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It was no doubt that, when on shore leave on Earth, Philippa’s favourite place to be would be Club Red, a small dive bar tucked in a small corner of Los Angeles. For a dive bar, at least, it was decent, but most dive bars these days were anyways. They were coined that term, dating back to a few centuries ago, only because it sounded quaint. Other than that, the dive bars had shed the reputation they bore back when the term described obscene pubs.
Club Red was where a lot of firsts happened for Philippa: her first all-nighter wasn’t pulled at the Academy quarters, no — she snuck out and studied, her data PADDs washed by the soft illumination at a table near the corner of that bar. First legal acquisition of alcohol, for another one. Long ago, before she’d had any realisation of the importance of rules, she would shakily hand over a fake ID for a brief inspection and a pint of ale. (This bar was rather old fashioned, perhaps adhering to traditional methods, instead of using a fingerprint verification to identify her age.) On her 21st birthday, however, she stormed down to the bar and proudly handed over her shiny new ID, and she ordered a mug of frothy beer, jolly and warm by the time it hit her belly.
Philippa enters the bar again for the first time in years — ever since the war started she had not touched the grainy pavement of Earth. But now she is back, a little wearier, a lot more burdened by the immense loss the galaxy had had to face in the past few years. But now it was over, and she is back in her safe spot. She wanders in, and instead of sitting in her corner, she chooses a comfortable seat for two by the window. And she looks out, wrapping her scarf a little tighter around her neck, and waits.
***
Michael walks along the cobblestone leading to the alleyway, dimly veiled with only a soft wash of red light. She takes a final look at the address from her bracelet emitter. Yes, this was the place.
It has been years since she spoke to Philippa. So much had happened since then — she was pulled out of prison by Captain Lorca, jumped all across the universe aboard the Discovery trying to outsmart the Klingons, and then after a lot in between had happened, she ultimately earned her command back, serving on the Discovery as a Science Officer. More or less, Michael was forgiven of her past mistakes, and she was free to move on, as a new leaf.
But Philippa…
It wasn’t that Michael had forgotten her, no, it was the other way round — she thought about her former captain and mentor every moment where she wasn’t working or fighting. Still, she had never imagined actually…
seeing
her again. She almost had a heart attack when she received the text message from Philippa, asking her to meet her here. Part of her had thought that she would just avoid Philippa forever. Another part assumed that she would never forgive Michael for everything she had done.
After all, wiped from the books or not, mutiny was mutiny. Even though she had her heroic contributions to the war effort, being Starfleet’s first and only mutineer had severe repercussions to her reputation. Not to mention, being seen with Philippa, one of the most esteemed captains in the Federation… Why she still chose to meet Michael was another mystery Michael daren’t uncover.
It was just Michael’s luck that everything she’d done was against the woman she cared about the most.
This ain’t for the best
My reputation’s never been worse, so,
You must like me for me
Michael sees a silhouette by the window and she recognises her former captain right away. Soft locks cascading down her shoulder, seated up straight and alert even out of uniform, taking a sip from what appeared to be a pint. Taking a deep breath, she goes in the bar, looking innocently lost, just so Philippa could notice
her.
Part of her had wishes that she doesn’t, giving her an excuse to leave.
We can’t make
Any promises now, can we, babe?
But you can make me a drink.
Her bracelet buzzes with an incoming text message. Michael has been spotted.
Dive bar on the east side, where you at?
Phone lights up my nightstand in the black
Come here, you can meet me in the back…
Michael hadn’t seen Philippa for so long. She hasn’t changed a lot; Philippa still wore the same old outfits; and she radiated a soft warm scent, like vanilla, and Michael catches a fragrant whiff of alcohol along with it. Her eyes crinkles when she smiles at Michael, running a hand down her arm, as if they were still Captain and Number One, not War Hero and Mutineer. Michael wishes it could stay like that forever. Instead, shame crawls all over her as she sits down in the seat Philippa offers her, and she quietly parrots Philippa’s order when the server comes over.
Dark jeans and your Nikes, look at you
Oh damn, never seen that colour blue
Just think of the fun things we could do…
Almost right away, Michael notices a dark scar on Philippa’s chin, and she further notices the way Philippa casually propped her head in her hand, her long fingers skilfully covering the spot. Michael shrinks in her seat, wishing that she could be gone from the face of this Earth, taking with her all the pain she had caused to it. And Philippa.
“Michael, I want you… us, to discard all formalities for tonight.” Philippa says gently, her head tilted. “I’m not here to say anything about what Starfleet decided on. I’m just here to catch up.”
That was a relief.
Sitting up a little straighter, Michael releases a small breath, knowing that Philippa didn’t have anything to say about any sort of justice, or release any pent up anger or rage on her. She was just here to
talk,
for God’s sake.
By some sort of luck, or coincidence, Michael happened to have
so
much to say.
‘Cause I like you.
It doesn’t take long for their beers to arrive, and soon two chilled mugs were set before both ladies. “Well, Michael,” Philippa says, taking a sip. “This is my favourite brew of the entire bar. They also serve spirits in here, but I suppose we could leave them for later. We have all night, and not much people come here anyways. Try it.” Michael obliges, taking a long gulp of what she supposes to be liquid courage, letting it run down her throat, parched from anxiety. Philippa snorts when she sets down her cup, before reaching over and wiping a thick line of froth from Michael’s upper lip.
Michael blushes; and a little part of her wishes that her finger could have lingered longer. But then, how could she? If Philippa read half the tabloids published about Starfleet’s first mutineer, the sole cause of the Battle at the Binary Stars…
This ain’t for the best
My reputation’s never been worse, so
You must like me for me
We can’t make
Any promises now, can we, babe?
But you can make me a drink.
The night bleeds on. In the beginning, Philippa initiates all conversation while Michael hides behind her drink. Then, as pints of ale turns into glasses of daiquiris, martinis, Michael finds herself a lot loose-lipped and relaxed. Not that she was drunk; both her and Philippa happened to have an extremely high alcohol tolerance. But it really does take the edge off, Michael realises.
Michael talks a lot. About her time in prison, about how Captain Lorca recruited her, how she was treated with sideways glances and sneers every turn she made, how lonely it made her. She throws in some profanity along the way to better iterate her point, a little bit of Klingon and a little bit of Vulcan to spice up the Federation Standard. Philippa chuckles when she does that.
At some point in time, Michael even admits how much she had missed Philippa in her time alone. She is careful to not mention the extent; still, she lets it slip casually, training her eyes to the ground so that Philippa wouldn’t see that she meant it way more than her nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone makes it to seem. It seems as though Michael was pouring out years’ worth of longing with every word she said.
Only when the talk had dulled, at around midnight, and Michael was stirring her Old Fashioned with a fancy gold little stirrer, does she realise how her behaviour could have wrecked the utterly delicate situation present. She takes a sip of her drink, letting the burning liquor wash it all down.
Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Delicate
Philippa doesn’t seem to mind. She finishes her spiked lemonade, raising an eyebrow. “Really, Michael? Maybe it’ll surprise you, but I’ve missed you too. You were really a big part of my life before… before the war.”
“And now?” Michael asks quietly, looking at the Malaysian through her eyelashes.
After the war? After everything that was said about me?
Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it too soon I do this yet?
‘Cause I know that it’s delicate…
Philippa avoids the question, instead running a finger up and down her scar. Michael looks at her nervously, expectantly. “Well…” Philippa begins, making Michael’s heart palpitate.
Isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
Isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
Delicate?
“I don’t know,” she shrugs, leaving Michael a little confused and a little disappointed. “I guess… it’s really been so long. But I really did miss you, Michael. I never forgot you.”
“Oh.” Michael nods, turning to fidget with her glass. Suddenly, it seemed so improper of her to think about Philippa so much. Not that she had anything better to do in prison, anyway. But still, she wonders, with a little hope: was Philippa toning it down, like Michael’d tried to? Or, with despair: has Philippa moved on already, and this final meeting was closure? Her heart leapt with a
thump-thump-thump
, wondering what she would possibly say if she knew how much Michael had lingered on her.
Sometimes I wonder when you sleep
Are you ever dreaming of me?
“Anything else for the two of you?” The server asks, passing by. Philippa tilts her head at Michael thoughtfully, before murmuring something to the server. Michael couldn’t hear it over the rush of blood roaring in her ears.
The two of you.
The way he says it makes them sound like a couple.
Sometimes when I look into your eyes
I pretend you’re mine, all the damn time.
“Michael?” Philippa prompts her. “You’re staring into space, what’s wrong?”
Michael snaps back into focus. “Oh, nothing, it’s just…”
‘Cause I like you.
Michael wants to say it. She wants to admit it to Philippa, freely, that… that she likes her more than just a friend. If only she never went against her that day on the
Shenzhou!
They would likely be appraised as the partners in crime, the cornerstone of the war effort. They would be celebrated together. If Michael had feelings for Philippa, it would be supported Fleet-wide, she was sure of it. Hell, maybe even the
Shenzhou
crew would be working hard to string them together. But in this version of reality, dating Philippa would be chaos, and Michael feared chaos and pain. Not so much for herself, only for Philippa.
The server comes over, setting down a glass of red wine for Michael. “Take a sip,” Philippa says encouragingly, a twinkle in her eye. Giving her a quizzical look, Michael takes a sip from the cup, pleasantly surprised at how silky and soothing it was in comparison to the other spirits she’d been chugging over the course of the night. That is, until she hits a capsule, almost choking on it.
“What’s this?” she asks Philippa, taking it out of her mouth. It looks like a transparent pill, the size of the head of her thumb. Philippa hides her endearing smile in her mouth, looking out of the window in fake innocence.
She opens the capsule to reveal a small paper note inside. Curiously, she uncurls the slip of paper, only to find, printed in Philippa’s elegant cursive:
I like you too.
A little surprised, Michael glances up to see the older woman fidget in her seat shyly. Her jaw could have dropped to the floor. Michael looks back and forth at the writing, and then Philippa, and then her writing again.
“You were really obvious,” Philippa mutters in slight protest. “I would have saved it for later, but I couldn’t help it.” Michael laughs, first in nervousness and disbelief, and then joy, pure giddy joy, one step removed from jumping up and down, her giggles ringing through the almost-empty bar.
“Why didn’t you say so?” she asks finally, still trying to wrap her head around everything.
God, it would have made everything so much easier.
Philippa looks sideways. “I don’t know… it’s delicate, you know.”
Michael stares at her. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”
Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you're in my head?
'Cause I know that it's delicate, delicate
Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it too soon I do this yet?
‘Cause I know that it’s delicate…
“It’s really funny how we seem to share so many thoughts, Michael,” Philippa says in wonder. Michael extends her hand to Philippa’s across the table, and they intertwine casually, as if they were meant to fit together from the beginning. A little pensively, Michael sighs, watching their fingers play. This was all she could ever have imagined.
“Isn’t it, now?”
Isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
Isn’t it isn’t it isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
Delicate?