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Chapter Text

2257

Prime Universe

After a long and arduous journey, they were finally home.

Some scars from their trip to the mirror universe would always remain. They’d lost Dr. Culber. Ash Tyler had been revealed to actually be Voq, a Klingon spy. Their captain, too, was not who they thought he was. And they’d lost time—nine whole months of time—when they traveled back to the universe where they belonged.

But not everything was a permanent loss. Other wounds could be mended. The Discovery was undergoing repairs. The constant fear of being found out—of their little charade of pretending to be Terrans being kicked over, and their true identities exposed—had mostly dissipated. The crew was slowly sanding the Terran insignias off the walls, and replacing their daggers and armor with uniforms and tricorders. Eventually, things would return to normal.

Well, mostly normal.

The map of the progress of the Klingon War they had looked at when they first returned was not encouraging. It seemed, in their absence, that the Federation had nearly lost the fight. And for reasons unknown, none of the nearby Starfleet vessels were answering their hails.

It wasn’t exactly the glorious homecoming Michael had hoped for. She wasn’t vain enough to want a parade. But she had expected at least a little fanfare. And she would have taken anything besides the current radio silence.

…

USS Discovery

Bridge

When their acting captain, Saru, reported to the bridge, it seemed like Michael might finally get her wish. The bridge was still sparking and sizzling with smoke in some places when he strode into the room. As Saru approached the command chair, to take it back from Airiam, everyone expected the next few hours to be boring routine. Then, suddenly, Lieutenant Rhys swiveled around where he stood to face the captain.

“Vessel is approaching, sir,” he announced. “Federation signature.”

Saru turned toward the communications station. “Hail them at once,” he ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Bryce replied, nodding.  

As Lieutenant Bryce sat down in his chair to send out the hail, however, an error beep issued from the helm controls. Then Lieutenant Owosekun rotated to face the Captain’s chair, her face contorted with confusion and mild panic.

“Captain, its shields are up,” she declared with evident disbelief. “It-Its phasers are charged and targeting.”

“Shields up,” Saru ordered.

But it was already too late.

“I'm picking up an incoming transporter signature,” Lieutenant Rhys announced. “We're being boarded.”

Saru clicked in shock. Then, not a second later, in a haze of golden-white light, at least ten, maybe fifteen people, all dressed in black tactical gear, and carrying type-3 phaser rifles, materialized on the bridge. Their leader appeared to be an Andorian thaan. A Tellarite was also among their ranks. But most of the rest of the agents appeared human. And all of them were wearing stern, suspicious expressions.

Saru rose from his captain’s chair immediately and demanded of the intruders, “Identify yourselves!”

In lieu of a response, the Andorian barked, “Hands where I can see them!”

For several seconds, Michael watched the bridge nearly dissolve into pandemonium. The armed intruders fanned out. People started shouting. The sound of phasers powering up could be heard over the crackling and smoking of the bridge consoles.

Saru yelled, “I demand an explanation for this intrusion!”

Not keen on being pelted with phaser fire, Michael tentatively raised her hands in surrender. And the rest of the bridge crew copied her.  

“We ask the questions,” the Andorian said in a firm voice. Then he flipped open his communicator and spoke into it. “Clear for transport.”

Two more humanoid shapes of golden-white light appeared on the bridge then. But when they phased fully into existence, Michael sucked in a breath of shock.

Standing on the bridge, in combat-ready poses, were Admiral Cornwell and Sarek.  

When she saw the familiar face of her father, Michael wanted to call out to him. To tell him how much she had worried she’d never see him again. Especially after finding his jaded duplicate in the other universe, and not being certain if she’d been able to save him from a fiery death by orbital bombardment at the hands of Emperor Georgiou.

If Sarek were human, Michael would have wanted to run across the bridge and hug him, too. But knowing that Sarek, as a Vulcan, would likely not appreciate the close contact, Michael would content herself with simply standing near him. With simply being in his presence again.

After the chaos and unfamiliarity of that alternate hellhole they’d been trapped in, it would be good to reunite with someone who reminded her of safety and certainty. Of home.

But now was not the time for any of that. Admiral Cornwell was carrying a phaser, which she had charged and pointed at Saru’s head. And it looked like if he made one wrong move, she was going to put him down with prejudice.

“Admiral?” Saru said, cautiously.  

Admiral Cornwell took an aggressive step forward, her weapon still trained on Saru. “Where's Captain Lorca?”

Michael’s heart sank. Oh no.  

That whole mess was going to take too long to explain. ‘Sorry our captain turned out to be an evil wanna-be dictator from an alternate universe in which Earth ascribes to a militant, xenophobic ideology, and we had to kill him and leave him behind in said alternate universe’ wasn’t exactly something Michael felt equipped to explain quickly at gunpoint. And she assumed Saru felt the same.

Hoping to calm things down before Cornwell—who appeared to be balancing precariously on the edge of violence—snapped and started shooting, Michael stepped forward and approached her father. The one person who she could trust might still be thinking logically.

“Sarek! Please!” she pleaded.

Unfortunately, her words drew the attention of Admiral Cornwell. The admiral pivoted to face Michael with her phaser. “Stand down, Specialist.”

Michael’s eyes flicked from the Admiral to Sarek. To her chagrin, he had raised a hand to halt her. Probably more for her own safety, in light of Cornwell’s apparent mistrust, than out of any personal misgivings. But it was hard to tell. Sarek’s expression was especially unreadable at the moment.

Michael frowned and did not take any further steps. Fortunately, that seemed to appease Admiral Cornwell.

“Now. Computer...” Admiral Cornwell began, addressing the Discovery’s systems. “Initiate command-level override.”

While the admiral gave the order, Michael’s gaze drifted back to Sarek. His expression hadn’t changed. But he did slowly lower his hand, then. And that’s when Michael decided to reach out to him.

She wasn’t a telepath herself. But Sarek was. And ever since the extremist attack on the Learning Center where she was educated as a child, they’d shared a unique bond. A katra-graft. A procedure that was rare and frowned upon. Yet, Sarek had been willing to traverse that taboo to save her life.

It was an extreme act. He’d essentially given her a piece of his soul to keep her alive. Something that even bondmates did not do. And Michael could only hope that meant he would still want to preserve her life, now.

Sarek, please, she thought as loudly as she could. It’s me

“…Authorization Admiral Katrina Cornwell, pi beta six,” the admiral continued.

“Override confirmed,” the computer replied.

The ship could be heard powering down, then. For a tense moment, no one moved. Admiral Cornwell still held her pistol phaser pointed at Saru’s head. The entire bridge crew stood with their hands up. Sarek hovered behind the admiral in an intimidating, all-black ensemble.

Then, suddenly, Admiral Cornwell finally lowered her weapon, and inclined her head toward Saru. “Start with him,” she ordered.

Sarek glanced at their Kelpien acting captain. But pivoted, and unexpectedly started marching straight towards Michael.

Michael’s eyebrows both shot up as her father approached her with a quick, determined gait. At the same time, Admiral Cornwell’s hackles rose.

“I said, start with him!” she snapped, jabbing a finger at Saru.

Despite her command, Sarek continued toward Michael, utterly undeterred. He stalked across the floor with long, powerful strides and ruthless, singular purpose.

“I am not a Starfleet officer. I do not take orders from you,” Sarek informed the admiral flatly as he moved across the floor. “I will check him, as you request,” he assured her as he came to a stop, only inches away from where Michael stood with her heart suddenly pounding. “But first, I must know…”

Sarek raised a trembling hand toward Michael’s face. Michael, knowing automatically what he was planning to do, and eager to let him do it, leaned forward, into his touch. Until the pads of his fingers delicately aligned with her meld points. And she felt the first, soft brush of his mind against hers.

“Ambassador, what are you doing?” Saru asked, eyeing Sarek suspiciously as the ambassador gently arranged his hand on Michael’s face.

“What the times require,” was all Sarek said in reply. But he did not even look at Saru as he addressed him. His eyes remained fixated on Michael’s with a gaze that was dark and pierced deep into her soul.

Michael’s breath hitched in anticipation. Because of the katra-graft, mind-melding with Sarek always felt right in a way that was difficult to explain. Also, she had no secrets she wanted to keep from him. In fact, after all the deception and treachery of the other universe, she ached to be completely honest with someone.

For a few seconds, Sarek hesitated, with his hand splayed across her face. Then, taking a deep breath, he murmured, in a low, gentle baritone voice, “My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”  

And then…

Oh!

Their minds collided in a bright flash of light. The portion of Sarek’s katra, housed within her, sang as it was brought into contact with the part that remained in Sarek. For a moment, the ecstasy of that reunion was all Michael could feel. Then, soon after, came a frenzied race of disjointed thoughts and a flurry of emotion.

Some of them were hers. Her terror at being lost in a dangerous, unfamiliar universe. Her fears of never coming home. Her relief that she finally had. Her elation that Sarek was now here.

But most of it was his. And as they were Vulcan emotions—which were much stronger than human emotions—Michael was almost completely swept away by their force.

Confusion. Pain. Loss. So much loss. Anger. Rage. Hopelessness. Determination. Hope. More confusion. More pain. Recognition. Exultation. Joy. Love. And more confusion.

That in and of itself was almost more than Michael could bear. But then Sarek was pressing deeper, digging through her memories of the last few months. Rifling through their journey to the other dimension. Pulling up Dr. Culber’s death. Ash Tyler’s Klingon nature. And Captain Lorca’s betrayal.

He didn’t linger on anything specific. Just sifted through the memories, calling up random images and cataloguing them in his orderly, analytical mind to report to the admiral later. But as Sarek reviewed the memories with Michael, which were disturbing, and caused Michael a great deal of distress, he extended a mental arm of assurance. A steady undercurrent of consciousness, telling Michael that she was safe, and in good hands.

Do not fret. I am here. I will always be here.

Michael clung onto the assurance and the love that underlied it like it was her only lifeline. And somehow, that made the whole process easier.

As the memories flitted past her minds’ eye, Sarek was there to balance her and keep her from spiraling into despair. And when he reached her final memory before exiting that universe—her choice to bring the Terran Emperor home with her—he offered an unexpected reassurance.

If I were presented with the same circumstances, I would have made the same decision. I know what it is like to have lost someone close. Had I been in your place, and someone who shared your appearance was in the Emperor’s, I could not have left them behind either.

Thank you, father, Michael replied, as the memories faded.

As the images blurred away, Michael stood, as a mental projection, next to a similar projection of Sarek’s consciousness in their shared mindscape. The mindscape was a nebulous environment of darkness and stars. But it was a comforting place. A soothing refuge from the outer world.

The projection of Sarek who stood beside her within the meld, tilted his head. And then the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. One of his not-quite smiles.

Michael basked in its glow for a moment. Unfortunately, they could not spend forever joined like this. Admiral Cornwell needed answers. And Michael didn’t want to wait until she started shooting to give them to her.

The admiral can wait for a few more minutes, Sarek promised her. Then his tone turned abruptly grave. There is something I must show you. Something which has happened in your absence.

The scene shifted around them as he spoke, the mindscape giving way to Sarek’s memories this time.

He and Amanda were on some kind of shuttle. A voice was shouting over the comm system that they were evacuating the starbase, and Sarek’s shuttle was cleared for launch.

As soon as they received the message, they flew away from the starbase as fast as they could. But just as they reached the starry expanse of space and were about to go to warp, suddenly a Klingon vessel decloaked and started firing on everything in the vicinity. The starbase. The ships. Sarek and Amanda’s shuttle….

Michael cringed as she watched the little shuttle rock from the impact of each blast. After the third hit, their shields failed and one of the EPS conduits blew out, sending out a shower of sparks and flames. The pilot was yelling something, but Sarek couldn’t hear him. He darted over to Amanda’s side immediately to check on her.

But she was lying on the floor, covered in burns. She looked ghastly—her skin a mottled tapestry of red and black. And her eyes stared up glassily at the ceiling.

It took the Sarek in the memory a moment to register what he was seeing. And when it hit him, his face suddenly contorted, and he screamed, “No! No!”  

She was dead.

Michael knew it at the exact moment when Sarek realized it. She also felt his pain through the meld. And it was agony.

She felt like a part of her heart had been torn out of her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes swam with tears. Her limbs froze. Her head was pounding with a terrible, throbbing headache. Her whole being pulsated with a deep, aching hollowness.

The memory of Sarek, overcome with too much emotion for even him to handle, collapsed on top of his wife, and clung onto her lifeless body, shaking with silent sobs while the shuttle jumped to warp. The Klingons did not chase them, choosing to focus their fire on the starbase. But the damage to Sarek, at least, had already been done.

When? Michael asked, as the memory faded, and they returned to the mindscape.

Only two weeks after your ship disappeared, Sarek replied, the projection of his consciousness avoiding her gaze.  

Michael automatically clutched her chest as more of Sarek’s pain flooded into her being. Her own pain, no less profound, was there, too. And she staggered in the mindscape, under the weight of it all.

Forgive me, Sarek said, noticing how she was weeping, and almost collapsing to the ground. Emotional transference is a side-effect of the meld.

Michael nodded shakily. I know.

I should not have burdened you with this, Sarek said, with a tone of self-chastisement.

No, Michael rushed to interject, as she felt his guilt slithering in. Thank you for showing me.

Sarek regarded her strangely, as if not knowing quite what to make of that. Then, finally accepting, he slowly nodded.

Unfortunately, now it is time to depart, Sarek told her.

Michael shook her head. Don’t leave me. I just found you again, Sarek.

Sarek inclined his head in surprise at that. And with very few barriers between them, Michael felt his incredulity. His assumption that she found his presence burdensome.

No, Sarek, Michael told him, in response to his innermost thoughts. Our relationship may be fraught, at times, but being with you now… it’s exactly what I need after everything that’s happened. Please, I don’t want to go.

Neither do I, Sarek confessed. Your presence is a comfort to me. Unfortunately, we must separate. We can reconvene at another time.

Somewhat comforted by the assurance that they could and would meld again, Michael nodded. Then she allowed Sarek to withdraw from her mind.

As Sarek’s fingers disconnected from her face, and they came back to themselves on the Discovery bridge, Sarek softly gasped. And Michael’s cheeks were stinging with tears.

Overcome with grief, Michael’s head dipped, nearly coming to rest against Sarek’s chest. She took a few, shuddering breaths next to him, while fighting off the disorientation of ending a highly-charged meld. And Sarek, too, required a moment before he could move or speak.

When Sarek recovered himself, suddenly he pivoted and walked away. Meanwhile, Michael was left behind, feeling bereft.

“That is, indeed, my ward, Michael Burnham,” Sarek announced to the scattered armed officers, and Admiral Cornwell. Then his voice dipped low and tinged with sorrow. “The Discovery has been through an inconceivable ordeal.

Sarek turned around to look at Michael as his last sentence left his lips. To her astonishment, he looked almost… sympathetic to the pain and hardship they had been through while they were gone.

But perhaps that should not have been so surprising. Michael and Sarek had shown each other what had happened. And they both now understood what it meant to endure unspeakable hardships.

Admiral Cornwell, out of the loop, however, remained stern and angry. “Then where the hell is her commanding officer?” she demanded.  

Sarek rotated halfway around and turned his head over his shoulder to face her. Then, in a grave voice, he announced, “Captain Lorca... is dead.

…

USS Discovery

Conference Room

After a two-hour debrief on the harrowing situation the USS Discovery had endured, Sarek was confident that everyone present in the briefing room—Dr. Stamets, Mr. Saru, Admiral Cornwell, and his ward—understood the story. Or, at least, that they understood it adequately enough to decide how to move forward. Sarek had elected to omit a few unnecessary details in the interest of preserving Michael’s privacy. Though, it was also true that there simply was not time to review everything that had occurred.

Now, as they all remained convened around the conference room table, it was his and Admiral Cornwell’s turn to explain to the crew of the Discovery what had transpired in their absence. After which, together, they would formulate a new plan of attack.

“In the absence of a clear leader, the Klingon houses are divided once again,” Sarek told the room. “At the start of this war, we fought one enemy. Now, we fight twenty-four. They quarrel among themselves, hence the indiscriminate nature of their aggression,” he explained.  

The faces around the room took on a myriad of expressions as he spoke. A Vulcan conference would have remained stoic, unreadable, even when faced with such grave news. However, everyone else in the room, besides Sarek himself, was not Vulcan, and as such wore their emotions openly. Which made it easier for Sarek to tell how his message was being received. How it disturbed them as much as it disturbed him.

“But their collective aim seems clear,” Sarek continued. “To compete for dominance by seeing which house can destroy the most Federation assets. We are fodder for their futile savagery. Our deaths, their spoils.”

“Nearly 20% of former Federation space has been occupied,” Admiral Cornwell added, to put Sarek’s grave words in more concrete terms for the senior officers of the Discovery.

Michael’s face, which Sarek paid particular attention to, affected an expression of dismay at this pronouncement. And Sarek felt the resonance of that emotion mirrored in his katra.

Normally, Sarek was able to numb himself to such sensations by erecting strong mental shields. But suddenly reuniting with the ward he had presumed dead for nine months was an emotionally tumultuous event, even for a Vulcan. And that, combined with their recent meld had weakened his telepathic shields. 

So, Sarek’s heart constricted in his side, right along with hers, in her chest. And her most surface thoughts poured, unbidden, into his head.

What a tragedy, he could hear her thinking.

Indeed, Sarek agreed.

“Discovery will jump to Starbase One immediately,” the admiral ordered. “All evidence of your recent journey will be classified and destroyed. We cannot risk the knowledge of this alternate universe leaving the confines of Discovery.”  

Michael shook her head. “I don't understand.”  

Sarek was surprised by that. She, of all people, should know best why that was the most prudent course of action. But, in this case, the blond human doctor beat her to it.

“There would be too many possibilities,” Dr. Stamets realized aloud.  

“Indeed,” Sarek agreed. “Our people have suffered terrible losses. What would you do if you thought that your…” his throat tightened with the words… “…dead wife, your… lost child, your…” he glanced at Michael,  “…murdered parents, all might be alive on the other side and that a technology exists for you to see them again?”

Michael bowed her head, grieved by his words. And this time it was Sarek who shared his pain with Michael. Causing her stomach to drop in sync with his.

If he were even slightly less scrupulous of a man, Sarek would have stolen the secret to travel between dimensions from Dr. Stamets’ mind himself, an hour ago. Then he would have forced the human doctor to take him to another universe where Amanda still lived.

Maybe not the Terran universe specifically, as Sarek imagined whatever version of her might exist in that universe would be a deeply unpleasant individual. But surely there must be some parallel universe that was tolerable in which she lived, right?  

Sarek resisted the urge to sigh. It was useless to consider hypotheticals.

Fortunately, Sarek was a man of many scruples. Because they forbade him from taking such a rash and misguided course of action.

Dr. Stamets’ journey across the mycelial network into the alternate universe had been planned by Lorca, who was dead. And the Doctor’s attempt to redo the process in reverse during their return trip had overshot the crew by nine months. So, even a perfect duplication of the trip they had conducted was already unlikely to succeed. And hoping to find the coordinates to another alternate universe, in which Earth was not a tyrannical xenophobic empire, and Amanda lived was a nearly completely impossible fantasy.

Even if the chances of success were not so remote, this was Sarek’s native universe. Therefore, as fiercely painful as it was to remain in a universe where his beloved wife no longer lived, it was where he rightfully belonged. And he owed it to everyone still in it to commit his efforts to protecting what remained.

In simpler words, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, or the one.

Though, Sarek had to admit he was focused on the needs of a specific individual in particular. If his Michael had perished in the mirror universe, the decision to remain here would have been much more difficult.

But she had survived. And the meld they had shared on the bridge proved that she required his guidance now more than ever.

So, even if Sarek was somewhat leery of his own performance as her parent, he would remain. He would not forsake her in her time of need.

Despite all outward appearances, he did care for her. Tremendously. Perhaps even too much.

Therefore, he would endure the agony of their present universe. For her. 

“This knowledge must be buried,” Sarek concluded.

“Command will want this locked down,” Admiral Cornwell stated firmly.

Captain Saru nodded, obsequiously. “Of course, Admiral.”

“Admiral...” Michael said, looking toward Admiral Cornwell with a guilty expression. “There's one more thing you need to know.”

…

USS Discovery

Guest Quarters

Her most Imperial Majesty, Emperor, Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius, was not happy with recent events. Being dragged unwillingly into an unfamiliar universe where humanity was weak and mingled freely with other vermin races was already an affront to her dignity. But to have it done to her in such a way that it robbed her of her final act as Emperor—to die a glorious death, going down fighting—was…

Well, it was just rude.

To make matters worse, they’d confined her here in these pitifully cramped, spartan quarters. As Georgiou examined her surroundings she had to frown. Did humans completely lack taste in this universe? Where was the show of strength? The terror? The opulence?

Maybe they find beauty in simplicity, Georgiou considered.

She scoffed. What an absurd notion. Beauty was when the entire quadrant knelt before your feet and offered you their most extravagant treasures in the vain hopes that you wouldn’t lop off their heads. Beauty was strip mining a planet for dilithium and leaving its inhabitants to rot. Beauty was about having things other people didn’t have.

Otherwise, what was the point?

Georgiou sighed. That mindset had served her well in the Terran Empire. But this new universe was a new animal. And if she wanted to survive it—and she might as well try—then she would have to learn their rules.

Not to play by them, of course. But to know how to exploit them for her own gain. How to twist everyone in this pitiful, groveling galaxy around her finger.

At least until she could find a way home. Back to where the world made sense. Back to a place that might be brutal, violent, and have a high chance of killing her, but at least it was a place where she knew how to play the game.

Georgiou stalked over to a plain, flat, square couch, littered with plain, flat, square pillows, and sat down, trying to think of her next move. Unfortunately, just as she took a seat, the doors to her quarters—no, her prison cell—slid open. And three people walked in.

She recognized Michael, of course. And Katrina Cornwell. Though the Katrina Cornwell she had known in her universe was a terror unto herself. Smart, scheming, backstabbing. Traits Georgiou doubted this version of her shared. 

But the Vulcan was new.

As the trio approached her, Georgiou had to restrain herself from demanding that he kneel in her presence. It was how she had been raised. But things were different here. He was not considered a lesser species and she would not be looked at favorably by her captors if she treated him like one.

So, as much as it irked her to see him strut in, wearing finely tailored black robes, and stand with his head proud and tall, she let it go. And waited to hear what his betters had to say.

“Emperor, the Federation has questions,” Michael began. “I need you to answer them.”

“What kind of guest would I be if I refused such a simple request?” Georgiou replied sarcastically.

Michael frowned at her tone. But at least Michael had been polite enough to use her title. This universe’s version of Katrina Cornwell had no such courtesy.

“I'm told that, in your universe, your word is law. Here, we do things differently,” Cornwell told her firmly.

Georgiou smiled. She may not appreciate the lack of obedience. But the steel in Cornwell’s tone was, at least, familiar.

“I can see that,” Georgiou replied.

Michael gave her a disapproving look, still not liking her tone. But then Michael’s eyes flicked toward the Vulcan. And despite the distance between them, there was something… close about her gaze. Something… intimate.

Before Georgiou could puzzle out what that meant, suddenly, the Vulcan spoke. And Georgiou had to fight the urge to snap at him to be silent.

“The resemblance is remarkable,” the Vulcan observed in that annoying, dispassionate voice that Vulcans all favored. “What do you know of your counterpart, Captain Philippa Georgiou?”  

Georgiou sensed that she could not get away with simply ignoring his question. And she was curious, given Michael’s evidently close relationship with him, to learn more about him. So instead of pretending he did not exist, she rose suddenly from her seat on the couch and stalked closer to him. Perhaps, if she invaded his personal space, she could knock him off balance. Metaphorically, of course. Plus, it was also much easier to observe the minuscule facial twitches that passed for expressions among his species, up close.

“I know that she is dead, and I am not,” Georgiou replied in a voice that was both soft and threatening. “But I will leave you to determine which of us has proved stronger.”

The Vulcan did not flinch away from her. He held his ground, completely fearless and unmoved. And Georgiou had to sort of admire him for that. It was arrogant of him. And maybe even a little stupid. She could cut his throat whenever she wanted to—he should be afraid of her. But it showed strength. And Georgiou respected strength.

After her statement, Georgiou paced around, inspecting the other two women, trying to figure out how they knew this Vulcan. Obviously, he wasn’t their slave. The Federation did not do that. But he was not dressed in the Starfleet uniform either. Was he a politician? A war advisor? Perhaps a scientist?

The Vulcans were good at science. And that was one resource the Empire was more than willing to exploit.

It worked in the Vulcans’ favor, too. But that was because they were smart. They knew to surrender quickly when the Terran forces invaded their planet. They knew to cooperate with the Empire. They knew, like Georgiou did, how to play the game and to work the system to their advantage. How to stay alive. How to stay in control of what they could.

As a result, Vulcans had a slightly higher standing in the Empire than Kelpien slaves. They weren’t usually cooked for dinner. And they were permitted to live relatively privileged lives, compared to the other species the Terran Empire had conquered, in exchange for their assistance.

They were still vermin, of course. Just… marginally more useful vermin. And so, it benefited the Empire to keep them a little happier than most.

While she paced, contemplating the Vulcan, Cornwell spoke again. “Specialist Burnham has assured us that your arrival in this universe is without motive, but your presence here remains complicated.”

Georgiou frowned. “The solution, however, is not. Send me home,” she ordered flatly.

Michael’s head turned toward Georgiou in alarm. Then she addressed her two companions in a calm, measured voice. “The Emperor narrowly escaped a violent revolution. She deserves political asylum.”

Georgiou seethed. “I don't need your protection,” she bit out.

“We have charted a course for Starbase One,” Cornwell informed her. “You will be held there, humanely, until Command can determine a proper course of action.”

Ah, so there it finally was. They could wrap it up in a shiny Federation bow if they wanted. But prison was still prison.  

“So, I am your prisoner,” Georgiou accused.

“Look, Your Highness, or whatever you're called,” Cornwell began in an exasperated tone, “I'll tell it to you straight. I'm not even sure we know how to send you home,” she admitted. “And even if we did, we have a war to fight. I'm sorry.”

She sounded like she actually meant it. Which was equal parts infuriating and enlightening. Georgiou resented being pitied. But at the same time, it did put more of the workings of this universe into perspective.

“Like I said, you're our guest,” Cornwell reiterated. “Make yourself at home.”

Georgiou resisted the urge to crack a wry smile at that. I doubt you would appreciate what ‘making myself at home’ would really look like, Admiral. she thought. At the very least, the Vulcan would not appreciate being forced onto his knees and made to scrub the scum off my boots.

Georgiou scrutinized him again.

Though maybe that’s simply a matter of me not being the right woman.

There was something in the Vulcan’s stance—and it was something that Georgiou recognized well—that told her he would get on his knees and enjoy it under the correct circumstances. He might put on a confident demeanor, but it was a façade.

In truth, he ached to be dominated.

But by whom was the question. Was it this… Cornwell woman? As Georgiou had observed them, they seemed to be familiar with one another. They stood close to each other. They conversed easily. They seemed to have a shared purpose as far as this meeting was concerned.

But Vulcans did not wear their hearts on their sleeves. And especially not in front of potential threats. Therefore, Georgiou suspected his heart—whatever shriveled, husk of it remained—lied elsewhere.

“The resemblance is remarkable,” Cornwell said quietly to Sarek. Then she turned to Michael, “See that she's comfortable.”

And that’s when Georgiou saw it. The Vulcan flinched.

It was an infinitesimal movement. But it was there, nevertheless. And it, combined with Michael’s intimate gaze earlier told Georgiou everything she needed to know. The Vulcan was uncomfortable leaving Michael in her presence alone because he actually cared about her. Profoundly so, for it to affect him so much.

Are they lovers? She wondered.

As Georgiou scrutinized the Vulcan further, she had to admit, pointy-ears aside, he seemed exactly like the sort of man her Michael would have gone for. Someone confident. Someone older. Someone accomplished. Someone secretly passionate, but outwardly emotionally distant.

This description applied to all of her Michael’s past lovers, Lorca included. And so, it made a certain sense that here, in this more… permissive universe, that this Michael would have sought out the most extreme version of that archetype possible. 

While Georgiou contemplated this discovery, her gaze held the Vulcan’s, to see if he would protest the Admiral’s decision to leave. To her surprise, he did not. But he did keep his eyes locked on Michael the entire time as he reluctantly followed Cornwell out of the room. And his eyes reflected worry, but also, hints of longing.  

Oh yes, Georgiou concluded. They’re fucking, alright.

Cornwell left the room with Sarek, then. At the same time, Georgiou returned to her couch. As she sat down, she looked at Michael to gauge her reaction.

Michael looked down at her uncertainly, as if she was not sure whether or not she’d made the right decision in bringing her here. Which was good. Georgiou might be able to use that to get out of here.

But what she was really curious about was what was going on between Michael and that Vulcan. Georgiou turned away from Michael and stared straight ahead as she pondered the matter.

Were they a new couple? Could Vulcans and humans intermarry in this universe? How did they meet? What did her parents think of him? What did she think of him?

There was so much to think about. 

Unfortunately, Michael did not give Georgiou much room to do so. As soon as the others left, Michael went through the usual litany of needs a prison had—food, water, sleeping accommodations—rattling off questions about their suitability, rapid fire.

Georgiou blew her off. Everything was fine, of course. Not suitable; not for someone of her station, but fine. Tolerable, at least, until she could find a way out of this gilded cage.

Michael nodded, acquiescing. Then finally, Georgiou thought it was her turn to ask the questions.

But before she could even open her mouth, Michael was summoned back to the bridge. And Georgiou was forced to wait alone in the room again until she returned.

Chapter Text

USS Discovery

Guest Quarters

After speaking with the former Emperor Georgiou, Discovery attempted to go to Starbase One, where they planned to drop off their Terran guest, and be on their way. Unfortunately, the base was destroyed by Klingons. And now, while they considered new options, Michael returned to the guest quarters to check on their guest.

When the doors swooshed open, Michael saw the once mighty Terran Emperor Georgiou was still wearing her leather pants and gold-plated armor. But she sat on an ordinary chair, like an ordinary person, reading an ordinary book. A very incongruous image.

“There's been a change of plans,” Michael announced as she walked in. “Another Klingon attack. You'll have to stay on board Discovery a little while longer.”

Georgiou snapped her book shut. Then glowered at Michael. “It makes no difference. One cell in this universe is as good as another. You heard your admiral.”

Michael grimaced. Introductions between the admiral and the emperor had not gone well. Though, really, that should have been expected. To Georgiou, Admiral Cornwell represented a possible threat. And to Admiral Cornwell, Emperor Georgiou was not only a threat, but also a possible liability. Neither was therefore predisposed to like each other.   

“We mean you no harm,” Michael assured her. “The admiral was just—”

Georgiou interrupted Michael’s excuses and abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me about the Vulcan. There is a connection between the two of you.”  

Michael tilted her head with wary curiosity. “Why would you say that?”

“The way you look at him,” Georgiou replied, with hooded eyes and a suggestive tone.

Michael reared back in shock. She couldn’t be suggesting… Was that what it looked like?

“He's essentially my father. He raised me,” Michael rushed to correct her.

Georgiou leapt up off the couch at that, and stalked suddenly closer to her, wearing an expression of extreme disbelief. “Your father?”

“I was orphaned here as well. Another echo of fate between our worlds,” Michael explained.

“Your father?” Georgiou repeated, with even more incredulity than before.

“Is that really so surprising?” Michael asked, not liking the tone in Georgiou’s voice at all.

Georgiou scoffed, “And here you Federation people act like you’re so civilized. In my universe, I’d expect that sort of thing. It happens all the time. But here, I would have thought…”

Michael’s face contorted with disgust. “Did you and your Michael ever…?”

Georgiou winked at Michael mischievously. “That’s for me to know, and you to wonder, darling.”

Michael recoiled and shuddered and suddenly felt very much in need of a bath. Make that two.

“Whatever happened between you and your Michael, it’s… Sarek and I… we’re…” Michael held up two halting hands, “…it’s not like that.” 

“Maybe for you it isn’t like that,” Georgiou begrudgingly allowed. “Though personally, methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Michael frowned at the Shakespeare reference. And at what it implied.

But Georgiou continued on, undiscouraged. She strutted a catlike circle around Michael, and walked over to the coffee table in her quarters. On the table was a bowl filled with assorted fruits. She grabbed an apple out of the bowl, and took a sharp bite into it.

“But regardless of how you feel, are you sure it isn’t like that for him?” Georgiou asked. “I saw the way he looks at you. Vulcans might think they’re fooling others. But I know lust when I see it. And for you, Michael, he has it in spades.”

Michael shook her head. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish by lying to me like this—”

Georgiou barked a sharp laugh. “Ha! What purpose would that serve? No, I’m telling you the truth. And I’m telling it to you because, despite my better judgement, I’m starting to feel fond of you after all. I want to make sure you go into this with your eyes open. My Michael was blinded by her love of an older man. He manipulated her, and it resulted in her death.”

Michael’s brow quirked in confusion. “So, you’re trying to warn me to stay away from Sarek?”

“On the contrary, I’d say I’m cautiously optimistic about him,” Georgiou replied, to their mutual surprise.

“It doesn’t bother you that he’s a Vulcan?” Michael pressed.

 Georgiou scoffed. “Better a Vulcan than a Kelpien. At least Vulcans have brains and don’t taste very good in soup. Besides, you’re not xenophobic, are you?”

“Of course not,” Michael replied firmly.

“Then it should not be an issue,” Georgiou replied, as if that solved everything.

But from Michael’s perspective, it very much did not.

“And it doesn’t bother you that he’s my father?” Michael asked.

Georgiou waved a dismissive hand. “Not in any meaningful sense. Besides, what fun is it if the fruit isn’t even a little forbidden?” she teased before taking another bite out of her apple.

“But I don’t—” Michael started to protest.

Again, Georgiou cut her off. “I know your type, Michael. You’ve always had a weakness for older men who are emotionally distant.”

Michael took a step back and shook her head. “I think you’re getting me confused with your Michael.”

Georgiou cocked her head. “You two are not as different as you would like to believe. As I understand it, you are also an orphan who lacked a positive male role model. These things tend to cause—what would you call it in this universe?”

“Daddy issues?” Michael prompted.

Georgiou flashed a dangerous smile. “Precisely. And if that is the case—if you’ve got a particular craving for old men bestowing you with their love, I’d prefer you pick the Vulcan over anyone else. At least he is not insufferably stupid, or blinded by his own ruthless ambition. And I can see that he cares for you a great deal. He would not dream of mistreating you.”

Michael swallowed. “I’m his daughter. In this universe, doing anything sexual with me would be considered mistreatment,” she argued.

“Does he call you daughter, though?” Georgiou asked her.

Michael grimaced. “No, he does not. He calls me his ward. But that’s just because we have a… complicated relationship.”

Georgiou angled her head skeptically. “Is it? Or is he trying to convince himself that his attraction to you is not nearly as taboo as it could be?” she suggested. “There is a certain distance implied by his usage of the word ‘ward,’ to describe you. To you, that distance is emotional. But he is a Vulcan. So, to him, it is practical. You are not his blood. And therefore, he can fantasize about you in all sorts of compromising positions to his festering green heart’s content.”

Michael’s breath caught in her throat at the scenario Emperor Georgiou was describing. Of Sarek privately imagining the two of them being intimate. Of that being part of the reason why he had been such a distant parent, unwilling to get too close. But Sarek couldn’t really… feel that way, could he?

It seemed preposterous. But to Michael’s consternation, she couldn’t completely rule it out. Especially not when Georgiou made a fairly compelling case.   

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Michael asked, confused and pained.

“Whatever you want,” Georgiou replied.

Michael shook her head. “Even if you are right—which I doubt. Even if he agreed to… date me, or whatever absurd situation you’re imagining—which he won’t. And even if I wanted to—which I don’t—” she hurried to add, “—a relationship between us… it would never last. I’ve done things here, in this universe. Crimes I need to do my time for. When this war is over, they’re going to send me back to prison.”

Georgiou snorted. “You’re a saint, Michael. The Federation would be stupid to put you in prison.”

“It’s not your decision,” Michael refuted.

Georgiou sighed. “That’s true. Though, I understand now why neither of you has made a move yet, despite devouring each other with your eyes. There were other variables in the way. Limited time. Societal scandal…”

Michael shook her head. “It’s more than that. He’s married. Or…” the realization suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks. “…he was. She um… my mother—his wife—I just found out that she died.”

Georgiou’s face softened. “I am very sorry to hear that. It seems you have bad luck when it comes to losing mother figures. Which goes a long way to explain why I am here. To fill the hole they’ve left behind.”

“That’s not why—” Michael started to protest.

But Georgiou cut her off. “It is, and you know it. I know that you feel responsible for the death of your version of me. And I suspect you also blame yourself for the death of your birth parents. So, let me tell you, daughter who is not my daughter: in truth, you wished to save me only because you couldn't save them.”

Michael frowned. It was true that she’d been spurred on by her past losses. If she hadn’t lost her birth mother and Captain Georgiou, she probably would have left the Emperor in the Terran universe to die. But she just couldn’t do it after all that. And now, knowing that Amanda was dead, only made her pain, her longing to do something that saved someone, even more acute.

“This regret that you have for what you did, it weakens you,” Georgiou criticized.

Michael shook her head with helpless sadness. “I feel it every day of my life.”

“How long has it been?” Georgiou probed. Then, to clarify that she was changing the subject, she added, “Since the death of your Vulcan surrogate father’s wife?”

Michael swallowed. “Almost nine months.”

“Ah,” she said. “So maybe for you the news is still too raw. But Vulcan men move on quickly. They have to.”

Michael swallowed again. Right. Because of pon farr.

She didn’t know exactly when Sarek’s next cycle was. Vulcans were extremely secretive about such things. So secretive, in fact, that Sarek had been forced to leverage the statistical likelihood that Michael would eventually end up with a Vulcan partner due to the simple demographics of Vulcan before a committee in order to obtain special permission to educate Michael about the existence of the affliction at all. And so secretive that Michael was uncertain how Georgiou came to know about it. Probably not through voluntary means.

But in spite of all the secrecy and taboos against "counting-by-sevens" for those with whom one was not intimately involved, Michael had a guess as to when Sarek's next cycle might be. He and Amanda had abruptly left a diplomatic conference on Andoria a day before Spock’s graduation from the Vulcan Learning Center in 2250. And they had not emerged from their home until two days after the ceremony—something Michael doubted they would miss, unless it was life or death.

And that was almost seven years ago, now. Meaning, if her suspicions were correct, Sarek's next cycle was probably close.

Michael shuddered at the thought of Sarek going into pon farr so soon after Amanda’s death. And without a proper mate. She did not relish the idea of him being forced to marry a stranger. But the alternative—his death, by fever—was much, much worse.

Michael didn’t want to become an orphan again.  

“Has he done that… wicked Vulcan mind-witchery on you yet?” Georgiou asked, interrupting Michael’s grave thoughts.

Michael blinked, confused at her wording. “You mean a mind-meld?”

“No, not the mind-probe,” Georgiou huffed. “The deeper kind. The bonding thing. Whatever it’s called. That… insipid thing Vulcans do before they marry.”

Michael reared back in shock. “A betrothal? No, no, he would never.”

Georgiou frowned. “Then you are not bonded.”

Michael grimaced. Well…. That wasn’t exactly true.

She tried to explain to Georgiou then, how she’d been attacked as a youth. How Sarek had established a presence in her mind to save her life. How he’d kept it secret from her until she was seven years into a Starfleet career. How, now that it finally was acknowledged, it had been a great source of connection and bonding between them. But not like that.

But of course, Georgiou didn’t hear her.

“So, if I understand this… telepathic nonsense you two have going on correctly… you’re the next obvious candidate for his mate,” Georgiou told her. “You already share a bond. All that remains now, is to deepen it.”

Michael jolted at her words. Deepen it? She wasn’t sure their katra bond could get any deeper.

Realizing she hadn’t told that part to Georgiou, though, Michael sighed and explained. “It’s not just any bond. It’s…” she took a deep breath. “Sarek gave me a piece of his katra—his soul—while I was dying. It saved my life. But it also has led us to be permanently connected to each other.”

“And he did not have this sort of connection with his wife?” Georgiou pressed.

Michael blinked, confused. “No, the marital telepathic bond is different it’s…”

“…Less profound, isn’t it?”

Michael’s brows scrunched together in consternation as she tried to puzzle that out. She didn’t like what Georgiou was insinuating. But she had to admit from the outside it looked… well it certainly looked suspicious.

But it wasn’t like that! She swore it wasn’t like that!

Unbidden, Michael thought back to the way Sarek’s fingertips had aligned on her face, oh so tenderly during the meld on the bridge. The way the deep baritone notes of his voice made her skin tingle. And how soothing, how right it had felt to sink into his mind. To have the barriers of individuality fall away. And to merge their naked souls into one.

Okay, so maybe it was a little like that.

But that didn’t mean they had to do anything about it, did it?  

“Ultimately, it’s your choice what you decide to do,” Georgiou offered with surprising diplomacy. “I am still making my assessment of him. And rest assured, if he ever disappoints you, I would be happy to force him to eat his own testicles.”

Michael winced at that vivid imagery. Moreso knowing that, coming from Georgiou, she was likely being completely serious and not at all hyperbolic.

“I doubt it will come to that,” Michael said, holding up two hands in another defensive gesture.

“I doubt it, as well,” Georgiou replied, softening suddenly. “And that is why he has my blessing. Not that you need it, of course.”

“I don’t,” Michael replied firmly.

After this pronouncement, she turned around and marched toward the door eager to leave this nonsensical conversation behind. But as she approached the threshold, she remembered that she had not gotten what she had come in here for. And so, reluctantly, she pivoted back to face Georgiou again.

“But I do need your help,” Michael announced.

Georgiou raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And what could you possibly want from me?”

“Your rule extends through every system in your galaxy. You've conquered places Starfleet hasn't even dared to explore,” Michael prefaced. “I see now that the time for peace has passed. I need you to tell me, how did you defeat the Klingon Empire? I started this war, and I need to finish it.”  

Georgiou pondered that for a moment. Then, just when Michael was about to give up all hope that she would say something, the former emperor spoke: “The Klingons are like cancer cells: constantly dividing. To root them out, you must destroy the tumor at its source. How much do you know about Qo'noS?”

…

USS Discovery

Admiral Cornwell’s Quarters

Katrina Cornwell was not a morning person, by any stretch of the term. But when her doorbell chimed, and she blearily awoke from her slumber, she knew it wasn’t just her usual morning grogginess that made her eyes feel heavy and her brain feel like sludge. A quick request for the time from the computer confirmed her suspicions. It was 0200 hours. Far too early for her to be up and about.

However, figuring that whoever had awoken her wouldn’t have disturbed a cranky, sleeping admiral without good reason, Katrina slid out of bed. Then she ran a few fingers through her hair to make sure she looked at least minimally presentable. Then finally, she padded across the room, and pressed the keypad to open the door.

Katrina had halfway expected the person waiting outside to be Captain Saru, come to tell her some bad news. But when the metal doors slid aside, Specialist Burnham was the person standing there. Wearing a serious expression. And clasping her hands behind her back in an eerie mimicry of Sarek’s mannerisms.

Katrina put both hands on her hips. Waking up a sleeping admiral was a rather presumptuous move for a criminal who was only afforded a position on this ship at all because Captain Lorca—whom they’d since learned was actually an evil duplicate from an alternate universe—had wanted her there. Katrina would have assumed after this revelation that the specialist would have laid low. Tried not to draw attention to the fact that she technically wasn’t supposed to be there.

Because if Katrina wanted to, she could send Specialist Burnham back to prison right now.

Katrina wasn’t going to do that, of course. Right now, the Federation needed every talented mind they could spare to figure out how to finish this fight with the Klingons. And sending Michael back to prison before the war was over would require her to explain that Lorca had come from an alternate universe—which was at odds with her orders to destroy all records of that particular crossover.

But whatever Specialist Burnham had to say, it had better be good.

“I suppose I don't have to tell you it's the middle of the night,” Katrina pointed out.

Specialist Burnham didn’t apologize for the intrusion or beat around the bush. Which was smart. Instead, all she said was: “I have a proposal.”

Katrina, surprised and impressed with the girl’s boldness, stepped aside, and allowed Specialist Burnham to walk into her quarters. Normally, Katrina would have asked if this could wait until morning. But she was intrigued to hear this “proposal”.

If it was anything like the ideas Sarek had at 2AM when the pair of them were on the run from the Klingons together, then it was probably a stroke of pure genius. And judging from Burnham’s demeanor, Katrina was inclined to believe that maybe the apple didn’t fall so far from the tree, after all.

…

USS Discovery

Michael’s Quarters

After sharing the intel Emperor Georgiou had given her about Qo’noS with Admiral Cornwell and securing a promise from the Admiral that they would present their plan to a board of admirals in the morning, Michael went to her quarters and collapsed immediately into bed. She didn’t even take her boots off before she flopped onto the mattress. After such a long and trying day, she was exhausted. So, as soon as her face hit her pillow, she was out like a light.

While Michael slept, she dreamed. Some of it was the usual dream nonsense. The transmogrification of her daily worries and fears into outlandish, illogical scenarios as her brain worked to process the various challenges of the day.

She forgot to put on pants when she reported to the bridge. Her hands melted into two runny, half-fried eggs, and everyone laughed at her, then threw her in the brig for getting egg yolk on the floor. She cried so hard the tears melted holes in the brig. But when she escaped, she couldn’t stop crying, and the whole ship started to melt away, which only made her cry harder, making the problem worse.

But then, as Michael’s brain sifted through what Georgiou had told her, suddenly her dreams took a very sharp turn. Away from the bizarre, cartoonish nightmares. And into a very peaceful, very real seeming scene with her and Sarek sitting across from each other in the chairs in Michael’s quarters.

Sometimes in Michael’s dreams Sarek laughed and smiled, or wore funny-colored, ill-fitting clothes—things he would never do in real life. But this particular figment of her imagination was quite accurate. From his impassive expression, right down to the high thread count in his immaculately tailored, dark gray robes.

He had his hands clasped in his lap as he sat. Michael, subconsciously, copied him. Then he began to speak, softly and Michael leaned forward in her seat to hear him better.  

“Michael, there is something I wish to tell you,” the figment of Sarek told her.

“What is it?” Michael asked, curious.

Sarek leaned forward himself, bending almost in half at the waist, so that their faces were only inches away from each other. Even though it was only a dream, this increased proximity made Michael’s breath hitch. And made her heart do a funny dance in her chest.

Sarek opened his mouth, as if preparing to whisper something. But then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he raised a hand toward Michael’s face in a gesture she recognized all too well.

“Perhaps it would be better if I showed you,” Sarek replied.

Michael, having no objection to this turn of events, nodded. Sarek splayed his fingers across her face, oh-so-tenderly. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he murmured the ritual words against her skin.

“My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

The dream took a strange turn then. Instead of traveling to the mindscape and conversing as they usually did, in that nebulous blue-black void, sprinkled with stars, Michael was plopped abruptly into her childhood bedroom on Vulcan. She recognized the mathematically curved walls and spartan decorations immediately.

What she didn’t recognize was the way she was lying flat on her back on her bed, and Sarek was suddenly looming over her. Not as a father might, by standing next to the bed and leaning ever so-slightly toward her. But as a lover would—clambering into her bed, straddling her legs, and hovering over her with his entire torso parallel with her body.

“Sarek!” Michael cried out in shock as his robed thighs bracketed hers. “What are you doing?”

“I had thought the answer to that question would be obvious,” the figment of Sarek said. Which was, to be fair, a very Sarek thing to say.

Especially since he was right. It was obvious. It was simply shocking beyond belief.

Of course, this was Dream Sarek, so it wasn’t really him. And he was probably just acting this way—mounting Michael and speaking suggestively—because Georgiou had put the infernal idea of a sexual relationship between the two of them in Michael’s head.

But dreams had a way of making one forget they were dreams. And so, Michael quickly got swept up in the fiction her sleeping brain was cooking. Albeit, not in the way she expected.

Michael expected to push back on Sarek’s shoulders and shove him off her, perhaps while chiding him for even suggesting a thing with his own daughter. Instead, as he peered down at her, Michael seemed to finally register a fact that she had always known, but deemed irrelevant to her personally: the fact that Sarek was quite handsome. And for several seconds, that realization immobilized her, leaving her simply staring.

Perhaps he wasn’t what most people would describe as conventionally attractive. Sarek definitely wasn’t the chiseled-jawed, smooth-skinned, beach-boy-looking type. A few thin wrinkles creased around his eyes. And a few streaks of silver shot through his otherwise black cap of hair.

But in Michael’s opinion the signs of age only made him look distinguished. And his features were striking. There was something to be said for the sharp angle of his eyebrows. The curves and points of his ears. A strong nose. And eyes that always had this… intense smolder about them.

The fact that he was currently in a compromising position with her also helped highlight his other erotic qualities. Such as his voice, which rumbled against her in ways that made her shiver. And something of his that was very long and very hard pressing between her legs.

Shit. He’s huge!

Forgetting suddenly every reason why she was supposed to be opposed to this, Michael circled her hands around the back of Sarek’s neck and tugged him closer, until their noses were touching. Sarek’s eyelids fluttered closed as she drew him in close. Then slowly, methodically, his hands started to travel over her body. Starting first with her collarbones, then working their way down, over the mounds of her breasts, across the planes of her stomach, between the valley of her legs….

Michael’s heart jumped when Sarek’s tenderly traveling fingers met the front of her pants. His delicate caress there sent tingles through her whole body. Especially when it was accompanied by the occasional probe from his clothed lok.

Without removing any of her clothing, Sarek found and deftly circled Michael’s clitoris over the fabric of her uniform. Which caused Michael’s back to arch off the bed, and a stuttering moan to escape her.

Those slender fingers of his were good for more than just mind-melding, it seemed.

For several minutes, Sarek taunted and teased her with his hands. Applying just enough pressure to get her sopping wet and set her on fire. But not nearly enough to bring her over the edge.

When Michael finally teetered on the precipice of orgasm, however, suddenly she woke up, gasping. All alone in her quarters.

A hand flew to Michael’s chest to calm her ragged breaths. Her head spun, trying to rationalize away the dream. Trying to tell herself that she’d just gotten wrapped up in what Georgiou had said. Trying to tell herself that it didn’t mean anything.

But no amount of rationalizing could change the fact that having even just a figment of Sarek touch her that way had been thrilling. Nor the fact that her uniform pants were soaked with her arousal. Nor the fact that her clitoris was currently throbbing with need for his hands to finish what he had started.

Michael slammed a frustrated fist down on her mattress. “Dammit,” she cursed into the empty air of her quarters.

I am so screwed.

…

USS Discovery

Guest Quarters

Sarek was surprised when he received a personal summons from the alternate universe version of Philippa Georgiou the next morning. He and this universe’s version had been amiable acquaintances. Perhaps humans would even call them friends—though, in Sarek’s opinion, they used that word too liberally. But he had no prior association with this woman. And the tone of her concise missive was far from encouraging.

Meet me in my quarters, Vulcan.

Still, Sarek was intrigued. And he knew this Georgiou’s primary goal was to escape—something that would not be facilitated by his death or injury. Therefore, he felt relatively assured of his own safety, if he agreed to meet with her. Additionally, while Dr. Stamets and Cadet Tilly worked on their terraforming project, to grow the ship more mycelial spores so that they could jump to Qo’noS and carry out a preemptive strike, nothing required Sarek’s attention specifically, and therefore he was free to meet with her.

I will arrive momentarily, was what Sarek typed in response.

Then he began the long, winding journey through the corridors of Discovery, until he found the guest room which had been set aside for Georgiou’s use. At least, until they could find somewhere better to put her.

When Sarek stepped inside, and the doors slid shut behind him, the first thing he noticed was the gloom. This other Georgiou had evidently turned the lights down, to be more comfortable for her Terran, light-sensitive eyes. This suited Sarek just fine. As a Vulcan with a higher visual acuity than humans, he had no issue seeing, even in the significantly dimmed lighting.

The second thing Sarek noticed was that Georgiou was already standing, with her arms folded, and one of her tall leather boots tapping impatiently on the floor.

“You’re late,” Georgiou chastised in a venomous tone.

Sarek raised a single eyebrow at this accusation. “Seeing as you did not specify a precise time when we should meet, I do not see how that is possible.”

Georgiou scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Vulcans.”

“I doubt you requested my presence for the sole purpose of insulting my species,” Sarek observed.

A flicker of violence flashed in her eyes, suggesting that, if this were her native universe, she might have summoned him here to do exactly that. Which made Sarek suddenly grateful he did not live in that terrible environment. Also, it made him somewhat disturbed on behalf of the version of himself Michael had met there, who did.

Or did not. It was somewhat unclear whether or not the alternate version of himself had managed to evacuate before Emperor Georgiou performed an orbital strike on the planet Harlak.

Regardless, it sounded like a nightmarish place.

“Now that would be fun, wouldn’t it?” Georgiou teased, smiling wickedly for a moment, before her face fell back into hard, serious lines. “However, I am trying to be a gracious prisoner. And it is not an insult to say that Vulcans have an infuriating tendency to be pedantic. Just a fact.” 

“We strive for accuracy in our communications, yes,” Sarek somewhat reluctantly agreed.

“Then I will say this as plainly as possible. Your child is lost,” Georgiou indicted.

Sarek, having some inclination of what this woman was to her version of Michael, and what had happened to her, through the meld he had shared with his own Michael, blinked, stunned. Then immediately replied, “Do not confuse my ward with yours.”  

“My daughter was a singular example of brilliance until one foolish choice doomed her. Sound familiar?” Georgiou asked.  

Sarek looked askance at her. “If I understand correctly, my ward saw through the man who brought down not just your child, but your empire,” he said in a measured voice. But secretly, he was proud of his Michael. She was, obviously, the superior version. “Perhaps best not to make comparisons.”

Georgiou’s proud face fell. Then she walked past Sarek to the other side of the room. Deciding it was probably wise not to keep his back toward her, Sarek turned around to face her again.

“Why have you requested my presence?” Sarek asked.  

“You were summoned, Vulcan,” she spat like it was a dirty word as she walked away from him, “For two reasons.”

Sarek tilted his chin upward, intrigued. “Those reasons, being?” he prompted.

Georgiou paused by the liquor cabinet in the room and turned around. “First, there is the matter of your ward. Of your… relationship to her.”

Sarek narrowed his eyes. “I do not see how that is any of your business.”

“So defensive,” she observed with an amused tone. “I knew my intuition was correct.”

“Intuition regarding what, exactly?” Sarek asked.

“That you wish your Michael was more than just a daughter,” Georgiou said, tracing the glass of one of the liquor bottles. “That you’d prefer something…” her finger circled the rim of the bottle, “…more intimate.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?” Sarek demanded. “That you think I’m some kind of—”

“Monster?” Georgiou prompted. Then she shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like that. You’re just a man in love. Or whatever it is Vulcans do.”

Georgiou smiled at him—an infuriating, taunting smile. And Sarek’s guts began roiling with guilt.

Sarek averted his gaze. “What you are suggesting is, wildly inappropriate—”

“And yet, you do not deny wanting it,” Georgiou correctly observed.

She was, unfortunately, very good at that.

Sarek heaved a deep sigh. “That is… I…” he attempted to protest.

But he couldn’t find the right words. He’d been accused of many things during his career as an ambassador. Especially after marrying a human woman. But no one had ever confronted him with this particular accusation before. Even though it was true.

The lack of accusations had probably occurred because Sarek had never given anyone else a reason to believe it could be so. In spite of his… inappropriate feelings, he had worked hard to keep his relationship with Michael appropriate on all levels. There was propriety to be upheld. And he had upheld it. Or so he had believed.

But now this Terran Emperor’s ability to see right through him had Sarek questioning the effectiveness of his methods.  

“You do, love her, don’t you?” Georgiou observed, while opening one of the bottles and pouring herself a glass. “But not only as a father,”  she added, recorking the bottle then leaving the minibar behind, and sauntering back toward Sarek, with her glass of liquor in hand. “But also as something deeper. More… sensual,” she purred, as she walked past him, back to her original spot on the floor.

Sarek was silent. But that silence spoke volumes.

She was right.

He had not planned for it to happen, of course. When Sarek had adopted Michael, his intentions had been completely pure. And that had remained true when he had given her the katra-graft which had saved her life as a child. Although an extreme act, he had carried it out with strictly paternal intentions. For the sole purpose of ensuring her continued survival.

Unfortunately, Sarek suspected their katric bond was one of the primary factors inducing these feelings. Sexual attraction was listed as one of the possible side-effects of a katra graft. Katra were not meant to be divided in pieces. And when they were, they craved reunion with their other halves. A craving that could sometimes be satisfied with frequent mind-melds. But could often manifest in a desire for physical union as well. 

It was one of the many reasons the procedure was so frowned upon. Vulcans did not approve of any emotions that could not be properly corralled. And it was also one of the reasons why Sarek had neglected to tell Michael he had even performed it until she was well into adulthood.

Sarek didn’t want anyone, least of all Michael herself, getting the wrong idea.

Unfortunately, keeping the matter secret had not helped. Being drawn to the other part of his katra was instinctive. And though Sarek attempted to mitigate these possible side-effects by keeping their bond closed, in the end that did not help either.

Fortunately, Sarek's disposition toward his ward did not immediately change. Katra-graft or no, Sarek was not attracted to children. So, for the first ten years after the procedure, Sarek experienced no significant alteration in his attitudes toward Michael. Though Sarek was extra careful to erect strong mental shields and physically keep his distance to ensure that remained the case. Actions which unfortunately led Michael to believe he was avoiding her because he disapproved of her.

By the time Michael turned nineteen, however, Sarek became complacent. He began to believe that he had beaten the odds. That his emotional control was superior to the others he had read about who had succumbed to inappropriate feelings after performing katra-grafts on those who were not their mates. That it was only weaker Vulcans who were affected thusly. 

But just when Sarek was beginning to privately relish his victory, Michael blossomed into an adult. Then suddenly, her slender curves were filling out her Vulcan Science Academy robes. And Sarek began to observe just how soft and kissable her full lips looked. How smooth and unblemished her richly toned skin was. How radiant she looked when she smiled.

After that, as if possessed by the primal minds of his untamed Vulcan ancestors, his imagination turned wild, taunting his dreams with images of Michael in all sorts of compromising positions. Bent over the family dinner table, with her robes pulled up to uncover her bare buttocks. Emerging from a combat simulation with her uniform sliced down the front, and her breasts exposed. Naked in the sonic shower, having forgotten to lock the door. Naked in his bed, underneath him as he…

After that, Sarek had tried every possible method to excise these wildly inappropriate desires from his body and mind. And in the decade since he had never, ever, ever acted on said attraction. But despite all of his numerous attempts to rid himself of them, the urges to draw her into his arms, delicately peel away her clothing, and mate with her remained.

It was his greatest and most secret shame.

“On Terra it would be much simpler,” Georgiou announced after a long silence, only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of her drinking from her glass. “Where I’m from these… rules are foreign to me. Terrans don’t have such taboos. When we want something, we take it,” she declared, balling one hand into a fist. “By any means necessary.”

“The Federation does not subscribe to what I imagine are Terran methods of romance,” Sarek replied with blatant disapproval. “We value autonomy. Consent.”

“Consent is easy,” Georgiou replied, making a flippant hand gesture with her free hand. “Just ask her. I have a feeling she will say yes.”

“Vulcans do not make decisions based on hunches. Especially not those espoused by suspicious individuals from alternate universes,” Sarek refuted, practically glowering at her. “Besides, I know my ward better than you do. And I find it extremely unlikely that she would accept any…” he swallowed uncomfortably, “…sexual advances coming from her father.”

“I think you will be surprised,” Georgiou said. “This Michael yearns for approval and belonging. More than anything in the universe. If she felt like you could give that to her, she’d give you anything in return. Yes, even that.”

Sarek’s gaze faltered a little. He still did not agree with Georgiou’s assessment of the situation—that Michael genuinely desired him, carnally. Or could even come to do so, with some coaxing. But he could not deny that Michael craved acceptance in general. Nor that, if he were a person of less integrity, he could have already manipulated that to get what he wanted.

But Sarek was not the sort to take advantage. Therefore, he had refrained from attempting to seduce her. And he would continue to refrain.

Georgiou tapped her lips, pondering. “As for autonomy, that is already difficult when the two of you are so intimately intwined. Michael tells me you share a piece of your soul with her. That isn’t exactly the pinnacle of independence.”

Sarek opened his mouth to protest. Then closed it, realizing he had no argument.

Georgiou smiled ferociously, knowing she had won. “So, Vulcan, what are you going to do about it?”

“Are you… encouraging or discouraging this course of action?” Sarek asked.

“I actually think you might be good for her,” she proclaimed, to his extreme surprise. “You’re level-headed. Smart. Not prone to delusions of grandeur. Nor to excessive violence. But I also know from the way you carry yourself that you could kill if necessary.”

Sarek did not dispute that. It was also true. He was well-trained in the Vulcan martial arts. He even knew a particular move—the tal-shaya, which was a fatal executioner’s strike. And although he preferred, when at all times it was possible, to seek peaceful solutions, he had not hesitated to use it once, when several aggressive aliens had threatened Amanda’s life during a negotiation. 

“I would not allow you anywhere near her if I did not believe you could defend her,” Georgiou sneered.

“Michael is quite capable of protecting herself, I assure you,” Sarek replied in her defense.

Georgiou smiled, appreciatively. “Ah see, that is why I like you,” she said, raising her glass toward him. “You understand her. You also steady her,” Georgiou continued. “Ground her. Michael needs someone like that in her life so she doesn’t go rushing off, making too many foolish mistakes.”

Sarek nodded, taking this all in. He could now see why the former emperor thought they would be an acceptable match. But the taboos in this universe remained too strong. To say nothing of the fact that Sarek had no clue whatsoever what Michael’s opinion on this notion was. And he did not particularly want to ruin the mending familial relationship they did have, just to satisfy his perverse curiosity. 

There was also the fact that he doubted someone as ruthless as Georgiou intended to give him what he wanted without strings attached.

“I suspect that this proposal of yours is in possession of what some would call ‘a catch’,” Sarek declared.

“The catch is, if you hurt her, I will grind you into dust,” Georgiou threatened with a snarl. “Federation or no Federation.”

A lesser man might have flinched at her threats. But Sarek remained unmoved.

“She is not your daughter,” Sarek pointed out, not understanding her motives.

“No, but I still feel an obligation to her for saving my life,” Georgiou replied. “And if you had ever met my Michael, I assume you would have felt the same.”

“Perhaps,” Sarek conceded.

There was a pause in the conversation. For a moment, both parties simply stared at each other, across Georgiou’s dark, moody quarters.

For a moment, Sarek considered moving on to the second topic of conversation Georgiou had mentioned earlier. However, he still took issue with Georgiou’s proposal.

“I am not so certain I should take your endorsement of an intimate relationship between myself and Michael as evidence in its favor,” Sarek commented. “Given the universe you come from and the values you espouse, perhaps I should take it as further discouragement.”

“One of those values I espouse is the supremacy of the human race,” Georgiou pointed out with a frustrated huff. “Do you really think I would be recommending that your Michael date a Vulcan if I was evaluating your suitability for her based on Terran ethics?”

“A fair point,” Sarek conceded.

Georgiou shook her head and turned to stare out of one of her room’s many slender windows. “I may not understand why the Federation has decided to attempt to forge a false peace with your people rather than crush them under the heel of Terran might. But even Terrans are not immune to whims of romance,” she admitted, unexpectedly. 

And to Sarek’s surprise, she sounded sincere. Though she did not elaborate on who she might have shared these “whims of romance” with. Nor did Sarek press the issue.

“Assuming your peace is even temporarily tenable—which I suppose is possible,” Georgiou reluctantly permitted, “and if the two of you could both get over your silly hang-ups about… what do you call it in this universe?”

Sarek swallowed. “Incest,” he supplied reluctantly.

Georgiou barked a laugh. “You’re not even biologically related!”

“Nevertheless, I have raised her. Since she was a child,” Sarek protested. “People will assume—”

Georgiou cut him off with a groan. “Forget, for a moment, what other people will think! What I’m trying to say is, I think you two could be quite happy together.”

Sarek raised a single eyebrow. “And that’s what you want? Michael’s happiness?” he probed.

He found that, personally, quite hard to believe. But Georgiou was insistent.

“Yes,” she said, nodding fiercely. “In my universe, my Michael is dead because she fell in love with the wrong person. My only regret is that I did nothing to steer her toward a more appropriate match. Lorca was poisonous, and I let him intoxicate her. I will not make that mistake again. And since you also prioritize her wellbeing above all else, you are the perfect candidate.”

Sarek took a moment to think that over. Assuming there was no taboo, perhaps she was right.

Michael’s well-being was extremely important to him. They also had numerous qualities in common. High intelligence. Logical thinking. A dedication to pursue peace. Loyalty. Bravery. A willingness to take risks. To make hard choices.

And on a baser level, if he and Michael were to mate, Sarek would, indubitably, enjoy it.

But still, Sarek had no guarantee that Michael felt the same. And even if Georgiou was right that she did, would she consent to keep their relationship a secret, for the sake of his career?

Technically, since Vulcan law did not recognize adoptive relations as family, and they were both Vulcan citizens, a relationship between them would not be illegal. But it would still raise eyebrows, if it were made public. Perhaps even launch an investigation to determine if there was abuse involved.

And even if Vulcan could accept their pairing, which was unlikely for many reasons, not only the fact that he had raised her, Sarek doubted the rest of the Federation would. Earth, especially, would raise a stir over him taking a second human companion, who just so happened to also be his daughter. And so, to preserve the peace between worlds, Sarek would be removed from his post, to avoid having an ambassador openly engaged in what many Federation cultures would perceive as an incestuous relationship with his own daughter among their ranks.

So if Sarek and Michael were to become involved, it would necessarily need to remain their private affair. But would she be comfortable with the dishonesty and subterfuge that would require? He could not be sure.

Displeased with his lack of answers, Sarek labored to put the unproductive thoughts out of his mind and move on to more important matters.

“And the second reason you summoned me?” Sarek asked.

“I want to help you end this war,” Georgiou announced.

Sarek raised an eyebrow. “The information you provided Michael has already proved valuable.”

“I told her as much as she could handle. Our daughters are not so unlike after all,” Georgiou revealed cryptically.

This had Sarek intrigued.

“There is more to your plans?”

Georgiou nodded.

“What are your terms?” Sarek asked.  

“Freedom.”  

That much, Sarek should have expected. Still, it was not an unreasonable request. And as Sarek looked at Terran Georgiou in the darkness of her quarters, he weighed the options.

Chapter Text

USS Discovery

Sarek’s Quarters

In the end, the alternate universe version of Philippa Georgiou had given Sarek much to think about as he sat alone in his quarters. Her proposal to reduce Qo’noS to the same blackened husk of a planet it was in her universe was a cruel and devastating one. But as it now stood, the Federation was on the brink of extinction. Georgiou was right—Earth was too taunting of a symbol. Something the Klingons would destroy, if given the opportunity. And under absolutely no circumstances could Sarek allow that genocide to happen.

Even if the only alternative was for the Federation to commit genocide themselves.

It was not a prospect Sarek relished. In fact, this entire abhorrent mess made his stomach secretly roil in knots of nausea. But Sarek had no particular attachment to the Klingons—how could he, after they had brutally murdered Michael's parents and his beloved wife, Amanda? And losing Michael, then losing Amanda, and regaining Michael made Sarek desperate to protect what remained.

Especially Earth. Though both had spent the majority of their lives on Vulcan, Earth was both Michael and Amanda’s birthplace.

It was, of course, much more than that. It was the origin of humanity. It was currently home to at least nine billion Federation citizens. Not to mention the hundreds of thousands of years of cultural artifacts and history from when humanity first began. And millions of non-sentient lifeforms. And four-point-five billion years of natural history stored in its geological makeup. And so, so much more.

But it was Michael’s reaction to the looming tragedy that Sarek was most concerned with at the moment. She had already lost three mothers. Gabrielle Burnham. Amanda Grayson. And the surrogate mother figure she had found in Captain Philippa Georgiou. For her to lose Mother Earth, too…

No. Sarek would not allow it.

He would pull the trigger on Qo’noS himself, if he had to. Michael had been through more than enough already. And Sarek loved Michael too much to let her endure any more pain.  

He could never tell her that, of course. Vulcan strictures against emotional displays aside, it was inappropriate to make such a confession to his own daughter. And especially not now in the middle of a war.

It would only distract her. Possibly even get her killed.

At the same time, though, as the conflict with the Klingons escalated, and they both hurtled toward seemingly certain death, Sarek suddenly wanted to tell her.

Before Michael had disappeared, the notion of her discovering his feelings for her had seemed like the worst-case scenario. An event to be dreaded and avoided at all costs. A thing to torment Sarek’s nightmares when he did not meditate long enough at the end of the day.

But now, when both their lives hung, seemingly from a single, tenuous thread, Sarek wanted Michael to know the truth. During the past nine months, while believing her to be dead, he had berated himself endlessly for letting her die, believing she had failed him. Now that he knew she had survived, he wanted her to know that all the awkwardness and distance between them had not existed because he disapproved of her, but because he had been too afraid of what might happen if he let them get closer to one another. Because he had been terrified that his uncertain logic where she was concerned might cause him to lapse, and sweep her into his arms in a very unfatherly embrace.

He wanted to tell her that the fault in their relationship, as always, had never been hers. Not even in part. It was all his, and his alone.

But such things were so very dangerous to say. Especially if Georgiou was wrong. Especially if Michael reacted, not with understanding and gratefulness—Sarek did not dare even hope that she might react with lust—but with disgust and fear.

As Sarek grappled with this frustrating conundrum, he realized the only way forward was to maintain a certain level of plausible deniability. To hint at his own faults in a roundabout way. And to confess his feelings for her in such a manner that could be interpreted as merely platonic, if Michael was innocent and oblivious, but also hint at something more, if Georgiou was somehow, even partially right.

Constructing such a multifaceted confession, however, proved difficult.   

How do I tell Michael I love her without telling her? Sarek wondered.

…

USS Discovery

Hallways

While Dr. Stamets and Cadet Tilly continued working together to replenish Discovery’s supply of mycelial spores, which had been completely expended during the return trip from the mirror universe, Sarek walked with Michael on the ship, through the halls. His legs were long, and he did not shorten his strides. So Michael had to walk quickly to keep up. But despite the extra effort required, she matched him, step for step.

“I must return to Vulcan,” Sarek announced as they moved in sync. “There are evolving details to the plan that must be considered.”

Michael turned to look at Sarek as he walked beside her. “What evolving details?” she asked.

Instead of answering her question, though, Sarek dodged by saying, “I sense you are uneasy. During our mind-meld, I learned of your attachment to the Klingon spy and what he did to you. Such events are clearly troubling.”

Michael’s lips tightened. “I'm fine, Sarek,” she insisted.

She did not want to talk about that right now. She would rather talk about anything else besides the mess that was her misguided romance with Ash Tyler. The feelings that accompanied his betrayal and physical assault of her were still too raw.

Not to mention her love life was the last thing Michael wanted to be discussing with Sarek. Not after listening to all of Georgiou’s insinuations about Sarek possibly harboring secret romantic feelings for her, and she for him. And especially not after those insinuations had given Michael a vivid, erotic dream in which Sarek nearly brought Michael to orgasm with his fingers.

“I remain unconvinced,” Sarek said.

Michael rolled her eyes. Typical Sarek.

Is this really the man Emperor Georgiou thinks is right for me? She thought. Sure, he might be handsome. But in the real world he can be so infuriatingly nosy at times.

Yes, it’s proof that he cares, another part of Michael’s brain responded. And yes, under any other circumstances I would be over the moon that he actually wanted to talk to me for once, and not bottle everything up inside in some crypt where it goes to die. But ugh, can we please not do this today? 

“There is irony here, of course,” Sarek added in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood. “The man you fell in love with was a Klingon.”  

“He...” Michael paused. “I don't know what he was,” she admitted with sad honesty.

Saru had explained the whole Ash-Tyler-was-actually-just-Voq-surgically-reskinned-to-be-Ash-Tyler-and-imprinted-with-memories-from-the-real-but-dead-Ash-Tyler thing. But that situation raised more questions than it answered. Was he Klingon? Was he human? Neither? Both?

“There is also grace,” Sarek added suddenly.

At that unexpected remark, Michael came to a complete stop in the hallway. Sarek halted beside her, and then they both turned to face each other.  

Sarek’s voice lowered then, by just a few decibels, as if eager to keep his words between only them. And then he continued, “For what greater source of peace exists than our ability to love our enemy?”

Michael stared into his eyes, trying to understand what he was getting at. Were they still talking about Ash Tyler? Or could he possibly be suggesting that they were enemies? And that he loved her?

As Michael mulled it over, she reasoned that Georgiou had simply made her paranoid. Enemies seemed like too strong of a word to describe her relationship with Sarek. They butted heads sometimes—okay a lot of times—sure. But they were never trying to kill or conquer each other like the Klingons were trying to do to the Federation.

So that led Michael back to thinking that Sarek was only referencing Ash Tyler. And about that, she felt nothing but a heaping pile of shame.

“I've made foolish choices. Emotional choices,” she stressed, averting her eyes.

“Well, you are human,” Sarek allowed.

Michael’s eyes flicked up at him in shock. There was no judgement. No indictment in his tone. He said it as a simple statement of fact. And coming from a Vulcan, that was about as close to acceptance as they got.

Can he truly be saying that he accepts me as I am? Michael wondered.

It was something she’d longed for, ever since she was a child. And now that she had it, her heart was doing strange flip-flops in her chest. It wasn’t just pride swelling in her being. There was joy. And love.

Which kind of love, Michael couldn’t tell.

Her instinct, of course, was to firmly label the feeling as familial. Because that was the less dangerous option.

But maybe, like the very confusing Ash Tyler situation, it didn’t have to be one or the other. Klingon or Human. Familial or romantic.

Maybe, it could be both.

Startling Michael even further, Sarek gently reached out a hand and placed it on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. She had to fight not to flinch as his fingers rested with tentative tenderness on the fabric of her uniform. He rarely, if ever, touched her. And despite the distance between them, and the very reserved nature of his touch, it made her heart rate suddenly increase.

What is he doing? Is he… just trying to reassure me? Be a good father, for once, or…?

“As was your mother,” Sarek said.

Michael blinked as she realized what he was saying. It was an expression not only of acceptance of her humanity, but also of love. Which kind of love, again, was slightly unclear.

But in either case, it was obvious Sarek wanted to make absolutely certain, after losing them both, and only getting a second chance with Michael out of sheer luck, that Michael understood he did not think ill of her for her humanity. In fact, he saw it as a strength. Something he admired.

Then, as if those two previous actions were not already surprising enough, Sarek visibly swallowed, and said in a tremulous voice, “There is no telling what any one of us may do where the heart is concerned.”

Michael stared at him, watching him raptly. He was speaking vaguely on purpose, in ways that could be interpreted as paternal. But ever since Michael had spoken to Georgiou, their capacity for double-meaning seemed obvious.

For a moment, after his statement, Sarek stared back. And they gazed into each other’s eyes, both searching, trying to discern something that they did not dare speak aloud.

Can it be true? Michael wondered. Does he… love me… like that?

Michael felt her heart lurch in her chest at the thought. But it surprisingly wasn’t a bad lurch.

Nearly all her life, Michael had worked so hard to live up to Sarek’s rigorous standards. To get him to accept her. To be enough for him. To please him.

After he refused to talk about the meld they’d shared when he’d been attacked by extremists, for a time she’d given up on that dream. Thinking it was simply impossible for them to be what each other wanted.

But now that he was extending the olive branch, now that he was telling her he accepted her completely, messy mistakes and human emotions and all, her heart suddenly surged with hope. Maybe she could still please him, after all.

Even if that were true, though, Michael knew it was probably foolish to think he’d ever actually show it. Vulcans did not make emotional displays or declarations. Meaning he would never say he was proud of her. He would never smile at her. He would never hug her.

But would he kiss her? Michael wondered.

When Georgiou had teased at the concept of a romance between them earlier, Michael had been understandably put off. He was her father. And all the inappropriate feelings their meld on the bridge and last night’s dream had roused in her aside, Michael still didn’t want to ruin their tentatively mending relationship by… perverting it with lust. 

But when Michael framed it differently—with physical affection marking the culmination of their relationship, rather than standing in contradiction to what they had built—suddenly, she wanted nothing else.

Suddenly, Michael wanted Sarek to pull her close, and cant his lips over hers. Suddenly, she wanted their lips to touch. Their minds to brush. Their thoughts to mingle as one.

Suddenly, she wanted him to show her, somehow, anyhow, how much he really cherished and appreciated her. And if kissing her on the mouth was what it would take, then she would take it. Gladly.

While all these thoughts raced through Michael’s head, she stood there in the hallway, utterly frozen. Her heart stopped beating. She held her breath. And she stared up into Sarek’s eyes hopefully, waiting for him to make the first move.

But then, to her supreme disappointment, Sarek dropped his hand off her shoulder. And the moment passed.

Sarek stiffened his posture, and his voice firmed up again. “We are at war,” he announced impassively, as if nothing had happened between them. “Logic dictates that each farewell may be our last.”

Sarek raised the ta’al, then. A very formal gesture. Georgiou would have called it overcompensation, Michael was sure. But Michael didn’t have such unwarranted confidence in her own observation skills. So, she didn’t say anything. She simply copied him.

They shared another meaningful look then. Full of… well, Michael wasn’t sure what. It was emotion of some kind. Which was profound in its own way. But to say that Vulcans were cagey about their feelings was a massive understatement. And that made interpreting his gaze difficult.  

Still, Michael appreciated the sentiment. The most clear and obvious read of Sarek’s words were that he wanted to make sure they were on good terms, just in case either one of them died in this conflict. Any other potential undertones were mere speculation.

After several seconds, Sarek dropped his ta’al, and turned around to enter the transporter room, which was located past the door just behind him. As Sarek approached the chrome double-doors, they slid open automatically, revealing the blue walls and shiny transporter pads beyond. But after only taking one step, Sarek pivoted a full one-hundred and eighty degrees around to face Michael again.

Michael hastily dropped her ta’al. And regarded Sarek with curious confusion. Does he have something more to say?

He did.

“Do not regret loving someone, Michael,” Sarek nearly pleaded with her.

Then, just as suddenly as he had turned and spoken to her, he turned back around again and walked into the transporter room. The doors shut automatically behind him. Then Michael was left standing alone in the hallway in front of the doors, pondering his words.

Again, the simplest read of his statement was that he—as someone who had loved Amanda and never admitted this aloud before her death—was admonishing Michael to not regret having loved Ash Tyler, even though that too, had come to an end.

Of course, the situation with Ash Tyler was somewhat different than Sarek’s almost thirty-year marriage to Amanda. Ash Tyler and Michael had only dated for a few months. Ash Tyler was still alive. And he had hurt her. Which, in some ways, made matters even more complicated. However, the comparison was still, more or less, valid.

But there was a second possible interpretation. Given that Sarek had drawn deliberate parallels between Michael and his late wife, and the fact that he had told her that people could act unpredictably in love, it was also possible that he was trying to say he wasn’t going to regret loving her. Even if nothing came of it.

It was impossible to be sure which reading Sarek intended. And for a moment, Michael felt like a conspiracy theorist, facing a board full of photographs, all tied together with a crazy maze of red string.

She was definitely overthinking this.

But regardless of what Sarek did or did not feel for her, Michael suddenly knew one thing for certain. Georgiou was right about at least half of it. She wanted to love him more than a daughter should.

The meld on the bridge, so supercharged with emotion and tenderness had piqued her interest. Then Georgiou had stoked the flames Michael herself had vehemently denied, and inadvertently caused her to have a very enlightening wet dream. And just a moment ago, when Sarek had put his hand on her shoulder, she’d been dying for him to kiss her. Partly, in order to cement the mend in their relationship with a concrete, undeniable act of affection. But also, partly just because she wanted to.

Because he was handsome. Because he cared about her. Because some crazy part of her brain told her his lips would probably taste good.

And that knowledge thrilled her as much as it scared her.

Where the hell am I supposed to go from here?

…

USS Discovery

Engineering Test Bay

Sylvia Tilly was loading cannisters containing what remained of Stamets’ supply of mycelial spores into a terraforming pod when the doors to the Engineering Test Bay opened. Her roommate, Michael, walked in, and began descending the entryway stairs wearing a stern expression. And Sylvia instinctively straightened her back in response. She didn’t want to seem like she was slacking off.

“Admiral Cornwell requested a status report,” Michael announced in that no-nonsense voice of hers when she reached floor level. 

Sylvia grabbed another cannister of spores off a nearby table, then slotted it into place. “This is the last of the mycelial transport vessels. We will be able to launch by the time we reach Veda.”

Michael nodded, accepting. Then, after a pause, and a glance around the test bay, she switched from official ship’s business to personal matters.

“I just said good-bye to my father, and it felt different. Final.”

The gravity of Michael’s voice made Sylvia pause what she was doing and look up.

“It won't be, right?” Michael asked.

The pleading in Michael’s tone and worry in her eyes caught Sylvia off guard.

Sylvia had always pegged Michael for the strong, silent type. And she knew that Ambassador Sarek was Michael’s adopted father. But she’d never got the impression that their relationship was particularly… um… warm. When Michael had traversed into Sarek’s mind and saved his life after a Vulcan extremist attacked him, the incident only seemed to drive them further apart, rather than bring them together, as Sylvia had hoped it might.

But maybe they’d had a recent heart-to-heart?

Sylvia almost ruled it out. They'd hardly had any time to talk to one another. But they had shared that… extremely intense mind-meld on the bridge. The one that had them get all up in each other’s personal space and had left them both gasping.

Which was sort of maybe a little bit weird. But Sylvia didn’t understand really how mind-melds worked. Maybe they were all like that? And maybe that was when they’d reconciled? Inside each other’s brains?

Or maybe, even with how cold and distant their relationship was, Michael still loved him as a father. Because whatever his deal was, like, emotionally, under all those layers of Vulcan stoicism, he had been one of her guardians since she was like… eight? Or nine?

Sylvia wasn’t sure about the exact details. Regardless, Sylvia reasoned that it wasn’t so strange after all for Michael to care somewhat about Sarek. Even if their relationship was complicated.

Hell, Sylvia’s relationship with her own mother was complicated. And she still didn’t want her to die.

“Did you ever think, when you signed up for Starfleet, that you'd be forced to see war and death?” Sylvia asked, while walking around the mycelial transport pod, sealing up all the hatches, now full of mycelial spore cannisters.   

“Death found me when I was a child,” Michael reminded her.

Which made Sylvia want to smack herself in the face for forgetting. Right. Duh.

“So, yeah,” Michael admitted bluntly. “I knew what I was getting into.”  

Sylvia stood back from the mycelial transport pod and put her hands on her hips. “I don't think I did,” she admitted, while reaching for a PADD and keying in that the last vessel was loaded and ready to launch. “Not really. Does that make me naive?”

Sylvia turned to Michael, expecting an answer in the affirmative. Expecting Michael to tell her she had no idea what it was like. That she had been wearing rose-colored glasses. That she was stupid. And only a hardened war orphan could ever understand what real pain was.  

But of course, that was all just Sylvia’s hyperactive anxiety speaking. Michael wasn’t cruel like that.

Instead of any of the awful things Sylvia had imagined, Michael folded her arms, looked down at the floor, and said, “It makes you optimistic.”

Sylvia privately suffused with warmth at the compliment. That meant a lot, coming from Michael.

Sylvia didn’t want to look too vain and flattered, however. And realizing this direction in the conversation offered her an opportunity to address something she’d been wanting to talk about with Michael ever since they’d come back to their universe, she didn’t say anything in response. She simply took a deep breath and moved on to the next topic.

“When we were in the Terran universe, I was reminded how much a person is shaped by their environment. And I think the only way that w-we can stop ourselves from becoming them is to understand the darkness within us, and fight it,” Sylvia explained.

Michael took a moment to mull over those words. But generally, she seemed unopposed to them in theory. Now all that Sylvia had to do was get her to put them into practice.

“Tyler needs you.”

The effect Sylvia’s words had on Michael was instantaneous. The considering look in her eyes vanished, replaced by something aloof and cold. And she turned away, as if Sylvia had doused her in freezing cold water.

“I’m told he’s doing well,” she deflected with a false smile.

“That’s not possible, not when you’ve lost the person you care about the most,” Sylvia refuted.

She didn’t understand what was happening. To her, those two had looked like what they had was true love. And now Michael was just… throwing it all away? Right when Ash Tyler needed her most?

…

Michael had to resist the urge to snap at Tilly. Are you fucking kidding me?

After all the lies, after everything Ash Tyler had put her and the crew through. After he had killed Dr. Culber, Tilly wanted her to forgive him?

Had she lost her mind?

“He killed a Starfleet officer,” Michael reminded Tilly. Then she swallowed, fighting back painful memories. “And he... he tried to kill me.”  

“And those crimes are reprehensible,” Tilly agreed a little too flippantly for Michael’s tastes. “But Tyler is not the person who did that, at least he’s-he’s not anymore. He is something other. Someone new.”

Michael rolled her eyes. Oh god, not this again.

Michael, for one, could not care less who was who in the whole Ash-Voq situation. From her perspective, they’d both betrayed her. And because of that, she could never, ever, ever entertain the idea of going back to him. Even before she’d gotten wrapped up in whatever was or wasn’t going on between her and Sarek, she didn’t even want to see Ash Tyler again. Which was just as well. It would probably be better for them both to have a clean break.

Evidently, Tilly disagreed.

“And what we do now, the way that we treat him, that is who he will become,” Tilly told Michael, clearly with the intent of cajoling her into speaking with him again. And to really lay it on thick, she added, “I know you still care about him.”  

Michael wanted to roll her eyes again. Callous as it might seem, she really didn’t. Not anymore. Not after what he’d done to her.

She didn’t feel any… vindictive need for him to rot or anything. After the war, if he was still alive, Starfleet would make a fair judgement. And he would be given whatever punishment or leeway he deserved for his actions.  

But she didn’t care what happened to him specifically. She couldn’t let herself care.

There was too much on her plate right now. Between Amanda’s death, and the ongoing Klingon war, and her budding feelings for Sarek, there just wasn’t room to worry about Ash Tyler. If he was struggling because of what he’d done, that was his own damn fault. And he could work it out on his own.

“Tilly, I’m sorry,” Michael said, her voice on the edge of breaking. “Whatever it is you want me to do, I-I can’t.”

“Michael, he’s been stripped of his badge. He’ll never fly for Starfleet again. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t end up in a lab or a cell,” Tilly said, as if those places weren’t exactly where he belonged after what he did.

Which honestly baffled Michael. He was an experimental Klingon spy. Of course he belonged in one of those two places. And why should she—the victim of his manipulation—be expected to feel bad about that? Especially when she faced a similar fate.

“What kind of future can he have?” Tilly asked.

For a horrible second, Michael wanted to snap at her friend again. To ask: What kind of future can I have?

She didn’t, of course. Sarek had taught her how to control her emotions. And though she’d let loose a little after serving among humans for seven years, she still utilized some of the things he’d taught her, now and again, when they were useful. Meaning she was able to keep a straight face. Even though she was furious on the inside.

So, it’s horrible that Ash Tyler might go to prison. But for me—for whom a resumed prison sentence is a guarantee after this war is over—it’s fine? You’re not even going to mention how hypocritical that is?

Logically, Michael knew Tilly wasn’t thinking about that. She was just saying these things because she was the crew’s unofficial morale officer.

She was just trying to get everyone to be happy and keep their spirits up. Including the murderer they had on board. And in order to do that Tilly wanted to make Michael do the brunt of the work. Because she knew Michael would be good at it.

Which was probably true, if Michael had been willing.

But Michael had had enough of Ash Tyler and putting his needs before her own. She should have ditched him the second he started speaking Klingon out of nowhere and attacked that alternate version of Voq. But she’d stuck with him and tried to support him, even when he made decisions that jeopardized everyone’s lives. Until she was the one who almost broke under the weight.

She was not going to let him finish the job.

Tilly set down her PADD on the console beside her, then looked Michael directly in the eyes. “Say what you have to say, even if it’s good-bye,” she urged.

Tilly went back to her preparations for the spore launch after that. And a second later, Michael turned and walked away, exasperated and lost.

…

USS Discovery

Observation Deck

Ash Tyler stood with his hands behind his back, staring out of the full-length window on the observation deck. The planet Veda, below, was flourishing with newly planted mycelial spore-producing fungi. Which was not only a beautiful sight. But also representative, he hoped, of their chances of success when it came to defeating the Klingons and ending this war.

Which was what he wanted. Or, at least, he thought so.

Voq obviously hadn’t wanted that. And there was a part of him—sealed off and tucked away behind a murky fog—that remembered those desires. That burning need for a Klingon victory, at any cost.

But it wasn’t him. Not anymore. L’Rell had made certain of that. And Ash Tyler was grateful for that. It made this whole identity thing… well, a little less complicated.

Voq was dead. Ash Tyler was alive. He was Ash Tyler.

Simple, right?

Ash Tyler sighed. In reality, it wasn’t quite that simple. Dr. Pollard certainly didn’t see it that way. And her reports would ensure that Starfleet wouldn’t see it that way, either. Which kind of threw his whole life into chaos. If he wasn’t legally Ash Tyler, and therefore not permitted to hold a Starfleet rank, and he wasn’t Voq, Klingon infiltrator, then who was he?

He felt adrift. And the reactions of the crew weren’t helping.

Tilly had tried to be nice, of course. And some of her friends had followed suit when she’d sat by him in the Mess Hall.

But Dr. Stamets had asked if killing Dr. Culber gutted him—which it did—and generally treated him as if he were his boyfriend’s murder—which, technically, he supposed he was. Even if he barely remembered doing it.

And worst of all, Michael, the love of his life, had avoided him entirely since he had woken up. Which he knew was on purpose.

Though he couldn’t fathom why. He knew he had hurt her but… why could Tilly forgive him, but not her? Tilly was just an acquaintance. Wasn’t Michael supposed to be his girlfriend? Wasn’t she supposed to stick with him, through thick and thin? Wasn’t that what lovers did?

Just as all these thoughts were roiling in Ash Tyler’s head the door to the observation deck whooshed open. And, speak of the devil, it was Michael who walked in.

For a moment neither of them spoke, they just looked at each other awkwardly. Then, eager to reunite with his girlfriend, Ash Tyler took a quick step toward her.

But Michael immediately backed away from him. Like he was something dangerous. And that made Ash Tyler stop dead in his tracks.

Had she… not come here to rekindle things between them?

He studied Michael carefully as she shrunk away into the shadows. And what he saw broke his heart. There was no more love for him in her eyes. Her body language radiated exhaustion, as if she’d been worn down into coming here, and had not chosen to seek him out of her own volition. Her head was downcast. Her arms hung, defeated at her sides….

“I don't know where to start,” Michael said in a quiet voice, looking at the floor.

Now that the silence between them had finally been broken, Ash Tyler leapt into the conversation he wanted to have. The one that should get them back together.

“I do,” Ash Tyler declared. “I'm sorry.”

Michael raised her eyes and glowered at him. That clearly wasn’t what she wanted to hear. But Ash Tyler pressed on. She had to hear him out.

“I know there's no way I can prove this to you, but Voq, he's gone,” Ash Tyler told her.

“I believe you,” Michael replied, which gave Ash Tyler hope.

But then, she took a moment to think. And her next words devastated him.

“But that doesn’t matter,” Michael declared. “You lied to me. You said that if it got to be too much—that if you couldn't handle it—you would come to me,” she reminded him. “And it did. And you didn't. And that wasn't Voq, that was you. Tyler.”

Ash Tyler started to boil with rage. She wasn’t being fair! Did she have any idea how hard this was on him? And where had the love in her eyes gone? Why was she being so cold?

“Who the hell is Tyler?” Ash Tyler asked. “You think I know anymore? You think I have any idea who I am now, where I belong?” he added, raising his voice, and marching toward her, pointing at her.

And then suddenly it hit him. A possible reason for why Michael had changed. She wasn’t upset with him, not really, she couldn’t be. It wasn’t his fault!

So, it had to be her own problem. Her own inability to handle hard things. Especially things that reminded her too much of her own childhood pain. A pain she’d never really gotten over.

“This isn't about a lie,” Ash Tyler refuted. “This is about you looking for an excuse to end it.”

That had to be it. Maybe she’d gotten bored of him. Or got too scared when she wasn’t the only one in their relationship with Klingon baggage. Or maybe she found someone else. Or maybe all of the above.

He hadn’t seen her since they got back from the Mirror Universe. It was all very possible.

…

“Excuse?” Michael repeated incredulously.

On her way over to the observation deck, Michael had started to think that perhaps Tilly was right. Perhaps she was being unfair to Ash Tyler by not giving him closure, at the very least. But now she was more convinced than ever that coming here and talking to him had been a dreadful mistake.

The sheer entitlement Ash Tyler was displaying was unbelievable. Did he really think she needed an excuse to end things between them when she had at least fifty, completely rational reasons to do so?

From her perspective, his offenses against her were so great that she had considered their relationship over the moment he’d put his hand around her neck. The notion that Ash Tyler not only still thought they had a chance, but thought their relationship was so fine and dandy that she would need to invent a problem in order to back out was…

She had no words. How could he possibly expect her to think everything was fine between them? How badly had Voq scrambled his head?

Or was this just who Ash Tyler was? And Michael had been too infatuated with the emotionally closed-off, “traumatized soldier” thing he had going on to notice?

God, Georgiou is right, I do have a type. Though right now, Ash Tyler was not really exemplifying it. He was being far too emotional. 

“My crewmates have been kinder than they need to be,” Ash Tyler went on in that whiny, blubbering voice of his, like he was the only victim in all this. “Why are you, the person who knows me best, so quick to turn your back?”

Okay that was it.  

“Stop,” Michael pleaded.

But Ash Tyler did not stop.

“I want you to admit it,” he demanded. “Admit that you can't do this anymore because you finally went there with someone, and things got complicated. Because your parents were killed by Klingons, and you fell in love with one.”  

Michael blinked and exhaled, shocked and hurt. But also angry. That was what he thought was the problem? He almost choked me to death, and he thinks I’m breaking up with him because he’s Klingon?

“Listen,” Michael said firmly, glowering at her ex-boyfriend. “I know in my head that you can’t be held responsible for Voq's actions. But I felt your hands around my neck.”

She demonstrated, raising her own hand across the column of her throat. And pretending to squeeze. Before dropping her hand and continuing her explanation.   

“And I looked into your eyes, and I saw how much you wanted to kill me,” Michael stressed, her voice on the edge of breaking. “The man that I loved wanted me dead.”

Ash Tyler shook his head and sniffled pathetically. But no matter how hard he turned on the waterworks, Michael wasn’t going to back down.

“And no matter how hard I try, when I look at you now, that’s all I can see,” she told him honestly. “The person whom I poured my heart into, who then tried to kill me.”

“That’s not who I—” Ash Tyler tried to interrupt.

But Michael wouldn’t let him. “Your crew may have put it behind them, but I can't.”

Another uncomfortable silence passed between them after that. A silence during which Ash Tyler rapidly shook his head while he sniffled, and tears ran down his cheeks. And, damn, he was being so annoying with all his emotions that Michael suddenly found another reason Georgiou might be right about Sarek and her. She really didn’t like it when people cried manipulatively at her. And Sarek, as a Vulcan, was extremely unlikely to do that. Ever. 

“Michael, I know this is hard for you. But I love you,” Ash Tyler declared, his voice all choked up. “You’re the reason it didn't take—the reason L'Rell couldn't get through to me. I should be an activated Klingon spy, behind bars... or dead. Our love was powerful enough to disrupt that process,” he stressed, pointing between them. “But it’s left me fractured. I don’t know who I am anymore. And I can’t find my way back without you.”

Here we go again with the emotional manipulation, Michael thought as she listened to the pleading tone of his voice. I should just leave now, if he’s going to be this dense.

But Tilly would be furious with Michael if she made Ash Tyler feel worse. So, for her friend’s sake, Michael tried to leave him with at least some parting advice.

Michael sighed. “After the Battle of the Binary Stars... I was so lost. I had to sit with myself. I had to work through it. I had to crawl my way back. I'm still not there, but... I'm trying. That kind of work... reclaiming life... it's punishing... and it's relentless. And it's solitary,” she emphasized.

“No, I...” Ash Tyler sputtered out, taking a step closer to Michael.

She took an automatic step back. Then, having said her piece, and no longer able to take being around him anymore, she turned around and marched toward the exit door.

Before Ash Tyler could say anything else, the door slid open automatically for her. And when Michael marched through into the hallway beyond, she didn’t look back.

She decided in the end that she would heed Sarek’s advice. She would not regret having loved Ash Tyler. But that part of her life was over. And she didn’t regret that either.

….

Shi’kahr, Vulcan

S’Chn T’Gai Estate

In reality, Sarek was on Vulcan, inside his home. However, at this very moment, a holographic image of himself was standing on the USS Discovery, inside of the captain’s ready room, mirroring his movements. And Katrina Cornwell, who was in that room, had her own holographic duplicate which was now standing inside his home.

Her hologram paced in circles over his living room floor for a few moments as she debated on how to phrase what she was going to say. Then, finally seeming to figure it out, she stopped in front of him, and said, “The mycelial bloom was successful. A spore harvest is underway.”

Her words were intentionally vague so that there would be no record of the… atrocity they were planning together. If they were successful, the general public would know, soon enough. And if not… then they had to bury this. Or else no one would ever trust the Federation ever again.

But Sarek understood her meaning. “Then the jump to Qo'noS will be possible?” he asked.

“Yes, imminently,” Cornwell replied.

“The Federation Council has been briefed on our newly acquired intelligence from the Terran,” Sarek informed her. “Despite the extraordinary risk, all are agreed that we have no choice but to proceed. Our very existence hangs in the balance.”

Cornwell’s hologram nodded sadly. And privately, Sarek shared her grief. These were dark times, indeed, for the Federation to even consider taking such drastic measures. But they had no other choice.

Sarek, especially, had no other choice. Recent events had solidified his regard for Michael. His… love for her. And he could not simply stand by and let her homeworld be destroyed. Nor anyone else’s for that matter.

Who was to say that the Klingons would even stop with Earth? one of the Federation Council members had pointed out. Which was an excellent point which Sarek, in his singular focus on Michael, had completely overlooked.

No, they had to do this. Even if it was wrong. Even if Sarek could never tell Michael why he had done it. Even if she would hate him for it, forever.

If the Klingons were going to fight until extinction, then they were going to get it. But it was going to be their extinction, not the Federation’s.   

Cornwell nodded, then announced. “Then it's time.”

Chapter Text

USS Discovery

Bridge

Admiral Cornwell stood on the bridge with her hands tucked behind her back as she made an important announcement to the crew. “I stand before you with a mission. At 2100 hours, the USS Discovery will jump for the Klingon homeworld in order to map its surface and isolate vulnerabilities and military targets.”

While she spoke, Acting Captain Saru turned to look at Michael, seeming to silently ask if she was up for this. Michael swallowed and returned his gaze with a determined look, to reassure him that she could.  

Though, in truth, she could not be sure. Qo’noS was the place where the people who had murdered her parents originated. Where the people who had killed the real Ash Tyler and surgically altered Voq to look like him, then grafted Ash Tyler’s memories into Voq’s brain, had originated. To walk on its surface would be to revisit so much of her personal trauma. 

But Michael was not going to let that stop her. This mission was too important. Her own pain would have to wait. The entire Federation was counting on them.

Seeing her resolve, Saru nodded. Then he turned to glance around at the faces of the rest of the crew. To gauge their reactions to Admiral Cornwell’s speech.

“This brave team,” Cornwell continued, her own gaze also flicking around the room to look at each and every bridge crew member, “will be the first to visit this inhospitable planet since Captain Archer and the crew of the Enterprise NX-01, nearly 100 years ago. So, allow me to introduce you to the person who will chart your course to Qo'noS.”

As soon as Cornwell concluded her statement, the turbolift doors leading onto the bridge opened with a soft hiss. Then a woman with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and dressed in the navy and gold command uniform stepped onto the bridge. But not just any woman.

“Captain Philippa Georgiou,” Admiral Cornwell announced.

“Thank you,” Georgiou praised, smiling congenially.

Saru rose out of his chair and turned around to look at her in open shock. At the same time Michael regarded the woman suspiciously. It couldn’t be the actual Captain Georgiou. Michael had watched her die. So that meant this had to be the other Georgiou, dressed up in a Starfleet costume.

But why? Michael wondered as she scrutinized the imposter. Why would Admiral Cornwell concoct such a ruse? Is Starfleet really saying they’d rather hand command of this mission over to… a Terran?

As Michael attempted to puzzle it out, she decided that did not bode well. There were only a handful of reasons for which Starfleet Command might see it as justifiable to cede command of this extremely important mission to a tyrannical dictator from an alternate universe. And none of them were good.

Before Michael could demand that Admiral Cornwell explain her motives, however, the admiral went on.

“Though long presumed dead, Captain Georgiou was recently rescued in a highly classified raid of a Klingon prison vessel,” she explained to the bridge crew. Then, to bolster her story, she added, “She was transported aboard Discovery with my personal retinue.”

Michael knew that was a lie. But she could not simply announce as much in front of so many other people.

Earlier, Saru had ordered that the presence of a Terran aboard Discovery was to be treated as classified information, and its utterance would carry the penalty of treason. An edict which Admiral Cornwell, in her bid to suppress all information about alternate universes, had supported. 

So, leery of earning a second charge on her record, Michael kept silent. But she did look across the bridge, meeting Saru’s eyes again. And without speaking, she tried to warn him with a knowing look that this Georgiou was not whom she seemed.

After a few seconds, she saw the comprehension dawning in his eyes. Meanwhile, the rest of the bridge crew—unaware of the existence of another Georgiou, and not present on the day of the original’s death—began smiling, heartened by the apparently good news Admiral Cornwell was sharing.

“The mission to Qo'noS is a perilous expedition,” Cornwell went on, turning to look pointedly at Michael. As if to say, don’t you dare say anything, we need her to get through this. “And Starfleet is confident that Captain Georgiou is uniquely qualified to get you there and to do what needs to be done.”

The admiral’s gaze turned toward Georgiou then. At the same time, Georgiou’s gaze shifted to meet Michael’s, and Georgiou took a few steps forward, reducing the distance between them.

“Specialist Burnham, I trust that this will be an auspicious reunion, despite our history,” Georgiou said in a calm measured voice—a very good mimicry of how the actual Captain Georgiou had talked.

“Now take your station,” Georgiou ordered. Then she walked swiftly toward the command chair that Saru had recently vacated in his surprise.

For a moment, Michael stood, silent and dumbfounded on the bridge. Was she really expected to just… go along with this?

Apparently so.

Deciding, for the sake of the mission, that her objections could wait, for now, Michael turned around. Then she slowly walked over to her assigned console.

When she reached it, Michael offered, hesitantly, “Yes... Captain.”

She stressed the word ever so slightly. Not in any way that would draw suspicion from the others who did not know the truth. But just enough to let Georgiou know that she didn’t buy her act in the slightest.

Georgiou stopped and looked at her. An understanding passed between them in that moment. An understanding that Michael knew Georgiou’s secret. But also an understanding that this secret could not be divulged to the rest of the crew.

The moment only lasted a second. Then Georgiou turned to face straight ahead and sat in the command chair. The command chair she had no right to be sitting in. A command chair she sat in almost like it was her Terran throne.

In fact, as Georgiou sat down, she even broke character a little, letting a small, devious smile trace across her lips.

And that was when Michael swallowed again. What is the Federation thinking?

…

USS Discovery

Hallway

“If Starfleet recruited a Terran to lead the mission, they are desperate,” Michael whispered to Georgiou as they walked together down the hallways of Discovery.

Georgiou rolled her eyes. Michael was right. But she was being over-dramatic. “The Federation had a problem. I offered them a solution in exchange for my freedom,” she explained. “And what’s so bad about desperation? You were desperate when you begged me to reveal how my empire beat the Klingons,” she pointed out.

Michael was silent then, aside from her footsteps striking the bulkhead floors in time with Georgiou’s. As the silence dragged on, Georgiou suspected it was likely that Michael was unable to find any words to counteract her's. Because she was right. She was always right. When would Michael learn that?

“You instigate valiantly,” Georgiou praised. Then her tone dipped in disgust, “then second-guess.”

Again, Michael had nothing to say. So, Georgiou pressed on.

“I’ve now read about your actions on the eve of the war,” she revealed. “You know your problem?” she asked, turning to look Michael directly in the eyes as she spoke. “No follow-through. You should have killed my counterpart in her ready room, attacked the Klingons, and then been a hero.”

Her voice was steely when discussing the death of her other self. She had no love for that other Georgiou. But she got a little choked up at the end of her sentence. And suddenly, Georgiou wondered if she was, in fact, still talking about what this Michael should have done at all. Or if she was talking about her Michael. How her Michael would have still been alive if she had only taken initiative when it mattered.

Perhaps, if she had been given time to think about it, Georgiou would have realized the truth. That it touched her that, no matter the universe, Michael seemed incapable of directly causing her harm. Her Michael could have easily usurped the throne herself if she’d just slit Georgiou’s throat in her sleep. But instead, she’d hidden behind Lorca. Because no matter the universe, it seemed, Michael couldn’t bring herself to kill her.

But before Georgiou could really let that revelation sink in, this Michael—the Federation-born Michael currently following her in Discovery's winding metal corridors—grabbed Georgiou by the arm, and dragged her to a halt in the middle of the hallway.

“Tell me the real plan,” Michael demanded in a whisper.

Georgiou looked down at the hand holding her. Then raised her eyes to glare daggers at Michael. “Never do that again.”

Michael held on a few seconds longer, scrutinizing her with a quizzical look. Then, correctly deducing that Georgiou was serious she wisely let go.

To reward her for her obedience, Georgiou decided to tell the truth. “Your Federation is losing. The Klingon armada is already headed toward your homeworld. My knowledge is giving you a fighting chance,” she explained. “Are you with me or against me?”

After issuing her ultimatum, Georgiou walked past Michael before she could give a reply.

But as she walked down the hallway, in the distance she heard a quiet, defeated, “With you… Captain.”

And that made Georgiou’s lips curl upward into a ferocious smile.

…

USS Discovery

Bridge

Despite her misgivings, Michael had gone along with Starfleet’s crazy plan to infiltrate Qo’noS, led by the Terran Philippa Georgiou. She had gone to the surface of the homeworld of those who had killed her parents, battling post-traumatic stress responses the entire time. She had posed as a criminal, and endured all sorts of insults, suspicious stares, and awful smells. She had even set aside her personal grudge against Ash Tyler—whose knowledge of Qo'noS' terrain proved to be vital to the mission.

But now, as Michael stood on the bridge of the Discovery, and the simulation of what would happen to Qo’noS if the hydro bomb they'd discovered in Tilly's briefcase was detonated concluded on the main viewscreen, she decided she would go no further.

“Is this how Starfleet wins the war?” Michael asked incredulously, pointing to the blackened image of Qo’noS still projected in front of them. “Genocide?”

“You want to do this here?” the hologram of Admiral Cornwell, who was standing two feet away from Michael on the bridge asked. “Fine. Terms of atrocity are convenient after the fact,” she said with obvious distaste. “The Klingons are on the verge of wiping out the Federation,” she stressed.

“Yes,” Michael readily agreed. That much could not be denied. “But ask yourself: why did you put this mission in the hands of a Terran? And why the secrecy?” she asked.  

Michael thought Admiral Cornwell knew the answer to that one. And if the guilty look on her face was any indication, Michael was right.

“It’s because you know it’s not who we are,” Michael declared, hoping that would get through to her.

Unfortunately, Michael had no such luck.

“It very soon will be,” Admiral Cornwell contested. “We do not have the luxury of principles,” she snapped bitterly.

Michael could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Did Starfleet really need her, a criminal, to spell this out for them?

“That is all we have, Admiral!” Michael protested vehemently.

The bridge fell silent for a moment. Then, subtly, Admiral Cornwell’s face faltered. And that’s when Michael saw an opportunity to get them out of this mess. To steer the Federation off the horrible path it was treading down, out of fear. Just as she had when she’d blindly tried to attack the Klingons, disobeying a direct order from her captain.

Michael opened her mouth to speak. And it was with no small sense of irony that Michael realized that she was going to give her speech about the importance of Federation principles in her seedy merchant disguise, while Admiral Cornwell, in her pristine, polished uniform, was the one advocating for abandoning them.

“A year ago... I stood alone,” Michael said, referring to her mutiny—the one which had started this war. “I believed that our survival was more important than our principles. I was wrong,” she admitted, letting genuine sorrow color her tone. Then her voice hardened. “Do we need a mutiny today to prove who we are?” she challenged.

The bridge crew looked around at each other after Michael’s pronouncement. Judging by their faces, they all seemed in agreement. And so, too, was their acting captain, Saru. He rose to his feet. Then addressed everyone, but most especially Admiral Cornwell in a firm, unyielding voice.

“We are Starfleet.”

Lieutenant Detmer, Lieutenant Owosekun, Lieutenant Rhys, Lieutenant Airiam and Lieutenant Bryce all rose to their feet in turn as well, echoing his sentiment with their actions. Then Michael swiveled back to face the Admiral and nodded to signify that everyone was on her side. That none of them were going to follow any order given to destroy a planet, Klingon, or otherwise.  

Admiral Cornwell’s gaze switched rapidly across the room, checking to see if anyone was still sitting. Realizing none were, and she was outnumbered, and therefore had no other choice, Cornwell shook her head in defeat. Then demanded, “What is it you’re suggesting?”

…

Qo’noS

Some Smelly Alley

Georgiou was not entirely shocked when the Federation chickened out. It was the outcome she had anticipated all along. They were a weak organization that lacked the spine to deal even their worst enemies some well-deserved damage. They were like children who still flinched at bloodshed.

That was one day going to be their downfall. But not hers. For her part, she’d gotten what she wanted out of the deal—her freedom, encoded to her on a chip bearing an official Federation insignia.

Georgiou still was not certain what she was going to do with that freedom in this strange new universe. But it was a start. Her own empire had not been built in a day. And therefore, it stood to reason that whatever life she made for herself here would take time to establish as well.

Her only regret was that she never got to see Michael and Sarek admit their feelings for each other. That pair was being more stubborn than the entire Klingon race combined. Refusing to talk about their feelings. Sometimes even refusing to acknowledge that they were there.

Georgiou scoffed. Vulcans.

She could never stand them. But it was precisely this Michael’s very Vulcan-esque behavior that made Georgiou think the girl's Vulcan father would be very happy—or whatever it was Vulcans did—to have her as his wife. Well, that and the fact that Michael was extremely beautiful.

Before Georgiou fled into the night, however, she did meet with Michael, alone, in a dark alley on Qo’noS. They were still dressed in their grungy disguises. And the streets smelled like bloodwine and piss. But in this shady environment, together, they discussed their plans.

“So, now that you’re Starfleet’s hero, what happens now?” Georgiou asked.

Michael hung her head. “I serve my time.”

“Bullshit,” Georgiou spat. “You did all this for them, and you’re just going to let them throw you back behind bars?”

Michael swallowed. “It’s the right thing to do. I deserve to pay for what I’ve done.”

“What you deserve is a long weekend on Risa with your new Vulcan boyfriend,” Georgiou teased.

“Sarek is not…” Michael started to protest. But then she trailed off suddenly. And averted her eyes.

Georgiou perked up, intrigued. She knew that look.

“So, I was right. You do like him,” Georgiou observed.

Realizing it would be pointless to deny it, Michael heaved a heavy sigh of exasperation. Then she nodded, looking a little forlorn. “I do.”

Georgiou frowned at Michael's tone and her expression. There was no reason for her to be so gloomy about it.

“That’s hardly a death sentence, Michael,” Georgiou chided.

Michael shrugged. “Might as well be. I’m in love with my own father. Which is so many kinds of wrong. But thanks to you, I can’t seem to turn it off. And I can’t even tell him anyway, because I’m going to prison.”

Georgiou tapped a finger against her lips and paced around Michael, pondering for a moment. Then suddenly, she was struck with an epiphany.

“Make me a promise, Michael.”

“And why would I do that, after you almost destroyed a planet?” Michael asked.

Georgiou smiled. “Always so dramatic,” she teased. Then her face abruptly turned serious. “I knew your Federation was never going to go through with it. Besides, this is a different kind of promise. This one is for your own good.”

Michael leaned back and crossed her arms. “I’m listening.”

“Promise me that if you are released from prison that you will tell the Vulcan how you feel?”

“The Vulcan has a name, Philippa,” Michael reminded her.

Georgiou smiled innocently in response. As if she had no idea what Michael was talking about.

Michael heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. “But fine. Yes. I promise,” she agreed. “If I somehow get out of my life sentence—which is not going to happen,” she added quickly, holding up two defensive hands before Georgiou could get excited, “—then I will tell him. Are you happy?”

Georgiou smiled ferociously. “Quite.” Then she turned and prepared to leave. “I’ll leave you to it, then.

“Be good, Philippa,” Michael urged her.

“Or you’ll come for me?” Georgiou taunted.

Michael frowned. “Make sure I don’t have to.”

Georgiou smiled at her. Then she turned and disappeared into the night.  

…

Paris, France

Earth

After the war was over, Michael stood on the rainy streets of Paris, reflecting on the choices that had brought her to this point. From her mutiny, which had caused so much strife, destruction and pain. To her decision to thwart the former Emperor Georgiou’s plan to destroy Qo’noS. Which had spared even more lives and prevented even more destruction.

She had regrets of course. So, so, many regrets. But ultimately, the result was probably the most satisfying resolution anyone could have hoped for.

The Klingons had called off their attacks and withdrawn behind their borders. An armistice had been agreed upon. Peace was restored. Starfleet was already rebuilding its shipyards and starbases. And the colonies the Klingons had claimed, in their hunger for blood, were all surrendered back into Federation hands.

Even Ash Tyler had found a way out of the lab or cell conundrum Tilly had presented earlier by taking a third option: staying with L’Rell and helping her to forge a new Klingon Empire together. One that respected honor more than senseless bloodshed.

In spite of all the horror and treachery along the way, it was an almost idyllic end, from Michael’s perspective.

Well, except for one part.

As Sarek walked out of the Federation building into the rain, Michael’s heart constricted with pain at seeing him alone. Amanda should have been here. She would have wanted to have been here. To offer Michael a warm hug of encouragement. To say that she was proud of her. To listen to Michael tell her that she now understood why Amanda had insisted that she never let go of her humanity.

Michael’s heart sank. She would never have the opportunity to tell her now. In fact, the last words she had ever spoken to her mother were before her imprisonment for mutiny. And she could not even recall exactly what they were. Probably something banal about life aboard the Shenzhou.

For a few seconds, Michael closed her eyes and silently mourned as the rain fell in sparse, sprinkles around her. Then, she heard footfalls approaching, and looked up. When she saw that Sarek was walking up to her, cutting an intimidating and impressive figure in his metallic bronze robes, she straightened up and put her hands behind her back, like a stiff and proper Vulcan.

“Michael,” Sarek acknowledged as he stopped in front of her with his hands held behind his back in the same position.

“Sarek,” she acknowledged back.

“You seem troubled,” Sarek noted, seeing through her façade immediately, as he almost always did. It made her feel self-conscious. “Is it not a time for celebration?”

His tone seemed buoyant for a Vulcan, which was unexpected. But she supposed it made a certain amount of sense. Peace had been restored. And that was what Sarek had dedicated his entire life to—the formation and preservation of peace.

“It is, but it feels…” she shook her head sadly, “…hollow somehow. So many people were supposed to be here, at this moment. So many people who are not.”

Michael turned her head away to gaze sadly at the rain slicked streets. At the same time, Sarek dipped his head, and his gaze turned grave.

“Yes, the Klingon war has exacted a penalty on us all,” Sarek concurred. “One of which, I shall never forget.

“Amanda,” Michael deduced, turning back to face him again.  

“Indeed,” Sarek replied.

Michael took in a deep breath and let it out sharply. Then she decided if she couldn’t say it to Amanda, she might as well say it to Sarek.

“When I was growing up, she told me not to forget my humanity,” Michael explained. “I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know how to do it; I didn’t know why I would even want to. But I think I get it now.”

“I am pleased you were able to take your mother’s lesson to heart,” Sarek replied. Then the corners of his lips turned down, almost into a frown, and he closed his eyes, looking castigated. “I should never have pushed you so hard to be something that you are not,” he said with evident regret. “As we learned from this war, even logic has its limits. Logic can be cruel, calculating.”

Michael’s brows knit together in confusion. “Father?”

She had never known him to be cruel. Calculating, yes. But that was just most Vulcans. And she did not see how either was relevant to the war, in any case.  

Sarek let out a deep sigh and began to explain. “What the Federation chose to do on Qo’noS was unprincipled, and… I had a part in it.”

Michael looked at Sarek, surprised. She hadn’t expected that either. Though it did make his sudden departure before the Terran Georgiou took command make more sense. He must have been eager to do whatever he could to save everyone else. Especially after losing Amanda.

“The Klingons made it clear they would fight us to extinction. You were desperate to save us. I know the feeling all too well,” Michael told him.

Sarek’s eyes tightened—a half-wince. “And yet, you were able to find another way,” he highlighted, meeting her eyes.

Michael wanted to deflect. To say that she had only done what anyone would have done in her place. But there was something in Sarek’s gaze that made her pause. He regarded Michael with a firm look. But it was not an unkind one.

“I am not alone in finding your commitment to Starfleet’s ideals commendable,” he revealed.

Sarek, who had been holding his hands behind his back, suddenly brought them forward. Within them, he held a little black box. And for a crazy second—damn you, Georgiou, for putting these ideas in my head!—Michael thought he was going to get down on one knee and propose.

As she stared down at the box, her heart hammering in her chest, she recalled what he had said to her the last time they had spoken. How he'd couched his words in metaphors and misdirection, but seemed to be saying something profound about love and regret. Something which Michael had twisted her mind into knots trying to understand.

Could I really have been right? Michael wondered. Could he really love me like that? Enough to pop the question?

But then Michael remembered that proposing like this would be completely ridiculous. Vulcan courtship and wedding traditions were very different. Besides, in all likelihood, Sarek probably didn’t share her inappropriate feelings. Everything he'd said to her about love and regret the last time they had spoken probably didn't have any double meaning at all. Michael was obviously just letting her own feelings cloud her judgement.

As Michael expected, Sarek’s next words blew her nutty theory right out of the water.

“I asked if I may give it to you,” Sarek said, opening the box.

Inside was a shiny, metal Starfleet badge with commander rank pips engraved on it. Michael’s eyes widened as she took it in. Could this really be happening?

After everything was over, she’d expected to be hauled off to prison again. It was what she deserved for her crimes. For her mutiny. For all those people who had died as a result of the war she had started. But… well, she wasn’t really in the mood to complain if they had decided otherwise.

“Your record has been expunged, your pardon by the president of the Federation is official,” Sarek told her.

With a gentle touch, Sarek lifted the badge out of the box and raised it to Michael’s chest. As he affixed the badge to her uniform, he adjusted its positioning, until it was perfectly straight. While his hands ghosted over the fabric of her jacket, Michael’s breath hitched, and her heart fluttered.

It was a perfectly innocent exchange. Yet, novel because Sarek rarely, if ever touched her. And her awareness of it was heightened. Because ever since her return to this universe, and especially since she had spoken to Georgiou, his touch, when it had occurred, affected her in strange, unexpected ways.

“Commander Burnham,” Sarek addressed her. “The Federation is as grateful to you as I am…” he paused, almost as if he intended to end the sentence there, before abruptly adding, “…to my daughter.”

Michael’s heart soared when she finally heard the word daughter. This was another moment she’d been waiting for nearly her whole life. Finally, Sarek was acknowledging their emotional connection. Finally, he was taking on a role beyond a distant guardian who called her “his ward”, and one of a proper parent.

A little voice in the back of Michael’s head wondered if this invalidated what Emperor Georgiou had said about Sarek refusing to use the word. Did him calling her his daughter now mean that he had given up on his feelings for her? Or that he’d never harbored any such thing in the first place?

Michael couldn’t be sure. But either way, that wasn’t important right now. They were having a moment. An honest-to-Surak Father-Daughter Moment. So, Michael pushed down her swirling thoughts. And focused on the present.

Michael smiled at Sarek. “Thank you, Sarek. For not giving up on me.”

“I never have,” Sarek asserted. “My only regret is that, through my actions, I made you feel as though I had. And for that I am truly sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Michael said. And she meant it.

They still had work to do on their relationship, of course. But if Sarek was willing to put in that work—and it seemed like, from the steadiness of his gaze, that he was—then Michael was willing to let their past grievances be water under the proverbial bridge.

A beat passed, during which they simply basked in the mutual joy and relief of their reconciliation. Then, looking up into his eyes, Michael asked, “So what happens now?”

Michael meant it in more of a metaphorical sense. In terms of their relationship. Particularly in relation to what she had promised Georgiou—though at this juncture she was too frightened to do anything more than vaguely insinuate.

But of course, Sarek being Sarek, he took the question very literally.

“I will travel with Discovery to Vulcan,” he replied. “You are picking up your new captain there.”

Michael’s smile widened. “I’m glad we’ll be making that journey together.”

The tiniest ghost of a smile graced Sarek’s lips, too, then.

Then Sarek turned and walked away from her, leaving Michael alone in the street.

As his footsteps receded into the distance, Michael clapped a hand over her Starfleet badge and held it, shuddering with barely contained sobs. But they were happy tears. She could scarcely believe it. She was free! She was in Starfleet again. She had a second chance.

It was a miracle.

A miracle Georgiou had somehow anticipated. And now, it appeared she had a promise to keep.

…

Paris, France

Federation Headquarters

Sometime later, Sarek stood behind a podium in an auditorium. Beside him stood Admiral Cornwell, along with Admiral Shukar and two other highly-decorated Starfleet Admirals Sarek could not name. Flanking the podium was the entire Discovery bridge crew, all wearing medals to commemorate their bravery and valor. And occupying the plentiful rows of seats in the stadium was a large crowd of Starfleet personnel and assorted Federation dignitaries.

But despite the prestige and abundance of his present company, Sarek only had eyes for Michael. She was standing, with her hands clasped behind her back, in the focal center of the room. For this occasion she wore her new Starfleet uniform. She had also donned the Starfleet badge Sarek had recently returned to her. And on the other side of her chest was pinned a new medal, matching that of her crewmates.

While Sarek watched her, her eyes roved around the room. And her lips parted, addressing all who were present. “We are no longer on the eve of battle. Even so, I come to ask myself the same question that young soldier asked the general all those years ago: ‘How do I defeat fear?’ The general’s answer: the only way to defeat fear is to tell it ‘No.’ No. We will not take shortcuts on the path to righteousness. No. We will not break the rules that protect us from our basest instincts. No. We will not allow desperation to destroy moral authority.”

Michael paused and her voice, once confident, grew soft. “I am guilty of all these things,” she admitted sadly. “Some say that in life, there are no second chances,” she continued at her normal volume. Only to lower it again with gravity when she added, “Experience tells me that this is true.”

Sarek regarded Michael curiously when he heard these words. Had she not been given a second chance?

“But we can only look forward,” Michael went on. “We have to be torchbearers, casting the light so we may see our path to lasting peace. We will continue exploring, discovering new worlds, new civilizations. Yes. That is the United Federation of Planets. Yes. That is Starfleet. Yes. That is who we are. And who we will always be.”

The crowd behind Michael erupted into applause. Michael turned around to face them, smiling widely. And despite his Vulcan upbringing, Sarek felt a surge of pride in his ward. 

No, not his ward. His daughter.

Sarek had decided he would no longer maintain his illogical habit of avoiding that word. Refusing to use it did not change the facts, as much as he had once privately wished it might. He had raised her. On every level besides biological, he was her father. Which made her his daughter.

He also wanted her to become his mate. A desire he’d once believed to be wholly incompatible with acknowledging her as his child. But as Sarek had pondered the matter extensively over the past several days, spurred on by his conversation with the former Terran emperor, he had been forced to conclude that, in a hypothetical world where no taboo against such things existed, he would be pleased to consider her both.  

Not just his daughter. Not just his lover. But a combination of the two.

It was a state of affairs some might call sinister and perverse. As he had pointed out to the alternate universe counterpart to Philippa Georgiou, it was inappropriate in the extreme.

He knew this. And yet, somehow, that did not stop him from wanting to cherish Michael in every way possible. Nor did Sarek suspect anything ever would.

Michael was a remarkable individual. Compassionate. Smart. Talented. Brave. And tremendously beautiful. She also possessed a fragment of his katra—a piece of his own immortal soul. And for all these reasons, and more, Sarek now knew that he would always want her, for as long as she lived.

All that remained was to decide what to do about this fact.

The safest option, of course, would be to continue as he always had. To bury his inappropriate feelings and pretend they did not exist. But regaining Michael after presuming her lost for nine months had forced him to confront just how deeply he cherished her. And having a pon farr looming on the horizon without Amanda to meet his needs had a way of putting things into perspective.

If at all possible, Sarek wanted Michael to be the one to quench his flames. But in order to discover if she could possibly be as amenable to the prospect as the former Terran Emperor was adamant she was, he would have to make his feelings known to her somehow.

As the auditorium continued to thunder with applause, Sarek swallowed nervously. He was not looking forward to that conversation.

It would be risky, he knew. His previous attempt to gauge her feelings on the matter, through the usage of oblique metaphors, had not yielded any concrete results. He had noticed that her heart rate had increased and her pupils had dilated when he had placed a hand on Michael's shoulder outside of Discovery's transporter room. At one point, she even held her breath. But such slight alterations in circulatory and respiratory patterns could be caused by multiple factors, and were not necessarily indicative of reciprocal sexual attraction. And if Sarek miscalculated, he was almost certain to frighten his daughter and ruin all the good will they had built since her return from the Terran universe. A most unfortunate outcome.

But if Sarek approached the matter delicately, there was also a possibility, albeit quite remote, that his confession could open up an exciting new world within their relationship. A possibility which he found enticing enough to be worth the risk.

In fact, it was a possibility so enticing that Sarek had considered confessing the truth earlier that day. For an instant, while his hands had adjusted Michael's Starfleet badge, he had contemplated revealing the true nature of his regard for his daughter then and there. But in the end, he had refrained. Were such a confession to be received poorly, it would inevitably sour the memory of Michael’s re-acceptance into Starfleet. And Sarek staunchly wanted to avoid causing her more grief over that subject.

However, as Admiral Cornwell began to distribute medals to the rest of the Discovery crew, and list their accomplishments, Sarek decided that he would tell her eventually. Perhaps, during their trip to Vulcan.

After all this time, she deserved to know the truth. And if she hated him for it, at least Sarek would no longer have to suffer the agony of wondering what might have been.

Now, he only had to decide how he would break the news.

…

Shi’kahr, Vulcan

S’Chn T’Gai Estate

“Have thee reviewed the matches I have sent?” T’Pau asked.

She was sitting in the clan home, on a sofa, with a PADD propped up in her lap. The face of Ambassador Sarek, the most recently widowed male member of her clan, was displayed on the screen. And in response to her question, he regarded her quizzically. The temerity of him.

“Have you been attempting to find me a wife, Matriarch T’Pau?” Sarek asked.

“Of course, I have,” T’Pau said with as much indignance as Vulcan propriety allowed. “Thy time approaches swiftly, does it not?”

Sarek manifested the barest of winces. And T’Pau wanted to scoff at him. She was an old woman. She was not ignorant to the matters of Vulcan biology. Nor was she overly concerned with any reluctance Sarek might have to discuss the matter. It would be illogical for him to protest. Someone had to look out for his survival, since, evidently, he had been too busy with the Klingon war to do it himself.

Apparently, however, Sarek was feeling illogical today. “Matriarch T’Pau, these are my private affairs,” he protested.

“Spare me the speech, Sarek, son of Skon,” T’Pau urged. “I will not have thee die because of something as stupid as stubborn male pride. I know the loss of thine wife was difficult to bear—it was difficult for me as well. Although I initially discouraged the union, in time, I came to admire Amanda a great deal. Her loss is a loss to all of us. To all of Vulcan. And to all of the Federation. But she would not wish for thee to perish any more than I do.”

“Your concern is… touching,” Sarek allowed hesitantly. “However, it is also unnecessary. I have already made my own arrangements.”

T’Pau perked up on the sofa then. “Oh? And whom have thee made arrangements with? I was not informed.”

The tips of Sarek’s ears vasodilated, turning them slightly green. “Matriarch, you know as well as I that it is uncouth to make these inquiries of one with whom one is not intimately involved. Suffice it to say, I will do what is necessary to survive. Anything beyond that is not your concern.”

“Not my concern?” T’Pau repeated incredulously. What audacity! “Will thee at least invite me to the wedding?”

“If there is to be a wedding, I will, of course, extend an invitation to you, Matriarch T’Pau,” Sarek informed her.

T’Pau narrowed her eyes at the face on the screen in front of her. Sarek’s use of the word “if” was enlightening. It indicated that he was still making his choice.

Well, he had better make it fast.

“Art thou courting yet another human woman?” T’Pau inquired. That was the only reason she could fathom for him not yet marrying. A Vulcan woman would understand the need to hasten to the altar. A human, most likely, would not.

“Would you object twice?” Sarek asked, his curiosity overriding his embarrassment for the moment.

“No,” T’Pau admitted honestly. At this point, her only requirement for Sarek’s next mate was “willing.”

Though of course she would always prefer it if he chose a Vulcan. Marrying outworlders was always a risky prospect for Vulcan males, when outworlders were not educated as young adults in the ways of pon farr and could often be frightened away at the last minute by the sudden reveal. Not to mention that marrying a second human wife would lead many to cast aspersions on Sarek. To declare him in possession of some kind of… fetish for outworlders. Which, for all T’Pau knew, might be true.

It would certainly explain a lot of things. Such as why Sarek had rejected all of T’Pau’s carefully picked candidates out of hand the first time he had found himself mateless as an adult. And why he would likely do the same now.

“Thou must know that thou couldst choose from half of Vulcan,” T’Pau reminded him.

Perhaps he was unaware, because he had been traveling with that Starfleet admiral during the war. But the moment news of Amanda’s death had broken on Vulcan, T’Pau had started being approached by hordes of hopeful single Vulcans, wanting to secure a match with him for themselves.

“Then, regardless of whom I choose, half of Vulcan will be disappointed,” Sarek declared.

T’Pau’s lips thinned. He was right, of course. But that did not make his remarks any less irritating.

“Sarek, son of Skon, I must insist—”

“Matriarch T’Pau, are you offering to assist me during my time?” Sarek interrupted her to say, with evident humor in his tone. 

“Of course not!” T’Pau retorted, scandalized that Sarek would suggest it. Even in jest.

“Then I must politely ask you to desist,” Sarek replied firmly. “This line of conversation has become inappropriate for those who do not intend to be involved.”

T’Pau’s hands tightened at her sides. Why must he vex me, so? she thought, inwardly irritated beyond belief.

But outwardly, she maintained her composure. And simply said, “Very well. If you insist, I will cease prying into your personal affairs. However, you must promise me that you will live.”

“I already have,” Sarek pointed out. “But if it will put you at ease, I will promise it again: I have every intention of survival.”

“Good,” T’Pau replied.

“Now, if that is all, I will take my leave,” Sarek said.

Quickly, T’Pau pondered whether or not she had anything else she could say to convince Sarek to change his mind. To tell her more regarding his situation. But just as swiftly, she determined it would be pointless. Attempting to argue with Sarek was somewhat like attempting to argue with a boulder. A pointless and humiliating exercise. It was a facet of his personality that served him well when brokering difficult treaties. But it was absolutely galling to deal with in an interpersonal setting.

So, instead of arguing, T’Pau simply raised the ta’al. “Live long and prosper, Ambassador Sarek,” she said. And this time, it was more of a command than a formality.

Please live, Sarek. It would displease me greatly to see you die of such a preventable cause.

Sarek raised a ta’al of his own, and parroted the phrase. “Live long and prosper, Matriarch.”

Then the com line closed. The image on her PADD vanished, leaving behind only a blank screen. And T’Pau hoped that would not be the last time she spoke to him.

…

USS Discovery

Bridge

Two days later, the Discovery launched, with a full crew complement, and Sarek as a special guest.

Though it was not a passenger vessel, he had requested to be permitted to ride along to Vulcan while they journeyed to pick up their new captain, in order to spend more time with Michael. Starfleet, completely unaware of his inappropriate feelings for her, and quite aware of his status as a vaunted Federation Ambassador, had approved the trip.

But now, as Discovery flew away from Earth, Sarek was suddenly uncertain if he wanted to be here. The trip for Earth to Vulcan at Warp 8 would take eleven-point-six days. Time which he had initially planned to spend mostly mating with Michael, if she proved amenable.

However, as he traveled the ship’s gleaming metal halls, suddenly, Sarek was not so certain confessing his more-than-fatherly regard for her so early during the trip was such a good idea. If Michael rejected him, or worse, attempted to report him, it would make for a very long, uncomfortable trip.

On the flipside, if he saved his confession until they were docked at Vulcan, they would have virtually no time to enjoy together if Michael did accept his suit. And that was not acceptable either.

Sarek sighed and continued walking down the hallway, toward the bridge. As he approached his intended destination, the doors automatically opened for him. Then as he stepped onto the bridge, his eyes turned automatically toward Michael’s station.

She looked back at him, almost as if wanting to say something. But the bridge was not the appropriate place for the conversation Sarek wanted to have for many reasons. The chief one being that Michael was not alone. In fact, two other officers flanked her. And while Sarek wrestled with his longing, he overheard their conversation.

“Never been to Vulcan before,” a red-haired ensign commented.

“Well, if there’s time, I’ll show you around,” Michael magnanimously offered. Then her tone shifted, and she changed topics slightly. “It’s strange that we’re not jumping to Vulcan.”

Dr. Stamets shrugged. “Well, Starfleet has committed to finding a non-human interface. Until that happens... I’m happy to go the old-fashioned way,” he finished, smiling.

The red-haired ensign and Michael both chuckled at that. Then the bridge doors suddenly opened again. And suddenly all conversation ceased.  

“Captain on the bridge,” the red-haired ensign announced.

“Acting captain,” Saru corrected, holding up a chiding finger. “Please take your stations,” he ordered. “You may consult with Science Officer Burnham later.

Dr. Stamets and the red-haired ensign dispersed then, off to their assigned posts. Meanwhile, Michael remained at her station, and re-immersed herself in its controls.

“Thank you, Mr. Saru, for permitting me this small indulgence,” Sarek said. Then, allowing a small measure of his homesickness to color his tone, he added, “I never tire of seeing home."

“Of course,” Saru acknowledged as he moved to sit in the command chair. As he sat, he turned his head toward the helm. “Lieutenant Detmer, have we cleared the Sol system?”

“Yes, Captain,” Detmer replied.

“Set course for Vulcan, and engage at maximum warp,” Saru ordered.

“Aye, sir,” Detmer acknowledged.

And then, with a great lurch, the ship propelled forward into the void.