Chapter Text
Michael
Rolling to her side wakes Michael while the night's still deep and dark around them. Laira fell asleep before she even finished reciting the first chapter of Alice in Wonderland. After things ended amicably with Book, her bed was hers alone again. Which she enjoyed, for a time, but she forgot how much she enjoys curling around someone, listening to their breathing. Most beings respire, some even sync their breathing when they spend time close to each other. It's one of the oldest intimacies to listen to another while you sleep, to know they're there and you're not alone in the darkness behind your eyes.
Perhaps that's why waking without Laira in bed brings Michael around so quickly. She sits up, listening, turning towards the bathroom. No lights are on, and the dark shapes on the floor are their clothes, forgotten in the rush to get Laira warmed up. Michael pulls the bankets off, ready to make sure--
"Don't worry, I didn't run off without my clothes." Laira returns to the bed and crawls in beside her.
Michael pulls up the blankets and remains up on her elbow. It's too dark to see much, even with the week light of Andor's rings. "That would be cold."
"It would."
Laira's cool foot brushes her knee and both of them tense, just for a moment, then the contact's gone, and she misses it immediately.
"Are you all right?" It has to be asked, even if she's fussing.
Curling her arm beneath her head, Laira smirks at her. "My head hurts, some things are a little foggy."
"That's to be expected-"
"I have this vague memory of you kissing me-"
"I-"
"I'm sure that's just a dream."
Dropping to her back, Michael sighs, her face burning. "I wanted the news service to have something to write about that wasn't you appearing weak. I remember how much they wrote about Sarek and Amanda, my adoptive parents, often to the exclusion of what Sarek wanted to achieve diplomatically. I thought that us kissing, even appearing to kiss, might be distracting for them."
"Heroic Captain Michael Burnham romantically involved with the president does seem to be an attention getting idea."
Rolling her eyes, Michael scoffs. "They'll have to ask Starfleet and the Federation council for comment, neither of whom will comment, which means it's an unsubstantiated rumor, but it's too interesting of one for them to spend time on anything else."
"For someone who hates politics—"
Sitting up, Michael leans against the headboard, hands around her knees. "You're doing good here, and it's hard. The Federation has to be about hope, the promise of something better, and the galaxy's watching. If speculating about the two of us keeps them from writing negatively about what you're trying to do, I'm fine with that."
Chuckling a little, Laira touches her thigh. It's almost accidental, the way her fingers caress Michael's skin, but Michael's acutely aware of her cool fingertips. "It's nice to be surprised."
"Even by me?"
"Especially by you." Laira rolls to her back, smiling upward, eyes closed. "It'll be a pleasure to side-step talking about you for the next few weeks." Her hand lies there, over the blanket.
Michael trails her fingers down to Laira's wrist, then squeezes her fingers. "I know how hard it is to be vulnerable and feel like they're closing in on you."
"If they decide to write about me being ill—"
"They won't." Michael lowers her head to her knees, takes a breath, and then looks up. "And, I liked it." She doesn't look at Laira, just into the darkness, and that makes her confession float like a dream.
"A real kiss might be better."
"That's a logical conjecture." It's cold out of the blanket, so she slips back beneath it, lying beside Laira, looking up, not at her. Their elbows touch, and their legs are so close they might as well be. Her breath catches, and her chest's tight.
"Someday, we'll have to attempt to prove it."
Michael shifts her arm, sliding it over Laira's head as an invitation, then Laira's heads on her chest and her arms wrap close. The smell of her is new, and the way Laira fidgets with her tank top makes Michael smile.
"I can hear you worrying."
"I wasn't-" That's untrue. Michael strokes her forehead. "I doubt you should feel warm to me."
"Oh, I'm only part lizard."
Michael starts to protest.
Laira pats her quiet. "My grandfather would laugh and call my grandmother lizard woman across the garden. 'Don't eat my radishes, they won't be ready for another week, my lizard love.'" Laira's voice takes on that scratchy, low quality like a child intimating the adults around them. Michael could ask when she saw them last, or if they came to her inauguration, but there's a wistfulness in the way Laira speaks about them, and loss touches everyone.
Laira's breathing slows, and Michael runs her fingers through her hair, slowly, then slower, then she too falls asleep.
Setting three mugs of teas on the coffee table, Michael points to each in turn. "Soothing, very mild. Sweet and acidic for congestion, this one was Philippa's favorite: spicy and sweet."
"You're not going to tell me what they are?" Laira smirks on the couch, covered with the heavy blanket from the bed.
"Combinations from different planets and cultures, the replicator here has an excellent database and the tricorder promises you can drink all of them. Sense of taste is more personal."
Michael calls up her tricorder again, checking her scans. The inflammation in Laira's throat and upper respiratory tract is worse than yesterday, but her blood pressure looks much better. Laira's body temperature is lower than Michael's, but the flush of her cheeks and the way her eyes are too bright suggests fever.
Picking up the mug on the right, Laira smiles. "You're worrying."
"May I?" Michael lifts her hand, gesturing towards her forehead.
Leaning forward to make it easier, Laira sips her tea, waiting for Michael to touch her.
Michael rests her palm against Laira's forehead. The ridges are firmer, but softer than she thought, and the skin between seems to be more sensitive. Laira won't feel warm, her body temperature is only thirty-six degrees, but the tricorder can only report what its found, not explain how far that is from the baseline. "Does your head hurt?"
"Some—"
"Yes," Michael corrects, "you mean yes."
"It's not bad."
"What would you call bad?"
Smiling over her tea, Laira wrinkles her nose. "Throbbing?"
She has no idea how adorable her nose is (or perhaps she does?) and Michael can't say anything, but she can't stop grinning. "And this is just—"
"Achy."
"I see, so that's fine then."
Sipping her tea, Laira leans on the sofa back in her replicated pajamas. "I'm all right."
"Your head hurts."
"What did your tricorder say?"
Michael opens the readings again, moving to sit beside Laira and show her. "I don't know what baseline is for you, I don't know what I'm comparing it to."
"That doesn't look bad."
"For a human, sure, a little cool for a Bajoran, but I don't know what it means for you."
Laira touches her, fingers gentle on Michael's wrist. "That bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Yeah, kind of does." Michael waves the tricorder display away. "You'll tell me if it gets worse?"
"Will you believe that I will?"
Rolling her eyes, Michael sighs. "Guess I have to."
"Where's my jacket?"
"Closet." Michael gets up to retrieve it and Laira holds her hand, making her stop. Everything stops, and it's ridiculous because they're just—
"You need my badge, it has a copy of my bioprint for emergencies."
"You tell me now?"
Shutting her eyes, Laira sets down her tea and presses her fingers into her forehead. "Nothing was making sense yesterday."
"You were hypothermic."
"You kissed me."
"Oh that's what it wasn't making sense? I kissed you? Not the complete lack of feeling in your hands and feet?" Michael plucks the badge off of Laira's jacket and returns to the sofa. She holds the badge up in front of them.
"Release security lock for Michael Burnham."
"That's it?"
"Try it."
Tapping the badge, Michael sighs in relief when Laira's medical data appears in front of her. "Thirty-three? Your average body temperature is only thirty-three?"
"Thirty-two-point-six."
"Like that's better."
"I told you I'm fine."
"You definition of fine leaves a lot up to interpretation."
"There's nothing you can do, Michael. It's a low grade fever. It'll pass. You said the metapneuma—"
"Metapneumovirus group J-"
"Yes, that's not serious. You can't even get it."
"I can't get it because I've been vaccinated for the primordial version."
"You're not that old."
Somehow in the teasing Michael ended up next to her, so close that their bodies are touching and even though they spent the night tangled together, touching now on the sofa makes her heart beat loud.
"I didn't realize you had so many less vaccines now."
"We lost so much when the Burn happened. I grew up on Bajor and Cardassia, and I've been to some of the colonies in between, but until you came—"
"Just that corner of the universe."
"The Federation Council met over subspace link until we started mining the Verubin nebula."
"I knew that."
"You did, but it didn't make sense to you."
"I grew up in space. My parents were always going to one conference or another. The Federation was smaller then-"
"But it was bigger," Laira finishes for her. "You went places. Your brother was a hybrid."
"Not a lot in this century?"
"Romulans and Vulcans, Cardassians and Bajorans, species who were trapped close to each other, sure, but Earth and Vulcan might as well have been in other universe." Laira tilts her head, studying Michael's smile. "Yes, you've done that too, show off."
"The Terran Empire was not a nice place to visit." Michael picks up one of the mugs of tea Laira didn't chose. Licorice was Amanda's favorite to give her when she was ill as a child. Holding the tea, she looks out the window at the frozen landscape outside. "I've been here, before. Once with my parents, so my mom could give a paper. My dad and I went skiing, I came here a few more times with the Shenzhou. Philippa had training here and she knew where all the good cafes were."
"In this city?"
"Here and by the coast. She loved how different the beach was from home."
"Home was Earth for her?"
"Langkawi, which was, and probably still is, one of the most beautiful places in the universe."
"And that was Philippa's home?"
"The trees and the ocean, the way the sand goes on forever against the water—" Michael shuts her eyes, she can still see Philippa standing in the surf. "Someday, I'll have to show you."
"But what will you save me from when it's warm, Captain?"
Chuckling, Michael reaches out and touches Laira's very pale nose. "With your complexion? Sunburn."
Their faces are so close that they could kiss, and this time it would have nothing to do with reporters or distraction, it would be kissing for the softness of it. Nothing about heroic Captain Burnham or steadfast President Rillak, just them, and Laira's eyes are on hers, blue and brown. They've been touching - almost - touching since last night but kissing would be different, kissing would mean—
The door opens, startling them apart. Keyla and Joann have their badges keyed in, they're just across the hall from each other. Michael's boring, she should be stretching and drinking tea, not fantasizing about what Laira's lips will feel like on hers.
She won't know, because she can't kiss her in front of them. Michael jumps, Laira apparently less so because her mouth lands on Michael's cheek, warm and soft and it's all she has not to turn into the kiss and finish it.
They have guests.
Joann and Keyla sweep in, still in their winter coats, holding a bag of something. "We found samusi rolls!" Keyla announces, dropping the bag on the table as she starts removing her coat. "I remembered Captain Georgiou talking about how much she liked them. When we were here, she took us out and got them and we knew that would mean a lot to you—" Keyla keeps talking, but the words aren't processing for Michael.
Joann stares, and then she starts to smile and there's no subtlety. The President of the Federation is sitting on Michael's couch, hair a mess, bright green replicated pajamas that match Michael's. Michael might as well start a briefing by announcing they're dating.
"Good morning," Joann says politely, because she has that kind of grace, even when she thinks Michael just spent the night with President of the Federation. There's no judgement in the way she nods, just a soft sort of joy. "I'll grab coffee from the replicator, don't get up."
Laira tilts her head towards Michael and instead of surprise or mortification, Laira's smile's brighter than it's been all morning.
Keyla turns from the closet, removing her cold weather hat, the old one that says "DISCO" in white letters because some things were worth keeping in a new century. "Why do you have the President's coat?"
"What?" That's not the question Michael expected, and beside her Laira half-chokes on her tea.
"Your coat is here, and that blue one is the President's, it has that fancy decoration, seal of office sort of—" Keyla flops on the sofa next to Michael, removing her boots before she realizing the blanket covers two pairs of legs and Joann's over at the replicator. "You have the president's coat because she's here."
With Michael's head between her and the president, Keyla can flick her eyes over, silently demanding a host of answers.
There's not a good way to explain, and she doesn't have to say anything, this is innocent, there's nothing wrong they didn't— But Joann and Keyla aren't here to berate her. They're happy. Joann's smile glows as she sets down coffee with fresh mugs then pulls the soft chair over to sit across from the three of them.
"Laira got sick yesterday."
"Laira." Keyla mouths silently to Joann. She had to know the president has a first name.
Laira's hand rests on Michael's knee, warm and gentle. It's a little nonsense thing, but Michael loves it. Joann presses her lips together and has to look down because her smile's getting nova-bright.
"Michael graciously rescued me from a very cold meeting, unfortunately not until after I had caught something."
"The weather here is very unpredictable," Joann says, opening the bag and setting out the rolls. They smell warm, thanks to the insulated bag, and the spice and nuts are almost the same as nine hundred years ago with Philippa. "I grew up in a very warm part of Earth, so I always need a coat."
"Would you believe that she wore a coat on Betazed."
"It was raining."
"Betazed is all tropical, it's a planet of tropical, Joann."
"It was cold." Joann shakes her head and pours Keyla coffee.
Keyla tears a piece of a roll and takes a bite, very carefully not looking to her left because the President of the Federation is on Michael's couch. "Anywhere that's not temperature controlled like a starship is chaos. I don't know why people would want to live anywhere where the weather can attack you."
"The weather's not attacking anyone."
Keyla points at Joann and tilts her head at the snow blowing past Michael's window. "It is here."
"I didn't know you grew up on starships, Commander," Laira's question is soft, polite, but Keyla startles like a sehlat.
"Oh we're off duty," Joann insists, like they're talking to someone who wouldn't know any better. "You can call us by our first names, ma'am."
"I'm not calling her Laira," Keyla mutters under her breath but she nods. The president can call her whatever she wants.
"You don't need the ma'am then."
Joann nods, and puts out her hand for Laira's mug. "I can get your more tea, I know I try not to drink coffee if I've been ill."
Rubbing Michael's knee idly, Laira smiles. "Michael will have to tell you what it is."
Michael can barely form an coherent thought because Laira's playing with her knee like she's- like they're— "Blend 148 with extra ginger, thank you."
"Of course."
Keyla takes a sip of her coffee, and that makes her brave enough. "Did you catch a hard seal cold?"
"What?" The way Laira tilts her head makes Michael grin into her coffee.
"A hard seal cold, your ship's air exchangers sync with the port after hard seal and all of a sudden everyone on the ship has a damn cold because the port's full of viruses you've never had before."
Joann raises her eyebrows and shrugs. Michael's also never heard that but Laira turns, trying to see Keyla around Michael.
"The oldest members of my father's crew said things like that."
"Keyla's a spacer," Joann explains,"a real freighter kid."
Michael lifts her roll to take a bite and smirks. "Laira is too."
"It's completely different."
"You were?"
"My father had a cargo fleet, mostly food, between Bajor and Cardassia. I used to fly ships for him, sublight, mostly, sometimes solar sails, dilithium was nearly impossible to get, we had to save it for emergencies."
Keyla turns as well, talking over Michael while she tries not to make a mess with her sticky bun. "You said that, on the bridge, but I—"
"Thought it was bravado?"
"Spore travel can really weird and most people hate it. Why would you admit to being a freighter kid? You're—"
Laira waves her hand, stopping that before it goes any further. She sighs, leaning on Michael's shoulder. "Tell me about the ship where you grew up, Keyla."
"Why?"
"I'm curious."
"You love talking about it." Joann reminds her.
"Yeah but—"
Michael nods, nudging Keyla with her elbow. "Tell her about the shuttle you stole."
"Isn't that like, treason or something?"
"She's not Starfleet, Keyla."
"But don't we like—" Keyla trails off and Joann pours her more coffee as they argue about if stealing a shuttle is a crime against the Federation, or Starfleet, or both, and how much trouble pre-teen Keyla would get in now.
Laira curls in closer when Michael raises her arm. She hasn't reached for anything to eat, and it's only a few minutes later that Michael rescues her half-full tea from her sleeping hands.
Keyla pauses, but Joann shakes her head and waves for her to keep telling her story. Joann asks with her eyes how sick Laira's been, if she needs anything. Michael taps her own forehead to explain the headaches and mimes checking Laira's temperature.
"Our medkit's Orion."
"Ours is too," Keyla whispers, grabbing another roll. "We thought about bringing one from the ship but Joann didn't want to ski so I didn't think we'd need it."
"It's negative fifty up there, Keyla."
"It's colder in space, you live in space."
"With life support."
"Joann hates skiing."
"I hate how cold it is skiing, if you want to waterski, I'll go round you in circles."
Joann and Keyla smirk at each other and bets are made for the next warm planet.
"I wanted to go to museums anyway, and Stamets said the opera was incredible."
Opera. Michael knows something about the opera, what was it?
"Are we going because we like it or to make Stamets jealous?"
Michael remembers and nearly accidentally tips Laira off her shoulder, but she remembers to hold perfectly still. "Laira has opera tickets."
"What?"
"She's supposed to go."
"Fancy diplomat perks."
"She can't."
"No," Joann agrees. "It's colder than yesterday, and it's long, she should rest."
"You two should go."
Michael points at Laira's badge where it sits on the coffee table next to her own. "Hand that to me."
Keyla raises an eyebrow. "Badge privileges on a first date."
"It's hardly a date."
"Uh-huh."
Michael taps Laira's badge again, searching for her public calendar. She mentioned the opera tonight, but opening up today's calendar has a long list of events she's been invited too, from touring a shipyard to wine tasting before the opera.
"Do I see wine?"
"How can she have eleven events on one day?" Joann says, reading aghast from the other side. "They think she should go to all of these?"
"They're suggestions, I don't think—" Michael starts, but trails off. Laira probably would attend most of them, or feel like she ought to. Andoria is a founding member of the Federation. "Which ones to do you want?"
"What?"
"You're representatives of the Federation, what to taste ice wine in a frozen villa?"
"We do," Keyla says, nodding firmly. "We definitely do."
They spend the rest of breakfast deciding which of Laira's cultural events Joann and Keyla want to take her place at.
"Are you really sure it's all right?"
"The Federation hasn't attended anything on Andoria in hundreds of years, the two of you are great representatives. You're from Discovery."
Joann winks at Keyla. "We solved the Burn, and made peace with the DMA, we're heroes."
"Right, they should be honored we're there to drink their wine."
When they've taken enough things off of Laira's calendar, Keyla and Joann grab their coats and quietly start sneaking away, after promising to see if they can find any human-ish friendly painkillers or a medkit.
"Don't make it obvious we're looking, right?"
"It's bad optics if the president of the Federation comes to Andoria and all that she gets from negotiations is a cold."
"You care about optics now?" Keyla wonders, all wide-eyed and innocent.
"This means a lot to her."
"Your girlfriend."
"We're not- we didn't—"
"She's in hotel replicator pajamas in your room and you didn't." Keyla folds her arms. "Right."
"They're taking their time," Joann says, smiling warmly.
That is not a clarification that they're not dating, which they are not, or support that they're not going to have sex, which her crew has already decided is going to occur. Arguing that either of these things are not happening, and will not happen, will take longer than they have, so Michael glares. "Go to your wine tasting already."
"Comm us if you need anything. We can always pretend Keyla broke her leg skiing if we need Discovery back faster."
"It's just a hard seal cold, right?" Maybe that's too optimistic. Laira's warm against her now and shouldn't she be cooler? If she doesn't have an appetite, is she more ill than Michael thought?
Both of them smile sympathetically, letting Michael convince herself. "She said she's fine, it's not bad. Thank you for the samusi rolls."
"They haven't changed, have they?" Keyla tucks her hands into her coat. "You know, Captain Georgiou would be proud."
"Of what, the rolls?"
Joann's very wicked smile should have given it away. "You dating the president."
"Shut up."
"I'll take Keyla away now, I hope Laira feels better." Joann tugs Keyla into the hall and then Michael's alone in her room again, empty coffee cups sitting on the table in front of her.
Laira's badge flashes once, then again, and the gentle golden glow it sends up must be unread messages. Michael picks it up just to look at the schedule and see what else Laira's going to miss tomorrow.
One hundred thirty-seven unread communiques.
She must have aides looking at them, but Michael whistles as she breathes out.
"It's bad, isn't it?" Laira murmurs, eyes still closed. "Hit two hundred yet?"
"Not yet."
"Give it until dinner." Laira groans, pulling her head off of Michael's shoulder reluctantly. "I like them."
"Your communiques or Keyla and Joann?"
"Your family, not my communiques." Resting her head in her hands, Laira doesn't look up, or move as Michael stretches and settles.
"How's your head?"
Humming is a non-answer.
Michael turns, pulling her feet up so she sits cross-legged on the couch. "Come here, put your head in my lap."
"What?"
"I studied Vulcan neuro-pressure, it might not be a neuroblocker, but I bet I can help."
Laira clumsily rolls her head into Michael's lap, smiling up at her with a wince before closing her eyes. "T'Rina's done that before."
"When you were sick?"
"Just a normal headache."
"This one's not normal?"
"This one's like my initial dampener's half-dead and my skull won't stop shaking."
"But you don't sneeze?"
"Hmm?"
"If my sinuses were as inflamed as yours, my nose would be running and I'd sneeze."
"Maybe if I was pregnant."
"What?"
"Bajorans have horrible sneezing attacks when they're pregnant. My mother wasn't even Bajoran and I gave them to her."
"You did?"
"It was awful, and funny, apparently." Laira opens her eyes, reaching up to touch Michael's arm. "Thank you."
"For what? Skipping the negative fifty degree skiing?"
"It's your shore leave."
"And as much fun as it is to be the third shuttle in Joann and Keyla's formation—"
"Oh they're adorable."
"In small doses."
"They sounded like home." Laira doesn't elaborate, and Michael runs her thumbs over the center of her forehead, tracing the spaces between the cartilage on her forehead and calming the angry nerves running up from Laira's inflamed sinuses. Michael follows the patterns she remembers, careful not to press directly on anything that seems more firm. Laira was right, the spaces between are much more sensitive, and her breathing slows.
Gasping when Michael hits a sensitive spot, Laira opens her eyes, tears shining in the corners.
"Sorry—"
"No, no." Laira blinks a few times. "I didn't realize how bad it was."
"Of course you didn't."
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing, nothing at all."
Humming again, Laira touches her cheek, trailing cool fingers along Michael's jaw. "I didn't think hot shot starfleet captains were such worriers."
Michael smirks. "Oh, I'm trying to be reasonable."
That earns a little laugh, and Laira strokes Michael's chine, exploring the lines of her jaw. "This is reasonable worry?"
"You have a fever."
"It's mild."
"Uh-huh." Michael leans down, kissing her forehead. "So far."
"Wouldn't I be worse, if it was worse?"
"Would you tell me?"
Laira traces Michael's bottom lip, then smiles up. "Well, if news service says we're together, I should probably tell you everything."
"For transparency and all."
Dropping her hand back to her chest, Laira meets Michael's eyes. "Is that all right?"
"What?"
"Transparency, you asked, I—"
"Me teasing you means it's fine. You've been very honest."
"Oh that's good."
"Don't worry."
"Only you get to?"
"When I have a fever and a headache you can worry all you want," Michael promises.
"I'm holding you to that."
More than a day later, Michael's turning the pages of her book towards the end chapter fourteen when Laira wakes up in sickbay. She was half-awake when Discovery arrived. Cognizant enough to consent to be brought to sickbay, and she must have been comfortable here, because she fell back asleep after Hugh started treating her. Not having to sleep through that pounding headache must have been such a relief.
Laira blinks sleepily, lying on her side on the biobed. Her red-gold hair tumbles over her shoulder and some of it falls over her face.
Reaching up to stroke her hair back, Michael smiles down. "Hey."
"Duty hasn't called, Captain?"
Now that Hugh's reduced her fever and softened her headache, Laira looks better: skin less flushed, eyes clearer, and the hard knot in Michael's chest is less acute.
"One of the great things about being the captain is that my shore leave ends when I say it does."
Laira's sleepy smile grows and she turns her head, then sighs, content. "My head doesn't hurt."
"Doctor Culber's great with headaches."
"And fevers," Hugh says, walking up behind hr, hypo in hand. "Welcome back to Discovery, Madam President. I don't think you have seen our excellent sickbay yet."
"I had heard about it." Laira blinks at him, as if forcing herself to focus. "And call me Laira, please."
"Of course. Well, as Michael suspected, you have a metapneumovirus group J infection. Group J is endemic in former Emerald Chain territory and hasn't been recorded on Bajor since before the Burn, since this is your first foray into this part of space, it's not a surprise that you caught it."
"But Michael—"
"Has a robust immune response to much earlier version of the virus from our original century. She's fine. You, on the other hand, had no exposure to this type of virus, and a mild case of hypothermia didn't help." Hugh leans in, holding up the hypo so Laira can see. "I can support your immune system to fight it off, but I can't cure it outright. I've softened your symptoms and you should feel much better in a day or two."
"Thank you, doctor." Laira rolls onto her back, then experimentally sits up a little, resting in her elbows. Her smile broadens when she's not met with pain. "It's nice to not have that throbbing."
Michael frowns. "Wait, you said throbbing was bad-"
Hugh injects Laira's neck and holds up a hand in warning. "Before you get too wild, your body is still clearing the virus, even if your symptoms are better. You need to take it easy for a day or two."
"Don't jump right back into my unread communiques and work through dinner?"
"Please."
Michael tilts her head in her best 'I told you so' expression. Laira reaches out for her, fingers meeting, and she helps Laira to sit up. Her hair's a mess again and Michael can't help fixing it, even if it won't stay.
"Captain, Paul also wanted me to relay that we're doing some routine maintenance on the spore injectors, so we'll need to return to Starfleet HQ at warp instead of jumping. It'll be about twenty-one hours. He said we could spin it up in an emergency, but he'd need about half an hour."
"Noted."
Laira's little smile seems to match with the fact that it will conveniently take just as much time to get her home as Hugh wanted her to take to recover. "I assume you beamed up my clothes?"
"They're in guest quarters."
Staring at her feet, Laira rests her hands on the biobed. "I haven't been hungry in days."
"I know."
"Now I am."
"That's good."
"Where do you eat on your ship?"
"The mess, or the lounge on a good day."
"Let's say today's a good day."
"It has been." Michael holds up a hand Laira doesn't need to slide off the bed, but it feels right, as do Laira's fingers in hers.
"Oh?"
"Got to read my book," Michael teases, holding up the leather-bound paper.
"Another one?" Laira takes it and studies it like she's been handed the key to an ancient city.
"We finished Alice."
"So you needed another one." She sniffs the pages, beaming at Michael. "It does smell nice."
"Told you."
Inhaling again, Laira hands the book back, then smooths her pajamas. "I have to change, but I'd like you to eat with me."
It's such a small request but it's as precious as the book. "Of course."
"Half an hour?"
"Fifteen minutes," Laira insists. "I don't have to look presidential for anyone today."
"Fifteen it is. I'll meet you at your quarters."
"All right." Laira's eyes remain on her for a moment, and that smile sparkles before she beams away.
Hugh whistles to himself innocently, eyes cast down at his work.
"Paul just had to do the injectors today?"
"He likes to keep to a schedule."
"Every twenty-nine days?"
"He likes primes."
Michael rolls her eyes because she's never getting a straight answer out of either of them, but she only has fifteen minutes and the sonic shower's calling to her.
She's precisely on time, living on Vulcan taught her that. Laira emerges from guest quarters only a few seconds behind fifteen minutes, which is impressive. Michael's seen her being presidential, clothes and makeup both perfectly crafted to fit an image, and sick for the last two days where Micahel's not sure Laira knew or cared what she looked like.
This is something in between. Laira's hair's down, curly and a little wild, and she wears a lilac knit sweater that looks like it belonged to someone else first. The cuffs are rolled, long, and more than a little worn.
Laira fidgets with a stray thread, and then tucks it away in her cuff. "I hope this is all right. It's my favorite sweater, I always pack it, I can't tell you the last time I've let anyone see me wearing it."
"I'm honored." Michael pulled on the first thing in her closet, an old black shirt from her courier days and pants she usually wears to the gym. Extending her hand, she offers it to Laira. "Dinner?"
"Please."
Civilian clothes usually mean no ranks, no ceremony. The crew has to have moments outside of rank and protocol, and that applies to the president. Out of her suits, with her hair down, she could just be a visitor, a trader or an off-duty Starfleet officer. Just a traveler, like all of them.
Dinner's full of laughter, falling pieces of stray hair, braids that misbehave when Michael laughs too much. Michael has wine, and Laira steals a sip, then two, and they finish desert sitting next to each other in the mess hall, taking turn with spoons, legs pressed against each other.
The off the book tour of Discovery starts with the lounge where the crew plays darts and chess, and laughs around a new card game they picked up from the crew of the USS Nog.
"I haven't played, but I'm told it's a Ferengi game called Tongo."
"It's an excellent game, mixes profit with bluffing, much more fun than poker." Laira's smile is very bright and impish; Michael is officially never playing Tongo with her. "Admiral Tanek lets me join his games at HQ. It's a blast."
They wander lazily through Discovery's many science labs. Laira understands much more about propulsion and engineering than biology, astrophysics or chemistry, yet she's interested when Michael's crew reports their progress.
It's almost an hour after dinner, not late, but starting to get there, and Laira's hand's firmly in Michaels when they reach engineering.
"Last thing, I promise. Stamets said you can see the spore bay."
"I've read about it."
"It's beautiful."
"So, you need this so you don't pick up any hitchhikers," Reno says, reaching up and inoculating Laira against the spores with a hypospray to the neck. "We like the JahSepp to stay where they are."
There's no ma'am, or even the vaguest hint of deference in Reno's voice and Laira's smile betrays how much she loves it. It must be a weight, carrying the presidency all the time. Especially when she came from a fairly low ranking position as a sector representative before winning an election for president that it seems no one sensible wanted to win.
The spore bay doors open, allowing them in to Discovery's quiet garden. "These are astoriae prototaxies, the mushrooms that let us fly through space."
Bright blue spores drift through the air around them, like wandering fireflies.
Laira releases her hand to look at them, beaming. "Why do they float?"
Michael matches her smile. "They reproduce through dispersion. They can float the thousands of light years through space and colonize otherwise empty moons. Our crop here is contained, but we've seeded several moons, they're all incredibly beautiful, and vital to space travel."
"My great-grandparents talked about being on a ship with warp drive. How you'd hear the hum of the core like a heartbeat. I know Discovery has one, but this is her heart, isn't it?"
"Stamets certainly thinks so." Michael leans back on the rail, hands folded together, watching Laira's wonder. "As I understand it, the mycelial network connects us to our universe and a myriad others, bridging it all with threads we'll never see."
Laira turns, taking it all in and walks to Michael standing beside her at the rail. Her hand drifts to Michael's, taking her fingers, warm and familiar. "It's amazing anyone can connect at all, space is so vast and busy; we're all just passing through on our way somewhere."
"Paths cross, sometimes they even become shared."
"Thank you for sharing this with me."
Blue lights twinkle between them, and the whole galaxy stretches out beyond them. They'll have to go back, sit in meetings and sit on the bridge, live their lives, perform their duties...but this moment is theirs.
Michael turns, standing on her tiptoes, reaching up to touch Laira's chin. Their eyes meet, and Laira looks down at her mouth before smiling. The tiniest of nods is consent, the way she parts her lips is wanting. Michael almost expects the tension between them to spark like an overloaded conduit, but kissing her is warm and full of promise. Hope tastes like Laira's mouth.
Laira leans against her, their foreheads touching.
"I like sharing things with you," Michael whispers. "Even more when your head doesn't hurt."
"It's a bonus, isn't it?" Laira traces her cheek, lifts her chin and kisses her again, soft and gentle. "If this is—"
"An entanglement, shall we say."
"I like that." Laira sighs, sinking to the step. "I'm a horrible person to date."
Michael sits beside her, their hands finding each other. "I think your schedule is the horrible part."
"Yours isn't much better, is it?"
"Oh no. We're literally over the galaxy."
"Thank the Prophets for the mushrooms then, otherwise we'd never see each other."
"And what's what we want, to keep seeing each other?"
"I'd like that, very much." Laira leans in, her chin on Michael's shoulder.
"Me too."
"Then we'll make it work."
"All is possible, Tilly says."
"We might be putting that to the test."
"I hear I'm a wrecking ball."
"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"
Michael crinkles her nose and beams. "No, you are not."
"Well, make us a space in the universe and I'll find a night for a dinner date."
"Deal." Michael runs her fingers over the scales exposed by Laira's sweater and stops just at her neck while Laira starts to squirm. "I'll look forward to it."