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Michael drank the last of her tea as Tilly made an appreciative noise low in her throat, chewing another bite of her bacon-cheddar omelet like it might be her last. The fear had almost entirely drained from her expression after a good night's sleep. Almost.
She couldn't imagine how scary it must have been for Tilly, thinking she might never get out of the mycelial network. Not knowing where she was or how to get home or even if she could. The fact that only a hint of the fear lingered was a testament to her resilience.
Tilly swallowed her bite and took in her omelet, awed. "I mean, seriously though, bacon is amazing."
Michael smiled a little. "You say that like it's some kind of revelation."
"It is," Tilly insisted, red curls swaying over her cheeks.
"You say it every time you have bacon," Michael shot back, indulgent.
"Just because something's known, doesn't mean it can't still be revelatory, thank you very much." She cut herself another bite. "You're glorious," she crooned to her food, reverent.
"Okay, that's a bit much."
Tilly opened her mouth to respond—
And then she grinned, eyes on something just behind Michael. "Captain," she greeted, welcoming. "Come tell Michael that bacon is glorious."
Michael turned to find Pike approaching, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. The sight sent fondness tickling down her spine, a warmth she couldn't help and had stopped actively suppressing. There didn't seem to be much point.
He stopped at their table. "I never argue with a lady when she's right."
Tilly looked to Michael, pointed. "See? This is fact."
"Yes, that's definitely how facts work," Michael shot back, but she smiled with it, enjoying Tilly's obvious delight.
Pike smiled at them both, then gestured to one of the empty seats at their table. "May I?"
Tilly waved him down. "Park it, Sparky. Want a bite?" She held out her fork like this was a normal thing to do.
He just laughed again. "I've eaten, thanks."
Tilly shrugged. "More for me." Then she took the bite and got to chewing.
Michael looked to Pike, wondering why he was here if not to eat. "Did you need some help with the hull retrofit?" she asked, taking a guess.
He shot her an appreciative look, but shook his head. "Nah, it's in the last phase now, nothing more for us to do. But you're not wrong that I have an agenda."
Something pulsed in her at the idea of Pike seeking them out.
Seeking her out.
She quashed that thought as the futile hope it was. "Oh?" she asked, neutral.
Pike sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. "I would like to preface this by saying that Number One is incorrigible."
Tilly made a happy noise and propped her elbow on the table, chin on hand. "I love her already, tell me everything."
"Well, I've got a resupply ship half-full of Risan rum, for one." Blue eyes sparkled as he looked to Tilly. "I don't suppose you have thoughts on what to do with it all."
She straightened up with a grin, absolutely delighted. "What's that old tradition? Rum, sodomy, and the lash."
Michael blinked at that bizarre pronouncement.
Pike laughed aloud, once, then held up a hand. "Okay, let's not get carried away here. This isn't the Royal Navy and we're not chasing pirates."
"Drink up me hearties yo ho," Tilly sing-songed, clearly having no intention of taking it down a notch. Possibly ever.
"This is so gonna end in nudity and tears," Pike muttered, regret in his voice.
"Psha, if you're lucky," Tilly shot back, gleeful. "Don't worry, sir. You leave everything to me."
***
The resulting party was, predictably, epic. The crew had nothing to do but wait on the tritanium resurfacing; as a result, everyone showed up. The mess hall was madness—a long table pushed against the wall to serve as a bar, endless bottles of alcohol laid out, cups everywhere, roving lights, music, the cacophony of most of the crew living it up.
Michael attended due to fear of reprisal—Tilly still hadn't stopped speaking in archaic constructions and Michael really needed to find whatever book she'd read; she was way too fluent—but she stayed pressed against the wall and just watched.
She watched as Tilly challenged basically everyone to beer pong—not using beer, which seemed ill-advised—beating most of them handily, including a whole rash of specialists who really needed to learn when to quit.
She watched Owo, Detmer, and Rhys cheer them on, playfully mocking.
She watched Bryce stop in his tracks, incensed at some ensigns' drink choices. "You cannot mix Risan rum with orange juice. No. Bad. Party foul," Bryce declared, confiscating said rum to a chorus of awww. That somehow led to Bryce the Bartender, offering witty commentary on people's requests and a "one for you, one for me" ethos that also seemed ill-advised.
Really, so much of this seemed ill-advised...but Michael also couldn't argue with the results. She watched as people loosened up, the hunted looks that had hovered over people slowly slipping away, replaced with the joy of time with friends.
A prickle underneath her skin signaled presence, Michael looking over and feeling the pulse of finding Pike there. He took in the mess hall, one corner of his mouth lifted, a glass in hand. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a sip.
The sight of his lips on the glass shot heat straight through her. Michael searched for something to say. "Admiring your handiwork, sir?"
Pike slanted a look at her, a teasing glint to it. "I would never claim credit for Ensign Tilly's efforts."
"That, I do believe," Michael said, genuine. Then she shot him a dry look. "And I'm sure you had no idea what your Number One was sending."
Pike affected innocence. "She's a menace. A threat to good order and discipline. I can't imagine how I didn't see it before."
Michael huffed a laugh, looking out at the party, everyone drinking and laughing, enjoying each other. "No order and discipline here."
"And amen to that. Sometimes it's good to celebrate that you're alive," Pike said, soft, drawing her eyes back to him. The light spilling in from the corridor beyond side-lit him, outlining his profile. Something fluttered in Michael's belly.
She ignored it. "Why would you need to celebrate something that just is?"
"So we don't take it for granted," he said like it was the simplest thing in the world. He angled himself toward her, leaning against the wall, contemplative. "We go through so much. Everyone needs to step back every once in a while, to really take stock of the life they're living. To see what it has to offer. To revel in what they have."
That idea buzzed through her, appreciation curling in her gut at the thoughtfulness of it. Living life with intention.
He watched her quietly, something shadowed in his eyes, though there was no tension in his frame. No, it seemed more like he was...waiting on her thoughts.
She nodded, acknowledging his point. "The crew did need this."
His eyes went shyly pleased for a moment...and then he tilted his head, reading something else in her. "You're part of that crew."
Michael shrugged it off. "I don't need much."
Pike's gaze went penetrating. Thoughtful. "I don't know about that," he drawled, enigmatic. But he blinked and it was gone, Pike waggling his glass. "For the moment, I can offer you a drink. Get you something?"
Michael smiled in thanks, but shook her head. "Never got the taste for it."
"Even the good stuff?"
She scoffed. "People insist there's such a difference." Really, it was bordering on mass delusion. Alcohol was alcohol. Why people insisted on torturous justifications in pursuit of their vices was beyond her.
Pike just blinked...and held out his glass. "The Anniversary vintage. A hundred years old. Number One sent a couple bottles for my eyes only."
Michael looked at the glass, then up to him. A light swept over him then, a brief pop of brilliance. Something clenched in her chest.
Her nonreaction didn't faze him. He lifted the glass a little, encouraging. "Go on. If you're going to pooh-pooh something, you should at least try it."
Hesitant, Michael took the glass, suddenly hyper-aware that his mouth had been on it not so long ago. But that was ridiculous; alcohol killed germs anyway.
Because it's about the germs, her mind whispered, taunting.
Michael ignored that, taking a small sip. Flavor burst onto her tongue, some kind of thick honeyed sweetness, a subtle bite lurking underneath. She swallowed, making a surprised noise. The rum tingled on the way down, sensation suddenly slipping through her throat to her chest. It was milder than most of the alcohol she'd tried, though still potent. Smooth.
She looked up at Pike, catching the pleased lift to his mouth. Then he widened his eyes, going innocent again. "Thoughts?"
Michael mock-glared, getting a laugh. "It's extraordinary," she admitted, grudging, returning the glass.
Pike's eyes sparkled at her, so blue. So pleased. "I love this; we've discovered something. It's not that you don't like alcohol. It's that you, Michael Burnham, have champagne tastes."
"Which functionally makes no difference," she said, dry. "Not a lot of hundred-year-old anniversary editions floating around."
"True," he agreed, sobering a little. "But it's always good to find something new you like." His voice dropped as he said it, eyes on her.
Michael swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. And not because of the rum. Was he—could he possibly mean—"It is," she finally said, voice hitching.
Pike held her gaze for another moment, so intense...and then he broke the connection, like a pressure valve released. His lips quirked. "If you ever want to indulge, come find me."
He started away and a flash of panic shot through Michael. If he left this moment, she would never get it back. She knew herself; she would talk herself out of pursuing anything. Choosing the most appropriate path, always.
She suddenly, viscerally rejected that.
Her hand darted out, gripping his wrist, stopping him. "I want to indulge," she said on a rush because if she didn't, she never would. And she did want to see what life had to offer. Even if it came with this sick nervousness in her gut, heart pounding in her ears.
Pike's look went startled before something else flashed there. Something that looked a lot like heat. "I stashed a bottle in the galley," he said slowly, almost like an offer.
Michael nodded, once. "That's our mission then."
***
Pike led her into the galley, empty and still, everyone off drinking their way through the collection at the makeshift bar in the mess hall. Michael's heart pounded loudly at the recognition that they were alone, that she was doing this—
But instead of turning to her, Pike moved to one of the long consoles that housed cookware, kneeling down to open the furthest hatch. He shifted a few things, then stood, an aged bottle in hand.
Michael blinked. What?
Unbothered, Pike went to the replicator. "Two scoops of ice cream, vanilla, two spoons," he ordered, Michael blinking again in surprise. They were having ice cream?
Pike collected the ice cream and carried it to the center island, setting it before her. He uncorked the rum with a pop, then drizzled it generously. He recorked the bottle, nudging a spoon her way, meeting her eyes. "Try it."
Confusion still pulsing through her, Michael picked up the spoon and dipped it into the ice cream, the rum seeming thicker now. She took a bite, making a surprised noise at the taste—the rum's consistency had changed, almost as thick as honey, the alcoholic bite sharper, but blending in with the vanilla.
Pike smiled a little. "The cold crystallizes the sugar in the rum," he said, taking a bite of his own and making a satisfied noise.
Michael watched as he went back for another bite. Was it possible he actually thought she wanted the rum? It hadn't felt like that at all. She hadn't meant that. But maybe she'd misunderstood?
Then Pike looked directly at her as he licked his spoon and every coherent thought flew out of her head, replaced by a rush of lust so strong it stole her breath.
Michael breathed in, trying to regain her equilibrium, even as Pike set down his spoon. "If I'm misreading this, you should tell me now."
"I didn't come with you for the rum," she said honestly.
Triumph glinted in his eyes. "Good to know," he deadpanned just as he leaned in, Michael making a soft noise as his mouth met hers. He kissed her, slow, like he had ages to do this, no rush to be found. A wave of want/disbelief/pleasure crashed through her as she kissed him back, Pike breaking the kiss, then tilting his head the other way, nibbling at her lips. Michael opened her mouth to him, mewling as he lapped his tongue against hers, so soft.
Dimly, she heard the clatter of her spoon as it dropped to the island. She lunged for him, kissing him fiercely, Pike grunting as she pressed her body into his, desire pulsing through her in time to their kisses. If she'd liked the rum on its own, it was even better sampled off his tongue.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding on, one hand landing in his hair even as her senses were busy cataloging exactly what he felt like pressed up against her, a solid block of muscle radiating heat. Michael wanted to push him against the wall, to fuse their bodies together, to feel what he could do with all that delicious strength. She made a helpless noise into his mouth, trying to get more—
And Pike tore himself away, panting, color high in his cheeks, lips already a little puffy.
Michael tried to follow him, but he jerked back, holding up a quelling hand, a mixture of lust and caution all over his face. He swallowed, trying to compose himself. "We're in—we shouldn't—" he fumbled, charmingly breathless. Then he stilled, gaze going intense. "Do you want to continue this in my quarters?"
She licked her lips. "Bring the bottle."
***
Fin. Feedback is adored.