Disclaimer - Paramount own him, anyway.
*
They haven't left me alone since the news broke; it's been a week now, and still they remain outside the building. Even on the day of the funeral they were there as I left my apartment to meet B'Elanna and Paris.
There were the questions. There were always questions.
I haven't answered a single message. I imagine that most take the lack of response as a sign of grief - "Brave First Officer Maintains Silence Over The Woman He Served Under" - but it's nothing so emotional. I lost count days ago of the amount of messages I've received from people I've never heard of, wanting to know my opinion on the death of Kathryn Janeway.
Will I miss her?
Yes, obviously.
Is it a great loss?
To coffee suppliers everywhere.
Did I love her?
Of course; she was my best friend for years, although I wouldn't have described it as a healthy relationship. Not later. But then I always am in the habit of sticking my heart into whichever blender will do the most damage and flicking the on switch.
It's not pretty, but it's the way I am. And I *know* I know this about myself, know that if I *really* tried I could probably have a fairly happy existence with a woman of the same beliefs, interests and personality as myself. Someone who wasn't her.
Yet I don't. I don't even try. Not even now.
I'll go through the messages eventually, I suppose; no doubt reply to a frantic Neelix that I'm fine and I haven't committed suicide, and I'm not planning on doing so anytime in the near future.
Sunlight pours through the window, seeming to highlight the chair she was sitting in when she told me she was going away. She had no idea where to, just that now everything was over she needed to be by herself.
I've replayed that scene a hundred times in my head, wondering if she had any inkling that it would be the last time we would see each other. Wondering if she knew that after we hugged awkwardly I would be the last person to see her before she died.
Did she know? I wonder, but then that's all I ever do.
Time for something more proactive, then.
Moving to the window, I blink against the glaring sunlight. They are still there. Many of them.
Smiling, I turn towards the replicator.
*
The low murmur of general conversation rapidly escalates to an excited buzz as first one, then all of them recognise me.
The questions begin; I've heard them all before so I ignore them now as I did then.
They watch in puzzlement as I walk into the middle of the throng then bend down. Surprised, they actually back-off a little. Standing, I survey the crowd and finally say something. "You want to know Kathryn Janeway? You want to know all about her?" I don't wait for a response, but I see a few nods anyway. "There," I tell them, pointing to the object I deposited onto the ground. "That's all you ever need to know about her."
All eyes turn to the solitary, piping hot mug of coffee.
They don't seem to get it, but I'm not sure I do either.
I turn away.
"Wait!"
A voice among dozens cries, but somehow it catches my attention. Perhaps because the tone reminds me of someone I used to know. Perhaps because I want it to. I face her, and she speaks again.
"Isn't there any else you want to say?"
No, not really. I said what I came to say. Did what I came to do.
Then I look at her eyes, and there is something...I speak without meaning to.
"I touched her, once."
My voice is quiet, and far more emotional than I expected; I doubt anyone aside from her even heard me, and if they did they probably have no idea what I'm talking about.
I do. I know that - although I think of it less frequently now - on a planet dozens of light-years away from here, I touched her.
Once.
It was enough, although it never should have been.
Flashing those dimples that I know she loved - just for the hell of it - I leave them to figure out whatever they want to.
Ten minutes later, I look outside the window. Some of them are still studying the mug, not daring to move it.
I smile.
~FINIS