For those who are sensitive or empathetic readers, please note I have updated the genre/description/tags of this story. Proceed with fair warning.

"Fred," she crooned, drawing him from slumber.

He inhaled slowly, deeply - but nothing. The air smelled of recycled environmentals, the standard detergent utilized to launder the bedclothes and other linens on board, and nothing more. Not her.

Opening his eyes, he pushed himself up from his bunk. The time on the door panel read 0433.

It'd been a dream.

Setting his boots on the deck, he scuffed the heels of his hands over his face. He hadn't intended to fall asleep. Hadn't believed he would.

Why hadn't she come? Where had she been when he'd gone to her cabin? There'd been no verbal agreement he would seek her out there, it'd been assumed. Just as it had been all the nights before. He didn't understand what had changed. Had she been called in for last minute debriefing, to tie up loose ends? Taken ill and wound up in the infirmary?

Sighing at himself, at the disordered and unfounded concerns, he forced himself to get up and prepare to depart from the frigate. They'd be arriving at the station in less than five hours. He stowed his meager belongings in his rucksack; four changes of fatigues - five including the fresh set he changed into, the sheathed combat knives which carried the improbable classification of doubling as eating utensils so that they need never be locked in the armory or otherwise leave his possession, a battered fleet issued tacpad he hadn't bothered to charge or turn on in weeks now, and not much else. Despite there still being four hours to docking when he'd finished, he performed a visual sweep of the room to ensure he wasn't forgetting anything.

Blue team had one last physical eval scheduled to ensure they were fit to undertake their next mission and it was to this he turned his thoughts. He knew there were going to be irregularities in his bloodwork. His hormone levels would reveal what he'd miraculously managed not to over the course of the prior three weeks. It couldn't be helped, so instead he rehearsed the explanation he'd concocted over the past few days in his head while he waited for Kelly's knock on the door - a part of their routine the origins of which stretched back more than a decade now. It wasn't a good explanation, nor one he was particularly certain was more advisable than simply telling the truth of the matter. Except he'd decided, advisable or not, he wasn't going to do that. To tell them. There seemed an inherent risk in exposing Khae as the source of his dismal performance scores and uncharacteristic behaviour, one he didn't fully understand but credited nevertheless as legitimate. He trusted his instincts, even if he'd been out of sorts ever since he'd set eyes on her on that cruiser. And they were telling him to protect her, to deal with the mess he was about to find himself in in a way which did not impact her, directly or otherwise. So he would lie, tell them the stress of being separated from his teammates without contact had triggered an unanticipated negative psychological response. John, Linda, and Kelly would attest to the fact he'd not been right since they'd collected him from the cruiser if questioned outright, and his various evaluations would back that up. It might land him on the sidelines for the upcoming assignment, and that wasn't what he wanted, but neither could he pretend he wasn't a liability to his teammates in his current condition. It would be best if he sorted himself out before returning to the field. He was confident he could do that and hold onto his memories as well. He would do it. Be the proper soldier again, be a Spartan his team could rely upon.

A double rap signalled it was time to head to the mess for one last meal before hitting the lab for their blood draw. Fred left his bag on his neatly made bunk and joined his teammates in the corridor outside.

It went as badly as he'd expected. At first the results of his tests had elicited confusion, and a subsequent blood draw was ordered. When this provided the same abnormal hematology, the questions started. Polite at first. Was he aware his levels were outside his typical range? Was he experiencing any irregular symptoms? He fed them his contrived excuse and was met with skepticism. Some more pressing and diligent questions followed. He answered them all, leaving out any reference to Khae, to his association with her, or to what he'd been doing between the hours of 2000 and 0400 most days for the past two weeks. By the time they freed him to go, it was fast approaching time for Blue team to disembark and he'd been informed with no small amount of suspicion that Dr. Halsey would be notified of their findings and that his fit for duty clearance would remain pending until her authorization was given. And he wasn't looking forward to that comm.

Even with his guts churning anew, however, he couldn't prevent himself from searching the terminal on the resupply station as he, John, Linda, and Kelly stepped clear of the docking tube. He knew the chances he would spot her face in the crowds of station attendants, labourers, and milling military personnel were slim to none. There were numerous docking tubes and the station was over four klicks in circumference. She could be anywhere. She could still be on the Point of No Return. Or she could be long gone. He'd never asked her where she would be going from here. It'd seemed irrelevant when, no matter where it was, it wouldn't be where he was headed. This was the point from which their lives diverged. She'd asked him for twelve days, and he'd given them to her with wary uncertainty at first, and later with dumb, blind, foolish eagerness.

He didn't know if he regretted it. It didn't matter. It'd happened, and he would never forget that. Even if some day - despite his best efforts otherwise - he could no longer picture her or dredge up recollection of the precise lilt of her voice, he would remember it had happened.

"Fred," Kelly called, bringing him back to himself. He'd fallen behind in his vain attempt to summon the familiar figure from amidst the bustle. Readjusting the rucksack over his shoulder, he stretched his stride to catch up with his teammates, slipping his free hand into his pocket to avoid inadvertently brushing up against others as he squeezed past. That was when he felt it, a small wad half stuck to the lining of the inside of the pocket. He pulled it out, his puzzlement replaced by surprise when he realized what it was. The crumpled scrap of paper had seen better days. It must have been laundered with his fatigues, tucked safely inside the pocket after he'd failed to discard it. A quick glance forward assured him he was still on track to rejoin the others even if he'd once more become distracted. He gingerly unravelled the weathered note, the ink significantly faded but still displaying its unassuming message. Flipping it to the opposite side, he stared at the heart.

Of all of the voices speaking and all of the conversations occurring in the terminal, why the one which separated itself from the indistinguishable chatter to catch his attention did so in that moment would be something he would never have an answer for. Perhaps a name he'd recognized or other trigger word was mentioned which attuned him to what was said next, perhaps it was pure happenstance. But his step faltered nonetheless. His rational self urged him to keep walking. It didn't concern him, it was none of his business, he'd inadvertently eavesdropped.

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. Don't ask.

He turned to the speaker, one of the female Petty Officers from the table in the mess, and alarm bells rang obnoxiously in his brain.

Don't ask. Don't ask. Keep going.

"What did you just say?" he asked her without the slightest note of guilt for having overheard.

She turned from the fellow crew member she'd been talking to and looked taken aback. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Sorry?"

"Just now. What did you say?"

"About the girl they pulled from that cruiser?" she offered up for clarification.

No. Keep going. Keep going.

He couldn't have even if he'd wanted to. Maybe he did want to, but he was rooted to the spot by a force he'd never before experienced.

The Petty Officer had regained her composure. She cleared her throat. "I heard they found her in her cabin last night. Suicide."

Too late.

He registered Kelly calling his name again, but it was a vague awareness almost drowned out completely by the thrum of his own pulse. He couldn't think. Couldn't understand. Couldn't breathe.

The Petty Officer was talking again. He saw her lips move and somehow, despite being unable to process what he'd just been told, his addled brain supplied the words. "Did you… did you know her?"

Had he known her? Only the parts she'd disclosed. About the vineyards, the grease beneath her father's fingernails, the injured bat, the birthday kitten that had run away. Only the exact shade of gray of her eyes, the way their outer corners tilted up, the fullness of their lashes spread against her cheeks when they were closed while she slept. Only the cool silkiness of her hair and the shape of her lips. Only the feel of her breath on his neck. Only the gentle pressure of her head against his chest while they'd performed something closely approaching dancing in the confines of her quarters. Only her laughter and her sobs. Only those things and a hundred more. That was all he'd known.

"I pulled her from that cruiser," he heard himself respond. Then he turned and walked towards his waiting teammates. He didn't see their reactions to his dead expression, their shared glances of confusion and concern. Neither did he remember the trip through the resupply station to the frigate they were to board. It wasn't until he sat on the bunk in the cabin assigned to him that he noticed and remembered the paper inside his closed fist. He regarded his clenched fingers as though they weren't even his, as though they belonged to someone else.

He'd grieved fallen comrades before. He'd seen men and women die, soldiers and Insurrectionists and civilians alike. He'd lost brothers and sisters. He'd lain on a table hooked up to monitoring equipment and listened to them code. He'd been angry. Distressed. Mournful.

He'd never been numb. The absence of any discernible emotion was worse, worse than the anger, the distress, and the sorrow combined. He knew he should feel something, any or all of those things. He knew he was reeling. He knew he was in shock.

He should have kept going. He would have been able to go on believing she was lost in the crowd, or still on the ship, or already enroute to wherever it was she'd been going.

The paper was digging into his palm as though it were in fact composed of glass shards and not the fibrous pulp from trees. He couldn't open his hand. Couldn't look at the penned heart.

Pressing the fist to his temple, he leaned forward and hung his head. Closed his eyes and could still see her standing in the lift.

The subtle wave.

The smile.

The tragic, beautiful smile.

And something broke inside him.

~ Fin ~