One down, one to go
Jan. 18th, 2006 02:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowFirst, the new issue of SMRT-TV is up!! Go forth and read.
Second, hurry up and submit your noms for the NC-17 categories for The Sparkys. Go ahead and submit the noms here if you want, or go over to the post I made at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
the_sporkys and do it there. I'm gonna steal ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
simplystars idea and make a poll once we've got enough noms.
Third, I'm have a general January malaise which results in me acting like a giant slug. Or like the Slurm Queen. I need to shake off the malaise, but it seems to take too much effort. Shrug.
Fourth, I am slowly finsihing the ficlets for my two icon makers.ch1pper wanted something post WGFA, so here you go, hon. PG and immediately post.
Contrepointe
One of the things they never told you about space exploration was that it was an absolute bitch to get Scarran out from under your fingernails.
You take another drink of raslak, try not to think too hard about what Chi must have done to get the currency to afford the booze. You should care. You should have a vested interest, want to save her from her own good intentions, but right now you've got sweat and dirt and alien parts ground into your palms, got alien blood in your hair. There's no room to think about sex as barter, booze as bounty.
Aeryn and D'Argo hauled your sorry ass off the planet, and onto the transport pod and off of the transport pod and by that time you were pretty damned sure that you could walk again, or at least stumble your way to the galley where you've been for the rest of the evening drinking yourself into a stupor, thanking god that your favorite little grey girl begged borrowed stole or frelled her way to some grade-A quality liquor.
You're drinking alone 'cause you yelled at Aeryn when she ordered you to go see Zhaan and D'Argo threw up his hands like a big pansy girl and left the two of you to alone to fight it out. Aeryn left you to yourself with a few choice words and a hard frelling stare and a twist to her mouth that looked a little like hurt, and a lot more like disgust when you suggested she mind her own business. Didn't want to tell her that you didn't want your head shrunk, or your mind warped, didn't want anyone touching you after waking up covered in blood and sweat and Scarran parts with the nasty tasty of half-breed in your mouth, an ache in your chest, and the glimmer of something dark and furtive and important in the corner of your eye, right out of sight.
You didn't want to see her eyes narrow, or incomprehension set fierce and tight across her lips when you inevitably murmured "There's no place like home" and meant it with a full side of irony so you sent her away first with a cackle and a cry, "I'll get you my pretty and your little dog too." The DRD beeped in protest and Aeryn never looked back. Right now, you're almost glad that no one gets your jokes. They're acid yellow and full of bile. Besides, you don't know if you're Dorothy or one of the flying monkeys. The last time you checked, Crais was wearing the ruby slippers.
The room is starting to bob and weave like Ali on a bender and you slam back a little more of the lukewarm raslak, growl at Rygel who flies in for a midnight snack because all you can see is bondage and cigars, and you've already turned and coughed for one too many aliens this month. He throws a roll at your head and you deflect it with sheer luck. Wouldn't do to have something else rattle your brain, rattle your cage.
You should eat something, you think, as much as thinking is possible, and you get up from the table, brush your forearm across your mouth and reel back at the smell. You stumble, step, hands flailing but you don't go tumbling down. Jack doesn't whack his head, Johnny doesn't jump the moon. What the frell?
Her mouth is cotton candy pink, smelling like alien girl, alien sex, sweet and spiced and warm as she holds your big body with her small grey hands. You think you're probably not spinning, but no one bothered to tell that to the room. She's strong, but not strong enough and when you both go down, finally, invariably, it's not your name you hear on her lips…
Crichton's sprawled on the ground when Aeryn arrives, blinking sleep from her eyes, dark hair a disheveled mass around her face.
You kept him from hitting his head, but drunk as he is, it's unlikely that he'd have felt it anyway. You pull your robe tight, and watch as Aeryn squats down beside his body. Her legs are bare and she's nearly as pale as you in the low light, arms and throat exposed in an old white tank. She puts her hand on his throat, feeling his pulse and you wonder why you didn't holler for Zhaan.
Then you look at her, at the way she touches his neck, his shoulder, at the way she makes a face at his scent, but doesn't move away. You'd been there, earlier, when they'd fought, when he refused to have Zhaan check, when he said he was okay. No one believed him, but it didn't do any good to press. You knew then that you'd check later, that you curl yourself next to him, soak up his heat and his humor and the pain riding him like a Hynerian donkey, feel his hand on your hair, give what you could.
"Help me get him up," she says, voice weary, bitter amusement threaded through. "Although it would serve him right if we left him here."
You frown at her, not disagreeing exactly, but unwilling to leave him like this - unconscious, exposed. You grimace as she slaps him lightly.
"John." She does it again, the sound of her palm against his cheek sharp in the air. "John!"
You lean in and his eyes fly open like a shot, wide and bloody and blue. He takes you in, sees Aeryn and panic clutches at his mouth. He tries to sit up, scoot backwards, ends up in the same heap he started in and Aeryn grips his upper arm tightly, says his name again. He looks at her, shaking his head, pulling away. She won't let go and you put your hand up high on his thigh. "Hey old man," you say, trying not to stutter. "Everything is …" you search for the word, for his word, "coo-ewl. It's gonna be fine."
He slumps, shake his head and reaches for your cheek. Takes in your robe, glances to the side and sees Aeryn's bare skin. "Never dream you guys in your jammies," he slurs. "But you made a hell of a groupie."
Aeryn sighs, sits back on her heels and you crawl forward so that you can kneel by his head. "You're not supposed to talk to Scarrans, old man." He tries for a half-hearted shrug, skin going grayish as he slowly sits up.
"He must have had candy, little girl. Or a really big gun." He closes his hand, taps his fist lightly against your knee. "Don't really remember."
His stomach makes a noise, and he pulls his arm in tight, holding onto himself.
"Don't feel so good," he mumbles.
"Right." Aeryn takes his arm, slings it over his shoulder, fixes you with a look. You take his other arm and between the three of you, you haul him to his feet. He's unsteady, blurred and stumbling, but he's up, weight mostly on Aeryn, hand light on your arm.
He's quiet as you make your way to his quarters, and he touches your cheek, thumb soft on your mouth when you slip free from his grasp, leaving him leaning on Aeryn. You turn, look over your shoulder when you're halfway down the corridor, halfway to D'Argo's room. His sleepy, warm solidity calls out to you like a beacon. You want to burrow against his body, close your eyes against this image of Crichton sad, and mad and alone. He's angled, hand on Aeryn's waist, mouth against her neck. The soldier stands there, fingers in his hair, body rigid enough to hold them both up, eyes closed. You shake your head and take the turn towards late night comfort. D'Argo sleeps like the dead. You won't need to explain where you went…
She's out of sight when you rouse John, when you shove him a little, make him let you go so you can propel him into his own quarters. He stinks, smells like death and sickness and raslak and sweat. Human sweat. It's a scent you're familiar with after all this time, and you prefer it's presence from other forms of exertion.
He's not quite as drunk as you'd originally thought when Chiana's frantic voice had launched you out of your bunk, had you halfway down the hall before you realized you weren't dressed for a crisis. But she'd said your name, said his, and you knew that whatever it was, he wasn't dying, no matter what it had looked like when you entered the galley and saw him pale and sprawled on the floor.
He'd been angry, pissy and aggressive when you exited the pod, wouldn't see Zhaan, wouldn't do anything you suggested so you stormed off in a fit of pique and left him to his self-pity. Except, you think, as he leans against the door frame, scrubbing his face with filthy hands, not pity so much as pathos. He's drowning in something. You've studied Scarran torture techniques, you've got some idea of what that could mean. But whatever happened, he's survived it, and you're pretty sure that if circumstances had been reversed, you wouldn't be able to say the same. Scarrans torture with heat.
You curse yourself for losing your temper in the face of his need, and when he looks at you, blurry eyed and still stumbling drunk, you reign in your anger, tamp down your fear.
"You need to bathe, John," you say, trying to remember the tone of his patience, the cadence of his tolerance.
"Too tired," he mumbles. "Feel like crap."
His sheets look relatively clean and you have a moment's presience of sleeping in there with him. But you are not sleeping with him in this state.
"Come on," you gently push him away from the doorway and keep on pushing until you get to the shower alcove.
Awareness glimmers in his eyes, clarity brightening them to an unnatural blue as he looks at the shower, then back, sweeping down your body.
"Gonna get in there with me?" he asks, features twisted into an exaggerated leer. "I might fall over without help."
"You'll manage."
You strip him of his gunbelt and boots and vest. He holds up his hands and you haul his shirt off over his head, unbutton his pants and wriggle them down. You put your hands on his waist to strip off his underwear and he covers your hands, the weird clarity still sparking in his eyes.
"You really think I'm that easy, babe?" His voice is light, grip strong against your fingers.
"Yes," you mutter in answer. Then, "No. You're not easy." There's a joke there, and you choose not to get it. He leans in, brushes his mouth against yours and it's all you can do not to yank his hips against yours, kiss him senseless, make him take some of the fear you need to bleed off after a day of searching for him, after the sight of him tripping out of an abandoned building, stinking of Scarran and his own rank terror.
You can't help yourself, kiss him back, not caring that he tastes scorched and bitter, tastes like too much raslak and tears. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair as you press close, but your hand slips against his skin, catching on the stickiness of dried sweat and you get your brain back. Shower. Clean. You step back and he nods, manages to get his shorts off as you start the water.
"Sit," you order, and he sits on the floor of the shower as the water pelts down on him. You turn up the heat and hand him the soap and a cloth. He rests his head back against the wall, scrubs at his body half-heartedly. You lean against the basin and make sure he doesn't drown. When he tilts his head forward, puts his face in his hands, you take it as a sign, turn off the water, get him a towel and go out to sit on his bed.
There are still streaks of dirt on his torso when he exits the fresher several hundred microts later, but even from here he smells better than he did. His face is composed, and he looks something akin to sober as he moves stiffly to sit beside you on the bed. His hair sticks up in wet spikes and you resist the urge to smooth your hand through it.
"Things were … it was bad," he's mumbling in that way he does when he's got words to say, but can't find the tempo, the drive. "I think. Must've been, right?"
"Scarrans are very … good," you falter, "at that sort of thing."
He takes your hand out of your lap, holds it tightly. "Saw lots of stuff… from home, except not. I didn't ever think it was Earth, that I was there, but still…"
"You're…" this word is important to him, home, so you keep it, swallow it, "here now. You survived."
"No place like home," he murmurs, and lays down on the bed, tugs you down until you're next to him, until you face him. His hair is damp against your skin, his fingers banding your hip, and you let him slide his knee over your thigh. You put your hand on his back, low near the curve at the edge of the towel and keep silent as he breathes.
Second, hurry up and submit your noms for the NC-17 categories for The Sparkys. Go ahead and submit the noms here if you want, or go over to the post I made at
the_sporkys and do it there. I'm gonna steal simplystars idea and make a poll once we've got enough noms.Third, I'm have a general January malaise which results in me acting like a giant slug. Or like the Slurm Queen. I need to shake off the malaise, but it seems to take too much effort. Shrug.
Fourth, I am slowly finsihing the ficlets for my two icon makers.
ch1pper wanted something post WGFA, so here you go, hon. PG and immediately post.Contrepointe
One of the things they never told you about space exploration was that it was an absolute bitch to get Scarran out from under your fingernails.
You take another drink of raslak, try not to think too hard about what Chi must have done to get the currency to afford the booze. You should care. You should have a vested interest, want to save her from her own good intentions, but right now you've got sweat and dirt and alien parts ground into your palms, got alien blood in your hair. There's no room to think about sex as barter, booze as bounty.
Aeryn and D'Argo hauled your sorry ass off the planet, and onto the transport pod and off of the transport pod and by that time you were pretty damned sure that you could walk again, or at least stumble your way to the galley where you've been for the rest of the evening drinking yourself into a stupor, thanking god that your favorite little grey girl begged borrowed stole or frelled her way to some grade-A quality liquor.
You're drinking alone 'cause you yelled at Aeryn when she ordered you to go see Zhaan and D'Argo threw up his hands like a big pansy girl and left the two of you to alone to fight it out. Aeryn left you to yourself with a few choice words and a hard frelling stare and a twist to her mouth that looked a little like hurt, and a lot more like disgust when you suggested she mind her own business. Didn't want to tell her that you didn't want your head shrunk, or your mind warped, didn't want anyone touching you after waking up covered in blood and sweat and Scarran parts with the nasty tasty of half-breed in your mouth, an ache in your chest, and the glimmer of something dark and furtive and important in the corner of your eye, right out of sight.
You didn't want to see her eyes narrow, or incomprehension set fierce and tight across her lips when you inevitably murmured "There's no place like home" and meant it with a full side of irony so you sent her away first with a cackle and a cry, "I'll get you my pretty and your little dog too." The DRD beeped in protest and Aeryn never looked back. Right now, you're almost glad that no one gets your jokes. They're acid yellow and full of bile. Besides, you don't know if you're Dorothy or one of the flying monkeys. The last time you checked, Crais was wearing the ruby slippers.
The room is starting to bob and weave like Ali on a bender and you slam back a little more of the lukewarm raslak, growl at Rygel who flies in for a midnight snack because all you can see is bondage and cigars, and you've already turned and coughed for one too many aliens this month. He throws a roll at your head and you deflect it with sheer luck. Wouldn't do to have something else rattle your brain, rattle your cage.
You should eat something, you think, as much as thinking is possible, and you get up from the table, brush your forearm across your mouth and reel back at the smell. You stumble, step, hands flailing but you don't go tumbling down. Jack doesn't whack his head, Johnny doesn't jump the moon. What the frell?
Her mouth is cotton candy pink, smelling like alien girl, alien sex, sweet and spiced and warm as she holds your big body with her small grey hands. You think you're probably not spinning, but no one bothered to tell that to the room. She's strong, but not strong enough and when you both go down, finally, invariably, it's not your name you hear on her lips…
Crichton's sprawled on the ground when Aeryn arrives, blinking sleep from her eyes, dark hair a disheveled mass around her face.
You kept him from hitting his head, but drunk as he is, it's unlikely that he'd have felt it anyway. You pull your robe tight, and watch as Aeryn squats down beside his body. Her legs are bare and she's nearly as pale as you in the low light, arms and throat exposed in an old white tank. She puts her hand on his throat, feeling his pulse and you wonder why you didn't holler for Zhaan.
Then you look at her, at the way she touches his neck, his shoulder, at the way she makes a face at his scent, but doesn't move away. You'd been there, earlier, when they'd fought, when he refused to have Zhaan check, when he said he was okay. No one believed him, but it didn't do any good to press. You knew then that you'd check later, that you curl yourself next to him, soak up his heat and his humor and the pain riding him like a Hynerian donkey, feel his hand on your hair, give what you could.
"Help me get him up," she says, voice weary, bitter amusement threaded through. "Although it would serve him right if we left him here."
You frown at her, not disagreeing exactly, but unwilling to leave him like this - unconscious, exposed. You grimace as she slaps him lightly.
"John." She does it again, the sound of her palm against his cheek sharp in the air. "John!"
You lean in and his eyes fly open like a shot, wide and bloody and blue. He takes you in, sees Aeryn and panic clutches at his mouth. He tries to sit up, scoot backwards, ends up in the same heap he started in and Aeryn grips his upper arm tightly, says his name again. He looks at her, shaking his head, pulling away. She won't let go and you put your hand up high on his thigh. "Hey old man," you say, trying not to stutter. "Everything is …" you search for the word, for his word, "coo-ewl. It's gonna be fine."
He slumps, shake his head and reaches for your cheek. Takes in your robe, glances to the side and sees Aeryn's bare skin. "Never dream you guys in your jammies," he slurs. "But you made a hell of a groupie."
Aeryn sighs, sits back on her heels and you crawl forward so that you can kneel by his head. "You're not supposed to talk to Scarrans, old man." He tries for a half-hearted shrug, skin going grayish as he slowly sits up.
"He must have had candy, little girl. Or a really big gun." He closes his hand, taps his fist lightly against your knee. "Don't really remember."
His stomach makes a noise, and he pulls his arm in tight, holding onto himself.
"Don't feel so good," he mumbles.
"Right." Aeryn takes his arm, slings it over his shoulder, fixes you with a look. You take his other arm and between the three of you, you haul him to his feet. He's unsteady, blurred and stumbling, but he's up, weight mostly on Aeryn, hand light on your arm.
He's quiet as you make your way to his quarters, and he touches your cheek, thumb soft on your mouth when you slip free from his grasp, leaving him leaning on Aeryn. You turn, look over your shoulder when you're halfway down the corridor, halfway to D'Argo's room. His sleepy, warm solidity calls out to you like a beacon. You want to burrow against his body, close your eyes against this image of Crichton sad, and mad and alone. He's angled, hand on Aeryn's waist, mouth against her neck. The soldier stands there, fingers in his hair, body rigid enough to hold them both up, eyes closed. You shake your head and take the turn towards late night comfort. D'Argo sleeps like the dead. You won't need to explain where you went…
She's out of sight when you rouse John, when you shove him a little, make him let you go so you can propel him into his own quarters. He stinks, smells like death and sickness and raslak and sweat. Human sweat. It's a scent you're familiar with after all this time, and you prefer it's presence from other forms of exertion.
He's not quite as drunk as you'd originally thought when Chiana's frantic voice had launched you out of your bunk, had you halfway down the hall before you realized you weren't dressed for a crisis. But she'd said your name, said his, and you knew that whatever it was, he wasn't dying, no matter what it had looked like when you entered the galley and saw him pale and sprawled on the floor.
He'd been angry, pissy and aggressive when you exited the pod, wouldn't see Zhaan, wouldn't do anything you suggested so you stormed off in a fit of pique and left him to his self-pity. Except, you think, as he leans against the door frame, scrubbing his face with filthy hands, not pity so much as pathos. He's drowning in something. You've studied Scarran torture techniques, you've got some idea of what that could mean. But whatever happened, he's survived it, and you're pretty sure that if circumstances had been reversed, you wouldn't be able to say the same. Scarrans torture with heat.
You curse yourself for losing your temper in the face of his need, and when he looks at you, blurry eyed and still stumbling drunk, you reign in your anger, tamp down your fear.
"You need to bathe, John," you say, trying to remember the tone of his patience, the cadence of his tolerance.
"Too tired," he mumbles. "Feel like crap."
His sheets look relatively clean and you have a moment's presience of sleeping in there with him. But you are not sleeping with him in this state.
"Come on," you gently push him away from the doorway and keep on pushing until you get to the shower alcove.
Awareness glimmers in his eyes, clarity brightening them to an unnatural blue as he looks at the shower, then back, sweeping down your body.
"Gonna get in there with me?" he asks, features twisted into an exaggerated leer. "I might fall over without help."
"You'll manage."
You strip him of his gunbelt and boots and vest. He holds up his hands and you haul his shirt off over his head, unbutton his pants and wriggle them down. You put your hands on his waist to strip off his underwear and he covers your hands, the weird clarity still sparking in his eyes.
"You really think I'm that easy, babe?" His voice is light, grip strong against your fingers.
"Yes," you mutter in answer. Then, "No. You're not easy." There's a joke there, and you choose not to get it. He leans in, brushes his mouth against yours and it's all you can do not to yank his hips against yours, kiss him senseless, make him take some of the fear you need to bleed off after a day of searching for him, after the sight of him tripping out of an abandoned building, stinking of Scarran and his own rank terror.
You can't help yourself, kiss him back, not caring that he tastes scorched and bitter, tastes like too much raslak and tears. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair as you press close, but your hand slips against his skin, catching on the stickiness of dried sweat and you get your brain back. Shower. Clean. You step back and he nods, manages to get his shorts off as you start the water.
"Sit," you order, and he sits on the floor of the shower as the water pelts down on him. You turn up the heat and hand him the soap and a cloth. He rests his head back against the wall, scrubs at his body half-heartedly. You lean against the basin and make sure he doesn't drown. When he tilts his head forward, puts his face in his hands, you take it as a sign, turn off the water, get him a towel and go out to sit on his bed.
There are still streaks of dirt on his torso when he exits the fresher several hundred microts later, but even from here he smells better than he did. His face is composed, and he looks something akin to sober as he moves stiffly to sit beside you on the bed. His hair sticks up in wet spikes and you resist the urge to smooth your hand through it.
"Things were … it was bad," he's mumbling in that way he does when he's got words to say, but can't find the tempo, the drive. "I think. Must've been, right?"
"Scarrans are very … good," you falter, "at that sort of thing."
He takes your hand out of your lap, holds it tightly. "Saw lots of stuff… from home, except not. I didn't ever think it was Earth, that I was there, but still…"
"You're…" this word is important to him, home, so you keep it, swallow it, "here now. You survived."
"No place like home," he murmurs, and lays down on the bed, tugs you down until you're next to him, until you face him. His hair is damp against your skin, his fingers banding your hip, and you let him slide his knee over your thigh. You put your hand on his back, low near the curve at the edge of the towel and keep silent as he breathes.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-01-18 11:39 pm (UTC)i love the shift of perspective; looking at john in these moments brings home the perilous nature of his situation. and as always when you write these characters i feel as if i'm watching the show. the ending is exquisite and poignant.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-18 11:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-18 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 12:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 12:53 am (UTC)Initially, I wanted the second person to transition into third person limited for Chi, but I really liked the flow of the second person, and the edge of anonymity it gives.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 07:30 am (UTC)I didn't realize that the 2nd person could be so nicely slippery until it slid right into that for each character:) Mostly I'm glad it worked, and dude, poor poor broken boy.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 07:28 am (UTC)Chi, Aeryn and John are a natural triangle in a lot of ways - not just sexually, but emotionally. They fill in each others gaps.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 04:32 am (UTC)(I wonder why there isn't more post-WGFA fic?)
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 05:34 am (UTC)*dances about in glittery red pumps*
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 07:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 08:21 am (UTC)Did I say I loved it?
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 08:43 am (UTC)And I'm glad that you liked it!
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 07:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 08:16 am (UTC)There's no room to think about sex as barter, booze as bounty.
He's just too tired. His mind too full.
Didn't want to tell her that you didn't want your head shrunk, or your mind warped, didn't want anyone touching you after waking up covered in blood and sweat and Scarran parts with the nasty tasty of half-breed in your mouth, an ache in your chest, and the glimmer of something dark and furtive and important in the corner of your eye, right out of sight.
Oh my poor John. They just wouldn't understand. After being manhandled so severely any touch is just more violation.
I love how he uses his 'isms to chase Aeryn away.
I love him flashing to the hallucination versions of them.
I love how Aeryn lets him just draw comfort from her being there.
I love this fic.
::picks you up in a hug and dances around the room::
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 08:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 01:48 pm (UTC)I love your second person views of John as well as his deep despair and confusion. He is still in culture shock about the UTs and Aeryn and Chiana try valiantly to understand what he went through because he can't tell them. I love the quiet comfort they offer and how he finally accepts it from Aeryn.
Yes, the shower scene is perfect.
WiseScaper wrote a wonderful post-WGFA story. I think that is the one you are mentioning--it is on Terra Firma's Sparky awards page in 2001.
The man died in more ways than physically. He has a habit of self-medicating his pain. You capture that so clearly. I adore your writing.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 06:02 pm (UTC)He'd been angry, pissy and aggressive when you exited the pod, wouldn't see Zhaan, wouldn't do anything you suggested so you stormed off in a fit of pique and left him to his self-pity. Except, you think, as he leans against the door frame, scrubbing his face with filthy hands, not pity so much as pathos. He's drowning in something.
Aeryn once called herself an ignorant warrior, but she's not the least imperceptive.
John's reaction to seeing them when he wakes is perfect.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-19 06:05 pm (UTC)Aeryn's perceptive, unless she chooses not to be or lacks the cultural reference completely. And when it comes to John, her percpetion is pretty finely honed, I think.
And I'm very glad that the waking reaction came through. I wanted it to be subtle, but present.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-20 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-20 03:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-20 08:10 am (UTC)Excellent.
I just watched WGFA not long ago and just have to say...you've hit another home run with this fic. Perfectly captures the mood post-mindfrell. The opening is perfect, just grabs you and hauls you in. Then the story picks up pace and you can feel the frenzy in John.
A couple of fic noms:
Walking Underwater by Sugargroupie 7/30/2005 814 words
http://sugargroupie.livejournal.com/61640.html
B/Side by sugargroupie 9/5/2005 1,040 words
http://sugargroupie.livejournal.com/66981.html
no subject
Date: 2006-01-20 08:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-28 11:42 pm (UTC)And the story itself is beautiful. I love the ending, in particular.
I've been craving good Farscape fic, stories that capture the essence of this wonderful show that I'm still totally addicted to somehow. This story was certainly that.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-29 08:02 am (UTC)