The Good and the Bad
Oct. 7th, 2004 02:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowMade a mistake at work, and for the life of me, can't figure out how part of it happened. I hate that, making mistakes, losing sight of the small stuff, which inevitably causes the big problems. Sigh.
But, more importantly, go here and see what![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kixxa made me!! She's a genius I tell you. Pure genius:)
Loving the first line meme. I could seriously spend all day playing in all those playgrounds. I also keep meaning to expand the fandoms, but I've been stuck in Farscape all day. (And no, I'm not saying that like it's a bad thing, but the drabble is such a fun way to play without completely investing in the fandom).
"Screw love, old man."
Her voice gets brighter instead of slurry, the alcohol making her feisty.
He doesn't want to be here, has a low thrummy buzz going, mild and sweet and he wants to spend it sweeping his tongue along the long pale neck of a maybe willing Sebacean.
But the battery fried on the pod, and Aeryn is teaching him a lesson, and D'Argo's still so far into hurt that he can't even see pissed off in the distance. They'll be lucky if they don't get left on this dank backwater.
But hell, at least the booze is cheap. And not half bad.
Chi may not sound drunk but she's wavering on the stool, pixie body veering at unnatural angles as she fumbles for the bottle. A little of her insouciance is gone and she looks young, angry and a little scared.
"Love is for slickers."
He parses that, makes a stab.
"Suckers."
She raises an eyebrow, head back and neck curved and gets pretty damn close to falling off the chair.
"Really?"
He snorts. "Yeah."
"Huh," she tosses back her drink, spilling half of it on the bar, and most of the rest down the front of her grey, shadowed cleavage. "Well, love really is for suckers."
He spits his drink all over the bar, trying not to encourage her, trying not to laugh, failing at both.
The bartender leers, and jerks his thumb. Three strikes and you're out. John's gonna either fight or flee with Chi in tow, he's got the tone of the night riding in his ears like the first few bars of A Love Supreme.
Decides to take the night home.
"Allright, barkeep. Give us another."
He shoves the glass at Chiana, slopping it onto the sleek surface of the dark bar. Grins with his teeth, with his wishes and fears, holds up the glass.
***
He still pulled people to him, and he did not appear pleased by that.
"Goddamned aliens," he mutters, pulling at the hair at the back of his head, sucking at chakkan oil burn on his palm.
She thwaps him on the back of the head as she passes by to nudge the dead Sebacean with the toe of her boot.
"Not your fault."
His girl is practical, even now.
"I showed up. And it's always my fault."
She pushes the long tail of her coat back, squats down by the body, feels around under the layers of armor and coat, comes up with something nasty. A gun, organix looking, fetid.
"Plague."
"That fucker was going to give me the plague?" He feels a burn at the back of his throat, vomit and indignation.
He doesn't feel bad when Aeryn stands up, white and furious.
"The weapon needs to be destroyed."
He's sweating now, goes to sit back down, realizes the chair is still on it's back. Leans against the rickety table instead.
"I think I'm gonna puke."
Her mouth curls in distaste. "Don't. Not here."
She waits until they're outside to say it. Waits until he's vomitted by the side of the building, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. She stands close when he's finished, but doesn't touch him.
"You were lucky."
He knows it. Hearing Aeryn say it though makes it real, makes it count.
Lucky. Damned lucky that a bunch of aliens drew weapons upon a lone Sebacean because he'd been stupid enough to need to name his victim. The words John Crichton drew quite a response, and he knows it could have gone either way.
In another bar, in another place, those beads would have been drawn on him.
***
Jack lets the screen door slam behind him on its own, with that rhythmic squeak-and-kerthunk he remembers from when he was a kid. Didn't think the tables had turned this far, that he'd be the one slamming doors, leaving the house in hot anger while John sits white-knuckled and hard jawed at the kitchen table, hand clenched around a cold cup of coffee.
Four years, and a changed world, and his son rising from the dead and how come none of that was enough to create peace in one measly household?
Jack can't get through to his son, can't break in on whatever thoughts or secrets or fears that John's wearing so close to the vest that they cover him like body armor. His kid used to be this bright eyed boy, this smart ass with a fine mind and a wide grin and an allergy to authority. Kid always held onto his thoughts, but you used to be able to read his joy in the crook of his grin, in the heady wave of his enthusiastic intelligence. John could carry you with him, cajoling with clever words, convincing you that he was right until it was too late to back out of his plans. Even as a boy, his steady charm had gotten him in and out of a passel of trouble.
The man at his kitchen table shares an aversion to orders, a surety of motion and action, but Jack can barely see any other traces of his bouyant son in the rigid, stoney lines of John's body. There'd been a hint, the other day, as he sat laughing with Livvy, teasing the young grey girl, but the moments were fleeting. Short lived. It's a whole new form of loss and Jack clutches his keys in his hand, grounding himself in the pointed metal, the directionality of this forced distance.
He stops on the steps, relaxes his fist, feeling his age, feeling old and tired and frustrated. He'd walked on the moon, survived the loss of his wife. How hard could it be to actually talk with his son. The anger flares up, bursting and bright and he lets it go. Throws the keys as hard as he can. They sink into the pile of the lawn, and Jack grunts with annoyance. Swears. Now he's gotta find the damned things.
He turns and reaches for the screen door. That's still his son in there, still his boy, and goddamnit, John's gonna go hunting around in the grass for the keys instead of Jack. Being a father carries with it few privileges, and he's determined to take advantage of what he's got left.
***
He woke just after sunset, early enough to see the last glow of orange light and feel the lingering heat radiating from the sand.
A three day drunk in the desert. Alien liquor and alien women and an alien world.
But sand is sand, hot and dry, silky and invasive and he thanks his lucky stars that humans have figured out how to sandproof a tent. From the raised eyebrow and half-wave he gets from John as he disentangles himself from the flaps of the tent,it is not, however, soundproof.
Crichton has built a fire, sits in a low chair beside it, legs extended staring into the light. He's cradling an amber bottle of beer like it's the delicate skull of his lover and D'Argo shakes out the kinks in his body and ambles over to the fire.
"The others have gone?"
John raises his shoulders then fishes around into the container next to him and hands D'Argo a beer. He drinks pops the top, drains the bottle. Belches and trades it in for new. After the second beer, his head stops ringing and he sits down on the sand to watche to play of sunset and color stealing over them in the vast expanse of desert.
"I think," John says slowly, voice acidy and rough, "that they're out there somewhere. Wouldn't do to let us get lost out here. But they finally took the hint, backed off a little."
D'Argo vaguely recalls edged angry words from the night before, Crichton's biting fury at being watched and followed, prodded and questioned. He remembers the spark of a pulse pistol, and several of the smooth skinned human women piling into a vehicle.
He woke up alone, although he vaguely remembers his partner unzipping the tent and leaving. He fingers his tankas. They're sore. He smiles. Takes another beer.
"Just wanted a little time," Crichton mutters, peeling the label of the beer, flicking it into the fire. "Some space, out here. Shouldn'ta been so frelling complicated."
"It should be easy," D'Argo answers solemnly. "It's never easy."
John's face breaks, mouth wide with an honest smile. He laughs, bright and easy, only a hint of bitter on the edge. D'Argo can't remember the last time he heard that particular note from his friend.
"Duly noted, man. Duly noted."
Have officially convinced the boy that I'm crazy. I don't know that I want to watch the mini with him because I want to savor it, and I want to watch it on my couch, on Hal, not in his house, with his roommates who I don't know. Now his feelings are hurt. But, but... this is a big deal for me, and he loves the show, but I don't trust him not to talk, or interrupt or... I don't know what, and I don't trust myself to want to pay attention to him. Part of this stems from his inability last night to just let me veg and watch TV. He wanted me to just hang out with him, but he kept talking when I was trying to pay attention. I ended up sort of throwing a fit, handing him the remote and telling him to find something since he'd pretty much ruined what I was watching. If he'd really said, "I don't want to watch this, let's find something we both want to watch", I'd have been fine. But instead, he said okay, and then just kept picking at it. He wants to make me happy, but that's not the way to do it. I don't know, I just wanted to sort of collapse and relax, and I probably overreacted. But it's always something, he has to have part of my attention no matter what we're doing and that's getting really, really old.
Regardless, I'm gonna have to tape part 2 of the mini, and probably won't go online until Wednesday in order to guarantee I won't get spoiled, so maybe I can be an adult, make a concession and watch part 1 with him. But it's always been the ritual, since Sh. and M, left. Watch it alone, then watch the tape with other people. If it's the final time I get new Farscape, I'm not sure I want to break the ritual in an unknown environment.
Yes, this is silly. Yes, I'm being ridiculous about this. I'm not actually 12. But, I'm not very good at sharing. And I don't know if I want to share this. I want to hug it and hold it and savor it, and didn't realize how much I was looking forward to it until we talked about watching it last night. I've been trying to put up distance, be okay with it one way or another, and I will be, but I finally let myself get excited. Let myself long for it a little. God, I'm so much more excited about this than I am about the boy. Oy, so going to hell. So need to fix this. Sigh.
But, more importantly, go here and see what
kixxa made me!! She's a genius I tell you. Pure genius:)Loving the first line meme. I could seriously spend all day playing in all those playgrounds. I also keep meaning to expand the fandoms, but I've been stuck in Farscape all day. (And no, I'm not saying that like it's a bad thing, but the drabble is such a fun way to play without completely investing in the fandom).
"Screw love, old man."
Her voice gets brighter instead of slurry, the alcohol making her feisty.
He doesn't want to be here, has a low thrummy buzz going, mild and sweet and he wants to spend it sweeping his tongue along the long pale neck of a maybe willing Sebacean.
But the battery fried on the pod, and Aeryn is teaching him a lesson, and D'Argo's still so far into hurt that he can't even see pissed off in the distance. They'll be lucky if they don't get left on this dank backwater.
But hell, at least the booze is cheap. And not half bad.
Chi may not sound drunk but she's wavering on the stool, pixie body veering at unnatural angles as she fumbles for the bottle. A little of her insouciance is gone and she looks young, angry and a little scared.
"Love is for slickers."
He parses that, makes a stab.
"Suckers."
She raises an eyebrow, head back and neck curved and gets pretty damn close to falling off the chair.
"Really?"
He snorts. "Yeah."
"Huh," she tosses back her drink, spilling half of it on the bar, and most of the rest down the front of her grey, shadowed cleavage. "Well, love really is for suckers."
He spits his drink all over the bar, trying not to encourage her, trying not to laugh, failing at both.
The bartender leers, and jerks his thumb. Three strikes and you're out. John's gonna either fight or flee with Chi in tow, he's got the tone of the night riding in his ears like the first few bars of A Love Supreme.
Decides to take the night home.
"Allright, barkeep. Give us another."
He shoves the glass at Chiana, slopping it onto the sleek surface of the dark bar. Grins with his teeth, with his wishes and fears, holds up the glass.
***
He still pulled people to him, and he did not appear pleased by that.
"Goddamned aliens," he mutters, pulling at the hair at the back of his head, sucking at chakkan oil burn on his palm.
She thwaps him on the back of the head as she passes by to nudge the dead Sebacean with the toe of her boot.
"Not your fault."
His girl is practical, even now.
"I showed up. And it's always my fault."
She pushes the long tail of her coat back, squats down by the body, feels around under the layers of armor and coat, comes up with something nasty. A gun, organix looking, fetid.
"Plague."
"That fucker was going to give me the plague?" He feels a burn at the back of his throat, vomit and indignation.
He doesn't feel bad when Aeryn stands up, white and furious.
"The weapon needs to be destroyed."
He's sweating now, goes to sit back down, realizes the chair is still on it's back. Leans against the rickety table instead.
"I think I'm gonna puke."
Her mouth curls in distaste. "Don't. Not here."
She waits until they're outside to say it. Waits until he's vomitted by the side of the building, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. She stands close when he's finished, but doesn't touch him.
"You were lucky."
He knows it. Hearing Aeryn say it though makes it real, makes it count.
Lucky. Damned lucky that a bunch of aliens drew weapons upon a lone Sebacean because he'd been stupid enough to need to name his victim. The words John Crichton drew quite a response, and he knows it could have gone either way.
In another bar, in another place, those beads would have been drawn on him.
***
Jack lets the screen door slam behind him on its own, with that rhythmic squeak-and-kerthunk he remembers from when he was a kid. Didn't think the tables had turned this far, that he'd be the one slamming doors, leaving the house in hot anger while John sits white-knuckled and hard jawed at the kitchen table, hand clenched around a cold cup of coffee.
Four years, and a changed world, and his son rising from the dead and how come none of that was enough to create peace in one measly household?
Jack can't get through to his son, can't break in on whatever thoughts or secrets or fears that John's wearing so close to the vest that they cover him like body armor. His kid used to be this bright eyed boy, this smart ass with a fine mind and a wide grin and an allergy to authority. Kid always held onto his thoughts, but you used to be able to read his joy in the crook of his grin, in the heady wave of his enthusiastic intelligence. John could carry you with him, cajoling with clever words, convincing you that he was right until it was too late to back out of his plans. Even as a boy, his steady charm had gotten him in and out of a passel of trouble.
The man at his kitchen table shares an aversion to orders, a surety of motion and action, but Jack can barely see any other traces of his bouyant son in the rigid, stoney lines of John's body. There'd been a hint, the other day, as he sat laughing with Livvy, teasing the young grey girl, but the moments were fleeting. Short lived. It's a whole new form of loss and Jack clutches his keys in his hand, grounding himself in the pointed metal, the directionality of this forced distance.
He stops on the steps, relaxes his fist, feeling his age, feeling old and tired and frustrated. He'd walked on the moon, survived the loss of his wife. How hard could it be to actually talk with his son. The anger flares up, bursting and bright and he lets it go. Throws the keys as hard as he can. They sink into the pile of the lawn, and Jack grunts with annoyance. Swears. Now he's gotta find the damned things.
He turns and reaches for the screen door. That's still his son in there, still his boy, and goddamnit, John's gonna go hunting around in the grass for the keys instead of Jack. Being a father carries with it few privileges, and he's determined to take advantage of what he's got left.
***
He woke just after sunset, early enough to see the last glow of orange light and feel the lingering heat radiating from the sand.
A three day drunk in the desert. Alien liquor and alien women and an alien world.
But sand is sand, hot and dry, silky and invasive and he thanks his lucky stars that humans have figured out how to sandproof a tent. From the raised eyebrow and half-wave he gets from John as he disentangles himself from the flaps of the tent,it is not, however, soundproof.
Crichton has built a fire, sits in a low chair beside it, legs extended staring into the light. He's cradling an amber bottle of beer like it's the delicate skull of his lover and D'Argo shakes out the kinks in his body and ambles over to the fire.
"The others have gone?"
John raises his shoulders then fishes around into the container next to him and hands D'Argo a beer. He drinks pops the top, drains the bottle. Belches and trades it in for new. After the second beer, his head stops ringing and he sits down on the sand to watche to play of sunset and color stealing over them in the vast expanse of desert.
"I think," John says slowly, voice acidy and rough, "that they're out there somewhere. Wouldn't do to let us get lost out here. But they finally took the hint, backed off a little."
D'Argo vaguely recalls edged angry words from the night before, Crichton's biting fury at being watched and followed, prodded and questioned. He remembers the spark of a pulse pistol, and several of the smooth skinned human women piling into a vehicle.
He woke up alone, although he vaguely remembers his partner unzipping the tent and leaving. He fingers his tankas. They're sore. He smiles. Takes another beer.
"Just wanted a little time," Crichton mutters, peeling the label of the beer, flicking it into the fire. "Some space, out here. Shouldn'ta been so frelling complicated."
"It should be easy," D'Argo answers solemnly. "It's never easy."
John's face breaks, mouth wide with an honest smile. He laughs, bright and easy, only a hint of bitter on the edge. D'Argo can't remember the last time he heard that particular note from his friend.
"Duly noted, man. Duly noted."
Have officially convinced the boy that I'm crazy. I don't know that I want to watch the mini with him because I want to savor it, and I want to watch it on my couch, on Hal, not in his house, with his roommates who I don't know. Now his feelings are hurt. But, but... this is a big deal for me, and he loves the show, but I don't trust him not to talk, or interrupt or... I don't know what, and I don't trust myself to want to pay attention to him. Part of this stems from his inability last night to just let me veg and watch TV. He wanted me to just hang out with him, but he kept talking when I was trying to pay attention. I ended up sort of throwing a fit, handing him the remote and telling him to find something since he'd pretty much ruined what I was watching. If he'd really said, "I don't want to watch this, let's find something we both want to watch", I'd have been fine. But instead, he said okay, and then just kept picking at it. He wants to make me happy, but that's not the way to do it. I don't know, I just wanted to sort of collapse and relax, and I probably overreacted. But it's always something, he has to have part of my attention no matter what we're doing and that's getting really, really old.
Regardless, I'm gonna have to tape part 2 of the mini, and probably won't go online until Wednesday in order to guarantee I won't get spoiled, so maybe I can be an adult, make a concession and watch part 1 with him. But it's always been the ritual, since Sh. and M, left. Watch it alone, then watch the tape with other people. If it's the final time I get new Farscape, I'm not sure I want to break the ritual in an unknown environment.
Yes, this is silly. Yes, I'm being ridiculous about this. I'm not actually 12. But, I'm not very good at sharing. And I don't know if I want to share this. I want to hug it and hold it and savor it, and didn't realize how much I was looking forward to it until we talked about watching it last night. I've been trying to put up distance, be okay with it one way or another, and I will be, but I finally let myself get excited. Let myself long for it a little. God, I'm so much more excited about this than I am about the boy. Oy, so going to hell. So need to fix this. Sigh.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 09:48 pm (UTC)Good luck with the boy. I think I'm just taking the phone off the hook for the mini. But then I have Tivo.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 10:43 pm (UTC)And thanks. I think yeah, locking the door and not answering the phone. I want to revel dammit. Even if I hate it, I still plan on hugging and squealing and loving on it because I'm just so frelling happy that they managed to make it:)
boys! *eyeroll*
Date: 2004-10-07 09:49 pm (UTC)And you shall unplug the phone and WATCH! With joy and pleasure.
Ironically enough, just this morning I read a quote on a friend's
Honestly, I think this guy is too needy and increasingly proving himself not Thea-worthy. Which may suck, but better to know now than later.
Re: boys! *eyeroll*
Date: 2004-10-07 09:51 pm (UTC)and I did NOT start to type you shall feel NO. GUILT. for giving yourself pleasure. Nope not me.
Re: boys! *eyeroll*
Date: 2004-10-07 10:36 pm (UTC)Re: boys! *eyeroll*
Date: 2004-10-07 10:39 pm (UTC)This, this is a sad reality that I completely, and embarrasedly believe in. Record collections match okay, TV tastes match okay, but it's the responses to them that don't match.
He's very sweet, kind and considerate, but he's way too needy, I think. He's such a good person, and I feel bad, but yeah.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 10:09 pm (UTC)Argh.
I say watch it on your own. Or tell him he has to shut the fuck up.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 10:33 pm (UTC)Regardless, I'm counting on getting to watch it again, on the big TV in November, but that's something else entirely:)
no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-07 11:55 pm (UTC)But then, I had a Tivo, so I could rewind for anything I missed.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 12:10 am (UTC)as for watching the mini-series. really, this is a big deal. i'm not answering the phone, or the door. it's a frelling intergalactic holiday. *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:31 pm (UTC)Thanks so much. These were so much fun to write.
And yeah, no phone, no interruptions:)
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 09:19 pm (UTC)seriously, i'm not taking any chances...no way am i letting 'cable-karma' strike.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 12:56 am (UTC)But then, this is essentially my turf I'm talking about here, so I'm not so worried.
I know exactly what you mean, though. If my Dad is home, I may just have to kill him and stuff his body under the bed.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:21 pm (UTC)Maybe you can give your dad some cash, tell him to go see a nice movie:) Hee.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:11 pm (UTC)Exactly. I want to savor it on the first round in my home, and the squeal with the other acolytes:)
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 03:13 am (UTC)And, ooooh. Jack and John. Aw.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 06:59 pm (UTC)That, that's it exactly! I don't want to have to worry about whether or not they're reacting in the same way I am. First time through, I just want to revel in the pretty, feel that sort of fluttery giddiness:)
Hee. Jack and John are a tough combo to beat.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 05:50 am (UTC)As for the viewing...I can totally understand your "pain". There's nothing worse than trying to watch something that you know is going to move you, something you just want to feel, with someone who's going to talk or distract you. Don't feel bad about wanting this experience for yourself.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 06:51 pm (UTC)And yeah, I don't really think he'd be all that bad. He really loves the show as well, but I want to watch it my way, with my levels of concentration, and not really have to think about him in the midst of it:) THat's the selfish element.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:13 pm (UTC)You are among friends, hon. Don't feel guilty for knowing what you want and taking steps to insure you get it.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 01:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-08 06:40 pm (UTC)Amen to all of that:) And thanks, I feel much more sane, and oh so relieved that I'm not alone in this:)