For the number + pairing fic prompts, if you are taking them. 13 for Mirror Philippa and Michael Burnham or 34 for Prime Philippa and Michael Burnham. Thank you!! (I love your writing!!)
Okay…okay I can do this. Oh it’s an either/or type of thing, thank God.
Hope I’m doing this right.
34. When you’re around I don’t know how to hide my feelings. I count in binary, in my head. zero one one zero one one and you count clouds. (while you count clouds)
This is getting out of hand…
Philippa’s smile is nothing short of helpless, her cheeks warmed by the incredible sight before her, and she wonders if there is something in the atmosphere of this planet, some compound, some airborne particulate, that induces symptoms of intoxication in those without adequate filtration systems.
Michael, of course, is unaware of Philippa’s current predicament.
She stands bathed in a kaleidoscope of colors, the light of the eight moons of this undiscovered planet refracted by the heavy, rolling clouds swirling in the dusky red sky.
Eight moons, each with different properties, different traits, different core elements…veins of steely platinum, shards of simple carbon, orbs of ice and fire.
The moons glow bright in the amber sky, glittering gemstones dangling from the cosmos like a celestial mobile hanging over a child’s bed. Whatever particles lurk in the clouds of this planet capture each and every thread of light, forging the simple photons into something entirely new…
Michael’s tricorder is lifted, but she is not looking at the readings. Her berry-brown eyes are affixed to the heavens, to the swirling clouds spun from every color in the universe, and several shades from somewhere far beyond.
Philippa Georgiou’s fluency in the language of Human computer systems is not quite a secret, but nor is it widely broadcasted. A strange side effect of some truly fringe science cobbled together by her old commander and Chief of Engineering, back on her first posting. A lingering reminder of an away mission that had…well, it hadn’t quite gone sideways, but it had certainly been far from upright.
Michael’s hand reaches up towards the night sky, towards the clouds hung like spun sugar in the dusky haze. Index finger out, as if…
Philippa is genuinely uncertain, and does not bear the presence of mind to find out.
She is far too dazzled by her Number One, her friend, bathed in the winking light of this kaleidoscope planet.
Michael’s dark skin swirls with a thousand different hues, shades of copper and tints of royal purple painted across smooth, living canvas; her cropped hair dances in the warm breeze, her curious eyes flicker like gemstones illuminated by a crackling fire.
Philippa feels like the world has turned sideways, a feeling that she is becoming more and more acquainted with as her relationship with Michael Burnham deepens. Her heart is collapsing in her chest, her face is on fire; if Michael were to look at her at this very second, there is no doubt in Philippa’s mind that the game would be up.
Philippa knows that face; she knows that particular glint in Michael’s expression, the one indicating that she is lost to her curiosity, and will remain unreachable until her ever-inquiring mind is sated with knowledge.
The unspoken language flickers through Philippa’s brain, and she clings fast to the undecorated digits to tether her soul to reality, her feet to solid ground.
The zeros and ones are stark in their contrast with each other, unmistakable in their inscriptions on paper or datascreen.
Michael does not turn around.
For one brief, infinite moment, Philippa allows herself to feel.
Philippa Georgiou has never been one to bury her heart; thus, her present course of action is almost poetically fitting.
A script so utterly fundamental that sentients have all but forgotten it; the phraseology that forms the struts and columns that put starships into flight, the glue that holds civilization together.
Simple and silent, everywhere and nowhere. Obvious, yet completely invisible.
An unspoken tongue, for an unspoken feeling.
The language of computers will never, ever be mistaken for a language of love.
