At the End of the Day
Jun. 2nd, 2003 04:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowOk, so I sent it to Kansas and Leviathan, and I posted the rough draft here ages ago. But I'm pleased that it's finished, even if it didn't live up to my expectations. And as I feared, it's more tell than show, but I can find still find lines that I'm proud of, which means I learned something. Also, I think it's cured me of wanting to write episode fillers, not that the urge was real strong, but still.
Title: At The End of the Day
Author: Thea
E-Mail: thassalia@yahoo.com
Website: www.livejournal.com/users/thassalia
Category: Drama, Episode related.
Warnings/Rating: PG. Spoilers through …Different Destinations. Aeryn/John.
Author notes: Thanks to Searose for beta and forcing me to ask myself questions. All mistakes are my own. I had grandiose hopes for this piece, but mostly it’s just an extended (really extended) tag to one of my favorite eps.
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. They don't belong to me, which is a good thing. They cost too much to feed and water.
Summary: Duty, responsibility. When did these things become choices and not her life?
***
The sand shifted beneath her as his arm encircled her shoulders. Despite the boundaries drawn several literal lifetimes ago, she allowed herself to press against him, her head fitted into the crook of his neck. Should she turn her face, she could bury herself in his scent - warm, musky, alien, a scent tinged with the grief they all wore now like skin. She could sink into him,disappear.
But to turn her head, to feel her lips against his throat and feel his fingers weave through her hair seemed like a betrayal on so many levels that even the contemplation of such an act left her feeling tired, and guilty, unfaithful and useless. A soldier shouldn't waiver, shouldn't give in to temptation, shouldn't even feel tempted. While she'd never again be a mindless grunt or a single minded pilot she corrected in her favor, her very existence demanded that she remain attentive. Zhaan's trade, the sacrifice for her life, mandated repayment. This was difficult enough on many days, seemingly impossible here, where she was being offered a moment's solace in return for providing the same.
"Who's going to get him back on Moya," Chiana had asked, her young voice rich with sympathy for John.
"I will," Aeryn had replied, although sitting here next to him, she still didn't know how to accomplish that task.
The frelling human made everything so complicated.
"What was the point?" and she hadn't lied. There probably hadn't been any point. Rage and violence, while sometimes a means to an end, existed all on their own. He knew that as well as she did, but he kept trying to live like those weren't known elements of their life in this universe.
So she sat there, by his side, his warmth feeding her, a replay of the slaughter looping in front of them. Her rage at him had burnt itself out between returning to their timeline and discovering the alteration of reality. Aeryn knew she could force or cajole John back onto Moya, but dealing with this new burden would prove trickier.
He just looked so shocked.
She felt John draw in a shuddering breath, felt his pain and need for some sort of explanation, some sort of peace pass through her, and gave in to the desire to offer him succor, swallowing the voice that said she had no right to take it in return.
This willingness to soothe, to calm was still new, ironically uncomfortable. It was also something she identified almost exclusively with Crichton and with Talyn, two demanding males, each seeking her attention and wanting to prove himself to her. That they each eased considerable under her touch, even more so the compulsion she felt to allow and offer that touch, surprised her further still.
Having watched the familiarity between Crichton and Chiana, and oh goddess, Zhaan, Aeryn had subtly tried to sink into the feeling of John's skin against hers, his hand on her back, cheek rough against hers, shoulders touching, press of bodies and limbs that had everything, and more importantly nothing, to do with sex. As if reading her thoughts, he pulled her closer, wrapping his other arm tightly around her head and holding her to him. There were no tears, and she buried her face against John's neck, letting him stroke her hair and brush his lips against her scalp.
It was in this pose, wrapped together like the lovers they swore they wouldn't be that D'Argo found them. His footsteps were heavy and slow. Aeryn had no doubt that - deficient hearing or not- John had to be aware of his presence. She was unembarrassed to be found in this embrace. There was little D'Argo didn't know about their relationship.
His voice was soft, hoarse, "Her name is still there. She will be remembered by someone besides me."
John moved his head, laying it back against the stone behind him, his arm dropping away from Aeryn's hair to rest listlessly in his lap. He looked up at D'Argo with those same haunted eyes.
"I thought it'd be fine. Shoulda been fine." And he shook his head trying to clear it of the images of the massacre of innocents. Neither of his companions had a reply to that.
"We should return to Moya," D'Argo stated and Aeryn sat up, looking at John, preparing for a protest. But he merely nodded wearily, allowing D'Argo to help them up. The goggles were left in the sand and no one looked at the memorial as they returned to the transport pod where Chiana waited.
***
"Welcome back," Pilot's voice echoed hollowly as they exited the pod. The smell of ash, anesthetic and fear still lingered in the air from the events of the past monens.
The odors were a constant reminder of their decisions and losses. A veteran of many battle campaigns, Aeryn was well acquainted with the stench of death and defeat. She was only now learning the smell of despair. Moya felt empty without Zhaan and indeed the ship's actual emotions seemed to echo that sentiment. It was John's theory that mourning was interfering in the living ship's physical healing.
Crichton blanched as they left the docking bay, his face contorting at the smell and he turned to Aeryn, "I'm gonna hit the sack. Been a helluva day."
She nodded, and he brushed his hand lightly along her arm, leaving a wave of sensation in his wake. He looked at her, clearly fighting against something, waiting for her, and then just shook his head.
"Night."
She bit the inside of her mouth as the urge to follow him rose up in her. It would be so easy, the nervous exhilaration of battle not quite yet giving way to exhaustion, to follow him to his quarters, push him against the wall, break his fragile barriers against her, kiss him, frell him, have release and love wash over her. But she wasn't that weak, and she wasn't capricious, and they'd been proving over and over again that emotional entanglements compromised efficiency, and...
She ruthlessly quashed the part of her mind questioning the validity of that statement as she watched him nod to D'Argo and wearily head down the corridor.
"Will he be alright?" D'Argo asked, concern for his friend fresh in the gruff voice. The warrior's tenderness had long since failed to surprise Aeryn.
"I don't know," she answered finally. " I don't know if he should be. I don't know if any of us should."
And pushing away from the warmth of Moya's walls, she headed to Pilot's den, intent on confirming that the repairs that had necessitated their stop on the planet had been successful.
***
The following few days were quiet. There was still much maintenance to be done, and between repairs and trying to avoid being responsible for or paired with the Interion, Aeryn found that she had little time to talk to her crew mates, avoiding the few opportunities that did present themselves. Slowly, but surely they were establishing a deliberate routine without Zhaan. John had discovered that Jool, unlike the rest of them, could tell one plant from the other and he'd been encouraging her to familiarize herself with the Zhaan's former apothecary.
Aeryn wanted no part of that experiment and kept herself busy. When she allowed herself time to think of the others, she spent most of it worried about Crichton. He looked pale, tired and somewhat unkempt.
The stop at the memorial had not done anyone any good, and while she regretted the death of the nurses and of Dacon, Aeryn was at least relieved that their actions had not appeared to have any further physical repercussions upon their current existence. But John, she knew, was having more trouble letting go. He veered between being excruciatingly calm and so manic that he was difficult to be around, and mostly, she just didn't know what to say that would do any good, one more illustration of the poor trade she had addressed with Zhaan.
It served as an example of her distraction that trying to still her mind with a routine task failed completely. At some point in the process of methodically cleaning her pulse pistol and rifle, she happened to notice that she was using what looked to be a piece of clothing.
It was in contemplation of this formerly white fabric that D'Argo found her. His amusement at her furrow of concentration startled her out of her reverie as he settled down across from her with a flask in hand.
"I know that you must have seen a cleaning rag before," the Luxan chuckled, grateful himself for the momentary reprieve of solemnity that had become life aboard this vessel.
Aeryn Sun continued to regard the cloth, rubbing it absently between her fingertips, then glanced up at her friend. "I believe this used to be my shirt, possibly Crichton's," she responded. " I don't know which. Neither of us has worn white in quite some time."
That seemed to be answer enough for her, but D'Argo continued to look at her quizzically, so she pursed her lips and continued.
"It's that I don't know," she said. "Is it mine, or his, and when did that become interchangeable and where did I find it and why don't we have an actual supply of cloths for this purpose aboard?"
The confusion hadn't left D'Argo's face, but his interest in the vagaries of Aeryn's weapons maintenance had ceased. "Does it really matter?"
"No, it's simply, well," she paused, frustration and annoyance seeping through her words, "How did life become so interconnected? I may no longer be a Peacekeeper, but I still keep precise track of my belongings. I should know if I turned a shirt into a rag." And she shook the offending object in demonstration.
D'Argo smiled at her. "Possibly," he agreed, " but it is just as likely that Crichton decided it could be put to better use and selected something from the laundry. You shouldn't let it worry you, so why are you awake, fretting about something meaningless."
Aeryn frowned at the Luxan's perception, and looked uncomfortably down at her weapons.
"I find that since that day," she hesitated, and then, steeling her resolve, forced herself on with more emphasis," since I died, since Zhaan brought me back, I seem more easily distracted by ordinary details, things I'd normally overlook. I don't care much for it."
She inhaled slowly, and spoke again more softly, a little of the ire replaced by uncertainty, "And sometimes, there are dreams."
She glanced back up at him, daring him to push her on the final statement.
"His shift will be over soon," he offered gently. "You two could meet those dreams together."
Aeryn looked back down, shaking her head slightly, "I don't think that will solve this problem."
"Maybe not, but it might solve some others."
She cocked her head, raising an eyebrow. "Really."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You never know."
"From you, D'Argo, I think that I'll just let that go."
"Aeryn." He started, but she interrupted.
"We'll work things out, we'll stop fighting, all right?"
D'Argo stood, leaving the flask. "Get some sleep Aeryn."
"Are you all going down to the commerce planet tomorrow?" D'Argo nodded. "Will you get some cloths, and some cleaning solvent?"
"Good night, Aeryn!", he repeated over his shoulder with finality as he exited the bay.
***
"Jool, hurry it up." John yelled down the corridor, leaning on the doorjamb in front of the docking bay.
"She's only got one outfit," he said looking over at Chiana, "What the frell takes her so long?"
Chiana grinned, opening her mouth to reply, and John quickly headed that disaster off at the pass. "Don't start, Chi. Try and play nice today."
Chiana's mouth twisted into a pretend moue of protest, but she nodded at her friend.
D'Argo, exhibiting infinitely less patience, bellowed from the transport pod. "If she's not here, leave her. We need to go now!"
John winced. "It's gonna be a fun day with the kids, I see."
He yawned, and Chiana danced her gloved fingers along his arm in concern. "You all right, old man?" He smiled at her, looking to offer reassurance but was caught in the middle of another yawn.
"Mm fine Pip. Just not sleeping so well."
"Perhaps you shouldn't go down to the planet then." Aeryn's presence wasn't really a surprise to him, but he hadn't heard her footsteps in the corridor. She looked at him, eyes steady. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and she held herself in close containment, but her eyes revealed worry and something else that just didn't translate for him.
"Maybe you should come with us," he requested softly, directed only at her. "Make sure I don't wander off and get into trouble."
She shook her head, and they continued to look only at each other.
"I want to stay here, do some repairs." Her voice was low and throaty, and it was as if the world had contracted down to only their gaze.
His throat and groin tightening, John found himself awed and always a little fearful of her presence, her beauty and what it did to him. The reaction always caught him off guard and he wished, for just a moment, that she was merely pretty and warm and open like the other women that he'd loved. They'd never felt like the rush of a near death experience, a roller coaster or lightening strike. They had never been predatory or fearless or so frustrating that his jaw ached from stealing it against her. From day one, even when he hadn't liked her, or even himself all that much, he'd wanted her with a glorious thumping ache.
He blinked and cleared his throat, "Ok. We'll, uh, call if something goes wrong."
"That's fine."
"Yeah," he whispered, and heard Jool say, "What's fine?"
Turning to her, he made shooing gestures in encouragement, "Everything's fine princess, just hurry up and get in the pod before D leaves us here."
This trip was turning out to be not only pointless, but annoying as well. Very few of the promised parts were available and John decided this was the last time that he was going on a communal grocery run. It might mean ending up with indescribable food if someone else did the shopping, but at least there would be no pointless bickering. He'd left the girls sniping at each other over something lettuce like and headed over to the outdoor tavern to meet D'Argo and regroup.
His head ached from exhaustion and strain, and he really wished that Aeryn would get out of her funk and start talking to him again. She wasn't giving him the silent treatment exactly, just kept looking at him like she was afraid that the next words out of her mouth would be something she could never take back. He was starting to miss the days of being called inferior.
He caught sight of D'Argo at a table gesturing to him and headed over.
"This was a waste of time," the Luxan grumbled after John sat down and ordered a drink.
John shrugged, "Well, at least it got us off Moya for a few arns."
D'Argo snorted. "That is supposed to be a consolation?'
"Hey, it makes a variation in the routine. Besides, it's starting to feel kinda crowded on Moya."
D'Argo sighed that big Luxan sigh and nodded. "Yes, well, at least small favors - Rygel and Stark stayed aboard the ship and gave us some peace. Perhaps one of them will have annoyed Aeryn enough to have been forcibly removed."
His face brightened at the thought, "Stark or Rygel, either would be acceptable."
John took a sip of his drink, grinning at his friend. "Her tolerance for bullshit is pretty low right now, you might just get your wish."
"John," D'Argo's voice had altered, his sympathy for his friend evident.
"Don't D. There's nothing to talk about. We'll work things out."
"She says the same thing," he said, quirking a smile.
"Yeah?"
D'Argo nodded, as John turned back to his drink. "That's good to know. She's been spending a lot of time alone."
D'Argo agreed, "Yes, cleaning things."
John gave him a puzzled look, and then turned his head as a commotion at another table caught his attention.
The commerce plant attracted an interspecies clientele, and so far, there had been a constant ruckus going on. The barmaid had been circulating, taking orders and dispensing drinks and had interrupted a conversation between a group of large and bulky looking Sebacean offshoots. They were clearly not Peacekeepers, but they were definitely infringing on the attitude.
"We were just at the Jocacean memorial," big and burly #1 was saying to the barmaid, "and the nurses were screaming for someone named Crichton."
His counterpart bobbed his head vigorously in agreement.
"I thought the nurses were saved," the barmaid said.
"No, some fekkik betrayed them."
"Oh crap," John whispered looking at D'Argo, who raised his brow in agreement. John tilted his head towards the exit gate, "Maybe we should..."
They both stood up in time to hear, the second land mass say, "Crichton, that's the same name as the alien on the wanted beacons. Wonder if they're related."
John just closed his eyes, groaning to himself, hearing D'Argo's low rumble of "Every frelling planet."
"Dude, this seemed like it was going to be easy. Why's it never easy?" he groaned in an irritated whisper.
"I don't know, but there are the girls. Let's go!"
John looked up, catching sight of Jool and Chiana, still bickering, and curently looking highly aggravated with each other. He tried to gesture inconspicuously to them to stay where they were, but they ignored him, their argument progressing in volume until Jool, feet stamping and curls flouncing, turned towards him, and in her ringing voice filled with outrage, yelled, "Crichton, tell her to back the frell off."
"Aw crap," he repeated, knowing without having to look that the two behemoths in the corner had just turned their attention towards him. And he'd thought today was going to be better than yesterday.
He looked at D'Argo again, "Aeryn's gonna kill me."
***
"Well I don't see why he had to yell at me."
Jool petulantly pushed her food around on her plate, "We're light years away from the planet, and it's not my fault that someone in that bar challenged him to a fight."
Chiana cocked her head and glared at their newest guest. "No, but you're the one who yelled his name across the square, and you're the one who screamed and melted the firing pin in the pulse rifle. Besides, be glad that it was D'Argo with him. Aeryn would have shot you before shooting that fekkik in the marketplace."
'Well, he still didn't have to yell at me when I applied anesthetic to his wounds. I was only trying to help. " She returned to her food.
Watching her in fascination as she bubbled through her drink, Chiana had to admit that she was equally surprised at John's behavior towards the Interion. His patience with the females of Moya was legendary. Of course, she suspected Jool hadn't been privy to the rather harsh exchange of words between Aeryn and Crichton after the incident in the market.
Aeryn's voice had been tight with worry and suppressed rage, "Frell Crichton, can't you go anywhere without it turning into a disaster."
The silence, as John would have said, had been defeaning. "Sorry Aeryn. I seem to be all about disaster these days. Thought that was why you were keeping your distance."
This time the worry was gone, replaced by open hostility and Chiana shook her head, slightly shocked that they would let this much bitterness seep through the comms, "Frell you Crichton."
Crichton's harsh laughter had just served to fuel Aeryn's fury.
"I've been keeping my distance because you've been acting like a self-centered, egotistical child," she barked.
"Aeryn, that's really rich."
"You are not the only one who's grieving." She said tightly. " You are not the only one who's done something they regret. But, goddess forbid the rest of us are allowed to show or discuss our responsibilities when the great John Crichton is there to proudly take them onto his shoulders."
The comm died.
And that, Chiana thought, was about as intense an emotional outburst as she was likely to ever hear from the former Peacekeeper. She could hear John muttering and swearing and D'Argo's irritated replies as they gathered everything left from the havoc of their expedition and returned to the ship.
***
John sat alone in command, watching the stars, idly charting them in his head, using Harvey's leather clad back as a backdrop for the Lite Brite recreation. It was the sleep cycle for the rest of the crew and John had sent a grateful Jool to bed with an apology for his behavior and the relief of a few of her reluctantly held hours on watch. He was sore, aching and tired, but he still relished the time on command when quiet and the stars were his only companions.
Here he could pretend that he knew the constellations, that his friends and companions were happy, healthy, safe, "Alive," he whispered to himself. That Moya wasn't recovering from injuries, that he hadn't ever been experimented on or killed the love of his life or allowed women and children to die senselessly and brutally.
He'd been desperately trying to break his slump with General Grimes, and the plan had backfired. He wanted to talk about it with Aeryn, explain why'd he'd asked her to sacrifice Dacon, discuss the other failures, talk about this forced distance between them. Since the commerce station, though, be honest he insisted to himself, since Zhaan's death, she'd been so removed.
He wanted to shake her, beg her to change her mind, but that technique had never worked before. He shook his head to clear the thoughts, watching Harvey rattle around and return to his position of stillness. The clone's back was to him and the glowing lights had shut down. Presumably, he was being ignored over this wash of guilt.
Despite Harvey's annoyance, John forced himself to confront the things he didn't know how to talk about with the others. He'd long since lost the ability to record his messages in a bottle, and probably wouldn't have anyway. The bleakness was often better left unspoken.
So he watched the stars and tried very hard not to speak his life out loud.
Aeryn woke furiously from a dream of drowning. She'd been pulled under by a current; Zhaan's face beckoned below her and Crichton was above the surface, his hands plunged into the water, reaching for her, screaming her name. Sitting up and clutching her chest as she bit off the rising panic, she focused intently on her breathing, calming herself and her racing pulse.
"Just another frelling dream," she repeated silently and grimaced at this, another legacy from the human.
Exhaustion and intense mental discipline had staved off dreams when she was a Peacekeeper. Life aboard Moya had changed that. When she had angrily confronted John about the dreams early in their acquaintance, he'd just laughed and asked if she dreamed about him. She smiled viciously, replying that indeed she did and he was just as susceptible to a pantak jab in her dreams as in life. He'd smirked at that and told her not to worry, she'd get used to it. He'd been wrong, though. She hadn't.
And now she was too unsettled to sleep, memories of drowning and the clench of her stomach at the thought of John almost getting shot today filtering through her mind, keeping her edgy, wary. She felt the cold flow of anger begin it's return as well at the thought of his carelessness. Zhaan had entrusted this gift to both of them, and he was being so, so, thoughtless with his choices lately.
She pushed the blanket away, and left her quarters, determined to work off her uneasiness and fury, as well as check in on command.
He heard her approach, even on bare feet, which she had to think was more an instinctive awareness of her than any revealing sound she may have made. She stood behind him, sensing the warmth of his skin, hearing the sharp intake of his breath, and she knew she was distracting him.
"Couldn't sleep," he asked softly and when she didn't reply, he turned from where he rested against the console and looked at her, his mouth soft, and eyes so open to her that a little of the anger drained away, leaving her with something like resignation.
She continued to watch him, but this was a game they both understood. She had something to say and wouldn't be rushed. But he seemed more than surprised by the words she finally uttered.
"I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "For this afternoon. What I said."
He started to respond, but she continued slowly and deliberately. "I meant it, though. But I'm sorry I said it."
She hesitated, looking out at the stars, then turned back to him, layering the unwelcome force of her emotions behind her words. "I fear your obsessions, your wormholes, your willingness to bear the weight of all our flaws on your shoulders. But I worry more about you," she paused, and then repeated it quietly, "About you dying."
She looked down at the golden floor. As he stuttered a response, she moved closer to him, involuntarily raising her hand to touch his cheek.
The touch was tender, but she was still determined. She had a point to make, "Just because I don't want to act on our feelings, well, it doesn't mean I'm ready to lose you."
Despite her tone, she could see him soften further, invariably, at her willingness to be honest with him in her own way, and she longed to yell at him to let that go, to harden himself to this universe, to her. Instead he reached up, stroking her fingers.
The subtle gesture made her clench her teeth against him in frustration, "Sometimes I'd like to lock you in the spare cryo unit to keep you out of trouble!"
He met her eyes then and grasped her hand, holding her palm and leaning into it. His warmth radiated up her arm and she shuddered.
"I'm not trying to bear burden Aeryn. But I have to take responsibility. I have to own my mistakes so that I can keep from hurting the rest of us."
"Is that what you were doing with the General?" she asked tightly. "Taking responsibility?"
He looked sheepish, "Yeah, maybe. Maybe trying to prove that you aren't always right." She raised a skeptical eyebrow at that.
"OK, ok, you're always right." She shook her head and pulled her hand away.
"I'm not always right.," she insisted. "I listened to you and D'Argo and my own need to survive when I let Dacon die. I insisted on using pulse weapons on the horde. I thought I was good enough to keep you from returning to Scorpius and I was wrong. And I have my life and Zhaan doesn't!"
The last was forced through the knot in her throat as she turned away from him. John moved to her, pulling her back in his arms, burying his free hand in her hair. She tensed, and then allowed herself to settle into his body, letting him grieve with her, comfort her, making his own low confession.
'I miss Zhaan, baby. But I could never trade your life for anyone's. She made her choice and maybe that's the one grief I know better than to own."
Aeryn shifted slightly against him as he breathed into her hair and desire warred with the need to finish this conversation before she sent him packing for the night.
"I grieve for Stark," he continued, "for Zhaan, for all of us, but I don't take responsibility for her death. That'd be denying her choice and the gift she gave us both."
He pushed her hair away from her pale neck, and rested his cheek there. She placed her hand on the back of his neck.
"I miss her too," she said with finality, "and I wish she'd never forced this life on me."
His embrace tightened further and she closed her eyes, remembering the feel of this embrace skin to skin, his mouth moving hotly over her neck, his hand roaming her body, tangling in her hair as she strained for release on the false earth.
"Responsibility," she whispered, "Duty."
When had those words become choices and not her life? And why, as choices, were they such a frelling struggle? But Aeryn hadn't lost her resolve as she'd gained herself and after allowing John's lips to caress her neck briefly, she pulled away and turned to him.
"We both understand responsibility," she said, and rested her fingers briefly on his lips, locking on his fathomless gaze, holding it, recording it. "Good night. Get some sleep. You, D'Argo, Chiana and Jool are going to have to take the pod to the next planet for supplies."
He kissed her fingers. "Sweet dreams, baby."
She shook her head and left, padding softly out of command with his eyes on her back, intent, focused, and ready- she knew - to return to the sorrow and introspection they'd held before she arrived. They were beyond the point of fixing that.
Title: At The End of the Day
Author: Thea
E-Mail: thassalia@yahoo.com
Website: www.livejournal.com/users/thassalia
Category: Drama, Episode related.
Warnings/Rating: PG. Spoilers through …Different Destinations. Aeryn/John.
Author notes: Thanks to Searose for beta and forcing me to ask myself questions. All mistakes are my own. I had grandiose hopes for this piece, but mostly it’s just an extended (really extended) tag to one of my favorite eps.
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. They don't belong to me, which is a good thing. They cost too much to feed and water.
Summary: Duty, responsibility. When did these things become choices and not her life?
***
The sand shifted beneath her as his arm encircled her shoulders. Despite the boundaries drawn several literal lifetimes ago, she allowed herself to press against him, her head fitted into the crook of his neck. Should she turn her face, she could bury herself in his scent - warm, musky, alien, a scent tinged with the grief they all wore now like skin. She could sink into him,disappear.
But to turn her head, to feel her lips against his throat and feel his fingers weave through her hair seemed like a betrayal on so many levels that even the contemplation of such an act left her feeling tired, and guilty, unfaithful and useless. A soldier shouldn't waiver, shouldn't give in to temptation, shouldn't even feel tempted. While she'd never again be a mindless grunt or a single minded pilot she corrected in her favor, her very existence demanded that she remain attentive. Zhaan's trade, the sacrifice for her life, mandated repayment. This was difficult enough on many days, seemingly impossible here, where she was being offered a moment's solace in return for providing the same.
"Who's going to get him back on Moya," Chiana had asked, her young voice rich with sympathy for John.
"I will," Aeryn had replied, although sitting here next to him, she still didn't know how to accomplish that task.
The frelling human made everything so complicated.
"What was the point?" and she hadn't lied. There probably hadn't been any point. Rage and violence, while sometimes a means to an end, existed all on their own. He knew that as well as she did, but he kept trying to live like those weren't known elements of their life in this universe.
So she sat there, by his side, his warmth feeding her, a replay of the slaughter looping in front of them. Her rage at him had burnt itself out between returning to their timeline and discovering the alteration of reality. Aeryn knew she could force or cajole John back onto Moya, but dealing with this new burden would prove trickier.
He just looked so shocked.
She felt John draw in a shuddering breath, felt his pain and need for some sort of explanation, some sort of peace pass through her, and gave in to the desire to offer him succor, swallowing the voice that said she had no right to take it in return.
This willingness to soothe, to calm was still new, ironically uncomfortable. It was also something she identified almost exclusively with Crichton and with Talyn, two demanding males, each seeking her attention and wanting to prove himself to her. That they each eased considerable under her touch, even more so the compulsion she felt to allow and offer that touch, surprised her further still.
Having watched the familiarity between Crichton and Chiana, and oh goddess, Zhaan, Aeryn had subtly tried to sink into the feeling of John's skin against hers, his hand on her back, cheek rough against hers, shoulders touching, press of bodies and limbs that had everything, and more importantly nothing, to do with sex. As if reading her thoughts, he pulled her closer, wrapping his other arm tightly around her head and holding her to him. There were no tears, and she buried her face against John's neck, letting him stroke her hair and brush his lips against her scalp.
It was in this pose, wrapped together like the lovers they swore they wouldn't be that D'Argo found them. His footsteps were heavy and slow. Aeryn had no doubt that - deficient hearing or not- John had to be aware of his presence. She was unembarrassed to be found in this embrace. There was little D'Argo didn't know about their relationship.
His voice was soft, hoarse, "Her name is still there. She will be remembered by someone besides me."
John moved his head, laying it back against the stone behind him, his arm dropping away from Aeryn's hair to rest listlessly in his lap. He looked up at D'Argo with those same haunted eyes.
"I thought it'd be fine. Shoulda been fine." And he shook his head trying to clear it of the images of the massacre of innocents. Neither of his companions had a reply to that.
"We should return to Moya," D'Argo stated and Aeryn sat up, looking at John, preparing for a protest. But he merely nodded wearily, allowing D'Argo to help them up. The goggles were left in the sand and no one looked at the memorial as they returned to the transport pod where Chiana waited.
***
"Welcome back," Pilot's voice echoed hollowly as they exited the pod. The smell of ash, anesthetic and fear still lingered in the air from the events of the past monens.
The odors were a constant reminder of their decisions and losses. A veteran of many battle campaigns, Aeryn was well acquainted with the stench of death and defeat. She was only now learning the smell of despair. Moya felt empty without Zhaan and indeed the ship's actual emotions seemed to echo that sentiment. It was John's theory that mourning was interfering in the living ship's physical healing.
Crichton blanched as they left the docking bay, his face contorting at the smell and he turned to Aeryn, "I'm gonna hit the sack. Been a helluva day."
She nodded, and he brushed his hand lightly along her arm, leaving a wave of sensation in his wake. He looked at her, clearly fighting against something, waiting for her, and then just shook his head.
"Night."
She bit the inside of her mouth as the urge to follow him rose up in her. It would be so easy, the nervous exhilaration of battle not quite yet giving way to exhaustion, to follow him to his quarters, push him against the wall, break his fragile barriers against her, kiss him, frell him, have release and love wash over her. But she wasn't that weak, and she wasn't capricious, and they'd been proving over and over again that emotional entanglements compromised efficiency, and...
She ruthlessly quashed the part of her mind questioning the validity of that statement as she watched him nod to D'Argo and wearily head down the corridor.
"Will he be alright?" D'Argo asked, concern for his friend fresh in the gruff voice. The warrior's tenderness had long since failed to surprise Aeryn.
"I don't know," she answered finally. " I don't know if he should be. I don't know if any of us should."
And pushing away from the warmth of Moya's walls, she headed to Pilot's den, intent on confirming that the repairs that had necessitated their stop on the planet had been successful.
***
The following few days were quiet. There was still much maintenance to be done, and between repairs and trying to avoid being responsible for or paired with the Interion, Aeryn found that she had little time to talk to her crew mates, avoiding the few opportunities that did present themselves. Slowly, but surely they were establishing a deliberate routine without Zhaan. John had discovered that Jool, unlike the rest of them, could tell one plant from the other and he'd been encouraging her to familiarize herself with the Zhaan's former apothecary.
Aeryn wanted no part of that experiment and kept herself busy. When she allowed herself time to think of the others, she spent most of it worried about Crichton. He looked pale, tired and somewhat unkempt.
The stop at the memorial had not done anyone any good, and while she regretted the death of the nurses and of Dacon, Aeryn was at least relieved that their actions had not appeared to have any further physical repercussions upon their current existence. But John, she knew, was having more trouble letting go. He veered between being excruciatingly calm and so manic that he was difficult to be around, and mostly, she just didn't know what to say that would do any good, one more illustration of the poor trade she had addressed with Zhaan.
It served as an example of her distraction that trying to still her mind with a routine task failed completely. At some point in the process of methodically cleaning her pulse pistol and rifle, she happened to notice that she was using what looked to be a piece of clothing.
It was in contemplation of this formerly white fabric that D'Argo found her. His amusement at her furrow of concentration startled her out of her reverie as he settled down across from her with a flask in hand.
"I know that you must have seen a cleaning rag before," the Luxan chuckled, grateful himself for the momentary reprieve of solemnity that had become life aboard this vessel.
Aeryn Sun continued to regard the cloth, rubbing it absently between her fingertips, then glanced up at her friend. "I believe this used to be my shirt, possibly Crichton's," she responded. " I don't know which. Neither of us has worn white in quite some time."
That seemed to be answer enough for her, but D'Argo continued to look at her quizzically, so she pursed her lips and continued.
"It's that I don't know," she said. "Is it mine, or his, and when did that become interchangeable and where did I find it and why don't we have an actual supply of cloths for this purpose aboard?"
The confusion hadn't left D'Argo's face, but his interest in the vagaries of Aeryn's weapons maintenance had ceased. "Does it really matter?"
"No, it's simply, well," she paused, frustration and annoyance seeping through her words, "How did life become so interconnected? I may no longer be a Peacekeeper, but I still keep precise track of my belongings. I should know if I turned a shirt into a rag." And she shook the offending object in demonstration.
D'Argo smiled at her. "Possibly," he agreed, " but it is just as likely that Crichton decided it could be put to better use and selected something from the laundry. You shouldn't let it worry you, so why are you awake, fretting about something meaningless."
Aeryn frowned at the Luxan's perception, and looked uncomfortably down at her weapons.
"I find that since that day," she hesitated, and then, steeling her resolve, forced herself on with more emphasis," since I died, since Zhaan brought me back, I seem more easily distracted by ordinary details, things I'd normally overlook. I don't care much for it."
She inhaled slowly, and spoke again more softly, a little of the ire replaced by uncertainty, "And sometimes, there are dreams."
She glanced back up at him, daring him to push her on the final statement.
"His shift will be over soon," he offered gently. "You two could meet those dreams together."
Aeryn looked back down, shaking her head slightly, "I don't think that will solve this problem."
"Maybe not, but it might solve some others."
She cocked her head, raising an eyebrow. "Really."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You never know."
"From you, D'Argo, I think that I'll just let that go."
"Aeryn." He started, but she interrupted.
"We'll work things out, we'll stop fighting, all right?"
D'Argo stood, leaving the flask. "Get some sleep Aeryn."
"Are you all going down to the commerce planet tomorrow?" D'Argo nodded. "Will you get some cloths, and some cleaning solvent?"
"Good night, Aeryn!", he repeated over his shoulder with finality as he exited the bay.
***
"Jool, hurry it up." John yelled down the corridor, leaning on the doorjamb in front of the docking bay.
"She's only got one outfit," he said looking over at Chiana, "What the frell takes her so long?"
Chiana grinned, opening her mouth to reply, and John quickly headed that disaster off at the pass. "Don't start, Chi. Try and play nice today."
Chiana's mouth twisted into a pretend moue of protest, but she nodded at her friend.
D'Argo, exhibiting infinitely less patience, bellowed from the transport pod. "If she's not here, leave her. We need to go now!"
John winced. "It's gonna be a fun day with the kids, I see."
He yawned, and Chiana danced her gloved fingers along his arm in concern. "You all right, old man?" He smiled at her, looking to offer reassurance but was caught in the middle of another yawn.
"Mm fine Pip. Just not sleeping so well."
"Perhaps you shouldn't go down to the planet then." Aeryn's presence wasn't really a surprise to him, but he hadn't heard her footsteps in the corridor. She looked at him, eyes steady. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and she held herself in close containment, but her eyes revealed worry and something else that just didn't translate for him.
"Maybe you should come with us," he requested softly, directed only at her. "Make sure I don't wander off and get into trouble."
She shook her head, and they continued to look only at each other.
"I want to stay here, do some repairs." Her voice was low and throaty, and it was as if the world had contracted down to only their gaze.
His throat and groin tightening, John found himself awed and always a little fearful of her presence, her beauty and what it did to him. The reaction always caught him off guard and he wished, for just a moment, that she was merely pretty and warm and open like the other women that he'd loved. They'd never felt like the rush of a near death experience, a roller coaster or lightening strike. They had never been predatory or fearless or so frustrating that his jaw ached from stealing it against her. From day one, even when he hadn't liked her, or even himself all that much, he'd wanted her with a glorious thumping ache.
He blinked and cleared his throat, "Ok. We'll, uh, call if something goes wrong."
"That's fine."
"Yeah," he whispered, and heard Jool say, "What's fine?"
Turning to her, he made shooing gestures in encouragement, "Everything's fine princess, just hurry up and get in the pod before D leaves us here."
This trip was turning out to be not only pointless, but annoying as well. Very few of the promised parts were available and John decided this was the last time that he was going on a communal grocery run. It might mean ending up with indescribable food if someone else did the shopping, but at least there would be no pointless bickering. He'd left the girls sniping at each other over something lettuce like and headed over to the outdoor tavern to meet D'Argo and regroup.
His head ached from exhaustion and strain, and he really wished that Aeryn would get out of her funk and start talking to him again. She wasn't giving him the silent treatment exactly, just kept looking at him like she was afraid that the next words out of her mouth would be something she could never take back. He was starting to miss the days of being called inferior.
He caught sight of D'Argo at a table gesturing to him and headed over.
"This was a waste of time," the Luxan grumbled after John sat down and ordered a drink.
John shrugged, "Well, at least it got us off Moya for a few arns."
D'Argo snorted. "That is supposed to be a consolation?'
"Hey, it makes a variation in the routine. Besides, it's starting to feel kinda crowded on Moya."
D'Argo sighed that big Luxan sigh and nodded. "Yes, well, at least small favors - Rygel and Stark stayed aboard the ship and gave us some peace. Perhaps one of them will have annoyed Aeryn enough to have been forcibly removed."
His face brightened at the thought, "Stark or Rygel, either would be acceptable."
John took a sip of his drink, grinning at his friend. "Her tolerance for bullshit is pretty low right now, you might just get your wish."
"John," D'Argo's voice had altered, his sympathy for his friend evident.
"Don't D. There's nothing to talk about. We'll work things out."
"She says the same thing," he said, quirking a smile.
"Yeah?"
D'Argo nodded, as John turned back to his drink. "That's good to know. She's been spending a lot of time alone."
D'Argo agreed, "Yes, cleaning things."
John gave him a puzzled look, and then turned his head as a commotion at another table caught his attention.
The commerce plant attracted an interspecies clientele, and so far, there had been a constant ruckus going on. The barmaid had been circulating, taking orders and dispensing drinks and had interrupted a conversation between a group of large and bulky looking Sebacean offshoots. They were clearly not Peacekeepers, but they were definitely infringing on the attitude.
"We were just at the Jocacean memorial," big and burly #1 was saying to the barmaid, "and the nurses were screaming for someone named Crichton."
His counterpart bobbed his head vigorously in agreement.
"I thought the nurses were saved," the barmaid said.
"No, some fekkik betrayed them."
"Oh crap," John whispered looking at D'Argo, who raised his brow in agreement. John tilted his head towards the exit gate, "Maybe we should..."
They both stood up in time to hear, the second land mass say, "Crichton, that's the same name as the alien on the wanted beacons. Wonder if they're related."
John just closed his eyes, groaning to himself, hearing D'Argo's low rumble of "Every frelling planet."
"Dude, this seemed like it was going to be easy. Why's it never easy?" he groaned in an irritated whisper.
"I don't know, but there are the girls. Let's go!"
John looked up, catching sight of Jool and Chiana, still bickering, and curently looking highly aggravated with each other. He tried to gesture inconspicuously to them to stay where they were, but they ignored him, their argument progressing in volume until Jool, feet stamping and curls flouncing, turned towards him, and in her ringing voice filled with outrage, yelled, "Crichton, tell her to back the frell off."
"Aw crap," he repeated, knowing without having to look that the two behemoths in the corner had just turned their attention towards him. And he'd thought today was going to be better than yesterday.
He looked at D'Argo again, "Aeryn's gonna kill me."
***
"Well I don't see why he had to yell at me."
Jool petulantly pushed her food around on her plate, "We're light years away from the planet, and it's not my fault that someone in that bar challenged him to a fight."
Chiana cocked her head and glared at their newest guest. "No, but you're the one who yelled his name across the square, and you're the one who screamed and melted the firing pin in the pulse rifle. Besides, be glad that it was D'Argo with him. Aeryn would have shot you before shooting that fekkik in the marketplace."
'Well, he still didn't have to yell at me when I applied anesthetic to his wounds. I was only trying to help. " She returned to her food.
Watching her in fascination as she bubbled through her drink, Chiana had to admit that she was equally surprised at John's behavior towards the Interion. His patience with the females of Moya was legendary. Of course, she suspected Jool hadn't been privy to the rather harsh exchange of words between Aeryn and Crichton after the incident in the market.
Aeryn's voice had been tight with worry and suppressed rage, "Frell Crichton, can't you go anywhere without it turning into a disaster."
The silence, as John would have said, had been defeaning. "Sorry Aeryn. I seem to be all about disaster these days. Thought that was why you were keeping your distance."
This time the worry was gone, replaced by open hostility and Chiana shook her head, slightly shocked that they would let this much bitterness seep through the comms, "Frell you Crichton."
Crichton's harsh laughter had just served to fuel Aeryn's fury.
"I've been keeping my distance because you've been acting like a self-centered, egotistical child," she barked.
"Aeryn, that's really rich."
"You are not the only one who's grieving." She said tightly. " You are not the only one who's done something they regret. But, goddess forbid the rest of us are allowed to show or discuss our responsibilities when the great John Crichton is there to proudly take them onto his shoulders."
The comm died.
And that, Chiana thought, was about as intense an emotional outburst as she was likely to ever hear from the former Peacekeeper. She could hear John muttering and swearing and D'Argo's irritated replies as they gathered everything left from the havoc of their expedition and returned to the ship.
***
John sat alone in command, watching the stars, idly charting them in his head, using Harvey's leather clad back as a backdrop for the Lite Brite recreation. It was the sleep cycle for the rest of the crew and John had sent a grateful Jool to bed with an apology for his behavior and the relief of a few of her reluctantly held hours on watch. He was sore, aching and tired, but he still relished the time on command when quiet and the stars were his only companions.
Here he could pretend that he knew the constellations, that his friends and companions were happy, healthy, safe, "Alive," he whispered to himself. That Moya wasn't recovering from injuries, that he hadn't ever been experimented on or killed the love of his life or allowed women and children to die senselessly and brutally.
He'd been desperately trying to break his slump with General Grimes, and the plan had backfired. He wanted to talk about it with Aeryn, explain why'd he'd asked her to sacrifice Dacon, discuss the other failures, talk about this forced distance between them. Since the commerce station, though, be honest he insisted to himself, since Zhaan's death, she'd been so removed.
He wanted to shake her, beg her to change her mind, but that technique had never worked before. He shook his head to clear the thoughts, watching Harvey rattle around and return to his position of stillness. The clone's back was to him and the glowing lights had shut down. Presumably, he was being ignored over this wash of guilt.
Despite Harvey's annoyance, John forced himself to confront the things he didn't know how to talk about with the others. He'd long since lost the ability to record his messages in a bottle, and probably wouldn't have anyway. The bleakness was often better left unspoken.
So he watched the stars and tried very hard not to speak his life out loud.
Aeryn woke furiously from a dream of drowning. She'd been pulled under by a current; Zhaan's face beckoned below her and Crichton was above the surface, his hands plunged into the water, reaching for her, screaming her name. Sitting up and clutching her chest as she bit off the rising panic, she focused intently on her breathing, calming herself and her racing pulse.
"Just another frelling dream," she repeated silently and grimaced at this, another legacy from the human.
Exhaustion and intense mental discipline had staved off dreams when she was a Peacekeeper. Life aboard Moya had changed that. When she had angrily confronted John about the dreams early in their acquaintance, he'd just laughed and asked if she dreamed about him. She smiled viciously, replying that indeed she did and he was just as susceptible to a pantak jab in her dreams as in life. He'd smirked at that and told her not to worry, she'd get used to it. He'd been wrong, though. She hadn't.
And now she was too unsettled to sleep, memories of drowning and the clench of her stomach at the thought of John almost getting shot today filtering through her mind, keeping her edgy, wary. She felt the cold flow of anger begin it's return as well at the thought of his carelessness. Zhaan had entrusted this gift to both of them, and he was being so, so, thoughtless with his choices lately.
She pushed the blanket away, and left her quarters, determined to work off her uneasiness and fury, as well as check in on command.
He heard her approach, even on bare feet, which she had to think was more an instinctive awareness of her than any revealing sound she may have made. She stood behind him, sensing the warmth of his skin, hearing the sharp intake of his breath, and she knew she was distracting him.
"Couldn't sleep," he asked softly and when she didn't reply, he turned from where he rested against the console and looked at her, his mouth soft, and eyes so open to her that a little of the anger drained away, leaving her with something like resignation.
She continued to watch him, but this was a game they both understood. She had something to say and wouldn't be rushed. But he seemed more than surprised by the words she finally uttered.
"I'm sorry," she said with a sigh. "For this afternoon. What I said."
He started to respond, but she continued slowly and deliberately. "I meant it, though. But I'm sorry I said it."
She hesitated, looking out at the stars, then turned back to him, layering the unwelcome force of her emotions behind her words. "I fear your obsessions, your wormholes, your willingness to bear the weight of all our flaws on your shoulders. But I worry more about you," she paused, and then repeated it quietly, "About you dying."
She looked down at the golden floor. As he stuttered a response, she moved closer to him, involuntarily raising her hand to touch his cheek.
The touch was tender, but she was still determined. She had a point to make, "Just because I don't want to act on our feelings, well, it doesn't mean I'm ready to lose you."
Despite her tone, she could see him soften further, invariably, at her willingness to be honest with him in her own way, and she longed to yell at him to let that go, to harden himself to this universe, to her. Instead he reached up, stroking her fingers.
The subtle gesture made her clench her teeth against him in frustration, "Sometimes I'd like to lock you in the spare cryo unit to keep you out of trouble!"
He met her eyes then and grasped her hand, holding her palm and leaning into it. His warmth radiated up her arm and she shuddered.
"I'm not trying to bear burden Aeryn. But I have to take responsibility. I have to own my mistakes so that I can keep from hurting the rest of us."
"Is that what you were doing with the General?" she asked tightly. "Taking responsibility?"
He looked sheepish, "Yeah, maybe. Maybe trying to prove that you aren't always right." She raised a skeptical eyebrow at that.
"OK, ok, you're always right." She shook her head and pulled her hand away.
"I'm not always right.," she insisted. "I listened to you and D'Argo and my own need to survive when I let Dacon die. I insisted on using pulse weapons on the horde. I thought I was good enough to keep you from returning to Scorpius and I was wrong. And I have my life and Zhaan doesn't!"
The last was forced through the knot in her throat as she turned away from him. John moved to her, pulling her back in his arms, burying his free hand in her hair. She tensed, and then allowed herself to settle into his body, letting him grieve with her, comfort her, making his own low confession.
'I miss Zhaan, baby. But I could never trade your life for anyone's. She made her choice and maybe that's the one grief I know better than to own."
Aeryn shifted slightly against him as he breathed into her hair and desire warred with the need to finish this conversation before she sent him packing for the night.
"I grieve for Stark," he continued, "for Zhaan, for all of us, but I don't take responsibility for her death. That'd be denying her choice and the gift she gave us both."
He pushed her hair away from her pale neck, and rested his cheek there. She placed her hand on the back of his neck.
"I miss her too," she said with finality, "and I wish she'd never forced this life on me."
His embrace tightened further and she closed her eyes, remembering the feel of this embrace skin to skin, his mouth moving hotly over her neck, his hand roaming her body, tangling in her hair as she strained for release on the false earth.
"Responsibility," she whispered, "Duty."
When had those words become choices and not her life? And why, as choices, were they such a frelling struggle? But Aeryn hadn't lost her resolve as she'd gained herself and after allowing John's lips to caress her neck briefly, she pulled away and turned to him.
"We both understand responsibility," she said, and rested her fingers briefly on his lips, locking on his fathomless gaze, holding it, recording it. "Good night. Get some sleep. You, D'Argo, Chiana and Jool are going to have to take the pod to the next planet for supplies."
He kissed her fingers. "Sweet dreams, baby."
She shook her head and left, padding softly out of command with his eyes on her back, intent, focused, and ready- she knew - to return to the sorrow and introspection they'd held before she arrived. They were beyond the point of fixing that.
