Mare Tranquilis
Aug. 26th, 2003 07:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowSo, this is what happens when you cross real science with science fiction. It's a little rough, but I think I like it. I'm not sure what I want to do with it yet, so any beta would be welcome.
Mid-Terra Firma, but there aren't many spoilers for anything. And did Apollo 11 launch in '68 or '69? Dammit, I just watched that show. My brain's a bloody sieve these days. I don't know if it rains in Florida. I don't know if football season would intersect with the rainy season. That's ok.
Mare Tranquilis
Water streaked down the glass window and beat a tattoo against the house. Aeryn watched the rivulets of rain, fingertips pressed against the glass as she sat in the window seat, her back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up at an angle. Earth, minus the sunshine.
Clothes flew into the air beside her as Chiana rifled through the stacks of garments that had been purchased by them or for them or thrust upon them by enthusiastic humans eager to bring gifts to the aliens. She held up a sweater, furry and yellow, and giggled.
“Maybe they skinned that giant bird on Sesame Street,” she said tossing it aside.
Aeryn raised an eyebrow in response, but didn’t turn her head. Chiana fished the bikini from the bottom of the pile and sighed melodramatically.
“Frelling rain,” she complained, but her heart wasn’t in it. She considered the bathing suit for a moment, then shrugged and began to strip. “It’s not like I tan anyway,” she said.
Aeryn turned her head, letting amusement at her companion wash over her. That was easy, laughter and clothing and absurd Earth pastimes. Chiana’s skin, chalky gray and velvety, was little altered by her arns spent lounging in the Earth’s sun. She pulled the bikini on and tied it with nimble fingers, pivoting in front of the mirror, pleased at her reflection.
“I’m going swimming,” she said. “You wanna come?”
Aeryn shook her head, “ No, thank you. But Rygel might go with you if you can tear him away from his feasting.”
Chiana grinned at that, “He’s going to be too fat to fit on his thronesled soon.”
She came over to stand close to Aeryn, stroking a slim hand over the other woman’s black hair. “You just gonna stay in here and read?”
Aeryn shrugged, her eyes sad and a little lost.
“I’d like to fly,” she said softly, “but I don’t want to go to the military base on my own. John didn’t think it was a good idea.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that he’s here to offer up a better one.”
Aeryn swung her legs down. “I want to fly.” she announced, “ and I’m going to fly.”
Chiana smiled again, brushing a kiss over the Sebacean’s pale cheek. “Just be back in time for dinner,” she giggled softly, mimicking the soft slurry drawl of Crichton’s family.
***
John looked at the man in front of him, fighting back the urge to tug at his collar, pull at his tie. Hadn’t missed ties out there, hadn’t missed suits or uncomfortable shoes or ass-kissing. Not that kissing ass was what he was doing, but maybe it should be. James Amundson. Jim to his friends, Colonel to his men. A man he’d known for most of his life, a man like his dad, whom he’d admired, respected, and belittled to DK when the colonel was reluctant to risk his program on their mission, a man for whom his disappearance had hit as heavily as it had John’s own family.
“Sir,” he said, reaching out his hand, hoping the older man would take it.
****
The young pilot clutched the back of her seat as the Prowler screamed through the sky and broke atmosphere. His breath caught as she rolled the ship, banking to the right and streaking straight to the moon. He was breathing too heavily, close to cutting off his airway and she flipped the switch for his oxygen.
“Breath slowly and deeply,” she advised, and when he didn’t respond, just made a wordless noise of fear, she realized she’d spoken in Sebacean, the giddiness of freedom, of flight distracting her. She slowed herself, slowed the Prowler, and repeated the order in clear English.
“Shouldn’t I have a spacesuit?” he asked, voice quavering.
“No,” she said. “There’s no need.”
She circled the moon, dancing near its surface, the gravity pull minimal on her ship.
“Tranquility Base,” the young pilot breathed, awestruck. “It’s real.”
She looked down, saw a striped flag waving, remembered John’s own reverence for the spot that she was seeing now for the first time.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice choked. “This is amazing.”
No, she thought. It’s just an oxygen atmosphere planet and it’s satellites. It’s not amazing. But she kept that to herself. The young human had proved himself brave and an ally, allowing her access to her Prowler without question, and asking in a small, scared voice if he could accompany her, that he was supposed to monitor activities. He was harmless. They all were. Oh, the humans could capture any of them, imprison them, dissect them, end their lives, but that’s where the threat ended. She’d always known that, but somehow she’d expected the world that produced John to be, well, more.
She did a few more maneuvers, ignored Moya dangling golden and still just out of Earth’s orbit, closed her eyes to the beckoning wormhole, and headed back into the atmosphere. She slowed the Prowler, let the Florida rain pound against the skin of the ship as she eased back to the hanger. When she popped the canopy, felt the rain on her face, she stood there for a moment before exiting and beckoning her accomplice to follow her. She closed the canopy, and pressed her cheek against the side of the ship, rested her palms against it, feeling tenderness for the inanimate object.
***
John rolled the Scotch around in his mouth, the musky peaty flavor a warm burn. Jim Amundson looked at him shrewdly, taking in the shave and the tie and the jacket and the cut on his neck where his hand had slipped this morning. Probably taking in the constant watchfulness, the downward drift of his hand as he sought the comfort of Winona, and found it lacking. She didn’t match his suit.
“We’re glad you’re alive, son,” said the colonel, swallowing his drink, signaling to the bartender in this elegant old boys club that they wanted more.
“Sir,” John started, hesitating. He hadn’t said this to anyone, hadn’t uttered the words themselves for close to a cycle, not since he’d said them to a broken woman whose new mission had been to pretend he didn’t exist.
Colonel Amundson had been the Flight Director. The voice of God at Mission Control, the last voice you hear, the only person you listen to in space, and even though it had been DK and his dad calling him back, John knew that this man, as much as anyone, had taken his loss personally. It had ended his career, held back space exploration indefinitely, until now.
John looked into his glass, saw the whirl of the drink, and as always, the whirlpool of wormholes. They wrapped around everything, giving his view of the world a bright blue glow.
“I’m sorry, sir.” He was a grown man, had destroyed command carriers, killed a woman, died himself, seen his shadow, seen his fate, danced with his enemy every morning over his Wheaties. An apology shouldn’t be this frelling hard. “Fuck,” he whispered aloud, wanting a human syllable to replace the alien curse.
***
The rain beat on, and the day got darker as the Earth rotated on it’s axis. Aeryn was always polite to the guards. No one else on Moya had ever had to endure the agonizing boredom of watching someone else exist for hours on end.
“May I walk back to the house?” she asked. She was taller than one of them, though slim, and she knew she could snap their necks, break their backs before they could prevent her from doing what she wanted. But it didn’t hurt to be polite.
“It’s a long way, ma’am,” the younger one said. She wanted to suggest that he take the protective eyewear off, but perhaps that was part of the uniform.
“I don’t mind,” she said. They glanced at each other, faces not changing expression and she wondered what subtle signals they were sending each other, signals only their kind were trained to receive.
“It might be dangerous,” the other one said. “There’ve been protestors, crazy people who have threatened you.”
Aeryn shrugged. That didn’t seem like much of a threat. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps a compromise,” she offered.
***
“What do you mean she went flying,” John shouted at Chiana, who sat curled up on the couch next to D’Argo. He blinked against the scene. Earth and a white couch and a big screen TV, and two aliens flipping channels as if they had nothing better in the world to do.
Chiana ignored him, the false antics on the screen more amusing than he was at the moment.
“I thought you were still fishing,” D’Argo said, landing on a soccer match. He smiled and settled more firmly into the couch. “I would like to learn this sport,” he added, thoughtfully. “Their fans get very enthusiastic on the players behalf.”
“Can we focus for a microt here, folks,” John said.
“Focus on what?” Chiana asked finally. “It’s not a crisis. Aeryn went flying. She’s fine.”
Seeing no support from that corner, John stormed out of the room heading for the door, and was stopped by the sight of Aeryn in the doorway, hair streaming with water, face clean and pale, clothes soaked and looking happier than he’d seen her since they arrived on Earth.
“Where the hell have you been!” he barked.
“Out,” she answered shortly. “Why are you back early?”
“Rain. Hard to fish in the rain,” he gritted out, caught off guard. She raised an eyebrow, and then entered the house, closing the door behind her and stripping off her damp leather coat while he stood watching her, the anger still burning in his eyes.
“You can’t just go off like that,” he muttered, and she raised her head, tilting it to the side and wringing the water from her heavy mass of hair.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I can.”
“Aeryn,” Chiana squealed, “You’re getting water everywhere.” Aeryn rolled her eyes, collected her coat and headed for the stairway and her quarters.
John struggled for control, struggled not to follow her, glancing back and forth between the couch of aliens and the Sebacean walking away from him. He dug into the pocket of his suit jacket, searching for something, groping and coming up empty. He grimaced, and headed for the stairs.
He didn’t bother to knock, just opened the door to see her pulling her shirt off over her head. He paused in the doorway, embarrassed finally by his behavior and the surge of fear that was slowly rescinding as he realized she hadn’t gone anywhere. Well she had, but she’d come back.
She turned at his entrance, dropping the shirt on top of the pile of clothing covering the ground, and looked at him, annoyed. She wore a bra, lacy, feminine, definitely not-PK standard issue, but neither were the jeans molded to her body by the rain. She looked human, chilled, the blush of her pulse beating under her skin, but she wasn’t. Alien eyes, an alien consciousness, an alien child hidden in her flat, smooth belly. He choked a little, wished she had some human discretion, but she just kicked at the pile of clothing, muttering Chiana’s name in disgust, and grabbed something soft and white and dry.
She slid the shirt over her head and grimaced at the feeling of her wet hair. She curled it around her hand, searched for something to secure it and pulled it up. Water dripped onto her shirt, making the material see-through in spots.
“What do you want, John,” she asked, sounding tired and resigned. She wrinkled her nose, and then sat down on the bed with a sigh to try and remove her boots. She struggled with the clasps, her fingers cold from the rain, and winced as they clung to her feet.
He set his mouth, determined not to betray himself, even without the lakka. It kept back lust, kept back fear, and shoved forward Scorpy’s whispering voice, fueling his paranoia. But he’d left it in his other pants. He snorted at that, and moved to help her.
She tried to slap his hands away, but he grabbed her heel and tugged, succeeding in moving the boot forward. She pulled and it popped, and John looked at his hands, covered in water and mud and whatever else was on the boots, and then looked down at his suit. “Frell,” he muttered, trying to find a place to drop the boot that wasn’t on a pile of clothing.
“Chiana,” Aeryn bellowed suddenly, “Get up here and clean up this mess.”
And the Bizarro world was complete. Rain, and the T.V. and girls yelling at each other, his family life, to a T and he wanted to laugh, but Aeryn stuck her other foot out, indicating that he should help and while he tugged and grunted, she nodded at his clothing.
“Why are you wearing that. I thought you’d gone on vacation?” She didn’t sound bitter exactly, just very, very controlled. That wasn’t his favorite tone of voice, but it wasn’t crying and it wasn’t yelling and it wasn’t "I’m going to snap all the bones in your hand until you answer me" either.
“Came home early,” he said, giving a final tug and managing to smear mud all over the front of his pants. “Crap,” he muttered and dropped the boot to the floor.
“Chiana,” Aeryn hollered again, startling him. “Christ, Aeryn, do you have to keep doing that?”
“It’s not enough that she messes up her quarters, she has to bring everything in here and mess up mine.”
He wanted to grin, say that Livvy used to do the same thing, so desperate to find out what was wrong with her older siblings, or so intent on being near them that her entire room seemed to follow her from place to place. But he wasn’t quite sure how to bring up something so mild and familiar.
“So why are you wearing that,” she repeated, standing again, and peeling the wet denim off. John choked again, as she slid the fabric down her legs, having forgotten to pray that the lingerie wasn’t a matched set. The material clung, she wiggled, and the gods were clearly not on his side today. Game, set and match.
“Um, maybe I should go.” The denim dropped to her feet, and she stepped out of the jeans.
She stood there, watching him, waiting, and another piece clicked into place. Modesty or not, Aeryn knew him. He could be dead, and that much of her damp, naked flesh was gonna do something to him.
She looked at him, as unfathomable as ever and shook her head. “Go then.”
He turned to leave, saw Chiana coming up the stairs. “I came home early,” he offered softly. “ I had something I needed to do.”
Chiana came into the room, and he ruffled her hair, taking in the mismash of clothing she was wearing. “Wow, you really made a mess, Aeryn.” John looked back, but the Sebacean didn’t look angry, she just kept searching for something to wear.
“Maybe I’ll go downstairs,” he said, “hang out a little, have a beer.” Neither woman responded, too busy bickering, but they didn’t say no either.
***
The government house was massive, and when she came downstairs, she saw only D’Argo sprawled on the couch, arguing with Rygel about the human game on the television. Rygel had food spread out everywhere, and reached randomly for things, sighing in contentment as he gorged.
“Where’s Crichton,” she asked. “Did he leave?”
D’Argo waved the TV controller towards the kitchen. “He’s trying to find out if Rygel has consumed the entire stock of food they brought us today,” he said, and then broke off to howl at Manchester United. Rygel cackled gleefully, having bet money on the other teams to spite D’Argo.
Aeryn entered the kitchen to see John draped over the refrigerator, half leaning on and half leaning in, searching for something. “Every frigging condiment in the world,” he muttered, “There’s gotta be beer in here somewhere.”
“In the drawer,” she said.
He looked up, gave her a half-hearted smile.
“Rygel wanted to make room for all of the mustard. Apparently, there are over 100 different kinds. But I wouldn’t recommend them all. It wasn’t necessarily a successful experiment.” John did laugh at that, and she felt the solid weight in her stomach lift a little. It had been weekens since she’d heard him laugh with her in the room.
“It’s a full moon, tonight,” he said, softly, rifling through the vegetable drawer and coming up with two beers. He offered her one, extending his arm around the door. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and the golden hairs on his arms caught the light from the cooling unit. Refrigerator, she reminder herself, rolling her tongue around the ungainly word. It translated.
He closed the refrigerator door, and sat down at the table in the kitchen. The lights were off, but the moon shone down into the garden, no longer obscured by the rain, and it lit the area. She took her beer, went to sit at the table.
“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “They said you went flying. I thought, maybe, you’d gone back to Moya.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, how to take it, so she said nothing.
“Boys from the base called, asked if maybe next time you could leave their pilots alone.” He smiled at her, his face gentle in the light, the harsh planes faded.
“You walk home?” he asked, eyebrows pulling together, puzzled.
She nodded. “It was raining, and warm enough at first, and I didn’t want to be in that vehicle.”
He looked like he wanted to protest, so she continued. “They followed me home, made sure I got in when we went through the gates.”
He snorted. “You blew their minds,” he said, “You blow everyone’s mind. You look human and you’re not, and you just took a man to the moon today, like it was nothing, and it wasn’t and he’s never even put on a space suit.”
She shrugged. “I needed to fly.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, interrupted only by D’Argo’s warcries, and Rygel’s chortling response.
“That’s a bad combination,” he said finally.
He still had on the suit pants and shirt, but the jacket and tie were nowhere to be seen. He looked more relaxed, if tired.
“Why did you come home early?” she asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“Needed to see someone,” he said finally, taking a long swallow of the beer, closing his eyes in pleasure at the taste.
She waited. Hopeful, but uncertain.
“Space travel, it’s still new to us,” he said at last and she nodded. “In my lifetime, hell, in the lifetime of the space program, there’ve been accidents, deaths. Fires and faulty wiring, and mistakes. We’re human. We make mistakes.” He drained the rest of the bottle and set it down.
“In 1969, I saw the earth from outer space. On TV, but it was the earth. And then we put a man on the moon, hell, my dad walked in those footprints, touched the flag at Tranquility Base. He was a hero, a man who’d walked in the stars.” He looked at her, quirked up his mouth.
“ I know you think all of this is ridiculous, that we’re backwards and primitive, and yeah, I know it’s true, but I remember every mission my dad went on, every launch, every moment that I was involved in the space program, and now I’ve seen things, flown things that we can’t even conceive of. For us, for humanity, the things we did were miraculous, wondrous.”
“We have that somewhere in Sebacean history,” she said. “But I can’t imagine what this feels like for you, John.” Her hands rested on the table, one of them curled around the bottle, and he reached over, skimmed the back of her hand with his fingertips, sending shivers through her.
“I’ve never walked on our moon,” he said softly, “but I’ve kissed an alien.”
She pursed her lips, again at a loss.
“I’ve existed in a living ship, seen the birth of a star, traveled faster than light and gone EVA without a suit, and I’ve never even been to Tranquility Base.”
She turned her hand over, clasped his to stop the maddening tease of his hand on her skin.
“I had to apologize to someone,” he said finally. ” 'Cause I screwed up, and I got lost.”
“It happens,” she said. Curled her hand around his fingers, reveled in the answering squeeze.
Mid-Terra Firma, but there aren't many spoilers for anything. And did Apollo 11 launch in '68 or '69? Dammit, I just watched that show. My brain's a bloody sieve these days. I don't know if it rains in Florida. I don't know if football season would intersect with the rainy season. That's ok.
Mare Tranquilis
Water streaked down the glass window and beat a tattoo against the house. Aeryn watched the rivulets of rain, fingertips pressed against the glass as she sat in the window seat, her back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up at an angle. Earth, minus the sunshine.
Clothes flew into the air beside her as Chiana rifled through the stacks of garments that had been purchased by them or for them or thrust upon them by enthusiastic humans eager to bring gifts to the aliens. She held up a sweater, furry and yellow, and giggled.
“Maybe they skinned that giant bird on Sesame Street,” she said tossing it aside.
Aeryn raised an eyebrow in response, but didn’t turn her head. Chiana fished the bikini from the bottom of the pile and sighed melodramatically.
“Frelling rain,” she complained, but her heart wasn’t in it. She considered the bathing suit for a moment, then shrugged and began to strip. “It’s not like I tan anyway,” she said.
Aeryn turned her head, letting amusement at her companion wash over her. That was easy, laughter and clothing and absurd Earth pastimes. Chiana’s skin, chalky gray and velvety, was little altered by her arns spent lounging in the Earth’s sun. She pulled the bikini on and tied it with nimble fingers, pivoting in front of the mirror, pleased at her reflection.
“I’m going swimming,” she said. “You wanna come?”
Aeryn shook her head, “ No, thank you. But Rygel might go with you if you can tear him away from his feasting.”
Chiana grinned at that, “He’s going to be too fat to fit on his thronesled soon.”
She came over to stand close to Aeryn, stroking a slim hand over the other woman’s black hair. “You just gonna stay in here and read?”
Aeryn shrugged, her eyes sad and a little lost.
“I’d like to fly,” she said softly, “but I don’t want to go to the military base on my own. John didn’t think it was a good idea.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that he’s here to offer up a better one.”
Aeryn swung her legs down. “I want to fly.” she announced, “ and I’m going to fly.”
Chiana smiled again, brushing a kiss over the Sebacean’s pale cheek. “Just be back in time for dinner,” she giggled softly, mimicking the soft slurry drawl of Crichton’s family.
***
John looked at the man in front of him, fighting back the urge to tug at his collar, pull at his tie. Hadn’t missed ties out there, hadn’t missed suits or uncomfortable shoes or ass-kissing. Not that kissing ass was what he was doing, but maybe it should be. James Amundson. Jim to his friends, Colonel to his men. A man he’d known for most of his life, a man like his dad, whom he’d admired, respected, and belittled to DK when the colonel was reluctant to risk his program on their mission, a man for whom his disappearance had hit as heavily as it had John’s own family.
“Sir,” he said, reaching out his hand, hoping the older man would take it.
****
The young pilot clutched the back of her seat as the Prowler screamed through the sky and broke atmosphere. His breath caught as she rolled the ship, banking to the right and streaking straight to the moon. He was breathing too heavily, close to cutting off his airway and she flipped the switch for his oxygen.
“Breath slowly and deeply,” she advised, and when he didn’t respond, just made a wordless noise of fear, she realized she’d spoken in Sebacean, the giddiness of freedom, of flight distracting her. She slowed herself, slowed the Prowler, and repeated the order in clear English.
“Shouldn’t I have a spacesuit?” he asked, voice quavering.
“No,” she said. “There’s no need.”
She circled the moon, dancing near its surface, the gravity pull minimal on her ship.
“Tranquility Base,” the young pilot breathed, awestruck. “It’s real.”
She looked down, saw a striped flag waving, remembered John’s own reverence for the spot that she was seeing now for the first time.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice choked. “This is amazing.”
No, she thought. It’s just an oxygen atmosphere planet and it’s satellites. It’s not amazing. But she kept that to herself. The young human had proved himself brave and an ally, allowing her access to her Prowler without question, and asking in a small, scared voice if he could accompany her, that he was supposed to monitor activities. He was harmless. They all were. Oh, the humans could capture any of them, imprison them, dissect them, end their lives, but that’s where the threat ended. She’d always known that, but somehow she’d expected the world that produced John to be, well, more.
She did a few more maneuvers, ignored Moya dangling golden and still just out of Earth’s orbit, closed her eyes to the beckoning wormhole, and headed back into the atmosphere. She slowed the Prowler, let the Florida rain pound against the skin of the ship as she eased back to the hanger. When she popped the canopy, felt the rain on her face, she stood there for a moment before exiting and beckoning her accomplice to follow her. She closed the canopy, and pressed her cheek against the side of the ship, rested her palms against it, feeling tenderness for the inanimate object.
***
John rolled the Scotch around in his mouth, the musky peaty flavor a warm burn. Jim Amundson looked at him shrewdly, taking in the shave and the tie and the jacket and the cut on his neck where his hand had slipped this morning. Probably taking in the constant watchfulness, the downward drift of his hand as he sought the comfort of Winona, and found it lacking. She didn’t match his suit.
“We’re glad you’re alive, son,” said the colonel, swallowing his drink, signaling to the bartender in this elegant old boys club that they wanted more.
“Sir,” John started, hesitating. He hadn’t said this to anyone, hadn’t uttered the words themselves for close to a cycle, not since he’d said them to a broken woman whose new mission had been to pretend he didn’t exist.
Colonel Amundson had been the Flight Director. The voice of God at Mission Control, the last voice you hear, the only person you listen to in space, and even though it had been DK and his dad calling him back, John knew that this man, as much as anyone, had taken his loss personally. It had ended his career, held back space exploration indefinitely, until now.
John looked into his glass, saw the whirl of the drink, and as always, the whirlpool of wormholes. They wrapped around everything, giving his view of the world a bright blue glow.
“I’m sorry, sir.” He was a grown man, had destroyed command carriers, killed a woman, died himself, seen his shadow, seen his fate, danced with his enemy every morning over his Wheaties. An apology shouldn’t be this frelling hard. “Fuck,” he whispered aloud, wanting a human syllable to replace the alien curse.
***
The rain beat on, and the day got darker as the Earth rotated on it’s axis. Aeryn was always polite to the guards. No one else on Moya had ever had to endure the agonizing boredom of watching someone else exist for hours on end.
“May I walk back to the house?” she asked. She was taller than one of them, though slim, and she knew she could snap their necks, break their backs before they could prevent her from doing what she wanted. But it didn’t hurt to be polite.
“It’s a long way, ma’am,” the younger one said. She wanted to suggest that he take the protective eyewear off, but perhaps that was part of the uniform.
“I don’t mind,” she said. They glanced at each other, faces not changing expression and she wondered what subtle signals they were sending each other, signals only their kind were trained to receive.
“It might be dangerous,” the other one said. “There’ve been protestors, crazy people who have threatened you.”
Aeryn shrugged. That didn’t seem like much of a threat. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps a compromise,” she offered.
***
“What do you mean she went flying,” John shouted at Chiana, who sat curled up on the couch next to D’Argo. He blinked against the scene. Earth and a white couch and a big screen TV, and two aliens flipping channels as if they had nothing better in the world to do.
Chiana ignored him, the false antics on the screen more amusing than he was at the moment.
“I thought you were still fishing,” D’Argo said, landing on a soccer match. He smiled and settled more firmly into the couch. “I would like to learn this sport,” he added, thoughtfully. “Their fans get very enthusiastic on the players behalf.”
“Can we focus for a microt here, folks,” John said.
“Focus on what?” Chiana asked finally. “It’s not a crisis. Aeryn went flying. She’s fine.”
Seeing no support from that corner, John stormed out of the room heading for the door, and was stopped by the sight of Aeryn in the doorway, hair streaming with water, face clean and pale, clothes soaked and looking happier than he’d seen her since they arrived on Earth.
“Where the hell have you been!” he barked.
“Out,” she answered shortly. “Why are you back early?”
“Rain. Hard to fish in the rain,” he gritted out, caught off guard. She raised an eyebrow, and then entered the house, closing the door behind her and stripping off her damp leather coat while he stood watching her, the anger still burning in his eyes.
“You can’t just go off like that,” he muttered, and she raised her head, tilting it to the side and wringing the water from her heavy mass of hair.
“Yes,” she answered softly. “I can.”
“Aeryn,” Chiana squealed, “You’re getting water everywhere.” Aeryn rolled her eyes, collected her coat and headed for the stairway and her quarters.
John struggled for control, struggled not to follow her, glancing back and forth between the couch of aliens and the Sebacean walking away from him. He dug into the pocket of his suit jacket, searching for something, groping and coming up empty. He grimaced, and headed for the stairs.
He didn’t bother to knock, just opened the door to see her pulling her shirt off over her head. He paused in the doorway, embarrassed finally by his behavior and the surge of fear that was slowly rescinding as he realized she hadn’t gone anywhere. Well she had, but she’d come back.
She turned at his entrance, dropping the shirt on top of the pile of clothing covering the ground, and looked at him, annoyed. She wore a bra, lacy, feminine, definitely not-PK standard issue, but neither were the jeans molded to her body by the rain. She looked human, chilled, the blush of her pulse beating under her skin, but she wasn’t. Alien eyes, an alien consciousness, an alien child hidden in her flat, smooth belly. He choked a little, wished she had some human discretion, but she just kicked at the pile of clothing, muttering Chiana’s name in disgust, and grabbed something soft and white and dry.
She slid the shirt over her head and grimaced at the feeling of her wet hair. She curled it around her hand, searched for something to secure it and pulled it up. Water dripped onto her shirt, making the material see-through in spots.
“What do you want, John,” she asked, sounding tired and resigned. She wrinkled her nose, and then sat down on the bed with a sigh to try and remove her boots. She struggled with the clasps, her fingers cold from the rain, and winced as they clung to her feet.
He set his mouth, determined not to betray himself, even without the lakka. It kept back lust, kept back fear, and shoved forward Scorpy’s whispering voice, fueling his paranoia. But he’d left it in his other pants. He snorted at that, and moved to help her.
She tried to slap his hands away, but he grabbed her heel and tugged, succeeding in moving the boot forward. She pulled and it popped, and John looked at his hands, covered in water and mud and whatever else was on the boots, and then looked down at his suit. “Frell,” he muttered, trying to find a place to drop the boot that wasn’t on a pile of clothing.
“Chiana,” Aeryn bellowed suddenly, “Get up here and clean up this mess.”
And the Bizarro world was complete. Rain, and the T.V. and girls yelling at each other, his family life, to a T and he wanted to laugh, but Aeryn stuck her other foot out, indicating that he should help and while he tugged and grunted, she nodded at his clothing.
“Why are you wearing that. I thought you’d gone on vacation?” She didn’t sound bitter exactly, just very, very controlled. That wasn’t his favorite tone of voice, but it wasn’t crying and it wasn’t yelling and it wasn’t "I’m going to snap all the bones in your hand until you answer me" either.
“Came home early,” he said, giving a final tug and managing to smear mud all over the front of his pants. “Crap,” he muttered and dropped the boot to the floor.
“Chiana,” Aeryn hollered again, startling him. “Christ, Aeryn, do you have to keep doing that?”
“It’s not enough that she messes up her quarters, she has to bring everything in here and mess up mine.”
He wanted to grin, say that Livvy used to do the same thing, so desperate to find out what was wrong with her older siblings, or so intent on being near them that her entire room seemed to follow her from place to place. But he wasn’t quite sure how to bring up something so mild and familiar.
“So why are you wearing that,” she repeated, standing again, and peeling the wet denim off. John choked again, as she slid the fabric down her legs, having forgotten to pray that the lingerie wasn’t a matched set. The material clung, she wiggled, and the gods were clearly not on his side today. Game, set and match.
“Um, maybe I should go.” The denim dropped to her feet, and she stepped out of the jeans.
She stood there, watching him, waiting, and another piece clicked into place. Modesty or not, Aeryn knew him. He could be dead, and that much of her damp, naked flesh was gonna do something to him.
She looked at him, as unfathomable as ever and shook her head. “Go then.”
He turned to leave, saw Chiana coming up the stairs. “I came home early,” he offered softly. “ I had something I needed to do.”
Chiana came into the room, and he ruffled her hair, taking in the mismash of clothing she was wearing. “Wow, you really made a mess, Aeryn.” John looked back, but the Sebacean didn’t look angry, she just kept searching for something to wear.
“Maybe I’ll go downstairs,” he said, “hang out a little, have a beer.” Neither woman responded, too busy bickering, but they didn’t say no either.
***
The government house was massive, and when she came downstairs, she saw only D’Argo sprawled on the couch, arguing with Rygel about the human game on the television. Rygel had food spread out everywhere, and reached randomly for things, sighing in contentment as he gorged.
“Where’s Crichton,” she asked. “Did he leave?”
D’Argo waved the TV controller towards the kitchen. “He’s trying to find out if Rygel has consumed the entire stock of food they brought us today,” he said, and then broke off to howl at Manchester United. Rygel cackled gleefully, having bet money on the other teams to spite D’Argo.
Aeryn entered the kitchen to see John draped over the refrigerator, half leaning on and half leaning in, searching for something. “Every frigging condiment in the world,” he muttered, “There’s gotta be beer in here somewhere.”
“In the drawer,” she said.
He looked up, gave her a half-hearted smile.
“Rygel wanted to make room for all of the mustard. Apparently, there are over 100 different kinds. But I wouldn’t recommend them all. It wasn’t necessarily a successful experiment.” John did laugh at that, and she felt the solid weight in her stomach lift a little. It had been weekens since she’d heard him laugh with her in the room.
“It’s a full moon, tonight,” he said, softly, rifling through the vegetable drawer and coming up with two beers. He offered her one, extending his arm around the door. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and the golden hairs on his arms caught the light from the cooling unit. Refrigerator, she reminder herself, rolling her tongue around the ungainly word. It translated.
He closed the refrigerator door, and sat down at the table in the kitchen. The lights were off, but the moon shone down into the garden, no longer obscured by the rain, and it lit the area. She took her beer, went to sit at the table.
“Sorry about earlier,” he said. “They said you went flying. I thought, maybe, you’d gone back to Moya.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, how to take it, so she said nothing.
“Boys from the base called, asked if maybe next time you could leave their pilots alone.” He smiled at her, his face gentle in the light, the harsh planes faded.
“You walk home?” he asked, eyebrows pulling together, puzzled.
She nodded. “It was raining, and warm enough at first, and I didn’t want to be in that vehicle.”
He looked like he wanted to protest, so she continued. “They followed me home, made sure I got in when we went through the gates.”
He snorted. “You blew their minds,” he said, “You blow everyone’s mind. You look human and you’re not, and you just took a man to the moon today, like it was nothing, and it wasn’t and he’s never even put on a space suit.”
She shrugged. “I needed to fly.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, interrupted only by D’Argo’s warcries, and Rygel’s chortling response.
“That’s a bad combination,” he said finally.
He still had on the suit pants and shirt, but the jacket and tie were nowhere to be seen. He looked more relaxed, if tired.
“Why did you come home early?” she asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.
“Needed to see someone,” he said finally, taking a long swallow of the beer, closing his eyes in pleasure at the taste.
She waited. Hopeful, but uncertain.
“Space travel, it’s still new to us,” he said at last and she nodded. “In my lifetime, hell, in the lifetime of the space program, there’ve been accidents, deaths. Fires and faulty wiring, and mistakes. We’re human. We make mistakes.” He drained the rest of the bottle and set it down.
“In 1969, I saw the earth from outer space. On TV, but it was the earth. And then we put a man on the moon, hell, my dad walked in those footprints, touched the flag at Tranquility Base. He was a hero, a man who’d walked in the stars.” He looked at her, quirked up his mouth.
“ I know you think all of this is ridiculous, that we’re backwards and primitive, and yeah, I know it’s true, but I remember every mission my dad went on, every launch, every moment that I was involved in the space program, and now I’ve seen things, flown things that we can’t even conceive of. For us, for humanity, the things we did were miraculous, wondrous.”
“We have that somewhere in Sebacean history,” she said. “But I can’t imagine what this feels like for you, John.” Her hands rested on the table, one of them curled around the bottle, and he reached over, skimmed the back of her hand with his fingertips, sending shivers through her.
“I’ve never walked on our moon,” he said softly, “but I’ve kissed an alien.”
She pursed her lips, again at a loss.
“I’ve existed in a living ship, seen the birth of a star, traveled faster than light and gone EVA without a suit, and I’ve never even been to Tranquility Base.”
She turned her hand over, clasped his to stop the maddening tease of his hand on her skin.
“I had to apologize to someone,” he said finally. ” 'Cause I screwed up, and I got lost.”
“It happens,” she said. Curled her hand around his fingers, reveled in the answering squeeze.
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no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 08:14 pm (UTC)Thank you, that was lovely.
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Date: 2003-08-26 08:31 pm (UTC)Yes. It rains in Florida. The first 2 months of footballseason are part of hurricane season. Definitely a rainy time. And during the winter though it is drir, a cold front usually means rain.
Must go read story now...
no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 09:37 pm (UTC)Florida also features some lovely tropical storms and other rainy type weather. *g*
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Date: 2003-08-26 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-26 11:37 pm (UTC)This is really well written, it rings true, and I really enjoyed it:)
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Date: 2003-08-26 11:48 pm (UTC)Leelee
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Date: 2003-08-27 06:29 am (UTC)The characterization fits into the episode seamlessly and I love how Aeryn is trying so hard to be patient and sympathetic to John's people, almost like her solicitiousness toward the humans she encounters is a substitute for acting tenderly toward John, because she's totally clueless on how to do that at this point.
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Date: 2003-08-27 07:31 am (UTC)Rats!!
Date: 2003-08-27 07:51 am (UTC)Smut! Must. Have. Smut!!!!
hugs!
scrubs:)
Re: Rats!!
Date: 2003-08-27 09:56 am (UTC)And thanks for the encouragement:)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 09:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 10:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 10:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 10:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-27 10:08 am (UTC)