MirrorMirror

23 / The Dead and the Death

Cassidy pushed himself to his feet.

He expected to be unsteady, his body not quite sure of itself yet, but was surprised to discover he felt fine. He held his hand up in front of him. No tremor. Good. That was always a tell.

He walked over to the mirror.

The streak was more noticeable, and he ran over it with his finger. He could feel its texture, slightly hard but with some give. His finger left a trail through it that filled in immediately. When he looked at his fingertip, it was clean and dry.

"Hello?" he said.

It was odd, speaking to the air. Was that how Janeway and Picard felt when they were having conversations with their respective spaceships? They would tap the badge on their chests and speak. He had no badge, there currently being no United Federation of Planets, and where their responses would be spoken, his was written. Still, they could be beamed up. He'd appreciate that.

There was no answer. Why would there be? She spoke when she felt like it, not when he requested it.

"Amy, where are you?"

In the mirror was the obvious answer, unless it was a portal. Hey, maybe it was the spirit version of the teleporter! A teleportal!

He didn't smile at his internal joke. As much as humour was a well used defence tactic, he wasn't in a joking mood. The quips, mental or verbal, came unheeded.

"Answer me, for fuck's sake!"

The glass darkened momentarily, as if a shadow had swept over it or the sun had been obscured by a swiftly moving cloud. Then the lipstick ants returned.

Don't swear at me.

Please.

"Oh, so you are there. Well, answer me then."

I told you, I'm still growing.

It's not so easy.

Cass paused. He didn't want to be arguing with her. Frustration often made him quick to snap. He took a breath.

"Ok, sorry."

Are you OK? What happened?

I was worried.

She was concerned? Why would she be if she'd tried to kill him? She'd be pissed at him for not being on her side of the mortal veil. It gave credence to her story. She really had tried to save him.

"Don't worry about it. It's just something that happens occasionally when I'm really stressed."

I did worry. You're nice.

I don't want you to get hurt.

She thought he was nice, which was... nice. His personal opinion was that he was just that. Nice, a fairly nondescript word for a similarly nondescript level of... niceness. He was nothing amazing, nothing special. Just generally OK. The main thing was, she didn't think negatively of him. Why was he bothered about that? Why indeed? He couldn't say. It was just... nice to be thought of that way.

"Thank you. I'm not hurt."

Good.

"I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day," he said.

Me neither, considering I died.

Good point.

"How did it happen?"

Why don't you like it?

Well, that told him! She didn't want to talk about the manner of her death. He supposed he might be the same if the situation was reversed. Dying would, likely, be traumatic. As well as being nice, he was also tactful to a fault, clearly. If she refused to discuss her feelings on the day in question, then so could he. But did he want to? Amy's reason and his were wildly different. Yes, his partly involved death, but it was of a parent, not himself. It still hurt, true, it just wasn't as close to home as personally ceasing to live.