Chapter Text
Laira
Michael laughs easily, it's one of her more charming qualities, but this kind of laughing - when she has tears running down her face - is new. Sometimes Laira forgets how short a time they've been together. Michael's always been part of her life, hasn't she? That's how it is. Michael is part of her.
Literally, at the moment.
"I don't know what's so funny."
Michael waves her off, trying to catch her breath. She wipes her eyes, shaking her head. "You-"
Laira waits, pulling pins from her hair. Eventually Michael will speak. Rubbing the back of her neck, she finally meets Michael's eyes.
"You don't know why you're tired."
Setting the pins into a box for tomorrow, Laira waves the drawer shut. "That's what I said, yes."
"You—" Michael starts laughing again, collapsing onto the bed. "You have the most difficult job in the galaxy, you're pregnant, you—"
"I was those things yesterday too."
"And you were exhausted yesterday."
"I wasn't."
Raising her eyebrows, Michael crosses her arms over her chest. "When did you fall asleep?"
"I don't remember."
"In the second paragraph."
"It was after that."
"You were awake for barely seven sentences. At this rate the hitchhiker will be able to read you the end of the book."
"That's not—"
Michael tilts her head as if actually doing the math required behind her gorgeous eyes. "It's entirely possible."
"You have a beautiful voice."
"Oh, I do, you should stay awake to hear me." Michael lies back on the bed, laughing up at the ceiling. "You should be surprised if you're ever not tired."
"Maybe next year," Laira says lightly. There wasn't really a timeline where she would be full of energy and well rested. She knew that going into this office, and she's worked long, sleepless days before. This funny, hazy sort of tired is new. Taking off her jacket, she unbuttons her blouse.
Michael's hands wrap around her waist, holding her close. "I love not being a holo."
Patting her hands, Laira holds her closer. "This you is my favorite version."
Michael rests her forehead against Laira's shoulder, taking a breath, then letting it out slowly.
"How's Keyla?"
"Lonely, bored—" Michael lifts her head, blinks a few times. "Refusing to let me apologize."
"It's not your fault."
"I'm here and she's—"
Laira's chest aches. She squeezes Michael's hands, slides them down. "I couldn't stand that."
"I'm here."
"I need you to be here."
Circling her, Michael touches her face, resting her thumb on Laira's lip. "I'm here."
Laira nods, kisses her thumb and retreats to the bed. "Starfleet Medical has the best doctors."
"And Keyla's from 900 years ago, maybe that helps."
"The 23rd century had sturdier humans?"
"We had to walk all the way to a transporter padd, carried our tricorders - life was just harder then."
"Oh that's it, must be."
Michael sits beside her, then rests her head on her shoulder. "Keyla will be all right. She's responding well."
"We don't even have a treatment."
"We don't have a cure, we have treatments." Michael's hand rests on her belly, warm and safe and healthy and perfect. Disease spares some, takes others, and they can't fight it, there's nothing, they can't—
"This is different."
Because of the hitchhiker? Because of Michael's impossible optimism? The universe bends around the point of light that is Michael Burnham. Physics means nothing when she has a mission.
Maybe that works for viruses.
"Pilots are lucky."
Forcing herself to take a breath, she allows the knot in her chest to tug. Fighting it will make it worse. "You're not supposed to know that."
Michael smiles down, then meets her eyes. "Sometimes the people we love suffer, and all we can do is wait."
"You speak from experience?" Laira's smile creeps up on her, and she can never be grateful enough for Michael.
"Well, perhaps." Michael sits up, chuckling to herself. Maybe at herself. She wraps her arm around Laira's shoulders and they lean back, curling around each other on the bed. Michael's breathing is so precious after the very quiet hologram that Laira shuts her eyes to listen.
"My worrying was unnecessary though, I hear you were fine."
Laira's little noise of disagreement makes Michael chuckle beneath her.
"I'm fine now."
Michael kisses her hair, hugging her a little closer. "Really fine?"
"With you, fine is insufficient."
"With me you've been sick for weeks—"
"And I'm grateful."
"Grateful?" Michael's incredulous little noise is yet another way to make fun of her, but she's adorable.
Lifting her head, Laira finds her best coy smile. "Haven't you heard, dear? On this ship, anything's possible."
She can't keep asking Starfleet medical for updates. Keyla is all right, she's in the best hands in the galaxy. The Qowot Milat have prevented any diplomatic incidents so far, but even with support, Andoria's collapse is happening on so many fronts that it feels like she solves one problem only to stumble into the next, and so many of them are outside her purview. They can provide dilithium, medical supplies, replicators and resources, but they can't clean up all the remnants of the Emerald Chain, take away the fear and resentment.
Her tea is cold in her hands, but getting up to get more would be annoying. Laira has to stop ignoring the itinerary in front of her and tell the bridge when she needs to arrive on Betazed.
Protocol on Betazed will be more complicated than Yungnan II, and the food being excellent might make up for all the telepathic hoops she'll need to jump through.
"Zora, please open a channel to the Vice President, highest encryption."
"Yes, Madam President, one moment."
Laira gulps her tea, pushes up on her desk and walks to the replicator, ordering more. When it materializes, she stares at it, changes her mind.
She wants raktijino. She can't drink raktijino right now. Well, she could drink it but it won't end well. She won't keep it down with her stomach the way it is today.
Water - no, deku tea - no, she doesn't—
"Just get hot chocolate," Jen says, her holo popping in existence next to the replicator. "It solves all problems."
"It's too rich."
Jen tilts her head in sympathy. "Oh, we're there again?"
"No—"
"Rishkellan tea, it's almost as good, except it's not chocolate."
"Good enough is something."
"Good enough will keep you from projecting your nausea across the light years between us."
Laira glances down at her feet. "That doesn't happen."
"You say that, and yet—"
Shaking her head, Laira sniffs her tea. "How many times do I have to get naked when we visit Betazed?
"Are you bringing Michael?"
Laira glares rather than answers and Jen chuckles.
"You see, as an honorary member of my family's house, you and Michael will be expected to demonstrate your union."
"That sounds very archaic—"
"Oh it hasn't been that much fun for more than a thousand years, but if you want to be traditional, I certainly won't stop you." Jen tilts her head as if contemplating how much she'd enjoy watching them demonstrate their union.
"Michael will kill me."
"I know, I know," Jen pauses, and sighs dramatically, "You do know that you're not going to be able to hide your little one naked, not that you're hiding her very well right now."
Not that Laira needed the reminder that her suit doesn't fit over her breasts or the rise of her belly, and she's sent measurements to her tailor, but hasn't seen her personally, and it takes time to make a good suit. It's an art. She could just replicate it, but some Federation traditions should stand, even when she's impatient. "I'm not, am I?"
"Oh no, you're luckily the Yungnani don't understand internal gestation."
"Not that I do—"
Jen leans in, studying her eyes before nodding her approval. "You look a little better."
"Just a little?"
"You haven't vomited today. I can tell by your eyes."
"You really should have taken talent like yours into medical."
"I really should have."
Jen's pulls herself up on Laira's table, perching on the edge. She's probably sitting on her own desk in her office, but the holo makes it work. Her sari rustles, silk sliding on glass. "It'll be good for you not to hide it. Good practice for the next planet."
Touching her belly, she forces herself to form the words. "I've been trying to wait for Earth."
"Might not want to wait—"
"There's a multilateral summit on the new VARS drive in a few weeks, Michael and I go to Earth for that."
"You'll destroy the galaxy's news cycle for at least two rotations."
"It's not like that."
"You are adorably dense, you do know I love that about you."
No one else would ever dare talk to her that way, and that's Jen's charm.
"Starfleet's rockstar captain having a baby with the president of the Federation that's literally a gift from the Prophets of Bajor is fun for everyone, and the galaxy needs fun, especially after the DMA, and the threat of the warp bubbles. I hope you're prepared, but I know you have no idea what you're walking into." Slipping off the table, Jen smoothes her sari. "For the moment, you do know Betazed is going to have to show you what a stately dinner can really be."
Thousands of years of protocol means this will be much more intense than Yungnan II, which was almost casual. At least this means Michael will have to wear her dress uniform. She looks incredible in burgundy.
Jen wanders into the specifics, and Laira's thoughts should follow her, but it's hard to make it matter. She'll wear what she's supposed to wear - if anything - and follow Jen's lead.
Yellow alert startles her, they're supposed to be wrapping up their visit before jumping to Betazed. Maybe run a few patients back and forth to Starfleet Medical, but yellow alert shouldn't be—
"President Rillak to the bridge, please," Michael's voice carries through her comm, and Jen's eyes go wide.
"Well, don't you get to have fun."
"I'm sure it's nothing, Michael's just cautious."
Jen raises her eyebrows. "Well, go see what your darling wife wants, you know where to find me."
Shaking her head, Laira taps her badge and beams to the bridge. Michael's in the center seat, Joann at Ops in front of her, the rest of the crew at their stations, except Keyla's still at Starfleet medical. The Osnullus relief pilot, Lieutenant Cralev, lifts her hands from the controls and sits back as if Laira's arrival signifies something important.
An ion storm spins on the viewer, deep purple light shot with orange and red.
Discovery can simply jump around it, so she doesn't see why Michael wanted her. She doesn't approve anything for the ship.
Michael lifts her hand, pointing to the screen. "Thank you for joining us, Commander Owosekun, show her the transport."
The viewer magnifies the outline of a standard transport, high warp capable - one of the most efficient - Skylark class. The kind of ship that's all engines and amenities, slow to turn, slow to get up to speed, or even slow down.
The kind of ship Laira's family would have taken to Earth, if they ever had the time or the dilithium. Laira sets that thought free to drift with the ion storm. Be in the moment.
"I trust your judgement in a rescue mission, captain, we can delay our arrival on Betazed if need be—"
Michael's smile brightens. "Of course, ma'am. We'll be as quick as we can, while being safe."
Laira is missing something so obvious that it'll sting her nose ridges when she realizes what it is. "Is there something else, captain?"
Joann turns at her console. "Inside the ion storm transporters are non-functional, sensors are unreliable, even shields will be a mess."
"I've flown through a few. Cracked my head open once on the way to Ni'Var."
Michael rests her hands in her lap, and nods. "We haven't flown through ion storms. None of our pilots have. Commander Detmer could do it-"
"Of course she could," Joann says, her voice soft.
Laira's chest aches. Keyla is all right, she'll be back with them soon, but the bridge misses her. "We could jump back to headquarters, pick up another pilot. Several of the Academy instructors are very skilled—"
"We have a pilot." Michael waves from Laira to the helm, and that's what Laira was missing. They want her to fly Discovery. "If she'll agree."
"Captain, this is unorthodox."
Standing up from her chair, Michael takes a step towards Laira, reaching for her shoulder. "Detmer was training you to fly Discovery. Owosekun thinks you can do it."
"I watched you with Keyla."
Lieutenant Cralev steps back from the helm, leaving it vacant for Laira.
Michael meets her eyes, steady and confident. "Honey, we need you to fly the ship."
"Now?" It takes a moment to sink in that Michael's asking her to fly the ship now, into the storm, save people. "Right now. What's the plan?" She can't resist, can't argue. There's logic here, and Discovery will be much more responsive than any of the heavy freighters she used to fly. It's been awhile, but she's a damn good pilot. Michael knows that.
"Get us close enough to grab the transport and jump out."
"So, simple, fly into the heart of the ion storm, get within tractor range-"
"Oh tractor beams won't work in there either, this is going to be cables."
"Cables?"
"You'll need to get us within a hundred meters or so. Fifty would be better." Joann's smiling, and there's a challenge there. She'd tease Keyla, but she's more gentle with Laira.
"Oh, no problem. That'll be easy with unreliable shields and sensors."
"Spoken like a true pilot, ma'am." Joann chuckles, and the bridge rearranges behind them.
So she's doing this. Flying Michael's ship into an ion storm. No problem.
"Madam President—"
Laira clucks her tongue, removing her suit jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. "Oh no, Captain, in this case, pilot will do."
Michael's fingers brush across her shoulders. Discovery is Michael's ship. It's home like her freighters were. She can do this. Remember the current, the eddies, Discovery's sleek, fast, it'll drift better than her freighters. It'll be quick, skilling a sailship through an asteroid belt.
Swallowing her nerves, Laira finds that stillness she needs to pilot from. She hasn't felt it in years, she hasn't needed to, but it's comfortable, like slipping into old boots.
"Take us in, Pilot."
The controls are Keyla's. The thrusters are slightly closer together than standard, so she can switch quickly from one of the other. Programmable matter is familiar and cool beneath her fingers, but this is more responsive. Newer connections, faster computers behind it. Her old freighters were old when she was a teenager, and Discovery has Zora.
Her father's voice echoes in the back of her mind. "Don't over think it. When you're in, you won't be able to see anything. The sensors will be wrong. The readings will be wrong. Listen to the ship. The creaks and shivers will never lie to you Lar Lar, just feel your way."
Ships have personality - moods and moments - and she's only just started to get to know Discovery. They'll have to make this work together. Discovery is Michael and Zora, Joann, Tilly and her cadets, Hugh and his endless patience. This is home. She can trust herself, trust the ship.
Don't think. Don't be presidential. Don't weigh anything, just fly.
She used to be so good at letting go, before she was an ambassador, before the election, before— there were so many befores. Port twenty degrees, ride the current, stay away from the spiraling ball of energy just behind them. Lightning reaches for them, promising pain in the caress if it touches the hull.
"Pilot—"
"I see it, dear." The endearment breaks the tension, softens the worry around them. They're all right. Totally normal for an ion storm. The shields will hold. Energy crackles, space inside the storm follows its own patterns, tugging, pulling Discovery too far starboard, pulling them down, so she has to fight it.
Focus.
Fly the damn ship, find the way, feel for it. Going with the spatial currents will be easier, less tension. The shuddering will slow.
Light flashes, in the ship, outside of the ship, her eyes are unreliable, so she flies on the readings beneath her fingertips, follows the gravitational spikes, chases the quiet patches of the ion storm. The first part is easy, compared to the capture of the transport. Getting Discovery close to the transport is comparatively simple. Now she has to close to grappling distance.
Discovery's shields are stronger than they hoped, but the transport's are fragile. Laira can't even nudge them without risking the other ship, so she flies past, once, twice, and sweat tingles in her hairline on the third approach. Match the heading, match the speed and the roll, follow that spin to port, don't forget the list—
She's chewed her lip raw and adrenaline courses through her, but Joann lands the cables on the third pass.
Michael's voice cuts through everything, clear as the beam of a lighthouse in the stories her mother loved. "Jump."
The jump comes with the storm, rushing, crashing, and her console's much too close to her eyes for a moment, but she snaps up from the bright spot of pain. First Laira gasps, then laughter sneaks over her. There's nowhere else for the adrenaline to go, and her eyes sting when she turns to Joann.
"Keyla would be proud."
Laira raises her eye ridges. "She could have got it in one."
"Maybe two." Joann touches her shoulder, squeezing, and Laira shivers.
It's all right. They're all right. She's not even sure where they jumped to, but they're all right. Space is quiet now. They can treat the injured, repair the ship, get them back on their way.
Flexing her fingers, she sits back, releasing the console. Hands touch her shoulders, caressing her back, and it's Michael.
"I knew you could do it."
"I hoped."
"You did great." Michael touches the sore spot on her forehead, trailing her fingers over what's definitely going to bruise. There's a cut on Michael's cheek, blood on her lip, and the air smells like ozone. Sparks are still falling from the EPS conduit to Michael's left, but they're all right.
"Never thought I'd miss treaty drafting."
Chuckling, Michael touches her cheek. "We appreciate it."
"Captain, the transport is hailing us."
In the moment before they're in public again, Laira kisses her, lingering on Michael's mouth. Michael touches her belly, quick and subtle, and the adrenaline makes it almost too easy to blush.
Laira nibbles her lip, brushing against her skin with her teeth. "I'll be in my office if you need anything else, honey."
Michael raises her eyebrows, her eyes bright with gratitude, and promise. Her shift on the bridge usually ends in a few hours, might be sooner today now that they have something to celebrate. The mess hall will be busy, and the lounge full of laughter. Beating the odds always fills the ship with joy.
She could join them. Take her work, sit in the corner and listen to them laugh. She's ofter too careful to work in public. Her presence changes most rooms.
Maybe she needs to trust the ship.
Sending her aides to help with the needs of the transport, Laira takes her work to the lounge. It's well designed, with corners to hide in, and nooks for romantic interludes. She shouldn't go all the way back, so she ends up near the bar, holo padd open over her tea.
She hasn't sought human food until she lived here, but with Zora's database and the ancient replicator patterns from centuries ago, the choices are different. Michael's crew is more than happy to share their favorites, teaching her about turtle brownies, chocolate malva pudding, red bean custard and purple taro. Adira insists that ghorayebah are one of the best things in the replicator, and Hugh and Paul always have new suggestions.
It's nice to be hungry, so much easier to enjoy eating when she wants something. Even if that means asking for three different desserts from Ensign Frarot, who grins and lines them up without a word. There's no official bartender, but Michael's crew makes it work on a system of volunteers and unofficial duty rosters not even Michael technically knows about. Someone is always behind the bar, steering the replicator, listening if anyone needs it.
They look after each other. They're all they have out here. That feels like home more than any Bajoran dessert could, even if she tinkered with Discovery's replicators and found a way to make it taste just off enough. The freighters of her childhood never had replicators in such good condition.
The hours pass faster than she expected. She's almost done with the trade reports, and completely done with all of her desserts when Michael finds her.
Her gentle fingers slip into Laira's hairline, then rub the tension along her spine. Michael leans in, resting her chin on Laira's shoulder.
"This is a surprise."
Laira smiles down at her plates, stacks them and pats the stool beside her. "I wanted the noise."
"Ship buzzes after a win."
Nodding, she pushes the plates across the counter. "Are you ready for dinner?"
"Still hungry?"
"I haven't flown in years. I forgot how it makes everything taste better."
Nodding, Michael takes the stool beside her. Pulling up the menus on her badge, she scrolls for a moment, then finds what she was looking for. "My dad liked to make barbecue when mom won another award."
"Oh?"
"Earth barbecue's all about the sauce. Doesn't really matter what's underneath it. Everyone says the slow cooked this or roast that, but really, it's the sauce."
"What are you going to put sauce on?"
Michael examines the options, then orders. Several sides come with the meat, and the cover the counter in front of them with plates. Ensign Frarot sets a thick stack of cloth napkins beside them and Laira tilts her head towards Michael.
"The sauce goes on your fingers, mostly, and your face. Gets everywhere."
"Ah."
"They get spicer as you go right, so if—"
"I'm all right."
"Flying good for that too?"
"You know...I hadn't tried it, but yes. I should fly the ship more often when I'm nauseated."
Michael laughs. "I'll let Keyla know she'll have to share."
"I don't think my job can share me much."
Wiping her fingers on a napkin, Michael nods sagely. "It's too bad, you're a good pilot."
"I'm a fantastic pilot." Licking suave from her fingers reminds her of a refueling depot her parents loved. "Have I ever told you about Little Earth?"
"Little Earth?" Michael shakes her head, reaching for her cup. "What is that?"
"A freighter stop, repairs and refueling. Legend was some humans started it centuries ago, and it was famous for Earth food."
"Barbecue like this?"
"Not like this."
Michael takes a guess. "Human traditional barbecue mixed with a whole mess of different cultures so it's vaguely human, but reeally mostly Bajoran-Tellerite fusion?"
"Yeah."
"You love it?"
"I haven't been since I was a child." Laira sighs, resting her head on Michael's shoulder for a moemnt. "Keyla would love it."
"Well, when she's back—"
Laira hums. Flying a ship again was intoxicating and exciting, but Discovery is Keyla's ship. She belongs here.
"Soon." Michael's fingers fold around hers - warm and strong - a little sticky, but so are her own. "She'll be back."