Archive of Our Own ^beta

If feet could groan, hers would’ve started doing so already a few hours ago. 

Kicking off her shoes the moment she gets through the door of her quarters, Laira lets the groan out (although it honestly sounds more like a whimper), unbuttons her jacket and falls down on the sofa. I can’t stay here for too long , she chides herself while another part of her wants to scream like a tired child.

She needs to eat. She also needs to shower and get to bed properly afterwards and she probably should look through her notes from today’s meeting. It was a good meeting, a good day of work but it was work and it was hard work and she is tired now. All of these things have happened before, nothing is new and she knows it’s just to get up and get going.

Almost like a routine, she presses her combadge while heading over to the kitchen. Oddly, he doesn’t reply. Laira tries not to feel discouraged, it’s not that he has to join her it just that usually he does after days like this, but sure, things are changing and-

Her combadge beeps, just as she opens a cupboard.
“Vance to Rillak.” Relief is her first feeling and she sets down the jar of spices she has just taken out.
“Rillak here.” She knows she’s smiling. Ah, there’s the pot . She finds it while peeking through the cupboards.
“Sorry, I was in the shower when you called.” Oh .
“A shower . That sounds like a good idea,” she replies. He chuckles over the comm.
“I have a feeling the final talks took a little longer than you’d have wanted, Madam President?”
“You could say that, Admiral…” she fills the pot with water, “Well, honestly, it went smooth. But I was already tired from yesterday’s talks-”
“That was a long night.”
“It was.” She places the pot on the stove and lights it up. “Anyway, why I called was because I need to eat and figured you might too?”
“Correct assessment. Be there in a few minutes?”
"Doors’re open.” He knows the way, and on this small diplomatic-turned-presidential ship it’s just her quarters and a few guest quarters. The one next to hers has somehow naturally become his, whenever he joins her.

Over the years, this - them eating in her quarters - has become a routine. They go somewhere where they either try to get people to stay in the Federation (has been hard until recently) or at least they try to figure out what kind of help they can give, or get. She being the diplomat, ambassador and then President tries to offer friendship and alliances, he can offer the ships and guns. Usually, whatever he brings has been of more interest to anyone they’re meeting. Lately, after Discovery and the 10-C, Laira’s strengths have been able to play out more. This time, the Federation has got a new member. It still feels like a dream, a victory she never thought she would get to experience.

And during their travels, they still need to eat.

She finds the pans and ingredients - she’s hardly making a three course meal but she likes to have everything in order before she starts. She hears the soft whoshing of the door and just as she opens the lid to look at the water (it’s simmering) he makes it to the kitchen.
“Why don’t you get a shower and I take over here? He's wearing sweatpants and a worn t-shirt. He looks like comfort personified. Laira smiles.

“Thank you.” Like a well-known dance they switch places and even more in line with a dance she pats him between his shoulder blades when she passes. Like a greeting, like an ok I’m passing behind you know , like a grounding. Tactile communication works on a peaceful ship, as much as in the perils of trying to get there. They have practiced both.

Laira showers quickly, mainly getting the day's sweat and makeup off before changing into her own more comfortable clothes. They have the same sweatpants (some old standard version they must’ve been given over a decade ago) but she then prefers a camisole and a cardigan - rather than a t-shirt. She almost sighs at the softness of the old, well-known and well-worn fabrics. She doesn’t put her hair up, just lightly comb it through with her fingers and let it rest from a long day in an intricate bun. It has faded in color over the years, no longer intense red but a softer, lighter touch of red.

As she exits the bathroom, he enters her quarters. Again. She raises an eyebrow.

“Went to get some wine,” he explains and holds up the bottle. She looks towards the kitchen. “Don’t worry, dear President. I would never burn down your kitchen.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”

They always use their ranks in these settings more like a joke. Or maybe like a way to ease from the day of official interactions, to the comfortable pace of the evening? Charles' arm drapes over her shoulders in a sideway hug as they make their way back to the stove. Pasta is boiling, probably almost done next to the pan of sauce. She holds back her hair as she leans over to inhale - no stray hairs in the food, thank you very much.

“Mmm,” is her only comment as the aromas fill her senses.
“Like it?” She meets his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.
“The magic you manage in my kitchen is always impressive.”
“You’re not a bad cook either.” She leans back at the counter as he salts the dish a bit more.
“I’m good at making something edible from nothing and making sure we stay alive. You can cook .”

He begins to take the pot away from the stove, their dance starting again as she gets plates and cutlery.
“As much as that might be, your skill has still been very important to our survival.” 

He plates the food, while she finds the wine glasses.

And yes, how many odd meals haven’t they shared over the years? How many situations haven’t they been in - from her just a newly made Ambassador and he a Lieutenant, to her President of it all and he now the Admiral? How many times has she managed to find something edible, and then for them to share a meal of actual food once back to safety?

“And your cooking has made it worth staying alive,” she says as she brings them to the table by the sofa. No more chairs for her today, she needs the softness of her sofa. They sit down, he shakes his head.
“I hope you live for a little more than my pasta with sauce.”
“Mhmm. The wine looks good too.” She winks as she unscrews the cork and starts to pour.

“For food worth living for,” she raises her glass.
“For nnourishment to make it another day,” he replies back and they toast.

Laira positions herself cross legged, takes her plate and starts eating. She sees him in the corner of her eye, his graying hair and the gray in the beard he started wearing many years ago, when they had recently met. She likes it (both the beard and the signs of age. It means that he got to age - never a given for either of them, and even less so in his line of work).

“How's the family?” She asks.
“Good. I called them to say we were on our way back. Charlie is excited, we're going to the theme park she’s been nagging me about.” He chuckles, Laira smiles.
“She’s gotten so big. I remember when she was born,” Laira contemplates.
“Yes. It's scary how fast time goes,” he says and sips his wine. “And I'm very happy that she gets to grow up in a more peaceful world.”

Laira smiles over the rim of her own glass. She's happy for Charles, happy for Charlie and for all of them. They've worked hard to keep the Federation alive and then to get it to blossom and grow again.

And yet, Laira can’t fully relax… Her initial thought is still there, her worry not fully going away. She sighs and sets her now almost finished plated down in her lap.
“You alright?” Of course he would notice, of course he would ask.
“I’m…,” she could lie, wave it off, be firm and make him stop prying. But what good would it do? “It’s changing, isn’t it, Charles?” He looks at her, so close next to her.
“Yes.” She looks away, tries to not let it ruin their evening, this worry.

“It’s a good thing,” she says as much to him as to herself. “It’s all we could ever hope for, everything we fought for…” She takes some food, some wine. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to be such a… downer.” She tries to chuckle, almost embarrassed at her current state.
“Laira,” he begins and then seems to think too. Suddenly, he quickly finishes his plate (they were both starving, she concludes, not just her) and then turns around on the sofa, facing her.
“Scoot over.”
“What?” She has just finished her plate, still savoring the flavors.
“Come here. Rest your back against me.” He positions her in an embrace, the back of her head resting against his shoulder as he almost becomes her sofa.
“Why this?” 
“Because you always talk better when your thoughts can be in front of you like an imaginary mind map-” she chuckles. “And because it’s almost freaky to be on the other side of that mind map watching you talk to yourself.”
“So you want the mindmap in front of us both?” She finds a comfortable postion, leaning against him, letting herself relax.
“With you inbetween.”
“As to not get attacked by my thoughts?”
“From this angle I hope to be able to shoot them in the right direction.” She laughs and then sighs against him. Allows herself the comfort of his arms around her, her head now more at the nape of his neck.

What they have is hardly platonic, she would be a fool to say it is - at least from her part there have been a stray thought or two that would have been considered more than friendly. They’ve never crossed any boundaries, not sure if they even want to and they both have partners, he even a family. But rarely is this thing between them this intimate, this close.

“So, it’s changing…” he begins, as she lets her hands play with his, resting over her belly.
“Yes.”
“Specify for me.”
“The Federation. Starfleet. Us. This.” Laira waves at the room. She senses him placing the tiniest of kisses on her hair. It sends a tingle down her spine. She takes a steadying breath. “And it’s just difficult to adjust, I guess. What we had today, it’s becoming the new normal, isn’t it?”
“I think it is.”
“And soon my job in these talks will be more of the ceremonial kind-”
“It’s still a very important job, being a President.”
“Yes, true ,” she chuckles.
“But I see your point,” she feels one of his hands playing with her hair, the other intertwined with one of hers still. She could fall asleep like this, the food and the wine making her sleepy and the comfort she finds here so inviting. “You won’t need to travel as much as you have for all these years. And I won’t have to join you.” He states, his voice low.
“And I won’t be calling you to get the latest reports after yet another conflict, skirmish or battle.” She tries to keep the wistfulness out of her voice, probably failing badly.
“Or we won’t have ended up in the middle of one trying to get back home again.”
“With me trying to cook you something out of thin air.” He chuckles.
“Or me trying to figure out what to make once we’re back to safety...” He hugs her, she can feel his cheek against hers.

“Will you miss it?” She finally dares to ask, looking out at the room, at the finished plates, the empty wine glasses. He takes a breath.
“Yes,” he whispers and kisses her hair again.

Silence falls around them, there seems to be nothing left to say or do. It's changing, for the better, and they're supposed to come home by the end of the day to eat dinners with partners and family - not with colleagues and comrades. It’s not a change she thought she would resist, but for this evening she wants to postpone it for a little longer.

Laira listens to his heartbeat behind her, feels his chest rise and fall and the weight of his arms around her. It feels peaceful here, it rechargers her just as much as the food - just differently.

She closes her eyes, allows the comfort of here and now and him to embrace her. When she wakes, she’s tucked under a blanket and her quarters are empty. 

And at the sight of the cleared table, she can’t help the tears from silently falling.