Death doesn't frighten me, I told you one day when you stood near the biobed, careworn and worried. How can I be afraid of the non-existence that bookends my life? Nobody ever says they were afraid before they were born, so why be afraid of what comes after a life well spent? You squeezed my fingers and told me that was all very well, but please don't you give me such a fright again. I smiled but we both knew neither of us could hold on to that promise.
What used to trouble you were the people left behind, the grief clutching at them like icy flood waters. I could see how you thought your efforts at helping them did very little. I knew you spent your evenings after your own long shifts sitting with them, talking to them about their comrade. You told them how proud you were of them and their friend, and that they were not alone. So, one day, I asked you if you'd never noticed the relief on their faces, their smiles, their strength renewed after you visited them. You looked at me, surprised, and I entwined my fingers through yours across the dinner table.
Is it fate, I argued one day as our journey lengthened, that after two generations, three at most, the sum of an individual can only be found on holovideos, images, in snippets of memories whispering in the wind. Is it fair that even those will soon be lost to drift and decay? You said that tomorrow is built on the dust of yesterday, and we held each other, mourning a future which will soon forget all of us.
Too many years in the Delta Quadrant and my thoughts turned more philosophical. Or maybe I was losing hope as time trudged by. If my death meant Voyager's crew and ship got a bit closer to home, if my disappearance gave them a little nudge in the right direction, I would be happy, I confided to you one day. My life was hardly of importance to the universe, and its absence even less, I mused, watching the sunset on an unnamed planet, your back against my chest and my arms around you. You never said a word, but your hand covered mine, keeping hold of me.
But there is much more to death, you stated one day, your heart tormented by another senseless loss. By then, it was the dying that bothered you most, that slice of time between knowing one is alive because everything hurts like hell and experiencing nothing. How many times had we seen that splinter moment in the eyes of those who had died around us? The ones who clung desperately to life and those who welcomed death. You shivered as you told me you felt the tendrils of their souls brushing yours when their minds opened to the stillness that comes after. My arms held you until you stopped shaking, and then your lips found mine.
And now? Now, being brought back from the dead is what I am afraid of each time death avoids me and postpones my fate for a little while longer. I fear looking into others' eyes when I wake up in sickbay. I dread walking to our empty quarters and lying in a cold bed. And that night, that first night after I find myself alive once more, all I do is relive the memories of your death when I was not even there to share it. The death that slowed us down because I would not let you go and I searched for you for weeks until only the remains of your corpse made it back to Voyager.
One day, those memories will mercifully stop, I know. And while I wait, I really don't give a damn about anything anymore. I've died too many times to care about dying and death. Because do you know what kills me every single day?
Having to tell myself that you are dead.
My attempt at responding to devoverest's prompt list, 'Six Deadly Words' she posted on tumblr. I chose #29 Having to tell you he/she's dead, because I love J/C angst.
My thanks to Cheile for the quick beta. I am always appreciative.