Chapter Text
Siggy didn’t remember being alive. When she’d come back, it’d been like a complete rebirth. She didn’t know her name, her past, her personality, anything except for her immediate situation and the clothes on her back. She learned as she went along, gave herself her own name, found her own path for herself outside of any given to her or any she used to own.
Being “born dead” let her ignore thinking about life. Her own or the ones around her, it didn’t matter--she had no reason to dwell on it. It was never hers to fuss about, so she wouldn’t fuss.
Lucy changed things. Suddenly, Siggy had a life that was considered hers, and she began to notice things. Little things. Precious things.
Lucy was warm, pleasantly so. Siggy felt it in her hands when she held them, her lips when she kissed them, her body when she held her. Siggy didn’t have warmth like that. Whenever contact was broken, she felt the tingle of it as it lingered on her cold skin. It always drew her back to Lucy, left her wanting more.
Lucy needed to sustain herself. She needed to breathe, eat, drink, sleep, go through all the mortal motions. Siggy didn’t need any of that. Sure, she could do those things if she wanted to (she liked the taste of certain foods too much to ignore them, and enjoyed the stares of abject horror she’d get when she’d chug enough liquor to kill a horse). Lucy expressed jealousy of Siggy’s freedom, on occasion, but Siggy thought of it differently. Lucy wanted to have more time, saw these little necessities as obstacles. Siggy found them endearing.
Sure, if she wanted to split hairs, she could call it inefficient and a waste of time, or she could revel in how she wasn’t chained down by any of it, but that wasn’t her way of doing things. Instead, Siggy would remind Lucy to step away from her makeshift lab bench to eat, or would interrupt whatever she was doing with an offering of water. She’d sometimes stay awake for a while after Lucy had fallen asleep, take a minute to marvel at how peaceful she was, at the rush of adoration that swept up through her still veins at the thought of how much trust it must take to leave yourself so vulnerable around someone. She’d listen to Lucy’s breathing during the calm times, and use it as a way to assess her condition during the frightening ones. All of it was important for Lucy, so it was important for Siggy as well.
Lucy had a heartbeat. Siggy’s own heart had been half-rotted in her chest for years, quiet and unmoving. She never noticed it until she first felt Lucy’s pulse under her skin, pounding under Siggy’s fingers, evidence that the two women were different--Lucy was alive, Siggy was not. Then time wore on, and Siggy would lay her head against Lucy’s chest and hear that little heart thumping away. She’d listen, tap out the beats, count them, feel them as if they were her own. At that point, they may as well have been.
Siggy didn’t want to be alive. She didn’t care. She enjoyed not having to be scared of suddenly no longer existing, and she enjoyed the recklessness that being undead afforded her. However, she wanted life for Lucy. After all, Lucy was precious, more precious than the finest jewels, and it was through her that Siggy decided that life was precious too.