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Reflections/The Other Part 11

I’ll You Mine, If You Tell Me Yours

“Tell me what happened over there.”

Lorca glances up, surprised to see her so early. Their shift has just ended. He’s just reached his quarters, just taken off his boots when the door opens and she enters without invitation. Well, she does have a standing one. But still…so abrupt.

He sighs, knowing eventually she would want to know. Eventually, they would have to discuss it. Eventually, he would have to tell his. But, “I won’t apologize.”

The words send a chill down her back, but Michael steadies herself as her lover goes to the liquor cabinet.

“No.” She says, the word stopping him before he has a chance to reach for a bottle. The liquor is how he copes, she has figured out by now. And she refuses to have him inebriated, drunk, as he’s been before. He will give it to her straight. He owes her this, at least.

Suddenly, he’s tired. But Michael stands there, unrelenting.

“I want to know,” she says. “Tell me the truth.”

The truth.

“Do you know what agonizers are, Michael? Did you see them, when you were there?”

Her stomach lurches, as he unzips his jacket.

“How about what about how it feels to be stabbed in the back, literally?”

His shirt comes off.

“Turns out I had enemies on both sides. The empire wanted me dead, so did the rebels. When I got over there, the ship was already breaking up. I didn’t know who those people were, faces that looked familiar but weren’t. I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew something was wrong. We took shuttles. Some got blown up. Some got caught. Mine managed to make it to the surface. That’s where the real fun began.”

The surface was where rebel forces awaited him as he climbed out the wreckage that was his shuttle, bleeding and coughing, staggering on his feet. He and his companion were surrounded immediately by hostile forces. The man had been shot. Lorca had been taken, locked in a cell the first few days, dragged out and beaten on the third and fourth. Interrogation—demands for information on empirical positions. They knew his name. But he couldn’t seem to convince them that he wasn’t who they thought he was.

“First they tried to beat me,” he says. But he grew up fighting, to his parents’ chagrin, and he carried that fight to Starfleet—specializing in security and intelligence. He’d been through torture training and covert ops, endured more and lesser men had long dropped before he ever did.

“General Lorca,” an Andorian sneered down at him, “your bitch is dead.”

He thought they meant Katrina. It was the one time he felt broken. But then, they showed him a picture.

“Your face,” he says, “Eyes open, bloodied, looking at the sky.”

I don’t know who the fuck that is.

The sneer and vitriol behind the words is what finally made them stop.

He was dragged back to a cell, thrown in. By now, Starfleet blues were filthy—blood and bile and…other things, all over.

“Do you know one of the best ways to torture a person?” He asks Michael, as she watches him quietly. “Make them feel unclean.”

Next came the agonizers.

“That’s when I shit myself.” A dark, haunted laugh.

“They do it in bouts at a time. Make you feel safe. Shoot you again. Off and on, to the brink of death, then to recovery, then back to the brink.”

Delirium—he’d thought about Kat. Thought about their home in Tahoe, thought about the baby they didn’t get to have. Forced his physical predicament down and let the memory of her smile, her face, her laugh and their love wash over him. He stopped paying attention to his captors. Eventually, he’d die and they’d be left without a damn thing.

Until one day, he saw Sarek.

“Let me tell you,” he says. “Vulcan pacifism is a fucking lie.” Because Sarek tore his mind inside out until he realized he wasn’t dealing with the Gabriel Lorca of this universe, and finally convinced the rebels they had the wrong Lorca.

Not all were ready to play nice, though.

The first night out of the cell, with clean clothes, he felt the knife go through his side.

Emergency surgery. Later, he saw the same Andorian who’d sneered at him, now held in the cage he had been in. “You killed my wife,” the male told him. “My daughter.”

He couldn’t say he didn’t do it, knowing very well a version of him had.

He learned the stories fast. General Lorca. Emperor Georgiou’s Angel of Death. Her daughter, Michael, consumer of worlds. Together, they became the sword of Georgiou. Feared and despised for their cruelty. There were other stories too, other versions. Michael and Gabriel were almost mythical here.

My how the mighty have fallen.

Lorca was angry, but couldn’t show it. Resentful, but couldn’t express it. So he accepted this new fate. And did what he had to do.

Neither side was any better, he thought as they made their way into a Terran outpost. He’d watched dully as whole families were murdered—mothers, fathers, children. And over time, he lost himself, too—kill, or be killed, in this world. He was a survivor. So he killed. Starting with the Andorian who’d stabbed him. And felt no remorse.

He points to places as he talks. His chest. Back.

“I wish they would have let me keep this one,” he drags a finger across the lower right side of his abdomen, a callous, hard chuckle. “It was impressive.”

The physical scars are gone—dermal regeneration when he was unconscious in Sick Bay. Yet emotional and psychological scars remain.

“I HATED Gabriel,” he tells her. “I hated you. I hated them, the whole fucking thing.”

It makes her heart hurt to hear him speak of despair in a way that sounds so detached. Like he’s speaking about someone else. What he needs, she is beginning to understand, is more than what she may be able to give him. But she knows no other way of going about repairing what’s broken. And this Gabriel Lorca is still very much in pieces.

Michael goes to him and wraps her arms around his waist, and lays her head on his chest. it seems to bring him back to the present, and he looks down at the top of her head, seemingly amazed she is still here, even more so that she’s still willing to touch him. Carefully, as if she may disintegrate, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and buries his face in her hair.

.

“Explain.”

The only word he utters. They’re together, she’s tucked into the crook of his arm, a hand on his chest, molded to the side of his body. Lorca’s eyes are closed. Hers are too. But neither is asleep, just quiet. Michael has been ruminating on what he’s told her. He’s been silent and mentally exhausted but not too tired to ask now.

Tell you mine, if you tell me yours.

“I loved him and didn’t know it. Couldn’t face the truth of it. So I denied it,” she says quietly. “I denied it until I couldn’t.”

He seduced you too…even now the Emperor’s words curl like smoke in her mind.

“Maybe I was seduced,” she says slowly. “They tortured him, too. But he wouldn’t let me help him.” As if he had something to atone for. Willing to accept this punishment. She realizes it was likely a combination of self-punishment fueled by guilt, and raw determination to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his.

She told me that they raised me,” Michael says, and for the first time, Lorca’s eyes open, and cast to the side at her. But she’s not looking at him, just down. “She said he was my father figure until I got older”… And it became something more.

Reflexively, Lorca begins to feel his skin crawl at the insinuation. Growing more uncomfortable with where she’s heading.

“We were lovers,” Michael says. “Georgiou told me he groomed me. I couldn’t look at him the same after that. I was so angry. I felt betrayed. Disgusted even. We fought. I didn’t kill him, but…”

She remembers the look of hurt on his face, the way the sword stuck out of his chest—as if he couldn’t believe his own death. He’d reached out to her in those final moments, eyes pleading and… “I moved away. I couldn’t let him touch me.”

And he’d fallen into the abyss. In his dying moments he’d reached out to her and she’d denied him any sort of basic human comfort. She let him go. Alone, remembering what the logs said. That he was wanted for the murder of the other her. And that, coupled with Georgiou’s words, and his months of lies had done them in.

“You didn’t kill him,” Lorca tries to reassure her. But it doesn’t work.

“Then why does it feel like I did?”

She buries her face in his side.

Groomed her. He wants to recoil at the words. The implications. But he knows that’s something a Lorca would NEVER do. There are bounds. And that—is completely out of them. He is many things. But even the devil has limits. And Gabriel knows himself too well—both iterations--to believe that to be right. He thinks back to the message the other him left her…and realizes that this is the reason why. Gabriel must have figured in advance that if his plan worked, Georgiou would try to turn this Michael against him. And he’d wanted her to know—to have the other side—so that she wouldn’t think him a monster, wouldn’t still carry guilt about her feelings for him. He’d wanted her to know…

“I need to show you something,” Lorca tells Michael, getting up and getting a PADD, before coming back. She’s sitting up now, perched on the side of his bed, hands in lap watching, as he enters commands.

The screen comes on.

“This is for you,” he tells her, “Gabriel wanted you to see this.”

He hands her the PADD, and goes to the vestibule, leaving her alone with it. Maybe she will hate him now for withholding this. And if she does, he can’t blame her. He’s had a front-row seat to everything she thought was private, sacred.

Michael had denied him the first drink, but now he gets it, needing it to take the edge of his frayed nerves. Their nights are long, filled with painful things, and he doesn’t know how she will react once she realizes he knew before she ever said a word.

The bourbon and wines are gone. He has switched to whisky. Just a cup.

The words reach his ears as he sits on the couch, waiting.

.

“Hello, Michael. If you’re seeing this, I’m dead.”

Her fingers touch the outline of Gabriel’s face on the monitor.

Is that regret she hears in his voice? The face is set, but his eyes, Lorca’s eyes, Gabriel’s eyes, they’re sad.

“I should have told you the truth,” he says. “But would you have believed me? I know you don’t believe in fate, but I do. And I still believe it was fate that brought me here, to you.”

Gabriel’s shoulders slump slightly, and she watches as he pauses, thinking deeply.

“The files we recovered,” he says, speaking slowly, voice becoming lower. Thicker. “They say you died, and I’m wanted for your murder.” She remembers reading it.

“I didn’t kill you, Michael,” Gabriel whispers. “You may not believe anything I say, but I didn’t kill you. I loved you. And I had to watch you die.”

He watched her…die? He was there? He knew?

“If you see this, and you’re still here, in my universe, I know you’ll want to trust Emperor Georgiou. Don’t.” It’s said forcefully. His hands fists. “Do not trust a word she says. Don’t believe what she tells you about me,” he continues. “It was by her order you were killed. She sent you after me and used you as a beacon. You were followed. And she knew—about us. And she also knew…” Again, he hangs his head.

“She took everything from me,” he says, “because I dared to defy her rule. And I watched you die, and when you died, our baby did too. You were pregnant, Michael. Georgiou knew. And she still did it anyway.”

The PADD clatters to the floor. Michael just stares at it, blankly. Trying to process what she’s just heard. What he said. That she was…that they were…

He hears the clang and gets up, entering the bedroom to see her sitting there, frozen in the spot.

Slowly, she raises her face to his.

“Did you…know?” Her voice is choked. Full. Lorca swallows, tasting the whisky at the back of his throat. He knows what she’s asking about. The last thing Gabriel said. The other thing. Two men in different universes with the exact same regret.

“Yes.”

He won’t lie to her.

Michael weighs her next question carefully, trying to decide how much else she wants to know. Eventually, she settles on it.

“Is there more?”

Lorca cringes at the question. She catches it. But she must know. Everything. Every word.

“Yes.”

“Have you…seen them, all?”

“Not all,” he tells her. “But most.”

He picks up the PADD and unlocks it, giving it the commands and handing it back to her, leaving the room again.

This time, she doesn’t drop it.

Sometimes, Gabriel makes her want to scream at him. In other entries, he makes her want to cry. When she realizes he recorded their lovemaking she blanches—realizing why Lorca kept asking her whether they were intimate. But the entry that breaks her heart, is when Gabriel begins to talk about Ash.

“I think you’re falling in love,” he says, glancing at the screen then away. “Had I known this would happen I would have left his ass on that Klingon prison transport.” Dry. Humourless. He’s dead serious.

“No. I love you too much for that,” Gabriel says. “Do you even know what love is? I don’t know if you—this version of you—has ever been in love before.”

She hadn’t. She didn’t. What he’s talking about now, it feels like a lifetime ago. When she was still naïve. A woman in body but still very much a girl, in other ways.

“Is it because you’re afraid of me?” He asks. “Did I do something wrong for you to go to him, instead? Was it because of what…we did? I shouldn’t have done that. I knew better. Maybe, you and him—maybe this is all my fault.”

Gabriel sits back in his chair, runs his hand over his face, one arm across his chest.

“What kind of man would I be to interfere with your love?” he says slowly. “If it makes you happy, Michael. If he’s what you really want, then I have no choice. But I don’t believe you do want him. And I will wait for you,” he tells her. “For as long as it takes. I’ll wait. Because I lost you once. And I would rather die before I lose you again.”

He did die.

Lorca doesn’t hear anything after Gabriel’s muffled voice finishes.

So he goes into the room and sees her, laying down, eyes closed.

“Lay with me,” she says, a question not a command. He does and she curls up and brings one of his arms around her waist.

“You’ve been drinking.”

He has, won’t deny that, either.

“They’ll find me another liver,” he tells her, fingers touching her belly, unconsciously rubbing her, there.

She wonders if he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

Oh, the tangled webs of the universe.

A cruel joke? Nature’s humour?

They spoke of nature versus nurture once. Is it their nature to be together? Or just a strange twist of circumstance? Gabriel believed in fate. Michael hadn’t before. Now, she’s not sure what she believes.

Individually, they could never have healed themselves. But they’re slowly stitching each other back together.

.

In the belly

“Open hailing frequencies,” Katrina commands as the Leviathan comes within parsecs of Discovery. The ship comes up on her viewer, just floating in space for the moment. Still. Tyler comes up to stand next to her, admiring the view.

“It’s lovely,” he says, wistfully. She glances at him, sees the longing on his face. His human half in view.

“It’s a good piece of work,” she relents.

From behind her, the comms officer turns. “Discovery acknowledging.”

“On screen.”

Before them, stands Commander Saru.

“Admiral,” he says with a slight, genteel bow. “We didn’t receive word of your arrival.”

“That’s because I didn’t send it. Where is your captain?” She asks.

“It’s 0400 hours. I believe he may be in his quarters. Should I notify Captain Lorca of your arrival?”

“No. I’ll speak with him directly. Lieutenant Tyler,” Admiral Cornwell calls. He steps up beside her again. “You’re with me. Prep for transport.”

They beam over. And as soon as she re-emerges in the transporter room, she feels that something isn’t right. It’s in the stiffness with which Saru greets her. Kelpiens are very transparent. Cornwell takes a look around, noting nothing seems to be amiss, but still.

“Lieutenant Tyler,” the first officer greets him a little less anxiously, but still, even as Tyler speaks back he casts a look at Katrina and she can tell he’s picked up on the same thing. The hour is early. Most of the crew is asleep. The captain should be, too. Technically. And so Katrina decides to use this time to see for herself what’s been going on. “The conference room,” she directs. Saru nods and escorts them down empty corridors, into the turbo lift and onto the bridge. It’s a different set of faces than those she’s accustomed to seeing—the third shift—and they stand at her entrance.

“At ease,” she tells them and they relax, still looking slightly rattled at seeing an Admiral on the bridge.

The conference room doors open and she and Tyler take a seat. Saru stands until she beckons for him to sit as well.

“Tell me about the decision to strike inside Klingon space.”

She doesn’t make small talk. Doesn’t mince words. For a split second, she thinks the Kelpien almost shirks away, but he holds himself tall. “We decided it would be advantageous…”

We. That word. But she already knows it wasn’t a “we” decision.

“We? Who is ‘we’?”

“Myself, Captain Lorca, Specialist Burnham, Lieutenant Stamets.”

“Uh, huh…”

“Saru—while it is one of the roles of the first officer to protect their captain, I will only ask you once again—who came up with the initial idea to attack in Klingon space.”

A few blinks.

She can tell he’s weighing it—whether it would be considered a betrayal to Lorca, and she’s glad to see that sort of loyalty. However, at the end of the day, both officers know that command decisions lie squarely on the shoulders of the person in command.

“It was…Captain Lorca’s idea, sir,” he says finally.

“And did you all agree?”

“Yes…for the most part.”

“For the most part?” She presses him.

“Well…not at first,” he starts to hesitate. “It…seemed like a greater risk than was necessary.” Ah, so he too had reservations.

“However?”

“But…Specialist Burnham…”

Katrina stops listening. Of course, Specialist Burnham. She left Michael Burnham behind to act as a check on Lorca, should he get too far out of hand, believing that while they wouldn’t stand idly by, she could count on Burnham to control some of Gabriel’s other…impulses—like his recklessness. Yet Burnham, from all appearances, had concurred with the foolery. This is disappointing, to say the least. And she’s got a good mind to just drop the former Commander Burnham off at Colony One and strip Lorca of command. But…

“That’s all, Mr. Saru. T hank you. You can wake your commanding officer now. Tell him Admiral Cornwell is here.”

He gets up to go…and as he does, something continues to niggle at Katrina.

She finally follows as he resumes his post at his station and makes the call.

“Captain Lorca to the bridge.”

It’s a ship-wide hail.

They wait for a response. When it doesn’t come after a moment, Saru’s long fingers key in a different set of codes. 2-1-1-2. The Captain’s quarters.

“Captain Lorca to the bridge.”

.

He gets the call in his room and turns over groggily. Michael shifts beside him, shivering, suddenly cold at the loss of body heat. It’s 0446.

Early.

“Lorca here.” His voice is low, craggy from being halfway between sleep and waking, and there’s still the lingering whisky from earlier. Though he’s not hung over, it remains.

“Sir, Admiral Cornwell is here.”

At that, he’s wide awake.

“I’m on my way.”

He gets up, pulling on a shirt, jacket, then his shoes. He’d never taken off his pants.

Before leaving, Lorca brings the blankets up over Michael’s shoulders and kisses her forehead. She’s his lifeline. He can’t afford to lose her.

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