My Star Trek One-Shots

Captain Gabriel Lorca - Deception Affection PT 2

The Discovery crew walked through the Terran flagship, held upright only by discipline and desperation. Elira walked behind Lorca. She kept her face neutral, her steps sharp, her eyes forward.

But she was watching him. Always watching him. The way he walked in this world—like it belonged to him.

The way he looked at the Emperor—like they were playing a game no one else understood. And the way he looked at her . . . had changed.

It was colder. No more softness, no more pretense. Just a hand on her shoulder when he wanted her silent. Just a smirk when she questioned something. Just a reminder: "You wanted to stand beside me. This is what that looks like."

He poured two glasses of a smoky liquor, offered one to her. She didn't take it. She didn't even look at him.

"You were made for this world, Elira. Strong. Loyal. Capable. You don't have to keep pretending to be one of them."

"One of who?" she asked, her voice flat. "Starfleet?"

"Sheep," he replied.

She stood so slowly it feels like gravity was working harder on her body. "I didn't fall in love with a tyrant."

He chuckled lowly, and that was when she knew—it was over. Not the mission. Not the war. The illusion.

Her fists trembled as she pulled off her uniform, piece by piece. She threw it at the wall. The mirror version of her face in the console's reflection watched her with contempt. Her quarters were a mess. Pillows on the floor. Glass on the desk shattered. A bottle knocked over, contents dripping onto the floor in a lazy trickle.

Her chest ached. Her eyes burned. She curled up on the floor, half-dressed, gasping through a spiral of grief she didn't see coming. How could I not have known? How could I have loved him?

She screamed once, just once. And then nothing but ragged, quiet sobs.

They were back in their universe. The silence in her quarters was total. The room remained trashed—though less out of rage, more . . . hollow neglect. There were dried tear tracks on her cheeks and a bruise under her collarbone she hadn't even bothered to heal.

A knock at her door. She didn't move. A second knock, and then Burnham entered. She said nothing at first. She took in the damage, the hollow expression on Elira's face, the paleness, the quiet shiver in her shoulders.

Burnham just sat beside her. No speeches. No I-told-you-so. No judgment. Just silence.

And when Elira leaned ever so slightly toward her, Burnham let her. No questions. Minutes passed.

Then Elira broke the silence with a whisper so quiet it could break. "He told me I was everything he needed."

Burnham still didn't speak. She just reached out and took Elira's hand. Because the pain couldn't be talked away. It could only be survived.

The war raged on outside. Inside Elira's quarters, there was only silence.

Elira sat on the floor in the shadows, her knees pulled to her chest. She hadn't changed uniforms in days. The room was cold. The air was stale. Her eyes were blank, skin pale, and her PADD blinked softly from a nearby desk—unread messages piling up.

A note from Tilly. A report from Dr. Culber. A message from Saru.

Elira deleted them all with a flick of her fingers. She didn't leave. Didn't eat unless someone made her. Didn't respond to the chime at the door unless it was medical personnel sent by order.