Chapter Text
Hugh turns off his tricorder and lowers a hand to help her up to a sitting position. "I think Betazed is good for you."
Laira's grown very familiar with his hands, warm, strong, and eager to help, like Hugh always is. "They've over protective here."
"Good." He finishes a note for her file while Laira stars down at her knees.
Her belly's rounder now, obvious in a camisole, obvious in a blouse, and her suit jackets won't hide her much longer. The weeks pass so slowly - quickly - she's still not sure what it is. Hugh can't even tell them how many are left. So few things in her life have followed a schedule, that maybe it's all right that this is unknowable. Their hitchhiker is a mystery like her mother.
"I even think about having a headache while I'm in a meeting, and we're done for the day," she says, fidgeting with her bracelet. "We've had to add three more days here just to get through everything."
Hugh directs her gaze out over the garden in front of them. The voices of the crew and Jen's family carry up over the sounds of the water and the birds, and the flowers smell divine, as they always do. "Three more days here is paradise."
"Everyone does seem to be enjoying themselves."
"The food is incredible, the house is beyond beautiful, and the whole city is thrilled to have us here." Hugh leaves his chair and sits next to her on the bed, lowering his voice. "Also, I don't know if this is true for you and Michael, but Paul and I have been having the most incredible sex."
Laughter comes easily, and Laira pats his hand. Michael would avoid the question, but she's not here. "I would say that's accurate."
"At first we were hesitant, it's a planet of telepaths, and who wants to share everything, but then-" Hugh pauses, beaming, "-it's like we're closer to each other. It's not like we have an audience, but there's something- the air?"
"Hopefully it's adding to the experience."
"Oh yeah," Hugh leans in, dropping his voice. "We're definitely going to need to plan a few vacations here if this is what it's always like. The opera house is beautiful too."
It takes her a moment to remember bringing her former partner here. Daar hated it, never got used to feeling like his thoughts were on display for anyone to see. "Michael's the first time I've had someone to enjoy it with."
Hugh reads into that like he's telepathic, and sometimes, she could swear he is. "Sharing your life can't be easy."
"It was easier, before the last election. Senator had less baggage."
"Well, Madam President, I'm glad the galaxy was able to give you some joy on Betazed."
"Michael certainly did."
Hugh chuckles, then winks. "Good. You need that."
Jen's library hides behind a delicate waterfall and she always insists Laira take it for an office when she's here. The wall can be made transparent, and the privacy shielding is the finest the Federation has to offer, but it feels like she's almost outside, and when the wall's open the mist from the water carries to her skin.
She sends Vriga off to enjoy herself, Betazed has incredible nightlife, and buries herself in another report about the collapse of the Andoran infrastructure. Federation law requires they negotiate with a planetary government, though they can provide aid to the scraps of regional government left behind, anything that survived the Emerald Chain comes from a history of pain and oppression. Replicators need power, solar's unreliable on Andorian, but seawater cells should work. Sending them dilithium would solve their power problems, but it would also allow any former chain warlords to reestablish power. Do too little and the Federation adds to suffering and death, do too much, or in the wrong way, and a would-be Osyraa takes the dilithium.
Not to mention the Tellarite resistance to helping the Andorians at all.
"You can't solve it all tonight."
Laira shuts her eyes and waves the holopadd away. "Sounds like something a wise mentor would say."
Jen hands her a cup of hot chocolate and settles down next to her on the sofa. "Too bad you don't have one of those."
"I do suffer from a lack of close ties to veteran leadership."
"It's so tragic you don't have someone with decades of experience who passed up a beautiful retirement to help you run the galaxy." Jen sips her hot chocolate and rearranges her sari over her legs. "I still haven't forgiven you for making me be president, not once, but twice, so you could leave the galaxy and meet the jellyfish."
Laira smiles at the falling water. "I should have seen that coming when we started our campaign."
"As long as you never do it again." Jen toys with the gemstones in her necklace and stares out at the courtyard. How wonderful it would be to have this beauty to call home.
"Of course not, never, I wouldn't dare put you in charge for several months so I could do something selfish."
Jen tilts her head innocently. "Planning on leaving the galaxy again?"
Shaking her head, Laira reaches back for the brilliantly pattern silk blanket from the back of the sofa and drapes it over her shoulders. It's much more comfortable than her jacket. "Maybe Michael and I should head out to the 10-C, see if they want to put us up for a few weeks when the baby gets here, just so you don’t have to be in charge while I’m in the same galaxy. "
"Might be the only way to get some quiet."
Fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, Laira can’t help asking. "We shouldn't come here?"
"Arjun and most of my children are exceptional with babies, Luxoli prefers children when they can talk, but she's always been the most like me." Jen wraps her arm around Laira's shoulders, dropping her teasing tone. "You're always welcome, it’s nice to have some extra hands when they’re tiny."
"Thank you." Laira takes a sip, then sets her hot chocolate down on the table in front of her. It's delicious, but she can't taste it the way she should.
Jen's fingers rub her shoulder, warm through the thin blanket. She allows Laira to dwell in her thoughts for a moment, then says what Laira hasn't found words for. "It's all right to miss home."
"I don't know where I'm missing. Bajor? My freighter?" She has better things to think about than her vague sense of unbelonging, and yet—
"Michael is home now, isn't she?"
"She's not a place."
"You have Michael's ship."
Laira touches her belly, pressing in just a little. "I do."
"Discovery will be the baby's home, and it's Michael's. It's the closest thing you have, but—"
"I'm being ridiculous."
"You're allowed." Jen rests her head on Laira's shoulder. "I can pull the thoughts out of your stubborn head if you don't want to say them."
"You're so kind."
"Michael has a home, and a family. You have work."
"That's not—"
"Your farm is in other hands, so is your clunky old freighter, and even the apartment you had in on Bajor had more of Daar's things in it than yours, so—"
"I told him to keep it."
"So your whole life is Michael's now."
"I'm not upset about that." Laira doesn't need to insist, Jen can hear her thoughts, but saying it aloud helps. She doesn't blame Michael, she's not uneasy about Michael's ship and Michael's crew being her home. She married Michael, and everything that came with her. She adores them all.
"You think Michael might be upset."
"I know she's not."
Jen chuckles and corrects her. "I know she's not. You suspect, then doubt, and then convince yourself it's fine."
Laira sighs and pulls the blanket tighter. "How's that going for me?"
"You are dedicated and diligent in your efforts, as always" Jen leaves them in silence, Laira's thoughts drifting just beneath the surface.
When Jen thinks she’s had enough time, she says it for both of them. "If she leaves you, all of it will be gone."
Taking Jen's hand, Laira squeezes her fingers. "She won't leave me."
"She'd be the first. Your mother, your father, your grandparents, even Daar left you, though I never liked him, so..." Jen's distaste of Daar was well hidden from him, and for a time Jen made the effort to hide it from Laira, though towards the end, Jen dropped her subtleties.
"I left him."
"You didn’t give him a chance to leave you." Jen pats her hand. "You withdrew, became emotionally distant, and on top of the incredible stress of your position and the DMA...what was left?"
The thought of seeing him again makes her tense enough that Jen laughs into her thoughts. "Don't get nauseated on me now. You've had such a blissful few days."
"Maybe I'm not ready to talk about him."
"He'll be at the summit on the VARS drive." Jen hugs her shoulders the extracts herself to take her hot chocolate again. "He's a propulsion engineer."
"Of course he'll be there. I—"
"Am going to see the man you did not want to marry, with your wife, just in time for him to find out, along with the rest of the galaxy, that you're having a baby, which you nnever wanted to have with him."
"Not- I didn't- never isn't—."
Jen squeezes her hand. "Obviously you'll handle it."
Laira knows what to say to him. She has to. Difficult situations are what she excels at.
Michael rescues her so neatly from having to finish the conversation with Jen that it's possible Jen summoned her telepathically. Michael's out of uniform, wrapped in a gorgeous orange-gold sari that must have come from Jen's collection, and she looks like a goddess.
Michael pauses in the door, then turns around to show off. "Beautiful isn't it?"
"You look incredible."
Winking at Jen, Michael crosses the room and offers her hands to help Laira up. "Someone with good taste lent it to me."
"To the benefit of all, clearly" Jen says, leaning down to kiss Laira's cheek before she leaves them.
"Did I forget something we're doing tonight?" She's been so careful with her schedule. They have tonight off, she’s sure of it.
"Oh no, this is for tomorrow."
"The opera."
"The opera," Michael repeats, guiding Laira up. "It's going to be fun."
"Vayshkaanaa is one of the most poignant Kasseelian operas ever written, fun is the wrong descriptor."
"You're going to cry your beautiful eyes out."
"Yes."
Michael sways with her, then pulls Laira in, resting her head against her shoulder. "My mother and J'Vini need us to reschedule."
Again.
"They're busy, the Andorian border—"
"Yeah." Michael looks down for a moment, staring at their entwined fingers, and then she touches Laira's belly, rubbing her thumb along her skin. "I want to tell her she's going to be a grandmother before she finds out from the Federation news service."
"We can wait to tell the news service."
Michael chuckles, leans down and kisses her belly, silk rustling. "I don't think we can. On Earth, after the VARS drive summit, that's a good time. Sends a message about safety and new beginnings, and you thought Earth was right politically."
"It shows I trust them, that they're part of the whole." Laira runs her hands up Michael's arms, holding her shoulders. "I'm sorry. It's the third time we've had to reschedule."
"She's busy." That's not it, and Michael knows, but they dance around Gabrielle like she's debris in an unpredictable orbit. "I finally find her again, after nine hundred years, I have a starship where we can literally cross the galaxy in a blink and we still can't find an hour to sit down together."
Laira starts to speak, but halts. That’s not a helpful thought.
"What?"
Looking down doesn't save her, because Michael is too observant.
"I don't want to be that busy."
"What?"
Touching her belly, she allows her hand to linger. "When she's here, when she's grown, when we're—"
Michael's confused expression turns into a smile, bright and sad and hopeful. "You want us to be less busy than my mother."
"Please."
"So, somehow, when you're president and I'm an admiral-"
"Fleet admiral, Vance will want to retire at some point."
"Okay, so you're still president and I'm fleet admiral and you want to make sure we can to find a way to make it to dinner with our children?"
"Yes." They're decades away from even having to worry about meeting their Hitchhiker's potential partners and who knows if she'll want to have children and-- Laira's eyes sting.
“Hey, we'll be less busy,” Michael promises, holding up her hands and kissing them. “So much less busy. Spore drives will be everywhere, everything with be peaceful, with no scary stellar phenomena, and dinner plans will be no problem at all.” Michael says something else, teases her about something and it’s light and hopeful and full of that sunshine Michael carries with her wherever she goes.
Michael said children.
Our children.
She could have misspoke. It’s an easy mistake to make, but Michael’s so careful, so thoughtful about her words. Our quarters, our mission, our children.
“You still with me?”
Nodding, Laira shuts her eyes. The future is vast - full of hope - and unknowable, worrying is exhausting. This moment is beautiful, and she needs to be here, now. The rest will follow.
Laira pulls her coat a little tighter. They’re not going outside; the snow’s falling so hard on Altair IV that it whispers against the windows. She shivers a little, then nods to the three council members with her. Negotiations are done for the day, they can beam back up. Michael’s quarters - their quarters - are warm.
On her left, Council member Gozre looks as miserable as she does. At least, the climate here’s as terrible for him as it is for her.
“I thought they’d never agree.”
“They agreed this morning, we just needed to find terms that everyone else agreed with.” Laira sighs. She wants to wrap her arms around herself, try to get warm that way, but she can’t let Gozre see that kind of weakness. Though he is Saurian, if she’s cold, he can tell.
They beam up to the conference room on Discovery, escaping the cold, but it’s like the cold is inside of her. They stand together around the table, ready to depart for dinner and the lounge, but Hugh and another doctor, stop them at the door. The doctor with him is an elderly human woman, whose hair is as white as her uniform.
“Madam President, Senators, Starfleet Medical has implemented an advanced screening protocol. The automatic biofilters have already done their work, but ships have been having trouble catching everything, so we’re scanning by hand. If you don’t mind.”
Laira rests her hand on the table, just for a moment, and she’s still too cold, but Hugh steps towards her, so this is fine. Hugh trusts this doctor.
The doctor Laira doesn’t know introduces herself to Senator bav Tihg as Doctor Holte, a civilian from Earth. Michael mentioned meeting her wife. Senator bav Tihg is cleared quickly, then Dr. Holte moves on to Councilmember Ralauth.
Gozre leans in to whisper. “Your body temperature is several degrees higher than this morning. I do hope you’re well.”
“It’s nothing.” Damn Saurian vision.
Clucking his tongue, Gozre shakes his head. He sounds sympathetic, but she struggles to trust him. “Scosian would make it awfully difficult for you to—”
Hugh clears his throat, taking Gozre’s attention. “Councilmember, if you would—”
Ralauth and bav Tigh are both cleared and nod to Laira as they leave. Dr. Holte gestures for her to take a few steps to the right, away from Gozre, and Dr. Holte ends up between them. Reaching for the catches of her jacket, Laira opens it. It’s too tight, and she’s finally meeting her tailor on Earth, which will solve so many of her problems with her suits, at least for a month or two. She’d take it off, but she’s cold.
Dr. Holte runs one scan, then another. “I’m Dr. Holte, I’m assisting the Andorian relief effort. I’m not detecting any sign of scosian prions, however, Madam President, you have a mild fever.”
Again. At least, that’s all it is. “I thought that might be the case.”
“I believe your elevated levels of ghoyoc are the cause, but Dr. Culber will want to check you over when he’s finished with your charming companion. While we wait, I’ll talk, you nod at me and I’m sure he’ll be gone in a moment.”
Laira carefully resists the urge to smile. “You’re from Earth, doctor?”
“Vancouver Island, right on rocky coast of the Pacific. It’s stunning, and I thought it was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever see, then I flashed through space with sparkling blue mushrooms to get here, so I’m redefining my ideas of beauty at the moment, ma’am.”
“The spores are incredible.”
“I enjoy them, Madam President.”
Gozre is cleaned by Hugh, and they share a look. The next election is still years away, but - he’ll be looking forward to it. Laira can barely get her mind to focus on tomorrow, but they’ll make it work.
Hugh drifts over, nonchalant, like he’s ready to start a conversation. No hurry. Nothing’s wrong. Gozre blinks at her before he leaves, finally, and Hugh leans over to look at Dr. Holte’s readings.
“Your ghoyoc levels are too high, again, which is why you have a fever, again—”
“Yes, doctor, again,” she repeats with him. “Just do what you did last time.”
Dr. Holte looks at Hugh, curious. Xenobiology would have been difficult to study while Earth was closed off, and Laira’s hybrid pregnancy is going to give Hugh so many journal articles.
“Laira’s ghoyoc levels spike, and then she runs a fever. I can break down the ghoyoc in her bloodstream, but I have to replace it with higher levels of estrogen to support her pregnancy.”
Dr. Holte’s expression softens sympathetically. “That has its own side effects.”
Laira slips her jacket off, trying to find equilibrium until her fever lowers. She’s too hot and too cold all at once, and nothing’s comfortable. At least the meeting’s done for the day. “I am a little better at dealing with nausea.”
“Fevers can be a tense thing, especially now.” Dr. Holte studies the scan again, looking deep into the details of Laira’s hormone levels. “The intricacies of pregnancy in just one species are fascinating, the way your body has found a balance is as complicated as that mycelial network.”
“Maybe you can help me come up with a solution for Laira that doesn’t involve spiking her estrogen to compensate.” Hugh resets his hypo, then reaches for her neck. “This will bring your fever down. This-” he pauses, then injects her again, “will make up for the missing ghoyoc, but the side effects will likely be the same as last time.”
Last time, she threw up when the deck even glinted at her funny. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t eat anything exciting.”
“I am sorry.” He rubs her shoulder. “I could try raising ilkeah instead, but that doesn’t have the same effect on your pyrogens, and is more likely to spiral back into raising your temperature again because it’s more closely connected to ghoyoc cycling. Hopefully it’ll just be a few days.”
Leaning back on the table, Laira sighs, her hands sweaty against the cool glass. “We reach Earth tomorrow.” Her schedule is full of meetings and diplomatic events, from breakfast until far after dinner.
“We can try a mild dose of anti-emetics, maybe a different set—”
Those made her so groggy she would have asked the 10-C if they wanted to join the Federation, and Laira winces. “It’s all right, doctor.”
Dr. Holte and Hugh share a look, and Dr. Holte reaches towards her, touching her arm.
“Your pyrogen spikes might be an immune response, potentially something we could soften before we reach this point again. Dr. Culber has shared his research with me in hopes I’d see something he hasn’t.”
“Dr. Holte is one of the galaxy’s finest immunologists.”
Together both doctors explain what they find so fascinating about her hormone levels using words Michael would understand, but Laira’s tired, and hungry, and none of it makes any sense, though they mean well.
“Thank you.”
“And we’re keeping you from dinner,” Dr. Holte says, shutting down her holopadd. “With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to assist Dr. Culber, a trilateral hormonal negotiation is fascinating.”
Laira smiles down at the floor, and nods. “Glad to be of service, doctor.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, Madam President - it’s just - hybridization of humans is something I have so rarely gotten to study. Earth’s been so closed off and I—”
She gets it. Laira’s entirely fine being a research paper for the good doctor, but she’s so hungry that she’s about to get lightheaded, and the window of time she has before she wants to never eat again is shrinking. “Of course, doctor, perhaps you could tell me about your research in the lounge.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude, ma’am, I—”
Hugh waves off her apologies. “We’re leaving a Altair IV, so it’s our family dinner night. We have a little celebration that the negotiations went well.”
“Family dinner?”
“You’ll see, it’s nice. My husband and I replicate tostones and amarillos. You can replicate something.”
“How nice. My wife can’t be trusted near a replicator.”
“Oh?”
“Margo has an aura of destruction, sometimes she needs to take notes on paper so technology doesn’t get caught in her wake.”
They talk, laughing with each other as they take the turbolift to the lounge together. There’s something so old fashioned about taking the turbolift rather than beaming, but Michael’s right, walking through the ship does give her time to greet the crew. When Laira’s in her uniform, the crew’s deferential, and the number of muttered ‘ma’ams’ increases with her cape. When she’s stripped down to her blouse, carrying her jacket and her cape, the crew’s more open. Their smiles are more amused. Even though she’s still too hot, too cold, and hungry, it’s hard not to smile back at them. They’re so much more open than crew of Federation headquarters.
This is her home, and her eyes sting. Enjoy it.
She also should try to enjoy being hungry before she’s not.
Will she have until the morning? Tomorrow afternoon? Her nausea seems to find her whenever the schedule’s the most difficult. Gozre’s going to be as insufferable, as he always is at any sign of weakness, but Laira wonders how he’ll handle the public announcement of the Hitchhiker. He enjoys having a secret to lord over her, and when it’s not a secret, perhaps he’ll lose interest.
Paul intercepts Hugh when they walk into the lounge, and they disappear towards the table of food, leaving Laira and Dr. Holte to look for their wives together.
Laira’s much taller than Dr. Holte, giving her the advantage as they look through the crowd in the lounge. Michael and Dr. Holte’s wife are sitting together at one of the tables to the side. Laira’s met her briefly: Margo - the reporter from Earth - sits beside Michael at a table, her long white hair pulled in a braid onto her shoulder. Dr. Holte came to assist with the scosian outbreak, and Margo must have found something fascinating enough to leave Earth with her. Margo’s hasn’t been a traveling reporter for decades. She’s one of the highest ranking editors of a United Earth-wide news network. Being on Discovery must have offered something fascinating to get her out here.
Dr. Holte reaches for her wife’s hand and squeezes it. Then she explains, “Margo’s been writing about what life was like before the Burn, what it’s like being on Discovery now, and the spore drive. She’s been busy, which is keeping her mind off of my work on Andoria.
Leaving her seat, Michael touches her chin, then kisses her cheekbone. She takes Laira’s jacket and her cape, then she leans in to whisper into her hair. “You’re too warm again.”
“Hugh fixed it.” Laira relaxes into Michael’s warmth, letting go of the tension in her posture. Michal makes everything easier.
“Fixed it the same way as last time?”
“Unfortunately yes.”
“Oh.” Michael kisses her cheek again. Her dark eyes far too soft. “Damn.”
“It’s fine.”
Michael follows her towards the food with a look that says it is absolutely not fine, but she makes good use of that look. It’s one of her better ‘darling what are you—’ faces.
“We can jump back to Betazed to pick up Jen.”
“I doubt that’ll be—” Laira stops, staring down at her plate. She’s going to be miserable tomorrow, maybe for several days. She can fight it, insist she’s fine, end up vomiting during an important part of the flag ceremony.
Or they pick up Jen. Jen charms the United Earth coalitions, makes their reporters laugh and maybe Laira can announce that she’s pregnant in a way more eloquent than being sick in front of the whole planet.
Dammit. “That would be wise, I think.”
Michael leans in, resting her chin on Laira’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“It’ll keep Reno’s betting pool interesting.”
“There’s a pool?” Michael asks innocently.
“If you manage to guess the last time I throw up, you can win half a starship.”
“Just half?”
“Give it a few more months and I bet it’ll be your own planet.”
“Well, thank you for amusing the crew, dear. I know they enjoy a diversion.” Michael touches her back, guiding her towards the table and their guests. “Margo’s been telling me all about Earth.”
“You’ve been to Earth, Michael.”
Michael nods, pulling out her chair before she sits down. “I’ve been to Earth of the 23rd century. Earth changes much faster than Ni’Var, which rejoined with the Romulans and changed its name.”
“Earth kept the same name.” Dr. Holte tilts a wine glass towards her in a half-toast. “Though, we must have debated changing it.”
“We did, several times, but Earth’s stuck. Sometimes we get stuck.” Margo looks right at Laira, staring as if she knows her, before she looks away. Too quickly - almost as if—
“I’m Bridget,” Dr. Holte says over her wine. She glances at her wife, then takes her hand, squeezing fingers that keep fidgeting with her napkin. “Before my wife forgets to introduce me.”
“Sorry.” The apology barely seems to register, even as Margo says it. She keeps staring at Laira. Has she not met any hybrid humans before? Margo reaches for her own wine but doesn’t drink it. She only toys with the stem of the glass, as if there are secrets in the smooth glass.
Michael looks from Bridget to Margo, and then her arm’s around Laira’s shoulders so there’s something Laira’s missing.
No point in rushing it, whatever it is. Eating keeps her from asking too many questions, or wondering why Margo’s staring. Laira didn’t think she was this hungry, and maybe that’s good considering what tomorrow’s likely going to be like.
Michael calls up the schedule for tomorrow on her holopadd, scrolling through. She adds in when Discovery will jump to Betazed and return, then starts noting which events Laira will not attend.
“Keep the flag ceremony.”
Michael raises an eyebrow. “It’s in the morning.”
“Morning might be fine.”
“Might.”
Bridget releases her wife’s hand and picks up her fork. “Are you more nauseated in the mornings?”
Laira presses her lips together, and Michael starts to chuckle before she does. “There’s no pattern.”
“Ah.”
“Bajorans sneeze when they’re pregnant, did you know that?”
Bridget shakes her head, and waits for Laira to elaborate with polite interest. Margo stares at Laira as if she can’t look away, like Laira will vanish if she does.
“Laira started with sneezing, then her human side kicked in, lately it’s Cardassia.”
Setting her bread down, Bridget nods. “Hugh mentioned the fevers, I’m sorry we can’t do better than bringing your nausea back.”
“It’s fine-”
“Hell, isn’t it?” Margo says finally. When Laira finds her eyes - blue like her mother’s - she feels like she knows her.
They’ve met, no, that’s not it they—
“My sister said it was hell, I mean,” Margo continues. She fidgets with her wedding ring, wrapping her fingers around themselves like Laira does when she’s trying to force herself to focus. It’s not uncommon, but Margo’s hands look so much like her own that now Laira’s the one staring.
“She didn’t like being pregnant?” Michael asks.
“She loved it, but it was hell. She was nauseated most of the time, unless she was hungry, sometimes it was both, and it would happen so quickly. We’d go for a walk on the beach and she’d be fine, she was totally fine, and then fifty meters later she’d throw up into the Pacific.”
“Our relationship started in bathrooms,” Michael says, her voice soft and even in a way that seems divorced from the rest of the conversation. Bridget replies and Laira misses it. They’re both so calm while Margo’s tone has a wistful edge that stings, and her throat’s tight.
Laira’s is too. Her chest aches and she reaches for her water, but her hand on the glass looks so much like Margo’s—
“My sister, Viv - Vivian, I mean - she was a doctor, like Bridget, and one of the smartest people, and there was nothing she could do, sometimes she just—”
Laira’s pulse rushes through her ears. She’s still too hot - too cold - in that flushed sort of way, and she’s acutely aware the cold sweat on her arms, and her neck. “My grandmother’s name was Vivian.”
Margo’s eyes shine, tears clinging to her lashes. “You never met her.”
Laira has to shake her head. “She died before I was born.”
“Oh, of course, space is—”
“My mother talked how much she loved the ocean, and the rocks, how Vivian had grown up there, near the beach—”
“Our house is on the island, Vancouver Island, on the Pacific, it’s one of the most beautiful places in the universe.”
Bridget touches Margo’s shoulder, breaking the tension. “You’ve seen a very small part of the universe, dear.”
“It’ll be true, no matter where I go.”
“My mother always wanted to see it.”
“Our house?”
Laira nods, her throat too tight. Michael finishes for her, she knows the story.
“Claire, Laira’s mother, talked about her ancestral home on the Pacific ocean.”
“Our house,” Bridget answers when Margo too is at a loss for words. “Claire is Margo’s niece.”
“Was, she’s gone. My mother’s gone.” Laira should say it more gently, take a breath, but all she can think is that her great-aunt, her mother’s aunt, never met her, never will, because the universe is vast and cruel and— Their house is still there. The one on the coast that her mother had always wanted to see: the most beautiful place in the universe.
Her food’s cold when she finishes eating it. Margo ignores her food for the rest of the conversation, and it’s not until the table’s gone through several more glasses of wine and all of Laira’s grandmother’s childhood that Bridget reminds her to eat.
Lairaa will still be here. Her great-aunt will still be here. They can talk tomorrow, after meetings, after the party, they have years—
“Come see the house, soon,” Margo insists as they hug goodnight. They’re the same height, almost, Laira’s a little taller, but Margo’s cheekbones are so very familiar and the way she smiles is so much like her mother’s.
“We’d like that.” Thank the Prophets for Michael, who will make plans and remember where the house is and stand next to her, being the calm point in the chaos.
Laira has a family, and a house and history. Her aunts give them holos: decades of her grandmother’s life, of the lives before, of all the people who lived on Earth before Vivian left for the stars.
Vivian looks like Laira. Her hair’s lighter and she’s tall and willowy like Margo, but there’s something in her face, in the holos where she smiles.
It’s very late when Michael gently insists on bed. The holos will be there. Her family will be there, but Laira can’t sleep. How can she sleep? Her history is here, there, down the corridor maybe also failing to sleep.
Michael’s arm lies over her, and the bed’s warm, even though Laira’s cold now - then hot - sweaty and awake and exhausted. Her mouth already tastes like metal and she’s not even sick to her stomach yet.
Discovery jumps in the dead of night, and the familiar blue of the mycelial network crackles around them. Laira pulls the blanket up closer to her chest, and Michael kisses her neck.
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t—”
Betazed spins green-blue just outside their window, and Discovery hangs in orbit like a xikek bird before they jump away again. They have Jen now, and she can attend all the events Laira won’t be able to tomorrow.
They could have gone to her grandmother’s house right now, after dinner, in the morning, they’re always welcome — and it’s too much. Laira could have found her family before. Met Margo and Bridget after Earth rejoined the Federation, looked in the records and the database and found them.
She didn’t.
She didn’t hate them. Margo was so sure Laira hated them, and Margo didn’t hate her for not being human and not knowing her history. Vivian didn’t hate her sister. Grandma loved her sister, her home, she always wanted to go back.
Never did. Never could—
The sweat on the back of her neck means she’s going to throw up. She has a minute, maybe she doesn’t— She’s awake and out of bed, across to the bathroom, and this should have waited until the afternoon.
When did her grandmother leave Earth? Was she still pregnant? Was her mother born on a transport ship? Or was she on Bajor already? One of the planets in between, in transit? How many bathrooms on strange starships did the Vivian that Laira never knew go through this in? When she’s washed her mouth out and trying to decide if she should eat (probably) if she wants to force herself (probably not), Michael’s standing by the bed with a bag over her shoulder.
“Are we going somewhere?”
Michael pins Laira’s badge onto her pajamas. “The timing’s perfect.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Only on Discovery.” Michael’s smile glows in her eyes.
They beam down when Laira has shoes, and the darkness of their bedroom gives way to another darkness, full of birds starting to sing.
They’re on a beach: warm, where the air smells of flowers and the salt of the sea, and across the dark water the sky’s starting to turn pink. Michael spreads one of the blankets on the sand and sits down, patting the blanket beside her. The bag sits by Michael’s feet, and they sit, together in paradise.
It takes her a moment to guess. “This is Langkawi.”
“Philippa and I came here once, my captain Philippa, and the other Philippa spoke of it all the time. The sunrises are extraordinary.”
“And I couldn’t sleep.”
“I don’t know if you’ve slept at all.”
Laira starts to protest, but a tiny mammal jumps from a tree to their left and the forest hums with life starting to wake.
“It’s the same ocean.”
“Your grandmother sat next to this ocean.”
“Threw up in it, apparently.”
“Well, I’m sure you can follow suit.”
Laira laughs, and Michael holds her, arms around her shoulders. Their history comes from this ocean, and the ocean of stars reaching out to all their other homes. Their history together is out there, on Discovery, across the Federation, and their future is there.
But they have safe harbors, places that define where they came from, and an ocean, and family.
“I wanted a baby because I was so alone,” Laira whispers while the sky turns to gold. “My family was gone, they were all gone, and I didn’t have anyone. I thought I could build something, build my life around a person, keep them safe.”
“And we will.”
“Of course, we will.” Laira blinks, and Michael brushes tears away. “I was so ready to make my own roots, but I still had them out there.”
“And you have so much family now.”
“So many homes.” Earth, Ni’Var, Bajor, Starfleet headquarters and Discovery and all the stars between. All of their paths led here, to the two of them and the baby.
Michael’s hand on her belly is the center of the universe, and everything else reaches outward. There’s family she hasn’t heard of and history she’ll never known, and there’s Michael, and the sand between her toes and the whispering of the water.
Her grandmother’s ocean. Philippa’s ocean.
Michael kisses her cheek. “We can bring her here, when she’s here.” Their baby will see the ocean. She’ll have to see it for Claire, who never did, and Vivian, who never saw it again. Someday Laira and Michael will be gone and their daughter will sit here, thinking of them and everyone who came before: how many people loved her and her family. That’s what family is: that unending history of love, reaching back to forgotten names and faces no one living can recall.
“She’ll see it.”
Michael holds her long after the sun rises bright over the sea.