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Once upon a time, back in her old life, Michael would've attempted to be the sensible friend and stopped Tilly from getting spectacularly drunk on the worst kind of synthehol available on the ship.
It is honestly a wonder in itself that she can even get intoxicated on that stuff. Amazing, Michael thinks absently, the scientist stirring inside of her as she observes Tilly's flushed face.
Truly fascinating. And she can feel her lips curve into a smile.
Even in her old life, when she was a free human being that could do whatever she liked, Michael never ever indulged in such behavior: it contradicted the very essence of her upbringing. At all times, she could hear Sarek's voice in her head, warning her against all kinds of unbecoming conduct.
But things are different now: her old life is gone.
And in this new one, she allows herself to drink with the only friend she has on the Discovery, watching the wide-eyed, overexcited Tilly talk incoherently about whatever subject crosses her mind in that moment, so she won't have to listen to her own thoughts.
So for a while, the loud and neverending scream of her guilt will be subdued.
Michael watches her, laughing at her own jokes, smiling widely at every response she can get out of her and thinks, with soulful regret, that she has never been so young. So carefree. So full of light and naivety and curiosity as Tilly, Sylvia actually she corrects herself, is right now.
It must feel good, judging by her reactions.
Sylvia has beautiful eyes, an infectious laugh, a face that can express a million and more emotions all at once, and Michael realizes, not without a certain level of surprise, that she cannot take her eyes off of her.
They're sitting together on Sylvia's bed, their shoulders touching, and the warmth of Sylvia's body reaches towards Michael in the most pleasing and comfortable way.
She used to sit like this with Philippa as well, close enough to barely touch, not close enough to lose themselves into feelings and emotions they didn't know how to deal with. It fills her with nostalgia, but not in a painful way. For once, the memories of Philippa are cloaked in a golden light that Michael would blame on the synthehol without a doubt if she could.
“You're not listening to me, are you?”
Sylvia's voice manages to stay terse and amused despite the bitter realization. Michael straightens herself, losing that small contact between their bodies and mourning it immediately.
“I... I'm sorry. I got lost in my thoughts for a moment. I apologize.”
Tilly shrugs, her forehead and cheeks covered in a thin layer of sweat, her flaming red hair unruly and wild as strands escape her usual bun. She looks away.
“It's ok. Really, it is. You don't have to apologize. No one ever likes to listen to me anyway, and I am sure that you, of all people, have a lot more interesting thoughts to think about anyway. My mother used to say this, you know? 'No one likes to listen to you Sylvia, you're not that interesting anyway Sylvia, all you say is boring!' so you see? I'm used to it!”
She laughs again, but her eyes are wet with sadness and her voice goes low and quiet all of a sudden.
Michael shakes her head, forcing Sylvia to look at her. She's not really sure what she's doing or why, but follows whatever force is animating her without questioning it. What Sylvia needs right now is kindness. And she's going to give it to her.
“That is not true. Everybody on this ship likes to talk to you. I like to talk you. I am sorry for not listening.”
Sylvia bites her lips, her eyes opening up in something that can only be gratitude, and Michael finds herself once again unable to look away. The sudden need of reaching out and stroke her cheek fills her, and she resists it only just.
Maybe the synthehol really is affecting her, somehow.
“You like me?”
“Of course I do, Tilly.”
“Because... because I really, really like you, you know?”
Sylvia shifts closer to her, sitting right on front of Michael, settling her hands on her shoulders for support as she sways just about, and Michael finds herself hoping she won's be sick or pass out.
Her eyes are so blue, her body so warm and Sylvia's breath is ghosting on her lips.
“I think you're really fucking cool.”
And then, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, the only possible course their relationship could take, Sylvia kisses her.
Just once.
Lips against lips for just a few seconds.
Sylvia's face gets even redder, if possible, and she looks away in sudden embarrassment.
But before she can move out of her reach, Michael stops her, gentle and welcoming hands wrapping around her, keeping her close.
Sylvia holds her breath, waiting and smiling.
“You're really fucking cool too.”
And with a smile on her own face, Michael kisses her again.
And it feels good.