Crackfic for Cofax
Mar. 3rd, 2006 10:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowSo sometime last year, the fabulous ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cofax7 had a birthday, and because she is much adored, fic was started, a fannish crossover as it were with a slew of fabulous, talented contributing authors including: jonquil, cretkid, fbf, kernezelda, rubberneck, and rydra_wong who is currently rivaling C. in toaster accumulation:)
Between the lot of us, we threw in scenes based on a LOOSE (and I mean that in every sense of the word) plot amalgamation. The plot can still be described largely as thin to transparent:)
And then it sat, and sat, and sat, until, inspired by the lure of Claudia Black on my television tonight, I conspired to finish it before the end of the week this week. So, please feel free to blame everyone involved for any slips, flubs or missteps:) Fellow contributors, feel equally free to blame me if the scene in your head got modified for the story, or failed to go anywhere near where it was intended.
Title: The Universe and These Women; Or Proper Use of the Doppleganger 5000
Authors: Thea, Jonquil, Cretkid, Kernezelda, Feldman, Rydra Wong, and FBF (who also did what beta was done).
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Farscape/Stargate Crossover (Late S2 for FS, Early S9, pre-Beachead for SG-1)
Disclaimers: All mistakes are our own, mine in particular. This puppy is (for now) beta free. Anyone wants to beta and I'll happily take you up on it. Obviously none of these characters belong to me or to anyone else involved. Otherwise, wardrobe choices would be seriously different.
So enjoy, and don't forget to feed the authors (yes all of them). Feedback is ALWAYS appreciated.
It's like pointing a gun at herself, or at least a weird distorted version of herself because there isn't a treznot's chance in hezmana that she'd wear anything that made her breasts do... that; would never stand there with such targeted insolence, hand on her hip, smirk on her face at the prospect of pointing a gun at herself...
Aeryn growls at the absurd dichotomy, at the doubling back of vision and perception, and shifts her stance to outright aggression. Her almost double seems to take the hint, straightens her own supple back and puts her hands in the air.
"Who the frell are you?"
She's had enough of doubles and triples, enough of the absurdity of multiple Crichtons, multiple variations and she'll be damned if she's going to deal with herself on any level of the evolutionary scale. John may have felt a flitter of compassion for his own genes, but all she feels is rage.
The doppleganger smiles, wide and seductive, and the thrumb of anger tingles in Aeryn's fingertips. She could shoot the imposter, be done with it, not ask, not have to frelling know the answer. Just as her finger twitches on the trigger, something hard and heavy slams into her back. She stumbles forward. A strong hand grabs her, yanks her backwards, keeps her from the ground, and John exhales, hot and startled into her ear, "Whoa!"
The woman drops her hands, rests them on her hips and lets out a long slow whistle. John's grip tightens.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
Frell, she even sounds the same, voice low and rich and speaking... English? Can't be, the syllables and dipthongs familiar but distant and Aeryn lets it go. The momentary shock gives her time to recovers her poise and her precision and the gun comes back up to play.
The double's eyes widen, and she tosses one of her tails of hair over her shoulder.
"I'm not armed."
She takes a step forward, then another, a slow sauntering challenge and its all Aeryn can do to not shoot her.
"What the...?"
They're a three alien pile-up, D'Argo careening into the back of them like that ridiculous game of John's and they all teeter-totter forward as the woman looks on in open amusement.
"When I mentioned limited gene pools, I didn't realize I was talking about my own," she murmurs with a husky laugh, eyes sliding over John, over D'Argo, over Aeryn herself, head tilting with a slow, seductive sweep. Aeryn elbows D'Argo, shoves away from John and growls, "Stop or I will shoot you."
The woman closes her mouth, the glossy hair dancing around her shoulders as she does her own assessment. "I'm sure you would, but..."
The shot is loud, electricity a sly crackly arc in the air. The woman's bellow is louder as she tumbles forward, clutching her thigh.
"Every frelling planet," D'Argo mumbles, catching the double as she falls, hiking her up onto his shoulder.
"Run?" yells John, feet already pelting over the open ground.
"Run," Aeryn agrees.
***
"They shot me in the arse?"
She's turned over D'Argo's lap like she's about to be spanked as he examines the wound and from the way she's squirming around, D'Argo's powers of observation are about to short-circuit right through his mivonks.
Aeryn slaps his hand away as it cups around her double's eema. She prods the wound, eliciting another bellow and Aeryn claps her hand over the woman's mouth.
"Think they were shooting at us?"
John squats next to them in the lean-to, studiously avoiding the pile of garbage at the entrance.
"Aren't they always?"
The double bites down fiercely and Aeryn hisses, drawing her hand back to strike. The woman wiggles backwards, sliding off D'Argo's lap, mouth twisting in pain and D'Argo catches Aeryn's wrist in a gentle hold.
"Well, they weren't shooting at me."
"That may be true," Aeryn says, squatting back on her haunches. "But they did hit you. And we don't actually know that they weren't aiming for you."
John and D'Argo snort simultaneously at the twist of logic and both women cock their heads in matching glares. Aeryn stills her features first, and the woman's slow smile comes briefly into play before she deliberately mirrors Aeryn's expression.
"Dude," John breathes heavily. "She looks just like you."
"Vala Mal Doran," the woman offers, airy and bright and then gasps with pain as she attempts to kneel on the ground next to them, forming a rough circle. Her breasts jiggle in the tight confines of her glossy garment and D'Argo's eyes glaze over. Aeryn breaks his hold on her wrist and brings her fist down on his thigh with a thump. He looks at her, dazed.
"What?"
What was it John had told her? Count backwards from 10? She's at negative 15 when the woman interrupts, picking up the dropped thread of thought.
"And you're... not..." the woman, Vala, continues. "I'm guessing?"
"Not what?"
"Me."
***
Crichton’s eyes skip back and forth between the woman – Mal Doran - and Aeryn, bright and curious. His hand rests on his pistol, however, a move she approves. He sticks his head outside the flimsy tent wall and ducks back at once. “Guys, it looks like we have company.” The pistol whips free of the holster. “Sebaceans, maybe Peacekeepers.”
“Frell!” Aeryn shoulders past D’Argo and the double to poke her own head out. “They’re not Peacekeepers,” she judges. “Those aren’t Peacekeeper uniforms.” The symbols on dark green sleeves aren’t familiar, and the weaponry is decidedly alien.
“They’re zat-guns.” Mal Doran’s breathy whisper is much too close for comfort. Aeryn jams her elbow sideways without looking, and the whoof of expelled breath and the thump of the woman dropping backwards onto her eema is the best thing Aeryn’s heard all day. She meets Crichton’s eyes, raises an eyebrow at his ill-hidden grin. They both turn to the woman pouting in the center of the lean-to.
“You know their weapons,” Aeryn says. Her own pistol is aimed squarely at Mal Doran.
“Kinda makes it seem like they might know you, too.” Crichton holds his gun in a seemingly casual grip, pointed at the floor, but his stance is loose, fluid. Blue eyes flicker toward D’Argo. The Luxan raises his eyebrows. Crichton jerks his head toward the woman.
“Oh!” D’Argo folds his arms across his chest and looms over Mal Doran. Aeryn rolls her eyes; he looks more like he’s puffing his chest out than projecting danger. She’s not the only one unconvinced; their unwanted companion rolls her head back over her shoulders, and touches the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. D’Argo’s mouth falls open.
“So much for striking the fear of D’Argo into her,” Crichton mutters.
Aeryn leans forward. “Is there any reason we shouldn’t just leave you here?” They don’t need any more troubles, any more enemies.
“You’d leave a wounded man…” Mal Doran stops, a hand draping across her leather-crossed chest, then opens her eyes wide and blinks at Crichton. “You’d leave a wounded woman behind?”
Aeryn stiffens, and Crichton’s humor fades.
“We can do a quick and dirty first aid,” he says, voice hardening. “What you do after that is your business.” He reaches for the toolkit attached to his belt, unhooks it, and tosses it to the Luxan. His eyes stay on the woman. “You’re in good hands with D there.”
Vala’s explanation comes in brief bursts between teeth-gritted groans at D’Argo’s ministrations. She’s on this world to make a simple transaction, she tells them, an exchange of information and perhaps there was a misunderstanding with the local authorities…
Crichton’s smile slowly re-emerges as the woman’s theatrics continue. When she finally runs down, he rubs a hand across the back of his head and pushes to his feet. “So, basically, what you’re saying is that you need to be hale and hearty, or your contact won’t believe you’re a ‘godlike alien’,” his voice rises slightly, two fingers of either hand crooking at head-level. “Your backup team’s halfway across the city, and those guys,” one thumb hooking toward the entrance behind him, “are after you because you insulted their religion?”
“Accidentally,” Mal Doran interjects, raising a hand.
“Well, whatever the reason, you’re not going to pass as anyone’s version of a god.” Aeryn takes the toolkit D’Argo hands her and gives it back to Crichton. “You should be able to walk out of here now. Crichton, D’Argo, let’s go.” She takes a quick look outside. “It’s all clear. Come on.”
“Now, Aeryn…”
Her back straightens at the overt sympathy in the Luxan’s voice. Males, always thinking with their mivonks. She turns to find her double wincing visibly, one hand on D’Argo’s wrist as he helps her to her feet.
The grey eyes are wide and dark when Mal Doran looks up. “It’s not often I’m forced to ask for assistance.” She lowers her gaze, peeks under long lashes at Aeryn and Crichton. “But I need your help.”
“Please.”
Beside Aeryn, Crichton’s breath whooshes out in a soft sigh, and she knows any chance of leaving without further entanglement has just gone up in flames.
***
"No."
He rubs the bridge of his nose, a gesture that she knows means impatience, means reaching for tolerance. Frell him, frell all of them. She's not doing it. This is pointless.
"You look like her."
"I think we already established that, D'Argo." Her bitterness glides off him, his gaze too distracted by gleaming cleavage and bound flesh. She doesn't know whether to hit him or ignore him, to feel flattered or appalled.
John reiterates the point. "You look like her, she looks like you. More to the point, you could go get her friends, get help. Hell maybe they'd offer us some sort of assistance."
She glares at him. "We're not currently in need of assistance."
"Babe, we're always in need of assistance."
D'Argo nods vigorously.
The double lolls to her side, taking the pressure of her backside. "One never knows when one will need help. My friends are … surprisingly resourceful, at times."
"I can't imagine friends of yours offering us anything but more trouble," Aeryn bites, and the woman…Vala…lifts an eyebrow.
John snorts, reaches out to put his hand against on her thigh. She knocks it away and his voice deepens with annoyance. "Aeryn, stop it. You're pissed off and you're not thinking this through."
"What do you mean, I'm not thinking this through? We run into someone who looks just like me on an unknown planet that we don't have any record of and microts later, someone's shooting at us, or shooting at her, and you don't think I have cause to be cautious?"
"You're not being cautious, you're being pissy. There's a difference."
He stands up, and she follows, rounding on him, grabbing the lapel of his coat and propelling him backwards. He grounds his heels, pushes back against her, breath hot on her skin, cheeks flushed. She can practically feel the woman smirking at her display. Worse, she can now envision D'Argo leering at her eema. Frell.
"I don't remember you being all that excited about seeing your own doubles," she growls. He glares back for a microt, then his mouth softens. "Those guys were me. She's… not. She ain't you, babe. She's just… like you."
"I don't like it." His mouth twitches, just enough for her to feel the sting of his amusement.
"Well, neither do I," the double pitches in and Aeryn squares her shoulders.
John brushes the back of his hand against hers then steps away. When he speaks, he's both weary and conciliatory. "If you look like her, she looks like you. They're looking for her, those guys with the zits, zats, whatever they are and her contact. If they spot you, what's to keep them from hauling you in for questioning anyway? We go out there and all of us are at risk."
Vala breaks in, waving a lazy hand in the air. "Pretty soon, my friends are going to start looking for me. They'll likely cause quite a stir," she winks conspiratorially at D'Argo. "Not the best at blending in," she stage whispers, then looks back at Aeryn, gaze shrewd and calculating. "It might be best to go to them first, keep them from raising some sort of alarm."
Aeryn turns down her mouth. "And will they? Assuming you don't return?"
"Well..." Vala draws out the phrase. "Eventually they'll have to."
John cocks his head, "What, you steal their distributor cap?"
She grins widely and he smiles back, that open joyous smile that's been under wraps for the past few monens and Aeryn resists the urge to shoot them both. "Know that trick too, do you?"
He barks out a laugh and Aeryn stifles her rage.
"Let's just say it's something like that. A guarantee on my return."
She knows when she's beaten. "Fine. How do I find your friends?"
Vala struggles to sit up, then abandons the effort, leaning one elbow on D'Argo's thigh. "Darling, you can't just stroll into their rooms like that. They'll think you're being controlled and will likely shoot you on contact. At the very least, you should wear my clothing. That will buy you some time."
She limps towards Aeryn, circles her and clucks in disappointment.
The battle pony lifts from where it rests between Aeryn's shoulder blades and she resists the urge to grab Vala's wrist, snap it like a twig. "But don't you think you could be a little more imaginative with your hair?"
Before Aeryn can turn around and physically show Vala what she could do with her hair, Crichton catches her arm.
"Aeryn--"
"What?!"
Crichton holds his hands up. "Time out. Let's everyone cool our jets here."
"Seriously, you have such wonderful hair. I should know, it's mine!"
Aeryn moves to curl her hands around Vala's throat, but Crichton steps between them. "To your corners, ladies."
"I was only trying to help," pouts Vala. "Besides, I haven't done anything."
"That we know about," Aeryn muttered. A little louder, "Why exactly were you shot in the arse?"
"That's not fault! For all we know, they could have been looking for you, and I'm just an innocent victim!"
"Hardly."
Before either of them can speak, the woman's hands are behind her back, working the straps of her… shirt, if it could be called that.
Aeryn looks her up and down, ignores John's muttered whisper that sounded an awful lot like, "Please, god."
"I am certainly not wearing... that."
The garment hits her in the face, but it can't muffle the sound of D'Argo's low moan of undisguised pleasure.
"No. No nononono!"
Crichton holds up the ... vest, for want of a better word, between the tips of his forefinger and thumb.
"Aeryn, there's just as much material here as in some of the stuff you wear... it's just... distributed in different places."
Aeryn looks at the vest, looks at what she's wearing, and with much resolve fights down a shudder of revulsion. She plucks the garment from Crichton's hand.
"It should fit you just fine. Perhaps it will help distract from that sour face."
Jolting to a stop, Aeryn looks slowly over her shoulder. The woman's arms are casually crossed over her bare breasts.
Aeryn sucks in her breath and turns to face her double. The woman lifts a dark brow and twitches her mouth as she struggles to stay upright.
She throws the shirt onto the ground, and Vala tsks,. "We do appear to be the same size. And it isn't nice to treat other people's things that way."
"I will show you how to treat other people's things," Aeryn snarls and lunges towards Vala. John grabs her around the waist, and the combination of her rage and his momentum helps him lift her off the ground and spin them around.
"Ladies!" John nods towards D'Argo. "D, can you--" He waggles two fingers in a mimic of walking away.
D'Argo gently takes Vala's arm and busses her out of the tent.
"If I let you go, are you going to kick me?"
She takes a deep breath, "No. You're not the one I want to damage."
Pants and boots come flying through the tent flap and John releases his hold, hand still curved around her waist. She doesn't shrug him off.
"I'm not wearing the pants." Aeryn mutters. "There's a hole in the eema the size of your head."
***
Vala steps back into the tent a few microts later, adorned in what has to have been pilfered from one of the nearby kiosks - a much too large towel wrapped about her mid-section with the end draped judiciously over one shoulder and tucked into the knot of material near her belly button. If not for the tralkish attire, she could have passed for a native on the planet.
Crichton's jaw drops as he chants, "Toga, toga." He grins." Jim Belushi never looked that good."
Vala leans heavily on D'Argo ,one hand valiantly sweeping up and down her front as she smooths imaginary wrinkles from the material.
"You like? This feels SO much better!" She bounces- bounces! - loomas and all. That shot to the arse hadn't done nearly enough damage.
A well placed thwap to back of Crichton's head stops any sort of nonsensical reply.
Vala tenderly bends over at the waist, one hand securing the sheet of material to her chest - not secure enough as John's eyes grow wide with each dench descended. She picks up the …shirt… holds it up for Aeryn's inspection.
"Fine," she mutters.
Vala mutters something that might be "God forbid you should take advantage of your assets."
Aeryn bares her teeth in response. Then she whirls. "Out. I may be doing this, but I am not providing a show for you or D'Argo. Get out now."
The men (was that a snigger? Somebody is going to pay later) file out, D'Argo casting a wistful look over his shoulder.
Aeryn looks down and snarls. "Let us be perfectly clear. I don't trust you. I don't like you. If it were up to me, you'd be out on your eema." Her voice drops. "And if I had the first frelling idea how to get this thing on myself, you'd be out there, waiting with those two lunatics."
Vala looks up and simpers. "I don't like you either. I think you're wasting the resources God gave you, and you can stop worrying about your man because I. Don't. Want. Him." She smirks. "Now that we have that out of the way, let's get to work."
Aeryn strips off her vest, holds out her arms, wriggles, lifts, shifts, wriggles again. Vala tightens the straps and she sees stars.
"How the frell do you BREATHE?"
"Very carefully."
*
"I am NOT bleaching my hair!"
"Don't worry, it's a clip-in."
*
"I can't frelling WALK in these!"
"I'm not surprised."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not surprised. Oh, go ahead, keep your own boots on, nobody looks at them anyway most of the time. Not if you breathe carefully."
*
"Right." Vala comes to the tent-flap and coos, "Boys? You can come in now."
At Vala’s words, John takes a deep breath, schooling his features to blank. He turns to D’Argo, and noticing the gleam in his eye and the suspicious glint at the corner of his mouth, something that could, possibly be drool, smacks the other man’s bicep.
“Aeryn catches you looking like that and you better hope she only shoots you.”
“John-“
“Don’t John me. She’ll shoot you then blame me for having to shoot you. So I’ll be the one getting verbally bitch-slapped while you’re lying there all safe and dead. So, don’t John me.”
D’Argo opens his mouth to retaliate but is cut off by one cranky sounding Sebaccean.
“Do not make me come out there to get you.”
John and D’Argo look at each other, then the tent flap.
“I think you should go first.”
D’Argo pushes John towards the entrance.
John slips under D’Argo’s hand and spins behind him throwing all of his weight into his shove. Either John has gotten stronger, or D’Argo is more discombobulated than he thinks because the momentum of the shove propelled then through the door flap and onto the floor.
“Well, I’ve had men throw themselves at my feet before, but never quite so…enthusiastically.”
“Get up.”
John shoves D’Argo off, only vaguely wondering how he ended up on the bottom of their two-person pile up when he was the one pushing, and stands.
Normally, the sight before him would have been one of his fantasies come to life, except for two things. One, there’s no Jell-O, and two; the scantily clad Aeryn is fingering her pulse pistol like Linus does with his blanket. Except this blanket can kill you and Aeryn is far from a pacifist. D’Argo is valiantly trying to keep his eyes from roaming anywhere near Aeryn’s body, but like any type of car wreak, he just can’t manage it.
Aeryn’s hand twitches on the pulse pistol, Vala’s just smirking, and D’Argo hasn’t been any help since the Body-Snatcher Aeryn flashed her cleavage. Once again, it’s up to John to get them out of this particularly dangerous mess.
“Great.” John claps his hands together. “Now that you’ve switched clothes, how are we getting Aeryn to your people?”
***
"This planet has a fairly evolved caste system," Vala says, fingers sliding against the silky folds of her garment. "None of the upper class goes about in public without being shielded from the huddled masses. It's fairly easy to rent one of their transports... if you know who to speak to, and if you have the currency."
"We don't," Aeryn says, moving to holster her pulse pistol, then glancing down as the gun kept battering against her thigh. Frell, no holster. It didn't match the outfit. She snarls, looks down and does a double take. How did her breasts get that close to her face?
They look... odd that close and she presses down on the rucked-up flesh, fingers leaving a faint pink mark. She presses down again, less pressure this time and they jiggle. She presses once more, lightly and watches in astonishment as they... bounce in their containment.
The sound of a bunched fist hitting leather pulls her from the distraction and she looks up. Vala is openly amused, and John and D'Argo look sort of ill.
"Aeryn," John's voice is somewhere between strangled and reverent, " you have to stop that. I have been there done that, totally get that playing with your own boobs is more fun than peanut butter on the roof of your mouth, but I swear to god babe, if you don't stop..."
His voice trails off. "They look very nice like that," D'Argo says gravely, and John howls in hysteria. Aeryn grimaces and puts down the gun.
"Currency?" Vala chides, eyes very wide, fingers twirling a piece of hair between her fingers.
"Not enough," John says. Aeryn nods sharply, tries not to notice that her breasts are nodding as well.
"Then we'll - they'll," Vala gestures dramatically to Crichton and D'Argo, " have to steal one."
***
“They’re in the alien quarter, at the Rosoka Inn, last two doors upstairs. Rosaka’s at the corner of the first street past the district border. You can’t miss the place, it has the most appalling murals in town.” Vala runs her fingers over the leather of Aeryn’s vest, lingering at the hem, and smirks at D’Argo. She unzips the zipper with a decisive jerk.
Crichton’s raised eyebrows rise further, and whatever he was about to say falls out of his head, mouth gaping before he claps it shut. Aeryn resists the urge to throttle the woman where she stands. “Fine, how will I recognize your team?”
The corner of Vala’s mouth draws up into a half-grin, and she positively glows with anticipation. “Oh,” she murmurs, eyes dancing, gaze falling on Crichton before flicking back to Aeryn. “You can’t miss them, either.”
*a
The transport is part automated rickshaw, part turnip truck, and the engine is in the back which makes it easy for D’ to stand guard while John attempts to hotwire the engine. It should bother him more than it does that they’re pretty much going in for grand theft auto, but once people start shooting at you for one offense, it doesn’t make much difference why they keep shooting at you. Theft’s as good a reason as any.
Vala lounges against D’Argo, eyes bright and sharp and Aeryn stands stiffly, hands clenching and unclenching at her side. The pulse pistol doesn’t go with the corset, but then neither does the murderous expression and he’d like to tell her to relax, like to tell her that she looks beautiful and a little scary and that this is going to be fine - they’ll help this woman out, then go meet their maybe employer if he ever calls, and it’ll all be good. Something to laugh about over cheap raslak on some other dusty planet. Hell, maybe Vala will let her keep the corset. She looks pretty content in the semi-toga, completely at ease in her state of undress. His eyes flick back behind him, take in Aeryn’s stony impatience, Vala’s catlike stare. Okay, so she’s never gonna keep the corset.
The computer sparks, shocking him for the second time and he swears, pulls back his fingers and sucks on the singed flesh. Aeryn’s sigh is loud, dramatic and more than a little annoyed. She’s fast losing tolerance for this good Samaritan thing, and he probably shouldn’t blame her.
Vala angles forward, arm brushing against him and he can smell antiseptic and her perfume – heady and musky and deliberately enticing. Nothing subtle about this girl.
“Allow me,” she says, slipping nimble fingers into the casing. Her back is a clean curve and she has a faint scar on her hip that meanders into the low-slung band of her toga. He’d like to point it out to Aeryn, show her a difference, but he has a feeling that won’t go over to well. He keeps his peace.
Vala pulls a wire, slots it into an empty outlet and simultaneously presses a sequence of numbers into the computer. The rickshaw rumbles and shutters and beeps to life.
“After you,” she gestures, and D’Argo’s mouth twitches with contained laughter. “I’ll program it to take us to the edge of the alien quarter.”
The rickshaw would be crowded for three people. Four makes him feel bad for sardines, and while having Aeryn sit on his lap would normally be something he'd take full advantage of, the reality of a cranky Peacekeeper in a really tight shirt sitting very close to delicate parts of his anatomy wasn’t playing as close to his imaginings as he’d hoped. He's spent most of the bumpy journey staying clear of bony elbows and sharp shins, and finally, after she shifts one way and he shifts another and his testicles go running for the hills, he wraps his arm across her hips, jerking her tight against his body.
“I don’t know if you ever want to use those again,” he whispers hotly into her ear, figuring honesty for the best policy, “but I do. If you don’t stop squirming, neither of us is gonna be left with much of an option.”
Her body stills, and then with subtle deliberation, she rolls her hips until she’s flush to his pelvis, weight resting on his thigh, the curve of her ass pressing into his groin.
She put her hands primly on her lap, and his fingers flex against her hip as he sucks in his breath.
“Better?” she asks, low and quiet, no hint that she knows what she’s just done. He lets his mouth brush against her bare back and she shivers.
“You could say that,” he says.
***
Murals. Almost every building sports them, ranging from small depictions of apparent deities blessing supplicants, to those same deities raining fire upon cowering armies. That’s the dominant theme, until Aeryn reaches the alien quarter. At that point, the artwork becomes distinctly secular in nature. Three-eyed Traskans dance in sinuous rhythms, captured mid-motion. Scarrans battle Coreeshi, and a myriad of voices roar from the hall’s entrance. Sebaceans procreate on every fifth wall, it appears.
Aeryn finds the inn as easily as Vala indicated, the fading mural an especially badly-drawn pair of Sebacean females…tending to a metallic figure of enormous proportions, an animal’s head in place of a face. Out in front, hands shielding his eyes from the sun, a tall Sebacean male stares up at the display. His perusal is slow, and he checks when her foot scuffs the ground, his head turning swiftly.
“So you made it back,” he drawls, and Aeryn’s hand reaches for a pistol that isn’t on her thigh. The voice is Crichton’s. The man turns, and she freezes. Not frelling again she thinks, and remembers the unveiled glee in Vala’s face.
“Who are you?” she demands, hands fisted at her sides.
Blue eyes map her frame, then meet her gaze frankly. “I reckon I could ask the same.”
He’s not Crichton; that is the one thing Aeryn is sure of. This man is leaner, possibly older, certainly more wary than the human she first met. Her eyes skate down his frame, noting a faint sense of unease about him. He seems less than comfortable in the light brown leathers, and his fingers rest behind the edge of the duster that hangs down, where a holster might be hidden on his thigh.
“Vala sent me,” she informs him, her own hand restless without a weapon to hold. “She’s hurt, and said ‘Daniel’ would know what to do.” Hair flips against her shoulder, strands whipping lightly at her cheek. Aeryn knows the answer even before she asks. “Are you Daniel?”
“He is not.”
Frell! She reaches for her pulse pistol, slaps smooth thigh instead, whirling to keep both men in view. The new speaker is massive. Dark skin, impassive expression, silent despite his bulk. A warrior, then, and known to the other, who gave no sign of his approach. Aeryn’s heart pounds. Weaponless and over-exposed, she doesn’t retreat, has already given too much of herself away with her reaction. She straightens, wary and ready to move in an instant.
The men flank her position already, less than two motras in front of her, forcing her to split her attention. Combat experience, says the tactician in her. Soldiers. And that tells her who they are, because while Vala had been sparse with physical detail, continued prodding had drawn forth a few details of her comrades.
“Vala sent me to find Daniel. You are Mitchell and Teal’c. Now, there isn’t time to waste on stupid questions, so either take me to Daniel, or bring him to me. I have no intention of waiting here in the street to be shot by the people who shot Vala.”
The man who looks like Crichton tilts his head back just a bit, brow wrinkling, then throws a glance at the other. Aeryn digs her fingers into her palm. It’s beyond bizarre, and a distraction she can’t afford, noting the stretch of material across his chest, the familiar face with unfamiliar distance. She shakes it off, focuses on the men before her.
“Let’s move this inside. Ma’am?”
Aeryn nods slightly. Crazy plan or not, she’s in it now. Following the first man into the inn, she keeps her senses tuned for the second, and the three of them wind up in the shadow of the wooden stairs. A swinging door in the wall behind releases the scent of cooking food. Aeryn slows, stops. She feels painfully exposed in the inadequate garments, her wariness increasing in the emptiness of the large chamber. Her pulse is faster than she’d like.
“Should we not search for weapons, Colonel Mitchell?” Dark eyes watch her closely as the quiet warrior moves to mirror their earlier standoff. Tension coils beneath dark skin, muscled bare arms folded over a broad chest.
Mitchell nods. “Just a precaution,” he says briskly, watching Aeryn. “Teal’c.” A glance at his comrade receives a subtle tilt of the man’s head in reply.
Aeryn’s spine stiffens. She stands ram-rod straight while surprisingly light hands pass over her, quick and efficient – and not finding the small blades stashed in the flimsy silks’ lining.
“Right. Let’s go.” The lookalike waves toward the stair. “Ladies first.”
That’s something Crichton would say. Aeryn scowls at him, then turns sharply away and marches up the creaky steps.
***
Daniel stares glumly at his translation. That's a Tenth-dynasty hieroglyph! What's it doing in a supposedly Fourth-dynasty inscription?
The door opens, and Vala strides in.
Or is it Vala? The face is right, the body is right, but the rest is ... wrong. Very wrong. Her stance is aggressive rather than challenging; "I can take you" rather than "You want to take me." This woman wouldn't know seduction if it started licking her navel. Which is exposed, but is also somehow ...off.
God, she's possessed again. Daniel yanks his zat.
"What the FRELL are you doing?" Before he has any idea what is going on, he's flat on his back, she's sitting on his chest, and something a lot nastier than a zat is grinding into his left ear.
"I need an explanation. Fast."
"You're not Vala!" Because Vala would be grinding her hips into him at this point.
She shrugs. "I told Crichton this wouldn't work."
"Crichton? Which Goa'uld is he?"
She rolls her eyes; that, at least, is familiar. "He's not a Goa'uld -- whatever that is -- he's from Earth." The "th" is oddly forced, as if it isn't a phoneme she's easy with. "And Vala's in trouble. It was decided that I could convince you to help." Her mouth twisted, wry amusement dancing at the edges.
"By pretending to be Vala?"
"It's a Crichton plan. They never make sense. You're supposed to help us because I look like Vala." She pauses. "I'm obviously not Vala. I'm Off..." she swallows, bites off the word. "Aeryn Sun."
"That's your name?"
"Yes."
"And what exactly did Vala tell you that made you think we'd want to help her?" He can't keep the snap out of his voice.
She shrugs again. What would, in Vala, be an exercise in dancing cleavage is, in Aeryn Sun, simply a gesture. Oh, the cleavage is there, and just as enticing as ever, but she seems oblivious to its effect. It's odd dealing with an alternate Vala, a Vala using no wiles at all. Odd and, he, admits, disturbing. Sam, career Air Force officer that she is, still reads as a woman-- a tough woman, perhaps, but definitely female; there's always a tiny frisson along his nerves when she's in the room. Aeryn reads as nothing he's familiar with; he could be a eunuch for all the attention she's paying to him. Vanity he didn't even know he had is being injured. Vala at least plays on his sexual attraction to her; Aeryn doesn't notice it's there.
She frowns at him. "Vala said you wouldn't believe me because you think I'm her and she always lies. She said I should give you a sentence."
"What sentence?" On second thought, he really shouldn't have asked.
"She said "-- Aeryn frowns in concentration -- "'Remember the Senator with the tiny dick'. " She tilts her head. "Although I can't think why one would."
Daniel pounds his head against the floor. That's Vala, all right.
Speaking of Vala... "What did she offer you to help us?"
The scowl deepens. "Nothing. But Crichton made a promise." Her expression says Crichton will be paying for that in the none-too-distant future.
"Are you going to keep that promise?"
She snorts. "Drop the gun and I'll let you up."
He drops the zat; it's not as if it's doing him any good at the moment. She moves the knife away from his neck, secures it somewhere, sending her cleavage into another swelling jiggle and takes his zat She stands up. It's a display of strength; she keeps him firmly in her sights at all times while rising to full height without visible effort. He clambers up, considerably less gracefully, reassesses her wiles, reassess his own reaction to that body doing those things.
"What, exactly, did you need that woman to do?"
"Um..." he suspects she's not going to like this ..."Pretendtobeagoddess".
Her expression darkens further. "Fine. Let's go."
"Er.... goddesses don't dress like that."
"You mean I strapped myself into this THING for no reason? I knew I should have punched her while I had a chance."
He grimaces. "You aren't the first person to say that. Anyway, the goddess costume is over there." Her gaze follows his finger; the zat muzzle does not.
"Would you PLEASE point that weapon somewhere else?"
She frowns. "I don't trust you."
"We don't trust you, either. And you've got Vala as hostage!"
Aeryn mutters "I'd think you'd pay us to dispose of her", but she lowers the weapon and strides over to investigate the gold outfit.
" NO! Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES! I'd rather shoot my way off this frelling planet!"
He brings out the only weapon he has. "Crichton prom---"
She whirls and scowls. "Not you, too! Turn your frelling back; I've been leered at quite enough for one day."
He turns his back; there are rustling sounds interspersed with curses. If he spends much more time with Aeryn, he'll have a whole new vocabulary; a linguistically interesting vocabulary, full of back-clicks and glottal stops. He should get a recording for further --
A snarl interrupts his thoughts. "I can't get out of it by myself."
There's an implicit order there instead of an exaggerated come on. He turns, sees her body nearly bare except for some brief black shorts and the corset contraption Vala had worn despite several requests to change her clothes.
Aeryn's back is ramrod straight and she fumbles for the clasps, unable to get enough purchase to loosen them despite her easy flexibility. "Frelling tralk," she mutters and claws for the end of the straps. Daniel tries to not get swatted, takes a hold of the edge of the strap, draws it taut, then loosens it from its hook.
"Oh frelling hezmana, that's better…" Aeryn breathes and her ribs expand as he undoes the other straps. She slips it from her body and he glances at the milk pale skin. There are slim scars near her ribs, lean muscle over prominent bones. Her body is fine and honed, and his comparison to a blade seems even more appropriate.
"I'll, uh…be over there." She doesn't bother to acknowledge that, just grabs the dress.
*
"Where do you put a gun in this thing?"
He turns around and his jaw drops. "I don't think you can."
A goddess does indeed stand before him, but its Athena rather than Aphrodite. By the set of her jaw, anybody who doesn't kneel down and worship is going to spend the next thousand years having his liver gnawed by eagles. The dress is gold lamé and skin-tight -- if Vala owns anything that's not skin-tight, he's never seen it -- and it clings to her curves just as nicely as it would to Vala's. She doesn't stand anything like Vala; straight up and down with her weight balanced for sudden moves. He's struck by a thought. "Walk toward me."
She strides; there's a ripping noise as the skirt's back slit opens a couple of inches higher.
"She doesn't walk like that."
""I've seen how she walks; don't hold your breath. Where's this damned congregation I have to impress?"
"We, uh, have to go to them." He pauses as a thought occurs. "We… how exactly did you get in here without encountering… anyone else?"
She gives him a wide feral grin. "I didn't. They promised the expression on your face would be worthwhile."
Daniel sighs with his whole body and nods. "The uh, walking. You should try it… when we get there."
"When we get there," she says, sour and not terrible conciliatory.
He purses his mouth and gestures towards the door. She stalks ahead of him, as much as she can stalk in the dress, as if she were preparing to attack a castle single-handedly. He admires the rear view for purely aesthetic reasons, but he can't muster much enthusiasm.
This near-Vala has everything Vala lacks. She's truthful, un-coquettish, and straightforward as a drawn blade. He wonders what's happened to his brain that he misses the sway of hip, and the sex on a stick walk. He doesn't wonder what's wrong with him that this woman makes him think of death instead of sex. He may not understand her language, but he's gotten very good at reading signs. At least he doesn't have to keep checking for his wallet.
cofax7 had a birthday, and because she is much adored, fic was started, a fannish crossover as it were with a slew of fabulous, talented contributing authors including: jonquil, cretkid, fbf, kernezelda, rubberneck, and rydra_wong who is currently rivaling C. in toaster accumulation:)Between the lot of us, we threw in scenes based on a LOOSE (and I mean that in every sense of the word) plot amalgamation. The plot can still be described largely as thin to transparent:)
And then it sat, and sat, and sat, until, inspired by the lure of Claudia Black on my television tonight, I conspired to finish it before the end of the week this week. So, please feel free to blame everyone involved for any slips, flubs or missteps:) Fellow contributors, feel equally free to blame me if the scene in your head got modified for the story, or failed to go anywhere near where it was intended.
Title: The Universe and These Women; Or Proper Use of the Doppleganger 5000
Authors: Thea, Jonquil, Cretkid, Kernezelda, Feldman, Rydra Wong, and FBF (who also did what beta was done).
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Farscape/Stargate Crossover (Late S2 for FS, Early S9, pre-Beachead for SG-1)
Disclaimers: All mistakes are our own, mine in particular. This puppy is (for now) beta free. Anyone wants to beta and I'll happily take you up on it. Obviously none of these characters belong to me or to anyone else involved. Otherwise, wardrobe choices would be seriously different.
So enjoy, and don't forget to feed the authors (yes all of them). Feedback is ALWAYS appreciated.
It's like pointing a gun at herself, or at least a weird distorted version of herself because there isn't a treznot's chance in hezmana that she'd wear anything that made her breasts do... that; would never stand there with such targeted insolence, hand on her hip, smirk on her face at the prospect of pointing a gun at herself...
Aeryn growls at the absurd dichotomy, at the doubling back of vision and perception, and shifts her stance to outright aggression. Her almost double seems to take the hint, straightens her own supple back and puts her hands in the air.
"Who the frell are you?"
She's had enough of doubles and triples, enough of the absurdity of multiple Crichtons, multiple variations and she'll be damned if she's going to deal with herself on any level of the evolutionary scale. John may have felt a flitter of compassion for his own genes, but all she feels is rage.
The doppleganger smiles, wide and seductive, and the thrumb of anger tingles in Aeryn's fingertips. She could shoot the imposter, be done with it, not ask, not have to frelling know the answer. Just as her finger twitches on the trigger, something hard and heavy slams into her back. She stumbles forward. A strong hand grabs her, yanks her backwards, keeps her from the ground, and John exhales, hot and startled into her ear, "Whoa!"
The woman drops her hands, rests them on her hips and lets out a long slow whistle. John's grip tightens.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
Frell, she even sounds the same, voice low and rich and speaking... English? Can't be, the syllables and dipthongs familiar but distant and Aeryn lets it go. The momentary shock gives her time to recovers her poise and her precision and the gun comes back up to play.
The double's eyes widen, and she tosses one of her tails of hair over her shoulder.
"I'm not armed."
She takes a step forward, then another, a slow sauntering challenge and its all Aeryn can do to not shoot her.
"What the...?"
They're a three alien pile-up, D'Argo careening into the back of them like that ridiculous game of John's and they all teeter-totter forward as the woman looks on in open amusement.
"When I mentioned limited gene pools, I didn't realize I was talking about my own," she murmurs with a husky laugh, eyes sliding over John, over D'Argo, over Aeryn herself, head tilting with a slow, seductive sweep. Aeryn elbows D'Argo, shoves away from John and growls, "Stop or I will shoot you."
The woman closes her mouth, the glossy hair dancing around her shoulders as she does her own assessment. "I'm sure you would, but..."
The shot is loud, electricity a sly crackly arc in the air. The woman's bellow is louder as she tumbles forward, clutching her thigh.
"Every frelling planet," D'Argo mumbles, catching the double as she falls, hiking her up onto his shoulder.
"Run?" yells John, feet already pelting over the open ground.
"Run," Aeryn agrees.
***
"They shot me in the arse?"
She's turned over D'Argo's lap like she's about to be spanked as he examines the wound and from the way she's squirming around, D'Argo's powers of observation are about to short-circuit right through his mivonks.
Aeryn slaps his hand away as it cups around her double's eema. She prods the wound, eliciting another bellow and Aeryn claps her hand over the woman's mouth.
"Think they were shooting at us?"
John squats next to them in the lean-to, studiously avoiding the pile of garbage at the entrance.
"Aren't they always?"
The double bites down fiercely and Aeryn hisses, drawing her hand back to strike. The woman wiggles backwards, sliding off D'Argo's lap, mouth twisting in pain and D'Argo catches Aeryn's wrist in a gentle hold.
"Well, they weren't shooting at me."
"That may be true," Aeryn says, squatting back on her haunches. "But they did hit you. And we don't actually know that they weren't aiming for you."
John and D'Argo snort simultaneously at the twist of logic and both women cock their heads in matching glares. Aeryn stills her features first, and the woman's slow smile comes briefly into play before she deliberately mirrors Aeryn's expression.
"Dude," John breathes heavily. "She looks just like you."
"Vala Mal Doran," the woman offers, airy and bright and then gasps with pain as she attempts to kneel on the ground next to them, forming a rough circle. Her breasts jiggle in the tight confines of her glossy garment and D'Argo's eyes glaze over. Aeryn breaks his hold on her wrist and brings her fist down on his thigh with a thump. He looks at her, dazed.
"What?"
What was it John had told her? Count backwards from 10? She's at negative 15 when the woman interrupts, picking up the dropped thread of thought.
"And you're... not..." the woman, Vala, continues. "I'm guessing?"
"Not what?"
"Me."
***
Crichton’s eyes skip back and forth between the woman – Mal Doran - and Aeryn, bright and curious. His hand rests on his pistol, however, a move she approves. He sticks his head outside the flimsy tent wall and ducks back at once. “Guys, it looks like we have company.” The pistol whips free of the holster. “Sebaceans, maybe Peacekeepers.”
“Frell!” Aeryn shoulders past D’Argo and the double to poke her own head out. “They’re not Peacekeepers,” she judges. “Those aren’t Peacekeeper uniforms.” The symbols on dark green sleeves aren’t familiar, and the weaponry is decidedly alien.
“They’re zat-guns.” Mal Doran’s breathy whisper is much too close for comfort. Aeryn jams her elbow sideways without looking, and the whoof of expelled breath and the thump of the woman dropping backwards onto her eema is the best thing Aeryn’s heard all day. She meets Crichton’s eyes, raises an eyebrow at his ill-hidden grin. They both turn to the woman pouting in the center of the lean-to.
“You know their weapons,” Aeryn says. Her own pistol is aimed squarely at Mal Doran.
“Kinda makes it seem like they might know you, too.” Crichton holds his gun in a seemingly casual grip, pointed at the floor, but his stance is loose, fluid. Blue eyes flicker toward D’Argo. The Luxan raises his eyebrows. Crichton jerks his head toward the woman.
“Oh!” D’Argo folds his arms across his chest and looms over Mal Doran. Aeryn rolls her eyes; he looks more like he’s puffing his chest out than projecting danger. She’s not the only one unconvinced; their unwanted companion rolls her head back over her shoulders, and touches the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. D’Argo’s mouth falls open.
“So much for striking the fear of D’Argo into her,” Crichton mutters.
Aeryn leans forward. “Is there any reason we shouldn’t just leave you here?” They don’t need any more troubles, any more enemies.
“You’d leave a wounded man…” Mal Doran stops, a hand draping across her leather-crossed chest, then opens her eyes wide and blinks at Crichton. “You’d leave a wounded woman behind?”
Aeryn stiffens, and Crichton’s humor fades.
“We can do a quick and dirty first aid,” he says, voice hardening. “What you do after that is your business.” He reaches for the toolkit attached to his belt, unhooks it, and tosses it to the Luxan. His eyes stay on the woman. “You’re in good hands with D there.”
Vala’s explanation comes in brief bursts between teeth-gritted groans at D’Argo’s ministrations. She’s on this world to make a simple transaction, she tells them, an exchange of information and perhaps there was a misunderstanding with the local authorities…
Crichton’s smile slowly re-emerges as the woman’s theatrics continue. When she finally runs down, he rubs a hand across the back of his head and pushes to his feet. “So, basically, what you’re saying is that you need to be hale and hearty, or your contact won’t believe you’re a ‘godlike alien’,” his voice rises slightly, two fingers of either hand crooking at head-level. “Your backup team’s halfway across the city, and those guys,” one thumb hooking toward the entrance behind him, “are after you because you insulted their religion?”
“Accidentally,” Mal Doran interjects, raising a hand.
“Well, whatever the reason, you’re not going to pass as anyone’s version of a god.” Aeryn takes the toolkit D’Argo hands her and gives it back to Crichton. “You should be able to walk out of here now. Crichton, D’Argo, let’s go.” She takes a quick look outside. “It’s all clear. Come on.”
“Now, Aeryn…”
Her back straightens at the overt sympathy in the Luxan’s voice. Males, always thinking with their mivonks. She turns to find her double wincing visibly, one hand on D’Argo’s wrist as he helps her to her feet.
The grey eyes are wide and dark when Mal Doran looks up. “It’s not often I’m forced to ask for assistance.” She lowers her gaze, peeks under long lashes at Aeryn and Crichton. “But I need your help.”
“Please.”
Beside Aeryn, Crichton’s breath whooshes out in a soft sigh, and she knows any chance of leaving without further entanglement has just gone up in flames.
***
"No."
He rubs the bridge of his nose, a gesture that she knows means impatience, means reaching for tolerance. Frell him, frell all of them. She's not doing it. This is pointless.
"You look like her."
"I think we already established that, D'Argo." Her bitterness glides off him, his gaze too distracted by gleaming cleavage and bound flesh. She doesn't know whether to hit him or ignore him, to feel flattered or appalled.
John reiterates the point. "You look like her, she looks like you. More to the point, you could go get her friends, get help. Hell maybe they'd offer us some sort of assistance."
She glares at him. "We're not currently in need of assistance."
"Babe, we're always in need of assistance."
D'Argo nods vigorously.
The double lolls to her side, taking the pressure of her backside. "One never knows when one will need help. My friends are … surprisingly resourceful, at times."
"I can't imagine friends of yours offering us anything but more trouble," Aeryn bites, and the woman…Vala…lifts an eyebrow.
John snorts, reaches out to put his hand against on her thigh. She knocks it away and his voice deepens with annoyance. "Aeryn, stop it. You're pissed off and you're not thinking this through."
"What do you mean, I'm not thinking this through? We run into someone who looks just like me on an unknown planet that we don't have any record of and microts later, someone's shooting at us, or shooting at her, and you don't think I have cause to be cautious?"
"You're not being cautious, you're being pissy. There's a difference."
He stands up, and she follows, rounding on him, grabbing the lapel of his coat and propelling him backwards. He grounds his heels, pushes back against her, breath hot on her skin, cheeks flushed. She can practically feel the woman smirking at her display. Worse, she can now envision D'Argo leering at her eema. Frell.
"I don't remember you being all that excited about seeing your own doubles," she growls. He glares back for a microt, then his mouth softens. "Those guys were me. She's… not. She ain't you, babe. She's just… like you."
"I don't like it." His mouth twitches, just enough for her to feel the sting of his amusement.
"Well, neither do I," the double pitches in and Aeryn squares her shoulders.
John brushes the back of his hand against hers then steps away. When he speaks, he's both weary and conciliatory. "If you look like her, she looks like you. They're looking for her, those guys with the zits, zats, whatever they are and her contact. If they spot you, what's to keep them from hauling you in for questioning anyway? We go out there and all of us are at risk."
Vala breaks in, waving a lazy hand in the air. "Pretty soon, my friends are going to start looking for me. They'll likely cause quite a stir," she winks conspiratorially at D'Argo. "Not the best at blending in," she stage whispers, then looks back at Aeryn, gaze shrewd and calculating. "It might be best to go to them first, keep them from raising some sort of alarm."
Aeryn turns down her mouth. "And will they? Assuming you don't return?"
"Well..." Vala draws out the phrase. "Eventually they'll have to."
John cocks his head, "What, you steal their distributor cap?"
She grins widely and he smiles back, that open joyous smile that's been under wraps for the past few monens and Aeryn resists the urge to shoot them both. "Know that trick too, do you?"
He barks out a laugh and Aeryn stifles her rage.
"Let's just say it's something like that. A guarantee on my return."
She knows when she's beaten. "Fine. How do I find your friends?"
Vala struggles to sit up, then abandons the effort, leaning one elbow on D'Argo's thigh. "Darling, you can't just stroll into their rooms like that. They'll think you're being controlled and will likely shoot you on contact. At the very least, you should wear my clothing. That will buy you some time."
She limps towards Aeryn, circles her and clucks in disappointment.
The battle pony lifts from where it rests between Aeryn's shoulder blades and she resists the urge to grab Vala's wrist, snap it like a twig. "But don't you think you could be a little more imaginative with your hair?"
Before Aeryn can turn around and physically show Vala what she could do with her hair, Crichton catches her arm.
"Aeryn--"
"What?!"
Crichton holds his hands up. "Time out. Let's everyone cool our jets here."
"Seriously, you have such wonderful hair. I should know, it's mine!"
Aeryn moves to curl her hands around Vala's throat, but Crichton steps between them. "To your corners, ladies."
"I was only trying to help," pouts Vala. "Besides, I haven't done anything."
"That we know about," Aeryn muttered. A little louder, "Why exactly were you shot in the arse?"
"That's not fault! For all we know, they could have been looking for you, and I'm just an innocent victim!"
"Hardly."
Before either of them can speak, the woman's hands are behind her back, working the straps of her… shirt, if it could be called that.
Aeryn looks her up and down, ignores John's muttered whisper that sounded an awful lot like, "Please, god."
"I am certainly not wearing... that."
The garment hits her in the face, but it can't muffle the sound of D'Argo's low moan of undisguised pleasure.
"No. No nononono!"
Crichton holds up the ... vest, for want of a better word, between the tips of his forefinger and thumb.
"Aeryn, there's just as much material here as in some of the stuff you wear... it's just... distributed in different places."
Aeryn looks at the vest, looks at what she's wearing, and with much resolve fights down a shudder of revulsion. She plucks the garment from Crichton's hand.
"It should fit you just fine. Perhaps it will help distract from that sour face."
Jolting to a stop, Aeryn looks slowly over her shoulder. The woman's arms are casually crossed over her bare breasts.
Aeryn sucks in her breath and turns to face her double. The woman lifts a dark brow and twitches her mouth as she struggles to stay upright.
She throws the shirt onto the ground, and Vala tsks,. "We do appear to be the same size. And it isn't nice to treat other people's things that way."
"I will show you how to treat other people's things," Aeryn snarls and lunges towards Vala. John grabs her around the waist, and the combination of her rage and his momentum helps him lift her off the ground and spin them around.
"Ladies!" John nods towards D'Argo. "D, can you--" He waggles two fingers in a mimic of walking away.
D'Argo gently takes Vala's arm and busses her out of the tent.
"If I let you go, are you going to kick me?"
She takes a deep breath, "No. You're not the one I want to damage."
Pants and boots come flying through the tent flap and John releases his hold, hand still curved around her waist. She doesn't shrug him off.
"I'm not wearing the pants." Aeryn mutters. "There's a hole in the eema the size of your head."
***
Vala steps back into the tent a few microts later, adorned in what has to have been pilfered from one of the nearby kiosks - a much too large towel wrapped about her mid-section with the end draped judiciously over one shoulder and tucked into the knot of material near her belly button. If not for the tralkish attire, she could have passed for a native on the planet.
Crichton's jaw drops as he chants, "Toga, toga." He grins." Jim Belushi never looked that good."
Vala leans heavily on D'Argo ,one hand valiantly sweeping up and down her front as she smooths imaginary wrinkles from the material.
"You like? This feels SO much better!" She bounces- bounces! - loomas and all. That shot to the arse hadn't done nearly enough damage.
A well placed thwap to back of Crichton's head stops any sort of nonsensical reply.
Vala tenderly bends over at the waist, one hand securing the sheet of material to her chest - not secure enough as John's eyes grow wide with each dench descended. She picks up the …shirt… holds it up for Aeryn's inspection.
"Fine," she mutters.
Vala mutters something that might be "God forbid you should take advantage of your assets."
Aeryn bares her teeth in response. Then she whirls. "Out. I may be doing this, but I am not providing a show for you or D'Argo. Get out now."
The men (was that a snigger? Somebody is going to pay later) file out, D'Argo casting a wistful look over his shoulder.
Aeryn looks down and snarls. "Let us be perfectly clear. I don't trust you. I don't like you. If it were up to me, you'd be out on your eema." Her voice drops. "And if I had the first frelling idea how to get this thing on myself, you'd be out there, waiting with those two lunatics."
Vala looks up and simpers. "I don't like you either. I think you're wasting the resources God gave you, and you can stop worrying about your man because I. Don't. Want. Him." She smirks. "Now that we have that out of the way, let's get to work."
Aeryn strips off her vest, holds out her arms, wriggles, lifts, shifts, wriggles again. Vala tightens the straps and she sees stars.
"How the frell do you BREATHE?"
"Very carefully."
*
"I am NOT bleaching my hair!"
"Don't worry, it's a clip-in."
*
"I can't frelling WALK in these!"
"I'm not surprised."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not surprised. Oh, go ahead, keep your own boots on, nobody looks at them anyway most of the time. Not if you breathe carefully."
*
"Right." Vala comes to the tent-flap and coos, "Boys? You can come in now."
At Vala’s words, John takes a deep breath, schooling his features to blank. He turns to D’Argo, and noticing the gleam in his eye and the suspicious glint at the corner of his mouth, something that could, possibly be drool, smacks the other man’s bicep.
“Aeryn catches you looking like that and you better hope she only shoots you.”
“John-“
“Don’t John me. She’ll shoot you then blame me for having to shoot you. So I’ll be the one getting verbally bitch-slapped while you’re lying there all safe and dead. So, don’t John me.”
D’Argo opens his mouth to retaliate but is cut off by one cranky sounding Sebaccean.
“Do not make me come out there to get you.”
John and D’Argo look at each other, then the tent flap.
“I think you should go first.”
D’Argo pushes John towards the entrance.
John slips under D’Argo’s hand and spins behind him throwing all of his weight into his shove. Either John has gotten stronger, or D’Argo is more discombobulated than he thinks because the momentum of the shove propelled then through the door flap and onto the floor.
“Well, I’ve had men throw themselves at my feet before, but never quite so…enthusiastically.”
“Get up.”
John shoves D’Argo off, only vaguely wondering how he ended up on the bottom of their two-person pile up when he was the one pushing, and stands.
Normally, the sight before him would have been one of his fantasies come to life, except for two things. One, there’s no Jell-O, and two; the scantily clad Aeryn is fingering her pulse pistol like Linus does with his blanket. Except this blanket can kill you and Aeryn is far from a pacifist. D’Argo is valiantly trying to keep his eyes from roaming anywhere near Aeryn’s body, but like any type of car wreak, he just can’t manage it.
Aeryn’s hand twitches on the pulse pistol, Vala’s just smirking, and D’Argo hasn’t been any help since the Body-Snatcher Aeryn flashed her cleavage. Once again, it’s up to John to get them out of this particularly dangerous mess.
“Great.” John claps his hands together. “Now that you’ve switched clothes, how are we getting Aeryn to your people?”
***
"This planet has a fairly evolved caste system," Vala says, fingers sliding against the silky folds of her garment. "None of the upper class goes about in public without being shielded from the huddled masses. It's fairly easy to rent one of their transports... if you know who to speak to, and if you have the currency."
"We don't," Aeryn says, moving to holster her pulse pistol, then glancing down as the gun kept battering against her thigh. Frell, no holster. It didn't match the outfit. She snarls, looks down and does a double take. How did her breasts get that close to her face?
They look... odd that close and she presses down on the rucked-up flesh, fingers leaving a faint pink mark. She presses down again, less pressure this time and they jiggle. She presses once more, lightly and watches in astonishment as they... bounce in their containment.
The sound of a bunched fist hitting leather pulls her from the distraction and she looks up. Vala is openly amused, and John and D'Argo look sort of ill.
"Aeryn," John's voice is somewhere between strangled and reverent, " you have to stop that. I have been there done that, totally get that playing with your own boobs is more fun than peanut butter on the roof of your mouth, but I swear to god babe, if you don't stop..."
His voice trails off. "They look very nice like that," D'Argo says gravely, and John howls in hysteria. Aeryn grimaces and puts down the gun.
"Currency?" Vala chides, eyes very wide, fingers twirling a piece of hair between her fingers.
"Not enough," John says. Aeryn nods sharply, tries not to notice that her breasts are nodding as well.
"Then we'll - they'll," Vala gestures dramatically to Crichton and D'Argo, " have to steal one."
***
“They’re in the alien quarter, at the Rosoka Inn, last two doors upstairs. Rosaka’s at the corner of the first street past the district border. You can’t miss the place, it has the most appalling murals in town.” Vala runs her fingers over the leather of Aeryn’s vest, lingering at the hem, and smirks at D’Argo. She unzips the zipper with a decisive jerk.
Crichton’s raised eyebrows rise further, and whatever he was about to say falls out of his head, mouth gaping before he claps it shut. Aeryn resists the urge to throttle the woman where she stands. “Fine, how will I recognize your team?”
The corner of Vala’s mouth draws up into a half-grin, and she positively glows with anticipation. “Oh,” she murmurs, eyes dancing, gaze falling on Crichton before flicking back to Aeryn. “You can’t miss them, either.”
*a
The transport is part automated rickshaw, part turnip truck, and the engine is in the back which makes it easy for D’ to stand guard while John attempts to hotwire the engine. It should bother him more than it does that they’re pretty much going in for grand theft auto, but once people start shooting at you for one offense, it doesn’t make much difference why they keep shooting at you. Theft’s as good a reason as any.
Vala lounges against D’Argo, eyes bright and sharp and Aeryn stands stiffly, hands clenching and unclenching at her side. The pulse pistol doesn’t go with the corset, but then neither does the murderous expression and he’d like to tell her to relax, like to tell her that she looks beautiful and a little scary and that this is going to be fine - they’ll help this woman out, then go meet their maybe employer if he ever calls, and it’ll all be good. Something to laugh about over cheap raslak on some other dusty planet. Hell, maybe Vala will let her keep the corset. She looks pretty content in the semi-toga, completely at ease in her state of undress. His eyes flick back behind him, take in Aeryn’s stony impatience, Vala’s catlike stare. Okay, so she’s never gonna keep the corset.
The computer sparks, shocking him for the second time and he swears, pulls back his fingers and sucks on the singed flesh. Aeryn’s sigh is loud, dramatic and more than a little annoyed. She’s fast losing tolerance for this good Samaritan thing, and he probably shouldn’t blame her.
Vala angles forward, arm brushing against him and he can smell antiseptic and her perfume – heady and musky and deliberately enticing. Nothing subtle about this girl.
“Allow me,” she says, slipping nimble fingers into the casing. Her back is a clean curve and she has a faint scar on her hip that meanders into the low-slung band of her toga. He’d like to point it out to Aeryn, show her a difference, but he has a feeling that won’t go over to well. He keeps his peace.
Vala pulls a wire, slots it into an empty outlet and simultaneously presses a sequence of numbers into the computer. The rickshaw rumbles and shutters and beeps to life.
“After you,” she gestures, and D’Argo’s mouth twitches with contained laughter. “I’ll program it to take us to the edge of the alien quarter.”
The rickshaw would be crowded for three people. Four makes him feel bad for sardines, and while having Aeryn sit on his lap would normally be something he'd take full advantage of, the reality of a cranky Peacekeeper in a really tight shirt sitting very close to delicate parts of his anatomy wasn’t playing as close to his imaginings as he’d hoped. He's spent most of the bumpy journey staying clear of bony elbows and sharp shins, and finally, after she shifts one way and he shifts another and his testicles go running for the hills, he wraps his arm across her hips, jerking her tight against his body.
“I don’t know if you ever want to use those again,” he whispers hotly into her ear, figuring honesty for the best policy, “but I do. If you don’t stop squirming, neither of us is gonna be left with much of an option.”
Her body stills, and then with subtle deliberation, she rolls her hips until she’s flush to his pelvis, weight resting on his thigh, the curve of her ass pressing into his groin.
She put her hands primly on her lap, and his fingers flex against her hip as he sucks in his breath.
“Better?” she asks, low and quiet, no hint that she knows what she’s just done. He lets his mouth brush against her bare back and she shivers.
“You could say that,” he says.
***
Murals. Almost every building sports them, ranging from small depictions of apparent deities blessing supplicants, to those same deities raining fire upon cowering armies. That’s the dominant theme, until Aeryn reaches the alien quarter. At that point, the artwork becomes distinctly secular in nature. Three-eyed Traskans dance in sinuous rhythms, captured mid-motion. Scarrans battle Coreeshi, and a myriad of voices roar from the hall’s entrance. Sebaceans procreate on every fifth wall, it appears.
Aeryn finds the inn as easily as Vala indicated, the fading mural an especially badly-drawn pair of Sebacean females…tending to a metallic figure of enormous proportions, an animal’s head in place of a face. Out in front, hands shielding his eyes from the sun, a tall Sebacean male stares up at the display. His perusal is slow, and he checks when her foot scuffs the ground, his head turning swiftly.
“So you made it back,” he drawls, and Aeryn’s hand reaches for a pistol that isn’t on her thigh. The voice is Crichton’s. The man turns, and she freezes. Not frelling again she thinks, and remembers the unveiled glee in Vala’s face.
“Who are you?” she demands, hands fisted at her sides.
Blue eyes map her frame, then meet her gaze frankly. “I reckon I could ask the same.”
He’s not Crichton; that is the one thing Aeryn is sure of. This man is leaner, possibly older, certainly more wary than the human she first met. Her eyes skate down his frame, noting a faint sense of unease about him. He seems less than comfortable in the light brown leathers, and his fingers rest behind the edge of the duster that hangs down, where a holster might be hidden on his thigh.
“Vala sent me,” she informs him, her own hand restless without a weapon to hold. “She’s hurt, and said ‘Daniel’ would know what to do.” Hair flips against her shoulder, strands whipping lightly at her cheek. Aeryn knows the answer even before she asks. “Are you Daniel?”
“He is not.”
Frell! She reaches for her pulse pistol, slaps smooth thigh instead, whirling to keep both men in view. The new speaker is massive. Dark skin, impassive expression, silent despite his bulk. A warrior, then, and known to the other, who gave no sign of his approach. Aeryn’s heart pounds. Weaponless and over-exposed, she doesn’t retreat, has already given too much of herself away with her reaction. She straightens, wary and ready to move in an instant.
The men flank her position already, less than two motras in front of her, forcing her to split her attention. Combat experience, says the tactician in her. Soldiers. And that tells her who they are, because while Vala had been sparse with physical detail, continued prodding had drawn forth a few details of her comrades.
“Vala sent me to find Daniel. You are Mitchell and Teal’c. Now, there isn’t time to waste on stupid questions, so either take me to Daniel, or bring him to me. I have no intention of waiting here in the street to be shot by the people who shot Vala.”
The man who looks like Crichton tilts his head back just a bit, brow wrinkling, then throws a glance at the other. Aeryn digs her fingers into her palm. It’s beyond bizarre, and a distraction she can’t afford, noting the stretch of material across his chest, the familiar face with unfamiliar distance. She shakes it off, focuses on the men before her.
“Let’s move this inside. Ma’am?”
Aeryn nods slightly. Crazy plan or not, she’s in it now. Following the first man into the inn, she keeps her senses tuned for the second, and the three of them wind up in the shadow of the wooden stairs. A swinging door in the wall behind releases the scent of cooking food. Aeryn slows, stops. She feels painfully exposed in the inadequate garments, her wariness increasing in the emptiness of the large chamber. Her pulse is faster than she’d like.
“Should we not search for weapons, Colonel Mitchell?” Dark eyes watch her closely as the quiet warrior moves to mirror their earlier standoff. Tension coils beneath dark skin, muscled bare arms folded over a broad chest.
Mitchell nods. “Just a precaution,” he says briskly, watching Aeryn. “Teal’c.” A glance at his comrade receives a subtle tilt of the man’s head in reply.
Aeryn’s spine stiffens. She stands ram-rod straight while surprisingly light hands pass over her, quick and efficient – and not finding the small blades stashed in the flimsy silks’ lining.
“Right. Let’s go.” The lookalike waves toward the stair. “Ladies first.”
That’s something Crichton would say. Aeryn scowls at him, then turns sharply away and marches up the creaky steps.
***
Daniel stares glumly at his translation. That's a Tenth-dynasty hieroglyph! What's it doing in a supposedly Fourth-dynasty inscription?
The door opens, and Vala strides in.
Or is it Vala? The face is right, the body is right, but the rest is ... wrong. Very wrong. Her stance is aggressive rather than challenging; "I can take you" rather than "You want to take me." This woman wouldn't know seduction if it started licking her navel. Which is exposed, but is also somehow ...off.
God, she's possessed again. Daniel yanks his zat.
"What the FRELL are you doing?" Before he has any idea what is going on, he's flat on his back, she's sitting on his chest, and something a lot nastier than a zat is grinding into his left ear.
"I need an explanation. Fast."
"You're not Vala!" Because Vala would be grinding her hips into him at this point.
She shrugs. "I told Crichton this wouldn't work."
"Crichton? Which Goa'uld is he?"
She rolls her eyes; that, at least, is familiar. "He's not a Goa'uld -- whatever that is -- he's from Earth." The "th" is oddly forced, as if it isn't a phoneme she's easy with. "And Vala's in trouble. It was decided that I could convince you to help." Her mouth twisted, wry amusement dancing at the edges.
"By pretending to be Vala?"
"It's a Crichton plan. They never make sense. You're supposed to help us because I look like Vala." She pauses. "I'm obviously not Vala. I'm Off..." she swallows, bites off the word. "Aeryn Sun."
"That's your name?"
"Yes."
"And what exactly did Vala tell you that made you think we'd want to help her?" He can't keep the snap out of his voice.
She shrugs again. What would, in Vala, be an exercise in dancing cleavage is, in Aeryn Sun, simply a gesture. Oh, the cleavage is there, and just as enticing as ever, but she seems oblivious to its effect. It's odd dealing with an alternate Vala, a Vala using no wiles at all. Odd and, he, admits, disturbing. Sam, career Air Force officer that she is, still reads as a woman-- a tough woman, perhaps, but definitely female; there's always a tiny frisson along his nerves when she's in the room. Aeryn reads as nothing he's familiar with; he could be a eunuch for all the attention she's paying to him. Vanity he didn't even know he had is being injured. Vala at least plays on his sexual attraction to her; Aeryn doesn't notice it's there.
She frowns at him. "Vala said you wouldn't believe me because you think I'm her and she always lies. She said I should give you a sentence."
"What sentence?" On second thought, he really shouldn't have asked.
"She said "-- Aeryn frowns in concentration -- "'Remember the Senator with the tiny dick'. " She tilts her head. "Although I can't think why one would."
Daniel pounds his head against the floor. That's Vala, all right.
Speaking of Vala... "What did she offer you to help us?"
The scowl deepens. "Nothing. But Crichton made a promise." Her expression says Crichton will be paying for that in the none-too-distant future.
"Are you going to keep that promise?"
She snorts. "Drop the gun and I'll let you up."
He drops the zat; it's not as if it's doing him any good at the moment. She moves the knife away from his neck, secures it somewhere, sending her cleavage into another swelling jiggle and takes his zat She stands up. It's a display of strength; she keeps him firmly in her sights at all times while rising to full height without visible effort. He clambers up, considerably less gracefully, reassesses her wiles, reassess his own reaction to that body doing those things.
"What, exactly, did you need that woman to do?"
"Um..." he suspects she's not going to like this ..."Pretendtobeagoddess".
Her expression darkens further. "Fine. Let's go."
"Er.... goddesses don't dress like that."
"You mean I strapped myself into this THING for no reason? I knew I should have punched her while I had a chance."
He grimaces. "You aren't the first person to say that. Anyway, the goddess costume is over there." Her gaze follows his finger; the zat muzzle does not.
"Would you PLEASE point that weapon somewhere else?"
She frowns. "I don't trust you."
"We don't trust you, either. And you've got Vala as hostage!"
Aeryn mutters "I'd think you'd pay us to dispose of her", but she lowers the weapon and strides over to investigate the gold outfit.
" NO! Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES! I'd rather shoot my way off this frelling planet!"
He brings out the only weapon he has. "Crichton prom---"
She whirls and scowls. "Not you, too! Turn your frelling back; I've been leered at quite enough for one day."
He turns his back; there are rustling sounds interspersed with curses. If he spends much more time with Aeryn, he'll have a whole new vocabulary; a linguistically interesting vocabulary, full of back-clicks and glottal stops. He should get a recording for further --
A snarl interrupts his thoughts. "I can't get out of it by myself."
There's an implicit order there instead of an exaggerated come on. He turns, sees her body nearly bare except for some brief black shorts and the corset contraption Vala had worn despite several requests to change her clothes.
Aeryn's back is ramrod straight and she fumbles for the clasps, unable to get enough purchase to loosen them despite her easy flexibility. "Frelling tralk," she mutters and claws for the end of the straps. Daniel tries to not get swatted, takes a hold of the edge of the strap, draws it taut, then loosens it from its hook.
"Oh frelling hezmana, that's better…" Aeryn breathes and her ribs expand as he undoes the other straps. She slips it from her body and he glances at the milk pale skin. There are slim scars near her ribs, lean muscle over prominent bones. Her body is fine and honed, and his comparison to a blade seems even more appropriate.
"I'll, uh…be over there." She doesn't bother to acknowledge that, just grabs the dress.
*
"Where do you put a gun in this thing?"
He turns around and his jaw drops. "I don't think you can."
A goddess does indeed stand before him, but its Athena rather than Aphrodite. By the set of her jaw, anybody who doesn't kneel down and worship is going to spend the next thousand years having his liver gnawed by eagles. The dress is gold lamé and skin-tight -- if Vala owns anything that's not skin-tight, he's never seen it -- and it clings to her curves just as nicely as it would to Vala's. She doesn't stand anything like Vala; straight up and down with her weight balanced for sudden moves. He's struck by a thought. "Walk toward me."
She strides; there's a ripping noise as the skirt's back slit opens a couple of inches higher.
"She doesn't walk like that."
""I've seen how she walks; don't hold your breath. Where's this damned congregation I have to impress?"
"We, uh, have to go to them." He pauses as a thought occurs. "We… how exactly did you get in here without encountering… anyone else?"
She gives him a wide feral grin. "I didn't. They promised the expression on your face would be worthwhile."
Daniel sighs with his whole body and nods. "The uh, walking. You should try it… when we get there."
"When we get there," she says, sour and not terrible conciliatory.
He purses his mouth and gestures towards the door. She stalks ahead of him, as much as she can stalk in the dress, as if she were preparing to attack a castle single-handedly. He admires the rear view for purely aesthetic reasons, but he can't muster much enthusiasm.
This near-Vala has everything Vala lacks. She's truthful, un-coquettish, and straightforward as a drawn blade. He wonders what's happened to his brain that he misses the sway of hip, and the sex on a stick walk. He doesn't wonder what's wrong with him that this woman makes him think of death instead of sex. He may not understand her language, but he's gotten very good at reading signs. At least he doesn't have to keep checking for his wallet.
