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fandomweekly2019-09-21 07:46 pm
skyblue_reverie) wrote in fandomweekly2019-09-21 07:46 pm
Entry tags:
[#024] Constant (Star Trek: Discovery)
Theme Prompt: #024 - Starry Night
Title: Constant
Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery
Rating/Warnings: R for adult thoughts and words. SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SEASON 1.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 998
Summary: Gabriel Lorca looks at the stars and thinks about his life.
The stars, Lorca thinks. The stars are the same. The stars are the only constant, though, the only sure thing in this crazy, unfamiliar universe he finds himself trapped in, stranded away from home, so close yet so infinitely far away.
He never thought he could be homesick before. And especially not for his home, the shifting walls and endless traps that make up life in the Terran Empire. But he misses it. He misses the sureness – the moral certainty. Not any moral certainty that he’s doing the “right thing” – that never motivated anyone who wanted to live past childhood in the Empire. No, he misses the moral certainty that the ends justify the means, and that the ends are whatever one wants them to be. Whatever’s in one’s own best interest. It’s a universal moral code, the closest thing to a General Order One that exists in the Empire.
Here, though, here nothing is clear. Everything is muddled, shifted a millimeter to the side, somehow, or maybe obscured by a filter, the way the stars are filtered on the Empire’s ships to protect the sensitive eyes of their inhabitants.
It hurts, of course, to force himself to look at the stars. It’s a bittersweet sting, watching them slide by in the viewscreen in his ready room. It hurts his eyes, sure, but that’s a minor consideration. He’s used to pain far beyond what a little light sensitivity can inflict. No, the real pain is inside, in his soul, maybe, if he possesses such a thing at all.
It almost felt good, when the Klingons had tortured him with light – light that lanced like needles into his eyeballs, making him scream. It made him feel almost… nostalgic. It wasn’t the same kind of torture he’d endured before, but it was torture nonetheless. The pain was almost a comfort. A constant. Like the stars outside his window.
It’s exhausting, trying to play the part of Gabriel Lorca, heroic and noble Starfleet Captain, upholding the values of the Federation. He knows that sometimes he gives himself away, and if he’d been surrounded by a crew who came up through the Empire’s ranks, he would have been exposed, denounced a thousand times by now. But his crew in this universe – they’re soft. Trusting. And so they dismiss his slips as slight abnormalities, quirks, maybe. Stamets thinks he’s a warmonger, but even Stamets could never imagine the depths of violence and cruelty of which he’s capable. But he fears that he’s getting soft too, slipping more and more into the role, like quicksand pulling him under slowly, so slowly.
The worst part - or maybe the best, he’s not sure - is Michael. Michael, with her big soft liquid eyes that pull him in effortlessly. He knows he’d let himself get too close to his Michael. Being first her surrogate father-figure and then her lover had been intoxicating, and he’d cared for her more than was rational, certainly more than was wise. He’d hidden it the best he could, but she’d always known. And now she’s gone, taken from him by a cruel twist of destiny.
This Michael isn’t his Michael, but he cares for her more than is wise too. This one, though, is oblivious to his feelings. It’s ridiculous, really, the way he’s unable to stop his eyes from following her whenever she’s near, the hunger he can feel in his gaze and the possessiveness he can’t keep out of his voice. And still she doesn’t see it, doesn’t see him. Convicted mutineer or not, this Michael, more than anyone he’s ever met, wants to do the right thing, wants to believe in the inherent goodness of others, and so she overlooks what’s right in front of her. It’s a glaring weakness, and yet he can’t force himself to hate her for it.
If anything, he finds himself feeling an emotion for her that he never thought truly existed. He’d always thought love was a fairy tale, a comforting lie that helped weaker people find hope in a meaningless existence. But Michael, as much as the stars outside, as much as the pain, has become his constant here. His lodestone. If anything could keep him here, could make him forsake his lifelong ambitions and carefully-laid plans in that other universe, it would be her.
But she’s not for him. She loves another, and as much as he wants to take Ash Tyler by the throat and slowly crush the life out of him, he won’t. It would be a step too far, something he couldn’t hide or explain away as a quirk of personality. It would give him away. And – maybe just as importantly, maybe even more importantly, is that he’d lose Michael’s regard forever. There’s a saying in this universe, if you love someone, set them free. He hates it. And he hates even more that it’s true – the only way that he can have even the smallest part of Michael – her respect, maybe even her friendship – is to let her be with Ash.
It’s a bitter irony that in his universe, he’d taken her, kissed her, fucked her, but she’d always held herself apart from him, held some part of herself distant and unknowable, never to be shared with him – with anyone. In this universe, she might as well be as far away as the stars outside, physically – he can’t strip this Michael bare, bruise her lips with his kisses, play her body like an instrument until she’s screaming in pleasure-pain – and yet he knows her, understands her more deeply even than she understands herself.
It’s exquisitely painful, but if life in the Empire has done anything good for him, it’s taught him to endure pain. So he accepts it, lets it wash over him, the staggering, gut-wrenching pain of losing what will never truly be his, the way he lets the unfiltered starlight stab and sear his eyes. In the end, the pain is all there is.
Title: Constant
Fandom: Star Trek: Discovery
Rating/Warnings: R for adult thoughts and words. SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SEASON 1.
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 998
Summary: Gabriel Lorca looks at the stars and thinks about his life.
The stars, Lorca thinks. The stars are the same. The stars are the only constant, though, the only sure thing in this crazy, unfamiliar universe he finds himself trapped in, stranded away from home, so close yet so infinitely far away.
He never thought he could be homesick before. And especially not for his home, the shifting walls and endless traps that make up life in the Terran Empire. But he misses it. He misses the sureness – the moral certainty. Not any moral certainty that he’s doing the “right thing” – that never motivated anyone who wanted to live past childhood in the Empire. No, he misses the moral certainty that the ends justify the means, and that the ends are whatever one wants them to be. Whatever’s in one’s own best interest. It’s a universal moral code, the closest thing to a General Order One that exists in the Empire.
Here, though, here nothing is clear. Everything is muddled, shifted a millimeter to the side, somehow, or maybe obscured by a filter, the way the stars are filtered on the Empire’s ships to protect the sensitive eyes of their inhabitants.
It hurts, of course, to force himself to look at the stars. It’s a bittersweet sting, watching them slide by in the viewscreen in his ready room. It hurts his eyes, sure, but that’s a minor consideration. He’s used to pain far beyond what a little light sensitivity can inflict. No, the real pain is inside, in his soul, maybe, if he possesses such a thing at all.
It almost felt good, when the Klingons had tortured him with light – light that lanced like needles into his eyeballs, making him scream. It made him feel almost… nostalgic. It wasn’t the same kind of torture he’d endured before, but it was torture nonetheless. The pain was almost a comfort. A constant. Like the stars outside his window.
It’s exhausting, trying to play the part of Gabriel Lorca, heroic and noble Starfleet Captain, upholding the values of the Federation. He knows that sometimes he gives himself away, and if he’d been surrounded by a crew who came up through the Empire’s ranks, he would have been exposed, denounced a thousand times by now. But his crew in this universe – they’re soft. Trusting. And so they dismiss his slips as slight abnormalities, quirks, maybe. Stamets thinks he’s a warmonger, but even Stamets could never imagine the depths of violence and cruelty of which he’s capable. But he fears that he’s getting soft too, slipping more and more into the role, like quicksand pulling him under slowly, so slowly.
The worst part - or maybe the best, he’s not sure - is Michael. Michael, with her big soft liquid eyes that pull him in effortlessly. He knows he’d let himself get too close to his Michael. Being first her surrogate father-figure and then her lover had been intoxicating, and he’d cared for her more than was rational, certainly more than was wise. He’d hidden it the best he could, but she’d always known. And now she’s gone, taken from him by a cruel twist of destiny.
This Michael isn’t his Michael, but he cares for her more than is wise too. This one, though, is oblivious to his feelings. It’s ridiculous, really, the way he’s unable to stop his eyes from following her whenever she’s near, the hunger he can feel in his gaze and the possessiveness he can’t keep out of his voice. And still she doesn’t see it, doesn’t see him. Convicted mutineer or not, this Michael, more than anyone he’s ever met, wants to do the right thing, wants to believe in the inherent goodness of others, and so she overlooks what’s right in front of her. It’s a glaring weakness, and yet he can’t force himself to hate her for it.
If anything, he finds himself feeling an emotion for her that he never thought truly existed. He’d always thought love was a fairy tale, a comforting lie that helped weaker people find hope in a meaningless existence. But Michael, as much as the stars outside, as much as the pain, has become his constant here. His lodestone. If anything could keep him here, could make him forsake his lifelong ambitions and carefully-laid plans in that other universe, it would be her.
But she’s not for him. She loves another, and as much as he wants to take Ash Tyler by the throat and slowly crush the life out of him, he won’t. It would be a step too far, something he couldn’t hide or explain away as a quirk of personality. It would give him away. And – maybe just as importantly, maybe even more importantly, is that he’d lose Michael’s regard forever. There’s a saying in this universe, if you love someone, set them free. He hates it. And he hates even more that it’s true – the only way that he can have even the smallest part of Michael – her respect, maybe even her friendship – is to let her be with Ash.
It’s a bitter irony that in his universe, he’d taken her, kissed her, fucked her, but she’d always held herself apart from him, held some part of herself distant and unknowable, never to be shared with him – with anyone. In this universe, she might as well be as far away as the stars outside, physically – he can’t strip this Michael bare, bruise her lips with his kisses, play her body like an instrument until she’s screaming in pleasure-pain – and yet he knows her, understands her more deeply even than she understands herself.
It’s exquisitely painful, but if life in the Empire has done anything good for him, it’s taught him to endure pain. So he accepts it, lets it wash over him, the staggering, gut-wrenching pain of losing what will never truly be his, the way he lets the unfiltered starlight stab and sear his eyes. In the end, the pain is all there is.
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