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It’s well-known fact among the Enterprise’s crew that no one has seen Number One in civvies and no one has seen her cry. That last point has become legend on board not just Enterprise but across the fleet thanks to an awed and much-circulated report from Ensign Hui on what it was like to lie next to the stoic first officer in sickbay while Doctor M’Benga and Nurse Chapel removed nineteen pieces of shrapnel from her abdomen without so much as a whimper. (Number One, upon encountering the rumor in the halls of Deep Space Station K-7 five months later, set the record straight: There were eighteen pieces of shrapnel, most of them quite small, and she was unconscious for the worst one.) (The revelation several months later that she was Illyrian did nothing to curb the mythic proportions of the tale.) (It actually made them worse.)
In the months since the Gorn attack, Nyota has heard enough accounts of Number One’s fortitude to fill a very thick book. Most of the rumors are too outlandish to be true, but the fact still stands that Una Chin-Riley has become legendary for her lack of tears. She’s also become famous for never appearing out of uniform, and so, when she shows up at the captain’s galley for her own welcome home party sporting her usual boots and miniskirt and color-coordinated nails, no one is surprised. Ortegas even teases her about it, to which Una replies she’ll take a well-starched uniform over prison onesies any day.
The night that shatters the myth of the first officer starts off normally enough. There are cocktails, laughter, and a month’s worth of gossip to catch up on, along with food so flavorful it surpasses the level of good and lands somewhere in the territory of the divine. Una is her usual sparkling yet slightly formal self, and no one thinks anything about the toll the past few months have taken on her.
That is, not until she starts to cry.
“Number One?” the captain asks as three fat tears spill out of her eyes.
Ortegas stops telling the story she’s in the middle of, and La’An utters a too-soft Chief? while leaning forward in her chair. Una blinks as if confused by the attention, then touches her own cheek. “Oh,” she says, staring at her fingertips. “I’m sorry.” She stands. “I—”
But she doesn’t finish. She just leaves, bumping the side of the table so hard in her haste that Pelia has to grab her drink.
There’s a moment of stunned silence after the doors swish shut, a moment when the room feels too big and too small and the air leaks slowly out of all their lungs. Ortegas looks at Chapel who looks at M’Benga, who shakes his head and turns to Pike, who appears just as bewildered as the rest of them and considerably more alarmed. Next to him, Spock stares steadily at his plate while Pelia—the only one unbothered—takes a noisy drink of Una’s wine.
“Um, what just happened?” Ortegas asks.
“I believe the commander experienced what most would call an upsetting emotion and removed herself from the room in order to regulate,” Spock replies.
Silence.
He looks around the table. “Unless I am mistaken.”
More silence.
“In which case I would appreciate it if—”
Beside him, Chapel puts a hand on his wrist and gently shakes her head.
“Was it something I said?” Ortegas asks, locking eyes with Nyota. “What was I even talking about? I can’t remember.”
“Your sister,” Chapel prompts. “And Christmas. You were telling us about how she used to wrap your presents—”
“In ten layers of tape and sealed with a Vulcan logic puzzle, right, yeah, I remember now. Why would that have upset her?”
“I dunno. Does she have a sister?”
“Maybe she had a bad experience with a Vulcan logic puzzle.”
“I hardly think Number One would start crying at the mention of a lo—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” They all fall silent as La’An stands up so forcefully that her chair bangs into the bulkhead behind her. “She’s a person, not a statue. People cry.”
“Most people,” Ortegas mutters.
“Erica...”
“I was talking about Spock.”
“That’s not fair,” Chapel bristles.
“Fairness is irrelevant. She is correct, I do not cry.”
“You know,” Pelia says with a hiccup and a loud smack of her lips, “I thought this wine was garbage, but I’m beginning to taste the appeal. Either that or I’m much more drunk than I thought.”
Everyone turns to stare at her, and then they all start talking at once.
“Okay, you know what—” Pike pushes back his chair and holds his hands up in a placatory gesture. “I think we should call it a night. Number One’s been through a lot this month. She’s probably just... sorting through some stuff.”
Spock and M’Benga help clear the table. Chapel and Ortegas drift into the corner to converse in lowered voices, and La’An stands in the middle of the room for forty-five clenched-fist seconds before turning on her heel and walking out into the hall. Nyota drifts from table to kitchen to sink and then back to the table where Pelia is busy folding all the napkins into elaborate non-Earth animal shapes.
“It’s her favorite, you know.”
“What?”
Pelia nods toward the lone slice of pie sitting at Number One’s place at the table. For some reason, it’s escaped the clean-up, as if they hoped she would return. “You should take it to her.”
“Me?”
Pelia looks up at Nyota like she’s the incomprehensible one. “Well yes, unless you think I’m addressing the Suliban hiding behind your shoulder. Which I am not.”
Nyota has no idea what to say to that. In general, she never has any idea what to say to Pelia, and not just because looking at her makes her think of Hemmer, which makes her chest hurt so hard it becomes difficult to breathe. “I’m sure La’An’s got it covered,” she says at last.
Pelia harrumphs. “That kid ran off to the gym to punch a bunch of silicone dummies like she always does.”
Nyota looks at the lonely slice of pie and wonders when Pelia had the time to learn so much about them. “I really don’t know what I would say to her.”
“Say? Why would you say anything? Just put the damn pie outside her door and leave.”
“That’s... not exactly how you comfort someone.”
“That’s precisely how you comfort someone. Pie and silence. What could be better?”
“I don’t know. A hug?”
Pelia guffaws.
“Well you seem to have a good idea of what not to say, which if you ask me is half the battle.” She picks up her animal-like concoction and wrings its neck, resulting in a vaguely swan-like creature with a nose that touches what appears to be its ass. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to take the pie to Number One.”
“Good girl.”
“Sure. Yeah. I’m just—” She takes the pie and leaves.
For all her facility with language, Nyota always becomes silent when confronted with grief. As she stands outside the door to Una’s quarters and feels that old familiar tightening in her chest, she wonders what she’s doing. By the time the door opens, the paralysis has spread to her throat. She tries to smile and fails spectacularly, then thrusts the pie into the space between them with so much force that it almost flies off the plate and onto Una’s shirt. Una’s non-uniform shirt. Una’s non-uniform, very casual t-shirt, paired with sweatpants Nyota would not have guessed she owned on account of the holes in both knees.
“You forgot your dessert,” she says, then decides that this is the stupidest sentence she’s said in her life. She’s still a little dizzy at the near-fatal flight of the pie. “Pelia said it was your favorite. I didn’t want you to miss out.”
“Pelia is an infuriating individual who could stand to learn the meaning of the phrase butt out.” Una’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and Nyota is remembering why she’s never good with grief. But then her face softens. “In this instance, however, she’s correct.” Una takes the plate. “Well don’t just stand there. You went to the trouble of bringing it all the way over here, you might as well come in.”
Nyota doesn’t think she has any business being in Una Chin-Riley’s quarters, but then again, Una crawled into Nyota’s bunk her third week on the ship, so really, they’re probably past the point of formality. Have probably been past the point of formality, and Nyota is just catching up. She steps inside.
“Do you like tea? I made tea.” Una folds herself onto the couch and gestures to the table. “It’s for La’An, but she’s not here, so help yourself.”
“I can go. I mean—I don’t want to intrude.”
“She might not come.” Una cups her own mug to her chest and tilts her chin to the rising steam. Something about the sadness of her expression gets to her, tugs a string knotted behind and to the left of Nyota’s drum-tight ribs. She sits on the opposite end of the couch and takes the mug, curls her fingers around its warmth.
“Is this handmade?”
Una nods. “A gift.”
Nyota admires the thick midnight blue glaze dotted with golden constellations. “The night sky from the Saturn outpost, right?”
Another nod—distant, mechanical.
“I spent a semester on Tethys. Pilot certification. The sheer off Enceladus is wicked—knocked a lot of my classmates out of the running, and those of us that made it still had to navigate the rings. Our instructor liked to throw pottery when they weren’t teaching a bunch of cadets how not to smash into a planet. They made mugs for everyone who passed the class.”
“I love that.”
Una smiles, but it’s a perfunctory smile, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sorry about tonight. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I do.” Those red-rimmed eyes snap to hers, and Nyota’s cheeks heat. “I mean, I can guess.” When Una remains silent, Nyota clutches the mug to her breastbone and curls deeper into the couch. “I noticed you keep queueing a letter to send to the Volterra Nebula and then deleting it before we get within range of a subspace relay. And then tonight, you started crying when Erica was talking about her family. I figured...”
“We’re estranged.”
“Right.”
“It was necessary. Not just for me.”
“Of course. I’m not trying—” To judge? To pry? Nyota doesn’t know what to say, so she lets the sentence drop.
“His name is Michael,” Una says into the silence.
“Sorry?”
“My brother. His name is Michael. Today is his birthday. He’s forty-one years old.” Una lowers the mug to her lap and stares inside. “He was nine when I left home. I don’t know if he remembers me. I don’t even know if I want him to remember me.”
“You wrote him a letter.”
“It wasn’t the first.”
“But it’s the first you sent?”
“Almost.”
“Fine, almost sent.”
“Yes. And no. It’s—complicated.”
“Most things are.” That earns her a smile—a wry one, if a bit weary. “You know, my grandma used to say it’s better to cry with company because that means you’ve got a shoulder to lean on and someone to make you laugh when the tears are gone.”
“Sounds like your grandmother had an excellent support system.”
“I’m a disaster when I cry. I’m an even bigger disaster when other people cry.”
“And yet you brought me pie.”
Nyota presses her thumb into a constellation on the mug, liking the way the sharpness grounds her. “This ship... this crew... makes me do things I wouldn’t normally do. Good things,” she’s quick to clarify. “Character-developing things.” She thinks of Pelia sitting at the table folding napkins into arcane shapes, the way she appeared to pay no attention to her surroundings and yet knew exactly what was happening in every corner of the room. Was that really so different from what Hemmer could do?
“I still don’t know if I belong here long-term, but... there’s a lot to learn. I like that. At least, I think I do.” She lifts her eyes to Una’s, feeling hokey and very young. Una looks like she’s about to dispense some sage advice or perhaps announce that Nyota has stumbled into A Typical Starfleet Ensign Speech, but before she can say anything she’s interrupted by a series of knocks upon her door. Actually, it sounds like full-on drumming, up and down its length. And if she’s not mistaken, it’s accompanied by... laughter?
“That would be Ortegas,” Una says, loud enough to be heard as she crosses over to the door.
“And Chapel!” comes a friendly yell.
“Open up,” Ortegas hollers, “I’ve really got to pee.”
“Don’t you think you should have done that in your own quarters?”
“No time,” Ortegas says, wriggling through the half-open door. “Had to track down the third Musketeer.”
“I’ve been kidnapped,” La’An deadpans as Chapel drags her into view.
“And I brought pie.” Chapel produces the dish with a flourish, but wilts when she sees the plate on Una’s table. “Oh. You already have some.”
“Uhura brought it by.”
“We came to make sure you’re okay,” Ortegas yells from the bathroom.
“They came,” La’An corrects. “I maintain that I’m here against my will.”
“Please,” Chapel snorts, flinging herself down on Una’s couch. “You were just as worried as we were.”
La’An doesn’t say anything to that, but she does look at Una searchingly.
“I’m fine,” Una assures them as she sits back down on the couch. “Just a long month, that’s all.” She meets Nyota’s gaze and smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes.
“Can we go now?”
Una reaches over the back of the couch and grabs La’An’s wrist before she can run. “Please stay.”
“Yeah,” Ortegas says upon exiting the bathroom. She’s dried her hands on her light green crop top, leaving wet smears across her boobs. “Stay. We haven’t inducted you into the movie club yet.”
“Movie club?” Nyota asks.
“Something Chapel and I started at the Academy. We picked it back up now that we’re on the same ship. And we decided to share.”
“More like decided to inflict it on unwilling participants,” La’An grumbles.
“Hush,” Una says, tugging La’An down beside her and thrusting her mug into her hands. “Drink your tea.”
“This is your tea.”
“Not like we’ve never shared a drink before.” La’An blushes, and Nyota bites back a smile as Chapel wolf whistles and Ortegas falls to the floor in exaggerated shock. Una flips them off. “Ignore the peanut gallery,” she says, looping her elbow through La’An’s arm and resting her chin on the top of her head. “They’re clowns.” La’An blushes even harder but seems pleased by the affection. Una’s sadness appears to have retreated back behind a mask of happy calm.
“Come help us pick the movie,” Ortegas calls from her seat on the floor. “No romcoms though, or La’An will kill you.”
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night.”