Chapter Text
Philippa Georgiou found herself wondering the deserted halls of the USS Shenzhou sometime during gamma shift.
After Philippa’s near death at “The Battle of the Binary Stars,” as Starfleet has called it, she started waking up in the middle of the night encompassed in a cold sweat and slightly out of breath. It seemed that even in her sleep the captain couldn't forget the memory of being stabbed in the chest by T’Kuvma. Although the Klingon mek’leth served its purpose of doing a significant amount of damage, Georgiou is a fighter and came through in the end.
Despite her body healing with nothing more than a ragged battle scar to validate the trauma, Philippa's mind is incapable of forgetting. And this is precisely why she strolls down the newly repaired corridors of her ship— in hopes that mentally remarking the slight differences from ‘before’ will distract her from the sensation of the cold, double-sided dagger plunging into her chest.
She did it. As Philippa fought a losing battle against the Klingon leader and messiah, she heard the anguished scream come from the albino Klingon and glanced over to see Michael beginning to stand again. Philippa was greatly outmatched but she knew her Michael and she knew that she was figuring out how to help her captain. Suddenly, Philippa gained the upper hand with a quick slash behind T’Kuvma’s knees. This unexpected leverage plus Michael’s help that was soon to come meant that they could do it. They could win this and prevent an all-out war.
Without warning her arm was being bent back at an abnormal angle leaving her exposed. Coldness and then a flaming sensation erupted from the center of her chest. The Captain looked down to the sight of a Klingon blade— that she is certain Michael known the name of— sticking out of her chest. She barely even registered the hole that burnt through her executioner as she collapsed onto her back, struggling for air.
It’s too late, she thought. Her eyes could no longer focus, her lungs could not breathe properly, and her heart was aching in an attempt to pump blood. Her vision was beginning to darken and just as her perception was fully engulfed in inky blackness, she felt a tingling sensation from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Death, she assumed.
The captain shakes herself out of her chilling reverie and stops in her tracks on the observation deck. To Philippa’s right, inside Observation Room 2, she eyes a figure that appears to be the ship’s current Science Specialist. Michael Burnham appears to be sitting near the large glass pane peering into space and, upon further observation, Philippa notices that Michael is cradling a hot mug in her slender hands.
“Isn't it a little late to be drinking coffee, Michael?” Philippa teases as she strides into the room and takes a seat next to the younger woman.
Since Michael’s discharge back to the Shenzhou three weeks prior, at the Highly Esteemed Captain Philippa Georgiou’s insistence, they still have not reconciled. The tension between the two was nearly palpable whenever they shared the same airspace. It wasn’t as though either of them were avoiding each other and having to talk about what happened, it was simply that in the midst of a war, neither had the time to spare.
But that ends now, Philippa silently declares. She hopes that some playful banter will help ease the strain that has only grown with the time that has passed.
“Indeed it would be, Captain. However, this is hot chocolate,” Michael replies with a slight smile gracing her features.
“Ah, my mistake… but you know you don't have to call me by my rank when we're off-duty.” Philippa is slightly disheartened at the fact that Michael feels like she must be formal around her, but at the same time, the captain sympathizes with the young woman who has been through judicial hell and back for her justifiable actions.
Michael momentarily refocuses her eyes to the stars before her, gazing with an air of nostalgia but also… something else… anxiety? Misery? Philippa couldn’t quite pinpoint the micro-emotions flickering on her former commander’s face. Michael turns back to face the other woman whom she trusts and admires with every fibre of her being.
Instead of voicing her true thoughts and concerns, Michael deflects: “Philippa... “ she tests the name on her lips after months, “would you like cup?” Michael raises her mug slightly to clarify. It’s odd for Starfleet’s one and only mutineer to feel deserving of that name gracing her lips. The name of the one she felt so much for and she almost lost her because of it.
Now it’s Georgiou’s turn to glance out at the universe as if it contained all the answers to the unspoken questions floating in the space between the two women.
“Yes,” she decides with a determined nod. She returns her gaze to Michael, “I would love one.”