INNER VOICES
by AstroGirl
It takes a while for the memories to settle. It always does, particularly with a strong personality, and John Crichton's personality was very, very strong. He knew that when he crossed the human over, of course, but he's more than a little surprised at just how strong the residue is.
He tries not to be concerned about it. Eventually it will fade, and Crichton will become just one more voice, faint and indistinguishable among the babbling chorus in his head.
In the meantime, though, it is... awkward.
The strongest traces the dying leave behind are of the things that most concerned them in their final days. Stark's mind is full of Earth, and wormholes... and Aeryn.
Aeryn. Memories of her are right there, vivid in his mind, and he cannot resist visiting them, cannot resist calling up the taste of her skin, the softness of her hair. He loses himself in them for long moments, forgetting, almost, that they are not his own. But they're not, and the lingering traces of Crichton will not let him forget. His personality rests, nearly whole, within Stark's mind, and every memory Stark visits, he is there.
You felt this, he thinks at it, envious, because to be dead is to no longer regret the loss of what one can no longer feel. And this, and this, and this... A homeworld, a purpose, Aeryn.
Yeah, says the dead man's voice. I did. It was pretty damned good, all in all, wasn't it?
And this, and this...
Stark, buddy, will you quit playin' back scenes from my sex life? You're kinda creeping me out, here, and since I'm technically the one who's the dead, disembodied voice, that's really just the wrong way around.
"Shut up, Crichton." He mutters it aloud, and, in his mind, again he touches Aeryn's hair.
Stark, this isn't healthy. And not just because Aeryn's gonna kick your ass if she ever finds out about it.
You talk too much for a dead man. And he touches Aeryn's face...
Frell this! John screams, and, oh, his personality is very, very strong, and he's pushing something, deep inside Stark's mind...
The interior landscape shudders and shatters, fragments of memory flying everywhere, and where the image of Aeryn used to be, there is only John.
It's his face Stark is touching now, more real and more present than Aeryn's. Not a memory, not an image, but a genuine sentient soul... or at least a piece of one.
All these voices in here, all these pieces of souls... How is it that he's still so very lonely?
Shhh, shhh. Dude, it's OK. It's OK. The remnant of Crichton surrounds him, comforts him, and that is the wrong way around, because that's his job, isn't it?
You did your job, it reassures him. You did good. I went peacefully. It was... beautiful. And he sees it, from Crichton's perspective. The light, the bridge... himself. And it is beautiful.
His mind feels the touch of lips, the strength of cradling arms. Love yourself, Stark. And quit living in here. It's overcrowded and dusty.
And Crichton sinks away from him, retreats into a distant corner of his mind, abandons him... and leaves him feeling less alone than he's felt in a very long time.
So he picks himself up and he goes out to look for his life.