Retrospective Irony
He found her in her quarters, back to the world.
The place was a mess, he noted. She had clearly hurled more than one object at the durable walls, probably taking no delight in hearing it crash.
He walked towards her, careful not to harm anything further. He leaned over her shaking form, placing a hand on her shoulder.
She batted his arm away, shaking her head. "Leave me alone!" she whispered.
He couldn't do that.
So, he sat beside her and listened to her cry, knowing that in an hour, or ten, she would turn to him for comfort.
* * * * *
"He shouldn't have died."
"I know. I know."
"It's not fair!"
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You hated him."
"He was your friend. I couldn't hate him."
"You hated him."
"That was a long time ago."
"It's not fair."
"Shh. I know. It shouldn't have happened."
"But it did! And we can't change the past." A pause. "I don't know what I'll do without him."
"You'll keep going. We all will."
"He was my best friend."
"I know."
"He's been my best friend for - forever."
"I know."
"How - ?"
"Shh. You just have to keep going."
"How do I do that?"
"Time."
* * * * *
He held her close, trying to offer as much comfort as he could. She was right, though. It wasn't fair. No one should die like that. No one so important.
Important? He wondered at that word as he felt her clutch tighter at his tear-stained shirt. In the past, important wouldn't have been the word used. No. It would have been "irritating" or "annoying" or something equally condescending. Not important.
He had become someone important, even to him. Someone who he relied on each day to keep him working, safe.
At that thought, he felt tears come to his eyes.
* * * * *
She felt him lower his head, felt his arms close around her. Just as he knew her thoughts, she knew his, and she knew his tears.
It was ironic, she thought, that even he would cry at this loss. Ironic that she would cry, even, for a year - two, perhaps - ago, she would have shrugged and kept her pain too far inside. Ironic, perhaps, that he was good for her.
She smiled against his chest, and he pulled away and looked down at her. "What?" he asked, curious.
"Nothing," she said, and it was nothing. "Nothing you don't already know."
* * * * *
Hours later, when their eyes had run dry, they mused that they should probably venture out into the corridors - do their duty and look in on the others whose lives he had touched. Look in on their mutual friends and offer condolences or merely smiles from the upper echelons.
This would change things, they knew - change the hierarchy on the tiny ship they called their home, change the way they looked at everything. As they climbed up from their seat in the corner, holding onto each other for support, it would change everything.
Except their feelings. Those would remain. Forever.
*END*