Chapter Text
<p><br />quantum variations on a love theme - Chapter 13 - Oparu (USSJellyfish) - Star Trek: Discovery [Archive of Our Own]<br /></p>
Michael
The sun sets in the middle of their meal. First Minister Reze insisted on having everyone on the ship for dinner, and so Discovery has a skeleton crew in orbit (there are a handful of crew members who don't like parties) and everyone else is in the vast garden of the capitol compound, eating and talking as they wander through flowers. The ceiling trellis is covered with heavy purple flowers and there's more in between the tables and near the benches and the sheer volume of colors and scents is incredible. The air's humid, soft with moisture, but not too heavy.
Saru's in his element, identifying all the flowers while Nilsson holds both of their plates. Everyone else mingles, looking at the sculptures and the fountains, getting pulled into games and conversations.
Michael hasn't seen musicians in months, but they're tucked into the flowers.
Laira keeps the First Minister laughing with some story that might have something to do with them. That little smile means it is about them. They worked together, years ago. Rough around the edges cargo pilot Laira learned politics from a very unimportant minister.
Back when her hair was teal and she never kept her boots on the deck.
Michael studies one of the flowers, touching the velvet petals before she breathes in.
Reno sits on the bench beside her, holding her plate. "You know, I was never sure when this was."
"This party?"
Reno nods, passing Michael a piece of something, dipped in red sauce. "Spent a non-insignificant amount of time locked in with a time crystal, saw much more than I needed to, but mostly it's jumbled, more than I can understand. Not a problem."
"But you get glimpses."
"Some of them are pretty distinct, but it's weird stuff. That flower in your hand. Your wife winning every round of cards."
"My wife?" Michael swallows hard and Reno passes her drink. "You saw that?"
"Wasn't sure." Reno sets her plate on the bench beside her. "Like I said, it's pretty scrambled, like I tried to fit gigaquads of data into one little old isolinear chip."
"You're not that old."
"Approaching a millennia, thank you."
Chuckling, Michael takes a sip. "Aren't we all.'
"So, weirdly enough, that flower I remember. I've seen it before. And you, her" - she pauses, gesturing towards Laira, - "you have a hell of a party."
"We do?"
"Tilly, Hugh, bunch of programmable matter and yeah, open bar."
"Ah."
Reno leans back, then brushes crumbs from her uniform. "Weddings are a lot, and I didn't think I'd ever, but here we are on the timeline with your wedding, which means I'm having one."
"You are?" Michael searches the crowd for Veddra, wondering if Reno's future wife is her. "Now?"
"Oh no, your kid's walking and talking by the time I have a shindig. Cute kid."
Michael's smile warms her whole body. "She is?"
"Adorable little potato, then the chubbiest little ragamuffin toddler, but by the time I get married again, she's adorable."
"A potato?"
"The cutest potato."
Michael chuckles, looking up at the stars through the trellis. "I can't picture her."
"Imagine a potato, add dimples, big brown eyes." Reno pauses to take another sip. "Gets your wife's hair."
Finding Laira in the crowd, Michael tries to imagine a baby with her hair. Maybe a little darker, maybe redder. "Thank you for telling me."
"It's a good thing you have going. I haven't seen much it, just a horde of kids on the ship and a galaxy full of spore drives. You do our wedding, by the way."
"I haven't done a wedding."
"Well, you're going to." Reno shakes her head. "And it's pretty fucking great. I try not to think about too much, don't want to screw it up, but it's there and we keep going that way."
"Is this your version of a go get her speech?"
"Oh no, you've clearly got her, be happy. Enjoy it, love that potato."
Michael brushes tears out of her eyes, and her head's tight, like she's too happy for it to fit. "My dad said I was a pumpkin. I'd never seen one when I was a kid, so it made no sense to me, but I like potato."
"He'd be proud of you."
"Thanks."
Reno winks. "Any time."
Chuckling, Michael watches the crowd. Her family drifts through the Bajorans, telling stories, dancing, and Laira's at the center.
Her center.
The galaxy spirals outward with all it's wonders from here, from them.
Her father said she'd know, when she was ready to be married, when she'd found that person, she'd know. She'd wondered, had a couple moments, but this, oddly enough, is a truth.
"Let's get raktijinos," Laira says, beaming at her in the market. Coffee is good, of course, but this is distraction coffee. 'Don't freak out because we're about to hike more than twenty kilometers into jungle on ancient stone paths' and 'it'll be fine' Klingon coffee.
Michael isn't sure when Klingon coffee became a delicacy. Maybe she doesn't want to know. Klingon culture still makes her neck prickle.
Hugh gave them a fairly full set of medications, and they won't be out of transporter range, it's simply traditional to walk to the temple. It's a sacred pilgrimage, and Michael understands that, she does, just hiking across unknown terrain is not her idea of a good time.
Laira's in good spirits, and she's so happy to be on Bajor that she nearly glows in the sun. Of course, she's excited.
Stay hydrated, take breaks. Don't hike during the hottest part of the day, make sure to be warm enough at night. Watch her electrolytes. Hugh's list rolls through her head like a line from a book, but coffee will fix it.
"Raktajino's came to Bajor from Deep Space Nine, which was the first Starfleet station in orbit, way back in the 24th century."
Michael smiles and falls in step beside Laira as they walk through the market. "That's after my time."
"After the Cardassian Occupation, Starfleet came to help rebuild. A Starfleet captain discovered the Bajoran wormhole, the home of the Prophets. There was war, The Dominion, Cardassians, even Klingons for awhile, but it eventually led to Bajor joining the Federation."
"All ancient history?"
"Mostly, the captain was special." Laira stops at a corner of the market and points to a statue of a human in what must be a Starfleet uniform. "The Prophets made him their emissary."
"A human?"
"He was a very special human." Laira smiles up at the statue. "Starfleet captains just have that effect sometimes."
"Sisko?" Michael's read some of this, there was a great deal of history to get through. She remembers the name.
"Benjamin Sisko." Laira leads them to a little line of people waiting for coffee from a street vendor. "It was so long ago that the history is full of myth, but I remember learning about him in school. How he changed the planet for good, brought the Prophets to more than Bajorans."
"And that was important to you."
"Me and all the other little hybird children." Laira orders two raktijinos and they wait.
Michael tries to picture Laira as a child, sitting in school, learning about the human who spoke to the Prophets.
"Meant a lot that he was human."
"Like your mom."
"She was happy here. Always wanted to see Earth, especially the ocean she'd heard so much about, the oceans here aren't like Earth's at all, but she had a good life." Laira's little smile is very brave and practiced, but her eyes are soft.
Michael kisses her cheek. "Growing up on Vulcan was hard. Sometimes it felt like my brother, Amanda and I were the only humans on the planet. Sometimes I think we were."
"So you had to out Vulcan the Vulcans?"
"I've always been an overachiever." Michael shakes her head and takes her coffee. There's a line of things to put into it: spices and sweeteners. The little silver bottle is that nutrient supplement Laira reaches for - and laughs about - at every meal.
Michael picks it up, sniffing it. She's tried it, and it doesn't taste like much. A little savory; disappears mostly in coffee and anything strong.
The woman making the coffee notices her. "We have good replicators again. The parts are easy to get now that we have Federation supplies. No one needs it any more, but we grew up with it. Coffee tastes funny without it."
"I didn't see a replicator in good working order until I traveled on a Federation starship." Laira reaches for the supplement and pours it in. She adds cream too, and two of the spices, then takes a sip. "I could try going without, I might not miss it."
"But you're used to it."
Laira waits for Michael to finish flavoring her own raktijino, then leads her back into the street market. Children run through it, laughing and playing some game while all the adults seem to watch them collectively. There are plenty of Cardassians, a few Tellarites, several Ferengi, but Michael hasn't seen another human. Many hybrids, with different levels of the Cardassian grey and forehead ridges along with the Bajoran nose.
The children especially make Laira smile, and they stop, watching them play.
"They're so much livelier then we were."
Michael waits for her to explain, sipping her coffee.
"We could never keep up on vaccines, or treat everything. So many medications are difficult to replicate, impossible to manufacture. Our replicators were always a little off, maybe this part was missing, or it folded this protein wrong. We ran through the market near my house, just like this, but we were always sick."
"Infrastructure was your first mandate when we had dilithium again."
"People were starving, some quickly, some slowly over years, and the Federation needs to be better than that. It was, and it seems like it finally is again." Her eyes are too bright, again, and Michael pats her arm.
"The logistics reports look good. We have enough dilithium, every planet in the Federation has a way to have their infrastructure needs met: from clinics to replicators." Michael slides her hand down to squeeze Laira's. "It'll take time, of course, but we did that."
"Well, you solved the Burn, Captain."
"Oh no, I've seen your job. Yours is much harder." Laughing ruefully, Michael drinks more of her coffee and turns towards the archway over the path into the jungle. It's lined with lanterns and rock carvings. Flowers float in ancient bowls of water so old that they might be older than Michael.
Part of her wants to scan everything, ask questions, collect a qualitative history of the Temple of Resuna Idum, but she's not here to be a scholar, or report back to the Starfleet. Experience this, be a pilgrim, even if they don't need to ask for the blessing of fertility.
Michael evens out the straps of the pack on her back, sets her empty coffee cup into the recycler and waits while Laira looks through the clothing in one of the stalls. She's adorable in one of the old 'DISCO' t-shirts that stores had to go with standard issue warm weather gear. Starfleet expedition clothes are not what Laira's used to, but she didn't bring things to hike in.
Michael hasn't seen many translators. Few people can probably read the human lettering anyway.
Laira trades credits for one of the long cardigans and tucks it into her pack before putting the pack back on her shoulders.
"Now I'm ready."
"You needed a sweater?" Michael mimes wiping sweat from her forehead. "It's gotta be thirty degrees at least, and humid."
"It's the tropics."
Rolling her eyes a little, Michael sighs. "Did I tell you how I grew up on Ni'Var, desert planet? A relatively cold part of a desert planet?"
"It's been mentioned." Laira points towards the winding trail in the thick woods. "After you, dear."
"You're excited about this."
"I am thrilled about this."
Michael pauses, taking a few steps into the jungle. "Hiking in a rainforest?"
It takes two steps for Laira to catch up with her, and she looks forward at the flowers, vines and heavy vegetation, before she looks down at her feet. "Being with you."
"You could be with me on a starship."
"I intend to." Laira reaches over and takes her hand, fidgeting with Michael's fingers in that way she does. "First, we survive hiking."
"Survive is not the right word." Michael signs and turns, watching the market and the city vanish behind the thick trees as they walk. The noise of the market - of people - disappears into living sounds of the jungle around them.
"Endure?" Laira takes a step, the kisses Michael's hand. "Enjoy. We enjoy hiking."
"We" - Michael pauses, trying to find anything she can use that's a middle ground. "I enjoy the company."
"Why, Captain, that's one of the most romantic things you've ever said."
Laira takes Michael's bowl, waving the cleaning device over it with a wash of light.
Watching with a smirk, Michael sits back with her tea. "You don't want to wash them with water for the full effect?"
"Oh no, this is fun. We had one, sometimes, for a couple years it was this Cardassian one that glowed orange instead of blue."
"Then it broke?"
Laira sets the clean dishes in a neat pile and sits down beside Michael on the mossy stone. "Oh, I broke it. I was twelve, and mad, and then we had to wash dishes with water."
"You must have been very mad."
"I had a temper."
Michael picks up Laira's tea and passes it over. "Beat up some old deck plating?"
"Daily." Laira sighs, fingers tight around her tea. "I had a lot of anger after losing my mother. All she wanted was to see Earth, and we couldn't. We'd try to save the dilithium, but something would happen. There'd be a blight and we'd need to go get pesticides, or a ship would be in danger and we'd—" she sighs instead of finishing. "I still haven't been to see her family."
"We'll go together." Michael slips her arm around Laira's waist. "I've been to Earth many times."
Laira rests her head on Michael's shoulder. "Paris and Langkawi and San Francisco."
"You say them like they're fairy tales."
"They are!" Laira points up at a tiny piece of starry sky among the trees. "They're way up there, thousands of light years away. Earth was this magical place, like going beyond the galaxy."
"Now you've seen beyond the galaxy."
"Puts it in perspective, doesn't it? Our stars are full of life, and there's life beyond the galaxy, and in other galaxies and—" Laira pauses, sighing dramatically. "You're going to be very busy with all those first contacts."
"Me?" Michael laughs, then shakes her head. "You know I just turn up and say hello, we're the Federation, nice to meet you. All the paperwork is on your side."
"Dammit."
When their tea is gone and the jungle's gone soft and quiet around them, they crawl into the tent. Unlike the temporary shelters Michael grew up with, this one is made of programmable matter, and it's one motion to turn it transparent, so they can see all the stars above them through the canopy. They live in the stars - bright and rich - so the gentle, twinkling lights of stars through the atmosphere are strange.
But pleasant.
Perhaps the nice part is the way Laira's curled up into her, and they could be the only sentient beings for kilometers.
Laira's hands trail down Michael's stomach, not fidgeting, but exploring - teasing.
"You're not tired from all that hiking?"
"I find it quite invigorating don't you?" Laira pushes herself up on her elbow, finding Michael's ear and nibbling her way towards her neck.
"Oh you're in a mood."
Laira hums her enthusiasm, tugging Michael's shirt up towards her breasts. "I am, how fantastic for you."
Michael reminds herself that the matter can be soundproofed, that it's opaque from the outside, that there is no one to hear but the insects and birds and- she can't think at all when Laira does that to her neck.
In the morning, beams of sunlight shine yellow green through the trees down on their camp. Michael sits on a fallen log that's a little damp with dew, but her clothes will dry: wonders of Starfleet's finest technical fabrics. She stares absently at the little heating element beneath hot water. The little blue flames will heat the water to boiling, then she can make coffee. It's what she started.
Breakfast is hasparat and something starchy. Potatoes and potato-like roots seem to be on every planet, and Laira can tell her again what they're called. There's something very sweet about how she pronounces Bajoran names, and a light in her eyes when she talks about home.
Michael's childhood was spent in so many places that she can't claim one. Her father had a way with the replicator, and he'd cook when he wanted too, but she can't call those tastes to mind.
Discovery is her home.
Her mother hasn't written back. Michael sent her message and P'Jahr allows them. She asked the Ni'Var comm station if it went through, and it did.
No reply.
Would her mother have seen the comm traffic? If them being married is as much of a talking point for the Federation as it seems, wouldn't she have heard?
What will she say?
Book only had kind words in his message. A little teasing about how marrying the president will make that eleven in her forehead permanent, and he wished her well. Grudge even looked a little less aloof, as if she was finally pleased not to have to share him.
Michael was still sorting her way through all the personal notes of congratulations, from Lieutenant Sahil to Haz Mazaro. The latter couldn't help being amused at how legit Right Hook had become.
He was going to start calling her first lady.
Laira's hands touch hers and there's coffee. Michael forgot about the water, forgot about everything she was doing and it probably would have boiled away, but Laira made coffee.
"Thanks."
"You were light years away."
Michael chuckles, and nods. "One of my old contacts is going to start calling me First Lady."
"As opposed to?"
"Right Hook."
"Well" -Laira pauses, grinning- "I'm more pleased in hindsight that you didn't punch me in the head then."
"I thought you had a very hard head."
"I do, I do, but I'd rather not risk it." Laira takes a sip of her coffee. "I've been dizzy quite enough lately."
Michael stares down at her own coffee, then looks up and their eyes meet long enough for Laira to smirk, and laugh.
"Why do you wince if I say it?"
"Because it's true."
"So it's guilt?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"Hmmm." Laira thinks for a moment, then she starts to smile - that smile - the one that never ever ends well for Michael. "Maybe I can balance your guilt with a good thing."
Michael starts to take another sip of coffee, but stops. Not a good moment. Empty mouth is logical.
"You wince loudly too."
"I didn't say anything."
"It's the way your shoulders are all tense."
"They are not."
"I told you it was a good thing."
"I'm sure it is!" Michael shakes out her shoulders and takes a breath. "Okay."
"I think I can feel the hitchhiker when I orgasm."
Having an empty mouth was definitely the right choice. Michael's cheeks burn, so does her neck. "You can?"
"They're different, and I thought it was you-"
"Thanks."
"In a good way." Laira laughs, really laughs, even has to set her coffee down. "Captain Burnham has to be exceptional at everything she does."
"What if someone can hear you?"
"The Prophets?"
"Aren't they omnipotent beings?"
"They have no concept of sex."
"Oh, okay then, it's fine if they hear all about our sex life." Michael sulks as much as she can with the way Laira's smiling at her.
Laira sets breakfast aside, and kneels on the ground between Michael's legs, hands on her thighs. "Think of it as a new xenoanthropological experience."
"A case study in what non-sexual beings think about sex?"
"Qualitative research." Laira starts kissing her neck and Michael can barely form thoughts.
"I think technically-"
"Oh technically—" Laira interrupts her, kissing her hard. "I start kissing you and you worry about technicalities?"
Michael runs her fingers over her shoulders, down her back. Is this what a honeymoon is like? Full of sex and laughter? "I like to be exact."
"I know something that requires your very exact attention."
"I look forward to your direction then, ma'am."
"You'd better follow orders precisely, captain." Laira lowers her hands to Michael's thighs, slipping upwards. She kisses her once more and then drags her off the log towards the blanket. The tent is there, but Laira guides her away from it, just them and the blankets and the softness of the morning light.
Michael's not sure who spilled the coffee, but a corner of the blanket's wet, there's coffee in Laira's hair and they're going to have to make more. Pulling on her shirt again over her sweat-dampened skin, she pours water and starts heating it.
Laira wrings coffee from the ends of her hair and giggles when Michael looks at her. "Worth it, but sorry about the coffee."
"I'd drink yours-"
"-but I finished mine."
"You did." Michael tugs on her trousers and sits down, this time wrapped in Laira's arms. She takes a breath, tries to soften the rush of embarrassment, but asks anyway. "How is it different?"
"What?"
"You said you can feel the hitchhiker."
Laira nuzzles closer, her chin on Michael's shoulder. "I think so, I'm not, I haven't done this before."
"We've never had sex without her being there."
Rubbing Michael's fingers with her own, Laira hums into her neck. "They're softer, bigger, I don't have the right words, but it's like- like she's in the middle of it."
"Is it strange?"
"It's wonderful."
Michael doesn't have to turn to see the tears on her cheek; Laira's voice is thick from them. Guiding their hands in, Michael hugs them to her chest. Laira's fingers won't settle, but the fabric of Michael's shirt on her shoulder keeps her busy.
"She's going to keep getting bigger. Might even feel like a being, someday."
"Our own being." Laira squeezes her closer. "Much more difficult than a blob."
"The is blob stage is all right. She's ours too."
"Ours has a special weight to it, doesn't it?"
"It does." Michael finds her chin, stroking it with her thumb. "This is a good start for a lot of ours. Our ship, our crew—"
"Our endless negotiations."
"Our tropical hike."
"Our spilled coffee." Laira sighs, freeing herself from Michael to mix more coffee into the hot water. "I don't know how I'm going to get it out of my hair."
"You jumped."
"You" -Laira pauses, pressing her lips together- "that's on you."
It could have taken them two days, but due to their endless ability to distract each other, it's nearly sunset on the third day when they reach the temple. It's carved into the living rock of the mountain, covered in moss and vines.
Michael tucks a little purple flower into Laira's braid. Laira's hand finds hers and they approach the temple on stones so old they were laid before Earth touched the stars.
They stand hand in hand into the dark antechamber, waiting for their eyes to adjust. It's cool out of the sun, and the scent in the air has a new backbone of wet stone beneath the sweetness of the flowers.
Laira leads her in, and the chamber widens into into a much larger room lined with lanterns and candles. "Traditionally, you approach the central altar, sometimes there's a gong or an offering."
They release their hands, taking it in together. They wander apart, looking at lanterns and ancient carvings. Michael can't read old Bajoran, and the translator seems crude almost.
The central altar is ornate, piled with flowers and gifts. That's not it. That's for the Prophets, the monks, they're looking for—
A bowl, small and unremarkable, ceramic, sits under a trickle of water. It's not lit with a lantern, but a shaft of sunlight falls onto the water. It's faint, almost an afterthought, not the brilliant glow that would indicate how important it is. Michael studies it, watches the water fill the brim and trickle onward. The basin drains into the floor, a tiny rivulet running through stone and moss.
The river around the temple, the one running through the trees: this is its start.
Michael lifts it up. It's ceramic, cool from the water and smooth. Someone made it, centuries - millennia - ago, she can feel marks from their fingers.
"That's it." Laira touches her shoulder, then rests her head on against Michael's. "Bajoran weddings involve drinking from a bowl together. This must be how we—" she stops, sneezing into her hand, and Michael's shoulder. "Sorry."
Michael pats her hand, then fills the bowl. "Do we drink together? One after the other?"
Laira sneezes again, losing her ability to speak until she can stop, but it's long enough for Michael to chuckle.
A voice joins hers. Male, warm and pleasant. Speaking English, somehow.
"I don't know if the two of you need what that bowl can do." He is behind them, though no one was and there's nowhere he could have come from where they wouldn't have seen him.
Assuming he walked.
They turn, Michael half a step ahead of Laira, just in case.
He holds up his hands, as if reading her mind. Perhaps he can. He's not human, though he appears that way.
"Sorry, I forget how jarring it can be to be corporeal." He holds up his hands, showing they're empty. "Captain Michael Burnham, of Starfleet, and Rillak Laira, of Bajor, the Prophets welcome you to the Temple of Union." He stands before the pile of gifts, and reaches down, picking up a ball. He trades it, hand to hand, and grins. "Though, you've already achieved so much."
"That's her," Laira mutters. She meets his eyes, surprise washes over her. "Emissary?"
"You know me?"
"You're the Emissary of the Prophets, you're—"
"Call me Ben."
Michael's missing something.
Ben winks at her, his smile bright and warm. "It's been a long time since I had a fellow captain, but we share that, you and I." He sets the ball down and walks to them, holding his hands out for the bowl. "Though, mine is a little less long than your long time, if we want to be technical."
"You're from after Earth made contact with Bajor, after we left."
"Which was many, many lifetimes ago, and yet, here you are." He holds the bowl reverently, keeping his brown hands still until the ripples fade and the water's as smooth as crystal. "You drink, you present the Prophets with your tokens, and you enter the cave. The Orb of Union lies within, and usually that's where visitors ask for what you already have."
Laira glances down, pink rising in her face. "We're not—"
"A child is a gift, and you brought yours here."
"It's complicated."
"Like all beings of great power, the Prophets have been given credit for many things they have not done." He passes the bowl to Laira, covering her hands with his. For a moment he's insubstantial, full of light, then he's solid again. "Just because you didn't conceive her here doesn't mean your baby isn't also their gift to you."
Laira blinks once, then again, relief breaking into a smile. "Thank you."
"The Prophets feel your gratitude, Laira, daughter of Bajor, Caradassia, and Earth. We bless you and this child of the stars." He drops his formal tone and leans closer, kissing her cheek. "She's incredible, as are her mothers, of course, but seeing her is an honor."
He sees her whole life, her children's lives, if she has them, her descendants and ancestors all laid out in front of him. Ben floats above the river of time in a way Michael and Laira will never understand, but from the way he smiles, he was a parent. He knew this love.
Laira takes a sip, then hands the bowl back to him, her gaze finding Michael's. "I would call you mine, here, and everywhere the Prophets can hear me, if you are willing." She uses the old Bajoran, the marriage vows they discussed walking up: words her parents said, and her grandparents. Promises they made here, lifetimes ago.
Ben hands Michael the bowl, but all that matters are Laira's eyes, blue and bright, soft with trust.
Warm and constant like a star.
The water's cold, yet it radiates through her as she takes a sip.
"I am willing, and eager, to be yours, from here to the edges of the galaxy, whatever universe, timeline, alternate reality: we're united, and I will call you mine as long as you wish."
Michael hands the bowl back, eyes locked on Laira's. Maybe if they were standing in front of the crew, if Ben was Admiral Vance, then she'd be nervous, but here, sweaty, dusty, with mud on her shirt, it seems right.
An odd continuation of a very strange beginning.
Laira's hand takes hers, tight and steady. So this is how marriage starts.
"The edge of the galaxy being something you've seen together," Ben says, softening the moment.
"We have."
"Isn't that fun?" He looks at each of them in turn and sighs, content, even a little wistful. "I wish I could tell you some of what's to come, but you'll just have to trust me. Remember to have fun. A good marriage has room for a lot of dinners. Try not to go to bed angry." He sets the bowl down and touches their shoulders, drawing them together. "Enjoy each other, and the little one; it'll fly by. My son was barely up to my knee and we went fishing for the first time, then I blinked and he was finishing his first book."
It's impossible to imagine their hitchhiker with a career, or children of her own, but Reno's seen flashes, and Ben's not even a temporal being any more, he sees everything. Michael's glad she can't. Experiencing all of it, all at once, is too much. She wants the little moments, reading the same book a hundred times, watching Laira teach their daughter to play her complicated word games.
"A corporeal existence is a good thing," Ben agrees with her, patting her shoulder one last time. "Food, companionship, laughter...hang onto that, Captain."
Understanding tingles through her, because across time and space and centuries, he knows.
Michael follows Laira into the cave she didn't notice before.
Maybe it wasn't there. Intoxicating incense or water that's not water wouldn't be out of place here. The cave leads to another room, much smaller. There's stone benches on the side, baskets with thin soft robes.
Laira releases her hand and pulls her shirt over her head. "The water in the cave is a sensitive ecosystem."
"At least we don't have to go naked."
"That's later."
"Of course it is," Michael sighs, sitting down to remove her boots. "There's always a naked."
"Trill didn't make you get naked."
"We could have gotten married on Trill." Michael drops her bra into the basket and pulls on the shapeless robe. It's an undyed sort of beige, like it was plucked from straw, and perhaps washed a thousand times. It fits, better than she hoped, but it's strange.
People have worn this, over and over, all coming here to ask the Prophets for what they already have.
Laira lifts Michael's braids out of her robe, and arranges them on her shoulders. She strokes Michael's neck.
Turning to face her, Michael stands on her toes to kiss her. "Nice wedding."
"It's a little different." Laira blinks again and Michael kisses her damp cheek. "Thank you."
"Of course. As long as Tilly gets to throw a party, no one will mind missing the ceremony."
Nodding, Laira kisses her, lingering. When they part, she chuckles, nervous and awed. "The Emissary of the Prophets is one of the most holy figures of Bajoran history. I thought we'd see a monk—"
"He was a captain. It's professional courtesy."
"So Starfleet."
"Some of the best captains are."
"Mine is."
Wiping her tears again, Michael chuckles. "Come on, wife, the Prophets are waiting."
Bioluminescence is one of the simpler chemical reactions, it's found across planets in thousands of species. Michael lives on a ship with a bay full of glowing mushrooms, and it's still magical to stand beneath the tendrils glowing white above them. They reflect in the water, like infinite stars, and they're supposed to walk in.
The Orb of Union's deep within the mountain, at the heart of the spring, and it's in the water, in the glowing plants. Giving life to the jungle they walked through, and would-be parents who ask for it.
Forgives us for not needing to ask. We need a different gift.
"We just walk in?"
"The water itself is a blessing. Sometimes people see visions, my mother said they saw her parents, they were gone by then, and it was a glimpse—"
Michael wraps her arms around her waist, holding her for a moment. "I'd like to see them."
"My parents?"
"And my dad."
Laira sighs, and her heart must be as heavy as Michael's. Out of all their parents, only Gabrielle's alive to celebrate with them. Everyone else has gone before.
They start walking in, and the water's warmer than she expected, closer to a bath. They wade in reverently, quickly up to their chests, then their shoulders. The water's empty, clear and dark and the only ripples are from them, and they slow, then vanish and it's just them, adrift in the dark heart of the universe.
Swallowed into a the moment like the bubble that brought them here. Laira nods to her and they take hands. If they're going to see anything, it'll be after their heads are beneath the surface. If not, they say their thanks and go. It would be nice to spend part of their honeymoon in a bed.
Shutting her eyes, Michael sinks beneath the surface, and it's quiet. Warm, wet, and still except for her heart beat. The softer one has to be Laira's, because she's here, they're here together.
Or is it her mother?
Was this what it was like?
What it's like now for the hitchhiker?
"Dad?" Laira's voice cracks on the word.
A man walks out of white light, wearing a flight suit just like the one in Laira's old holos. The ridges on his forehead are much more prominent than Laira's, and his skin's greyer, so is the hair on his temples. His smile is bright and wicked and he reaches out for Laira, hugging her so tight that he lifts her off her feet.
"Look at you, Lar-Lar."
Visions can't touch them, or this is more, or it's happening in a split second—
"Don't over think it," a voice says behind her. Female, younger, maybe Michael's age?
"You're older, by a little." The voice belongs to a human woman, beautiful, with very red hair and a gentle smile. "Sorry, reading your thoughts is rude, isn't it?"
"I don't mind."
"You don't." The woman shakes her head. "No wonder she loves you."
"You're her mother."
"I'm Claire." She offers her hand, but Michael hugs her. If this is the only time she'll see her, she's not wasting time with handshakes. "She grew up so beautiful."
"And she's president."
"I thought ship captain, maybe Starfleet if we ever found them." Claire holds her hand very tight in both of hers, as if hugging Michael will make up for not wanting to interrupt Laira's moment with her father. "Though, she did organize the other children into a farming collective. Did she ever tell you that?"
"No."
"They wanted better working conditions." Claire takes a slow breath, and smiles, her blue eyes - so much like Laira's - shining. "That meant more ice cream."
"Definitely worth voting on."
"She was so proud." Shaking her head, Claire sighs, but it catches, like Laira's nervous laugh. " She's eight, in my memory, and I can hear her thoughts, yours, and she's grown and tall and astonishing, but she's eight."
"I'm so sorry you didn't get to see her."
"I see her." Claire squeezes Michael's wrist, swallowing hard. "I think I get to see her through your eyes, and you love her how she should be loved, how I'd want her to be loved."
"Thank you."
"No, thank you, you look after her. Make her smile, tell her to stop working there's so much I would thank you for. I- I want you to take her to Earth."
"The ocean?"
"Please, we tried, so many times and—"
"The galaxy is different now. We can go to Earth."
"Take your baby to the beach, put her in the sand."
"We'll do that."
Claire hugs her again, then walks towards Laira and her father, and Laira's little "Mama" wraps Michael's heart in a vise.
"You're going to take her to Langkawi," Philippa says to her left, and it's not her captain, this is the one who left in the snow. Emperor, but not anymore.
"It's the most beautiful place."
"It is." Philippa's voice is older, deeper, and her hair has gone as white as the snow on Dannus V. It cascades down past her waist, and years, maybe even a century, have only made her eyes kinder and her smile softer. This universe has worn away at her spines.
"I'm not soft."
"Of course not."
"You are, Captain."
"At least I made it to captain,"
"I knew you would."
Michael touches her hand, and then they hug, and Philippa feels as she did, and as she never did, and there's so much they could say, should say, but Michael only sighs.
"Mom—"
"And now you call me mother?" Philippa touches her braids, and then her cheek. "Now that you're becoming one."
"it's a little intimidating."
"You'll be wonderful at it, as you are, with everything."
"I'm not."
"You are, Michael. Just accept it. She knows this about you, so, even if she's a politician, and part of a democracy-" Philippa frowns in distaste. "She calls you on your bullshit, which is good for you."
Chuckling, Michael nods. "That means a lot."
"As it should." Philippa touches her face once more, starting to fade into light. "The rest of your parents would try to protect your feelings."
"You never would."
"Never."
Philippa fades into the white, and Sarek walks forward, holding his hand in a familiar salute. He also is aged, well over two hundred, and it's good to see that his life was so long. She's seen the records, of course, but seeing him is different.
"I only have a moment, Michael."
"I know. It is good to see you."
"And you." Sarek glances at Laira, then returns his attention to Michael. "You are both happy."
"So very much."
"Keep that. Love only grows when you add to it. Loving our children was an incredible experience."
Amanda appears as he starts to fade, and she too has white in her hair and lines around her eyes.
"You're having a baby."
"Laira is, I—"
"Am right there, and that is an important place to be." Amanda hugs her, tight and the scent of her is exactly how it was, just for a moment. "Look after each other."
"We will."
"I'm so happy for you both."
Michael blinks, and she's gone, and tears are a hot and free and where's her father?
"He's after me." Philippa, the young one, the one she lost, her captain, stands in front of her. "I think. It's an odd experience."
"Joining my vision on a alien planet we hadn't even mapped?"
"You like crossing all the edges of the maps, number one."
Wiping her eyes clears her vision a little and this Philippa is so calm. Michael bites her apology, swallows everything she wants to sob. This is not the time for guilt.
"You finally have your own ship."
"I do."
"And it's everything you thought, isn't it?"
"So much more."
"Good." Philippa laughs, and she's missed her, so much. "Going to let the baby run around on your bridge?"
"Maybe a little."
"I like this future, Michael. Orions in Starfleet, peace with the Klingons, the Romulans, beings beyond—" Philippa shakes her head, then winks. "You know, of course, I'll be honored if you—"
"I haven't talked to Laira-"
Philippa raises her hand, hushing her. "The other me would tease you, so, I'll be honored by it, for both of us."
Michael has more questions than words, and there's no time, and yet infinite time, and they hug, and then she's gone. The hitchhiker will have to have her own name, of course, but she can have Philippa too. She has the wandering spirit in common with both of her grandmothers. (The former emperor would never let them call her that, but she is.)
Her hart's wrung raw, and Laira's crying with her mother and Michael looks down at her boots.
Her Starfleet boots, because that's who she is, in her mind.
"You can be mom too."
She hasn't heard her father's voice since he died, and that wound is sharp once again. "I'll try."
"You'll succeed." Her father opens his arms and pulls her in. "You are a wonder, Michael."
She's not. She's just here and she's—
"I'm so happy for you."
"Yeah?"
"You get the good life." He rests his chin on her head, and she's never been this tall and hugged him and she's never felt this big next to him. Part of her misses being small, but she knows this feeling. She can make it. They can make this for the hitchhiker, give her this kind of safety.
No raids, no Burn - they can't keep it all away, but they can make the galaxy as safe as they can, for all the children.
And the next, and the next—
"Remember to breathe," he teases, releasing her to look at her. "You have to balance yourself and the galaxy, what you want, what fills you, get those things first."
When she nods, he chuckles.
"The galaxy could always be better, safer, more studied, but there's only one first step, one chance to see the meteors over Andor."
"We'll try."
He nods, hands on her shoulders. "Your mother had a hard time with the balance, always did. She loves you, and me, but it's not the way you love. The way we do."
What is he trying to say? They only have a moment.
"We love with everything, that's our way. Gabrielle, her heart is complicated. I knew that, I tried to make sure you did."
"I did, I do."
"She's happy for you."
"She hasn't—"
This isn't the place. Michael hugs her father, letting herself sigh into him. She's never felt safer than with him, and this is what she has to make. This is what their hitchhiker should have.
This kind of love.
"You've got this." Her father whispers. "You're going to be the best mom."
Laira's parents fade as Michael's father does, the ghosts in the white becoming part of the white, and then they're back in the black, under the water, breaking the surface, gasping.
Laira reaches for her and Michael clings to her in return.
"They were happy," Laira whispers. "They were so happy."
"Can you imagine getting to see?" Michael rests her hand on Laira's belly, her chest crackling with love. "We'd be a mess."
"They were, I was, I—"
They don't talk, not until their breath is back and their tears are lost in the water around them.
"She comes from so much love, generations of it."
"It's a lot to live up to."
"She'll make us proud."
Laira swallows, and nods, eyes shut tight. "I can't even imagine."
"That's our mystery now, who will she be, what will she see, how will the galaxy shift around her."
"Towards the better, I hope."
"She's got a lot of momentum." Michael strokes Laira's belly with both hands, shutting her eyes. "Hundreds of years of making things a little bit better."
"My mother was so young."
"I know." Michael grins, kissing Laira's cheek. "Philippa was so old."
"Her hair—"
"It's beautiful. Was—" Michael leans back, letting the water hold her. "We are loved pretty fucking well, aren't we?"
Laira chuckles, then dips below the water again. She brushes her hair back from her forehead. "My parents asked for me here, I didn't know that."
"I'm glad they got you."
Laira reaches for her, embraces her, and this has that warmth. This is what they build on, everything that came before tucked beneath them so they can thrive.
There are so many little things to repeat, to carry forward like the oldest stones of the temple.
Start with love, then forward, together.
Belonging to each other, belonging to her.
Together.