TITLE: Dear Kathryn
AUTHOR: Gracie Kay
DISCLAIMER: Kathryn Janeway and Mark Johnson are the property of "all them Paramount folks." Thanks for not suing, but I don't have anything to take, anyway.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is NOT--I repeat, NOT the letter that Mark sent Janeway in "Hunters." IT IS NOT THE SAME LETTER! This is a letter he wrote to her about two years after Voyager disappeared, when he believed she was dead. KATHRYN JANEWAY HAS NEVER SEEN THIS LETTER. Thanks in advance for the feedback--this one's short enough that y'all have absolutely no excuse. : )
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Dear Kathryn,
I stared at the heading of this letter for five minutes before I got up the nerve to continue. You see, I've put off writing this for two years. Two whole years, because I believed that writing it would be like admitting I had lost hope of ever seeing you again . . . hope that somewhere out beyond the Federation's reach, your ship, your Voyager, was making a journey to home. To me.
I kept hoping a lot longer than everybody else. I kept believing, maybe because the thought of losing you was too awful to acknowledge even to myself. But I've finally accepted the truth: that I've been clinging to a fantasy for the past two years, and that something in my mind or my heart knew I'd never see you again the first day that Voyager was announced missing.
I can't put it off any more. You'll never read this letter, but I have to write it anyway. You, with your scientific personality, would probably accuse me of being idealistic for writing a letter to someone who is officially presumed dead. I could have just written my thoughts in my journal, but that wasn't enough. I had to write you, to tell you things you needed to know . . . should have known . . . and now never will.
First of all, I found homes for Molly's pups. She had seven of them, the sweetest things you ever saw. Didn't take long for them to all be spoken for. I still have Molly . . . I know, I don't like dogs much--okay, okay, I *dislike* dogs--but Molly's different. Sure, she's as hairy as any animal I've ever let within ten meters of my house, but I don't think of her as mine.
Secondly, please know I did everything I could to keep the search for Voyager going. I know the admirals up at Starfleet Headquarters got tired to death of hearing from Mark Johnson, even Admiral Paris. I never wanted them to stop looking, but as a civilian there wasn't much I could do when they seriously decided to end it.
Another thing, Kath, you should know that Admiral Paris was devastated when he heard about Voyager's disappearance. I spoke to him personally a few times, and he was truly broken hearted by the idea that Voyager had been destroyed. I think he really liked you, Kath--he had nothing but wonderful things to say about you. If I didn't know better, I'd say he took your death as hard as he took his own son's.
Death. That's the other thing I have to tell you. I know you'll never come back to me, and I'm moving on with life now as I think you'd want me to, but . . . somehow it's so hard to accept that you're gone. Dead. I hate that word.
And I have to apologize to you. Kathryn, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for the things I never said, the things I can't ever say to you now. I knew you loved me, and you knew I loved you. We were both eager to be married, to belong to each other--even to raise a family someday. And yet, there were things I never told you. I didn't tell you often enough that I loved you. I never told you how important you were to me, what inspiration I found in you.
And I never told you that you were beautiful. I knew you didn't think of yourself as even pretty; don't ask how I knew, it was just something I sensed from you. I should have told you how every feature of your face was so lovely to my eyes. Even now I can still see you, as you were that last day we spoke before your ship left Deep Space Nine. That abundant, reddish-brown hair all confined to a bun on top of your head, so you would look more professional. The small lips that you tried to make frown at me but always quirked up on one side in half a smile. And the vibrant blue eyes, too serious, but not without a tiny twinkle and a warmth that touched me from parsecs away.
I miss you.
And no matter how long I have left to live without you, no matter how completely I am able to "move on," no matter how the people around me whisper behind my back, "He's coped so well with his loss" . . . I want you to know that I will never forget you. I will never get over you. There will never be a day that I don't think of you.
Kathryn, I love you.
Always,
Mark
AUTHOR: Gracie Kay
DISCLAIMER: Kathryn Janeway and Mark Johnson are the property of "all them Paramount folks." Thanks for not suing, but I don't have anything to take, anyway.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is NOT--I repeat, NOT the letter that Mark sent Janeway in "Hunters." IT IS NOT THE SAME LETTER! This is a letter he wrote to her about two years after Voyager disappeared, when he believed she was dead. KATHRYN JANEWAY HAS NEVER SEEN THIS LETTER. Thanks in advance for the feedback--this one's short enough that y'all have absolutely no excuse. : )
~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Kathryn,
I stared at the heading of this letter for five minutes before I got up the nerve to continue. You see, I've put off writing this for two years. Two whole years, because I believed that writing it would be like admitting I had lost hope of ever seeing you again . . . hope that somewhere out beyond the Federation's reach, your ship, your Voyager, was making a journey to home. To me.
I kept hoping a lot longer than everybody else. I kept believing, maybe because the thought of losing you was too awful to acknowledge even to myself. But I've finally accepted the truth: that I've been clinging to a fantasy for the past two years, and that something in my mind or my heart knew I'd never see you again the first day that Voyager was announced missing.
I can't put it off any more. You'll never read this letter, but I have to write it anyway. You, with your scientific personality, would probably accuse me of being idealistic for writing a letter to someone who is officially presumed dead. I could have just written my thoughts in my journal, but that wasn't enough. I had to write you, to tell you things you needed to know . . . should have known . . . and now never will.
First of all, I found homes for Molly's pups. She had seven of them, the sweetest things you ever saw. Didn't take long for them to all be spoken for. I still have Molly . . . I know, I don't like dogs much--okay, okay, I *dislike* dogs--but Molly's different. Sure, she's as hairy as any animal I've ever let within ten meters of my house, but I don't think of her as mine.
Secondly, please know I did everything I could to keep the search for Voyager going. I know the admirals up at Starfleet Headquarters got tired to death of hearing from Mark Johnson, even Admiral Paris. I never wanted them to stop looking, but as a civilian there wasn't much I could do when they seriously decided to end it.
Another thing, Kath, you should know that Admiral Paris was devastated when he heard about Voyager's disappearance. I spoke to him personally a few times, and he was truly broken hearted by the idea that Voyager had been destroyed. I think he really liked you, Kath--he had nothing but wonderful things to say about you. If I didn't know better, I'd say he took your death as hard as he took his own son's.
Death. That's the other thing I have to tell you. I know you'll never come back to me, and I'm moving on with life now as I think you'd want me to, but . . . somehow it's so hard to accept that you're gone. Dead. I hate that word.
And I have to apologize to you. Kathryn, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for the things I never said, the things I can't ever say to you now. I knew you loved me, and you knew I loved you. We were both eager to be married, to belong to each other--even to raise a family someday. And yet, there were things I never told you. I didn't tell you often enough that I loved you. I never told you how important you were to me, what inspiration I found in you.
And I never told you that you were beautiful. I knew you didn't think of yourself as even pretty; don't ask how I knew, it was just something I sensed from you. I should have told you how every feature of your face was so lovely to my eyes. Even now I can still see you, as you were that last day we spoke before your ship left Deep Space Nine. That abundant, reddish-brown hair all confined to a bun on top of your head, so you would look more professional. The small lips that you tried to make frown at me but always quirked up on one side in half a smile. And the vibrant blue eyes, too serious, but not without a tiny twinkle and a warmth that touched me from parsecs away.
I miss you.
And no matter how long I have left to live without you, no matter how completely I am able to "move on," no matter how the people around me whisper behind my back, "He's coped so well with his loss" . . . I want you to know that I will never forget you. I will never get over you. There will never be a day that I don't think of you.
Kathryn, I love you.
Always,
Mark