[ Focused and rife with egress. She can walk out without embarrassing him.
Talk is a minefield. Lorca makes his own retreat, the conversation on her last message. He needs a drink already, after that. Instead, he heads onto Victrix's floor. Does a bit of glowering, engages in some toothy chitchat at the bar. Not for the first time since Philippa's death (it is vanishingly unlikely she will ever return as the version of herself that he knew here), he would rather be in the streets or at Patch's, earning Michael's disapproval.
He may still find himself there, at the end of the night.
At Neptune, he slips the host a few extra bills for a pair of seats along the wall. He orders for himself, only himself. Michael Burnham would never stand him up, unless the universe needed saving. Lorca doesn't know what she drinks in mourning. ]
[ She doesn't drink in mourning. Not typically, not enough to have an established order. When the server greets her shortly after slipping into the seat across from Lorca, her mind reaches for the last drink she shared with Philippa. In no time at all, a glass of red wine is set before her.
Had Lorca gone to Patch's instead, he might have found her by coincidence. Wrapped around the delicate stem of her glass, Michael's knuckles are the raw red of torn skin. She drinks quietly, allowing the loaded silence to stretch on, growing heavier with each passing minute.
It was thoughtful of him to invite her here. That's the truth she has been struggling against since his first message. Not just what it says about him but how it reflects back on her. The walk over cleared her head enough to see it. ]
I left you alone with this before, when it was Christine. [ She has to speak around a knot in her throat, unmistakable. ] I'm sorry for that.
[ Lorca's glass rests snugly in his hand, yet to be christened with a sip. He watches Michael nakedly, and doesn't mask how she takes him off-guard with her opener. They don't talk about Christine, though not for any confirmed reason. He thought she might be a little jealous, in her heart of hearts. Not necessarily of their relationship, but of how well Christine fit in here.
Michael's condolences are as she previously assumed: Unnecessary.
He cared for Christine. And he does miss her, but it's not the same. Except in one regard. ]
If she were to show up at the next Orientation, [ he muses without fancy, an undertone of moroseness to it, ] odds are she wouldn't remember me. Or any of this. [ A small gesture to their surroundings. ] Part of me hopes I never see her again, because of that.
[ It's always a little thrill to surprise him, though this one is diminished by the circumstance. She knows from Philippa that Discovery finds her eventually, if and when she returns to her universe at the point from which she left. Neither of them will remember anything that happened here. They might as well be different people. ]
I would still start over. [ She says with dull defiance, stubborn even in defeat. More muscle memory than moxie. ] But I doubt I'll get the chance.
[ She lifts the glass to her mouth once more. It tastes bitter. She hardly noticed it when she drank with Philippa. ]
I had already mourned her for a year when I arrived here. Both of them. [ She inhales sharply, blinking water from her eyes. ] My brother. This was all the time with him I was ever going to get back. Now it's over.
[ And she'd go through all this pain again, given the choice. As she would have the day he met her, as she would have the day she showed up in Duplicity. That is Michael to her core. Suffering for love. It will take years to disabuse her of a hope that many people lose in a day.
To break her.
He can set aside how disappointed he must be in his lack of progress. There's space. He came here to confront something, after all. That was why he approached her. He's the one who brought her out of her walking torpor before; he will do it again. Lorca grinds his teeth a moment, acutely aware of how much more enthused he was to do this earlier. ]
You know, seeing her here, [ he puts forth, ] being with her, reminded me why I loved her. [ He shakes his head, chagrined by his sentiment. ] How much I loved her.
[ She starts to shake her head but aborts the movement. Her mouth tightens as she looks down at her own hands, now folded loosely together on the table. Whatever goodwill she had started to feel toward him dissipates like vapor.
She was open to the idea that he did feel something for Philippa. That it was complicated. That it was intense. Not that it was love. Even having accepted the distance between their respective definitions of that word, she won't hear that. ]
Loved in the past tense. [ He didn't love her still. He didn't lose her while he still loved her. ]
[ Had she ever broached the topic of Christine, Michael might not have this look about her now. Like she's been doused with ice water. Lorca's stare holds, unbowed. ]
Yes. She's a memory, not a spirit. [ People who've gone can be inspirational, motivational, liberating. What they can't be is weight. The living slow him down enough as it is. ]
[ For a long moment, Michael only stares. Her eyes narrow very slightly. His face is a picture she has seen a thousand times before, cast in new light. Shifted perspective re-contextualizes the whole. ]
Your love for someone doesn't die with them. [ Her tone is low, careful. She can't tell if she is horrified or sympathetic. She might be both. It feels like a cosmic farce for them to be seated here, discussing loss over drinks. He has never let himself grieve anyone or anything. And here she is, the mirror image of a woman he loved and never mourned. She feels suddenly, deeply foolish. ]
Why shouldn't it? [ he challenges, composure intact and unthreatened. She wanted him to be vulnerable. Is it not vulnerable to let her down? He has no doubt that she believes her grief superior. To him, they are just different. It's not one of the ways in which he'd reshape her. When that galaxy-spanning depth of feeling is funneled through the laser point of her logic, it's awe-inspiring.
Even when it burns. ]
A rotting corpse feeds the earth. Matter can't be destroyed.
[ Lorca scoffs quietly into his glass, sipping his scotch. She's persnickety tonight. He could dance around to hit upon the exact language to appease her but that would piss her off just the same. If not now then later. ]
They change. When I miss someone, I don't scramble after their ghost. [ Or invite them into his home, to haunt him until he feels properly punished. ] I hold on harder to the living.
[ She leans into the back of her seat as the pieces take form. He never intended to console her, and she was a fool to give him the benefit of the doubt. This isn't about her at all. He wants to occupy the space that Philippa and Spock have vacated. He only wants to vanquish her ghosts to make more room for himself. ]
It's not enough for you. [ Her voice takes a tone of bitter disbelief. ] You're all I have left here and it's still not enough.
[ On a throne of rich leather, lowly lit and draped in nostalgic veil of grief, he's nearly convinced of romance. But Lorca hears it for what it is: He's just what's left. Over and over, he has to prove himself to her; try and quantify his success and the scientist balks. That's what the truce with Philippa was at first. He admitted it fell by the wayside, by the end.
Was that a play too? She's the only one he asks himself that question around.
Not enough. ]
Scraps, Michael. [ The detached air with which he'd been discussing himself thins. He leans forward to set his glass down. ] Don't make it sound like a feast.
[ She makes a sound that might have been cynical laughter at inception but comes out as a bleak huff of air, like the breath was gut-punched out of her. When she speaks, it's with the dark tremble of scantly contained emotion. ]
I have chosen you consistently for one year, three months, and thirty days. I sleep in your bed. I spend more time in your company— [ This time, she does manage that ugly laugh, but her scorn is self-directed. ] —I enjoy your company more than anyone else's. These are scraps to you.
[ Lorca shakes his head in maligned amusement. What a precise argument. If she can't intellectualize their relationship, it's not within her control. And if she can control what she feels for him, it's hardly love. ]
[ Frown lines etch themselves deeper into the corners of her mouth, the middle of her brow. He is many things but rarely petulant. Even in dogged pursuit, he is patient. But his timing has never been worse.
[ A good question he nonetheless resents being asked. The truce with Philippa curdled his ambition. The angle of placating Michael felt at many times like no angle — just existing, plain and simple. A state of being incompatible with Terran life, despite their complete dominance. Unpalatable without a frisson of mortal danger, Pippa's signature scent. ]
A shift in the stalemate. [ he decides. Grand is what she expects from him, and it's less pathetic than attempting to share grief with her. She's right: They aren't vulnerable with each other. It's distasteful to both of them. ] But that's something we'd both have to want.
[ That shift could veer in any direction. He hasn't considered that the stalemate may be the only state in which they can exist together.
She inhales deeply, gathering her frazzled energy into some semblance of composure. A long sip from her nearly forgotten wine glass stretches the tense silence. ]
You think it's only because of you that this is difficult for me. [ A slow, miserable shake of her head. ] Ask me what happened the last time I tried this.
[ Ankle-deep in Michael's trap here, he nonetheless doesn't believe she set it deliberately. She's a victim of it herself, though he won't go as far as to extend her sympathy. She doesn't toy with him deliberately, not like this.
So he'll bite. ]
What happened? [ A dry cant of his head, a rise of curiosity in his flat affect. ]
[ They can't go anywhere, in any direction, if neither is willing to budge. Inviting Lorca to ask about this is Michael realizing that she will have to make the first move this time. This impasse demands surrender, and she is the only one willing to fillet herself open and expose her soft insides. ]
I had never been in love before Ash. [ Her eyes want to cast down, to stare at her hands or the inside of her glass. She forces her gaze to remain trained on Lorca. ] I leaned on him most when we were over there. In your universe. I hoped that we would keep each other sane. [ A bitter flinch of a smile, there and gone. ] The Klingons wanted to infiltrate Discovery. It was a radical procedure, the first of its kind. Klingon bones shaved down to human size. The face and psyche of a Starfleet prisoner-of-war grafted on to a Klingon host.
[ She watches his face closely, waiting for any sign that her words have sunken in. ]
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no subject
Date: 2026-01-20 02:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-02-01 01:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2026-02-01 02:12 am (UTC)Where would you like to meet?
no subject
Date: 2026-02-01 02:26 am (UTC)Neptune.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-01 02:44 am (UTC)I'll meet you there.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-01 04:26 am (UTC)Talk is a minefield. Lorca makes his own retreat, the conversation on her last message. He needs a drink already, after that. Instead, he heads onto Victrix's floor. Does a bit of glowering, engages in some toothy chitchat at the bar. Not for the first time since Philippa's death (it is vanishingly unlikely she will ever return as the version of herself that he knew here), he would rather be in the streets or at Patch's, earning Michael's disapproval.
He may still find himself there, at the end of the night.
At Neptune, he slips the host a few extra bills for a pair of seats along the wall. He orders for himself, only himself. Michael Burnham would never stand him up, unless the universe needed saving. Lorca doesn't know what she drinks in mourning. ]
no subject
Date: 2026-02-01 01:45 pm (UTC)Had Lorca gone to Patch's instead, he might have found her by coincidence. Wrapped around the delicate stem of her glass, Michael's knuckles are the raw red of torn skin. She drinks quietly, allowing the loaded silence to stretch on, growing heavier with each passing minute.
It was thoughtful of him to invite her here. That's the truth she has been struggling against since his first message. Not just what it says about him but how it reflects back on her. The walk over cleared her head enough to see it. ]
I left you alone with this before, when it was Christine. [ She has to speak around a knot in her throat, unmistakable. ] I'm sorry for that.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-02 04:34 am (UTC)Michael's condolences are as she previously assumed: Unnecessary.
He cared for Christine. And he does miss her, but it's not the same. Except in one regard. ]
If she were to show up at the next Orientation, [ he muses without fancy, an undertone of moroseness to it, ] odds are she wouldn't remember me. Or any of this. [ A small gesture to their surroundings. ] Part of me hopes I never see her again, because of that.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-02 05:15 am (UTC)I would still start over. [ She says with dull defiance, stubborn even in defeat. More muscle memory than moxie. ] But I doubt I'll get the chance.
[ She lifts the glass to her mouth once more. It tastes bitter. She hardly noticed it when she drank with Philippa. ]
I had already mourned her for a year when I arrived here. Both of them. [ She inhales sharply, blinking water from her eyes. ] My brother. This was all the time with him I was ever going to get back. Now it's over.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-03 01:51 am (UTC)To break her.
He can set aside how disappointed he must be in his lack of progress. There's space. He came here to confront something, after all. That was why he approached her. He's the one who brought her out of her walking torpor before; he will do it again. Lorca grinds his teeth a moment, acutely aware of how much more enthused he was to do this earlier. ]
You know, seeing her here, [ he puts forth, ] being with her, reminded me why I loved her. [ He shakes his head, chagrined by his sentiment. ] How much I loved her.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-03 02:35 am (UTC)She was open to the idea that he did feel something for Philippa. That it was complicated. That it was intense. Not that it was love. Even having accepted the distance between their respective definitions of that word, she won't hear that. ]
Loved in the past tense. [ He didn't love her still. He didn't lose her while he still loved her. ]
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 04:09 am (UTC)Yes. She's a memory, not a spirit. [ People who've gone can be inspirational, motivational, liberating. What they can't be is weight. The living slow him down enough as it is. ]
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 05:04 am (UTC)Your love for someone doesn't die with them. [ Her tone is low, careful. She can't tell if she is horrified or sympathetic. She might be both. It feels like a cosmic farce for them to be seated here, discussing loss over drinks. He has never let himself grieve anyone or anything. And here she is, the mirror image of a woman he loved and never mourned. She feels suddenly, deeply foolish. ]
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 05:29 am (UTC)Even when it burns. ]
A rotting corpse feeds the earth. Matter can't be destroyed.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-04 05:43 am (UTC)He's gone from picture to puzzle, a scattering of pieces that don't fit together in a way that makes sense. ]
You're right. [ Her chin juts out in defiance. ] But emotions aren't matter. They don't decompose just because you've buried them.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-05 03:15 am (UTC)They change. When I miss someone, I don't scramble after their ghost. [ Or invite them into his home, to haunt him until he feels properly punished. ] I hold on harder to the living.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-05 03:53 am (UTC)It's not enough for you. [ Her voice takes a tone of bitter disbelief. ] You're all I have left here and it's still not enough.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-05 06:26 am (UTC)Was that a play too? She's the only one he asks himself that question around.
Not enough. ]
Scraps, Michael. [ The detached air with which he'd been discussing himself thins. He leans forward to set his glass down. ] Don't make it sound like a feast.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-05 05:42 pm (UTC)I have chosen you consistently for one year, three months, and thirty days. I sleep in your bed. I spend more time in your company— [ This time, she does manage that ugly laugh, but her scorn is self-directed. ] —I enjoy your company more than anyone else's. These are scraps to you.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-06 03:46 am (UTC)Order of importance?
no subject
Date: 2026-02-06 03:58 am (UTC)Why this, now? ]
What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?
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Date: 2026-02-06 04:13 am (UTC)A shift in the stalemate. [ he decides. Grand is what she expects from him, and it's less pathetic than attempting to share grief with her. She's right: They aren't vulnerable with each other. It's distasteful to both of them. ] But that's something we'd both have to want.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-06 04:27 am (UTC)She inhales deeply, gathering her frazzled energy into some semblance of composure. A long sip from her nearly forgotten wine glass stretches the tense silence. ]
You think it's only because of you that this is difficult for me. [ A slow, miserable shake of her head. ] Ask me what happened the last time I tried this.
no subject
Date: 2026-02-15 05:37 am (UTC)So he'll bite. ]
What happened? [ A dry cant of his head, a rise of curiosity in his flat affect. ]
cw gory sci-fi surgery
Date: 2026-02-16 12:13 am (UTC)I had never been in love before Ash. [ Her eyes want to cast down, to stare at her hands or the inside of her glass. She forces her gaze to remain trained on Lorca. ] I leaned on him most when we were over there. In your universe. I hoped that we would keep each other sane. [ A bitter flinch of a smile, there and gone. ] The Klingons wanted to infiltrate Discovery. It was a radical procedure, the first of its kind. Klingon bones shaved down to human size. The face and psyche of a Starfleet prisoner-of-war grafted on to a Klingon host.
[ She watches his face closely, waiting for any sign that her words have sunken in. ]
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