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Chapter Text

The bar was dark, the air rank with the stench of stale sweat and old liquor. Spilled drinks, half-dried and tacky, grasped at his boots as he stepped inside. Spotlights illuminated the two stages where each an Orion slave girl danced topless inside a barred cage for the entertainment of the few patrons seated at the scattered tables. The place was a shit hole, the kind of place where the quadrant’s trash gathered beyond the reach of any law or order, light years past the edge of civilization. The kind of place where information was currency and the wrong name could get you killed.

In possession of one such name, Christopher Pike, former captain of the USS Enterprise, looked around the dim, smoke-filled room, searching for his quarry. Three months on his tail and Pike had finally tracked him here: to this seedy bar, in this backwater spaceport, on this forgotten border world. Nobody came here unless they were running.

Or hunting.

Already the hot, cloying air inside the bar had a bead of sweat making its way down the back of his neck, but Pike didn’t remove his coat. Revealing the phaser holstered at his thigh would make him a target sooner than he was ready to become one.

Quickly he scanned the patrons with a trained soldier’s eye, cataloging their positions and the likelihood of each to cause trouble. There was the Orion closest to the door, the bulge under his coat speaking of endowment—and not the anatomical kind— the three humans near the bar, dressed in varying shades of black, cigarette smoke unfurling from their mouths, their decaying leathers adorned with more knives than they had hands for; the male of unknown species near the far cage, phaser peaking out from under his jacket, his attention fully on the dancing slave girl. Schmuck.

None were his target.

Finally, Pike spotted him. Back corner. Alone. Pitcher on the table. Chugging the contents of his mug before slamming it down onto the table, his upper lip stained as red as the wine that had been in his cup.  

Before his presence at the front could be noticed, Pike peeled his boots from the floor and went to the bar where he ordered a pitcher of blood wine and a single mug. He paid, took the pitcher and cup across the bar, not even tempted by the Orions and their seductive pheromones. He had much more important things on his mind than fucking slave girls.  

“Mind if I join you?” he asked the Klingon he’d come to see, plunking the pitcher down on the stained and cigarette-scarred tabletop. Before the Klingon could protest, he took a chair from the adjacent table, spun it around, and sat.

“Who are you?” the Klingon asked. His English was good, Pike would give him that.

Pike lifted the pitcher and refilled the Klingon’s cup like the bribe it was. “Just a man looking to have a drink.”

“Federation.” The Klingon spat the name like a curse, but it didn’t keep him from drinking the wine Pike gave him.

“Former Federation,” Pike corrected, filling his own mug.

His companion looked at him askance over his drink. “Starfleet?” he guessed and took a large swig of wine.

“Former.”

“Nobody leaves Starfleet,” the Klingon said, ruby wine like blood between his pointed teeth. “Not unless it’s in a body bag.” The words were slow, carefully enunciated like he struggled to form them.

“I did,” Pike said, lips twisted in a dangerous smile, and lifted his mug, pretending to take a small sip.

“A deserter,” the Klingon sneered. “A coward without honor.”

Pike shrugged. “Compared to some, perhaps.” What else would you call early retirement in the middle of a brutal war? “But Starfleet abandoned me a long time ago. I was just repaying the favor.”

The Klingon looked at him intently, a fighter sizing up his opponent. “Why?”

“Let’s just say we no longer see eye to eye on how this war will end.”

Another sneer. “Your Federation will crumble.”

“Perhaps,” Pike said, refilling his companion’s mug. “But they are no longer my Federation.”

“Honorless pigs,” the Klingon spat. Pike nodded in silent agreement and lifted his cup to his lips. “That is why they will fall.”

“Eventually,” Pike said when the Klingon paused to chug his wine. “It will take a while yet, but if they fall, it will be because they refuse to do what must be done.”

His companion’s mug hit the table with a metallic thud. He was drunk enough now for genuine curiosity, eyes alight with both alcohol and interest. “What’s that?”

Beneath the table, Pike’s free hand unclipped the strap on his holster. “Vengeance.” His answer was unexpected if his companion’s reaction was anything to go by. “Word is you’re the one to talk to about seeing such jobs done,” Pike said, setting his mug down.

Confusion furrowed the Klingon’s ridged brow. “Who told you that?”

Unseen in the shadows beneath the table, Pike’s hand curled around the cool grip of his phaser and silently eased it from its holster. “You ever been to Cancri Four, Ujilli?”

“How do you—” Confusion narrowed Ujilli’s eyes, apprehension colored his voice. “How do you know about Cancri Four?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”

The din of the bar was drowned out by the high-pitched whine of a charging phaser. Finally, Ujilli understood. Eyes wide with terror, he quickly pushed back from the table, overturning abandoned mugs and upending his chair in his haste to get away. But before he could even stand up straight, Pike shoved the table forward, striking Ujilli hard in the gut and knocking the Klingon to the floor.

Pike was standing in an instant, phaser aimed at the coward’s chest, watching as Ujilli crawled backwards, still trying to get away, arm raised supplication.

“Please—”

Pike didn’t even give him the chance to beg for his life. The energy built up in the phaser was released at the touch of Pike’s finger, and Ujilli disappeared in a glaring flash of orange light.

It seemed so anticlimactic, that the subject of so much rage should be extinguished thusly. Phaser fire far too clean for the messy enterprise that was murder, incineration far too quick for the months of effort he had spent tracking the bastard down. Ujilli’s cohorts’ deaths had been much more appropriate. General Kol, lifeless eyes staring up from the deck of his ship’s bridge, his own d’k tahg protruding from his neck; Dennas, killed in her bed, guts covering her corpse like a funeral shroud. Bloody, messy—viscous chaos lathered on his hands.  

But as Pike watched the glowing embers drift down to the wine spreading like spilt blood across the floor boards, listened to the steady drip of it falling over the table’s edge, he still felt nothing but satisfaction.

Vengeance was served.

“Hey!”

The bartender’s shout alerted Pike to the fact that the bar had gone deathly quiet. Even on backwater ports such as this, people tended to frown upon gunfights in their establishments. He turned, phaser still charged, long coat billowing out behind him as he spun, A quick scan of the room showed no one to be a threat. Rather than aiming phasers at him, everyone seemed to be simply staring in either curiosity or shock.

As such, he pointed his phaser towards the ceiling and disarmed it. Then, without a word of explanation, he left the bar before anyone could think to call whatever passed for authorities on this godforsaken world.

Chapter Text

On Federation worlds, brothels were highly regulated. They were clean establishments that could grant even the filthiest of desires provided everything was agreed upon beforehand, contracts inked and signed by all parties involved. Breaking that contract not only earned the infractor a black mark that banned him from all establishments for life, but also carried a sentence of up to life in prison. The Federation took consent seriously. Or, at least the show of it.

But Pike was not on a Federation world.

After killing Ujilli, he had boarded his ship and run, as far as his waning dilithium stores could take him, until he had been forced to land on this godforsaken moon on the edge of Orion territory. He’d stowed his shuttle at the docks, paid for it to be refueled, and made his way to the first whorehouse he could find.

He was in luck: brothels were plentiful near the docks, ready to service both respectable traders and pirates alike—anyone looking for the warmth of another body after so long in space with only their fist for company—provided they had the credits to pay for it. Pike had the credits, and adrenaline was still surging in his veins after his flight from whatever backwater world Ujilli had been hiding on. He was itching to either fuck or fight, and fucking drew far less attention.

And was far more pleasurable.

The brothel wasn’t the shabbiest on the block, but he could tell just by looking at the tall, narrow building that the prostitutes working there wouldn’t be charging the most expensive fees. But Pike wasn’t in the mood to be picky. The reception area was small, dark, with carpeting that used to be red and wallpaper that had probably once glittered with gold filigree. There were only two chairs and a small couch for seating, all dingy and worn and looking like they’d stood at their posts as long as the wallpaper. People didn’t often wait long in a place like this.

The humanoid male of unknown species behind the desk looked up as Pike entered, sizing up his customer. Pike knew what he saw: a man entering off the docks, the combat boots and nondescript jacket, devoid of any insignia or distinguishing badge—a freighter perhaps—graying shoulder-length hair, half pulled back from his face—no, a merc—the air of intention he rode in on—a paying customer regardless, and judging by his cleanliness and the cut and quality of his clothes, one who wouldn’t quibble over price.   

The pimp smiled a knowing smile. “What be your pleasure, sir? Perhaps you would like to peruse my exceptional offerings?” He waved his hand over the counter, activating a digital catalogue of prostitutes for Pike to flip through.

Pike was in no mood to debate the definition of “exceptional.” He filtered the menu to female, then human, and quickly swiped through the available women.

“Perhaps if you could tell me what you are—”

“Her.” Pike stopped on the image of a young woman. Brunette hair, pale skin, green eyes, a slight pout to her lips as she looked seductively at the camera. “Harmony,” the screen read, but frankly he didn’t care. He wasn’t interested in her for her fake name or the cliched, no doubt computer-generated description of what she would make him feel.

“Ah, the monsieur has excellent taste,” said the pimp, laying the Terran-isms on even thicker.

No limits were discussed, no contracts signed. Pike was not even checked for weapons, though he had left his phaser and knife in the locker on board the ship. Money changed hands, and he was given a keycard that would grant him entrance to room four-zero-nine and directed to a lift that would take him up to the rooms. The lift doors opened on level four and Pike stepped out into the dim corridor. Heavy moans filtered out through the closed doors along with cries of pleasure. At least, he hoped they were cries of pleasure. Choosing not to speculate, he touched the keycard to the sensor, the door slid open, and he stepped inside.

The room was small, simply furnished, and Pike supposed that one truly didn’t need much space or accoutrements for what they were about to be doing. Not really. There was a bed, made up with a few pillows and a thin quilt. The walls were adorned with fading fabric panels, the floor carpeted with a threadbare rug. A single light fixture cast dull yellow light from the ceiling. And in the corner, the girl—“Harmony”—sat on a limply stuffed armchair, clad only in a dark blue bra and matching thong underwear.

At the sight of her, Pike was keenly aware of the door closing behind him, shutting out the sounds of the brothel beyond. She was young. Far too young. He hadn’t seen it downstairs, looking at her image with lust-colored glasses. But here, now, alone with her in this room, she couldn’t be more than twenty, and he hoped to God she didn’t appear older than she actually was.

Fuck! Was he actually going to do this?

His dick said yes, his head said no, and his heart, long since cauterized by Klingon disrupters, didn’t give a shit.

Across the room, Harmony raised a brow. It was an uncannily familiar gesture, and, staring back at him, she suddenly seemed older than she was. She was clearly waiting for him to make the first move; no doubt experience had taught her to expect it and faced with his motionless presence in her room, she had no idea what to make of him.

With practiced grace she rose and sauntered towards him, smiling coyly. Pike detected a subtle hint of spice in the air as she neared and then stopped before him, gazing up at him seductively, still waiting for him to tell her what he wanted.

He didn’t move, caught between reason and lust. What did he want?

She was small, her head coming to his chin, her breasts made to look larger than they actually were by the bra. Narrow waist, a gentle swell of hips, and her eyes—greener than in her photo, enhanced by artfully applied makeup. It was wrong—how many years was that makeup adding? He knew it was wrong, but he did want her.

He wanted to tangle his fingers in her hair, pull her closer, and kiss her until she was breathless; to bury his head between her legs and pleasure her until she screamed; to fuck her hard and fast until they were both spent and sweaty, and then he wanted to do it all over again. He wanted to sink inside her and drown in her eyes and pretend, just for a night, that the past was only a nightmare.

At his continued silence, she sank to her knees before him, her hands going to his belt.

This is wrong.

Still, he didn’t stop her.

“What’s your name?” he asked quickly before his dick completely won out.

Startled, her hands froze, and she turned those luminous green eyes up at him. Was it the nature of his question or that he’d asked one at all that had surprised her? And Jesus fucking Christ! Why did the sight of her looking up at him like that turn him on?

Wrong.

She recovered quickly, masking her surprise with a flirtatious smile. The metal pieces of his belt buckle jangled together as she dropped it.  “Whatever you want it to be,” she purred, flicking open the clasp on his pants with expert efficiency.

She’s young enough to be your daughter, he told himself. His dick didn’t care, straining for release as she began to draw down his zipper.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Did she even want this? How had she ended up here, on her knees, ready to blow a man more than twice her age? Slavery wasn’t legal in this part of space, but that didn’t mean anything. Slavery took many forms.

At the thought his hands stilled hers. He couldn’t get the word out, but his intention was clear. She looked up, confused and clearly more than a little frightened that she’d done something wrong. Pike stepped back, a hand under her elbow gently drawing her to her feet. Holding her hands in one of his, he cupped her cheek with the other, trying to wipe the look off her face with a soft brush of his thumb. Had no one treated her kindly? Had no one considered her own desires?

The sight of her fear cracked a bit of the charred outer layer around his heart, and his head won out.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t use her, not even if he were to pleasure her while he slaked his own lust.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. With gentle pressure, he urged her the few steps back to the bed, pressed a fatherly kiss to her forehead when she’d sat, and fixed his pants before throwing down enough credits for her to hopefully buy her way off this rock and all but running from the room.

***

The bar near the docks suited Pike’s needs just fine—cheap, crowded, and clamorous. The place stank of beer and bad decisions, a step up from the bar where he’d found Ujilli only because its location made it more popular. Stepping inside was an affront to his every sense: dull yellow lights colored the scene, cigarette smoke invaded his nose, raucous shouts assaulted his ears, and if the amount of liquor on the floor was anything to go by, the drinks here were cheaper than dirt and tasted like piss.

Pike didn’t stop to look around but made his way towards the bar with single-minded intent, wading through the press of unwashed bodies and spilled beer. He managed to find an open stool though, where he ordered a bourbon and told the bartender to leave the bottle. A few shots later and he had forgotten all about Harmony and her uncanny green eyes, ready to spend his pent up adrenaline another way and drunk enough to not care about the consequences.

Funny stuff, bourbon. He’d never much cared for it before the war, but lately, he couldn’t stand the taste of scotch.

This time when he surveyed the bar’s patrons, it was through the warm, susceptible whiskey-haze which made it easier to judge who would be more inclined to start the fight he was looking for. Not the Orion, who was practically drooling into his stein; not the mercenary, who was far too sober to be lured into a bar fight; not the respectable looking Andorian, who looked comedically out of place amongst the rest of the rabble—Pike snickered into his glass and tossed back his drink, pouring another. But maybe the man in the gaudy coat and the faded top hat. Top Hat’s three companions turned and pinned him with menacing stares, fists clenching, chests puffed up.

Pike threw back his drink.

Yeah, definitely the man in the gaudy coat and the faded top hat.

“What are you looking at?” Top Hat demanded with a gold-toothed sneer. The jeweled peacock pinned to his velvet lapel winked merrily at Pike.

Drunkenly, Pike grinned. “Nice hat.”

He didn’t have time to react before the first punch knocked him off the barstool.

Chapter Text

Christopher Pike was not a wartime captain. His wife had told him that on more than one occasion, every time an engagement had ended with one of his own covered in a Federation flag, laid to rest in the cold arms of space, and he had once again drafted his resignation letter, too racked with guilt to bear letting it happen again. Winningest fighting captain in the fleet he may be, he was a man who viewed violence as failure, and he would be torn apart by the realities of war. There was no place in war for misplaced guilt, and Christopher Pike already shouldered more than his fair share of it.

Convenient then, that he was light years away surveying a nebula when hostilities had broken out, and ordered to remain there despite his official requests to return and his private pleas not to be sidelined.

“I can’t order you to the front, Chris,” she’d said tearfully, her hologram fritzy and faint passed through so many comm relays as it was. “Please don’t make me.”

“Don’t make me watch you fight this war alone. Don’t make me—” bury you from afar.

He never could finish that sentence, too afraid to give voice to his fear, as if speaking it aloud would make it come true.

“Chris…” His name, placating and soft, attempting to assuage his fears, her own a prayer on his lips. “Kat.”

The conversation had become as familiar as a favorite blanket: him begging to come home and join the war effort, her admitted selfish refusal to recall the Enterprise to keep him safe. He didn’t get to speak to her like this often, their correspondence mainly limited to letters and the occasional video comm which were easier to transmit over so far a distance, but it was always a relief to see her face when he did.

“Be careful,” he always told her.

“I will,” she always promised. “I love you.”

Rank meant that her chances of being anywhere near the front were slim. Still, he worried. Every week reports came—death tolls, names of the fallen, reports of starbases attacked, ships destroyed, convoys raided, colonies ravaged. So much death and destruction while he and his crew sat in the relative safety of the Pergamum nebula.

It was unconscionable.

Weeks, months passed, and every day he feared that the next report would bear her name, followed by those three dreaded letters: KIA.

The crew of the Enterprise existed in a constant state of fear—fear for their loved ones, fear for their home. Work provided no relief from the anxiety, the science no distraction. The Pergamum had become their own special circle of Hell, constantly tormented by their own fears and the bits of news that trickled in, torn between wanting more and fearing what that might mean.

Eventually word reached the Pergamum of peace talks that would hopefully precipitate a ceasefire. A thread of hope wove itself through the Enterprise, as tentative as a summer breeze in the doldrums, parting the perpetual cloud of anxiety for the first time in months to reveal smiles shining through like rays of sun. Even Pike allowed himself a shred of optimism. Perhaps, soon, this war would finally end.

Perhaps, soon, they could go home.

And then the day came, the worst day of his life: a brief report stating that the negotiations had failed, and a separate letter addressed to him, written on official letterhead.

To Captain Christopher Pike, It is with my deepest sympathies that I write to inform you that Admiral Katrina Cornwell was killed in action on Cancri Four while attempting to negotiate a cessation of hostilities with the Klingon…

No…

Pike swore his heart stoped, and he was suddenly overcome with the sensation of falling, his world fading to the words on the screen.

Admiral Katrina Cornwell…killed in action…

No matter how many times he read them, the words didn’t change.

He remained there for the rest of the day, alone in his ready room, holding the letter he refused to believe. He didn’t even stand up from his desk. He couldn’t have. He could hardly breathe. If he moved, if the moment in which he learned about her death ended, it would be real, and he would have to carry the knowledge into the next one and face this life without her, knowing that he could never move on, knowing that he’d never even had a chance to say goodbye. If he left this room, he would have to tell the crew that their hopes had been for nothing, that the war was still raging outside their small pocket of the galaxy, that their loved ones were still dying while they surveyed and cataloged and charted.  

So he didn’t get up, he didn’t move, and for a while, time ceased to flow. Until the unanswered chime resulted in Una bypassing the lock and coming to stand before his desk.

“Captain?”

Concern colored her voice, but Pike couldn’t manage more than a glance of acknowledgment.

“Chris, what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t say it, couldn’t make it real. He just stared at the PADD in his hands until she reached for it, cautiously easing it from his slackened grip, waiting for him to stop her from taking it, but he never did. He knew the moment she’d read the truth by the way her breath caught in her throat.

“Oh, Chris. I—I am so, so sorry.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Then, “What do you need?”

“I—” He found himself still staring at his empty hands. A curl of his fists, clenching impotently. He looked up. “I don’t—”

He didn’t know.

Kat was gone.

Kat was gone, and he didn’t know what to do, what to say, what to be. There was a ring on his finger that said he was married, but he wasn’t anymore, was he?

Nothing was right anymore. She was gone. How could she be gone?

“It’s okay,” Una said when he didn’t go on. “Take your time. I’ll be here if you need me.”

He nodded.

“Would you like me to tell the crew? About the negotiations?”

The crew. Duty.

Life had to go on didn’t it? Duty didn’t have time for grief.

Pike sniffed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “No.” A pause to clear his throat so he could force the words out. “I’ll do it. It should come from me.”

“Okay.”

It was Una who got them through the next few days. Morale was at an all-time low with news of the failed peace talks. Word of their captain’s loss also made its way around the ship, carried on furtive whispers until everyone was acting like startled mice at the sight of him, afraid to speak for fear they would say the wrong thing.

Would the captain appreciate another “Sorry for your loss”?

“Should we say something?”

“Should we say nothing?”

“Should we pretend it didn’t happen?”

But Pike didn’t care about whispers or sidelong glances or crewmen giving their condolences. He had known, he and Kat had both known, that this was always a possibility. Space was dangerous; there was always the chance that it would claim one or both of their lives. But she wasn’t. Supposed. To. Be. There.

What hadn’t the Federation sent an ambassador to Cancri Four? Why Kat?

Why?

He had to know.

A captain’s security clearance only got him so far, the majority of information about the massacre on Cancri Four being either classified or so heavily redacted as to be rendered useless, but he discovered that it was a shuttle from the USS Discovery that had been lost on Cancri Four. A comm to Captain Lorca was ignored, a message sent to the Discovery answered by Commander Saru who explained that Ambassador Sarek had been injured just prior to the negotiations and that Admiral Cornwell had gone in his place.

Another message, a plea for more information, more questions, questions that even in writing Saru seemed hesitant to answer. Why was she on the Discovery? To speak with Captain Lorca. Why didn’t the Federation send another ambassador? There hadn’t been time. Did anyone search for survivors? Captain Lorca had ordered no action without authorization, and Command had refused to give it. Why kill everyone? It had been a trap—

Wait. A trap? How had Starfleet’s intelligence operatives missed such crucial intel?

Saru didn’t know. When the Klingons had broadcasted news of the massacre, Saru had thought that Captain Lorca would want go after them, but Lorca contacted Command for orders, and Command had ordered them to stand down. Ambassador Sarek needed medical attention anyway and—

Lorca. Katrina had gone to the Discovery to see her friend. Why?

More digging, more comms sent to Command, files pulled, reports reviewed, anything he could get his hands on that would tell him about the Discovery’s missions leading up to and after the massacre.

Access to Katrina’s personal logs had been granted upon her death. He tore through them, looking for anything, any scrap of information that would tell him why she had gone to see Gabriel. Most recent was an entry with a single mention of Lorca: “I worry about him. He hasn’t been the same since the Buran.” Further back: “Gabriel escaped the Klingons. I’m more relieved than I can say.” Back further still: “The Buran was destroyed. Gabriel was the sole survivor… He was cleared for duty… It’s too soon.”

Gabriel Lorca had always been a little too brazen, a little too unorthodox for Pike’s taste, but he had been Kat’s friend since the Academy, and even Pike had to agree that Gabriel was a good officer. If Kat had thought that something was wrong, if she had thought that he wasn’t psychologically sound after all that he had endured, she might have gone to the Discovery to help him.

Command didn’t care about mental stability: they needed every officer they could get, especially one who produced results like Lorca—if his record was anything to go by. They wouldn’t leave their prize stallion in the stable, even if he was unbroken. Not now. Not during a war.

But if Kat had any suspicions, she made no record of them. Still, why else would she be on the Discovery?

Then she had gone to Cancri Four on what Saru had said had been Lorca’s suggestion when the talks would have otherwise been canceled. And why not let them fall apart rather than walk ill-prepared into the most important negotiation of her life?

Because Kat would have done anything for the chance of peace. Going in Sarek’s place was simply who she was. Pike knew that.

No inquiry was launched, no investigation into the events on Cancri Four authorized. Starfleet Intelligence would never admit to their failure, and Command had a war to fight. The bodies of the dead were never even recovered.

“We can’t spare the ships,” Admiral April had said when Pike had commed to ask.

Pike had to clench his fists to keep his hands from shaking. But he couldn’t stop his words from trembling with fury. “She dies trying to end this war, and you can’t even be bothered to bring her home?”

“I’m sorry, Chris.” The look on April’s face said that he meant it, but sympathy and regret weren’t enough to calm Pike’s seething resentment. “Katrina deserves better, but we have a war to fight. And I think she would have understood that. I need you to let us fight it.”

“Orders?” Pike forced out through clenched teeth.

“Unchanged. April out.”

Unchanged.

Pike reached for the first breakable thing he could find—a brandy snifter—and hurled it at the wall.

It wasn’t enough.

His resignation was brief, a few sentences about grief and disillusionment. Kat had ordered him to remain in the Pergamum; it was ironic then that his resignation was what got them recalled. April urged him to reconsider, but Pike was adamant. If Starfleet wouldn’t find out what had led to the events of Cancri Four, he would find out himself.

First was Cancri Four where the Elders were more than willing to speak with him about what had happened that day.

It had been a trap; Intelligence hadn’t missed the intel—they’d just failed to warn Katrina.

Starfleet had contacted the Elders of Cancri the day before the scheduled negotiations, stating that the Klingons were planning an ambush and that their representative had been ordered to turn around. But before the Elders could evacuate, the Klingons had arrived, Dennas and Ujilli and their guards.

“There was nothing else we could do,” the head Elder lamented about accepting the Klingon representatives. “We are neutral in your war.”

Pike nodded, understanding.

“We kept information about their true motives confined to only those with the highest clearance, and that was our mistake, our failure.

“Because then Admiral Cornwell and her retinue arrived unexpectedly, and before we could warn them about the trap, the shooting had already started. By the time we could rouse a team and get them into the chamber, the Klingons were gone, and everyone was dead. Our condolences,” he added with a slight bow.

Events still didn’t make any sense.

If Sarek had been ordered to turn around, that meant he had known about the trap. But why hadn’t he said anything to Kat? Perhaps his injuries had been severe enough that he hadn’t been able to say anything. And Command wouldn’t want to broadcast what they knew for fear of exposing their asset. But why hadn’t they said anything to Lorca? How had Kat been allowed to go?

He did get to see her body, washed clean of blood and preserved in stasis. She’d been tortured before the second bolt of energy had claimed her life. It hadn’t been clear in the holo recording, but it was then.

Grief strangled him like a noose, the sight of each wound cleaving furrows of rage through his soul.

Why? If they had wanted something from her, why not just take her prisoner? Why try to extract that information here when there was a chance of being ambushed themselves before they got what they wanted?

No, they wouldn’t. This was torture for torture’s sake.

And she. Wasn’t. Supposed. To. Be. Here.

Once, years ago on Talos Four, Vina had told him that hate was hard to hold onto, that you couldn’t keep it at the forefront of your mind forever.

She was wrong.

Hate was easy. Hate had embedded itself inside him before the tears had dried on his cheeks, entwining around his heart. He could hear it in the roar of blood in his ears, feel it in the bite of her badge in his fist as he stared at her broken body, roots spreading, pushed further with each thunderous beat of his heart, choking out anything once good or decent inside him, blood and bone replaced with enmity and loathing, until all he was left with was the hate. And the need for revenge.

He buried her there, on the neutral territory of Cancri Four in a grave he dug himself beneath a flowering albion tree. According to the elders, albion flowers signified everlasting love. There were easier ways to bury the dead, but this he needed to do himself. Hatred pushed the spade into soil wetted with his grief, anger lifting the dirt away to make a space for her in the earth. Again and again and again. And when he laid her to rest, the albion tree released a single peach-colored blossom. It floated down, spinning in its descent, to land on her casket. In the blossom’s delicate embrace, he placed his wedding band so that a piece of him, the symbol of his love and devotion, would remain with her. Always.

With the new elders presiding at a respectful distance, he had said goodbye, and clenching her badge in his fist, he had sworn revenge.

Dennas was first. Dennas of House D'Ghor. She was easy enough to track down, and it was easy enough to mask his life sign as he stalked through the corridors of the high house. A dampening field, a carefully calibrated phaser, and then he had set about extracting the information he needed.

As he’d suspected, Dennas and Ujilli had been operating under orders—orders from General Kol of House Kor in return for the promise of cloaking technology.

When it was done, he looked at his hands, drenched in Klingon blood, and he thought that he should feel something. Horror. Disgust. Regret. But he felt nothing.

The reek of burning flesh fouled the air. Her screams of pain seemed to echo through the bed chamber, but Pike knew the sound was only in his mind, a sound he would not soon forget. He could still feel his knife parting her flesh while she hurled insults and spat obscenities— “She screamed like a stuck targ while I tortured her!”—feel the warmth of fresh blood flowing over his hand as it pressed into the wound.

Nothing.

He didn’t know if the names she gave him were the guards who had participated in the massacre or simply offerings sacrificed on the altar of his fury, but he killed them anyway. Slowly.

Then was Kol, less easy to find but possessing of more information, and more than willing to share it, overconfident in the midst of a duel he’d thought he would win.

“General Kol,” Pike had said, stepping out of the shadows on The Ship of the Dead, phaser aimed at Kol’s chest, “I want to talk.”

It had taken a small fortune and a data chip containing classified intel on how to fool Klingon sensors, but Pike had managed to hire a couple of mercs to get him within transporter range of Kol’s ship.

“Who are you?” Kol demanded. “You speak Klingon?”

Keeping one hand on his phaser, Pike reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the universal translator as he stalked closer, waggling it between them. “Universal translator,” he said to Kol, stowing the device once more. “A little product of human ingenuity.”

“All I see is another attempt by humanity to rob us of our identity.”

Pike shrugged and resettled his stabilizing hand on his weapon. “You’re probably right. But I can’t say that I give a shit about Klingon identity.”

Kol’s red-painted visage hardened. “Why are you here on my ship, Federation intruder?”

“Cancri Four,” Pike stated. “Before I kill you, I want to know why.”

“Cancri Four?” Kol repeated, as though he were trying to remember the significance of the name, and then, having recalled it, he laughed. His soldiers joined in, cruel laughter ringing out across the bridge like the peel of discordant cathedral bells.

“I thought Klingons were honorable,” Pike called out over the sound.

The laughter faded, and Kol sneered, pointing one claw-tipped finger at Pike accusingly. “As if you understand honor.”

“Where is the honor in senseless torture?”

“And you have come to avenge them?”

 “Not them,” Pike said, recentering his aim. “Her.”

“Ah...” Realization washed over Kol’s expression, quickly turning to a mocking smile. “I can see the admiral meant something to you, Pike.”

His name amid the string of Klingon syllables before the translator rendered them into English had come as a shock, and it took every ounce of training Pike possessed not to show it. “I can see you do your homework,” he said dryly.

Kol grinned menacingly, a flash of stained and pointed teeth.

Pike began to feel the tell-tale burn of fatigue setting into his shoulders. Damn it, how long had they been talking? He needed to hurry this along; he wouldn’t be able to hold Kol at gunpoint much longer. “Tell me why,” he demanded.

The general sneered. “Very well, Federation. I will tell you why. If you can prove yourself,” he added, unsheathing and throwing down a curved blade. It skidded across the deck plating until it slid into the toe of Pike’s boot and came to a stop. “And then I will send you to join your wife in the afterlife!”

Pike glanced down at the d’k tahg, then back up at Kol, trying to gage whether or not the Klingon was trying to bait him into another trap. But then Kol unsheathed a second blade, and all around the bridge the General’s soldiers watched with interest at the sight playing out before them. Still, Pike didn’t holster his phaser until the d’k tahg was in his hand.

Warily, he approached his opponent, knife at the ready.

Kol struck first with a bellow of rage, a downward slash that would have cut right through Pike’s face if he hadn’t raised his guard in time. The blades clanged when they came together, the kiss of steel on steel ringing out as Pike pushed Kol’s arm away, landing a well-aimed front kick to the Klingon’s stomach, forcing the general back. Quickly, Pike followed, pressing his advantage.

The Klingon blade was awkward in Pike’s grip, its foreign shape unwieldy, throwing him off balance as he slashed and parried, and his former combat instructors certainly would have had a thing or two to say regarding his footwork. There was nothing elegant or graceful about the way they hacked and stabbed at each other, punching or kicking when steel failed to draw blood. The fight ranged across the bridge. Kol had the advantage as he knew the terrain, and Pike had to be careful to not allow himself to be backed into a console or down a set of stairs. The Klingon was also bigger, stronger; but Pike was quicker.

Pike guessed they’d been fighting for five minutes—an eternity in an all-out fight—when they broke apart, both breathing hard. Sweat coursed its way down his face, but he didn’t dare pause to wipe it away.

“Tell me about Cancri Four,” he demanded. “Or are you completely without honor?”

“You know nothing of honor!” Kol bellowed. “It was your Federation who offered insult, trying to turn the Houses against one another with offers of support in return for military aid. It is you who are without honor.”

Kol struck again, the slashes and thrusts coming too fast for Pike to do anything more than parry and retreat until his back was nearly to the bulkhead and he had to slip to the side to avoid Kol’s thrust to his stomach. Hurriedly, Pike put some distance between them and caught his breath.

“I’m curious, Pike,” the general said stalking after him. “Did you already kill the captain?”

“What captain?”

“The captain of the USS Discovery.”

Shock gave Kol the opening. The Klingon swung, slashing with his knife, but he was enjoying too much the look of disbelief on his enemy’s face to kill him outright, and the d’k tahg only scored Pike’s left biceps. The pain brought him back to the moment though. He danced back, knife raised, ready to strike the next time the general gave him an opening.

“What does Lorca have to do with this?” Pike demanded between breaths.

Kol smiled, gleeful. “Everything.”

Pike was careful to keep his footing as they circled one another. “Enlighten me.”

“Less than a week before Cancri Four, House Mo’Kai captured Captain Gabriel Lorca of the USS Discovery.” Lorca’s name was twisted on Kol’s tongue. “Knowledge of the Federation’s secret weapon was finally within our grasp. Until he escaped, along with another high-value prisoner. But not before the captain had stolen Mo’Kai decryption codes. It was just days before that when a message from House Kor to House Mo’Kai about the planned ambush on Cancri Four had been intercepted by the same ship.”

Lorca…

“Lorca escaped the Klingons…”

“It’s too soon…I worry about him.”

“He hasn’t been the same…”

It was Lorca who had suggested that Kat take Sarek’s place at the negotiations.

Pike knew that Kat would have done anything to end the war, and that was something Lorca would have know as well.

There were still gaps in the story, questions that may never be answered, but one thing was absolutely clear: Lorca had known about the trap. And he’d deliberately sent her into it.

Pike didn’t know why—perhaps she’d expressed concern about Lorca’s mental fitness, made some sort of threat to his command, or perhaps it had been something else entirely. But her friend had knowingly sent her to her death, and Command had covered it up rather than admit that she was never supposed to have been there.

“Tell me, Captain,” Kol said with a taunting smirk. “Is Starfleet in the habit of sending its admirals into known traps?”

A faint, a well-aimed thrust to Kol’s wrist, whirling, and the d’k tahg was plunging into the general’s neck before Pike faded away in the grip of the transporter.

By then Ujilli had caught wind of Dennas’ murder, word of Kol’s fall spread quickly, and the last Klingon had gone to ground, always one step ahead, until Pike had caught up to him in that bar and exacted revenge for what the piece of shit had done. And it had been easy, so easy to pull that tigger, to reduce Ujilli to ashes, to torture Dennas to death.

One by one those who had tortured and killed his wife had fallen until now there was only one left: the man who had knowingly sent her into that trap. Gabriel Lorca.  

Chapter Text

A cold sheet of water splashed onto his face, unceremoniously yanking him into consciousness. Gasping and sputtering, Pike lurched up with an angry shout. “What the fuck?” And immediately winced at the pain in his side and the hammer beating the inside of his skull. Blinking the water from his eyes, he pushed dripping hair off of his face and looked around for the perpetrator, finding himself face to leg with a pair of faux leather boots—the cheap kind that cracked and peeled with wear. His eyes climbed up denim-clad legs, black shirt, black jacket, brown hair, green eyes.

“You.” The word hurt coming from his parched throat, his voice cracking, and damn—it felt like a Klingon marching band was using his head for drum practice.

“Me,” said the prostitute.

Pike found himself half lying, half sitting on the pavement, surrounded by hardened coins of chewing gum, empty beer bottles, and things probably best left unscrutinized—things that could probably explain the sour taste in his mouth. An alleyway, judging by the overstuffed trash receptacles and the narrow street.

Well. This would certainly be embarrassing if he weren’t too hungover to care.

Gradually, the aches from last night began to assert themselves, the skin on his face and hands stinging, the slight metallic taste on his tongue as bloody water droplets trickled to his lips, his ribs screaming in protest as he slouched back against the stucco siding he’d slept against. Which building he spent last night in the arms of, he didn’t know, nor did he particularly care.

“What the fuck do you want?” he demanded of the girl, wiggling his throbbing molar to see how many roots it was still holding on by. More than one it seemed. Perhaps he’d keep it.

“I wanted to make sure you were still alive,” said the girl whose name probably wasn’t Harmony.

Pike’s left eye didn’t seem to be working properly. Gingerly, he probed at the surrounding flesh and winced, finding it swollen and tender. “Apparently,” he said dryly. Though, the pain in his head was currently making him wish otherwise. God, what time was it? It was far too early for the sun to be this bright. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

She didn’t move, instead staring down at him as if he were a discarded puppy and she was trying to decide what to do with him. Then, “You look half dead.”

Dropping his hand, he gave her a look that said  “Gee, thanks,” and let his head rest against the wall. Perhaps he’d pass back out, and she would do him the favor of fucking off by the time he woke up again.

“Did you get mugged or something?”

Too drunk to have considered that last night, Pike sat up a little and frantically patted his pockets, searching first for the metal disk in his inner jacket pocket. It was there—thank God—and miraculously, everything else felt present, too. “Or something,” he said, relaxing against the wall once more. Something ached in his back. Kidney, probably.

“Did you start it? The fight?” Her tone was disapproving, the elder scolding a child suspected of misbehaving.

Pike glared at her from his one good eye. It was too damn early, and he was too damn hungover to play twenty questions. But even half conscious as he was, he could see the implacable set to her expression.

He scoffed. Wasn’t that just his luck? She was bossy. Naturally. It was too much to hope that she would just leave him to his misery.

Then he shrugged. Or something near enough. “It was either fuck or fight.”

“And since you didn’t want to fuck me…”

“I don’t fuck kids,” he snapped irritably, drawing his leg up and resting his elbow on his knee so that he could massage the growing headache between his eyes, the one that was entirely her fault.

Then he looked at her, assessing her in the light of day. She was wearing makeup, not as much as last night, but still enough to make her age hard to judge in his current state.  “How old are you anyway?”

He didn’t miss the way she stood up a little straighter and raised her chin ever so slightly before she said, “Eighteen.”

“Jesus fuck!” She was just a fucking kid. And he had almost—

“Stop swearing.”

Pike shot her a look that said he didn’t appreciate her mothering in his current condition. She was entirely unmoved.

The girl whose name most definitely wasn’t Harmony crossed her arms, expression intransigent. “So you decided to lose a fight instead?” The way she said it made her question feel like an accusation.

“Who says I lost?” he shot back.

She raised a brow, her look of exasperation saying “you’re the idiot passed out in an alleyway.” It was enough to make him forget his lingering shame and laugh. Or rather, it would have if his chuckle weren’t immediately arrested by the pain lancing through his ribs and the pounding in his skull.

Damn it, his head hurt. Correction: everything hurt. And he could really use something to drink right about now.

Relaxing against the building, his eyes landed on the plastic bucket next to her foot, the one she’d no doubt used to wake him up. “Is there anything left in that?”

She glanced down at the bucket as if she’d forgotten about it. “Oh, um, no. But Mrs. Lee—she owns the restaurant you’re currently shacked up with—will have something cleaner for you.”

It was Pike’s turn to raise a brow, an affronted one that took offense at being woken with a bucketful of dirty water. The girl whose real name he didn’t know returned it, reminding him once again that he was the idiot who’d passed out in an alley. And, she was right. He sighed heavily, dreading the pain and effort it would take to get up off the ground.

As if reading his thoughts, “Harmony” took a step closer and offered a hand. Having at the moment what amounted to a negative supply of pride, Pike took it without thought and let her help him to his feet, and if he had felt old enough to be her father last night, the stiffness in his back and the audible pops in his knees as he heaved himself up made him feel like her grandfather.

The motion of helping him to stand pulled the collar of her jacket away from her neck, revealing dark, finger-shaped bruises that most definitely hadn’t been there last night.

Pike grabbed her jacket, yanking aside the collar. “What the fuck is that?”

The girl slapped his hand away and pulled her jacket back up, clutching it close to hide the bruising. “Nothing.” All at once, her entire demeanor changed, shoulders hunching, her arm wrapping protectively around her middle as she looked anywhere but at him.

“Who the fuck did that to you?”

At that she did look up, eyes wide, but her stare lacked her previous confidence. “Stop swearing,” she said meekly.

But Pike was too angry to consider the change in her. “Who?” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Her gaze fell away, her eyes landing on some low point on the wall behind him. Almost unconsciously, she released her jacket and rubbed at her neck, as if she could so easily wipe away such violence. “The man who came in after you wasn’t so kind.”

Pike swore and turned away, anger, guilt, and the goddamn pounding in his head causing him to clench his fists. God fucking damn it! Punching the wall would do absolutely nothing for nobody, he knew. But damn it, it was tempting to try.

“I’m fine,” the girl assured him quickly, a hint of worry in her voice. “Nothing permanent.”

“It is not fine,” Pike admonished, fury momentarily overcoming his aching head and ribs as he whirled back around, his words clipped with anger—for her, for the man who’d hurt her for his pleasure. “You were supposed to leave, take those credits and get off this damn rock. Why the hell are you still here?”

The girl whose name he still didn’t know stared at him intently for a long moment. Then she sighed, stooping to pick up the bucket, and tilted her head towards the street. “Come on.”

Chapter Text

It was a Chinese restaurant from what Pike could tell, though it didn’t look like it from the outside. Like the rest of the block, the building was plain tan stucco, shabby, with a neon sign above the door that read “Lee’s” and several Chinese characters below. But the windows were the good forcefields—clear as glass—not the kind that flickered every other second, and inside the place was clean and bright, decorated in red and gold and pops of green from the live plants that spotted the space. Several round tables were spread out around the dining room and more half circle booths lined each wall.

As the door closed behind them, a middle-aged Asian woman came through the swinging door that Pike guessed led back to the kitchen. She was about as tall as the girl, dressed in a floral blouse, black pants, and comfortable shoes.

“This him, yăngnü?” asked the woman—Mrs. Lee, Pike presumed—wiping her hands on the towel hanging from the pocket of her burgundy apron. “The john?”

“Tā shì, māmā,” the girl responded.

Pike looked between the two women. He was either still drunk or they were speaking Mandarin. Or Cantonese. He never could distinguish the two languages. Or was it dialects?

Whatever. It was far too early for linguistics.

The older woman glared at him and said something else, the words coming too fast for him to follow before she walked back into the kitchen, and Harmony called after her, “Wǒ huì, wǒ huì!” Pike didn’t need a universal translator to interpret the exasperation in her tone. With an air of teenaged dramatics, she rolled her eyes and took hold of Pike’s sleeve, steering him toward an empty booth. “Sit,” she ordered.

Pike sat. “You speak Chinese.” He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. They were a long way from the nearest Chinatown, and she didn’t look Chinese, but that didn’t mean anything.

The girl whose name he still didn’t know gave him a look that said “obviously” and left him there, disappearing through the same swinging door Mrs. Lee had gone through.

When she returned, she’d shed her jacket, put her long hair into a pony tail, and tied a half apron around her waist. She pushed backwards through the swinging door to accommodate the tray she was carrying laden with a pitcher of water, a plastic cup, and an Asian style teapot and tea cup. More Chinese words came from the kitchen, along with the sound of something sizzling on a grill. Harmony shouted something back that sounded like “Wǒ zhī dào!” It was clear that they were bickering about something.

“The tea is for your headache,” Harmony said, unloading her tray onto the table. “Mrs. Lee’s hangover remedy. Ancient family secret. Let it steep for five more minutes.” She poured him a glass of water and left the pitcher on the table.  

“Thank you,” Pike said, picking up the glass and drinking greedily.

Once more the girl disappeared through the swinging door, returning this time without the tray and carrying what looked like a med kit which she dropped onto the table without ceremony. “I’ll fix your eye for you and then Mrs. Lee will have something for you to eat.”

Pike demurred, intending to lick his wounds in private once he’d gotten back to the runabout. “That’s not necessary.”

“You did darken her stoop with your patheticness,” she said archly. “The least you could do is let her feed you.”

Pike stared at her while she continued rifling through the med kit, wondering if helping bruised and hungover strangers was something she did regularly or if he was a special case. At last she found what she was looking for and pulled out a very ancient looking dermal regenerator. Pike had seen similar devices when he was a kid but not since he’d entered the service. And that was…

His access to the newest tech and the latest medical equipment was something he’d always taken for granted serving in Starfleet. But that decrepit dermal regenerator in the hand of a girl whose name he didn’t even know put things into harsh perspective.

“You don’t even know my name,” he said finally.

Harmony sighed melodramatically, turning his statement into a chore as teenagers were wont to do, and asked with feigned interest, “What’s your name?”

“Chris.”

“Now can I fix your eye?”

Pike nodded and she stepped close. The device hummed to life at the touch of a button, purring sluggishly as if healing his flesh were an effort too great to be goaded into. The beam vibrated against his skin, tickling far more than its modern counterparts would ever dare.

Slim fingers beneath his chin sought to lift his head up; Pike flinched at the touch. Harmony turned off the device, quickly pulling her hand away.

“You okay?” she asked with a look of concern.

Pike cleared his throat and forced himself to relax. After what he’d nearly done last night, if she could stand to touch him, he could sit still for her ministrations. “I’m fine.”

Her brow arched doubtfully, but she switched the regenerator back on and resumed. And when she touched his face again to turn his head to the side, Pike did his best to think of anything but those same fingers unbuckling his belt, the feel of them brushing his dick through his clothes as she unzipped his pants. Her touch was detached, her expression dispassionate when he glanced up, but he couldn’t help but think about how old she really was. Shame had him practically squirming in his seat as he desperately searched for a distraction.

“You never did tell me yours,” he said over the buzz of the regenerator. Her eyes flicked down to his in question. “Your name,” he clarified.

“If I said Harmony would you believe me?” she asked, hooking his chin with a finger and turning his head forward again.

“No,” he answered, chuckling slightly.  The sound felt foreign, the tugging at the corner of his mouth awkward. It had been so long since he’d had occasion to laugh. But ten minutes with this girl and he was chuckling. It felt…good. Certainly better than dwelling on what had almost happened yesterday.

She smiled, amused. “Lyric.”  

After his eye, she healed the cut on his lip, then the myriad of other scrapes and bruises on his face and hands, the regenerator humming a protest all the while. Pike thought the poor thing would give out at any moment.

“Sorry we don’t have anything strong enough for your ribs,” she said as she moved the beam over a cut on his knuckle. At his puzzled look, she explained. “I noticed you were moving as if they hurt.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll do it myself when I get back to my ship.” And the rest of it, he added silently, hoping that his kidney was still functioning properly. Guess we’ll find out sooner or later.

Probably sooner.

“You a freighter or something?” she asked.

“Or something.”

 When Lyric was finished with his hands, she tossed the regenerator back into the medkit and then poured the tea, pushing the cup towards him with a curt, “Drink.”

Cautiously, Pike sipped it. It was bitter in that medicinal way that told him it would do exactly what she’d said it would. He took another sip.

“The bathroom is back that way,” Lyric said, nodding towards the hallway to the right of the kitchen door as she picked up the med kit. “Wash your hands.” And then she disappeared back into the kitchen.

After finishing the cup of tea, Pike slipped out of the booth and wandered back to the bathroom where, after he’d found out that his kidney was most likely fine, he stood in front of the mirror. He’d managed to find an extra rubber band in his pants pocket earlier to replace the one he’d lost last night and pull back his hair, and Lyric had done an excellent job removing any trace of bruising or swelling. But it was still more than obvious that he’d gotten into a fight last night. Regenerators healed cuts and bruises; they did not wash away dirt or sweat or blood. That he had to do himself in the sink.

By the time he went back out into the dining room, Lyric was pouring more tea into his cup. He slid into the booth.

“Drink,” she ordered.

He complied because his head was already feeling better for it and was a few sips in when Mrs. Lee pushed through the kitchen door bearing a tray with two steaming bowls of soup which she set on the table, one in front of Pike and the other at the place across from him.

“Gingered broth,” she told Pike, setting a pair of chopsticks and a spoon before him. “For your stomach. Bèn dàn,” she added under her breath, and Pike didn’t think it was a compliment.

“Thank you,” he said anyway and looked down at the bowl. The soup smelled divine. Onions, herbs, and bok choy floated in a clear broth along with noodles and what looked like several types of meat. Suddenly starving, Pike picked up his utensils.

As Lyric slid into the booth across from him, Mrs. Lee folded the tray under her arm and said something else in Chinese to the younger girl, a faint smile on her face, and an obvious twinkle in her eye. Lyric groaned, blushing. “Aiya māmā! Stop!”

Still smiling, Mrs. Lee glanced once more at Pike before turning and walking back into the kitchen. Lyric had suddenly found her soup very interesting.

“What was that about?” Pike asked her, blowing on a spoonful of broth.

With a heavy sigh, Lyric rolled her eyes and picked up her chopsticks. “She thinks you’re an idiot. But now that your face is fixed, she says you’re pretty enough that she’d do you for free.”

Pike swallowed so hard he nearly choked, hot broth burning his still-parched throat. Coughing, he took a sip of water, acutely aware of the stain embarrassment had left on his face. “She knows what you do?” he asked when he could speak again.

There was that look again, the one that told him to stop being so dense.

“She’s not really…”

“My mother?” Lyric laughed, a sound befitting both her names. “No. And she’d kill Pal if she thought it would actually change anything.” She took a bite of noodles and explained. “My parents sold me to Pal to pay off their debts.”

Pike’s chopsticks slipped on a piece of meat, splashing broth onto the table, the shock of her statement leaving room only for a sharp, “What?”

“Pal—Palvoen, you met him last night—he’s not all that bad. He doesn’t beat us or rape his girls.” She sounded so nonchalant, like she was fucking grateful.

“No,” Pike said angrily, “he just lets other people pay to do it for him.”

After nearly thirty years in the service, Pike had witnessed phenomena most humans would only see secondhand, explored worlds that defied the imagination. He had loved and lost, experienced a great deal of life’s mysteries and the hardships of war. But the look Lyric gave him in that moment made him feel utterly ignorant and unworldly. It was a look that said he was sheltered, unaware of people’s true natures or the realities of life beyond the borders of the Federation. And that she pitied him that.

And perhaps she was right to. That a mother could sell her daughter into that life, that a father would force his child to pay for his own mistakes…

The Federation wasn’t perfect, its people weren’t perfect, but it was a place where Lyric’s family would never have had to make the decision they did.

Pike didn’t have children, but he knew that if he did, if he had been faced with the same choice, he would have starved himself, worked his fingers to the bone before he would let his child suffer for his own short fallings.

And perhaps it was naïve—no, it most certainly was naïve to believe so. He couldn’t possibly know her family’s circumstances, but he did not want to live in a world where what had happened to Lyric was even an option.  

So he stared right back, returned her pitying gaze with one of steely conviction, and when he broke the silence, the words had to be forced through the storm cloud of fury in his chest.

“How long?” he asked.

“For what?”

Pike ground his teeth, and immediately relaxed his jaw at the pain in his loose tooth. Damnit! He was furious about having to explain himself, about having to speak the words out loud. “How much longer until the debt is paid off?”

Color rose in her cheeks as her mouth opened and then closed, her gazing falling from his so she could stare at her soup, the first sign that she wasn’t all defiance and sarcasm. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, the words laced with a note of shame.

“Some of the people who work there choose to, and they can make good money, even after Pal takes his cut. But the rest of us, the indentured, everything we make goes to paying our debts. We don’t get a credit unless someone tips us—which is rare in this part of town—and even that is taken away if it’s discovered. And Pal gives us nothing for free. If we don’t get enough work, we sleep on the street and go hungry or else that too would get added to our debt. That’s actually how I met Mrs. Lee. She found me in that same alley one day searching through the garbage for something to eat.”

Lyric paused and released a heavy breath, like she was pushing away the memory. “Now she gives me three square meals a day and a free place to sleep in exchange for helping out in the restaurant when I can, but the truth is…” Another breath, this one preparatory, before she looked up and said, “I don’t know how much longer until the debt is paid because it grows faster than I can get work to pay it.”

Her gaze fell away from his to some point to the right of her soup bowl, an uncertain tilt to her head and a hesitancy in her expression that Pike didn’t understand.

“I know I’m not—It’s rare that—” She sighed, a frustrated sound. “The more popular girls, there’s something exotic about them: hair, skin, age,” she said, and then shrugged. “I got more work when I was younger.”

Suddenly, Pike wasn’t very hungry anymore. The furious storm roared in his chest, howling for retribution. Horror and revulsion rolled in his gut, twisting tight. His fingers pressed hard against his utensils, fists thwarted by metal chopsticks and a cheap plastic spoon, and his words were little more than a growl. “Are they still here?”

“My parents?” Lyric asked. Pike nodded. “No. They’re still on Jericho, where I was from.”

Pike didn’t know where that was but he imagined it couldn’t be far.

Lyric had gone quiet, picking at her soup with her chopsticks but not eating. Pike looked down at the bowl in front of him. Disgust still took up too much room in his stomach, but he knew he should eat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had. Had he eaten dinner last night?

And Mrs. Lee was right: the broth had done wonders for the sour taste in his mouth and the nausea in his gut before Lyric had gotten detailed about her past. He loosened his hold on his utensils and took a bite, careful to chew on the left side of his mouth.

“Who was she?” Lyric was watching him curiously, elbow propped on the table, head in hand.

Pike swallowed. “Who was who?”

“The woman I remind you of?”

He froze, noodles halfway to his mouth.

She sat up. “Most men either don’t see me at all or they see me as someone else. I’ve learned to tell the difference. You requested me, but you were looking for someone else, and if it hadn’t been for my age, you might have had her for a night.”

Years of practice meant Pike could guard his expression, but every muscle in his body was tense, a rabbit hoping the predator will pass. The kid was too observant for her own good.

And far too inquisitive.

“You know,” he said, chopsticks poking at his soup, “it’s not nice to analyze people without their consent.”

“Doing so is why I’m still alive,” she said without a trace of remorse, and he found that he couldn’t begrudge her that. “Is that why you went out and lost a fight? To punish yourself for wanting me when you shouldn’t?”

He wanted to deny it, but his desire would have been more than clear to her yesterday. And he certainly hadn’t sought a fight he could win.

Pike blushed, caught.

Damn her. She was too young to be this insightful, forced to grow up too fast to survive. Her insight, coupled with her familiar features, made it feel almost as though he were sitting with a younger version of his wife.

Almost.

“You ever consider a career in psychology?” Pike asked before he thought better of it. When he realized what he’d said, he winced. No, she probably wouldn’t have thought beyond surviving long enough to pay off her family’s debt. “Sorry.”

But Lyric didn’t seem offended. She scoffed and said, “I’ve had enough of other people’s problems, thank you.”

Pike could appreciate that. He looked back at his soup and pinched a piece of meat with his chopsticks. Briefly, he wondered whether or not the meat was synthesized this far out, but decided not to speculate.

“So. Who was she?”

He shot an annoyed glare across the table. “I thought you’d had enough of other people’s problems?”

Lyric raised her hands in surrender and returned her attention to her soup.

They ate in relative silence, Pike chewing carefully, mindful of that damn molar. The click of chopsticks and the gentle ping of plastic spoons on ceramic bowls were the only sounds to be heard in the dining room until their bowls were empty. Remembering vaguely that there was a rule about chopsticks and etiquette, Pike watched carefully as Lyric laid hers across her bowl and mimicked her. The soup and the tea had indeed done wonders for his hangover, and aside from his aching ribs and still damp clothes, he felt almost as good as new.

It was time to move on.

“Thank you,” he said. “For…” A gesture to indicate his healed face.

“Can’t say it’s been a pleasure,” Lyric said lightly, smiling, “but you are welcome.”

Chuckling, Pike stood and glanced at the door that led back to the kitchen. “Can I pay for the meal?”

“Mrs. Lee wouldn’t appreciate the offer.”

“Well, I’d at least like to thank her.”

Lyric shrugged and began stacking their dishes. Pike ventured back to the kitchen, pushing the door open part way. Mrs. Lee looked up from whatever she was frying on the grill.

“Thank you,” he told her.

Mrs. Lee said something in Chinese, and Pike felt a tug at his jacket: Lyric, pulling him away from the door.

Confused, he stepped back and let the door swing closed. “What did she say?”

“To stay out of brothels and bar fights.”

Pike frowned. Okay, maybe he deserved that.

“Where will you go now?” Lyric asked.

“I have some unfinished business in the Federation.” Lorca was still out there, somewhere, and so far Pike’s efforts to track down the Discovery had led nowhere. If he were to have any chance of finding the bastard, he would need the resources of Starfleet.

Lyric went eerily still. “You’re going to the Federation?”

“That’s what I said.”

Her next words came quick, breathless—desperate. “Take me with you.”

Of everything she could have said, that was the last thing he’d expected. “What?”

But she was completely serious. “Take me with you.”

“What about your family?” Had she considered the repercussions they might face if she ran away? Would this Pal fellow go after them if she disappeared?

Lyric’s expression hardened, her eyes flashing with steely anger. “My parents sold me into prostitution. They are not my family,” she said resolutely and while Pike agreed with that sentiment, that didn’t mean he could just take her with him.

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war where I’m going.”

“And you think I’m any safer here?” She gestured to the bruises on her neck and Pike found he didn’t have an answer to that. “I’m indentured. That means that even if I could buy a ticket off this godforsaken rock, my face will be plastered on every no-fly list from here to the next quadrant. But you, you’re not a passenger ship. You can take me. Please,” she added.

When he didn’t answer right away—still mentally listing all the reasons he should leave her here—she reached beneath her apron into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out a credit chip. “I’ll pay you,” she said, holding it out to him. “This is everything you gave me last night. I managed to hide it from Pal. It’s all I have. You can have it back if you take me.”

Offended, Pike batted her hand away. “I don’t want your money.”

His rejection made her indignant, and she stood a little straighter. “You told me to leave. This is the only way.”

He thought about it, he truly did. A chatty teenager who looked like his wife was the last thing he needed tagging along while he insinuated himself back into the organization he’d scorned so that he could hunt down a murderer. But he also couldn’t leave her here in virtual slavery, not with her practically begging him to get her out, and certainly not when he’d already told her to leave.  

But still…

“You don’t even know me,” he said. As protests went, it was a lame one.

Green eyes flicked down to his hands. Hands that had killed, hands that had tortured, hands that had stilled her own in a moment of glaring clarity. “I know enough,” she said, and then added another, “Please.”

Pike looked at the girl standing before him, her eyes wide and pleading, all trace of temerity and sarcasm gone as she waited on tenterhooks for his decision, and it was his wife’s voice he heard in his head, telling him that vengeance wasn’t the only thing that mattered in this universe and reminding him once again that he had always been her moral compass. And if there had ever been one person he could never say no to in this universe, it had been Katrina.

Something told him that this was a terrible idea, but suddenly, a bit of that previously spurned weight of responsibility settled onto his shoulders in the shape of a sarcastic teenage girl intent on reforming his vocabulary. “Fuck.”

Lyric grinned. “Stop swearing.”

Chapter Text

Their flight from Demeter was unhurried and uneventful. Running would only make it look like they had a reason to run. But Pike still didn’t relax until they’d cleared the atmosphere and his ship was pointed toward Federation space.  

It had been late afternoon by the time they left Mrs. Lee’s and made their way towards the docks. Mrs. Lee had seen them off with a motherly hug for her foster daughter and a menacing glare for Pike. The tears in her eyes took all the threat out of her stare, however, and Pike simply nodded once, silent, waiting until Lyric had said goodbye to the only person who’d showed her an ounce of kindness on this godforsaken rock before spinning on his heel and walking out of the restaurant, trusting that Lyric would follow.

Their deal was simple: passage to Federation space where Lyric could claim asylum, and in return, she would stay out of his way. Pike was still certain that this was a bad idea, but one look at the bruises on her neck and he knew that he couldn’t just leave her there.

Lyric had nothing to pack. “Nothing worth bringing,” she’d said, which was good because a suitcase or duffle bag would only invite speculation. They blended seamlessly into the crowd of traders and laborers making their way to and from the docks, he just another freighter who had overindulged in liquor and whores, and she his surly crew member forced to scrape his ass off the pavement. Sometimes the truth made for the best of lies.

He hadn’t bothered trying to disguise Lyric’s appearance, instead hiding her in plain sight. “Don’t try to look inconspicuous,” he told her. “It’ll only make you stand out and invite questions.” Pike had taken part in enough undercover missions to know that trying to remain unseen often only shined a spotlight. The best way to avoid detection was to believe you belonged. People often only saw what they expected to see; give it to them, and you could render yourself invisible.

At the ship, Pike had hid Lyric on board before he went and paid the berthing fee, thankful that the man on duty was not the same one who had been there last night. Once onboard, he closed the hatch and ran through the systems checks as fast as possible. Everything was in order, the ship fueled and ready to go. And then they were airborne.

Lyric might not have been able to purchase passage off of Demeter, but planetary security was non-existent out here. No blockade, no scans, no questions as the kilometers between them and the surface grew.

Once they were a safe distance away and Pike was comfortable leaving the ship on autopilot for a time, he gave Lyric the grand tour. The runabout was larger than a shuttle, but there was still only one bunk room with two beds—only one of which was made up—and one small head on board.

“Bridge, head, bunk, and you saw the cargo hold,” Pike said, pointing to each in turn. “Don’t go into the engine room, and don’t touch anything you don’t know what it does. Better yet,” he amended, “don’t touch anything. I’m going to grab a shower.” He wasn’t too worried about her causing trouble; he’d locked down the bridge controls so there wasn’t much she could do besides answer the odd hail. And God help the poor bastard on the other end of that comm.

“Good,” she replied, her tone as withering as her glare. “You’re starting to ferment.”  

Pike didn’t know why her brazen audacity continued to surprise him, but once the brief flare of shock had worn off, he felt a smile tug at his lips as he started for the head. And if he were honest, as the sonic waves vibrated along his skin, he couldn’t remember being more grateful for a shower in his life. Or for up to date medical technology, he thought afterwards as he tended to his ribs and the mottled bruising on his torso. There was nothing he could do for his tooth with the equipment he had on board, but the medical tricorder had said that his kidney was fine, just bruised. The rest of his injuries took only minutes to heal with the deep tissue regenerator, poor decisions erased as if he’d never made them.

Except there was a teenager on his ship to prove that he had.

Inwardly Pike shuddered and glanced heavenward, sending a silent prayer for strength to whatever god was listening.

He supposed he should feed her.

Sighing, he put away the regenerator and prepared himself for whatever sight would greet him outside the head.

“Are you hungry?” Pike asked when he returned to the bridge to find Lyric in the pilot’s seat, sitting on her hands as she spun the chair around in lazy circles. Apparently she’d taken his order not to touch anything literally. At his question, she stopped the chair with a foot planted on the deck.

“There isn’t much but MREs,” he said, “but it’s hot.”

“Sure.”

In the cargo hold, Pike sifted through the case of meal packages, listing off their options as he searched for something she wanted. “Tacos. Spaghetti and marinara. Pea soup. Plomeek soup. Macaroni and cheese—”

“Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly.

There was no mess hall on the runabout so they ate seated on storage crates in the cargo hold, a third positioned between them as a pseudo table, warmed foil packages in hand. Pike had even managed to scrounge up some disposable napkins for the occasion—quite the extravagance compared to the months he’d spent traveling and eating alone on the bridge.

For all her excitement for what was no doubt a nostalgic treat, the look on Lyric’s face when she took a bite said just how displeased she was with the actual product. “Uhg! That’s disgusting,” she said, mouth full, eyeing the package with a comical look of distaste. Pike chuckled and continued to eat his own dinner. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Karma,” he said flatly.

Lyric glowered, and damnit if that look combined with those eyes didn’t put a mournful ache in his chest for their familiarity.

“What?” she asked, and Pike realized he was staring. Her expression had softened, now somewhere between curious and concerned.

Quickly, he looked down at his packet of sorry pasta, stirring it with his fork, and schooled his expression into neutrality. “Nothing.” Damn it! He knew this was a bad idea. Why had he agreed to let her come along? Maybe he could drop her—

He heard the crumbling of her stabbing at the package with her fork and looked up in time to see her make a face as she swallowed another bite. “Do they all taste this bad?” she asked, clearly hopeful for a better tasting dinner in her future.

“Nope,” he replied, popping a bite of macaroni into his mouth, chewing carefully. “The plomeek soup tastes like nothing.”

Lyric groaned, but to his surprise continued eating without further complaint. Then he remembered what she’d told him earlier about her life before Mrs. Lee had found her and realized how messed up her relationship with food must be. A meal she didn’t have to work for or scrounge from the trash would be a relief no matter how foul it tasted.

Swallowing, Pike told her, “You get used to it after a while.”

The only good thing about MREs (besides the fact that they took up very little space and lasted for virtually forever) was that there was no clean up.

“You can take the bunk room,” he said to Lyric after recycling their empty packages and utensils, trash turned into energy. “That door also leads to the head if you want a shower. There’s an extra toothbrush in the vanity drawer, and a dermal regenerator for your neck.” At his mention of her neck, Lyric reached up and rubbed at the bruises which had only darkened over the course of the day. “I don’t have anything that’ll fit you, but there’s some extra clothes in the far drawers you can borrow to sleep in and a fresher to wash your own.”

“What about you?”

“I have some things to take care of, but I’ll sleep on the bridge if I need to.” Wouldn’t be the first time either.

She looked uncertain, biting her lip in thought as she glanced between the two beds in the bunk room and the bridge, but thankfully didn’t press him. Pike didn’t need much himself, and his mission didn’t require anything beyond an engine to get him from point A to point B and sensors to plot his course, but discussing their limited sleeping arrangements with her, he had to admit, the runabout had suddenly become very cramped.

After a moment, Lyric nodded and turned to leave. But halfway to the bunk room she stopped, turning back to face him. “Hey, Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

It was her tone more than the words which rendered him speechless. Not just grateful, though he could hear that in her voice, but indebted, her thanks weighted with the realities he’d helped her escape and the knowledge of just how narrow that escape had been. If he hadn’t walked into that brothel. If he hadn’t chosen her. If he hadn’t crashed in that alley. She could still be there right now, credits changing hands like she was a thing to be bought instead of flying towards asylum, safe and able to sleep in peace knowing that no demands would be made on her.  

Even from across the room her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and the sight forged another crack the hardened shell around his heart.

He didn’t know what to say. But even if he’d had the words, he couldn’t have spoken them, his throat clogged with anger and hatred for those who had used her, the people who had sold her, the bastard who had left those bruises on her neck. So he simply nodded, accepting thanks she should never have had cause to give.

A shy smile curled her lips upwards before she turned and disappeared into the bunk room.

It was a near thing, keeping his fists from clenching until she was gone, fury surging beneath his skin, vengeance chomping at the bit, ready to strike at those who had caused her pain. He couldn’t kill them all, not when he needed to get her to the promised safety of the Federation as soon as possible. But as he looked at the star chart on the navigation panel, he knew his anger could settle for those who had forced her into that life.

***

Blood didn’t wash off easily. Pike knew this, and yet it always surprised him when he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at the blood dried into the creases of his knuckles and it didn’t rinse off, evil staining his hands.

Whose evil? His? Or the bastard whose blood was crammed beneath his nails?

He deserved it, Pike reminded himself. The monster that lived inside him concurred. He deserved it.

He had. And the piece of shit was lucky to still possess his worthless, pathetic excuse for a life. Pike hadn’t intended on leaving anyone alive, but the sight of the child in the doorway while her father gaped like a suffocating fish on the dining room table and her mother begged for her own life meant that Lyric’s parents still breathed.

It had been easy enough to find them. Before they’d left Mrs. Lee’s Pike had asked for Lyric’s full name. Lyric Price. Even outside of a Federation database, a name and a location was enough information to track down the pieces of shit who’d sold her into slavery while she took her turn in the head.

Jericho was located one system over from Demeter. Going there meant backtracking several hours after Lyric had gone to sleep, but revenge—justice—was well worth a little lost time. If he was lucky, she would never know what he intended to do, knowing that she’d either try to stop him or she’d turn a blind eye. If the former, she would hate him—and why the fuck did he care about that?

 If the latter…

She was too young for the latter. They are not my family. Pike knew that kind of hatred. Lived it. Breathed it. He had long since become the result of hate, pure and unadulterated, and he wouldn’t wish that kind of hatred on anyone. Better that she never knew.

Despite his attempts to remain silent, she’d woken briefly while he readied—black fatigues, boots laced tight, the buckle on his tactical belt clicking together. Half asleep she’d looked from him on the other side of the bunk room to the viewport which now showed nothing but black. No stars, no planets, just the pure black of a private hanger four klicks from his destination.

“Where are we?” she’d mumbled sleepily.

“There’s something I need to take care of,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

Miraculously, she’d listened, or she’d been too tired to question him further.

Sheathing his knife, Pike holstered his phaser at his thigh and set out.

He’d expected poverty; he might have changed his plans had he found it, if their choice to sell their daughter had been made under extraordinary circumstances. But the Prices’ home was extravagant by the standards of Jericho, clean and well furnished.

Scrub scrub scrub, the stiff bristles of the scrub brush abraded his skin, so much blood, his hands coated to the wrist. He could still feel the frantic pulse pounding beneath his hand, crimson blood staining his skin as his fingers tightened…

“Feel that?” Her father’s eyes bulged, his mouth gaping for air. He struggled, but Pike had ensured that he was bound tight. Helpless. “Some prick wrapped his hand around your daughter’s throat just like this while he raped her.” Pike’s hand tightened further. One small movement and the man’s neck would snap like a dried twig. “You sold your own child into prostitution to be raped by perverts twice her age. And now you’re going to pay for it. You are going to feel exactly what she felt.”

And he had.

Violence had become surprisingly easy, the blood on his hands now a part of him, seeped into his skin, a banquet for the starving devil that lived inside him.

It hadn’t always been so. Once, he would not have been capable of such savagery. Once, he had viewed violence as failure. Once, he had been a good man.

But no more.

Scrub scrub scrub, blood caked beneath his nails, the stink of fear saturating his clothes.

The bastard yet lived, something Pike regretted, but he hadn’t expected the child. He wouldn’t soon forget her, thumb in her mouth, hair tangled with sleep, her large green eyes full of both apprehension and curiosity as she stared up at the stranger in her home as if he weren’t a violent threat while her parents begged for their own lives, her cowardly father pissing himself in fear.

“If I ever find out that you used another child to escape your poor decisions, I will hunt you down and I will take the debt from your flesh. Do you understand me?”

A frantic nod, the throat beneath his hand slippery with blood.

Scrub scrub scrub…

“Where did you go?”

Fuck.

Pike looked over his shoulder to find Lyric standing in the doorway, dressed only in his T-shirt, arms crossed, hair mussed with sleep. How had he not heard the door open? Why the fuck hadn’t he locked it?

“Go back to sleep,” he ordered dismissively and continued scrubbing at the blood under his fingernails.

But of course she didn’t listen, her voice only sounding closer when she asked, “Is that blood?”

“I said go back to sleep!” he shouted, the scrub brush clattering into the sink as he released it and gripped the counter’s edge in an attempt to control the anger still raging inside him. Why couldn’t she for once just fucking listen?

Undaunted, Lyric remained where she was.  “Where are we?” There was a note of suspicion in her tone.

Pike didn’t answer, continuing to grip the counter as if he could crumble it like dirt in his fists, the drain gurgling as it drank the water still flowing from the tap. At his silence, Lyric turned and went to the view port where the planet of Jericho was still shrinking in the distance. Giving up on his hands, Pike rinsed them and turned off the tap, drying his hands on a towel.

With a gasp, Lyric turned from the viewport, incredulous, looking at his face, then down at his hands, taking in the state of his clothes, sweat-soaked and blood-stained. There was an entire room of distance between them but still she stepped back, arms crossing protectively around her middle as she regarded him warily. Pike stood for her scrutiny, unmoving lest the caution in her eyes turn to genuine fear. Her gaze slipped from his, looking around the bunk room, pausing momentarily on the viewport before landing on him once more, her spine straightening, jaw tightening, all trace of caution gone from her expression as she stared at him. He could see the truth in her eyes: she knew what he’d done, and there was a tiny tick in her cheek that said she had something to say about it. Still, she was silent for long moments, some internal debate going on inside her head.

 “Who are you?” she asked at last. “What are you? A merc? Military? Special forces?”

Since he was none of those things, not any more, Pike remained silent.

There were still bruises on her neck. Too distracted to have internalized the sight of them in the light, he noticed them now, deeper shadows dappling pale flesh. Anger flared at the sight. Why the fuck hadn’t she healed them?

Lyric scoffed, unsatisfied. “Are they alive?”

“Yes,” is all he answered.

He didn’t tell her about her sister. Jericho child protective services would look in on her; he would keep tabs. It was enough for now.

For a moment, she looked as though she were going to say something more but ultimately decided against it. Silent they stared at one another from across the darkened bunk room until the dried blood on his wrists began to itch and he turned away, wrenching the handle to turn on the tap.

“Why the fuck didn’t you fix your neck?” he demanded.

Her tone was just as commanding when she bit back,  “Stop swearing.”

Slam! His hand came down on the handle, arresting the flow of water, the countertop unyielding in his grip.

Fuck!

Did swearing remind her of her father who had sworn with every sentence when he wasn’t begging for his worthless life? Or did it have something to do with her patrons, hurling obscenities while they forced themselves on her? Either possibility twisted his gut, fanned the flames of rage inside him until his hands itched for another throat.

Releasing the counter, Pike yanked open the drawer, pulled out the dermal regenerator, and slammed it shut again, the contents rattling and shifting in protest at his rough treatment. With clipped, purposeful strides he crossed the room, boots smacking the deck with each step, hardly having the presence of mind to care whether or not it was fear that flashed across her face at his approach.

But Lyric held her ground, glaring up at him defiantly.

Mere seconds away from holding her down and doing it himself, he thrust the regenerator at her. “Fix. Your. Neck.”

“Why?” she questioned, haughty. “It won’t erase what happened.”

Pike ground his teeth despite the pain it caused. The pain was good, necessary, a sharp blade cutting through the rage clouding his mind. No, it wouldn’t erase what had happened to her. It would only make it easier for him to forget, and damn her for being so insightful, practical, logical—

“Fine,” he snapped, throwing the device onto the bed. She could heal herself or not. It wasn’t his concern.

Then he stomped back into the head, remembering to lock the doors this time. Of course, it was only after he had stripped and turned on the shower that he realized he’d forgotten to grab any clean clothes.

***

She found him in the pilot’s seat sometime later. Apparently he’d been more tired than he’d thought and at some point had fallen asleep sitting up. Wasn’t the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Hey,” he said, scrubbing the sleep from his face with a brusque hand. Based on the last time he’d looked at the chronometer he knew it was morning, or whatever passed for morning in space. “Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“No. Yes. But I did figure out how to make the coffee,” she added triumphantly as she handed him the mug she was holding. “It’s disgusting by the way.” She was dressed in her own clothes again, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and the bruises were gone from her neck.

“Yes, I know,” he said and took a sip. It was a bit weaker than he usually made it, but still just as awful as ever. “I’ll show you where the sugar is. And there’s some powdered milk around here somewhere.”

“I don’t think sugar will help that.”

“No,” Pike said, “but it might save you a few taste buds.” Another sip and he stood. “Okay, breakfast.”

On the Enterprise, breakfast was prepared fresh daily, an all-you-can-eat buffet of rotating entrees and sides, delivered right to his cabin if he wanted. Out here, breakfast came in one of seven prepackaged flavors—six now that he’d eaten all the maple syrup flavored oatmeal.

“Let’s see,” he said, flipping through their options. “Sausage scramble, oatmeal with apples, oatmeal with blueberries, oatmeal with cinnamon, oatmeal with—”

“Let me guess,” Lyric said dryly. “Raisins?”

“Bananas,” Pike said, holding up the package and then putting it back at the face she made. “And, of course, everyone’s least favorite oatmeal: plain.”

“You really like oatmeal, don’t you?”

“Not really.”

Lyric didn’t look convinced. “Rehydrated eggs sound worse than rehydrated cheese, so I’ll take…cinnamon.”

“Excellent choice,” he said with false enthusiasm, taking one for himself.

Once again they sat across from one another over a cargo crate, warmed foil packets in hand, disposable napkins lending a modicum of civility to the meal. The oatmeal was easier to eat than the pasta with his loose tooth, if only because it required less chewing. It was still basically rehydrated preservatives, the flavor not quite right and the texture so far beyond palatable there was no salvaging it. And Pike began to suspect that showing Lyric where the sugar was kept had been a bad idea when she poured nearly half a cup into her oatmeal package before finally declaring it “edible.”

She looked her age without makeup enhancing her features. Between his rage and the darkened room, he hadn’t noticed it last night, but under the harsh, white lights of the cargo hold it was clear just how young she was. Shame took up residence in his belly. No longer hungry, he looked down at his half-eaten breakfast. He had been five seconds and one poor decision away from fucking her and walking away without a second thought. A fucking kid.

It only got worse when Lyric decided to break the silence.

“Pal made us heal all the injuries we got,” she said, stirring the contents of her breakfast. “All of them. He wanted his clients to believe they were getting a fresh product, as untouched as possible. Eventually it became almost as bad as getting the injuries themselves. For once I just wanted to feel like what happened mattered.” She scoffed quietly, dismissing her own feelings. “Stupid, I know.”

Suddenly, Pike didn’t like that she’d healed the bruises for his sensibilities. The few bites he’d managed to eat rolled in his stomach, and he thought he might be sick.

He swallowed thickly, forcing the sick feeling back down into his stomach, and had to clear his throat before he said, “No. Not stupid.”

Inside her foil packet, Lyric’s spoon tapped at her breakfast.  “But I could tell it upset you to see them. I didn’t realize how much until last night.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Sorry for what? For nearly being the man she’d expected him to be? For making her erase her scars as if they didn’t matter? For the hate and the anger that had driven him to Jericho and put her father’s blood under his nails?

Finally she looked up. “It matters to you.”

It wasn’t a question, but still he said, “Yeah,” anyway so that she knew he cared.

Lyric stared at him like he was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out. He wasn’t sure whether she eventually did or not, but she nodded and continued eating as if she had.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?” asked Lyric from the copilot’s chair.

She’d come up to the bridge not long after breakfast. No doubt she’d run out of ways to amuse herself on her own. Unexpectedly, Pike found that he didn’t mind her presence there, even if she did stare with a curiosity he could feel. He’d decided that she could stay as long as she remained quiet and stayed out of his way.

And for a whole minute she had.

Pike’s jaw clenched at her question, causing him to wince. Damn tooth.

He glanced to his right. Her feet were drawn up onto the seat, her arms wrapped around her legs, head resting atop her knees.

“Looking for my ship,” he said. “Shoes off the furniture.”

With a grudging sigh, she complied, boot soles thumping against the deck. “I thought this was your ship.”

“It is.”

“You have another?”

Inwardly Pike winced. The Enterprise wasn’t his anymore, but he couldn’t help but look. Still keen was the litany of ships destroyed by Klingons, those names delivered along with the names of the dead. Had the Enterprise suffered a similar fate? “I did.”

There was the hiss of a zipper, then another, the th-thunk of something heavy hitting the deck, and Pike glanced over to find Lyric once more with her feet drawn up onto the chair, this time sans shoes.

“How long until we reach the Federation?”

“We’ll cross into Federation space in about a week,” he said, “but we’ll need to find a Starfleet ship unless you don’t want to see Earth until you’re as old as I am.” The runabout was warp capable, but with a maximum cruising speed of warp five—and that barely sustainable—they wouldn’t be seeing Earth any time soon without the help of a ship with a better warp factor.

“We’re going to Earth?” She sounded excited.

Pike kept his attention on the sensors. “With the war going on, Earth is the safest place for you to be.”

“What about you?” He could hear the frown of confusion in her words.

“I told you,” he said, taking care to keep the irritation out of his voice. Good God she talked a lot. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

Lyric scoffed. “Like I don’t know what that really means.” Crossing her arms, she leaned back in her chair, setting her feet atop the navigation console.

Pike froze. He hadn’t considered the implications of Lyric knowing what he’d done to her family. Would she turn him in? “Is this going to be a problem?” he asked.

“No.”

Unsure if he believed her or not, Pike just grunted in acknowledgement and turned his attention back to the sensor readout. Whatever happened, he’d deal with it when it happened. No use worrying now.

They existed in blissful silence for nearly another whole minute before Lyric broke it. “I could stay. I could help you. Whoever—”

Pike wasn’t sure which angered him more, her words or her eager tone of voice. He spun his chair around and cut her off before she could finish that thought. “Like hell you will!” His outburst didn’t seem to surprise her; she just stared blankly back as he continued his angry admonishment. “You get that thought out of your head right this instant young lady. I hear one more word like that out of your mouth, and I will drop you on the nearest planet and you will be walking to the Federation. Do I make myself clear? Do I?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said tonelessly, facing the forward viewport.

“You are going to claim asylum, and then you are going to Earth and that is final.”

She slouched further into the seat. “Whatever.”

Pike wanted to send her to her room for her insolent behavior, but Lyric was not a child—for all that she was certainly acting like one. She was also very much not his child. But he was angered by her suggestion and her petulance, and that anger wanted to punish her for her misbehavior.

“Get your feet off the console,” he snapped, reaching over to shove her feet off the nav console.

Almost before her feet hit the deck, she shot up out of the chair, releasing a frustrated scream of protest before she stormed off the bridge.

“Put your damn shoes on!” Pike shouted after her. The last thing he needed was for them to hit turbulence and for her to break a toe because a stray cargo crate landed on her foot.

She stomped back onto the bridge, and with a derisive glare, bent to grab her boots before she stalked off to the bunk room.

Pike fumed. Where on earth had she gotten such a foolish notion? Help him take care of Lorca. What in God’s name had put that idea in her head? And what had made her think that he would ever agree to it?

In his anger, Pike flipped the sensor toggle switch harder than necessary and the damned thing broke off the console. “God fucking—” Stooping, he snatched up the broken part and hurled it down the corridor where it landed with a metallic ping.

Fucking perfect. Now he would have to replace the infernal thing. There was a spare somewhere in the cargo bay, but hell if he knew which crate to look in.

It ended up being the fifth one he looked in, and as he strode back to the bridge, no less irritated than when he’d gone to look for the part, he swore that he would update his labeling system. To actually develop a system if he were honest. Which he was not.

Replacing the switch meant disassembling half the helm, and Pike was no engineer. It took all day, and he kept dropping the tiny screws that held the mounting plate to the internal circuit board, which only made him more frustrated and made the job take twice as long as it should have.

But the work did give him something else to be angry with, which shifted his ire from Lyric to whoever had designed the console and allowed him to rethink their argument while he turned screws.

Perhaps he could have handled his temper better.

Pike snorted in amusement because he could practically hear Katrina’s gentle reprimand. Perhaps? Really? Chris.

Okay fine, Katrina, you win. I definitely could have handled my temper better.

And he knew exactly what she would say to that. And why didn’t you?

She just made me so angry with that ridiculous offer!

Is it so hard to believe that she would want to repay you for helping her?

Pike considered that thought as he placed the four screws that held the top panel in place and began tightening them each by degrees until the panel was secure.

No, he finally admitted to himself. I suppose it’s not. Though, he did also have to admit that accessory to murder was not the offer he would have expected from her.

And it made you angry?

You’re damn right it made me angry!

Why?

I won’t let her end up like me!

Suddenly exhausted by his admittance, Pike lowered himself to the deck with a heavy sigh, leaning back against the newly repaired helm. There was an extra screw beside his leg, one he’d missed replacing somewhere inside the console. He picked it up and threw it across the bridge, listening to it ping-ping against the deck.

He wasn’t supposed to care. He’d agreed to get her to Federation space and asylum and that was it. He wasn’t supposed to care about her or her future. And yet, he did. Already she’d managed to crack that hardened shell around his heart, and the fresh air making its way beneath the charred surface grated against the raw muscle.

Reaching into his pocket, Pike pulled out Katrina’s badge and ran his thumb over the deltas, thinking.

Lyric had become sullen and insolent after his admonishment, mumbling disrespect, so very different from the brazen kid who had no problem ordering him to stop swearing or deliberately pushing the limits of what he would allow. He recalled the look in her eyes when he’d raised his voice, not fearful or defiant, but vacant, a complete lack of emotion.

That was it. She had shut down when he yelled at her, a response so immediate, and by now so ingrained, he doubted she was even aware of it, and what he had taken for insolence had actually been her retreating further and further into herself.

Trauma response.

Fuck.

She’d done that in the alleyway too, hadn’t she?

She did.

And last night, that step of retreat despite the distance already between them, her arms wrapping around her middle.

Pike scraped a hand down his face and sighed. Damn it.

He should probably go talk to her, apologize at the very least.

A glance at the chronometer told him that it was well after dinner time. He hadn’t heard Lyric come out of the bunk room for lunch, and since she hadn’t emerged yet for dinner, he had a feeling that she would rather go hungry than face him at the moment.

God! he hoped he hadn’t irrevocably broken her trust.

Another sigh.

Finally, he tucked Katrina’s badge safely back in his pocket, heaved himself off the deck, and went to the cargo hold to find something to eat. It was only after he’d heated the foil packages that he’d realized what he’d grabbed and winced. Too late to heat something else, he set the packets on the cargo-crate-turned-dining-table, along with spoons and napkins, and then went to the bunk room. The door was locked as he’d expected, and there was no answer when he tentatively rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Lyric?” he called, knowing she could hear him. He could override the lock, but he wanted to respect her privacy as much as he was able in such close quarters as they currently shared. “It’s dinner time.” Still nothing. “Lyric? Lyric, open the door.” When again there was no answer, he added a contrite, “Please.”

Finally the door opened. She’d been crying. That much was clear from her swollen and red eyes as she stood firmly in the doorway, arms crossed.

“I-uh, made some dinner,” he said lamely,

“I’m not really hungry.”

“You should eat something anyway. You haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“I had a protein bar,” she said, and while Pike was busy trying to figure out when she’d snuck out of the bunk room to rifle through the storage crates she added, “I found it in your pants.”

Oh. Which pair—?

What? No. It didn’t matter.

“Well in that case,” he said, “I’ll eat, and you can just listen.”

He stepped aside, indicating that she should precede him into the cargo hold. After a moment in which he thought she would refuse and he wondered what he would do if she did, she complied, trudging reluctantly into the hold and sitting heavily on the nearest crate, arms still crossed. Pike took the other.

“Not more mac and cheese?” she asked, not bothering to hide her disinclination. She eyed the package like it was a snake about to bite her until either hunger or curiosity got the better of her and she finally reached for it.

“No, even worse,” he said as she tore the package open the rest of the way and sniffed. “Chili.”

He didn’t know if it was the smell or his description of the meal that caused her to wrinkle her nose, but the gesture reminded him of his wife, specifically a memory from long ago, at the bar near headquarters. Celebratory shots for Philippa’s promotion—Philippa’s idea, and Kat never could resist Philippa’s wheedling. But Katrina never liked shooting alcohol. “Life is too short for cheap whiskey,” she would always say. And the good stuff was too expensive to waste. She was also terrible at shots, so Pike was not convinced it wasn’t just an excuse to get out of it, because Katrina also never liked anything she couldn’t do perfectly.

Pike was several bites into his dinner before he said, “I’m sorry I yelled.”

Lyric remained quiet, her gaze fixed on the foil package in her hands, stirring the contents absently.

“Your offer took me by surprise and I lost my temper. It’s not something I’ve needed to control for a long time,” he confessed, “but that’s no excuse, and I’m sorry.”

 Pike had always been as quick to anger as he was to shoulder unnecessary guilt, a trait he’d no doubt inherited from his father—the anger, not the guilt. Charlie Pike didn’t feel guilt. Or remorse. And Charlie Pike certainly never apologized. Not when he’d spooked Chris’ pony causing it to break it’s leg, and he’d put him down without a word of sympathy for his heartbroken son. Not when his anger at losing a contract had shattered Willa’s great-grandmother’s crystal vase, an heirloom she had treasured. Not when losing his job had caused him to take a swing at his own son when Christopher had tried to take the bottle away. Chris had refused to heal the cut on his eyebrow, wanting his father to see every day what he’d done. But Charlie Pike never apologized, and Christopher had the scar to this day.

That scar was a reminder. A reminder of the man young Christopher Pike swore he would never become. A reminder to—no matter how angry he got—to never strike at those weaker than himself.

Katrina had been instrumental in helping Chris to manage his temper. She’d taught him how to find the root cause of his emotions, as well as techniques for dealing with his anger that didn’t involve striking a heavy bag until his knuckles bled.

But when she’d died…

That anger had consumed him, a snake swallowing him whole. Now, he was a slave to it.

“I’d like to know why you offered,” Pike continued gently.

Lyric shrugged and mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” Lyric was an intuitive girl; he had no doubt that she was also self-aware enough to know her own motives.  At her answering silence, he took a guess. “Do you think you need to repay me?”

“No.” She said it emphatically enough that he believed her.

“Then I’m going to need you to help me out here, Lyric, because I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would offer something like that.”

She dropped her spoon into the packet of chili and set the whole thing down on the table, crossing her arms with a frustrated huff and looking away.

Pike racked his brain for another explanation. Was she mimicking him? Was this a case of misplaced hero-worship?

“I wanted to be useful,” Lyric said finally, still not looking at him.

“Useful?” He hadn’t expected that answer.

She turned watery eyes onto him but said nothing.

There was something else behind her explanation, a reason why she felt that she needed to be useful, but Pike suspected that he wouldn’t get that out of her tonight. One thing he’d learned from Kat was that therapy was a process; a marathon not a sprint, she’d once said, putting it into words he could understand.

So instead of pressing Lyric for more, he accepted what she had given and stood, pushing his crate around the one between them so he could sit next to her. “Well. I can certainly understand wanting to feel useful and needed. But I’m not helping you because of what you can give me in return.”

“I know,” she said miserably, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Pike handed her her napkin.

“Lyric. I lost my temper because you’re a good kid and I don’t want you to…” turn out like me, he finished silently. Because he had been forced to recognize that he now had a hand in her development, for better or worse, but admitting that felt too…familial.

“I’m not a kid,” she insisted.

“No,” Pike sighed. “I guess you’re not. But I don’t want you thinking that I’m anyone to be admired or emulated, okay?” He might have been, once upon a time. What had Kat called him? Starfleet’s boy scout? Inwardly, he scoffed. That man was gone; he’d buried him with her on Cancri Four.  

Lyric nodded.  

“All right.” Pike stood. “Now what do you say we have some dinner?” He pushed his crate so it was adjacent to hers and picked up the rest of his dinner.

“I don’t think that stuff is edible anymore,” she said skeptically.

“Sure it is,” Pike said, taking a bite. “There’s three years left until their expiration date.”

Lyric fished her spoon out of her packet and took a bite, choking it down with a comedic expression of disgust. “That’s foul.”

“But probably the most nutritious meal in the box,” he quipped.

Lyric scowled.

In the end, it took eight more days to reach the edge of Federation space. Eight days of trying to keep a teenaged girl entertained in an eighteen meter runabout and sleeping on the unforgiving deck plating. Eight days of “Shoes off the furniture,” and “Wear your shoes around the ship.” Eight days of answering the question “What are you doing?” and teaching her how to read a star chart. Eight days of wondering how on earth one person could talk so much and holding his tongue when he wanted to scold her for it. But only seven days of MREs because when he judged them far enough away from Demeter and had determined that no law enforcement was following them, Pike set down on a bustling trade hub under the guise of needing to refuel the ship, which wasn’t exactly a lie.

It was morning planet-side, and the planet close enough to Federation space that Pike was able to find a diner serving traditional Earth fare where the pancakes were as big as Lyric’s head. Somehow she’d managed to eat two.

Their next stop was a clothing store, and then another, and then another and another until Lyric had a week’s worth of clothes and a new pair of boots to replace the ones that were shedding all over his bridge. He began to wonder after the second time he’d marched her into a store with a credit chip and she’d come out with only a single item if clothing was another thing she’d never gotten for free.

“So are you like rich or something?” she asked him over dessert—a chocolate chip cookie dough milkshake for her, the pleasure of seeing the smile on her face for him—at the restaurant where they’d eaten dinner.

“Or something.”

Starfleet provided for its officers, leaving them with few—if any—necessary expenses, and a captain’s and an admiral’s salaries meant that he and Katrina had been well off. Neither of them had lived extravagantly, needing less than one salary to live comfortably off-base, which had allowed them to save for the land in Montana they had planned to purchase after Pike’s mission to the Pergamum. Plus, Katrina’s death benefits would continue for the rest of his life. Even after purchasing the runabout and supplies, he had plenty of credits to spend on clothes and a pair of boots.

“What do you do anyway?” Lyric pulled the straw from her milkshake so she could suck off the ice cream.

She and Number One would get along well, Pike thought, having seen Una do the same thing more than once.

Una...

He hadn’t thought about his former first officer in a long time. Was she still on the Enterprise? Was she still—?

“You have a perfectly good spoon right there,” he said rather than answer Lyric’s question and blamed the unexpected pang in his chest for the gruffness in his voice.

How would he answer that question anyway? “I’m in the business of revenge?”

“It tastes better this way.” Lyric smirked and plunged the straw back into the milkshake, plugging the top with her finger, and pulling it out again, making a show of sucking out the contents.

Pike ignored her antics and looked around for their waiter. They really should get back to the ship.

“Can we get another pizza to take back to the ship?” Lyric asked when her straw was empty.

“Sure, whatever you want,” Pike answered distractedly. He was far more interested in the official looking man who had just walked into the restaurant and was now talking with the host.

“I want to try the olives with those mushrooms. And maybe pineapple.”

“Uh-huh.” Pineapple? On a pizza?

“And can I get another milkshake?”

The host turned and scanned the restaurant, his gaze landing on Pike through the glass at the top of the partition they were seated behind.

Pike’s heart stopped, stumbled over itself as it resumed beating. “Lyric,” he started, forcing calm into his tone. There was no reason to assume that the official would be looking for them. None except for the fact that according to Demeter law Lyric was a fugitive and the acidic feeling in his stomach.

Lyric either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore the underlying warning in his voice. “I have this theory about milkshakes and that freeze dried stuff you call ice cream that if you—”

“Be quiet,” he hissed. Though, it would have been difficult to hear the exchange at the front of the restaurant anyway over the clanging in the nearby kitchen and the conversations taking place at the tables around them.

But then the host pointed towards the back of the restaurant, directly at their table, and Lyric had finally figured out that something was wrong. Only she wouldn’t. Stop. Talking.

“What is it?” she asked, standing up a little so she could see through the top of the partition.

Under the table, Pike hooked his foot behind her calf and jerked, causing her to lose her balance and fall back into the booth. “Get down!” he hissed. “And for God’s sake be quiet.” He risked a glance through the glass.

The man walked around the host and was definitely headed their way, only now there were two of them. “Shit!” he swore, ducking back behind the partition. Then to Lyric, “We need to leave. Now.”

“But—”

Not even waiting for her to finish, he slid out of the booth, crouching to remain behind the low wall, and yanked her out of her seat. “Stay low,” he ordered.

The front exit was blocked by the quickly-approaching officials which left them with only two options, the kitchen door which would put them in the direct line of sight of the officials but would most likely have a rear exit, or the restrooms which would keep them hidden but may or may not provide an escape route.

He chose a guaranteed escape.

“You remember where we docked the ship?” A quick nod. They’d walked directly here from the docks after stowing her purchases. “Okay. You are going to walk as fast as you can into the kitchen and out the back. Stay in front of me. If we get separated, head to the ship, and don’t stop for anything. I’ll meet you there.”

Her eyes grew wide at his mention of getting separated. “Are they looking for us?” she asked, her voice breathy with fear.

“Don’t worry about that. Everything will be fine. Ready? Okay, go!”

He spun her roughly, pushing her ahead of him as they hurried towards the kitchen door. He kept Lyric in front of him, but the officials picked up their pace, skirting around tables and running towards them.

“Move!” Pike urged, giving up the pretense of remaining inconspicuous.

Fear made her glance back, wasting precious seconds as she searched for the danger that was fast closing in on them.

Pike took hold of her arm with a rough hand as he tugged her forward. “Don’t look back!”

With a slight gasp, she wiped back around, doing her best to keep up with his longer stride.

The kitchen door swung easily when Pike shoved it open, hauling his charge through into the busy kitchen, but he had to slow down to scan for the exit. Where was it? There had to be one.

There. Far end of the kitchen, opposite corner.

Tightening his hold on Lyric’s arm, he dove into the organized chaos that was an industrial kitchen, weaving around fryers and grills, dodging cooks and their confused stares, not caring when he bumped into someone and caused them to drop a plate full of food. Behind them, the swinging door banged open again, but Pike didn’t stop to look as he continued racing through the kitchen as fast as he dared. Commercial kitchen floors were often slick and lined with mats that could trip you if you weren’t careful, and this one was no exception.

Though she was breathing hard already, Lyric thankfully kept her feet and, reaching the far side of the kitchen, they shoved through the door and into an alleyway.

Left or right? Right was a shorter distance to the street. He ran to the right, and then to the left when they reached the street, away from the restaurant. The sidewalk was packed with people moving in both directions, making it difficult to run but easy to get lost in the crowd as they continued to put distance between them and the restaurant at a quick walk.

“Take off your jacket,” Pike ordered Lyric as he did the same. The evening was warm enough that holding their jackets wouldn’t seem out of place. Catching on, Lyric also pulled off the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Smart girl.

After two blocks, they took the next left, then crossed the street and hung a right. Pike kept them on crowded streets, pretending to window shop every few shops to check for a tail, but as they neared the docks, it appeared they’d made a clean getaway. Still, Pike did not relax until after he’d swiped his credit chip to pay the berthing fee and release his ship and they were airborne, burning atmosphere in their wake.

Lyric hadn’t even made it out of the cargo hold. Pike put the ship on autopilot and made his way down to where she was seated on a cargo crate, rocking back and forth slightly, arms wrapped around her middle.

“Hey. You all right?” Clearly she wasn’t, but was as good a way as any to open the conversation.

With a sharp breath, she quit rocking and looked up. “That was… Shit! What the hell was that?” A vague gesture to the hatch to indicate the planet shrinking in the distance. 

Pike raised an eyebrow at her language but didn’t call her out on it. This was, in his expert opinion, an occasion for swearing.

“Those guys were after me, weren’t they?” she guessed.

Pike nodded.

He’d already considered that. If they had been after him, he and Lyric would never have made it off the planet. The ship was registered in his name, his face. It would have been easy enough to put a hold on his ship and ground them indefinitely. That they’d been able to leave the docks meant that whoever had been after them hadn’t been looking for him, and that they hadn’t known who had helped Lyric escape Demeter. Chances were they did now though.

“Why?” Lyric asked, incredulous. “I’m nobody.”

“Perhaps it’s Pal trying to get you back,” he surmised.

At his words, Lyric went eerily still, every muscle tense with fear. Immediately regretting his carelessness, Pike crouched in front of her, taking her ice-cold hands in his.

“Hey. Hey. Listen to me.” After a moment, her eyes found his. “That’s not going to happen. You’re somebody to me, and I am not going to let anything happen to you. That’s a promise.”

She held his gaze for a moment, and then, without warning, she lurched forward, throwing her arms around his neck, knocking him momentarily off balance, her breath hitching on a sob. “That was so fucking scary.”

Wholly out of his element, Pike hesitantly wrapped his arms around her shaking form. “Yeah, it was,” he admitted, thinking not of the men, but of what could have happened to her. His hold tightened, his hand cradling her head. “But you did well. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

He kept saying it, over and over until her sobs eased, and kept his arms around her until she released her hold on his neck and pulled back, taking a deep breath and swiping the tears from her cheeks.

“It’s a good thing we brought the bags back before dinner,” she commented with a weak smile and a huff of laughter.

Pike chuckled softly at her morbid humor. “Yeah.” She didn’t get to finish her milkshake, but she had clothes.

She sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve and sighed. “I’m going to miss real food, though,” she lamented with bardic-level melodrama.

“We’ll get more pizza.” When she looked at him doubtfully, Pike held out a fist, pinky extended. “Pinky swear.”

Lyric frowned at his hand.

“When you make a promise and shake pinky fingers it’s a pinky swear,” he explained and then added gravely, “And you can’t break a pinky swear.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Well, when she put it like that. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s just a stupid Earth custom.” But before he could lower his hand, Lyric hooked her pinky finger with his.

“Promise?” she asked, and the naked hope in her eyes could have broken his heart if his heart was still capable of breaking.

“Promise. All the pizza and milkshakes you want.”

Lyric pulled on his finger with her own, drawing his hand up, and then down. Pike did the same, shaking on it.

“Pinky swear.”

***

There were ten gold deltas in the wreath of a vice admiral’s badge. Ten gold, two black, and the center with its shooting star. Pike traced each shape with his thumb, round and round, praying a rosary of deltas.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

On the back, his forefinger rubbed against the engraving, name and service number, etchings he knew by heart, as his thumb passed over each shape on the front.

Pike was alone on the bridge, Lyric having already gone to sleep. Crossing into Federation space had brought a measure of security, but they were by no means safe. The war was still ongoing, and if authorities or mercenaries had followed them, without an official claim of asylum, they could legally take Lyric back to Demeter.

They can try, said the monster inside him.

The sensors were set to inform him when a Starfleet ship was in range, but for now they were headed to Starbase One on a circuitous route that avoided areas where reports of hostilities had originated. There, Lyric could claim asylum.

“I could really use your advice right about now,” Pike said quietly to the gold disk in his hand.

Katrina had always had a way of talking him out of his own head when he was too fixated on regret or guilt, of quieting the rage that lived inside him, of helping him to puzzle out questions he couldn’t answer. He had one of those questions now.

“Lyric. She’s been through so much, I don’t know how to help her. She needs you, Kat, not me.”

He didn’t expect a response; he never did. But often in moments when he had nothing else to do except wait while his ship crossed the vast emptiness of space, he held her badge in his hand, counted the deltas, and spoke to her as if he were standing at her grave.

“Who were you talking to?”

At the sound of Lyric’s voice, Pike closed his fingers around the badge and looked up sharply, chair spinning. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Lyric rolled her eyes and went to sit in the copilot’s chair, feet drawn up onto the seat and hugging her legs, and Pike noted that the sight of her there was becoming comfortably familiar.

“Can I see?” Her eyes flicked down to his fist.

He considered denying that he held anything and ordering her back to bed—not that Lyric took well to orders—but there wasn’t much sense in hiding any more. Slowly, he unclenched his fist and held out Katrina’s badge. Lyric took it and studied the front for a moment before recognition hit her.

“You’re Starfleet?”

How did she know about Starfleet? Where had she seen the delta before? Demeter was far outside Federation space, Jericho even farther. It wasn’t uncommon for Starfleet to run supply or humanitarian missions to non-Federation planets. It was possible that a ship had been dispatched to either planet at one point, but Jericho was a well-established mining colony and Demeter a busy port. Perhaps a ship had stopped over on Demeter on their way further out.

Not liking the possible implications of that line of thinking, Pike turned away and checked the sensors. “It’s not mine.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched Lyric turn the disk over and run her thumb over the letters and numbers on the back. “Katrina. Who is she?”

Pike swallowed before he answered, “She was my wife.”

“Was?”

“She died.”

A beat. A waiting silence. Then, “I look like her.”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Sunlight cuts through the sheer curtains to fall on the sleeping woman beside him, bathing the bedroom in its warm morning glow. The sheet had slipped down in the night, gathered now at her hips. He longs to touch her, to stroke his hand down her spine, to press his lips to her shoulder. To brush the hair off of her cheek and kiss his way to her neck. To wake her to his kiss and make love in the light of the rising sun. It is so rare that she allows herself to sleep this late.

The primal half of his brain puffs up and proudly takes credit for her state of exhaustion—and her current state of undress. The part of him that is less of a caveman recognizes that this is their last day together before he ships out, and he will want this memory to warm the cold and lonely nights in the Pergamum. So instead he watches her, head pillowed on his arm, and takes a moment to study her wearing nothing but the sunrise, the slight rise and fall of her ribs with every breath, the curve of her lashes against her cheek. This is an image he wants imprinted on his soul.

After today, they won’t see each other for nearly two years baring the occasional holographic comm. As much as his heart longs to explore the stars, to discover the unknown, it is always moments like this that make him consider giving up the center seat. What nebula could possibly compare to this?

Perhaps he’ll cancel their plans and keep her in bed all day. They can fuck and sleep and fuck, and if they get hungry, Emilio’s delivers. Perhaps then he can ship out tomorrow morning—

No, that’s not right. He already shipped out. Years ago. He remembers the distinct pillars of the Pergamum, the comms…

This isn’t real...

Beside him, she shifts, burrowing further into the pillow with a quiet moan and then a soft sigh. Dark lashes flutter as she blinks awake, greeting him with a sleepy smile. “Good morning,” she says, the words rough with sleep. Then she notices his expression and frowns in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m dreaming,” he says.

Kat smiles and traces a line on his brow with her thumb, as if she is trying to smooth away his wrinkle of consternation. Then her smile turns provocative as she scoots closer with a hum of consideration, pushing him onto his back and draping him in warm flesh and naked breasts, kissing him in a way that feels more real than it should. “I hope it’s a good dream,” she whispers against his lips and kisses him again.

He groans. Fuck it. His hands find her ribs, stroke down to her hips, pull her fully on top of him. It’s not real, but it feels real enough. She feels real, the brush of her nipples against his chest, the heat between her legs against his growing erection, her fingers carding through his hair, stroking down his neck. God, he’s missed her.

For the first time since he read that letter, the ever-present ache in his chest that feels like his heart is being torn apart isn’t there. It’s a dream, but he hopes that he never wakes.

***

It came on the chirp of a proximity alert that woke him in the middle of the night, ripping him from the dream: news of a Starfleet ship on the edge of their sensor range.

Eyes closed, Pike laid still, reluctant to let go of the dream and the image of his wife on their last morning together. But the beep of the alert continued, insistent, until he remembered what exactly the alert was for, and he forced his eyes open.

Groggy and still half asleep, he pulled himself from his makeshift bed on the floor and stumbled to the pilot’s seat, his back protesting his self-inflicted sleeping arrangements all the while—and not for the first time. It took him two tries to silence the alert, fingers fumbling in the dark for the right button, before he activated the rest of the console interface and pulled up the long range sensor readout. Sure enough, there was a Starfleet ship on the edge of their sensor range.

A check of the registry number…

It was.

Relief hit him like a punch to the gut, breath expelled on an involuntary huff, then a chuckle for the coincidence, and he was instantly alert, the last vestiges of sleep thrown off like heavy blankets in summer heat.

A single tap activated the comm, opening a channel to the other ship, and then he was speaking words he hadn’t thought he would ever say again. “This is Christopher Pike to the USS Enterprise.”

There was no answer.

He tried again. “This is Christopher Pike hailing the USS Enterprise. Come in Enterprise.”

And again. “I repeat, this is Christopher Pike. I am a Federation citizen traveling with an asylum seeker. We request assistance.”

Finally, the comm crackled with static, and very confused “Chris?” came through.

Pike let out a bark of laughter that was half joy, half relief. “Number One, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.” He found himself grinning, even after he’d said the words.

Una’s voice was half smothered by the heavy comm static. “Likewise, Captain.”

It took another day and a half at maximum warp to reach the Enterprise’s position at Iridin. Number One had said the Enterprise was on a humanitarian mission. Iridin was the latest in a series of devastating Klingon attacks on Federation outposts and colonies. The destruction was apparent from orbit even without the runabout’s sensors chirping away to warn him about the damage wrought to the atmosphere. An ominous cloud hovered above the main continent, sinister and black, and above it...

Pike didn’t know what he felt at the sight of his former ship. Relief—still—for the fact that she was still sailing. Pride, for she truly was a magnificent ship, and she’d once been his. Joy that he would get to set foot on her decks one more time. And yet, as he stared at the arcing lines of her hull, his stomach curled in on itself, cold sweat pricked at his arm pits, and his chest constricted. He didn’t want to go back. Not just to Enterprise, but to Starfleet. He needed them, that hadn’t changed. But now that he was here…

The prodigal son makes a reluctant return.

What would his former crew make of his unannounced return? What would Una make of it? And could he be the man he was once again?

“Are you okay?” Lyric asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Pike answered, voice rough. He smiled and released his death grip on the yoke to make it more convincing.

Lyric didn’t press him. She turned and watched the Enterprise grow closer from her place in the co-pilot’s seat, bare feet tucked beneath her, an excited grin on her face. Where to Pike Enterprise represented an organization that had failed him, to Lyric she represented freedom. He wouldn’t ruin this for her by giving voice to his fears and anxieties.

Instead he cleared his throat and told her, “We’ll be docking in just a couple minutes. Better put your shoes on.” So far, no amount of lecturing had taught her the importance of proper footwear, and Pike had given up nagging her. She’d learn her lesson eventually.

Lyric didn’t move right away, and Pike was beginning to think that he would have to tell her again as the shuttle bay doors parted, but by the time the runabout touched down on the flight deck, she was standing beside his chair, boots on her feet, practically buzzing with excitement.

Despite his reluctance to return and his nerves about the welcome he would receive, Pike couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips as he walked down the gangplank. Starfleet had failed his wife, covered up her murder, and ignored her death, but the Enterprise had always been his second home. And he had to admit, it was good to be back.

Standing at the head of their welcome party, Una did a double take upon seeing him, her eyes widening before she returned his smile. He knew what she saw: the hair that was nine months past regulation length, the beard he hadn’t bothered to trim since before he and Lyric had set down at that port. Was he so unrecognizable? He had combed his hair and pulled it back in an attempt to look somewhat presentable; he wasn’t a complete Neanderthal. But perhaps he should see the barber while he was here, especially if he was going to ask for his commission back.

She was different, too. Oh, she looked the same—raven-colored curls falling to her shoulders, a slight coral stain on her lips—but nine months of war had changed his friend. Nine months of war has changed us all, he amended silently. As he neared, the change became obvious in the bright light of the flight deck. Already this war had left its mark on her, etched its map in the new lines on her face, chronicled its events with silver threads woven into her hair. Her eyes no longer sparkled with the knowledge of well-kept secrets, instead shadowed by a series of losses.

“Welcome back, Captain,” she said and the forced cheer in her voice was obvious to one who knew her so well. Or used to. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

“I’m not the captain anymore, Number One,” Pike corrected at the same time as Lyric let out an incredulous, “Captain?”

Pike whirled around, intending to explain.

She was staring at him from where she stood on the gangplank, realization plain on her face. “You are Starfleet.” It wasn’t an accusation, but for some reason, it felt like one.

“Not anymore,” he tried to say, but Lyric was already taken with looking around the flight deck, mouth agape, eyes wide with wonder.

“And this was your ship?”

Pike shifted on his feet. “Yeah.” Unable to face the admiration in her tone, he turned away, because beneath it was something far more disparaging—the question of how he could possibly have given it up.

Anger roared within him like a flame taking to accelerant. He never should have had to. But for one man Katrina would still be alive, and the last nine months would have looked incredibly different. But Katrina was dead, her assassination arranged by her friend, and instead of investigating the circumstances surrounding her death, the organization she had faithfully served had written her off as collateral damage, unbothered to even bring her home. At his sides, Pike’s hands clenched into fists, and he had to keep himself from running to the nearest computer console, looking up the location of the Discovery, and hightailing it off this tritanium reminder of the past.  

 “You must be Lyric.”

Una’s voice cut through inferno raging in his mind, but it was Lyric flouncing past him on the gangplank that brought Pike back to the present.

“Lyric Price,” the girl said cheerily, shaking Una’s hand.

“Welcome to Enterprise.”

Pike released a breath and unclenched his fists.

The party that had stood to greet them had already dispersed to begin servicing the runabout, crawling over his ship like ants over a stray crumb. Unclenching his jaw, Pike took another breath and stepped off the gangplank.

By the time he joined Una on the flight deck, Lyric had wandered off, distracted by a nearby shuttlecraft, peering into its open hatch as though considering whether or not to take it for a spin. She backed away with a slight jump, though, when a crewman exited the shuttle, belatedly returning the man’s polite nod of greeting before moving over to examine a landing pod two craft over.

“Lyric is seeking asylum in the Federation.” Pike stated what Una already knew, forgetting momentarily that he’d already told her because the sudden ache in his chest felt suspiciously like his charred heart beating again as he watched his charge, the wonder on her face as she soaked in what must be utterly foreign technology. Compared to the sleek shuttlecraft and landing pods lined up on the flight deck, the runabout was a piece of junkyard scrap.

Una stepped closer, keeping her voice low when she said, “I can’t help but notice that she looks a lot like—”

Pike held up a hand, forestalling the rest of that sentence. “Don’t even go there, Number One.”

They would not be having that conversation here or now.

Or ever, if he could help it.

Wisely, Una changed the subject. “Admiral April wants to see you both in the ready room right away,” she informed him.

So much for seeing the barber first.

And just like that, that ache in his chest was gone, his heart burned up charcoal once again.

“Afterwards, you’ll be shown to quarters,” Una continued. “With all the refugees coming on board, there wasn’t much space left, but I managed to free up a guest cabin with two beds.”

“Give it to her,” Pike told her. “I’ll bed down in crew quarters.”

“But Chris—”

“And make sure she doesn’t get a roommate.”

“—there isn’t room,” Una finished, but Pike was already headed for the exit, hollering, “Lyric!” to get his ward’s attention.

He had hoped to have this conversation dressed in something other than jeans and a sweatshirt, but the sooner they got this over with, the sooner Lyric would have asylum. The sooner she would be safe.

“Wait, Chris,” Una called after him, hurrying to catch up. “Where will you sleep? On the floor?”

Pike kept walking and didn’t answer that question, because yes. Yes, he would be sleeping on the floor—still—and he had been so looking forward to a good night’s sleep in a real bed that his back actually twinged in protest of his goddamn gallantry.

Take a damn pain killer and shut the fuck up, he told himself.

“Where are we going,” asked Lyric when she’d caught up, a bit breathless from having run across the flight deck.

“To see Admiral April,” Pike said, jamming his finger into the turbolift call button as if the hapless button were personally responsible for his current sleeping arrangements. And of course they had to wait for the car.

 “Why does Admiral April want to see me?”

“You need to present your case before asylum can be formally granted,” Una explained.

When Pike had tendered his registration, he hadn’t waited around to see who would take over as Enterprise’s next commanding officer. It was only in speaking with Una over the comms yesterday that he’d learned that it was his former CO and captain of the Enterprise before him, Admiral Robert April. Pike was relieved. April was a good man, and moreover, he was father to two grown daughters. While Pike wasn’t worried about Lyric’s case, a sympathetic judge certainly wouldn’t hurt matters.

The doors parted with a whoosh, and Lyric looked almost frightened as he gestured for her to enter first.

In the car, Una grasped the control handle and called for the bridge. Pike and Lyric stood behind her, Pike feeling slightly out of place as the lift rose. The Enterprise might have been his home-away-from-home once upon a time, but this was no longer his ship, he was no longer in command, a fact evidenced by the contrast of his gray sweatshirt with the rank stripes on Una’s gold uniform.

Captain Christopher Pike was gone. He’d traded that name to indulge the rage inside him, paid the price for vengeance with his previous life, and he’d known when he made the bargain that there would be no going home afterwards. Whoever he was now, he didn’t fit here, inside this structure of orders and regulations, everyone conforming to the rules. Starfleet would never accept him if they knew what he’d done or what he planned to do—Una would never accept him.

But as the turbolift traveled up through the ship, he couldn’t help but think about his time on the Enterprise. How many turbolift rides had he and Una shared like this one?

He recalled one instance, not long after they had entered the Pergamum nebula, when he and Una had gotten stuck in a turbolift. Pike had been perfectly content to wait for rescue, but Una, while telling him about the time she had been trapped in a lift with Spock, had taken matters into her own hands.

Pike was still climbing the turbolift shaft when a small hand grasped his own. Startled out of the memory, he looked down to find Lyric’s hand tightly gripping his, a look of poorly concealed terror on her face, her entire body tense beside him.

Bending low, he murmured, “There’s no need to be nervous.”  

“I’m not nervous,” she whispered back in a tone that told him she most definitely was.

In front of them, Una politely pretended like she couldn’t hear the conversation taking place directly behind her, but Pike didn’t miss the slight tilt of her head or the soft smile that pulled her lips up on one side.

The lift was slowing. Gently, Pike gave Lyric’s hand a reassuring squeeze, but she pulled her hand away as the doors parted. With a deep breath—though she did her best not to show it—she followed Una out of the car and onto the bridge.

She only got a few steps out of the lift though before she stopped, slowly turning as she took in the circular space. Pike, too, was struck with a sense of amazement at the sight after so long away. The vast forward viewscreen, the transparent dome overhead, the sleek consoles, and the uniformed crew manning their stations, all working towards one goal—it was impressive, even to one who had once commanded it all.

As his eyes passed over faces both familiar and not, Pike was struck with an unexpected bout of longing, and an acute sense of how out of place he was. More so than in the turbolift, it was clear then that he didn’t belong here.

“Captain.”

Pike turned to the science station where Spock stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Not anymore, Spock.”

“No,” said Spock. “Still. It is good to see you.”

“You as well.” Pike didn’t know what to do. Offer his hand? No, Spock didn’t shake hands. Hug his former officer? No. Spock didn’t appreciate hugs, especially spontaneous public ones.

Pike was still considering his options, wondering if his hands had indeed grown the several sizes larger that they felt, when he noticed Una standing patiently outside the entrance to the ready room. For lack of a better gesture, Pike nodded to Spock and looked around for his charge.

She had wandered over to the tactical station, looking curiously at the upper display panel, hands clasped behind her back as if to keep herself from touching anything. Lieutenant Nhan watched her closely, but the smile on the Barzan’s face said she’d be more than willing to answer any of the girl’s questions.

You think that now, Nhan…

Pike collected his ward with a light hand on her shoulder. “Come on.”

He steered her towards the ready room, Lyric glancing this way and that, wide-eyed, trying to take it all in. At their approach, Una pressed the control to open the door. Given Lyric’s earlier hesitation, Pike entered first. Still, he noticed that she paused and glanced back when the door closed behind her with a soft snap and it was clear that Una would not be joining them. Lyric looked up at him, slightly confused, and he gave her a nod of reassurance. He would have taken her hand if he didn’t think she would shrug his attentions off. Lyric was a proud girl, stubborn and naturally suspicious. But he knew that she was also terrified.

The ready room hadn’t changed much since he’d given it up: different nick knacks, a new lamp, fewer seating options, but there was the same desk, the same conference table, the same chairs. Admiral April was seated behind the desk, elbow on the desktop, cheek resting against his fist as he stared down at his computer console, not deigning to look up at their approach.

“Admiral,” Pike said by way of greeting when they were standing in front of the desk. Still, April did not look up, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Anger percolated in Pike’s chest at the obvious slight, his fingers twitching in want of a fight, outrage ready to spill from his lips, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from saying something that would ruin Lyric’s chances for asylum.

Was it personal? April hadn’t been happy about Pike’s resignation, but they had been on good terms until then. Was his former CO holding a grudge? Bob hadn’t seemed the type in all the years that Pike had served with him, but a lot had happened in the last year.

Pike cleared his throat. “Admiral, this is Lyric Price—” But he was interrupted by April’s somewhat distracted, “The asylum seeker.”

“Yes, sir,” Lyric confirmed.

That earned a glance from the admiral, but only a glance. Even so, it was enough for Pike to know that the man sitting before them was not the same man he’d served with. He was no longer even the man who’d accepted Pike’s resignation. The war had changed Robert April, and it wasn’t just the new lines framing his eyes and mouth, or the dark circles that shadowed his eyes like fresh bruises. There was a hardness about him as he looked at Lyric, a dispassion that said he already didn’t care about her because couldn’t afford to.

A moment later the admiral looked back down at his console, his tone almost bored when he said, “And why should I grant you asylum?”

Pike glared at his former captain, seething. Beside him, Lyric flinched.

“The federation is slowly losing this war,” April went on. “I’ve got more than two hundred souls on this ship to worry about, and half a million more down on the surface who need our help—our own citizens—all of them in worse shape and more danger than you.” He glanced up once more, pinning Lyric with an expectant stare. “So why should I devote precious time and resources to your safety?”

“Sir—” Pike started, but Lyric was already speaking, her tone strident and emphatic. “Well then I guess you shouldn’t.”

Pike froze, stunned. April looked vaguely nonplussed. Pike guessed that he’d expected begging, a tale of woe meant to move men to tears. And Lyric did have one of those. But Lyric was also too proud to let anyone feel sorry for her.

“I was told that the Federation helps people in need,” Lyric continued in that scathing tone of hers, “not judges them on a hierarchy of it.” There was that haughty raise of her chin, and Pike felt pride swell in his chest. “My parents sold me into servitude when I was twelve years old to pay their debts. But if sexual slavery isn’t good enough for your Federation, fine. I’ll make my own way.”

April stared at her for a moment, as though sizing up a new recruit. Lyric stared right back, uncowed.

“And you can corroborate this?” April asked Pike after a moment.

“Yes, sir.”

“And how exactly do you two know each other?”

Pike had to resist the urge to shift on his feet, but he couldn’t help the heat crawling up his neck to his cheeks. While he didn’t disapprove of brothels or the people who visited them, paying to sleep with a woman young enough to be his daughter, even if he hadn’t known exactly how old she was at the time, wasn’t exactly his proudest moment, and he didn’t want his former commanding officer and the man who could block his petition to rejoin Starfleet knowing what he’d almost done in a moment of weakness.

Lyric, however, saved him from having to reveal that information when she answered, “I found him passed out drunk in an alley.”

“I was not drunk,” Pike corrected, offended by the notion.

“You were so hungover you might as well have been,” she shot back indignantly.   

April glanced between them, brows raised, looking at once like he did and did not want to know the rest of that story.

Pike sighed. “Not my finest hour,” he admitted, and he thought he heard April mutter a sarcastic, “I’ll say,” under his breath, but chose to ignore it. “Lyric got me back on my feet and asked for help getting off Demeter.”

“How old are you?” April asked Lyric.

“Eighteen.”

Even Admiral April was not so skilled at negotiating that he could keep the shock of that statement completely off his face. His eyes widened infinitesimally, his head dipping as though his mouth wanted to hang open but he refused to let it and his chin was dragging his entire head down. He recovered quickly however. “And now having left Demeter, you are in imminent danger?”

“A man there owns my contract,” Lyric told him. “He’s already sent people after me.”

“Slavery isn’t legal there,” added Pike, “but indentured servitude is.” He didn’t know their laws on child prostitution, but it didn’t matter now; Lyric was eighteen.

April looked at her, long enough to cause Lyric to shift nervously on her feet. For a moment, Pike thought that April would continue his line of inquiry or even reject her petition outright. Bob was a father. Had the war changed him so much that he could knowingly send a kid younger than his youngest daughter back into forced prostitution?

Then the admiral looked at him, a question in his eyes. Pike let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and nodded, relieved that their friendship was not so broken that his former captain couldn’t take him on faith. April had every right to demand evidence, to wait for verification of a threat to Lyric’s wellbeing before granting asylum. But not only did he not have the time, Pike knew April well enough to know that he also didn’t have the heart. In this, Pike’s word would be enough.

“I’ll grant you asylum,” April said to Lyric.

At those words, Lyric looked at Pike, a relieved and excited smile on her face. Wanting to hug her but knowing she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, Pike smiled back, relieved that she would finally be safe.  

“Thank you, sir,” she said to April, still grinning.

“But,” April added sternly, “this is not a passenger ship. My crew has a job to do. I expect you to stay out of their way. When we return to Starbase One, you’ll be remanded into the custody of Federation Social Services. They will assist with getting your status confirmed and getting you settled on a Federation world. Earth if you want.

Lyric nodded eagerly.

“Number One will have made arrangements for your quarters.”

It was a dismissal if Pike had ever heard one, especially since April had already turned his attention back down to his computer console, no doubt putting them fully out of his mind. But Pike wasn’t finished yet. “Sir, there is one more thing I’d like to discuss.”

April glanced up from his console with a look that told him to hurry up.

To Lyric Pike said, “I need to speak to Admiral April in private. If you go back out onto the bridge, Una will show you to your quarters.”

Apprehension flashed in Lyric’s eyes, like she was reluctant to leave his side, but after a moment she nodded and then left.

“She’s quite taken with you,” April said after the doors had closed behind her.

Pike demurred, knowing that Lyric simply didn’t trust anyone not to use her. “She’s been through a lot. I was just the first one to give a shit.”

April made a sound of acknowledgment but didn’t comment further on the subject. “What did you want to talk about?”

On instinct, Pike fell into a parade rest. Old habits dying hard and all that. “My return to Starfleet.”

Chapter Text

He found them in the mess hall.

His meeting with April had taken longer than expected—hours longer—and after having checked Lyric’s quarters, the rec room, Una’s quarters, Lyric’s quarters again, Pike finally found his charge and his former and soon-to-be-again (he hoped) first officer seated together in the mess hall, a bowl of strawberries between them. He watched as Lyric took a bite out of a particularly red berry, her face suffusing with pleasure at the taste.

“There you are,” he said as he neared their table.

The mess hall was otherwise empty at this hour, though the galley would soon come alive with breakfast preparations, and the mess hall would be bustling with hungry crewmen.

“I hope you don’t mind, Captain,” said Una. “I was just making sure Lyric could find her way from her quarters to the mess hall without getting lost.”

“Not at all, Number One. And I’m not the captain.” Yet.

Command had taken him back. There hadn’t been a question of it. Starfleet needed every officer they could get, and no one had the time to question his motives for returning, much less where he’d gone or what he’d done during his absence. Once the Enterprise docked at Starbase One, Admiral April would disembark—as would Lyric—and Pike would be reinstated as captain. He hadn’t expected that, but he wasn’t about to turn down the assignment.

But until then, he was just a passenger.

And God damn, he had forgotten how exhausting an interrogation from Command could be. He wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed and sleep for a week. But of course, he wouldn’t be getting a bed. At least not a real one. Not yet.

“Would you like some strawberries?” asked Lyric, pushing the bowl towards him even as she took a bite out of another berry. “They’re so good. Have you had strawberries before? Oh. Of course you have. Hey, how come we didn’t have strawberries on the ship?”

“I ate them,” Pike lied, pouring his irritation with the Brass into the words, but Lyric saw right through his façade and gave him a look of teenaged exasperation. Sorely tempted to do the same, he instead turned to Number One. “I hope you didn’t show her where we keep the ice cream. She’ll eat us out of house and home.”

“That was our first stop,” Una said, smirking.

At that, Pike did roll his eyes, but he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “I’m sorry that took longer than expected,” he said, sobering.

“That’s okay.” Una’s smirk turned to a genuine smile when she looked at Lyric. “It gave us some extra girl time.”

Now why was that a frightening thought?

Lyric returned her grin from behind another strawberry. “Tomorrow we’re going to paint our nails,” Lyric informed him.

Ah. That was why. More girl time. Which meant gossip and Una answering Lyric’s endless questions that he’d refused to answer himself.

And would that be so bad?

Yes.

Maybe.

Probably.

All right, fine!

After everything she’d been through, he wanted Lyric to have as normal a life as possible. Painting nails was normal. Right? And it was good that Lyric was unguarded around another person. Somehow though, he just knew that together these two would be nothing but trouble.  

Reminding himself that Lyric was innocent until proven guilty, regardless of her propensity to disregard orders she didn’t feel like following, and that Una was too mature to reveal secrets that weren’t hers to tell, Pike changed the subject.

“Are your quarters okay?” he asked Lyric. “Is there anything else you need? Did Una show you where the exchange is located?”

“Okay?” she blurted, the strawberry in her hand all but forgotten as she leaned forward in her excitement. “Have you seen the size of the rooms here?” She sighed dramatically and flopped back in her seat as though the dimensions of her room were as ineffable as the vastness of the universe and even considering it wearied her.

Constitution class ships were large enough that even the guest quarters they had been assigned were bigger than most people would ever need. After more than two weeks on a runabout that was closer in size to the mess hall, the Enterprise must feel like a city to one who’d never lived on a Federation starship before. 

However, Pike also knew that Lyric never lacked the words for anything.

“Yeah, well,” he said gruffly, “don’t get used to it. We’re leaving for Starbase One the day after tomorrow.”

But Lyric had never before been phased by Pike’s irritability and simply rolled her eyes. Pike ignored her. A quiet snort of amusement came from Una’s side of the table, and he glanced over to find her staring at him, a smile on her face and a soft look in her eyes.

He frowned. “What?”  

Also immune to his moods after so many years of working together, Una just smiled broader. “Oh nothing,” she said, reaching over to pluck a strawberry from the bowl and put it to her lips. Pike knew she was hiding something, but he also knew that he would never get it out of her unless she wanted to tell him.

Secrets.

Inwardly he sighed and tried to rub the exhaustion from his eyes but only succeeded in making his vision blurry for a moment. God damn, he was tired.

He turned to Lyric. “Come on,” he said. “It’s after midnight for us.”

“But Una was going to show me the rest of the ship,” Lyric protested.

“I’m sure Una has other things to be doing. And you promised April that you wouldn’t get in the way.”

Lyric huffed dramatically, stood, and declared petulantly, “Fine.”

“Don’t forget…” Una gave the bowl of strawberries a little nudge.

“Thanks,” Lyric said, picking it up and clutching the bowl to her chest like she expected someone to try and rob her at any moment.

“Any time, kid.”

Una followed them back to Lyric’s quarters where everyone said their goodnights, and when Lyric yawned mid-syllable, the bowl of strawberries still clutched to her chest, Pike knew he’d been forgiven for sending her to bed.

“I like her,” said Una to Pike when the doors closed.

Pike made a sound of acknowledgement, and started quickly down the corridor towards the turbolift.

Una kept pace beside him, not letting him out of the conversation she so clearly wanted to have. “And you do, too.”

Another grunt. Did she have a point?

“You play at being gruff, but I think you like having her around.”

With a silent sight Pike reminded himself that with Una, often the fastest way out of a conversation he didn’t want to have was straight through it. “She needed help is all,” he said simply.

“Uh-huh.” There was that tone he recognized, the knowing one that said she didn’t believe a word he’d said.

Well. That was her prerogative.

The lift opened and they stepped inside. “And anyway it doesn’t matter,” Pike said, grasping the handle and calling for the shuttle bay. “She’s leaving as soon as we get to Starbase One.”

Una’s eyebrows rose at his words. “And you’re not?”

“I, uh…” He hadn’t counted on telling her like this, but he supposed that she’d find out as soon as she logged into the computer. He took a breath, keeping his gaze fixed on the doors when he said, “Command reinstated my commission. I’ll be taking back the Enterprise when we get there.”

Una was silent for several beats, digesting that information. He chanced a glance to his left. Was she happy about this? Angry? Apprehensive? Would she request a transfer? But her expression gave nothing away.

Eventually she turned her gaze from the door and asked, “Does she know?”

Pike didn’t need to ask who she meant. “No,” he said. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to her. I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

Una nodded. “All right. Just…be gentle.” She turned to look at him, her lips quirking up on one side. “I think she has a bit of a case of hero worship.”

Pike felt his face scrunch up, recoiling at the thought. “She does not.”

“Uh-huh.” There was that knowing tone again, the one that made him want to roll his eyes. “Chris, that girl owes you her life.”

Something filled his chest, pressing against his ribs. Something more than affection and far deeper than responsibility. Something that terrified him.

Turning his gaze to the doors once more, Pike cleared his throat. “Like I said, she needed help.”

Una didn’t respond right away, and the air in the lift seemed heavier for the silence. Anticipatory. Waiting. Waiting on that terrifying feeling in his chest. Waiting for him to acknowledge it.

Fortunately, the lift stopped, the doors opened, and Pike was saved from having to further analyze that feeling.

Unfortunately, Una followed him down the corridor. “She told me,” she said as they walked.

“Told you what?”

“About how you two met.”

Irritation flared hot and fast, and Pike stopped in his tracks, whirling to face her. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he snapped. Good god! would he never be rid of that momentary failure? He was tired of being judged—tired of judging himself—for a mistake he hadn’t even made. Fuck! he just wanted to forget—

No, he didn’t want to forget Lyric. He didn’t regret their meeting—how could he? But he wished like hell he could go back and change it, keep things from progressing as far as they had. He wished he didn’t have to live with the memory of her on her knees before him. He wished he didn’t have to live with the shame of having wanted her like that, even if only for a moment while blinded by adrenaline and grief.

Fuck!

The whole thing was so fucked up he just wanted to forget it had happened, not be reminded of his sin at every turn. To not be teased about it by his supposed best friend.

“I know that, Chris. I’m not judging you.” Una’s tone was gentle, but Pike’s anger was not appeased.

“Then what?” he snarled.

She glanced away, and Pike didn’t think he’d ever seen Una look so uncertain before. The sight made him regret his previous tone, but he didn’t apologize.

“I miss her too,” she said eventually and then returned her gaze to him. She wasn’t talking about Lyric anymore. And the corridor had suddenly become too small, the air too close. It stuck in his lungs like glue, thick and wet. “You haven’t been the same since she died, and I just—”

Pike’s breaths became labored, each one more difficult than the last, the sticky air in his lungs slowly solidifying. Stop, he pleaded, but he couldn’t get the word out.

The bulkheads pressed closer, closing in around him. His heart hammered in his chest, his head spun from the lack of oxygen and the too-close bulkheads, and still, he couldn’t breathe.

“And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you in the way that you needed me to be,” Una continued as if he weren’t suffocating right beside her.

Stop!

He needed to get out of here. He couldn’t have this conversation. Not here. Not now.

“I’m sorry, too,” Pike said shakily. “But I can’t do this right now, Una.” He turned away but only made it a step down the hallway.

“Wait, Chris, I’m sorry.”

Fingers grasped at his forearm, attempting to stop him, and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins had him whirling towards the threat, his hand ensnaring the wrist and wrenching the hand from his arm, and by the time he realized that it was just Una, it was too late.

She gasped at his touch, another breath expelled as he roughly shoved her back against the bulkhead. It was her lack of fight that brought him back, his eyes frantic as they roamed over her face, cataloging her features. Dark hair falling in soft waves to frame her face. Blue eyes wide with confusion. Coral lips, parted slightly as she panted for breath. The light floral scent of her perfume.

Una.

Not a threat.

His hand was still clenched around her wrist, so tight he could feel the bones shifting beneath her skin. She could break his hold if she wanted to, but the shock of his violent reaction, or maybe something else, had rendered her motionless.

They stared at one another, her skin warm where her sleeve had fallen back, her pulse beating rapidly against his fingers. Adrenaline still had his beating fast too, his breath heavy and ragged. The confusion in her eyes faded, giving way to concern as she waited to see what he would do next.

He was keenly aware of how close they stood to one another, so close that he could feel each puff of her breath against his face, so close that if not for their arms between them, they would have been pressed chest to chest.

“What?” he demanded. The word was harsh, a jagged sound holding a blade to her throat.

“I’m just worried about you,” she breathed. “I’m still here, if you want to talk about—”

“Don’t!” Anger caused his hand to convulse around her wrist, grinding delicate bones together.

Una didn’t even flinch.

Pike clenched his jaw against saying something more. He knew that Una only had his best interests at heart, but he couldn’t do this now. He couldn’t talk about Kat. He wasn’t ready—he might never be ready. He didn’t want Una finding out what her death had done to him, about what he’d become. He couldn’t have her trying to stop him. Because she would. She would try, and when he killed Lorca anyway, she would hate him, and he would lose the only friend he had left in the galaxy. If he hadn’t lost her already.

He’d already lost Kat. He couldn’t lose Una, too.

“Don’t,” he said again, softer this time, the blade lowering, but still a threat. With conscious effort, he loosened his hold on Una’s wrist, but he didn’t let her go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her breath skimmed over his knuckles like the gentle murmur of a stream flowing over stones piled in its bed.

Glancing down at his hand, Pike found his fingers still shackling her wrist, her skin unnaturally white where they pressed into it. There was no way he wasn’t hurting her. Still, she didn’t move.

He needed to leave. Now.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unsure what he was apologizing for. For hurting her now? For spurning her efforts to talk to him all those months ago? For not recognizing the fact that he was not the only one grieving Katrina’s death? For nine months without so much as a “Hello. How are you?” For all of it?  

Abruptly, he released her and turned away, striding down the corridor as fast as he could without actually running.  

“Wait,” she called after him. But this time she didn’t try to stop him. “Where are you going?”

“To get my damn pillow.”

And when he laid down on his sleeping mat in crew quarters, kept awake by the sound of twenty other men snoring and shifting and scratching in their sleep, Pike stared at the ceiling, head pillowed in his arm, and thought about the past. If it weren’t for safety regulations, he’d have just slept in the runabout. As it was, he wasn’t even the only one on the floor. The Enterprise was so full of refugees, every available square meter was taken up by a cot or a mat.

Nine months ago Pike had left the Enterprise, walked down corridors lined with crewmen he had served with for years and out the airlock without a backwards glance. So intent was he on his mission, so consumed by anger and grief, that the respectful honor guard seeing him off had been nothing more than window dressings. And there, at the end of the line, standing with her hands clasped respectfully behind her back, was the solemn face of his first officer and best friend.

She’d tried, on more than one occasion, to get him to talk to her about Katrina, even going so far as to try and get him to listen to her. And when he left, he’d read every rejection he’d given her in her expressionless face.

“Goodbye, Chris,” she’d said coolly. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

And he—

Walked away.

And still he walked, further and further down a path of darkness and death. A path he wasn’t sure he could ever leave now that he was on it.

Beneath the cover of his sleeping bag, Pike’s thumb moved over the deltas on Katrina’s badge, beads on his own personal rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace…

How many Hail Marys would it take to make up for the sins he had committed? How many Our Fathers?

And moreover, as his thumb completed the circuit, he wondered: did he even want forgiveness?

***

In the morning, Pike’s back was just as sore as it had been the previous day. Perhaps more so, he amended, sitting up. He stood, stretched, hardly able to contain his sigh of satisfaction when his spine cracked audibly.

The head was shared by everyone currently sleeping in the bunk room, which meant it was a disaster. When Pike walked in, the fresher was whirling away on a load of laundry, a pile of dirty towels waiting its turn on the floor. To his right, one of the sonic showers hummed, and to his left, several men—crew or refugee, he didn’t know—went about their ablutions in front of the row of sinks. Inspections had probably been suspended in light of the refugees bunking down anywhere there was room for a body.

Pike snagged one of the few remaining clean towels from the stack on the shelf and took a shower. Afterwards, towel wrapped around his hips, he pulled open the first common drawer, and then the next. The drawers were usually stocked with extra toiletries like floss and toothbrushes, but he found them picked bare. He closed the last drawer with an aggravated slam. Thankfully, he’d packed his own and retrieved them from the duffle he’d brought from the runabout.

Clean and dressed, Pike went by Lyric’s quarters on his way to the mess hall.

“Hey,” she said, answering his chime. She was dressed in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair falling loose over her shoulders.

“Good you’re here,” he said, happy that he didn’t have to track her down. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s get breakfast. I need to talk to you.” And not just about the fact that he would be remaining on the Enterprise when they reached Starbase One. He had decided last night that he wanted—no, needed—to know how she knew about Starfleet.

Lyric looked at him skeptically but stepped out into the corridor and followed him to the mess hall.

Since it was mid-shift, the mess hall wasn’t busy, but the buffet was a completely foreign concept to Lyric who looked like she was going to start hyperventilating at the sight of all the options.

Pike took a guess and steered her towards the more traditional Earth fare. 

“It didn’t look like this last night,” Lyric whispered, clutching her tray like it was a lifeline. Last night she’d been here during the only period of time when the galley went dark and the buffet was closed. The rest of the day was a flurry of activity, crew going on duty, crew ending their watch, off-duty personnel gathering for a meal. Feeding a starship was a ceaseless task.

“Don’t overthink it,” Pike said, and then asked, “Eggs?” as he spooned scrambled eggs onto his own plate.

“Um…” Lyric bit her lip and looked down the line. Plant-based sausages, hash browns, waffles, and triangles of toast sat in warming trays. Further away was a fruit bar with yogurt and granola. “Please.”

Pike handed her the spoon and moved to serve himself some sausages and toast. “Take as much as you want,” he said when he glanced to his left and found that she was scooping her eggs one chunk at a time. But she just continued to use only the tip of the spoon to scoop out meager bites of eggs as if she hadn’t heard him.

Pike sighed and pushed his tray back along the counter. “Lyric.” Another tiny scoop of eggs made its way onto her plate. “What’s wrong?”

At his words, she gasped, startled, nearly jumping out of her skin, and hastily dropped the spoon. It clattered against the metal tray, causing her to jump again and sending chunks of egg catapulting out of the tray. “I’m sorry,” she said when the noise had died. Her words were quiet, her voice meek.

Recognizing the response now, Pike softened his words. “Hey. Why are you apologizing?”

“It’s just…so much.”

Feeling oddly like he should apologize for something, Pike looked around at the buffet lines, each practically overflowing with options, at the refugees and crewmen chatting at the various tables, plates full. Nothing went to waste on a starship, least of all food. Stasis fields ensured that everything stayed fresh to be reused or repurposed, and in the worst case, anything spoiled or not consumed was recycled into energy. But to one who’d never known true food security, the abundance must seem obscene.

“It’s okay,” Pike said, for lack of anything better to say. Reaching over, he picked up the spoon and put some more eggs onto her plate, enough to make it a full serving, and then moved her tray down the line, adding two “sausage” links and a square of hash browns. Silent, she followed him.

“Waffles or toast?” Pike asked. “Or both?”

“What’s a waffle?”

“It’s like a pancake, only crispier,” he said, adding two triangles to her plate. “You’ll like it. You can put syrup on them if you want.”

Her eyes lit up with the memory of pancakes, so he added, “Number One likes to put strawberries on hers.” So of course Lyric topped her waffles with strawberries and maple syrup before Pike—feeling overly indulgent—dusted it all with powdered sugar. Lyric questioned him with a look, but Pike kept his secrets and didn’t answer, knowing she would enjoy the extra sweetness.

Cups of coffee and juice were added to their trays, and then they found a table to sit and eat.

He didn’t ask her over breakfast—too crowded, too loud—so they ate in relative silence except for Lyric’s external debate about whether pancakes were better than waffles. Despite a lengthy dialogue with herself, she was unable to come to any sort of conclusion except for the fact that both were better than packaged oatmeal. But after they had deposited their trays at the bussing station, Pike led Lyric to the turbolift and called for deck eighteen.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I told you. I need to talk to you.”

“But Una said she would help me with my nails today,” she protested, petulantly enough that the words rattled in his ears before slithering down his spine.

“Una is on duty,” Pike told her sternly. “And this won’t take all day.”

With a groan of complaint, Lyric crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, muttering something in Mandarin under her breath, too quiet for the universal translator to pick up. But Pike didn’t need the translator to know that she was cursing him, probably quite colorfully, and simply ignored her. Despite the weeks spent in close proximity, he was still not used to her mercurial moods.

The lift halted, and they exited and entered the hanger below the shuttle bay. Pike led Lyric across the deck to where his runabout was currently stored and indicated that she should follow him through the hatch.

“Why here?” she asked when they had settled themselves into the pilot and co-pilot’s seats on the bridge. She was still annoyed that he’d dragged her away from painting her nails, and sat with her arms crossed, closed off and disinterested.

“It’s private, and I thought you might be more comfortable talking here.” The runabout was familiar territory, somewhere he hoped she would feel safe enough to answer his questions.

Lyric frowned, head tilting to one side, her expression turning wary. “About what?”

“I’m getting there. But first I want you to know that you can leave this conversation at any time. Just…” He pointed to the open hatch in indication. “I promise I won’t be mad.”

Wariness turned to apprehension as Lyric looked between him and the hatch.

Damn it, he wasn’t explaining this right. Pike sighed and raked a hand through his hair only to find it tied back with the rubber band he’d bound it with earlier. Damn.

“Look, Lyric,” he started after extricating his fingers from his hair. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew Katrina’s badge and held it up. “I want to know where you’ve seen this symbol before. How do you know about Starfleet?”

“Why?” The word was defensive, a bulwark against her confusion.

“Humor me.”

Her expression hardened, and it was a long moment before she snapped, “How do you think?”

Unexpectedly, Pike deflated at her confirmation, the subtle hope that she’d only seen officers in the restaurant collapsing far too suddenly. He had so, so wanted his suspicions to be just the product of his imagination running wild.

Instead, anger and horror rushed to fill the space left by his shattered hope. His fingers curled around Katrina’s badge, clenching tight. “When?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl.

“Does it matter?”

His answer was immediate. Emphatic. “Yes.”

“I don’t remember. A few times. Years ago.”

Pike turned away, sickened. Years ago. Fuck!

“They didn’t—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. He didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered.

He turned, facing her once more. “Who?”

Lyric peered at him. “Why?” This why was probing, searching for intentions.

“Who?” he demanded again, unwilling to let it go.

“And when you’ve killed them, will that then be enough to make up for what you think you did?”

The harsh truth of her words struck him with the force of a physical blow, and Pike reared back, surprised. Damn her. Damn her and her uncanny intuition. Damn her for holding up the mirror he’d avoided looking into, knowing that he’d see the Devil staring back at him.

His fists clenched on the arm rests, but it was his own throat his fingers itched to strangle. He turned away, choosing to stare at the lifeless helm console rather than at her.

Killing whoever had abused her wouldn’t make up for his sin—nothing would ever make up for what he’d done. It didn’t matter that he’d stopped it. It didn’t matter that by any lawful definition nothing had happened. He’d done enough, and he’d wanted to do more. For a moment. He was no better than the men who’d used her as a child, and that was something he could never make up to her.

How did one repent for a sin for which there was no penance?

It was a question he pondered as he stared at his reflection in the blackened screen, his stomach acidic with regret and remorse. That she was leaving soon provided only a modicum of relief from the guilt, knowing that she would be starting a new life, free from people who saw her only as an object to be bought. She would grow up, and she would forget about him and what he had very nearly done.

He allowed himself to think that she would go to college—he could imagine her in a dorm, surrounded by friends, laughing, living. She didn’t want to be a therapist, but Pike could imagine her studying to become a doctor. She would graduate with her friends, caps tossed in the air, go to medical school, perhaps get a job at a local hospital. She would meet someone, fall in love, maybe move out of the city and start a family. And he…

He would become nothing more than a distant memory, not even worth recalling. And that was how it should be.  

It was Lyric who finally broke the silence. “I don’t know who they were.” Her words were soft, quiet. Apologetic. Spoken as though she wished that she could take his pain away. “But, they didn’t hurt me.”

“They still did it.”

“Yeah.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Me too.”

Chapter Text

The uniform didn’t fit right. His jacket collar was too tight, the stripes on his sleeves chafed uncomfortably. Pike tugged at his collar, at his sleeves, adjusting the lay of the fabric, but nothing seemed to help. The institution no longer fit him; the regulations were suffocating.

Reaching into his pocket, he extracted Katrina’s badge, reminding himself why he was here. Only Starfleet could give him the resources he needed to find the Discovery, to hunt down Lorca and make him pay for what he’d done. Pike closed his fist around the metal disk, clutching it like a talisman.

He could pretend. He could pretend that the uniform fit right, that his collar wasn’t a noose around his neck, that the symbols of his rank weren’t shackles of his own design, chains weighted with his sins. He could pretend that he cared about the Federation, about Starfleet, that they hadn’t failed his wife. He could pretend that he belonged here until he’d gotten what he’d come back for.

Slipping the badge safely back into his pocket, Pike tugged the hem of his uniform one last time and stared at his reflection, trying to school his expression into something that didn’t show his discomfort. He smiled, but the gesture lacked any sort of warmth, coming across as frightening rather than happy, and he immediately frowned. Perhaps something less cheery. He let his lips quirk up on one side, but he couldn’t hold it.

Damnit! They were at war. Who had time for smiling anyway?

At least he had quarters again. Private quarters with a real bed and a real mattress, which he had wasted no time flopping onto the moment the doors to the captain’s quarters had closed behind him.

The refugees from Iridin had begun disembarking that morning when they’d docked at Starbase One. The Enterprise was currently taking on supplies, and that evening they would be warping to the border, wherever that was. At this point, the lines were getting redrawn by the day. Klingons now occupied at least twenty percent of Federation space. But Starfleet was no longer facing one enemy, they were fighting twenty-four, and unless the Federation changed their tactics, they would slowly lose this war by degrees.

Pike sighed and put the thought from his mind. It would be a while yet before this war ended—one way or the other. For now, he had more important things to worry about.

Lyric was angry with him. Two days ago he’d finally told her that he wouldn’t be disembarking with her at Starbase One, and the hurt on her face had almost been enough to make him forget about Lorca.

“But why can’t I stay here?” she’d protested.

“It’s not safe for you here,” Pike had explained for a second time, doing his best to remain patient. “Enterprise is being sent to patrol the border. We could be in a battle at any moment. There you’ll have protection.”

“But I thought that you were going to stay.” Her chin wobbled as she fought back tears. “I thought you were different!” she shouted, standing so abruptly that she knocked her chair over. “I thought you wanted me!”

“Lyric…”

“But you’re exactly like them!” And then she’d run, fleeing the mess hall like she couldn’t get away from him fast enough, and Pike had let her go because he couldn’t bear to force her to stay.

He had tried, later, to talk to her, multiple times, but she refused to even see him. One withering look from Number One last night and he’d let the matter drop for the time being.

Pike had known all along that there was something else behind Lyric’s need to feel useful. Now he knew what. She feared being given away by people whom she thought cared for her.

Perhaps he should have seen it before now. Hell, Una had seen it. And hadn’t he, too, guessed that Lyric might feel some sort of attachment to him? He just hadn’t considered what that might mean to her.

And now she thought him no better than her parents.

Damnit! He’d done what she wanted! He’d gotten her to the Federation, to asylum. Why did she have to go and get attached?

Once more, Pike slipped his hand into his pocket, clutching Kat’s badge. Katrina, I could really use your help right about now. He had no idea how to fix things with Lyric before she left; all he knew was that he wanted to. And he hoped that her anger had cooled enough to at least let him say goodbye.

But it appeared that it hadn’t, for when he went to her quarters and rang the chime, she didn’t answer. He tried again, and then pressed the intercom button. “Lyric? Lyric, it’s Chris.” Still, silence. “I just…” A breath. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

Nothing.

Ignoring the sudden pang in his chest, Pike said an awkward, “Okay then. Goodbye.” And then he turned and walked away.

He took his time making his way up to the bridge, going first past the airlock where the remaining refugees were disembarking just to be sure she wasn’t there already. Not seeing her in the small crowd, Pike continued down the corridor, stopping next at the mess hall, looking for her amid the groups of officers clustered around the dining tables. But she wasn’t there either. Nor was she in the galley when he looked.

Was she truly so angry that she wouldn’t at least let him say goodbye? Or had she already left? He didn’t know which hurt more.

Spinning on his heel, he strode out of the mess hall and continued up to the bridge with heavy steps, each one feeling like it was coming down on his own heart, grinding it into blackened dust in his chest.

After greeting his bridge crew, Pike handed over the bridge and made his way to the ready room to review the latest intel on Klingon movements near the Enterprise’s assigned section of the border. He knew it was a bad idea, but when he opened his computer console, he checked the passenger logs anyway, searching the list of departing refugees for Lyric’s name.

She hadn’t disembarked yet.

She just didn’t want to say goodbye.

It hurt. More than he’d thought it would. He’d begrudgingly agreed to ferry her to the Federation, but the kid had grown on him in the last two weeks, and he had to admit that he would miss her constant questions.

The afternoon was unproductive, his mind too distracted now to internalize any information on Klingons or fleet deployments, but finally, Una’s voice over the comm called him to the bridge. Glancing at the chronometer, he saw that it was time to depart anyway.

“Sir,” said Una as he stepped onto the bridge. The look of concern on her face had him going over to where she stood between the tactical station and the turbolift.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s Lyric,” Una said quietly.

Worry took up residence in his gut. “What about her?”

“Well, sir, her case worker is here but she’s not. There’s no record of her leaving the ship, but we can’t seem to find her.”

Pike looked from Una to the sheepish red-clad security officer standing behind her. “You checked her quarters?”

“Yes sir,” replied the officer whose name Pike didn’t know yet. He would have to get on that.

“And the galley?” he asked, thinking of places Lyric would likely go.

“Aye. Along with the cargo bays, sickbay, and engineering.”

“No, she wouldn’t go to engineer—” He cut himself off. “I know where she is.”

***

The runabout had been serviced days ago, but in a hangar full of ready shuttle craft, the extended gangplank and open hatch were not out of place. Pike entered his ship and made his way to the bridge. The whole ship was powered down, the only light guiding his way down the main corridor that which spilled in from the hangar through the open hatch. But Pike knew this ship by heart; he would not have needed even this meager light to find the bridge.

There he found his quarry, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, feet drawn up, arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees as she stared at the darkened console.

“Shoes off the furniture.” His words were light, teasing, but they startled her nonetheless. With a small gasp of surprise, she sat up, chair spinning, feet slipping from the seat and thumping onto the deck. She looked ready to bolt, hands griping the armrests, ready to launch herself from the chair, her eyes darting around the entryway as though looking for security personnel, the fear in them hard to miss.

“Don’t worry,” he said, raising a placating hand, “you’re not in trouble.”

Lyric relaxed slightly at that, but her hands remained white-knuckled on the armrests, and she kept her eyes on him as he went to sit in the pilot’s seat, spinning it to face her. A furrow of confusion split her brow as she considered him, and Pike remembered that she’d never seen him in uniform before. He probably looked as foreign to her now as he had to Una when they’d first arrived.

He gave her a teasing half smile and asked, “You weren’t planning on running off with my ship were you?”

Lyric’s eyes fell to the floor, all the tension leaving her body as she visibly deflated, slouching back in her seat. “No,” she said miserably.

“Everyone’s been looking for you,” Pike said in gentle reprimand.

She didn’t answer, just used her toe to spin the chair this way and that, eyes on the deck.

“You want to tell me why you’re hiding?”

Abruptly, she stopped the chair, foot planted firmly on the deck, and looked up. “I don’t want to go.”

 Pike sighed.  “Lyric…”

“Why can’t I stay with you? I thought…” she trailed off, looking down at the armrest where her thumb rubbed at the seam. “I thought you cared about me,” she admitted shyly.

“I do care about you,” he said. “I care about you a great deal.”

“Then why are you sending me away?” she cried.

“It’s not safe for you here.”

“Then it’s not safe for you!” She sat up straight, on the edge of her seat now, Una’s garish nail polish flashing on her fingernails as her hands slapped down onto the armrests with the force of her protest.

Pike took a breath, reminding himself to be patient. For the second time in as many weeks Lyric’s entire life was getting uprooted. Everything she had just come to know, the people she had come to trust, were getting ripped away from her. “Lyric,” he said calmly, “I know you’re scared. But the people here, they’re good, I promise you that.”

“You’re good.”

Even without the overhead lights, Pike didn’t miss the tears gathering in her eyes, though she quickly blinked them away, nor did he miss the hitch in her voice that said those tears would inevitably be back.

He shook his head. “No, I’m not. I think I used to be, but this war…It changed me.” He had stood at the crossroads on Cancri Four and sold his soul to the Devil for vengeance, and he couldn’t even bring himself to lament its loss. “It changed so many of us,” he added, thinking of Admiral April. “And I don’t want it to change you.”

Lyric’s gaze fell away, her fingers playing with the seam on the armrest.

Pike shifted in his seat, leaning towards her with his elbows on his knees.  “But the people here will look out for you, much better than I ever could.”

She seemed to consider his words, chewing her bottom lip. Was she thinking up a rebuttal? Finally, she looked up, fingers stilling, her eyes finding his. “Will I ever see you again?”

Pike softened, and he had to stop himself from reaching for her. “Of course.”

“Promise?”

He held out his fist, pinky extended. “Pinky swear.”

Lyric gave him a watery smile and hooked her pink with his. A moment later though, she flung her arms around his neck, tipping the chair back with the force of her hug. “I don’t want to go,” she sobbed into his uniform.

Pike wrapped his arms around her, stroked her hair while she cried. “I know,” he whispered. “I wish things were different.” And he surprised himself when he realized just how true that was. He wished this cursed war had never started. He wished he had found her under different circumstances. He wished that he didn’t have to leave her behind for her own safety.

“It’ll be all right,” he told her when she began to calm down. “You’ll be just fine.”

He held her until she loosened her hold on his neck and backed away, letting her take whatever time she needed to say goodbye. The Enterprise was behind schedule already, but there was not one shred of Pike that cared. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to his wife; goddamnit he would say goodbye to Lyric.

And the Federation could burn while he did.  

Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks blotchy, and when she sniffed loudly, he wished he had a tissue for her. Instead he settled for smoothing a lock of hair off her damp cheek and wiping away her tears with his thumb. “Tell them you want to go to Earth. When this is over, I’ll find you there.” His hand cupped the back of her head, ensuring she couldn’t look away when he vowed, “I promise.”

He hadn’t intended on making that promise, hadn’t intended anything except convincing her that leaving was the best thing for her. But somewhere between shaking pinky fingers and wiping her tear-stained face, Pike realized he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. And he’d burn in hell before he let her leave believing that he was pawning her off on some government pander for his own gain.

Lyric hiccuped and wiped a fresh tear off her cheek. “You better.” The command was ruined by another crude sniffle and an especially high-pitched hiccup.

Pike smiled softly and let his hand fall away. He stood, but found himself unable to hurry along her departure. “Speedway makes the best milkshakes on the base,” he told her instead, “but Torino’s has the best pizza. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Damn it, why was it so hard to get the words out? His throat felt too tight, strangled by emotion.

An involuntary huff of laughter forced its way out of Lyric, tugging her lips into a reluctant smile, before she wiped her face on her sleeve as she nodded.

Pike’s eyes stung. Damnit! He wasn’t supposed to cry. Roughly, he pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, scrubbing away the physical evidence of his emotions. Then he took a breath, briefly glancing up at the ceiling as he blinked away the extra moisture. When he could be sure that he wasn’t going to start crying, he looked at Lyric again and took her hands in his.

“Comm me if you need anything,” he told her. “Day or night.” Once more she nodded, her eyes downcast like she didn’t want him to see her crying. “Come here,” he said, and pulled her into another hug. She returned it. Fiercely. Arms tight around his waist.

Damn it, he was going to miss her.

But he couldn’t seem to find the words to tell her. So instead, when they each stepped back, he asked, “Are you packed?”

She nodded slightly in answer and glanced to a corner of the bridge where her duffle bag, the one he had bought for her, sat stuffed more full than it had been when they arrived.

“All right then,” he said, lifting the bag and hanging it on his shoulder. “Let’s get you off.”

With jerky motions, Lyric wiped away the last of her tears, took a deep breath, and turned towards the hatch.

She didn’t reach for his hand this time in the lift. Nor as they approached the airlock where Una stood with a portly Federation official in a dark suit. But her steps slowed noticeably. Pike put an arm around her shoulders and matched her pace.

“Lyric Price?” asked the official as he took a step forward. Lyric nodded in answer. “I’m Kane Schaffer. I’ll be your case officer.” Schaffer held out his hand but Lyric just stared at it before looking up at Kane doubtfully. Then she turned her gaze up to Pike, a question in her eyes. He nodded.

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and shook Schaffer’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Schaffer, releasing her hand for which Lyric appeared grateful, snatching her hand back quickly and rubbing her palm on her pants. Not noticing, Schaffer continued, his tone one note above bored, his words rote. “I look forward to working with you. Well, let’s get you settled. This part of the process can take a while, especially with the number of refugees we’re currently processing, but we should have you on a transport in a week or two.” He stepped to the side, making it clear that Lyric was supposed to go with him, but she stayed where she was, turning only so she could face Pike.

Pike let her bag slip from his shoulder but held it at his side rather than give it to her. “Comm me if you need anything,” he told her again. “Anything at all.” While Schaffer was probably a decent enough guy, it was clear to Pike that the man was overworked, and Pike didn’t want Lyric doubting who she could turn to.  

“I will.”

“And, uh…”

Lyric waited. Schaffer checked his watch.

Pike knew that he was procrastinating, but he didn’t care. Schaffer could go fuck himself.

“Keep your shoes off the furniture,” he said finally and gave Lyric her bag.

She took it with a smile, hanging it on her shoulder. “Don’t swear.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised with a slight chuckle. “Comm me when you get your transport scheduled.”

“I will.”

“And when you get to Earth.”

“I will.”

Silent, they looked at one another. This was for the best, right? Suddenly, Pike had doubts. But she wouldn’t be safe on the Enterprise. Not when they could be engaging Klingons at any moment.

It was Lyric who moved first, stepping forward and hugging him again, arms tight around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Pike didn’t know how to respond to the quiet indebtedness he heard once more in her voice. “You’re welcome,” seemed inefficient and “any time,” seemed like a lie. So he simply hugged her back, eyes stinging, until her hold on him loosened and she stepped back.

And when she looked back at him over her shoulder from the airlock, waving goodbye, he waved back and smiled encouragingly, proud and miserable all at once. It wasn’t goodbye, though, not really. Just goodbye for now.

“Remember what I told you,” he called before she could turn away. “When this is over.”

Lyric nodded, and then with one final wave, she was gone, walking through the airlock and on to Starbase One where her life could begin anew.

The airlock hatch closed with a snap, and Pike was left standing there, feeling as though the closing door had severed something vital inside him. Not wanting to remain in that corridor another moment, he spun on his heel and headed for the turbolift.

Una followed. Because of course she did.

“What did you tell her?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Pike replied gruffly, staring straight ahead at the lift, hurrying to reach it. Maybe she would leave him be once he called it.

But it wasn’t so. Una followed him into the lift.

Silence surrounded them as the lift rose through the ship until Una said, “She’ll be all right. She’s a tough kid.”

“I know,” Pike said, and did his best to convince himself it was true. That Lyric would be all right without him, not that she was tough. Lyric was indeed a tough girl. She had survived something he couldn’t fully imagine, and survived with her self intact.

She humbled him.

“You okay?” Una asked.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Pike forced out a rough, “Yeah.” Whatever he felt, it didn’t matter. This was for the best. Lyric was safe.

Una wisely let the subject drop.

The lift deposited them on the bridge. Pike exited to the tune of the boatswain’s whistle. The shrill sound snaked down his spine; Pike suppressed a shiver and took his chair. He longed for solitude, but shirking his responsibility so soon after his reinstatement would hardly inspire confidence in his captaincy. Escape would have to wait until they had shoved off.

“Lieutenant Nicola,” Pike said, grateful that his voice sounded normal enough, “what’s our status?”

“Docking Control and Engineering report ready for launch,” the communications officer answered.

“Very good. Number One, take us out.”

“Aye, sir.”

Pike watched as Enterprise disengaged from her docking clamps and angled towards open space. Within minutes they were at warp, stars streaking by in the viewport. Since they weren’t scheduled to arrive at the border any time soon, he waited the appropriate amount of time before handing the bridge over to Una.

“I’ll be in my quarters,” he said, already on his way to the turbolift.

Admiral April had left a bottle of Saurian brandy in the kitchen, and Pike wasted no time pouring himself a glass once the doors had closed behind him.

Flames danced in the fireplace, longing for something to burn besides faux wood and gases. The imitated pop and snap of burning wood cracked whip-sharp in the silence while he watched, sipping his drink. Pike understood longing. Was well acquainted with it. He knew what it felt like to pine for something he could never have, to want and wish and hope until his heart cracked like burning wood.

Leaving the fire to yearn in solitude, Pike went to the display console in the bedroom. “Computer. Display recent mission reports for the USS Discovery.”

The computer chirped in acknowledgement and lit up the display with a list of reports. Pike glanced through them.

No, that couldn’t be right. The most recent report was nine months old.

“Computer, are these the most recent reports?”

“Affirmative,” answered the disembodied voice of the ship’s computer.

Was she in space dock? Decommissioned? Or worse: MIA?

“Computer, what is the current status of the USS Discovery?”

“The USS Discovery was destroyed by Klingon battle cruisers on stardate—”

“Destroyed?” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the computer stopped at his automatic response and said, “Affirmative.”

The report was so unexpected. That the Discovery—the ship Katrina had pinned so much hope on—could actually be gone…

For several moments, it was all Pike could do to stand there, incredulous, before he said, “Computer. Show the Discovery’s crew complement and status.” Perhaps there were survivors. It was unlikely, and any that had survived the destruction had most likely died in a Klingon prison. But Lorca had escaped one destroyed ship. He had also escaped Klingon imprisonment. It was possible that he or others had escaped the Discovery and made their way back to the Federation.

Names and faces filled the screen, Captain Lorca at the top, Commander Saru below. On and on, the names and faces of Discovery’s crew. And beside each one, those dreaded three letters—KIA.

Pike gasped, reaching for the wall to steady himself. Discovery was destroyed, Captain Lorca dead.

It didn’t seem possible. But there was the report on the incident in question. And when he opened it, the evidence was rendered in holographic detail: scattered hull fragments, pieces of her name and registry number.

The Discovery had gone down with all hands.

There had been no survivors.

It seemed wrong. For nearly a year Pike had tracked and hunted and killed those responsible for his wife’s murder. So much pain and rage and death. For that mission to end like this, not with a climax of blood and gore, but with old news delivered nine months too late, with three letters next to a name in much the same way as it had begun, felt wrong, unfitting of the hatred that lived inside him.

But it was over.

Lorca was dead.

His quest was finished.