Tonight's middle of the night fic rabbit hole is unintended maternal Kat feelings.
A drabble, because word economy is a fun struggle.
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The baby she never chose to want, or seek, curls into her chest. Her sweet dark hair echoes her mother's, and her tiny her flutters in sleep. She snuggles, warm and content. This is still instinctual rather than affection, but Kat already struggles to let her go.
Katrina Cornwell chose Starfleet. She tried to keep the universe steady.
And died, alone.
Her unasked resurrection has none such solitude. Tilly brings dinner, and stays. Michael escapes from the bridge to kiss the baby's head, eat and laugh.
Philippa returns sweaty and glowing, unaware she's the most unexpected twist.
he knows he has one, knows he must, but what is the point of giving brain space to remembering a name when there are infinite universes to catalogue? a name is irrelevant when you traverse the stars within a heartbeat. an identity, the individual, can get so lost with the expanse of eternity before them.
his name is paul.
still. irrelevant.
nebulae swirl around him one minute, breathing life into the dullest, the most average, the brightest stars. he loves every single one. the next minutes he stands at their graves, at the side of white dwarfs and red giants, and he dances in supernovae, delights in the destructive death.
things die. they live, they die, they live again, they die again.
he wonders if it’s possible for him to die, now. he never believed in a soul before, still doesn’t, but his consciousness is separate now. can it survive without him?
he wonders if he’s even still human. the beauty of existence distracts him from the thought.
he swims with the mycelium, and feels free. colours he could never have imagined seeing, stuck as he was in a four dimensional form, dazzle him, the music of life and death, creation and destruction, soothing him as he goes.
the winds carry him, ebbing and flowing, ebbing, and flowing, from his body to the edge, the hem of the fabric of spacetime.
“i’m not leaving his side, tilly.”
he remembers his hugh.
paul stamets straddles the line between presence and omnipresence.
he is always awake, but never quite conscious.
“he won’t be alone, dr culber, i promise, i’ll be here. you should get some rest, you look, um, awful. sorry.”
he remembers his husband, knows he’s probably shaking his head, smiling a soft smile and his tired eyes twinkling. he sees galaxies up close now, but didn’t he always see them anyway, see them all reflected in his lover’s eyes?
“it’s not about him being alone. it’s about me being there with him. i made a promise to be by his side, for better or worse. wherever his mind is, i can’t follow, so i’ll sit, with him, and wait for him to come home. however long it takes”
“i understand, sir. can i get you anything, then?”
“i’d kill for a coffee. replicator’s a bust down here.”
paul stamets smiles, and loses himself to the universes once more.
apparently i can only write extreme fluff or go straight to angst. anyway, i’ve been dealing with a giant writer’s block for months and now it’s gone which is why i’m like... vomiting words all over the place LMAO
this is a kind of sad one-shot feat. paul & michael friendship with very background culmets and milippa
/read on ao3/
"I lied, you know."
Paul startles, whiskey in his glass sloshing dangerously. He looks over to Burnham, whose gaze is focused somewhere on the wall and sighs. It's not that she's his first choice for a drinking buddy but Hugh is dealing with away team's injuries right now, Tilly is way too talkative, Tyler intimidates him sometimes and... yeah, Burnham might just be his choice. She doesn't talk much and has pretty sensible taste when it comes to drinks. He's surprised how well she holds her liquor for someone who never drank alcohol until they joined Starfleet, actually.
"I thought Vulcans can't lie," he jokes.
"Well, I'm not a Vulcan," she replies, bitterness clear in her words.
He cringes inwardly because maybe that wasn't the best thing to say. Not that he cares that much about hurting someone's feelings. Usually, at least. Nowadays, with his messed up DNA, it's hard to tell how he feels anymore sometimes.
"What did you lie about?"
"My secret," Burnham says, her face blank. She's still not looking at him. "When Mudd attacked the ship and you asked for a secret, so I would believe you next time. It was a lie."
Paul regards her curiously. That's not a revelation he expected from her, nor is it a subject he ever wanted to touch again, after foolishly reminding her of this sometime after the Mudd incident.
"That's... unexpected," he says, carefully choosing his words. He feels ridiculous, trying not to scare her off with whatever he chooses to say. Why should he care anyway? They're not friends.
Are they?
"I've been in love, once," Burnham starts quietly. "It seems like a lifetime ago now."
There's a moment of silence but Paul doesn't dare to disturb her.
"You know all about my story, I suppose. Everyone on this ship does," she continues, not waiting for him to reply. "There was someone, back on Shenzhou, that I loved." Nothing in her face changes but Paul can just hear the tremble in her voice.
He takes a drink before asking, "They died in the Battle of Binary Stars?"
Burnham cringes upon hearing the name. Paul barely feels anything when thinking about the battle that started it all - he's a scientist. It's not his business to meddle in wars. At least, it wasn't until Binary Stars happened, together with Lorca and U.S.S. Discovery.
"Yeah. I guess you could say so," she finally answers.
Paul can't help but wonder how it must feel. He remembers, with a shudder running down his spine, the infinite loop of having to watch Hugh die. The times he died in his arms, as Paul clutched his body desperately and the times when he died without him, engulfed in flames. Seeing him die over and over, never knowing if he can even save him, if this time won't be the last one, if Burnham and he ever manage to sort this out. But in the end, there was always another chance, hope that they needn't die.
They didn't, and he got to convince himself of it time after time, entangled in Hugh's body, even as exhaustion has taken over his. Paul can't imagine a world in which he's gone, permanently. Doesn't want to imagine it.
"I'm sorry," he says. It feels insignificant in the light of what Burnham just told him but he can't find anything else to tell her. That it wasn't her fault? He can't know that.
She shakes her head. "I never knew I loved her. At least not until it was too late."
Paul has seen her fight before; she was a force to be reckoned with. But now, as she sits next to him, a half-emptied glass of whiskey in her hand, Burnham is anything but. She looks vulnerable and he suddenly realizes how much trust she puts in him, telling him that.
"They never teach us about love on Vulcan," she adds and while he can tell she's trying her best not to sound emotional, it fails.
"You're not on Vulcan anymore," Paul reminds her.
She finally looks at him - he notes that her eyes are shining with tears - the smallest of smiles on her lips.
"I suppose I'm not," Burnham replies, wistful. Suddenly, she slides off the barstool and stands next to him. "It's getting late, I should be going back to my quarters. Wouldn't want to wake up Tilly."
He knows that it's a lie and Tilly is most likely still browsing through Disco's database or working out but doesn't call her out on this. Instead, he nods and wishes her a good night.
It's when she's already by the door when he - or rather, the goddamn messed up DNA - decides to call after her. "Burnham!"
She looks at him apprehensively over her shoulder. "Yes?"
"She'd be proud of you. For what you're doing here," Paul says before he can stop the words. Burnham raises an eyebrow in a very Vulcan fashion.
"And what am I doing here?"
"Trying to fix things. End the war. I don't know, doing the good thing, I guess. She'd be proud." He feels like an idiot saying that, thinking she's going to send him a death stare and never talk to him again. Instead, she nods, giving him one of those not-quite-a-smile-yet and disappears behind the door.
Paul stares after her for a while. He tries to ignore the sadness that seems to have overcome him. Tardigrade DNA or no, Burnham, after all, might be more than just his drinking buddy. And friends, as much as strange this concept is, care for each other.
The evening after Landry died, Paul comes back to their quarters. Hugh's more concerned with the effects of Straal's death than anything else.
I have a series of ficlet oneshots going and this was meant to be part of that but they're all fluff and while this is nice it's also a bit sad so I figured I should post separately
Philippa finally gets out of sickbay and has Katrina for a roommate, just for a few days.
I need another chapter after this one, because there were things Philippa and Kat needed to talk about. Also, I have a thing for Philippa learning to touch people considering how much she hated it at first but...it’s the soft universe, it gets to you.
Sorry this comes slowly, it takes a lot of thought. Thanks for hanging in there!
Afsaneh rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm fine. I don't need rehabilitation, I don't give a damn about my nice new liver."
Michael keeps her lips pressed tightly together to keep from smiling too hard. Afsaneh and her Philippa had a pleasant relationship. They teased each other relentlessly, of course, but it went back and forth. This time, Philippa's slow to retort, because she doesn't know her. Maybe they're not like that in their universe. They probably can't be. Death was so close, even Philippa's family was out to get her.
No wonder this is so difficult.
"I am fine," Philippa insists again, releasing her grip on the rail by the long line of windows. She stands steady now, walks evenly, as if nothing is wrong, but half the muscles of her stomach have new nerves, new tissues, and they don't work quite right yet. She doesn't shake off Afsaneh's glare, and they stare at each other again, that way far too intimate for people who have just met.
"You don't have to be fine," Michael says, keeping her hands back, just in case. "You can be angry too, if you want. I've been there, it hurts and everyone's fussing."
"In my universe, I could have you killed."
"Lucky for us, the worst you can do here is glare."
"If it helps, I'm still very afraid of you," Tilly offers from a safe distance behind Michael. "I'm very grateful, because you saved my life and I probably would not have survived if I'd been hit with that weapon because I'm not tough the way you are and I really wouldn't deal with it very well." She smiles a little, all frazzled from their lack of sleep. "So I think you're doing great, and you're still terrifying."
All the way around the docking ring is a good distance. It still hurts, it has to, and no matter what she says, and Philippa has to be tired. She's been through it, physically as well as mentally, and she's been helped, still needs it, and that's probably the worst of all.
She takes another breath, stops looking at Afsaneh's too-dark eyes. But she's steadily more pale, stiffer. Afsaneh tilts her head towards Michael, cautious and protective. Michael's heard stories, how Philippa had to drag herself back from some nasty injuries, and she wasn't even the harsh version.
Michael reaches out her hand, offering it to the woman who is not, yet is, her mother. "You're doing great."
"Walking should not be an accomplishment."
"At least you're used to having an entourage," Tilly says, and her brightness is a gift to all of them, even Philippa, who turns and looks at her, eyebrows raised. "I mean, if you weren't, you'd get really annoyed we were all with you."
Philippa lets her tone snap a little, but it carries no threat anymore. "I am surprised your great Federation doesn't have things for you to do."
Shrugging, Afsaneh smiles. "Having things I should do and deciding I do not wish to do them right now is the great privilege of becoming a captain."
Michael looks out at the stars, wondering how far Discovery is now, and when this strange interlude has to end. "We're on leave until Discovery can pick us up."
"Admiral Cornwell is working," Tilly says. "A lot, enough for all of us, really, and I think we should make sure she eats dinner."
"At least someone's keeping your Starfleet together."
"Single handedly, I'm sure." Afsaneh rests her hands on her hips, and evens her steps with Philippa. "I suppose I should make sure we're not swarming with spies or stuck in some kind of time-space anomaly that's filled the lower decks with sea creatures."
"Don't let me drive you back to work."
"Oh you can't give me orders, your Imperial Majesty." They stop, eye to eye, staring at each other as if nothing else exists. Maybe it doesn't in that moment. Michael’s never really been able to look at someone that way."I just want to see how you fare without me."
Tilly watches her go, eyes wide, mouth half-open. "Her service record does not convey her personality adequately."
Michael catches her and grins. Philippa laughs a little, deep and dry until she winces. Michael shouldn't move, shouldn't grab her hand, because she'll hate it, but she reaches out anyway.
"I'm all right." That reassurance carries gently, not sharp or annoyed. "I shouldn't laugh."
"We should head back. Tilly's right, we need to make sure the Admiral's eating."
"Make sure I'm not over doing it?"
"I'd never say that." Tilly nods, firm and concerned, but she's behind Philippa, so it's safe. "I'm not insinuating, still afraid of you, remember? Terrified."
Their hands slip together, and to her surprise, Philippa squeezes her fingers. "All right."
Maybe she is tired, or it hurts, because she can't just need reassurance. She's the Emperor, she's-- maybe she's only human, tough Terran outside and all.
Michael stays long after they eat, even after Afsaneh's gone back to her quarters and Tilly's yawning into her hand. She's so young, this Tilly and her curly hair, but like the unruly mess of her curls, she's growing on her.
She's sweet; kind, everyone here is kind, and it clings to her; it itches, like pollen or the way that the light here is gentler. It's bright, often, and she's half-tempted just to let the doctors change her eyes so she'll blend it. Let go of the old world and her eyes that shy from too much light. She lies on the bed in the dark. The bed's too soft and the walls are thin enough that she can here Michael and Kat in the living room.
"Go to bed, Michael." That would Kat, being the good doctor and looking after everyone, because here she puts people back together instead of ripping them apart.
"Is she all right?"
"Yes, she's healing well, and her muscular response is much better than yesterday. There's no internal bleeding, and Doctor Rosyx is going to be able to use her case as a very compelling argument to further the ban on tetryon disruptors."
"Philippa will find that amusing."
"She might indeed. Go, I'll keep an eye on her, and you can come for breakfast, Afsaneh will be off then too,."
"Thank you, Admiral, tomorrow then. I'll see what Tilly and I can find on the " So polite, her Michael. Not her Michael, not her daughter, but she grows closer to this one every moment.
She drifts, her body dragging her into sleep against her will, as if that too is softening in this universe of light and laughter.
She wakes in that liminal space of unknown time. Her room's bathed in darkness, softened by stars outside her windows and it could be any time of day at all. On the Charon she'd know what time it was by the sound of the ship but here she's lost. Adrift. The chronometer ner the bed reads just before oh three hundred, bu she has no ship to run, no empire to manage. It doesn't matter if she sleeps now or sleeps all day.
Getting up for something, maybe it's just for something to do, she leaves the too-soft bed and walks into the living room. Admiral Cornwell sits at the table, data PADDS spread out in front of her, exactly where they left her. Her mug sits nearly empty in front of her and Philippa clears her throat, so she won't be a surprise.
"Can't sleep?"
"I slept enough."
"You're still healing, be patient." Admiral Cornwell lifts her eyes from the PADD. "You look better."
"I was delirious when you arrived, the improvement would be obvious."
She smiles at that. "I'm glad you're not on the brink of death."
Even the platitudes here are different. Her Cornwell would be plotting a hundred different scenarios about her death and the line of succession. This one rubs her temples and looks back down at her work.
“I haven’t had a roommate since the Imperial Academy.”
“Me either, but...it got you out of sickbay. Dr. Rosyx was eventually willing to concede that thouh I haven't practiced medicine officially, I could recognize internal hemorrhage.” Admiral Cornwell, Katina, here she’s just Kat, raises her half-empty glass and smiles, but doesn’t lift her eyes from the data PADD.
“I’m grateful.” Philippa studies the shared living area, now that Michael isn't worrying her back to bed or the Doctor reminding her again she should sleep, she can actually look. It's far nicer than anything at the Imperial Academy, but it's nondescript. There are no marks of Starfleet or symbols of the Federation to inspire loyalty. There’s even Trill artwork on the walls, and all the furniture is less lavish than it would be in her universe, because here they do not care for materials. It's all fabricated, made to be functional and pretty. No one here cares about rank.
“Thought you might be.” Kat tilts her head towards the food synthesizer. “You can’t have whisky just yet, but It makes a good cup of Andorian tea, especially the south mountain blue.”
"Did she like that?" It wasn't in her journals.
"No, her favorite was the smoked valley something, I can't remember the name. Smelled a little like peat." Kat rubs her forehead again and sets the PADD down with a sigh. "It must be strange to also be compared to her."
"She was weak."
"She was an incredible person, a great leader and a good friend." Kat doesn't even look offended, just exhausted. Worn down by the war and all of her losses.
"Those murdered by their enemies are hardly remembered as well in my universe."
"No Emperors unfairly slain are remembered with wine and song?" Kat smiles a little. She's digging, searching for truths, but she does it without a dagger like the Kat she knows.
"Wrong empire."
"I suppose." Finishing her scotch, Kat sets down her glass. "How are you sleeping?"
"Fine."
"That's about as believable when I say it." Setting the data PADDs aside, Kat really looks at her where she stands in front of the replicator. "It's not poisoned."
"Synthesizers can be remotely programmed, and fell out of favor with the ruling classes." She scrolls through, looking at all the varieties of tea. There are far too many and she's tried none of them. Her slaves had the ones she'd chosen on the Charon, and her chef often introduced new ones after carefully curating a collection. Here, she'll have to try them all herself, while time winds around her, snaking towards whatever end.
Asking the synthesizer for a cup of the south mountain blue, she wraps her fingers around the mug, letting the warmth seep into her hand. Walking back towards Kat, she pauses when Kat tilts her head towards the sofa.
"I'm not making any real progress at this point anyway."
"Your war is over."
"Rebuilding is far more complicated. We've lost so many starbases and colonies that it's hard to bring materials to where we need them to rebuild."
"Convoys of cargo ships aren't enough?"
"So many of them were attacked by Klingons that we don't have the ships." Kat sits back, hands on her thighs. "I need to make sure the refugees have what they need first, and we need our defenses restored, but it's impossible to do both simultaneously." Her eyes are bright and determined, her jaw set, but there's a deeper exhaustion that makes her voice unsteady. "I'm supposed to stop losing people when the war is over."
"That's never how wars behave." Philippa stands, pacing over to the table and Kat's abandoned data PADDs, lifting them up one at a time, she finds the logistics problem Kat's been struggling with. "The Relva VIII colony?"
"It's agricultural, if we can get them self-sufficient, we'll save ourselves a headache a few months from now, and hopefully export food to the nearby colonies."
The Tellarite settlement four parsecs away could be raided and forced to serve the Terrans, but that's not how Kat does things here. Philippa reads through the trade routes and the available supplies in the sector while she sips her tea. The allocation of resources is entirely unsuited to war, or even readiness. More than half of their fleet is involved in humanitarian relief, something Philippa's fleet never even had words for. Colonies that were not self-sufficient were absorbed by other colonies, run by better governors.
Kat will never ask her people to move, or expect them to understand the need for war or safety. It's a miracle they survived so long at all, this insidious Federation and their free will.
"The Halii and Garpar VII colonies should be merged, if only temporarily, that will allow you to focus your rebuilding efforts on one planet, which can then support the other with less assistance from your sector authority. A similar measure can be applied here, in at Gamma Hromi, if you ask one colony to be your beachhead, the others can be restored at an easier time in the future."
"I can't just--" Kat pauses, smiling a little. "I could ask them to determine amongst themselves."
"Let them use their lauded Federation principles and compassion."
"Sometimes I worry those are the first to leave us."
"Assassinating governors who disagree with you must be frowned upon here."
Kat leans forward until her head rests on her hands. "Don't tempt me."
"Michael says you've lost many that you knew." Touching her shoulder, Philippa nearly jumps when Kat's hand covers her own. Contact is so easy here.
"The admiralty was decimated when we lost Starbase One."
"Not sleeping will only carry you so far, Katrina."
"Kat, please." She pats Philippa’s fingers, then picks up the PADD, losing herself in the never ending business of saving the galaxy."How are you going to move duranium to Ardana?"
"With shuttlecraft tractor beams. You extend their navigational shields around the crates and fly them in formation."
"I didn't think of that."
"It was necessary when my Captain Tilly and I invaded Betazed, most of my cargo fleet was otherwise occupied."
Kat gets that look, but nods. "Thank you."
"Obviously this would be easier if you'd just destroyed Qo'Nos."
"Our way never seems to be easier."
The stiffness in her side insists that there are good things in this soft universe. Here she lived. Taking a hit like that back in her universe would have made Michael emperor. "You will tell me it's better."
"It's less cruel." Kat taps a few more thoughts into the PADD and sets it down. "We expand to explore, to better ourselves."
"Wandering right into everyone else's tetryon disruptors like lost antelope." Philippa finishes her tea and sets down the mug.
“They were lucky you were there.”
“You would like me to admit that there was no luck involved.”
“There’s no shame in keeping an eye out for Michael.”
“Section 31 has interests everywhere.”
“So I hear.” Kat yawns politely into the back of her hand. “It must be strange, looking into the face of your daughter.”
“A lover would be stranger.”
Kat stands and crosses to the table to pick up her scotch. “More dangerous.” She pours some in her glass and a splash in the bottom of Philippa’s mug. “You’d think I could tell the difference in the way he kissed me.”
Studying her lips, Philippa has to smile. “Gabriel as I knew him was endlessly adaptable.”
Guilting her whisky, Kat nods, loathing darkening her eyes. “I know he deceived many.”
“But it cuts deep when it is you.” She takes a sip, letting the whisky evaporate on her tongue. “Michael only pretended to be my daughter, and she did not achieve that well. She didn’t call me mother until I was bleeding out in front of her here.”
“Did it help?”
“What mother would not fight harder for her daughter?” The whisky burns her throat, warming her chest. “Even a shadow that has her daughter’s face.”
“I can’t say I know Michael well, but I know her through Sarek, and Philippa. She’s an extraordinary woman.”
“Worthy of my misplaced affections?”
“Who would protest another mother?” Kat’s smile warms her eyes, but there’s a wistfulness in the way her lips curl. “My parents were lost years ago.”
“As were my own.” Death comes quickly in all universes, but she can’t help her curiosity. Here Michael was raised by that Vulcan. At least he had a human wife. “Is Sarek a good father?”
“Exceptional.”
Philippa nods, biting back the complaint that he’s a Vulcan and can’t possibly understand what Michael would have needed emotionally. Perhaps his human wife is responsible for the depths of Michael’s compassion. “He must have grieved her in the time she was missing, in that Vulcan way.”
“We supported each other in our grief.” She shakes her head, eyes bright. “I don’t know what I would have done without him. My Gabriel was my best friend, one of so many lost in the war."
“Including the one with my face.”
"They all hurt." Kat taps her fingers on her glass, blinking too fiercely to clear her eyes. "War never takes in one battle, it's wearing, all these little losses chipping away."
"You wonder what you have left, and that's why you work so hard."
Kat's surprised smile makes Philippa roll her eyes.
"We're not entirely devoid of feeling in my universe. I know what it's like to lose those I command, to know my peers that I counted on are dead and I can do nothing to save them. Our losses during the Klingon war before we took their homeworld were incredible. I lost many I had trained and mentored." She's been where Kat sits, staring into her drink. Kat doesn't even have a daughter to live for.
Neither does Philippa, not here, but Michael holding her hand is fresh in her thoughts. This Michael loves without hesitation, and for some reason--
Taking a deep breath, Kat shudders, faltering. She's been controlling herself too long, keeping everything together. She should talk to Afsaneh more, find ways of letting her burdens go. She must be so alone.
Philippa reaches across the sofa, taking her hand. Compassion is destructive, so is empathy, but she has no Empire to protect here. This is what they believe in, and perhaps it feels less awkward than she thought.
"I lost three captains I'd promoted myself, good officers, that I watched develop into exceptional leaders."
Philippa knows how this must end. "You went to their families."
"I tried to, couldn't find all of them." That sends Kat over. "Kostyshyn had no family left, not even a distant relation. Her wife and children died on Kelfour VI, and I couldn't find her parents. Perhaps they were there as well."
"It's all right." That's what they say here, isn't it? They remind themselves that they've done their best. Ease their hearts. Kat’s is not fragile. She was willing to do what Michael was not, yet she bleeds for her people.
This is a universe of softness, of people who bleed.
She's already given her blood for Ensign Tilly and her curls, for Michael. Section 31 will ask her to bleed again. Shedding the blood of her enemies is easy, she's always had a knack for that, yet here she puts herself in the way.
Here she lets Kat squeeze her fingers, and they sit in the quiet darkness, not discussing the tears Kat has stopped fighting, or everything they've lost.
"What was he like? Your Gabriel. Mine was once my right hand, almost a father to my daughter." Kat doesn't need to know what came later. Let her remember the good.
"He was an ass."
That she can smile about. "So they were alike then."
"He wasn't just- Gabriel was thoughtful, funny. Once we watched the Perseids on Earth, lying in a field together in the middle of nowhere. It seemed silly at the time. We could have gone to a telescope or found a way to watch them better. The dew made it cold and--"
"You curled up together." She grins and Kat raises her eyebrows. "Oh come now, even in my universe, I know the trick of watching the stars outside when the air gets cool." She lifts her arm, resting it on Kat's shoulders as if she means to seduce her and that earns a laugh.
Kat doesn't shy away.
Michael holds her hand.
Afsaneh may have even kissed her, but her memories are vague. Her lips are so familiar that her warmth could be a memory of the other.
Or not.
Kat leans back, shutting her eyes. "The stars are beautiful on Langkwai and the nights are just cool enough, if I remember correctly."
"You've been to Palau Langkwai?"
"You took me. The other you, years ago, with Afsaneh and Gabriel. He didn't wear enough suncream and turned the color of a hibiscus blossom. Afsaneh kept putting them in his hair because they matched."
They must have laughed on the beach, walked through the water, sat up long nights and listened to the ocean. A lifetime ago they were alive and happy, now their little group is half lost, half battered.
Ka rests her head to the left, then on her shoulder. It could be the whisky easing her guard, or the months of loss and loneliness. Perhaps she sat close to her Philippa and talked about their feelings.
She wants to hate that, to roll her eyes and mock the admiral for her weakness, but it's late and her right side's still stiff and foreign. Kat's warm, pliant and vulnerable, and compassion creeps into her. Insidious and deep; even harder to remove then dying cells.
