I blame Shaye
Feb. 20th, 2004 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowfor interrupting my normal Friday routine. There's no crying in baseball, and there's no getting sick when there are challenges to be issued!!
Actually,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shaye, honey, feel better soon. Take care of yourself! And the same goes to suelac and all the rest of you who are under the weather. May there be bourbon and Theraflu and soup and rest and really good drugs in your future.
I made spinach soup last night, without the recipe. I should have called about the recipe. It wasn't bad. I just think I missed a step somewhere along the way.
I was utterly useful last night, even joined the women's-only gym down the street since I've given up on Krav Maga. The bloody center was too far away. I enjoyed it, even though it scared me often and thoroughly, and I learned a hell of a lot. Like the fact that I'm just not going to consistently go somewhere that hard for me to access. Sigh.
So, since there was no![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
farscapefriday challenge for me to work on, and I was alone in the office for most of the day, and I've been completely unable to watch videos for some reason - none of the Windows Media Player videos are working for me right now, I wrote some Season 1 Aeryn/D'Argo for kerlin, or at least that was the plan, except it didn't turn out to really be Aeryn/D'Argo. Sorry dear.
Anyway, it's all sorts of PG. And it's beta free. It's sort of half formed. And I'm not sure where to go with it from this point. It needs some shaping, and a lot of work. But it's a beginning.
Tour of Duty
They had to space the corpse. No choice. No place to keep a dead tech on Moya.
John knelt by the body bag, touching it with the same care he lavished on the living, fingertips first to his lips, then pressed against the heavy, oily material. He got up, squared his shoulders like a Peacekeeper, and came back to them, hitting the button for the airlock on his way through the door.
Done.
It was done.
Moya’s floors gleamed warm and gold, welcoming. Twitch, shudder, relax, fall to the floor, press her cheek to it’s cool surface - that’s all it would take, one muscle letting go, and she’d go down like a Sheyang on the wrong end of an ignition source. Close her eyes, go back to the oblivion of dying. Lose this fatigue, ground glass in her eyes, oil in her muscles, strength a distant memory.
This, the here and now, standing shoulders squared, parade rest, at attention, it was bravado, a false front. A stolen iden chip of a masquerade. The paperwork said she was steady, so she’d be steady.
They shuttled the body out into space and John was motionless, blank and staring, as Gilina’s remains twirled and danced out into the stars.
Aeryn would have traded a body part for some decent stims, desperate for a little chemical help, or a nice piece of floor. Neither was forthcoming. She shifted her weight, grounding her aching body more solidly through the soles of her boots, and balanced on the balls of her feet. Her mind, her training, insisted she could stand for hours like this, still a soldier, still disciplined, still calm in the face of death, other people's death. Not so calm in the face of her own. She'd lashed out against it, and gone down in a heap.
So now, she’d remain standing until she fell again. Collapse was not an option, not yet, but oh, hezmana, it was looking like a lot of fun.
Duty. She was at duty, on duty, had a purpose. As long as he stayed, she’d stand here. Tribute. Memorial for Gilina, and maybe for John who’d gone on his own mission, desperate and foolish, and she’d allowed it. Had not stopped him. Should have stopped him. So she'd stand next to him. Standing was nothing. She could stand here forever.
John didn’t move for half an arn, facing out, facing the stars, stagnant as a statue, and if she’d been a lesser soldier, a weaker species, she’d have cried with the need to rest. Fine tremors ran up the back of her legs, she could feel them start again in her hands, and she couldn’t have held a pulse pistol at that moment to save their lives. The others moved quietly behind them, not disturbing John’s stillness, simply rustling, whispering, going on about their business. Reluctant to leave. Waiting.
And then finally, John took a deep breath, and looked over at her, releasing them both. His eyes were bloodshot, skin ashy. He was having trouble focusing on her, gaze darting over her shoulder to catch goddess knew what in the corners of the bay.
He reached out to touch her, the gesture clumsy, knocking into her collarbone instead of settling on her neck. He cursed and curled his gloved hands into a fist, the leather scraping against the skin exposed by her sweater. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch and he opened his hand, splaying the fingers over her breastbone, thumb in the hollow of her throat, fingertips on her shoulder.
He closed his eyes and she reached up to hold onto his wrist. His pulse was thready, breath ragged and she felt her gut tighten with concern. Then his eyes opened, wide and suspicious.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“No,” she lied, “I’m not.”
His mouth opened, and he closed his eyes again, fingers digging into her skin, and they trembled together, shudders running between their bodies.
“John,” she said, low enough that it wouldn’t startle, too low for the others to hear. He shook his head but didn’t open his eyes, and the fear overrode her caution.
“Zhaan,” she called, using her best “don’t frell with me” voice, whether for her sake or Crichton’s she didn’t much know or care.
The Priestess moved swiftly, her blessings spent on the corpse, attention turned to the living, and took Crichton in hand, leading him out of the bay. He kept his head down, shuffled along, his movements stiff and jerky, lacking his normal loping grace. Aeryn watched their progression, ineffectual and inexplicably angry, and more than anything else, bone weary. John stumbled and Zhaan had to hold him up. He didn’t look at her, just kept moving.
As soon as they exited the bay, her legs gave out and she folded down like a discarded flimsy, knees knocking the floor with a dull thud. She heard the sound, didn’t feel the impact. Bone against metal and she knew it should have hurt.
“Aeryn.”
D’Argo’s voice was very far away, tinny and distant. Then he was right next to her, hand heavy on her shoulder. She tried to shrug him off, but nothing happened and she looked over at him puzzled. He reached forward, touched her face.
“Aeryn,” he said, gently this time, calm and intimate as his fingers curled around her cheek. She tilted her head to the side, still confused, and then he cupped her face in both his hands, looking down at her like she was something precious and she couldn’t move, could only open her eyes in a parody of John’s earlier expression.
His breath was warm, organic, not at all like Sebacean breath, rawer but not completely unpleasant as he stroked her face, brushed back loose strands of hair before letting her go. He smiled with understanding and then his tongue shot out, and the room went back to black.
She woke with a headache, but when she sat up in her bunk, the expended effort was less than she’d expected. She held up her hand. Steady. Good. That was good. She didn’t know how she’d gotten to her quarters, back-tracked.
They’d spaced Gilina’s body, John’s choice but her quiet suggestion. A suitable send-off for a fellow warrior. He’d argued at first, but the tech had known nothing of sun and soil, and so he’d nodded and they’d sent her out into the stars.
She remembered that, remembered John’s blankness, his faltering. She recalled falling, touched her knee and felt the bruise, tender, minor; and D’Argo, holding her face like a lover. She didn’t know what to do with that, shunted it aside. There was much to be done, and they weren’t anything like safe. A narrow escape, and an infant gunship and a near useless crew.
This was madness.
This was normal.
She got out of bed with a wince.
The crates weren’t that heavy, but they were awkward and after dropping one for the third time, she kicked the frelling thing halfway across the cargo bay. She sank onto the next crate, slumping into an unflattering pile of bruised limbs. Her body was still working doubly hard to complete rudimentary actions.
The graft was taking, movement no longer quite like sucking sand through a straw, but she wasn’t fully healed. Her body rebelled at odd moments against the rough handling. A former Peacekeeper, an elite soldier, unable to lift crates and she should be ashamed. She was ashamed. Adrenaline, fear, need, the things propelling her through the Gammak base and away from it had faded in the face of their escape. When Moya took them back, Aeryn’s reserves had disappeared.
She’d slammed the pod into the docking boy, metal struts screaming against the flooring. John had hefted Gilina up into his arms, jogged out of the pod towards the med area, Zhaan on his heels. Aeryn couldn’t move, had vomited next to the pilot’s chair, and had to sit there, dizzy and unsettled until she could get up again. When she opened her eyes, disgusted with her body’s betrayal, she saw D’Argo, a protesting DRD under his arm, looking at her in sympathy.
He'd set down the DRD, and wordlessly offered her his hand. She'd pushed it away, shaking her head, but he grabbed hold of her anyway, helping her out of the seat and down the steps of the pod, where she shrugged out of his grip, saying, “Thank you,” grimly. He'd chuckled and left her alone.
Dying in increments had been worse than this, though, if not by much. She struggled to draw a deep breath, air scraping against her throat, filling her lungs, ribs aching. She propped her hands against her knees, hung her head, focused on getting her body back, finding need again.
Need had gotten her to the Gammack base, need and sharp, tearing fear and then instinct and training kicked in, along with something that she didn’t have a name for, something that felt free and full after she ripped the chip off of Crais’ neck. Liberation, maybe, or simple revenge. Regardless, from what Crais had done to her a cylce ago, she was now free.
“Aeryn.” D’Argo again, concern bleeding through the coms, interrupting her pity, her searching. She hadn’t spent this much time as the focus of the Luxan’s attention since this whole disaster began. Since the beginning.
“Where are you?” So careful with her, so empathic. It was unsettling.
“Cargo bay.” She was still angry about the tonguing, but she’d needed the rest. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he chuckled, voice rumbling. “Nothing new. Everything’s still wrong.”
“How is Crichton?”
“He’s supposed to be sleeping, but Zhaan said he didn’t want to. She gave him a sedative earlier. It should help.”
Aeryn nodded even though no one was there to see it. Thought about John, wished him rest. Peace.
They’d scrambled for the stairs back on the base, and that look in John’s eyes - desperate, hunted, abandoned - she had wanted to erase it, give him something to fight back with. But Gilina fled, and he'd looked relieved almost, when they dashed for the surface, leaving Gilina behind to the fate she had chosen.
And then, Aeryn had liked even less the way he clutched at the dying woman, his eyes glassy and distant as they flew haphazardly for Moya. It looked like guilt, and obligation, missed opportunities.
“Aeryn, I’m coming up to the cargo bay.” She didn’t answer D'Argo, just sat on the box, held her hand out again. Still no shakes. That was good. That was something.
She was still sitting there when D’Argo entered. He looked at her brow raised. “Why aren’t resting?”
She knew the answer to this one. “Peacekeepers chasing us. A vulnerable infant to protect. Crichton’s frelled, Moya’s recovering, Pilot’s barely hanging onto his control. Why do you think?”
He chuckled, but fixed his stare at her. He was standing, and the stare came a long way down. “Go back to bed.”
“D’Argo,” she said wearily, “Not a full solar day past, I told my former Commanding Officer to go frell himself, and then set that possibility in motion. Perhaps you shouldn’t be giving me orders.”
“Two days ago, you were dying.” He said. “It would be nice if these risks we all took, if the risks Crichton took meant something.”
She glared at him, and he crouched down beside her, placing one large hand on her thigh. “You aren’t healed. And you’re barely making a dent in this mess.” His hand covered her whole upper thigh and she stared at it, uncomprehending.
When had he decided that touching her like this was normal, acceptable? He wasn’t... She stopped. Finished the thought. He wasn't John. Barked out a laugh and D'Argo cocked his head, looked at her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, not unkindly. Curious, perhaps.
“I’m trying to help.” It sounded very sensible and he leaned in more closely. “I’m worried about you.” His irises were pale blue. He reached up, took her chin in her fingers. “I don’t want you to die.”
She was mesmerized by the absurdity of this situation. “I’m not going to die. In part, thanks to you.”
He smiled at her, and leaned forward, stroking her chin, then delicately brushing her mouth with his. Her heart stopped beating, and then suddenly started a drumroll in her chest.
What the hezmana was happening? His lips were far softer than she’d expected, tongue gentle as it stroked her lower bottom lip, careful, sweet, and she almost, almost let him continue out of pure shock, when a harsh laugh startled them both and they pulled away from each other.
“Guess I’ll give you two some alone time.” John didn’t sound surprised. He should have sounded surprised.
He still wore the Peacekeeper uniform and had pulled the gloves back on, leaving only the skin of his face and neck exposed. His eyes were wild, and his hair stood up in short tufts. He shook his head and blinked repeatedly before lashing out at the wall next to him. When he made contact, the pop of leather covered fist hitting metal, he stared at the wall in shock, then at his hand like it wasn’t attached to him. "Frell," he snarled.
He turned on his heel and left the bay.
Aeryn looked back down at D’Argo, his hand still high on her leg, and started to laugh. She lifted her knee, and with a grunt, kicked him in the gut as hard as she could, knocking him back across the floor. He landed with a muffled oomph, and then looked at her as she stood up and held out her hand to him. He waved her off, sitting up and catching his breath.
Laughter, genuine and bitterless, burbled in her chest for the first time in weekens.
“D’Argo, what the frell is wrong with you?”
He gaped at her like a bulnar fish, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m not Lo’Laan.” She stopped because that felt right. From the look D’Argo gave her, she knew it was was right.
“No,” he said, low and tired, blinking in surprise. “You’re not.”
He was Luxan, young, male, aggressive, sexual. She understood most of those things. Male Sebaceans, male Peacekeepers, were sometimes more subtle, but often not. Sex was a pull, and things had been very, very difficult lately, for all of them. This made sense, his attention landing on her, and not Zhaan, not Chiana, females who had previously exhibited more of a pull and a draw for him.
His mate, yes. Lo’Laan was Sebacean. And she’d been killed, stabbed in front of him. He’d been unable to do anything, and here, with Aeryn, on Moya, there had been things to be done.
And her aggression, the smell of violence and lust and fear, had spurred something else in her fellow warrior. Sex. Except, well, it wasn’t for D’Argo. The aggression fed itself, and someone else fed the lust.
D'Argo hauled himself to his feet, cheeks a burnished copper, heated with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, sighed in exasperation. Frelling males. “Don’t be. I was almost flattered.”
He laughed then, loud and booming.
“You should go see Zhaan,” she suggested, but he shrugged.
“Perhaps.”
“Or Chiana?” his eyes sparked a bit at that, and she was again tempted to laugh. “Be careful with that one, D’Argo. I’d hazard a guess that she knows positions you’ve never heard of.”
His cheeks darkened further.
“Aeryn. I am sincerely glad that you’re all right. I, this won’t happen again.”
She softened, could feel the mirth die away as the fatigue came swimming back.
“I know,” she replied. “And I am grateful to you, for what you did for me. I won’t ever forget that.”
He smiled shyly at her, an expression that was wildly out of place on his features.
“Will you,,,” she gestured around the room.
“Yes. Find John.”
She walked out, keeping her gait steady, not giving in to weakness, or to the small peals of laughter she could feel in her throat. She’d never giggled in her life, never felt those childish bursts that she heard in Chiana, Zhaan, in other females she’d encountered, but now she could barely control herself, the urge to cover her lips with her hand, smile wide and warm and just laugh was far too much and when she took a chance, entered the galley and saw John hunched over a cup, she wanted to share some of this feeling with him.
Irreversibly contaminated indeed. And clearly losing her mind.
He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, glancing past her towards the door, his expression so bleak that her temporary insanity fled back to where it came from.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hey.” He still had the gloves on and the small silver cup was dwarfed by his hands. He wouldn’t look at her.
She found another cup, and sat down across from him at the table, grunting a little at the effort it took to just sit properly. Silence stretched out between them.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt anything back there,” he said, then looked up at her. The bleakness had been replaced by anger, and she jerked back against his gaze.
“You didn’t. Interrupt anything.”
He snorted. “I just hadn’t realized you two were so close.”
She wondered how much damage she’d do if she reached over and smacked him on the forehead. Probably safest not to.
He bit his bottom lip, and tried to look stoic, so she gave in. Whacked him. Lightly. It made a nice noise, thwack, a springy sort of noise.
“Goddammit Aeryn, What was that for.” He rubbed the side of his head. He narrowed his eyes, petulant and pissed off. Yes, that was the phrase.
“D’Argo’s a treznot, and he just got a little over enthusiastic.”
"Really." He remained unconvinced and she rolled her eyes.
"Yes. Really. He misses his mate. Frell, I'm guess he probably misses sex, and safety. And sleep."
John’s features evened out. “I’m a moron.”
“Yes.” She said. “But not because of this.”
She put her hand over his, disliking intensely the feeling of the gloves against her fingertips and squirmed her fingers under the cuff of his sleeve, holding his forearm, growing serious.
“I’m very sorry about Gilina.” He hadn’t let her say it before now.
“Yeah.” His eyes darkened. “Me too.”
“And I wanted to thank you.” She paused, licked her lips. “For saving my life.”
He swallowed heavily, looked straight into her eyes. “Anytime,” he said, the words hushed and round.
She tightened her grip, the heat of his skin warming her, and the muscles in her arm gave up their stand and started to tremble.
“You’re shaking,” he said, and reached over, taking her other hand in his.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Actually,
shaye, honey, feel better soon. Take care of yourself! And the same goes to suelac and all the rest of you who are under the weather. May there be bourbon and Theraflu and soup and rest and really good drugs in your future.I made spinach soup last night, without the recipe. I should have called about the recipe. It wasn't bad. I just think I missed a step somewhere along the way.
I was utterly useful last night, even joined the women's-only gym down the street since I've given up on Krav Maga. The bloody center was too far away. I enjoyed it, even though it scared me often and thoroughly, and I learned a hell of a lot. Like the fact that I'm just not going to consistently go somewhere that hard for me to access. Sigh.
So, since there was no
farscapefriday challenge for me to work on, and I was alone in the office for most of the day, and I've been completely unable to watch videos for some reason - none of the Windows Media Player videos are working for me right now, I wrote some Season 1 Aeryn/D'Argo for kerlin, or at least that was the plan, except it didn't turn out to really be Aeryn/D'Argo. Sorry dear.Anyway, it's all sorts of PG. And it's beta free. It's sort of half formed. And I'm not sure where to go with it from this point. It needs some shaping, and a lot of work. But it's a beginning.
Tour of Duty
They had to space the corpse. No choice. No place to keep a dead tech on Moya.
John knelt by the body bag, touching it with the same care he lavished on the living, fingertips first to his lips, then pressed against the heavy, oily material. He got up, squared his shoulders like a Peacekeeper, and came back to them, hitting the button for the airlock on his way through the door.
Done.
It was done.
Moya’s floors gleamed warm and gold, welcoming. Twitch, shudder, relax, fall to the floor, press her cheek to it’s cool surface - that’s all it would take, one muscle letting go, and she’d go down like a Sheyang on the wrong end of an ignition source. Close her eyes, go back to the oblivion of dying. Lose this fatigue, ground glass in her eyes, oil in her muscles, strength a distant memory.
This, the here and now, standing shoulders squared, parade rest, at attention, it was bravado, a false front. A stolen iden chip of a masquerade. The paperwork said she was steady, so she’d be steady.
They shuttled the body out into space and John was motionless, blank and staring, as Gilina’s remains twirled and danced out into the stars.
Aeryn would have traded a body part for some decent stims, desperate for a little chemical help, or a nice piece of floor. Neither was forthcoming. She shifted her weight, grounding her aching body more solidly through the soles of her boots, and balanced on the balls of her feet. Her mind, her training, insisted she could stand for hours like this, still a soldier, still disciplined, still calm in the face of death, other people's death. Not so calm in the face of her own. She'd lashed out against it, and gone down in a heap.
So now, she’d remain standing until she fell again. Collapse was not an option, not yet, but oh, hezmana, it was looking like a lot of fun.
Duty. She was at duty, on duty, had a purpose. As long as he stayed, she’d stand here. Tribute. Memorial for Gilina, and maybe for John who’d gone on his own mission, desperate and foolish, and she’d allowed it. Had not stopped him. Should have stopped him. So she'd stand next to him. Standing was nothing. She could stand here forever.
John didn’t move for half an arn, facing out, facing the stars, stagnant as a statue, and if she’d been a lesser soldier, a weaker species, she’d have cried with the need to rest. Fine tremors ran up the back of her legs, she could feel them start again in her hands, and she couldn’t have held a pulse pistol at that moment to save their lives. The others moved quietly behind them, not disturbing John’s stillness, simply rustling, whispering, going on about their business. Reluctant to leave. Waiting.
And then finally, John took a deep breath, and looked over at her, releasing them both. His eyes were bloodshot, skin ashy. He was having trouble focusing on her, gaze darting over her shoulder to catch goddess knew what in the corners of the bay.
He reached out to touch her, the gesture clumsy, knocking into her collarbone instead of settling on her neck. He cursed and curled his gloved hands into a fist, the leather scraping against the skin exposed by her sweater. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch and he opened his hand, splaying the fingers over her breastbone, thumb in the hollow of her throat, fingertips on her shoulder.
He closed his eyes and she reached up to hold onto his wrist. His pulse was thready, breath ragged and she felt her gut tighten with concern. Then his eyes opened, wide and suspicious.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“No,” she lied, “I’m not.”
His mouth opened, and he closed his eyes again, fingers digging into her skin, and they trembled together, shudders running between their bodies.
“John,” she said, low enough that it wouldn’t startle, too low for the others to hear. He shook his head but didn’t open his eyes, and the fear overrode her caution.
“Zhaan,” she called, using her best “don’t frell with me” voice, whether for her sake or Crichton’s she didn’t much know or care.
The Priestess moved swiftly, her blessings spent on the corpse, attention turned to the living, and took Crichton in hand, leading him out of the bay. He kept his head down, shuffled along, his movements stiff and jerky, lacking his normal loping grace. Aeryn watched their progression, ineffectual and inexplicably angry, and more than anything else, bone weary. John stumbled and Zhaan had to hold him up. He didn’t look at her, just kept moving.
As soon as they exited the bay, her legs gave out and she folded down like a discarded flimsy, knees knocking the floor with a dull thud. She heard the sound, didn’t feel the impact. Bone against metal and she knew it should have hurt.
“Aeryn.”
D’Argo’s voice was very far away, tinny and distant. Then he was right next to her, hand heavy on her shoulder. She tried to shrug him off, but nothing happened and she looked over at him puzzled. He reached forward, touched her face.
“Aeryn,” he said, gently this time, calm and intimate as his fingers curled around her cheek. She tilted her head to the side, still confused, and then he cupped her face in both his hands, looking down at her like she was something precious and she couldn’t move, could only open her eyes in a parody of John’s earlier expression.
His breath was warm, organic, not at all like Sebacean breath, rawer but not completely unpleasant as he stroked her face, brushed back loose strands of hair before letting her go. He smiled with understanding and then his tongue shot out, and the room went back to black.
She woke with a headache, but when she sat up in her bunk, the expended effort was less than she’d expected. She held up her hand. Steady. Good. That was good. She didn’t know how she’d gotten to her quarters, back-tracked.
They’d spaced Gilina’s body, John’s choice but her quiet suggestion. A suitable send-off for a fellow warrior. He’d argued at first, but the tech had known nothing of sun and soil, and so he’d nodded and they’d sent her out into the stars.
She remembered that, remembered John’s blankness, his faltering. She recalled falling, touched her knee and felt the bruise, tender, minor; and D’Argo, holding her face like a lover. She didn’t know what to do with that, shunted it aside. There was much to be done, and they weren’t anything like safe. A narrow escape, and an infant gunship and a near useless crew.
This was madness.
This was normal.
She got out of bed with a wince.
The crates weren’t that heavy, but they were awkward and after dropping one for the third time, she kicked the frelling thing halfway across the cargo bay. She sank onto the next crate, slumping into an unflattering pile of bruised limbs. Her body was still working doubly hard to complete rudimentary actions.
The graft was taking, movement no longer quite like sucking sand through a straw, but she wasn’t fully healed. Her body rebelled at odd moments against the rough handling. A former Peacekeeper, an elite soldier, unable to lift crates and she should be ashamed. She was ashamed. Adrenaline, fear, need, the things propelling her through the Gammak base and away from it had faded in the face of their escape. When Moya took them back, Aeryn’s reserves had disappeared.
She’d slammed the pod into the docking boy, metal struts screaming against the flooring. John had hefted Gilina up into his arms, jogged out of the pod towards the med area, Zhaan on his heels. Aeryn couldn’t move, had vomited next to the pilot’s chair, and had to sit there, dizzy and unsettled until she could get up again. When she opened her eyes, disgusted with her body’s betrayal, she saw D’Argo, a protesting DRD under his arm, looking at her in sympathy.
He'd set down the DRD, and wordlessly offered her his hand. She'd pushed it away, shaking her head, but he grabbed hold of her anyway, helping her out of the seat and down the steps of the pod, where she shrugged out of his grip, saying, “Thank you,” grimly. He'd chuckled and left her alone.
Dying in increments had been worse than this, though, if not by much. She struggled to draw a deep breath, air scraping against her throat, filling her lungs, ribs aching. She propped her hands against her knees, hung her head, focused on getting her body back, finding need again.
Need had gotten her to the Gammack base, need and sharp, tearing fear and then instinct and training kicked in, along with something that she didn’t have a name for, something that felt free and full after she ripped the chip off of Crais’ neck. Liberation, maybe, or simple revenge. Regardless, from what Crais had done to her a cylce ago, she was now free.
“Aeryn.” D’Argo again, concern bleeding through the coms, interrupting her pity, her searching. She hadn’t spent this much time as the focus of the Luxan’s attention since this whole disaster began. Since the beginning.
“Where are you?” So careful with her, so empathic. It was unsettling.
“Cargo bay.” She was still angry about the tonguing, but she’d needed the rest. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he chuckled, voice rumbling. “Nothing new. Everything’s still wrong.”
“How is Crichton?”
“He’s supposed to be sleeping, but Zhaan said he didn’t want to. She gave him a sedative earlier. It should help.”
Aeryn nodded even though no one was there to see it. Thought about John, wished him rest. Peace.
They’d scrambled for the stairs back on the base, and that look in John’s eyes - desperate, hunted, abandoned - she had wanted to erase it, give him something to fight back with. But Gilina fled, and he'd looked relieved almost, when they dashed for the surface, leaving Gilina behind to the fate she had chosen.
And then, Aeryn had liked even less the way he clutched at the dying woman, his eyes glassy and distant as they flew haphazardly for Moya. It looked like guilt, and obligation, missed opportunities.
“Aeryn, I’m coming up to the cargo bay.” She didn’t answer D'Argo, just sat on the box, held her hand out again. Still no shakes. That was good. That was something.
She was still sitting there when D’Argo entered. He looked at her brow raised. “Why aren’t resting?”
She knew the answer to this one. “Peacekeepers chasing us. A vulnerable infant to protect. Crichton’s frelled, Moya’s recovering, Pilot’s barely hanging onto his control. Why do you think?”
He chuckled, but fixed his stare at her. He was standing, and the stare came a long way down. “Go back to bed.”
“D’Argo,” she said wearily, “Not a full solar day past, I told my former Commanding Officer to go frell himself, and then set that possibility in motion. Perhaps you shouldn’t be giving me orders.”
“Two days ago, you were dying.” He said. “It would be nice if these risks we all took, if the risks Crichton took meant something.”
She glared at him, and he crouched down beside her, placing one large hand on her thigh. “You aren’t healed. And you’re barely making a dent in this mess.” His hand covered her whole upper thigh and she stared at it, uncomprehending.
When had he decided that touching her like this was normal, acceptable? He wasn’t... She stopped. Finished the thought. He wasn't John. Barked out a laugh and D'Argo cocked his head, looked at her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, not unkindly. Curious, perhaps.
“I’m trying to help.” It sounded very sensible and he leaned in more closely. “I’m worried about you.” His irises were pale blue. He reached up, took her chin in her fingers. “I don’t want you to die.”
She was mesmerized by the absurdity of this situation. “I’m not going to die. In part, thanks to you.”
He smiled at her, and leaned forward, stroking her chin, then delicately brushing her mouth with his. Her heart stopped beating, and then suddenly started a drumroll in her chest.
What the hezmana was happening? His lips were far softer than she’d expected, tongue gentle as it stroked her lower bottom lip, careful, sweet, and she almost, almost let him continue out of pure shock, when a harsh laugh startled them both and they pulled away from each other.
“Guess I’ll give you two some alone time.” John didn’t sound surprised. He should have sounded surprised.
He still wore the Peacekeeper uniform and had pulled the gloves back on, leaving only the skin of his face and neck exposed. His eyes were wild, and his hair stood up in short tufts. He shook his head and blinked repeatedly before lashing out at the wall next to him. When he made contact, the pop of leather covered fist hitting metal, he stared at the wall in shock, then at his hand like it wasn’t attached to him. "Frell," he snarled.
He turned on his heel and left the bay.
Aeryn looked back down at D’Argo, his hand still high on her leg, and started to laugh. She lifted her knee, and with a grunt, kicked him in the gut as hard as she could, knocking him back across the floor. He landed with a muffled oomph, and then looked at her as she stood up and held out her hand to him. He waved her off, sitting up and catching his breath.
Laughter, genuine and bitterless, burbled in her chest for the first time in weekens.
“D’Argo, what the frell is wrong with you?”
He gaped at her like a bulnar fish, but didn’t say anything.
“I’m not Lo’Laan.” She stopped because that felt right. From the look D’Argo gave her, she knew it was was right.
“No,” he said, low and tired, blinking in surprise. “You’re not.”
He was Luxan, young, male, aggressive, sexual. She understood most of those things. Male Sebaceans, male Peacekeepers, were sometimes more subtle, but often not. Sex was a pull, and things had been very, very difficult lately, for all of them. This made sense, his attention landing on her, and not Zhaan, not Chiana, females who had previously exhibited more of a pull and a draw for him.
His mate, yes. Lo’Laan was Sebacean. And she’d been killed, stabbed in front of him. He’d been unable to do anything, and here, with Aeryn, on Moya, there had been things to be done.
And her aggression, the smell of violence and lust and fear, had spurred something else in her fellow warrior. Sex. Except, well, it wasn’t for D’Argo. The aggression fed itself, and someone else fed the lust.
D'Argo hauled himself to his feet, cheeks a burnished copper, heated with embarrassment.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, sighed in exasperation. Frelling males. “Don’t be. I was almost flattered.”
He laughed then, loud and booming.
“You should go see Zhaan,” she suggested, but he shrugged.
“Perhaps.”
“Or Chiana?” his eyes sparked a bit at that, and she was again tempted to laugh. “Be careful with that one, D’Argo. I’d hazard a guess that she knows positions you’ve never heard of.”
His cheeks darkened further.
“Aeryn. I am sincerely glad that you’re all right. I, this won’t happen again.”
She softened, could feel the mirth die away as the fatigue came swimming back.
“I know,” she replied. “And I am grateful to you, for what you did for me. I won’t ever forget that.”
He smiled shyly at her, an expression that was wildly out of place on his features.
“Will you,,,” she gestured around the room.
“Yes. Find John.”
She walked out, keeping her gait steady, not giving in to weakness, or to the small peals of laughter she could feel in her throat. She’d never giggled in her life, never felt those childish bursts that she heard in Chiana, Zhaan, in other females she’d encountered, but now she could barely control herself, the urge to cover her lips with her hand, smile wide and warm and just laugh was far too much and when she took a chance, entered the galley and saw John hunched over a cup, she wanted to share some of this feeling with him.
Irreversibly contaminated indeed. And clearly losing her mind.
He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, glancing past her towards the door, his expression so bleak that her temporary insanity fled back to where it came from.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“Hey.” He still had the gloves on and the small silver cup was dwarfed by his hands. He wouldn’t look at her.
She found another cup, and sat down across from him at the table, grunting a little at the effort it took to just sit properly. Silence stretched out between them.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt anything back there,” he said, then looked up at her. The bleakness had been replaced by anger, and she jerked back against his gaze.
“You didn’t. Interrupt anything.”
He snorted. “I just hadn’t realized you two were so close.”
She wondered how much damage she’d do if she reached over and smacked him on the forehead. Probably safest not to.
He bit his bottom lip, and tried to look stoic, so she gave in. Whacked him. Lightly. It made a nice noise, thwack, a springy sort of noise.
“Goddammit Aeryn, What was that for.” He rubbed the side of his head. He narrowed his eyes, petulant and pissed off. Yes, that was the phrase.
“D’Argo’s a treznot, and he just got a little over enthusiastic.”
"Really." He remained unconvinced and she rolled her eyes.
"Yes. Really. He misses his mate. Frell, I'm guess he probably misses sex, and safety. And sleep."
John’s features evened out. “I’m a moron.”
“Yes.” She said. “But not because of this.”
She put her hand over his, disliking intensely the feeling of the gloves against her fingertips and squirmed her fingers under the cuff of his sleeve, holding his forearm, growing serious.
“I’m very sorry about Gilina.” He hadn’t let her say it before now.
“Yeah.” His eyes darkened. “Me too.”
“And I wanted to thank you.” She paused, licked her lips. “For saving my life.”
He swallowed heavily, looked straight into her eyes. “Anytime,” he said, the words hushed and round.
She tightened her grip, the heat of his skin warming her, and the muscles in her arm gave up their stand and started to tremble.
“You’re shaking,” he said, and reached over, taking her other hand in his.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
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Date: 2004-02-21 01:20 am (UTC)yes but not as much as you might think. Your S1 Aeryn is lovely. and I think that the pain she is in helps with the openness of her thoughts. It acts as a white noise that inhibits her steely self control. Nice stuff there thea for being bored on a Friday afternoon at work.
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Date: 2004-02-22 09:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-21 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-22 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-21 03:33 am (UTC)That's just my way of saying I like it.
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Date: 2004-02-22 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-21 06:41 am (UTC)Awesome in the most basic sense of the word. Wonderful. I want to love it, and hug it, and squeeze it...
And perhaps the challenge in poetic form will appease you somewhat?
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Date: 2004-02-21 08:23 am (UTC)And I'm tellin' you, it's the thought of D'Argo (who is so not undersexed!!) gettin' some that leads to the warm and fuzzies, even when he's not actually gettin' any:)
But yeah, new challenge. And feel better!!
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Date: 2004-02-21 10:38 am (UTC)The graft was taking, movement no longer quite like sucking sand through a straw, but she wasn’t fully healed.
I definitely got a very sensory "gack!" moment reading that line. Full body shiver. But what a perfect way to describe it!
“You didn’t. Interrupt anything.”
And, wow. Lines that so perfectly capture the cadence of a character's voice always stick out for me. This is one of them, and I love it.
Thank you!!!
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Date: 2004-02-22 08:56 pm (UTC)However, I'm very, very glad you liked it!
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Date: 2004-02-21 04:30 pm (UTC)And the imagery! sucking sand through a straw, glass in her eye, good golly!
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Date: 2004-02-22 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-21 04:34 pm (UTC)Hey! They don't call me Smut Bunny for nothin'!!
hugs!
scrubs
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Date: 2004-02-22 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-23 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-23 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-24 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-02-24 05:36 pm (UTC)