six seconds is an eternity," Keyla retorts, crossing her arms. "We had plenty of time."
"I spend so much time thinking about the bigger things, interplanetary trade, multilateral protection agreements, I forgot what it was like to have an EPS control explode behind me."
Keyla touches the panel, guiding her hand over to the wrap readouts. "I'm glad we could remind you. Feel that? That's the distance to the galactic barrier, and just beneath that is our matter-antimatter efficiency, and the power output. The twisty thing under your palm is the spore drive, but that's not piloting."
Joann's smiling rebuke hints at that being an old problem between Keyla and engineering.
"When we get back, you can bring us in to headquarters. You've done that a few times, haven't you?"
"Only the first time." Laira blinks a little, her eyes stinging. "Never got to pilot myself after I was elected president. First time I was just a sector representative and we got there anywhere we could."
"When there wasn't enough dilithium."
"I don't think I can explain that to you."
Fingers touch her arm, and those are Joann's. "We ran out of other things, and our ships were fragile, but space was always open to us. It's different here, I know, but we can bring it back."
That optimism again. Just like Michael.
"Even if it is with mushrooms." Keyla leans on the side of the console, arms folded. "Stamets can't move the ship at all if it's not jumping, and it's like throwing ourselves across the universe, someone has to fly us in."
"What's the longest you've ever flown at sublight?"
Keyla has to think about that for quite some time. The 23rd century didn't know how good they had it, in some ways. The galaxy's always been messy, striving more than it succeeds, but not having to worry about how much dilithium they had would help. The spore drive might help that. Crossing universes is a terrifying side effect but, it didn't kill billions.
"Sixteen days," Keyla replies. "Warp coils went and we had to get back to a space lane. Starfleet picked us up. First time I saw a Walker-class ship."
"The Tianwen," Joann says. She must have heard this story hundreds of times. "Keyla knew she wanted to join Starfleet the moment she heard that warp drive purr."
"Shut up, Walker-class doesn't purr. It humms. There's a difference."
"It's a noise."
"They're distinctly different. Ask Stamets, or Reno, they'll explain it."
Joann smiles, nudging Keyla playfully. "Of course, Keyla tried to sneak onto the bridge."
"I didn't sneak—" Keyla pauses. "Fine, I did, but they let me."
"She was fourteen, already had her shuttle pilot rating, and Captain zh'Edem let her sit in the pilot's seat."
"It's more fun."
It's been more than a hundred years since they had Andorians in Starfleet, and Laira tries to picture that, or a Orion. At first she imagines the red, but the Discovery uniforms were that blue, and weren't they gold later?
"We used to make the Bajor-Cardassia run, my dad's fleet and I. When we had dilithium it was quick, couple days there and back, but when we didn't, it was years. I had three birthdays on that trip."
Keyla whistles, low and impressed. "That's a whole other kind of spacing. We lived on our ship but—"
"You went places." Laira stretches, rolling her shoulders a little. She can't love this too much, she is not Discovery's pilot and she has a whole interplanetary alliance to hold together.
"I didn't," Joann says, smiling at them both as she shakes her head. "I didn't even leave Earth until my first trip to Earth's moon, and I was at the Academy for that."
Laira finds that as hard to imagine as Joann does having three birthdays on a sublight cargo ship. they teach her Joann's console as well, explain what the indicators and sounds mean as Discovery warps through the night to the edge of the galaxy. Laira's forgotten how nauseated she was and she's finally starting to be tired, and then there are hands on her shoulders.
"Michael."
Michael kisses her hair before she turns. "Planning to join Starfleet after all?"
"The job I want is taken."
"Someday they'll promote Keyla."
Keyla's scoff makes them all laugh. "I can take these off you know. There's no position in Starfleet better than the one I have."
"Test pilot on the Voyager-J?" Laira teases, letting Michael help her up. "I can make it happen."
"I don't doubt it."
Joann and Keyla stand, beaming at Michael for a moment before they hug her.
"We miss you."
"I know." Michael pauses next to the captain's chair, and her longing is as palpable as a tractor beam. "I'll be back."
Laira has to make that happen, somehow. She doesn't quite know how yet, but there must be a way. There's always a way. Michael finds ways.
Joann and Keyla wish them a good night, and Michael's hand rests on the back of the chair. Laira squeezes the hand in hers, in gratitude and apology. The turbolift takes forever, yet it's here they found out their hitchhiker was still with them - here Michael kissed her - and just looking at Michael makes her flush.
"What?"
"You kissed me here."
"I did."
Michael turns, meeting her eyes. "I wanted to keep you with me."
"I couldn't focus." As sharp as that moment is, it's blurry. She remembers the grief, but that's foggy. Michael's kiss is sharp in her memory. Her life shifted there, falling into Michael as if she has her own gravity.
"I know."
Michael kisses her cheekbone, then her lips and Laira sighs into her.
"A whole galaxy of stars, and then there's you." She leans into her, resting her forehead against Michael's. "I couldn't sleep."
"I heard you not sleeping in the bathroom." Michael holds her face, brushing her fingers against Laira's cheek. "I'm sorry."
"Once is fine, even if it is in the middle of the night."
"Do you feel better?" Michael's hands slip down to her belly, holding her gently. "Is it just—"
"Sitting at the helm made me forget all about it, don't worry."
Michael's little chuckle makes her warm all over. "Pilots are all the same, retired or not."
The lift stops while Michael's staring into her eyes. "This is your home."
"It is."
"We have to get you back to it."
"I'm here." Michael leads her out of the lift. "We're here, leaving the galaxy again."
"Hopefully it'll be calmer."
"Whenever it's less than the fate of the whole planets, it's calmer." Hands together, they walk back to Michael's quarters.
Michael hands her a cup of tea, then they sit on the bed, the sheets soft and cool beneath her legs. "You don't have to hide being sick."
"I wanted you to sleep."
"I'll sleep."
"It's just—"
"This is a lot."
"You're supposed to be captain."
"And I will be."
"You should be captain now."
"Saru's got it." Michael gulps her tea, then sets it down. Resting her hand on Laira's belly, she sighs. "I miss it, of course I miss it, but you can't stay on the ship and I can't—"
Laira covers her hand with hers. "I can't understand what you gave up, but I love you."
"I gave it up because I love you. That makes it easy." Michael kisses her gently, lingering. "Easier, at least."
Curled around Michael, eventually she's too tired and comfortable to worry, and sleep takes her. Even if this is only temporary, and they're racing to the edge of the galaxy and how can she - how can they? Love has to be enough. They solved the Burn, stopped the DMA, finding a way to live together has to be possible. Selfish and indulgent and ridiculous as it is, because Laira has responsibilities and the galaxy needs Michael Burnham, captain of Discovery.
This once, she wants everything. Laira wants the folktale where she curls up against Michael at night and they raise their baby together. They can be a story, can't they? Michael's heroic enough to be one of the Bajoran heroes of the grand tales.
The galactic barrier stretches out in front of them, crackling with energy. Laira's stomach dives sharply towards her boots, but for once, it's not the baby. They nearly died here. Six seconds was all that was left between them and the negative energy devouring the ship. Keyla's an amazing pilot, she and Michael's crew got them through, once. Being here again is more than daunting, and those obnoxious little sparkles are already creeping into the edges of her vision. Michael's not in command this time, and Laira isn't sure who hates that more, her or Michael.
Discovery's science office leaves her chair, offering it to Michael with a nod of her head. Laira stood beside Michael last time, but this time, she sits, Michael behind her, as they watch Saru direct them through the barrier.
No speeches this time. The extraordinary is a bit more predictable when it's the second outing, still Laira wraps her fingers around themselves in her lap. Don't fidget, it's not presidential.
Michael touches her shoulder when she stiffens. Then she leans down, her mouth just behind Laira's ear. "You all right?"
There's not a good way to explain that the dizziness is normal, that she's almost good at it, and her rising nausea is nerves, it has to be. Reaching up, Laira takes Michael's hand as Discovery punches through into one of the spatial cells. The colors rush back, bringing the warm brown into Michael's concerned eyes.
Nodding to her, Laira turns her eyes to Saru, then she watches Keyla, just waiting. The sparks don't fly behind them and they stop.
"This spatial cell is stable, big enough to hold the ship, and headed out of the barrier, but it's slow moving. Two days, maybe three, sir," Keyla reports.
Saru sighs, congratulates the crew and then turns, finding their eyes. "Madam President? How much urgency do we need in our journey?"
Two days is more than they planned, but this is safe. The ship is stable. There have been far worse things.
"This will do, thank you, Captain. Thanks to all of you."
"I'm not doing much, ma'am," Keyla mutters at her console.
"Just stay in the bubble, Commander."
"Yes ma'am."
Inclining his head towards her, Saru nods. "We will wait it out."
Two more days, maybe three...
Laira thanks the bridge crew, taking the time to let all of them tell her about what they're doing. Listening to how they're part of the symphony keeping them in place, she fidgets with her hands while Michael follows behind her. Michael could tell her everything, of course, and they're much happier to see Michael than her.
This is Michael's element, after all, talking to the crew, listening to them, providing encouragement and support while they confront the next crises, save the galaxy from bubbles and and whatever else follows.
It's almost a kind of politics, but closer, intimate in a way Laira's office can never be. Starfleet's its own community, another kind of family, like the spacers she grew up with. She can hover on the fringes, talk about piloting, but she'll never be part of this.
Slipping her hand into Michael's, she connects them as they leave the bridge. It's not a good trade: Laira for the Discovery, politics for Michael's crew. She didn't need to give this up. Michael has to know that.
Michael drops her hand to hug her, slipping in as if seeking solace together is a habit of years, not weeks.
Laira takes a deep breath, lost in the scent of her. "Show me your ship."
"It's not—"
Nuzzling Michael quiet, she shakes her head. "It is, and you never gave me the tour."
"Is that a rule?"
"I've toured many starships, but not this historic beauty."
Michael looks at the deck, then chuckles. "I didn't give you a tour."
"You did not."
"I was really not keen on you coming aboard."
Laira kisses her eyebrow. "I know."
"And I thought you were just—"
"Ticking a box?"
Michael presses her lips together, and her eyes are bright. "You weren't."
"All of my missions with you turn out to be something grander than I thought." Laira smirks down at her belly. "Must be something about you."
"Maybe it's the ship."
That sounds like a captain. Laira slips her hand into Michael's. "Then introduce me to her, Captain."
"As you wish, Madam President."