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lizbeeTitle: edges clean
Author: LizBee
Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery
Wordcount: 2,000
Rating: Teen
Characters: Katrina Cornwell, Gabriel Lorca
Pairing(s): Cornwell/Lorca
Warning(s): (highlight to reveal) Considers the immediate emotional and physical impact of Lorca's attack on Cornwell in "Lethe".
Beta(s):sohotrightnow deserves all the praise and none of the recriminations.
Notes: Missing scene(s) from "Lethe", but maybe don't look too closely at the timeline. It's a busy night on the Discovery, okay? Title from "Quinine" by Dessa.
Summary: She is compromised; she has to compromise.
edges clean
Kat didn't start shaking until she was in her quarters, the door closed and locked behind her. Then her knees gave way and she sank onto the couch, grateful that her body didn't betray her until she was safely alone, away from Gabriel and his crew.
She wanted to cry, but she could only manage a few shallow gasps. Delayed panic, said the analytical part of her mind. You thought you were safe, and you were wrong. Your lover tried to strangle you. Your oldest friend put a live phaser to your head. You're having a normal, healthy reaction.
The rest of her mind was a whirl of anger, fear and self-recrimination. I fucked up. We all fucked up. We are fucked. I have to tell Starfleet Command. I have to tell Admiral Terral. I shouldn't have slept with Gabriel. I fucked up. We shouldn't have given him Discovery. We fucked up.
Over and over and over--
"Stop," she said out loud, and forced herself to concentrate on her breathing. Heal thyself.
("I didn't know you were practising again." Gabriel's hand on her knee. "Because if I have your undivided attention for fifty minutes…")
"Shit."
She pushed herself to her feet and made her way into the bathroom, shedding her uniform as she went. She programmed the shower for high pressure and moderate temperature and let the water wash over her.
Discovery's showers ran on a standard four-minute cycle. When it was done, she stayed in the cubicle, leaning against the wall with her head in her hands, taking stock.
It was a long time since she had practised. She kept up to date on the literature, but her certification had finally lapsed after she became first officer on the Ryde.
("It's not like you to hedge your bets," Gabriel had said, and her throat tightened at the memory.)
Nevertheless, Terral respected her opinion. He had requested her assessment of Lorca and the Discovery, and he'd listen when she gave it.
Kat tried to picture herself reporting that she had slept with Gabriel. Tried to picture Terral's face. If Vulcans had messy, inappropriate relationships with their subordinates, they kept it to themselves. She'd known Terral for two years before she even found out he had a husband.
"Don't look at me like that," she said to the Terral in her head. "It started long before I was his superior officer."
She missed the days when her biggest qualm about their relationship was that he was three years her junior. It had seemed like a big gap, once.
Their relationship had been platonic, if not purely professional, since she switched to command. It figured that, the one time she screwed up, the stakes would be so much higher than just her career.
She felt sick to her stomach. And she still couldn't cry.
When she couldn't put it off any longer, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around herself and found a standard first aid kit in a drawer. The medical tricorder registered minor bruising to her throat and trachea. The good news is, he was aiming to immobilise you, not to kill you.
She wondered if the phaser had been set to stun. He'd pushed it away before she could check.
("Your behaviour is pathological…")
She logged the readings and locked the file, then went to get dressed.
Her bag had been stowed by some useful cadet while she was letting Gabriel ply her with scotch and push their conversation away from dangerous territory. Kat was a light traveller by habit, but for once she regretted it: she wanted to put on her worn old Academy sweats and crawl into her own bed, in the quarters she had occupied on Starbase Sixty for the last four years.
Instead, she donned standard issue pyjamas and climbed into an unfamiliar bed, in quarters identical to the ones she had just fled.
She lay flat on her back for thirty seconds, then got up and dragged the blankets to the couch. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest and wrapped the blankets around herself like a cocoon, and considered her evening.
In hindsight it was obvious -- and embarrassing -- how Gabriel had manipulated her. Used her overture of friendship to push their conversation away from professional concerns, and then, when it became too personal, deflected her attention by taking her to bed.
He had always been a canny negotiator.
And she had made it easy, overlooking the machinations because she had known him for so long, it was simply unthinkable that he could be so … cold. Not to her.
This, Katrina, is why doctors shouldn't treat their friends and admirals shouldn't sleep with subordinates.
Too late to fix it. Terral would tell her that pride and self-recrimination were equally illogical. She tried to compose a report.
In the aftermath of my encounter with Captain Lorca, I saw evidence of hypervigilance and paranoia--
But the sex itself had been … strange. Rote. Impersonal, even. Definitely unsatisfying on her part, and maybe for Gabriel, too. Not a sharing of pleasure between friends, just a struggle for release. It could have been anyone in his bed.
And that, she realised, was part of the reason she felt so sick now. Humiliation and anger and fear coiled around her in layers, and just when she needed to see clearly.
Which is, ironically, Gabriel's problem. He was running in survival mode, eternally on the edge of fight or flight. And we gave him a weapon and a means of escape. Convinced he was the only one who really understood the war, who could save the Federation. Compensating for the destruction of the Buran.
And surrounding himself with a new crew, who were either equally fragile, like Tyler, or people like Burnham, dependent on Gabriel's perceptions because she no longer trusted her own. As for the rest, he drove and drilled and harangued them until they were taut and tense and ready to snap.
Just like him.
Kat made a mental note to review the logs around Commander Landry's death. She suspected Gabriel had been sleeping with Landry, which added another layer to the problem. Another means for Gabriel to push and push until Landry went too far.
And now -- she realised, putting her hands over her eyes and settling deeper into her nest of blankets -- she was in the same boat. On edge, angry, mildly traumatised. Emotionally compromised, Terral would say, and he'd be right.
She was the last person who should be making a decision about Gabriel's capacity to serve.
But here she was, the only one with sufficient context to do so.
Shit.
She didn't have to make a decision tonight. Or alone. She could make an informal report to Terral. Move the problem up her chain of command. Take a transfer that took her away from oversight of Discovery's mission. Her record would look strange, but she could live with that. Gabriel would be someone else's problem.
A headache was starting behind her eyes, but Kat couldn't stop her mind from racing.
Maybe there was a third option.
In command training, she had confounded and irritated her instructors with her outwardly nonchalant approach to the Kobayashi Maru exercise. She was a doctor, she understood the rules of triage. She had already made those choices, and with real lives.
Of course, she still tried to rescue the simulated civilians.
This wasn't the Kobayashi Maru. It didn't need to be a no-win scenario.
She was compromised. So she had to compromise. If Gabriel stepped down of his own volition, came clean and requested treatment -- well, Starfleet needed all the captains it could get. And recovery outcomes were always better when the patient was willing. He could be back in the chair within a year.
The challenge would be in persuading him, if he truly believed he was the rational one. Or maybe he had taken himself by surprise, begging for his ship. She still wasn't sure.
But he had to know that stepping down by choice, with the option of returning, was better than being removed.
If she stayed where she was, she could persuade him. Self-interest wins all around. Compromised again.
At least this time she knew what she was going up against. She wasn't going to be outmaneuvered next time.
Satisfied, she finally closed her eyes, ready to sleep. Only to be interrupted by the communicator's low chime and Commander Saru's apologetic voice.
Sarek was too badly injured to attend the peace talks. Captain Lorca wondered--
"I'll go," said Kat. The blankets fell away as she stood up. So much for plans. So much for compromise. "Have Captain Lorca meet me in sickbay."
He was waiting for her, meeting her gaze as if the last few hours hadn't happened. But there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes.
Ambassador Sarek seemed preoccupied by his own concerns, but he assured Kat that any information which had survived the damage to his ship would be made available to her.
"I've given orders for a shuttle to be readied," said Gabriel.
"In your opinion," Kat said, "is this a trap?"
"Yes," said Gabriel at once.
"I calculated a sixty-two percent probability," said Sarek.
"Does this change your plans, Admiral?" Gabriel asked.
It didn't. It couldn't. It was still the right thing to do.
"No," she said. "I'm aware of the risks."
Their eyes met. Gabriel nodded.
"I need to brief Admiral Terral," she said. "I'll meet you in the launch bay, Captain. Ambassador."
Back in her quarters, she quickly packed her things, threw the blankets on the bed and sat down at the desk.
She considered, composed herself, then hit record.
"Admiral Terral," she said, "Discovery has rescued Ambassador Sarek, but in light of his injuries, I've elected to take his place in the talks at Cancri IV. It's almost certainly a trap, but you know I have to try."
She hesitated.
"Regarding Captain Lorca. I … spent some time with him this evening." No need for specifics. "I'm concerned about his mental health, and I have questions about his fitness to command. I hope I can get him to see this for himself, but if I don't get the opportunity--" She stopped. She didn't need to say more. If this wasn't enough, nothing she could say would persuade him. "Be careful, Terral."
She sent the message.
Another cadet took her belongings to the shuttle, while she stopped at the armoury to get a phaser. She wasn't going into this unarmed, and the detour gave her more time to figure out what she was going to say to Gabriel.
He waited for her outside the shuttle. Before he could speak, she said, "I don't want to ruin your career. When I return, we'll talk about how you step down."
He looked like he'd been punched.
"And after you get some help," she continued, "maybe we'll get you back in that chair."
Gabriel nodded. Seeing the sense in the arrangement, and the order implicit beneath the suggestion.
"May fortune favour the bold, Admiral," he said. "Good luck in your negotiations."
He did not ask for orders in the event of her capture. And she didn't give them. Part of her hoped that, without explicit orders not to, he might launch another unauthorised rescue mission, if it became necessary. And part of her was afraid he wouldn't.
So it was a no-win scenario after all.
She didn't look back as she entered the shuttle, and she knew he wouldn't, either.
She didn't start shaking until she was sitting down.
end
Author: LizBee
Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery
Wordcount: 2,000
Rating: Teen
Characters: Katrina Cornwell, Gabriel Lorca
Pairing(s): Cornwell/Lorca
Warning(s): (highlight to reveal) Considers the immediate emotional and physical impact of Lorca's attack on Cornwell in "Lethe".
Beta(s):
sohotrightnow deserves all the praise and none of the recriminations.Notes: Missing scene(s) from "Lethe", but maybe don't look too closely at the timeline. It's a busy night on the Discovery, okay? Title from "Quinine" by Dessa.
Summary: She is compromised; she has to compromise.
edges clean
I knew better when we met and then I knew you instead
Dessa, "Quinine"
Dessa, "Quinine"
Kat didn't start shaking until she was in her quarters, the door closed and locked behind her. Then her knees gave way and she sank onto the couch, grateful that her body didn't betray her until she was safely alone, away from Gabriel and his crew.
She wanted to cry, but she could only manage a few shallow gasps. Delayed panic, said the analytical part of her mind. You thought you were safe, and you were wrong. Your lover tried to strangle you. Your oldest friend put a live phaser to your head. You're having a normal, healthy reaction.
The rest of her mind was a whirl of anger, fear and self-recrimination. I fucked up. We all fucked up. We are fucked. I have to tell Starfleet Command. I have to tell Admiral Terral. I shouldn't have slept with Gabriel. I fucked up. We shouldn't have given him Discovery. We fucked up.
Over and over and over--
"Stop," she said out loud, and forced herself to concentrate on her breathing. Heal thyself.
("I didn't know you were practising again." Gabriel's hand on her knee. "Because if I have your undivided attention for fifty minutes…")
"Shit."
She pushed herself to her feet and made her way into the bathroom, shedding her uniform as she went. She programmed the shower for high pressure and moderate temperature and let the water wash over her.
Discovery's showers ran on a standard four-minute cycle. When it was done, she stayed in the cubicle, leaning against the wall with her head in her hands, taking stock.
It was a long time since she had practised. She kept up to date on the literature, but her certification had finally lapsed after she became first officer on the Ryde.
("It's not like you to hedge your bets," Gabriel had said, and her throat tightened at the memory.)
Nevertheless, Terral respected her opinion. He had requested her assessment of Lorca and the Discovery, and he'd listen when she gave it.
Kat tried to picture herself reporting that she had slept with Gabriel. Tried to picture Terral's face. If Vulcans had messy, inappropriate relationships with their subordinates, they kept it to themselves. She'd known Terral for two years before she even found out he had a husband.
"Don't look at me like that," she said to the Terral in her head. "It started long before I was his superior officer."
She missed the days when her biggest qualm about their relationship was that he was three years her junior. It had seemed like a big gap, once.
Their relationship had been platonic, if not purely professional, since she switched to command. It figured that, the one time she screwed up, the stakes would be so much higher than just her career.
She felt sick to her stomach. And she still couldn't cry.
When she couldn't put it off any longer, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around herself and found a standard first aid kit in a drawer. The medical tricorder registered minor bruising to her throat and trachea. The good news is, he was aiming to immobilise you, not to kill you.
She wondered if the phaser had been set to stun. He'd pushed it away before she could check.
("Your behaviour is pathological…")
She logged the readings and locked the file, then went to get dressed.
Her bag had been stowed by some useful cadet while she was letting Gabriel ply her with scotch and push their conversation away from dangerous territory. Kat was a light traveller by habit, but for once she regretted it: she wanted to put on her worn old Academy sweats and crawl into her own bed, in the quarters she had occupied on Starbase Sixty for the last four years.
Instead, she donned standard issue pyjamas and climbed into an unfamiliar bed, in quarters identical to the ones she had just fled.
She lay flat on her back for thirty seconds, then got up and dragged the blankets to the couch. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest and wrapped the blankets around herself like a cocoon, and considered her evening.
In hindsight it was obvious -- and embarrassing -- how Gabriel had manipulated her. Used her overture of friendship to push their conversation away from professional concerns, and then, when it became too personal, deflected her attention by taking her to bed.
He had always been a canny negotiator.
And she had made it easy, overlooking the machinations because she had known him for so long, it was simply unthinkable that he could be so … cold. Not to her.
This, Katrina, is why doctors shouldn't treat their friends and admirals shouldn't sleep with subordinates.
Too late to fix it. Terral would tell her that pride and self-recrimination were equally illogical. She tried to compose a report.
In the aftermath of my encounter with Captain Lorca, I saw evidence of hypervigilance and paranoia--
But the sex itself had been … strange. Rote. Impersonal, even. Definitely unsatisfying on her part, and maybe for Gabriel, too. Not a sharing of pleasure between friends, just a struggle for release. It could have been anyone in his bed.
And that, she realised, was part of the reason she felt so sick now. Humiliation and anger and fear coiled around her in layers, and just when she needed to see clearly.
Which is, ironically, Gabriel's problem. He was running in survival mode, eternally on the edge of fight or flight. And we gave him a weapon and a means of escape. Convinced he was the only one who really understood the war, who could save the Federation. Compensating for the destruction of the Buran.
And surrounding himself with a new crew, who were either equally fragile, like Tyler, or people like Burnham, dependent on Gabriel's perceptions because she no longer trusted her own. As for the rest, he drove and drilled and harangued them until they were taut and tense and ready to snap.
Just like him.
Kat made a mental note to review the logs around Commander Landry's death. She suspected Gabriel had been sleeping with Landry, which added another layer to the problem. Another means for Gabriel to push and push until Landry went too far.
And now -- she realised, putting her hands over her eyes and settling deeper into her nest of blankets -- she was in the same boat. On edge, angry, mildly traumatised. Emotionally compromised, Terral would say, and he'd be right.
She was the last person who should be making a decision about Gabriel's capacity to serve.
But here she was, the only one with sufficient context to do so.
Shit.
She didn't have to make a decision tonight. Or alone. She could make an informal report to Terral. Move the problem up her chain of command. Take a transfer that took her away from oversight of Discovery's mission. Her record would look strange, but she could live with that. Gabriel would be someone else's problem.
A headache was starting behind her eyes, but Kat couldn't stop her mind from racing.
Maybe there was a third option.
In command training, she had confounded and irritated her instructors with her outwardly nonchalant approach to the Kobayashi Maru exercise. She was a doctor, she understood the rules of triage. She had already made those choices, and with real lives.
Of course, she still tried to rescue the simulated civilians.
This wasn't the Kobayashi Maru. It didn't need to be a no-win scenario.
She was compromised. So she had to compromise. If Gabriel stepped down of his own volition, came clean and requested treatment -- well, Starfleet needed all the captains it could get. And recovery outcomes were always better when the patient was willing. He could be back in the chair within a year.
The challenge would be in persuading him, if he truly believed he was the rational one. Or maybe he had taken himself by surprise, begging for his ship. She still wasn't sure.
But he had to know that stepping down by choice, with the option of returning, was better than being removed.
If she stayed where she was, she could persuade him. Self-interest wins all around. Compromised again.
At least this time she knew what she was going up against. She wasn't going to be outmaneuvered next time.
Satisfied, she finally closed her eyes, ready to sleep. Only to be interrupted by the communicator's low chime and Commander Saru's apologetic voice.
Sarek was too badly injured to attend the peace talks. Captain Lorca wondered--
"I'll go," said Kat. The blankets fell away as she stood up. So much for plans. So much for compromise. "Have Captain Lorca meet me in sickbay."
He was waiting for her, meeting her gaze as if the last few hours hadn't happened. But there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes.
Ambassador Sarek seemed preoccupied by his own concerns, but he assured Kat that any information which had survived the damage to his ship would be made available to her.
"I've given orders for a shuttle to be readied," said Gabriel.
"In your opinion," Kat said, "is this a trap?"
"Yes," said Gabriel at once.
"I calculated a sixty-two percent probability," said Sarek.
"Does this change your plans, Admiral?" Gabriel asked.
It didn't. It couldn't. It was still the right thing to do.
"No," she said. "I'm aware of the risks."
Their eyes met. Gabriel nodded.
"I need to brief Admiral Terral," she said. "I'll meet you in the launch bay, Captain. Ambassador."
Back in her quarters, she quickly packed her things, threw the blankets on the bed and sat down at the desk.
She considered, composed herself, then hit record.
"Admiral Terral," she said, "Discovery has rescued Ambassador Sarek, but in light of his injuries, I've elected to take his place in the talks at Cancri IV. It's almost certainly a trap, but you know I have to try."
She hesitated.
"Regarding Captain Lorca. I … spent some time with him this evening." No need for specifics. "I'm concerned about his mental health, and I have questions about his fitness to command. I hope I can get him to see this for himself, but if I don't get the opportunity--" She stopped. She didn't need to say more. If this wasn't enough, nothing she could say would persuade him. "Be careful, Terral."
She sent the message.
Another cadet took her belongings to the shuttle, while she stopped at the armoury to get a phaser. She wasn't going into this unarmed, and the detour gave her more time to figure out what she was going to say to Gabriel.
He waited for her outside the shuttle. Before he could speak, she said, "I don't want to ruin your career. When I return, we'll talk about how you step down."
He looked like he'd been punched.
"And after you get some help," she continued, "maybe we'll get you back in that chair."
Gabriel nodded. Seeing the sense in the arrangement, and the order implicit beneath the suggestion.
"May fortune favour the bold, Admiral," he said. "Good luck in your negotiations."
He did not ask for orders in the event of her capture. And she didn't give them. Part of her hoped that, without explicit orders not to, he might launch another unauthorised rescue mission, if it became necessary. And part of her was afraid he wouldn't.
So it was a no-win scenario after all.
She didn't look back as she entered the shuttle, and she knew he wouldn't, either.
She didn't start shaking until she was sitting down.
end
