It seemed done at the time
Jul. 21st, 2003 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowI thought it was done, but there's still something off, so I'm gonna post it, and hope for suggestions.
It's alternating POV's, which I know drives some people nuts, but I wanted it to unfold like snapshots, instead of a steady narrative, hence the title. There are lines in here that I don't remember writing, which is always disconcerting, and there's a line in the penultimate snapshot that I love, but know I have to remove.
I don't know that the format works, but it was worth a shot.
I'd say this is version three. Also, some of the snapshots are previous drabbles or things from the original version of Two in the Hand. So, if they look familiar...
Shutterbug
Click.
He’s got that look on his face, the one that says he’d laugh if the situation were any less serious. She clenches the lieutenant’s jacket in her hand, trying to filter her anger through her grip. Some of her Peacekeeper training has apparently remained, and the trick to controlling her irrational anger serves her well. She doesn’t always follow the counts and breaths that lead to control because hitting the human is so frelling satisfying. He always goes down with a crunch and a thump. But he is also learning to fight back. She likes that. This, however, she doesn’t like.
He is soft and steady, the voice of reason, but he sounds like he’s addressing an irrational child.
“We’ve got a pile of PK gear here and you, yourself said that this is the only Captain’s uniform, Aeryn, so what’s the problem?”
Crais has chased them all over the Uncharted Territories. Every planet has a bounty hunter. Every system has a bigger, stronger faster something that sees them as prey, and he wants to know what the frelling problem is. Incredulous, she counts again, tries to breath in time, but the rhythms are out of sync. She backs away from him just enough so that if she lashes out, she won’t make contact with his perfect cheekbone.
“You,” she enunciates, “Are. Not. A. Peacekeeper. Captain.” She tries to let that sink in as he gives her that so what, lip twisted look of defiance. “You are not a Peacekeeper, you are not Sebacean, and you can barely fire that frelling pulse pistol. Those are trained commandos and this plan is going to get us all killed because they will never believe your charade. Why does none of this bother you?” she barks at him.
His voice is cold and tight when he finally answers, “I’m not an idiot Aeryn. And I’m not incompetent. So put on the fucking uniform and I’ll meet you in command when the marauder docks.”
He stocks out of the storage unit, uniform in hand, hurt and anger radiating off of him. Aeryn throws the Lieutenant's coat onto the floor, and whirls on Zhaan who has been watching the proceedings like a useless diplomat.
“He is very adaptable, Aeryn. It is possible that this playacting will work,” she says warily. Aeryn narrows her eyes and reaches down to scoop up the jacket. “Just go lock up D’Argo,” she snarls.
They are both imposters. The jacket fits her perfectly, and she allows herself the indulgence of smoothing down the marks of rank. By all rights, at this point they should have been hers. Now, even wearing this uniform is taunt, a reminder of her errors and flaws. She is no longer a Peacekeeper, and she is helping to perpetrate a lie, and very soon, she will have to pretend to be answerable to Crichton. She holds the gun in her hands. Its solid weight, the pull of it in her arms, a reminder of the few things she is certain of – the violence of this universe and her own ability to embrace that violence. She holds onto that as the bay doors upon and the commandos pour in.
There is a microt when she sees Crichton in his uniform, groomed and cocky, swaggering into command, and she believes that yes, this will work. He wears arrogance like skin, stalking past her to confront the edgy Peacekeepers spread out in perfect formation. Then he opens his mouth, is Crichton again despite the sneering tone. He tells her to lower the weapon, and uniform or not, she disobeys. What could he possibly know about this kind of standoff? Their Captain, loose and easy in his ragged uniform, exerts his leadership through a tilt of his eyebrow. The commandos take her betrayal to heart, their predatory nature creeping forward. Crichton smiles a cold dead smile she’s never seen from him, and the bay explodes in a shower of pulse and spark. He rolls his shoulders back and cocks his head, pleased.
Crichton is still wearing the uniform when the cold blade of the knife slides home. He catches her as she struggles for breath, but there is nothing left of the masquerade. The fear in his eyes is purely human, and when she wakes up, its just John, beleaguered and uncertain, holding onto the weapon he used to kill Hassan.
Click
Chiana dumps the commando’s clothes on his bed, eyes him speculatively.
“Hope they fit,” she teases, body angling sideways, head tilting at an unnatural angle.
For a brief moment he recalls the nightmare of Rygel vivisected and understands. He’d love to peel away the grey, chalky layers of her skin, see the muscle and cords of tendon underneath, examine how they allow such a range of motion. He gulps down bile, disgusted with himself, grateful that Chiana doesn’t notice.
“I could help you adjust them, if you want,” she offers breathy and amused.
He just glares at her. “I don’t think so Pip.”
She shrugs, unabashed, leaves him staring at the pile of clothes in consternation.
He held Aeryn’s face in his hand, her skin chilling him, leeching away his heat, and promised her a life. Now , as he puts on the Peacekeeper garments, he feels a little of his own leaking away. The leather is soft, and worn. It creaks and squeaks when he walks and he wonders how the hell they manage to sneak up on people. The clothes don’t smell like him, don’t smell like a human, but it’s this or watch Aeryn die. He won’t think about the stains, or the bodies that wore this. He brought a pipe down on a woman’s head, bashed her brains in wearing a shiny PK suit and doesn’t have much room for remorse right now. The gloves are ill fitting, a little snug and awkward. He looks in the mirror, sees a badass, tucks the pulse pistol into his belt and hopes to God that he doesn’t manage to shoot off his balls.
He needs to see Aeryn again before he leaves, or party dress or not, he’ll lose his nerve. He’s equally afraid though, that if he feels her the smooth, chill silk flesh, he’ll remember how alien this life is, this alien is, what losing her could feel like, so he pulls on the bulky gloves.
Her fingers slide into his, and he remains stoic, not pulling her into a tight embrace, just brushing the paper thin skin on the back of her hand, trying to take some of her strength with him.
“How was that,” she asks, soft and hoarse and resigned. “Perfect,” he whispers, meaning it.
Click
She can still hear him moving around the room, which makes sense because she does think they’re in his quarters. She still has her boots on, and they both needed a shower. Although, it hadn’t been an issue earlier, intertwined and speculative in Pilot’s Den. She buries her face further into his pillow. He tries to pull the golden coverlet over her, but she is laying on it, so he wiggles off her boots and socks before peeling off his own clothes and heading for the shower. He never bothers to check and make sure she’s really sleeping and when she closes her eyes more tightly it is with a lascivious smile on her face.
She drifts in and out of sleep, and rouses to see him holding his black cloth pants in one hand, clenching the fabric as if it had a mind of his own. Recalling the state of her own garments, she’s sure he’s trying to ignore the feeling of grime and wear. Those had been his last pair, and he seems loath to put them on again. He starts to laugh, a short harsh bark, and stops with a choked sigh, rubbing the corner of his eyes with the heel of his empty hand.
They’ve all been functioning on sheer adrenaline for goddess knows how long, so long that she has forgotten what rest felt like, has rarely experienced this hazy dream-like fatigue. She doesn't think the knots in her shoulders will ever unwind and doesn't know how she is going to get up and return to her quarters. He is still for a few moments, and then with another puff of aching laughter, he starts to shake.
“John, are you all right?” her voice sounds thick with sleep, but the concern bleeds through, calming him down, and he looks up at her, clutching his pants in one hand and the towel in the other. She struggles to sit up and he grins sheepishly. She is blurry eyed and blinking, knuckles digging into her eyes like a child.
“”M fine, Aeryn,” he says, “just examining my wardrobe options.”
She has no response to his foolishness. She just looks at the pants he is eyeing with such distaste, then glances down at her own stained garments, twisting her lips wryly. She hooks a finger in her tank top, pulling it away from chest and peers down, wrinkles her noise, wincing at her smell.
“I need to bathe,” she states, yawning again, and then looks him up and down with due consideration. He blushes in that way of his and shifts uncomfortably. However, tonight is not the night for taking him up on his constant, silent offer of physical release. He’d happily sleep with her, which she finds odd. Cycles of Peacekeeper training pass before you even get your own closet and he’s happy to share a bed. But he is definitely not up for recreation. She’s not in any better shape, and with a sigh and a shake of her head, gets up, looking around for her boots.
“Good night Crichton,” she says, knowing he will watch her walk out, that he won’t call her back.
Click
He promised her this trip as a reward, but trailing after Crichton as he bickers with Aeryn is hardly much of a prize.
She lingers behind, the two of them too wrapped up in their argument and each other to pay full attention to her. The jeweler’s stand is mostly deserted, and the baubles wink and beckon, offering an alleviation to her boredom. She traces a delicate chain with her gloved finger, looping the end around her thumb. A flick of her wrist and the necklace rests in her palm, then slides sweetly down to nestle between her breasts as she places her hand on her collarbone in contemplation of the other pieces.
She angles her head, catching sight of Crichton standing in the street with his arms akimbo, heatedly discussing something with the outraged Peacekeeper. Glimpsing the stand’s large, furry owner perusing her with interest, she decides to seek entertainment elsewhere. Flirtatious sniping is only fun for those participating, but a real fight is arns of distraction.
She hears the whir of the thronesled far before the little slug whispered into her ear,” If you sell that before we leave this planet, I’ll only take half the price, and I won’t tell Crichton.” Rygel practically giggles with avaricious glee.
“Makes me wanna just put it back,” she hisses at him, snapping her teeth as he lurches away chuckling. She likes Rygel. They’re evenly matched.
She veers towards Crichton because Aeryn has murder in her eyes.
“I’m not wearing this frelling jacket for another day, Aeryn. It’s that simple.”
Aeryn purses her mouth, “We do not have the currency to indulge your vanity.”
“Bite me,” he shoots back. “It’s not vanity, and D’Argo won’t even ride in the transport pod with me when I wear this thing. It reeks.”
Rygel pipes in then, “The human is right. He smells vile.”
John shoots the Dominar a look, “Thanks for the support, Sparky.”
He turns back to Aeryn, his voice lowered, and the thread of desperation that has been popping up unexpectedly every so often shines through. “I am really tired of looking like a Peacekeeper.”
Chiana thinks she understands that. It’s hard to look like your enemy. Her own clothing preferences had been the first sign that she didn’t want to conform. Crichton looks uncomfortable every time he wears the black and red coat. He twitches and shrugs and spends a lot of time pulling his shirt away from his neck.
Aeryn glances around the market, gesturing at the three of them to start walking, trying to curb some of the attention they’ve drawn.
“I’m getting really sick of sewing things, as well,” he says sardonically. “And it’s not like you’ve been repairing your own clothing.”
Aeryn fights to retain a smile, and Chiana grins. The first time she saw Crichton, sitting in the bay with a pile of pants, awkwardly threading a needle and looking like her grandmother she couldn’t help giggling. “Don’t lose a bet with a non-domesticated PK,” he advised. “And also, fair warning, the DRD’s don’t sew.” There were bonding agents that could have taken care of the wear and tear on the cloth fabric easily, but it seemed a shame to tell him so.
“Leather is very practical,” she says after a moment, drawing the word out to emphasize the variety of meanings.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a Hell’s Angel, I’m not one of the Village People, and I’m not a freaking Peacekeeper.” He barely glances over his shoulder as he says this to her, and thus misses Rygel poking her in the back and nodding at passing stands.
“Camouflage is surely a known concept in your culture,” Aeryn says thoughtfully, ignoring the stubborn set of his shoulders.
Chiana edges up behind him, slipping her arm around his waist, ducking her head under his arm. “It wouldn’t hurt to blend in,” she agrees.
He looks down at her with a sad smile, his eyes bright blue. “You too, huh?”
She nudges him with her hip.
“Fine, maybe Rygel will make me a deal.” He says with a sigh.
They stop for light refreshment, and Chiana sneaks away to sell her purloined necklace. She presses the currency into Rygel’s tiny hand, and jerks her head towards Crichton. Rygel snorts, but there is something in the tiny Dominar that understands all of this far better than she does. The planet has few supplies, fewer places to buy parts or clothing and they return to Moya.
At dinner he tosses the tiles she gave him onto the table between Crichton and Aeryn. “Call it an advance,” he says arrogantly, “but you, Peacekeeper, had better get something as well. We’re all tired of those wretched garments.”
Click
Aeryn grits her teeth, “Just pick one Crichton.”
He looks at her, standing there, hip cocked, one hand hooked in her gunbelt, the other dancing softly along the butt of her pulse pistol. She has the jacket for her flight suit on. He hasn’t seen it for monens and the blackness of it makes her a little scarier, a little more intimidating than he’s found her in nearly a cycle. Still, he doesn’t think she’d shoot him for taking his time.
“It has to be right.”
“No, it just has to be done, just frelling choose before I choose for you.”
Sighing he turns back to the miniature armory spread out on her bed, surveying his future. Aeryn makes a low noise in her throat, and steps forward.
“Fine, I’m choosing. Hold your horses.”
“We’ve been here for half an arn.”
He reaches down, picks up a pulse pistol, sliding his hand into the grip. It feels awkward, heavy. The angle is off, and he puts it down. He repeats this action with the three other guns until he comes to the last one. His hand wraps around it, the weight and balance better, tighter. He tilts it, sights down the top, He raises it up from his shoulder, pointing it towards the wall.
“Ktow, ktow.”
He can feel Aeryn rolling her eyes behind him, and he lowers the gun, feeling it pull on his arm, turning his head towards her.
Her voice is softer than he expects. “It’s necessary, John.”
He nods, and slides the gun into the holster, knowing better than to argue with her. He hears the click as it catches, finds himself armed.
Click
Rygel eyes the human with consternation as he loads the pod up with their purchases. “Where is the rest of the food I requested,” he demands. “And why didn’t you buy a coat yet?””
Crichton grunts as he sets down an unbearably large box of food cubes. There’s not a marjool in sight, and Rygel sighs at his culinary options.
“Wanted beacon, Sparky” he says. “Which you’d have seen if you hadn’t overindulged at lunch and had to go recover. Got some pants, and a few shirts, tired to buy a nice S&M outfit for Aeryn.” He leers at Rygel, who snorts in disgust at the habits of these body breeders.
Chiana glides into the pod, followed by Aeryn, who drops the rest of their purchases on the floor before silently settling in to the pilot’s chair.
The Peacekeeper looks disconcerted and tired. She keeps glancing at the human after the pod smoothly exits the atmosphere. She coms Pilot, asks him to prepare for Starburst, and then turns her attention back to John. He is antsy, fiddling with the controls, and Rygel is surprised that she doesn’t stop him.
Chiana stands behind his seat, ruffles his hair, and then kicks one of the bags of clothing towards him.
‘Guess it’s better to look like the hunters than the hunted,” he says nonchalantly.
He digs in the bag, and pulls out a red and black vest. Looks at it with his head cocked to the side, and then shrugs off the Captain’s uniform and drops it on the ground, then slides on the vest, wiggles his torso, settles into the garment and sets his mouth. He grabs Chiana’s hand, pulls it to rest on his neck.
“They thought we were Peacekeepers,” he said finally, his tone light and dancing. “And they grabbed Aeryn to find out if she knew anything about the wanted beacons.”
Aeryn makes a low noise in her throat, knuckles white on the thrusters. “She plays along, assumes it’s an old one from Crais,” he continues drawing the story out, tension starting to seep into his voice. Aeryn interrupts him.
“Scorpius,” she says, her low voice filled with loathing. “Frelling Scorpius has issued beacons.”
Rygel gasps, but John just laughs, “At least we know he’s not dead.”
She ignores him, continues. “Crichton shot at the image when it appeared,” she says. “If the traders hadn’t already been upset by their being wanted beacons so near their store, they’d have called the local authorities. We were lucky to make it back to the pod unnoticed.”
John laughs again, clutching more tightly onto Chiana’s hand. “ I told you. They thought we were Peacekeepers.”
Click
The coat feels like armor, impenetrable. It’s new, falls to his calves and fits him through the shoulders. No one has died in this coat. He can clasp it tightly around him and he finds the idea appealing. He turns and it swirls. He does a Clint Eastwood quick draw and it settles around him like every cowboy movie ever made. “Cool,” he says. “ I look like Wyatt Frelling Earp.”
He’s never gonna take Aeryn to the mall. These duck and cover shopping expeditions are getting out of hand, but he’s determined to replace the uniform coat. It’s become kind of an obsession. She almost shot the tiny tailor when something crashed in the back of the store, she laughed at him when he yelped during the fitting, although who the hell expects a third hand to reach out and measure your inseam, even if the creature attached to the hand is a nice lemonade yellow, and now she’s sitting in the plush chair, head back, counting something on the ceiling out of boredom. He tries for his best Outlaw Jonesy Wales sneer and then reaches for his six shooters again.
“You like?” the merchant inquires, that sneaky third hand stroking down the leather of his back. John hiccups a little, hopping forward, wondering if everyone in the universe is going to grab his ass at some point.
“Yeah,” he says. “I like it. But we’re short on currency.” The merchant names a price and Crichton’s shoulders sag.
Aeryn has slumped so far down in the chair that she looks boneless, looks like Chiana, and he grins at her. It’s moments like these when he wants to scoop her up, teach her to dance, write her bad poetry, nibble her ears, find some good drugs and see god in the stars. Pretend the past cycle was one big, bad acid trip. She’s a pain in the ass, constantly riding his, but in rare moments like these, he absolutely adores her. He starts to reluctantly shrug off the coat, and is halted by her clear, calm voice.
“He’ll take it.”
He looks at her, surprised. They’ve spent everything Rygel gave them. She doesn’t offer an explanation, just stands up, Officer Sun returning from the spine outwards.
“I don’t want to hear anything else about Peacekeeper clothing,” is all she says.
Click
Nine cycles since he’s seen another of his species, and he may have to strangle Crichton before he gets the chance. The human looks like nothing so much as Crais, his hair and eyes wild, long heavy coat flapping as he paces, his gloved hands clutching each other. He’s louder than normal, edgy and upset. D’Argo understands that life has been stressful lately for the human, but seeing Crichton like this, raging like a Peacekeeper, buttoned up in black leather and aggression, he feels the cycles of anger and hatred and tension run through him.
He remembers the taunting and torture, and that dismissive arrogance from a species that considers everyone else beneath them. It’s a little much to have to deal with a new species that struts and frets in the same way, worse because Crichton considers himself nothing like the Peacekeepers. Aeryn knows better, but wisely keeps her mouth shut. The human reacts with rage and cunning. Sebaceans are too overconfident for that. They understand how power fades away in the face of uncontrollable emotion. Crais is a perfect example of this. Now Crichton, who has embraced they’re wardrobe in an effort to avoid capture, to steel himself against this universe, seems to be soaking up their aggression as well. He’s been manic and strange, picking fights with everyone, obsessed with buying new clothing D’Argo draws a deep breath, dismissing thoughts of Sebaceans and Humans and concentrates instead on Luxans.
Zhaan calms Crichton, looking warily at D’Argo, similar memories haunting her gaze. Fear. Pain and rage. Howling against injustice as the rings are welded to his collarbones. After Lo’Lann’s death, after sending his son away, he didn’t think he’d ever feel anything again, but the searing agony of that action taught him that there’s always going to be a new low to sink to. They were all prisoners on this ship, and watching one of their own adopt the visage of their captors is beyond disconcerting.
Crichton catches his glare, looks surprised, and clasps his gloved hands together again, withdrawing further into the uniform.
It's alternating POV's, which I know drives some people nuts, but I wanted it to unfold like snapshots, instead of a steady narrative, hence the title. There are lines in here that I don't remember writing, which is always disconcerting, and there's a line in the penultimate snapshot that I love, but know I have to remove.
I don't know that the format works, but it was worth a shot.
I'd say this is version three. Also, some of the snapshots are previous drabbles or things from the original version of Two in the Hand. So, if they look familiar...
Shutterbug
Click.
He’s got that look on his face, the one that says he’d laugh if the situation were any less serious. She clenches the lieutenant’s jacket in her hand, trying to filter her anger through her grip. Some of her Peacekeeper training has apparently remained, and the trick to controlling her irrational anger serves her well. She doesn’t always follow the counts and breaths that lead to control because hitting the human is so frelling satisfying. He always goes down with a crunch and a thump. But he is also learning to fight back. She likes that. This, however, she doesn’t like.
He is soft and steady, the voice of reason, but he sounds like he’s addressing an irrational child.
“We’ve got a pile of PK gear here and you, yourself said that this is the only Captain’s uniform, Aeryn, so what’s the problem?”
Crais has chased them all over the Uncharted Territories. Every planet has a bounty hunter. Every system has a bigger, stronger faster something that sees them as prey, and he wants to know what the frelling problem is. Incredulous, she counts again, tries to breath in time, but the rhythms are out of sync. She backs away from him just enough so that if she lashes out, she won’t make contact with his perfect cheekbone.
“You,” she enunciates, “Are. Not. A. Peacekeeper. Captain.” She tries to let that sink in as he gives her that so what, lip twisted look of defiance. “You are not a Peacekeeper, you are not Sebacean, and you can barely fire that frelling pulse pistol. Those are trained commandos and this plan is going to get us all killed because they will never believe your charade. Why does none of this bother you?” she barks at him.
His voice is cold and tight when he finally answers, “I’m not an idiot Aeryn. And I’m not incompetent. So put on the fucking uniform and I’ll meet you in command when the marauder docks.”
He stocks out of the storage unit, uniform in hand, hurt and anger radiating off of him. Aeryn throws the Lieutenant's coat onto the floor, and whirls on Zhaan who has been watching the proceedings like a useless diplomat.
“He is very adaptable, Aeryn. It is possible that this playacting will work,” she says warily. Aeryn narrows her eyes and reaches down to scoop up the jacket. “Just go lock up D’Argo,” she snarls.
They are both imposters. The jacket fits her perfectly, and she allows herself the indulgence of smoothing down the marks of rank. By all rights, at this point they should have been hers. Now, even wearing this uniform is taunt, a reminder of her errors and flaws. She is no longer a Peacekeeper, and she is helping to perpetrate a lie, and very soon, she will have to pretend to be answerable to Crichton. She holds the gun in her hands. Its solid weight, the pull of it in her arms, a reminder of the few things she is certain of – the violence of this universe and her own ability to embrace that violence. She holds onto that as the bay doors upon and the commandos pour in.
There is a microt when she sees Crichton in his uniform, groomed and cocky, swaggering into command, and she believes that yes, this will work. He wears arrogance like skin, stalking past her to confront the edgy Peacekeepers spread out in perfect formation. Then he opens his mouth, is Crichton again despite the sneering tone. He tells her to lower the weapon, and uniform or not, she disobeys. What could he possibly know about this kind of standoff? Their Captain, loose and easy in his ragged uniform, exerts his leadership through a tilt of his eyebrow. The commandos take her betrayal to heart, their predatory nature creeping forward. Crichton smiles a cold dead smile she’s never seen from him, and the bay explodes in a shower of pulse and spark. He rolls his shoulders back and cocks his head, pleased.
Crichton is still wearing the uniform when the cold blade of the knife slides home. He catches her as she struggles for breath, but there is nothing left of the masquerade. The fear in his eyes is purely human, and when she wakes up, its just John, beleaguered and uncertain, holding onto the weapon he used to kill Hassan.
Click
Chiana dumps the commando’s clothes on his bed, eyes him speculatively.
“Hope they fit,” she teases, body angling sideways, head tilting at an unnatural angle.
For a brief moment he recalls the nightmare of Rygel vivisected and understands. He’d love to peel away the grey, chalky layers of her skin, see the muscle and cords of tendon underneath, examine how they allow such a range of motion. He gulps down bile, disgusted with himself, grateful that Chiana doesn’t notice.
“I could help you adjust them, if you want,” she offers breathy and amused.
He just glares at her. “I don’t think so Pip.”
She shrugs, unabashed, leaves him staring at the pile of clothes in consternation.
He held Aeryn’s face in his hand, her skin chilling him, leeching away his heat, and promised her a life. Now , as he puts on the Peacekeeper garments, he feels a little of his own leaking away. The leather is soft, and worn. It creaks and squeaks when he walks and he wonders how the hell they manage to sneak up on people. The clothes don’t smell like him, don’t smell like a human, but it’s this or watch Aeryn die. He won’t think about the stains, or the bodies that wore this. He brought a pipe down on a woman’s head, bashed her brains in wearing a shiny PK suit and doesn’t have much room for remorse right now. The gloves are ill fitting, a little snug and awkward. He looks in the mirror, sees a badass, tucks the pulse pistol into his belt and hopes to God that he doesn’t manage to shoot off his balls.
He needs to see Aeryn again before he leaves, or party dress or not, he’ll lose his nerve. He’s equally afraid though, that if he feels her the smooth, chill silk flesh, he’ll remember how alien this life is, this alien is, what losing her could feel like, so he pulls on the bulky gloves.
Her fingers slide into his, and he remains stoic, not pulling her into a tight embrace, just brushing the paper thin skin on the back of her hand, trying to take some of her strength with him.
“How was that,” she asks, soft and hoarse and resigned. “Perfect,” he whispers, meaning it.
Click
She can still hear him moving around the room, which makes sense because she does think they’re in his quarters. She still has her boots on, and they both needed a shower. Although, it hadn’t been an issue earlier, intertwined and speculative in Pilot’s Den. She buries her face further into his pillow. He tries to pull the golden coverlet over her, but she is laying on it, so he wiggles off her boots and socks before peeling off his own clothes and heading for the shower. He never bothers to check and make sure she’s really sleeping and when she closes her eyes more tightly it is with a lascivious smile on her face.
She drifts in and out of sleep, and rouses to see him holding his black cloth pants in one hand, clenching the fabric as if it had a mind of his own. Recalling the state of her own garments, she’s sure he’s trying to ignore the feeling of grime and wear. Those had been his last pair, and he seems loath to put them on again. He starts to laugh, a short harsh bark, and stops with a choked sigh, rubbing the corner of his eyes with the heel of his empty hand.
They’ve all been functioning on sheer adrenaline for goddess knows how long, so long that she has forgotten what rest felt like, has rarely experienced this hazy dream-like fatigue. She doesn't think the knots in her shoulders will ever unwind and doesn't know how she is going to get up and return to her quarters. He is still for a few moments, and then with another puff of aching laughter, he starts to shake.
“John, are you all right?” her voice sounds thick with sleep, but the concern bleeds through, calming him down, and he looks up at her, clutching his pants in one hand and the towel in the other. She struggles to sit up and he grins sheepishly. She is blurry eyed and blinking, knuckles digging into her eyes like a child.
“”M fine, Aeryn,” he says, “just examining my wardrobe options.”
She has no response to his foolishness. She just looks at the pants he is eyeing with such distaste, then glances down at her own stained garments, twisting her lips wryly. She hooks a finger in her tank top, pulling it away from chest and peers down, wrinkles her noise, wincing at her smell.
“I need to bathe,” she states, yawning again, and then looks him up and down with due consideration. He blushes in that way of his and shifts uncomfortably. However, tonight is not the night for taking him up on his constant, silent offer of physical release. He’d happily sleep with her, which she finds odd. Cycles of Peacekeeper training pass before you even get your own closet and he’s happy to share a bed. But he is definitely not up for recreation. She’s not in any better shape, and with a sigh and a shake of her head, gets up, looking around for her boots.
“Good night Crichton,” she says, knowing he will watch her walk out, that he won’t call her back.
Click
He promised her this trip as a reward, but trailing after Crichton as he bickers with Aeryn is hardly much of a prize.
She lingers behind, the two of them too wrapped up in their argument and each other to pay full attention to her. The jeweler’s stand is mostly deserted, and the baubles wink and beckon, offering an alleviation to her boredom. She traces a delicate chain with her gloved finger, looping the end around her thumb. A flick of her wrist and the necklace rests in her palm, then slides sweetly down to nestle between her breasts as she places her hand on her collarbone in contemplation of the other pieces.
She angles her head, catching sight of Crichton standing in the street with his arms akimbo, heatedly discussing something with the outraged Peacekeeper. Glimpsing the stand’s large, furry owner perusing her with interest, she decides to seek entertainment elsewhere. Flirtatious sniping is only fun for those participating, but a real fight is arns of distraction.
She hears the whir of the thronesled far before the little slug whispered into her ear,” If you sell that before we leave this planet, I’ll only take half the price, and I won’t tell Crichton.” Rygel practically giggles with avaricious glee.
“Makes me wanna just put it back,” she hisses at him, snapping her teeth as he lurches away chuckling. She likes Rygel. They’re evenly matched.
She veers towards Crichton because Aeryn has murder in her eyes.
“I’m not wearing this frelling jacket for another day, Aeryn. It’s that simple.”
Aeryn purses her mouth, “We do not have the currency to indulge your vanity.”
“Bite me,” he shoots back. “It’s not vanity, and D’Argo won’t even ride in the transport pod with me when I wear this thing. It reeks.”
Rygel pipes in then, “The human is right. He smells vile.”
John shoots the Dominar a look, “Thanks for the support, Sparky.”
He turns back to Aeryn, his voice lowered, and the thread of desperation that has been popping up unexpectedly every so often shines through. “I am really tired of looking like a Peacekeeper.”
Chiana thinks she understands that. It’s hard to look like your enemy. Her own clothing preferences had been the first sign that she didn’t want to conform. Crichton looks uncomfortable every time he wears the black and red coat. He twitches and shrugs and spends a lot of time pulling his shirt away from his neck.
Aeryn glances around the market, gesturing at the three of them to start walking, trying to curb some of the attention they’ve drawn.
“I’m getting really sick of sewing things, as well,” he says sardonically. “And it’s not like you’ve been repairing your own clothing.”
Aeryn fights to retain a smile, and Chiana grins. The first time she saw Crichton, sitting in the bay with a pile of pants, awkwardly threading a needle and looking like her grandmother she couldn’t help giggling. “Don’t lose a bet with a non-domesticated PK,” he advised. “And also, fair warning, the DRD’s don’t sew.” There were bonding agents that could have taken care of the wear and tear on the cloth fabric easily, but it seemed a shame to tell him so.
“Leather is very practical,” she says after a moment, drawing the word out to emphasize the variety of meanings.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a Hell’s Angel, I’m not one of the Village People, and I’m not a freaking Peacekeeper.” He barely glances over his shoulder as he says this to her, and thus misses Rygel poking her in the back and nodding at passing stands.
“Camouflage is surely a known concept in your culture,” Aeryn says thoughtfully, ignoring the stubborn set of his shoulders.
Chiana edges up behind him, slipping her arm around his waist, ducking her head under his arm. “It wouldn’t hurt to blend in,” she agrees.
He looks down at her with a sad smile, his eyes bright blue. “You too, huh?”
She nudges him with her hip.
“Fine, maybe Rygel will make me a deal.” He says with a sigh.
They stop for light refreshment, and Chiana sneaks away to sell her purloined necklace. She presses the currency into Rygel’s tiny hand, and jerks her head towards Crichton. Rygel snorts, but there is something in the tiny Dominar that understands all of this far better than she does. The planet has few supplies, fewer places to buy parts or clothing and they return to Moya.
At dinner he tosses the tiles she gave him onto the table between Crichton and Aeryn. “Call it an advance,” he says arrogantly, “but you, Peacekeeper, had better get something as well. We’re all tired of those wretched garments.”
Click
Aeryn grits her teeth, “Just pick one Crichton.”
He looks at her, standing there, hip cocked, one hand hooked in her gunbelt, the other dancing softly along the butt of her pulse pistol. She has the jacket for her flight suit on. He hasn’t seen it for monens and the blackness of it makes her a little scarier, a little more intimidating than he’s found her in nearly a cycle. Still, he doesn’t think she’d shoot him for taking his time.
“It has to be right.”
“No, it just has to be done, just frelling choose before I choose for you.”
Sighing he turns back to the miniature armory spread out on her bed, surveying his future. Aeryn makes a low noise in her throat, and steps forward.
“Fine, I’m choosing. Hold your horses.”
“We’ve been here for half an arn.”
He reaches down, picks up a pulse pistol, sliding his hand into the grip. It feels awkward, heavy. The angle is off, and he puts it down. He repeats this action with the three other guns until he comes to the last one. His hand wraps around it, the weight and balance better, tighter. He tilts it, sights down the top, He raises it up from his shoulder, pointing it towards the wall.
“Ktow, ktow.”
He can feel Aeryn rolling her eyes behind him, and he lowers the gun, feeling it pull on his arm, turning his head towards her.
Her voice is softer than he expects. “It’s necessary, John.”
He nods, and slides the gun into the holster, knowing better than to argue with her. He hears the click as it catches, finds himself armed.
Click
Rygel eyes the human with consternation as he loads the pod up with their purchases. “Where is the rest of the food I requested,” he demands. “And why didn’t you buy a coat yet?””
Crichton grunts as he sets down an unbearably large box of food cubes. There’s not a marjool in sight, and Rygel sighs at his culinary options.
“Wanted beacon, Sparky” he says. “Which you’d have seen if you hadn’t overindulged at lunch and had to go recover. Got some pants, and a few shirts, tired to buy a nice S&M outfit for Aeryn.” He leers at Rygel, who snorts in disgust at the habits of these body breeders.
Chiana glides into the pod, followed by Aeryn, who drops the rest of their purchases on the floor before silently settling in to the pilot’s chair.
The Peacekeeper looks disconcerted and tired. She keeps glancing at the human after the pod smoothly exits the atmosphere. She coms Pilot, asks him to prepare for Starburst, and then turns her attention back to John. He is antsy, fiddling with the controls, and Rygel is surprised that she doesn’t stop him.
Chiana stands behind his seat, ruffles his hair, and then kicks one of the bags of clothing towards him.
‘Guess it’s better to look like the hunters than the hunted,” he says nonchalantly.
He digs in the bag, and pulls out a red and black vest. Looks at it with his head cocked to the side, and then shrugs off the Captain’s uniform and drops it on the ground, then slides on the vest, wiggles his torso, settles into the garment and sets his mouth. He grabs Chiana’s hand, pulls it to rest on his neck.
“They thought we were Peacekeepers,” he said finally, his tone light and dancing. “And they grabbed Aeryn to find out if she knew anything about the wanted beacons.”
Aeryn makes a low noise in her throat, knuckles white on the thrusters. “She plays along, assumes it’s an old one from Crais,” he continues drawing the story out, tension starting to seep into his voice. Aeryn interrupts him.
“Scorpius,” she says, her low voice filled with loathing. “Frelling Scorpius has issued beacons.”
Rygel gasps, but John just laughs, “At least we know he’s not dead.”
She ignores him, continues. “Crichton shot at the image when it appeared,” she says. “If the traders hadn’t already been upset by their being wanted beacons so near their store, they’d have called the local authorities. We were lucky to make it back to the pod unnoticed.”
John laughs again, clutching more tightly onto Chiana’s hand. “ I told you. They thought we were Peacekeepers.”
Click
The coat feels like armor, impenetrable. It’s new, falls to his calves and fits him through the shoulders. No one has died in this coat. He can clasp it tightly around him and he finds the idea appealing. He turns and it swirls. He does a Clint Eastwood quick draw and it settles around him like every cowboy movie ever made. “Cool,” he says. “ I look like Wyatt Frelling Earp.”
He’s never gonna take Aeryn to the mall. These duck and cover shopping expeditions are getting out of hand, but he’s determined to replace the uniform coat. It’s become kind of an obsession. She almost shot the tiny tailor when something crashed in the back of the store, she laughed at him when he yelped during the fitting, although who the hell expects a third hand to reach out and measure your inseam, even if the creature attached to the hand is a nice lemonade yellow, and now she’s sitting in the plush chair, head back, counting something on the ceiling out of boredom. He tries for his best Outlaw Jonesy Wales sneer and then reaches for his six shooters again.
“You like?” the merchant inquires, that sneaky third hand stroking down the leather of his back. John hiccups a little, hopping forward, wondering if everyone in the universe is going to grab his ass at some point.
“Yeah,” he says. “I like it. But we’re short on currency.” The merchant names a price and Crichton’s shoulders sag.
Aeryn has slumped so far down in the chair that she looks boneless, looks like Chiana, and he grins at her. It’s moments like these when he wants to scoop her up, teach her to dance, write her bad poetry, nibble her ears, find some good drugs and see god in the stars. Pretend the past cycle was one big, bad acid trip. She’s a pain in the ass, constantly riding his, but in rare moments like these, he absolutely adores her. He starts to reluctantly shrug off the coat, and is halted by her clear, calm voice.
“He’ll take it.”
He looks at her, surprised. They’ve spent everything Rygel gave them. She doesn’t offer an explanation, just stands up, Officer Sun returning from the spine outwards.
“I don’t want to hear anything else about Peacekeeper clothing,” is all she says.
Click
Nine cycles since he’s seen another of his species, and he may have to strangle Crichton before he gets the chance. The human looks like nothing so much as Crais, his hair and eyes wild, long heavy coat flapping as he paces, his gloved hands clutching each other. He’s louder than normal, edgy and upset. D’Argo understands that life has been stressful lately for the human, but seeing Crichton like this, raging like a Peacekeeper, buttoned up in black leather and aggression, he feels the cycles of anger and hatred and tension run through him.
He remembers the taunting and torture, and that dismissive arrogance from a species that considers everyone else beneath them. It’s a little much to have to deal with a new species that struts and frets in the same way, worse because Crichton considers himself nothing like the Peacekeepers. Aeryn knows better, but wisely keeps her mouth shut. The human reacts with rage and cunning. Sebaceans are too overconfident for that. They understand how power fades away in the face of uncontrollable emotion. Crais is a perfect example of this. Now Crichton, who has embraced they’re wardrobe in an effort to avoid capture, to steel himself against this universe, seems to be soaking up their aggression as well. He’s been manic and strange, picking fights with everyone, obsessed with buying new clothing D’Argo draws a deep breath, dismissing thoughts of Sebaceans and Humans and concentrates instead on Luxans.
Zhaan calms Crichton, looking warily at D’Argo, similar memories haunting her gaze. Fear. Pain and rage. Howling against injustice as the rings are welded to his collarbones. After Lo’Lann’s death, after sending his son away, he didn’t think he’d ever feel anything again, but the searing agony of that action taught him that there’s always going to be a new low to sink to. They were all prisoners on this ship, and watching one of their own adopt the visage of their captors is beyond disconcerting.
Crichton catches his glare, looks surprised, and clasps his gloved hands together again, withdrawing further into the uniform.
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no subject
Date: 2003-07-21 08:49 pm (UTC)Sorry -- I don't know what the "something extra" might be. Personally, I think it doesn't need much more. But after all, you're the one writing it -- you're the one who knows whether it's totally finished or not. ;)
(Sorry, I'm not in the mood to be overly critical today. You'll have to settle for praise. Poor you. *g*)
Out of interest: which is the line you want to cut?
no subject
Date: 2003-07-22 10:01 am (UTC)This is the line I think I should cut, but I'm totally justifying it by saying John was getting pretty loopy in the beginning of Season 2.
It’s moments like these when he wants to scoop her up, teach her to dance, write her bad poetry, nibble her ears, find some good drugs and see god in the stars. Pretend the past cycle was one big, bad acid trip. She’s a pain in the ass, constantly riding his, but in rare moments like these, he absolutely adores her
no subject
Date: 2003-07-22 07:04 am (UTC)absolutely adore the picture of Aeryn slouched in a chair like a bored husband as John tries on jackets/dusters... very reminiscent of the wedding dress scene in DWTB... yeah, I like this... I would love to see more of this. :-)
And I love all the DIFFERENT pov's in this too. I think you hit all of them, right? Or just about. :-)
no subject
Date: 2003-07-22 09:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-22 10:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-22 11:04 am (UTC)Unhelpful beta...here.
Date: 2003-07-22 02:06 pm (UTC)