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NOTES: Trigger warning for non-con [past]; I make no profit from this work; Star Trek belongs to CBS not me; so far as I know this idea/headcanon is mine alone and published earlier by me on ao3; there is some specific sexual content in chapter 4 you may find objectionable, but it's "vanilla." Please leave comments (they help me know what readers like and don't like in my stories so I can adjust accordingly); direct any constructive critcism to me via PM, thanks!
Chapter 1
She noticed him the first day.
How could she help it?
She's 27 years old; he's 23. He's been on the starship Liu Yang for a year, in Operations, and come back with his CO's recommendation for the Command Training Course. She's attending as a newly minted Ensign just out of OCS at the Academy, a Federation-licensed Psychiatrist, who wants to serve on the medical staff of any forward Starbase or on any deep space starship.
He's sharing his analysis of the book they were assigned, Sun Tzu's The Art of War. He seems to approve. She isn't really hearing his whole presentation because she's distracted by his presence. And that baritone, mocha voice, deep and kind of sweet, with an overlay of acidity.
A confident walk, a good male mesomorphic form – almost like an ancient Greek Kouros – tall, broad shouldered. A handsome, chiseled face with blue eyes the color of tropical waters ... yadda, yadda,
yadda, she recalls her 11-year-old self and Mom saying "oh stop swooning."
Lorca's a classic, in other words, with a flashing smile that hints of devilment. It's the way it curves at one side of his mouth. Black hair with a bit that flops over at the front. And, lest it be forgotten, he has a very fine ass.
Well, here at last, at age 27, is my first adult flowering of deep sexual desire.
Other women and some men are checking him out. But there are a number of quite handsome guys who are not Lorca. A few not so handsome, but they have other charms.
Lieutenant Junior Grade ["call them 'Lieutenant'"] Lorca's voice has a little Southern twang, which comes out more when he's challenged or stressed. They were in an accident simulation recently and he was droppin' Gs left and right. Inwardly she gives that nngghhh! of desire when she hears it. "Dead sexy," she's heard at least one female say. Okay, I'm just four years older. What the hell.
Herself, she doesn't feel so damn cute, or appealing. There are women here with perfect figures and incredibly beautiful faces, who are also brilliant. A few of them are friendly.
Yeah, she has thick brown hair with blonde and chestnut streaks, clear grey eyes that can shade to blue or hazel green, and good bone structure. She has a trim figure, which actually means very fit and slender, with small breasts.
And an overbite, which makes her shy of saying words with a pronounced S in them, because it comes out not so clearly but too soft. Not quite a lisp, but still. Her dad thought it was cute, but her stepmom would wince, or worse, say, "She Sells SeaSHells by the SeaSHore." Kat's getting over it at the Academy though, because "Starfleet," "star chart," "astronomical," and "some kind of" are pretty frequently used words here. She cannot show a lack of confidence in any way.
.
.
They're at a club off campus, a group of the Command Training Course officers celebrating the end of their first two weeks, Phase I, when Lorca sidles up to her at the bar. She's had some brief conversations with other people. One is a civilian who can't understand why an attractive woman would join Starfleet and leave all the prime male specimens of Homo Sapiens behind on Earth. "Guess you don't know much about the men in Starfleet, then," she smiles easily, and he departs in a huff.
Some cadets and officers stop to chat, and when they find out she's a psychiatrist, they are either embarrassed and find an excuse to leave, or they try to prove their own acumen at "reading people." Kat doesn't explain that it's not exactly what she does in her profession, it's merely one tool; she just nods solemnly with an occasional smile, as if she were acting in her professional capacity. Sometimes they tell her hair-raising stories and ask what the long-term effects of the accident, tragedy, or spectacular fall will be.
So Lorca's a breath of fresh air. Until he says, "You're a psychiatrist, right?" Those blue eyes, gazing at her.
Her stomach gets a flutter, and not in a good way. "Right. Yes. I am."
He nods and swallows some of his drink. "So that's why they call you 'Doc.'" He extends a hand. "Care to dance?"
She does. And it's fun, he's a good dancer, freer in the hips than she is.
They and go out for coffee afterward and chat for hours. They have similar views on the place of Starfleet within the body politic of the Federation; on leadership, on music, and both like history. He likes to run, and since she does too, they meet the next morning and run together. She's light and fast and he's bigger and long-legged, so they manage to keep a fair pace with each other. They begin dating, usually meeting for coffee on campus or in town, at Peet's, rowing in Golden Gate Park, or jogging on the beach. They go sailing on San Francisco Bay. Both are good at it. They share some light kisses, but Kat is shy about it, and Gabriel is sensitive to that, thank god he doesn't take it personally in a negative way.
One morning after a run, they arrive at the Bachelor Officer Quarters, about to split up to shower and change into their uniforms for the day, when he says, in a rush, "I booked a room in Bodega Bay for the weekend. Would you like to go with me?"
She's staggered for a minute and looks at him while trying to find words.
He blinks. "I mean, sorry, it's got two beds. I just ..." He looks down for a moment, getting up his nerve, then smiles a little, with a certain light in his eyes that's pure joy. "I think we'd have fun. There are great hikes, redwoods not far away, a beach to walk on when the tide is right, good restaurants, and a jazz club…." A long pause. "I'm being incredibly presumptuous to even ask, especially at the last minute. You could just tell me to fuck off."
"N-no," she squeaks. "Don't fuck off."
He cocks an eyebrow. She very nearly laughs at his expression, but looks up at the chrono on the wall and says, "I have to get moving, can we talk later?"
.
Up until now, they've called each other by their last names, as is customary in Starfleet between equals on a familiar footing.
"Cornwell, wait up!"
"Where the hell have you been, Lorca?"
"I tripped!"
But here they are, off the Academy for a three-day weekend, in foggy, chilly Bodega Bay, walking along a path at Bodega Head, with the mist in their faces, a fresh chill breeze with gusts, and ocean waves booming against the cliffs. She braided her hair at the room so she wouldn't have to keep swiping it off her face.
She looks at Lorca, just the longish top of his black hair ruffling in the wind, no hair whipping into his eyes, and thinks again about cutting her hair short. She wonders if he'd like it. She decides she likes it as it is, not only because it's easier to manage but because he seems to like it long too. A couple of weeks ago he said, "I like the colors in your hair. They really show up in the sun." He reached out a hand, and she willed herself to stay still as he touched it.
The wind here has come up and it's as noisy as the inside of a dance club. There's no bass beat, but a thrumming in the wind. She touches his arm and he turns toward her. "It seems weird to be here and not use first names," she says, loudly, just as the breeze lessens.
"Okay," he says in the same loud tone, and she cracks up. "Please call me Gabriel. Or Gabe."
"Don't call me Katrina. Just call me Kat."
They ramble a while and Kat realizes her hands are getting cold. She chafes them a bit and Gabriel notices, stopping, turning, and folding his big, warm hands around hers.
And it's okay.