Convenience Fish

FIC: Farscape, Bad Reputation

2007-06-03T20:39:17Z

More for the memories project. This one was just a bit of fun fluff.

Title: Bad Reputation
Author: huzzlewhat
Summary: John Crichton has to live up to the name he's made for himself.
Story Notes: No specific spoilers. Timeframe is early Season3, post "Sons & Lovers," pre "Self-Inflicted Wounds"
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Henson; I don't profit from this in any way except personal gratification.

"So..." the voice was loud, obnoxious, challenging. "You're Crichton? Have to say, you don't look like much."

John Crichton looked up to see what looked like a mountain addressing him. No, on closer examination, it wasn't a mountain. Just a very, very large man. Not Sebacean — probably a second cousin. A second cousin who was the child of two first cousins, a part of his mind observed. He merely gazed back at the mountain, calmly. He knew that he'd come a long way — two cycles ago, he'd have already hightailed it for the door, or ducked behind D'Argo. Just another sign of how stupid I've gotten.

"Excuse me?" he said. No harm in starting off polite. "Do I know you?"

Apparently polite was the wrong approach. "You should! I am Redjer Krall!"

Crichton frowned, searching his memory, coming up empty. Which doesn't mean much, these days. He cast a quick glance to his right, where Aeryn was standing. Where she was always standing lately. Hovering, he'd almost say. She saw the question in his eyes and gave the slightest shrug. Nope, she didn't know either.

But it was easy enough to guess.

At first, it had been a bit flattering, a bit funny. It seemed that despite what he considered to be his singularly abysmal record since arriving in the Uncharted Territories, he'd made a name for himself. And not just any name. Jesse James. Billy the Kid. Fastest Gun in the West, or something equivalent. At first, he and his shipmates had laughed about it among themselves. It was strange to think that people would hear of his doings, transform them from the series of bumbling mistakes and half-assed Hail-Mary recoveries that they actually were into something grand, something heroic. But there was no accounting for taste, or for popular opinion.

It had stopped being funny the third time he'd been confronted by a shady renegade who somehow felt the overpowering need to prove that he was a badder baddass than John Crichton.

Hell, Marmaduke is a badder baddass than I am.

But they didn't know that. All they knew was John Crichton, outlaw, destroyer of Gammack bases, killer of Scarrans, outwitter of Peacekeeper captains, thief of millions of credits from shadow depositories. And of course, seducer of lovely Peacekeeper commandos. Oh, yeah, Aeryn had been furious when she'd heard that apparently very popular story — about how she'd forsaken her duty after one glance from Crichton's peerless eyes. He hadn't thought he'd live out the day. Or, at the very least, that the aforementioned peerless eyes would remain safely in his skull.

Yeah, it had been funny at first. But now, it was beginning to be a real problem.

Crichton sighed, and gave the mountain his most charming smile. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr... um, Krall," he tried. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Redjer Krall frowned. Obviously not the reaction he was expecting. Crichton took advantage of the time it took the thought to travel along the synapses of the being's apparently very slow brain to examine him. Looking for familiar signs that might be good. He could tell, now, when he'd be able to bluff his way out. If they were sweating, nervous, he was usually able to scare the hell out of them with a few steely, quiet comments Man, the things you learn from Dirty Harry movies!, then let them off the hook with a drink and some quiet advice. And they were relieved not to have to fight the Great John Crichton, and thought much of themselves that they'd actually sat down and had a drink with the Great John Crichton, and so went and told their friends. And not one of them ever told their friends that the Great John Crichton was just a normal guy caught up in larger circumstances, that he hadn't really wiped out an entire squadron of Scarrans single-handed, that he'd actually been unconscious at the time that the shadow depository had been blown to kingdom come, or that he was far more likely to melt like butter at one glance from Aeryn Sun's eyes than the other way around. And so the legend only spread.

Here... there was no sign of fear here. Only belligerence and blank stupidity. Belligerence enough to want to tangle, and stupidity enough not to realize when backing off would be a good thing. This did not look good.

Without turning, he knew what was going on behind him. D'Argo would be sitting forward, hand on his Qualta Blade. Zhaan and Stark would have shifted to the side to give D'Argo room to draw the damned thing. Chiana would have drawn back into the shadows, ready to lend aid if needed with the judicial application of a well-placed bar glass or something vaguely resembling a crowbar. And Rygel — Rygel had probably already headed for the door. They all had the routine down by now.

"You can buy me nothing, Crichton!" Krall bellowed, drawing the suddenly-silent attention of everyone in the bar. With a sinking feeling, he knew it wasn't because of the volume — in the ever-present din of snarls, shouts, and intriguing moans, one more idiot yelling was not exactly noteworthy. It was the name. There was no way out of it now.

Crichton put his hands up anyway in a gesture of placating patience, only to have the creature slap them down with one hand, then backhand him across the jaw, throwing him backwards, taking the table where his friends were sitting with him as he crashed unceremoniously to the floor. Aeryn was instantly moving, positioning herself between him and his assailant, pulse pistol drawn and leveled in the general vicinity of the man's nose. John appreciated the action, but it wasn't necessary. He didn't even have to look to know that his assailant wouldn't pursue — not yet. He'd stand proudly in the center of the room, waiting for Crichton to stagger to his feet and face him. There was, after all, a proper procedure to these sorts of things.

D'Argo's hand was on his arm. "John, are you all right?"

"Sure, D, just peachy. What can you tell me about this guy?"

D'Argo looked up, assessed Krall, then met John's gaze earnestly. "He's very large."

"Thanks a hell of a lot. Anything useful?"

"He's a Kraken," Stark commented. "Their joints are very sensitive."

"So... what? I should tickle his knees? Hope it rains?"

"Perhaps, John, you should consider losing."

He gaped at Zhaan's quiet suggestion. "Consider it? Blue, I'm expecting it."

She smiled sweetly, not at all bothered by his fractious tone, and explained. "It might very well put an end to all of this. It's public, everyone here knows who you are..."

"And if steroid-boy here kicks my ass, then all the would-be gunfighters'll start gunning for him instead?"

She nodded, looking so impeccably sincere that he couldn't even get angry. Impossible to get angry at Zhaan anyway, these days.

He glanced back to where the hulking man was waiting, arms crossed, grinning smugly. "Man, he's big." He looked anxiously at his friends. "What if he just wants to kill me?"

"Then we will stop him," D'Argo rumbled.

Crichton hesitated, then shut his eyes in resignation. "Ah, hell. Just make sure you've got your little black bag ready, Zhaan. I have a feeling this is really gonna hurt."

She smiled, gripped his shoulder briefly. "Courage, John."

"Oh, is that what they're calling rank stupidity these days?" he grumbled, clamboring to his feet.

Krall was smirking. "Is this the Crichton that I've heard so much of? Cowering on the floor? Hiding behind his second-rate tralk?"

"Okay, that's it," Crichton snapped. "No one calls Aeryn second rate."

Aeryn cast him a glance that somehow, in her very Aeryn way, managed to be both withering and amused. "Thank you so much, Crichton."

"No problem, Sunshine."

All things considered, he figured, it wasn't all that bad. Certainly in terms of physical pain, he'd had worse. Krall was a bar-brawler, nothing more elegant, despite his size and weight — after nearly two cycles of Aeryn Sun's relentless lessons, Crichton had learned enough to avoid damage that was too extreme, or permanent. He figured the swelling to his face would go down, the rib was bruised, not broken, and the shoulder was merely twisted, rather than dislocated. The cut high up on his thigh from the broken bottle was nasty, but maybe he could convince Aeryn to field-dress it later. And that had real possibilities... He stayed out of reach when he needed to, got in enough blows to make a good showing for himself, but the end of the fight wasn't ever in any real doubt. It ended with John Robert Crichton, best of the best, pride of IASA, flat on the floor, gasping for breath.

"On your feet, coward!" Krall bellowed, "Or I'll kill you where you lie."

Crichton opened one eye, looked up at the big man. "You win, Krall. You're obviously the better man." In a louder voice, so the whole bar could hear, he said, "I concede!"

There was silence, then only the sound of Krall's laughter. "You are a fool as well as a coward. You cannot concede."

John propped himself up on his elbows, rather spoiling the effect of being too exhausted to move. "I just did."

"This fight will end when one of us is dead," Krall growled. "Not before."

"Oh, come on," Crichton protested. "Be reasonable..." he trailed off. "Right. Look who I'm asking to be reasonable."

Across the room, Aeryn was on her feet again, pistol half-raised; D'Argo was right next to her. But they were immediately surrounded by a group — no, a herd — of beings who were apparently the rest of the Krall clan. Where the hell did they come from? Man, if there was ever an argument needed against inbreeding...

"Do not move," one of them barked. "No one will interfere."

Above him, Krall pulled a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt. "You will die, John Crichton, and the galaxy will sing of my prowess."

"Well, fuck that," John snapped, and as Krall lunged downward with the knife, he rolled, ignoring the protest from his ribs and shoulder. He kicked out, catching the huge man squarely on the knee. Krall bellowed, and staggered; by the time he recovered, John was on his feet, landing an elbow solidly to the larger man's gut, then whipping his fist around to land another blow on his elbow. Krall dropped the knife, his arm apparently numbed by the impact, and John caught it before it hit the floor. Twisting, he brought his shoulder up under the man's breast bone in a move he'd learned from old Coach McCarty, knocking the air out of him and sending him down. John ended up on top of him in the very first move Aeryn had demonstrated for, or rather, on him, his knees grinding the man's elbows into the floor, knife at his throat.

Krall wheezed painfully, glaring up at him. "Go on," he growled. "Kill me. This contest will end when one of us is dead."

"Wrong," Crichton said evenly. "It just ended. Now tell the Deliverance extras to back off my friends."

"You must kill me to defeat me."

"Buddy, you're defeated every time you try to complete a thought process. Now tell them to back the hell off."

For a long moment, it seemed as though Krall wouldn't respond, but he finally drew a breath. "Back off."

Crichton held his position for a moment longer, waiting until he was sure that Aeryn and D'Argo — and, more importantly, their weapons — were clear, then levered himself up and off the fallen Kraken. Krall rolled over, and with difficulty got to his feet, staring in astonishment at the hand that Crichton put out to help him up.

"You... you do not wish to kill me?"

"I do not wish to kill anybody," Crichton responded. "It's over."

"Then... give me back my knife."

Crichton laughed, shaking his head. "No way, buddy. I'm a good winner, I'm not stupid. I do not want that thing planted between my shoulderblades when I walk away. I think I'll just keep this as a reminder of our encounter."

Krall nodded heavily, and Crichton backed away slowly to rejoin his friends. Casting a careful look around the bar, he could see the expressions on people's faces. Wonderment, awe. "Did you see that?" one of the patrons whispered in a voice that clearly carried over to them. "Crichton was merely toying with the Kraken..."

"Shit," he groaned. Instead of defusing his reputation, he'd just spread it wider. "Zhaan?"

"Yes, John?"

"Painkillers would be real good right about now."

"Of course." She nodded, and reached for her bag.

"John..." Aeryn's voice was low, grave, and John turned to see Redjec Krall and his... friends? gang? gene pool?... advancing across the floor.

"Ah, frell," John muttered. "What the..."

D'Argo and Aeryn took up positions on either side of him, weapons ready. Crichton, feeling the numb throbbing in his face metamorphose into a sharp throbbing in his face, couldn't help rolling his eyes. Oh, sure. Now you're ready for them... Krall ignored them, stopping a few paces away from him, and, amazingly, sank down onto one knee.

"John Crichton, I offer you my service."

John blinked.

Behind him he could hear Chiana's distinctive giggle. He didn't dare look at Aeryn or D'Argo.

"Um... Krall..."

"You have bested me in battle, and shown yourself to be an honorable opponent. A man worth following."

Now he was certain that D'Argo was laughing. "Krall, you don't understand..."

"You are a great leader, and it would be a privilege to serve under you, to fight alongside you. Allow me to join your cause, and pledge to you my service, and that of my family."

"What?" Rygel's protest reached his ears from the back of the room. "You must be joking! Can you imagine how much they eat?"

He heard a distinct huff from Aeryn, knew that it was suppressed laughter.

He sighed. Time to put an end to this. He took a deep breath, reached out and clasped Krall on one massive shoulder. "Redjer Krall, you honor me with your offer. But the time has not yet come to gather a large force. For the moment, it's best if my friends and I work alone." Krall started to protest, and John forestalled him. "Don't worry, Redjer. The day will come when we will have need of you. And when we have need of you, we'll call." He smiled, and Krall bridled like a prom queen.

"We will do as you say, John Crichton. We will watch and wait for your signal."

"Thank you." John nodded, and Krall lumbered to his feet, sketched something alarmingly like a bow, and shuffled off with his posse, all of them exchanging excited whispers.

There was a long, heavy silence. When he finally looked at Aeryn, she was regarding him from under eyebrows that seemed to have climbed halfway up to her hairline.

"Where the frell did you learn that utter load of dren, Crichton?"

He shrugged. "One too many Errol Flynn movies."

"You do realize, Crichton," D'Argo rumbled, "that these... people... will be waiting to hear from you."

"Um... yeah?" Crichton looked up at him. "So?"

"So..." D'Argo began, but was interrupted by Rygel's snort of disgust.

"Oh, please. It's not as if he's ever going to summon them. They'll stay here for the next five cycles, picking fights and congratulating themselves on how important they are to some fictitious resistance."

"Sparky's right," Crichton said. "They're not going anywhere. The worst they can do is cause a local shortage of fellip nectar and beat the dren out of a few Peacekeepers. Besides, they might come in useful if I ever do decide to take over the galaxy."

The uncertain expressions on their faces made him grin. "Joke, guys." He ran a hand over his face, wincing as he touched his jaw gingerly. "Come on, let's get out of here." He cocked an eyebrow at Zhaan, who wordlessly handed him a familiar green flask that he knew from long experience contained a highly effective painkiller. "Gotta say, Blue. That was one helluva plan."

—END

FIC: Farscape, Blank Pages

2007-06-02T14:33:06Z

Second in my archiving project. Again, old stuff.

This one is interesting to me because I wrote it just after "Fractures" aired — at a time when we were living in John's head, but were blocked from Aeryn's. I don't think this one holds up as well where Aeryn is concerned. I think the writing in this one is clunkier, too — I do a lot of telling instead of showing. Although any time I can work in Jack pleases me.

Title: Blank Pages
Author: by huzzlewhat
Time Frame: Post Fractures
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for language.
Summary: Ever try to help and instead do exactly the wrong thing?
As always, any and all feedback is enthusiastically welcomed.
There is a longer version of this available, if anyone wants it, but my trustworthy beta reader assures me the shorter version is better.

"Commander Crichton?"

He rolled over, coming awake instantly. It used to take him time and several cups of coffee to "achieve functionality," as the perenially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed DK used to say. Yet another adaptation to life in the Uncharted Territories. Too many sudden dangers to afford the luxury of a snooze button.

"Yeah, Pilot? Something wrong? Moya all right?"

"Everything is fine, Commander. But I was hoping to speak with you personally. I need your assistance with... something."

For a moment, Crichton simply stared at the ceiling. It was getting harder and harder to bolster enthusiasm these days, let alone only an arn or so after he'd finally put his body to bed. He was tempted to tell Pilot to go take a flying leap and just stay where he was for the foreseeable future.

But he'd made a promise to himself, not to let Pilot and Moya down again. And the request had piqued his curiosity.

"All right," he said, levering himself up. "I'm on my way."

_____

Pilot looked up as Crichton entered, giving the human a look that managed, in a very typically Pilot sort of way, to be simultaneously hesitant and eager.
Crichton started to speak, but only loosed the jaw-splitting yawn he'd been trying to stifle.

"My apologies, Commander. I did not realize it was your sleep period."

"I um... switched shifts with D'Argo." Ordinarily, his duty shift overlapped Aeryn's. Aeryn, too proud to bow out, kept on showing up exactly on time, jaw set and eyes distant, enduring his presence as though it was a penance to be done. After two weekens, he'd begged D'Argo to trade shifts; D'Argo, all sad-eyed compassion, agreed. If Aeryn had commented on the change, he didn't know. Certainly he couldn't very well ask.

"Are you well, Commander? You look... tired."

Crichton eyed Pilot with some exasperation. "You didn't wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me to get some sleep, did you? 'Cause if you did, I may have to shoot you." His grin defused the harsh words. "You said you needed my help?"

"I... um..." If he had feet, Crichton thought, he would have shuffled them. Crichton wanted to shake it out of him. Instead, he leaned forward, angling his head to look up into Pilot's face. "Hey. Talk to me."

Pilot sighed. "I have observed you and the others presenting each other with... small tokens."

"Gifts, yeah."

"To... convey a certain intention. Reassurance, friendship, remorse..."

"Remorse." Crichton chuckled. "Like the locket Chiana gave Aeryn." He fumbled for an explanation. "It's... just a way to tell someone that you care about them. To cheer them up." He wondered where this was going.

"Ah." Pilot was silent for a moment, then said suddenly, "I wish to give a gift to Officer Sun."

For a moment, Crichton didn't answer. He wanted to say that it would take a heck of a lot more than a knick-knack or a bunch of flowers to make Aeryn smile. That they should let her work through this on her own.

But Pilot's face, hesitant, hopeful, stopped him. After all, Aeryn's problem isn't Pilot. It's me. And given how close they are... it might be a really great idea. It's only important that someone helps her, not that it's me who does it.

He smiled. "That's a great idea, Pilot. Do you know what you're going to give her?"

Pilot's expression, relieved pleasure at his answer, shifted into crestfallen confusion.

"I have been unable to think of something. I hoped... you could suggest something."

"Me." It wasn't a question. Crichton blew out his breath. Jeez, couldn't you ask for something easy? Infiltrating another Gammac base, or taste-testing Rygel's mahjols? "I don't know. Aeryn's always been tough to shop for, even when..."

Even when we were on speaking terms, his mind finished for him.

"Please, Commander," Pilot entreated. "You know Aeryn the best of us all. And I... I have never seen a commerce planet."

"I'm thinking, Pilot, but I'm drawing a blank. Except for weapons, and I'm not sure that reinforcing the Peacekeeper ideal is really what we're going for here."

"Perhaps... on the next commerce planet, you could... find something appropriate?"

"I..."

"I cannot do this without your help, Commander."

Right. Because nothing would make me happier than shopping for the perfect present for the woman I love, who can't stand the sight of me. And someone else will give it to her, because if it came from me, she'd probably burn it.

But he couldn't say no. It was a small enough thing to do for the gentle being who had been such a staunch friend to them, especially to Aeryn. And it might help Aeryn. So it was worth it.

"Okay," he said. "I'll do it. Any preferences? Color, size, price range?"

"Something small, but meaningful," Pilot answered promptly.

Crichton rolled his eyes. Great. That narrows it down.

_____

Shopping was not going well. He'd already ruled out weapons, and everything else just seemed... wrong. A scarf, to match her eyes? Silly, ineffectual. Scent for her hair, her skin? Didn't bear thinking about. A jewel of some sort, to wear at her neck, on her wrist? Aeryn didn't wear baubles, and to his all-too-human mind, jewelry had associations that were too meaningful.

He winced. No. He'd have to go back and tell Pilot...

He stopped as his eye fell on a booth across the square, and he smiled slightly. Maybe...

The booth was manned by a small, decrepit alien with disconcertingly large eyes and a wide mouth; he looked, Crichton reflected, like someone had started in on Mr. Potato Head after a night of binge drinking.

"Can I be of assistance, Peacekeeper?"

He struggled to keep a straight face; the voice was high, falsetto, a near squeak. "Thanks. But I'm not a Peacekeeper."

"Ah. That is good. You like?"

He examined the array of paper and beautifully bound books. "They're beautiful." Memory tugged, and he grinned. "In fact, they're perfect."

______

"It is... paper." Pilot observed carefully.

Crichton sighed. Pilot was obviously trying hard not to show his disappointment.

"I know it's not what you expected..."

"Perhaps... if you explained the significance?"

Crichton considered his words carefully. "Writing down your thoughts, your feelings, your observations of the world around you, is a way of getting things out, things you can't talk about. My Dad gave me my first journal when I was 16. It was like... I didn't confide in him, like I used to when I was a kid — it's a whole teenager thing — but the gift was a way of saying that he knew I still needed to, and that he was there for me." That had been the first in a long line of journals, including the audiotapes AW — After Wormhole. Replaced, when the batteries died, by low-tech paper. His twin had taken the half-filled journal, so God knew where it was now. Lost, destroyed, maybe burned with the body... that gave him a weird chill, and he shrugged it away. He thought of other journals, left behind on Earth. He hoped that his father found them comforting now. He met Pilot's earnest gaze. "Does that make any sense?"

Pilot nodded, pleased. "I understand, Crichton. It is perfect."

Crichton smiled ruefully. The perfect present for a boy who'd always kept everything bottled up inside. And lord knows, a human teenager's got nothin' on Aeryn Sun.

______

"Crichton."

The voice was so unexpected that Crichton blinked. When was the last time she'd actually commed him?

"Crichton," she prompted, her voice tinged with impatience and something he couldn't identify, but that set butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

"Yeah, Aeryn?"

"Come to Pilot's den. I want to talk to you."

It wasn't a request, or an invitation. It was an order.

He felt the butterflies grow, intensify. Yep, sure enough. Full-fledged rattlers.

This was not good.

______

He stopped dead at Aeryn's expression. He'd been hoping that she'd break through her detachment, show some emotion. But somehow fury wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

He squared his shoulders. All right, John. Take it like a man. Whatever it is.

"How dare you?" she hissed, and despite himself, he flinched. Her eyes were narrowed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. He felt vague relief that he wasn't standing closer.

"I thought perhaps you were capable of adult behavior. But this—"

"Okay," he threw up a hand to forestall her. "Help me out here. What are you talking about?"

"This... this... gift." She gestured sharply to the journal sitting on Pilot's console.

"Pilot's present? I just—"

"You just used Pilot's request for your own purposes," she said, and her voice could have cut glass. "Sending a message? Blank pages, to start over? I don't think so." She stepped forward, and he resisted the instinct of self-preservation that made him want to step back. "Get this through your head, human. There will never be anything between us. Don't insult John's memory with such... veiled gestures. I'm not going to trade his memories, his journal, for your blank one."

Human. I'm not even real to her. Crichton looked down, struggling.

Be smart, a voice exactly like his own echoed in his brain. Don't push... Don't push... don't...

Nope. Didn't hold. As his head came up, she recoiled. He had no idea what she saw in his face, and at that moment, in his blazing anger and hurt, he didn't care.

"Pilot asked me to find something for you. I thought this might help — since you can't talk to me, and you sure as hell aren't talking to anyone else. You walk around like a zombie, and everyone walks on fucking eggshells, twisting themselves into pretzels so they don't upset Aeryn. I know I'm nothing to you. We're not married, we're not lovers — we aren't even functioning as shipmates. But here's one thing you need to get through your head, Officer Sun. I am John Crichton. You make whatever choices you need to make, you ignore me, you treat me like the fucking furniture if that's what you need to do, but you damned well better accept that it's me you're doing it to. Because I am real, and I have to live on this ship, too."

He was suddenly aware that he was standing too close, inside her carefully set boundaries, that her eyes were wide as she stared at him. God, what he must look like to her. He'd never blown up at her like this, never given way so completely. No wonder she didn't recognize him as the man she'd known. Self-loathing tugged hard. He was giving in to his own unhappiness and selfishly taking it out on the one person who couldn't take it right now.

God, what an asshole.

He slumped as he turned and walked away. "I-I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke on the words. He could feel the tightness in his jaw, the strain in his face, the ache in his shoulders as he pulled it all back again, held it in. He looked back, but couldn't meet her gaze. "Aeryn. I wasn't trying to replace the old journal. I didn't even know you had it."

_____

He stood on command, checking Moya's systems, one by one. Monotonous, but necessary, and what he needed right now. Productive, but mindless. The others were all asleep, and that was good, too. He wasn't fit for company right just now.

He'd gone over the line. He knew it, but he couldn't make it right. Before, he could have tracked her down and apologized. Not now. Now, the kindest thing he could do was leave her alone.

"Crichton."

He straightened in surprise, then turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence. "Aeryn." There was a long silence, and he sighed. "You're up late."

"I couldn't sleep."

He felt the tension grip him, walled it away. "I am sorry, Aeryn, for what I said. I was unfair."

"We were both unfair," she said softly, and he chuckled sadly.

"How 'bout if we just say that life's unfair?"

"I'll accept that."

You shouldn't have to.

"Aeryn," he started, and winced at the tone in his voice. God, what a jerk. Either I'm bottling it all up in a cold sulk, or I'm a ranting idiot. And she doesn't deserve either.

He took a deep breath, tried again. "Aeryn. I'm sorry... truly sorry for your loss, but we're going to have to find a way to live together."

She didn't answer. But he could feel her move closer. Not too close. She leaned forward, placing something on the console next to him. “Here.”

He didn't need to look down, just shook his head. "Returned gifts go back to the giver. No matter what you think, it was Pilot's idea."

She hesitated, then spoke, her voice soft and rough. "I'm not returning it. I'm... giving it to you."

He frowned.

"John... the other John... explained why he kept a journal. I... I thought you might need it."

The pain was too much; he closed his eyes against it. He heard footsteps, and knew she was gone.

The other had told her about his journal, had probably told her about Dad and that damned 16th birthday. How much more did she know, freely given by his twin, while he himself hadn't reached the point where he could share?

She had understood, and so did he. She thought he might need it. To talk to, because he could no longer talk to her. The gift acknowledged his loss, the shadow of her own. He had lost her, as completely as she had lost him, even while they were trapped together on the same ship.

He reached out, flipped through the book. Everything I saw and thought and wondered and dreamed and despaired over the last three years, he gave to her. This is what's left for me — blank pages. I can't ask for my journal back, but I sure as hell can't start my life again from scratch right here. I'm not carrying on his life, I'm living my own. That past is mine. I can't pretend it's not, no matter how much she wants that past to belong to a dead man.

He let the pages run through his fingers, wondering what he would fill them with. Right now he felt too empty to even leave a single mark.

He shook his head, remembering his father's words as he'd given him the journal. "I think we both know by now that I'm not always going to be here when you need me. But don't ever think that it's because I don't want to be. If you need to talk, and I'm not actually here," Jack had said, smoothing his hand across the blank pages, "I'm here. But remember, it's just paper. Nothing more. It doesn't have to have to have world-shaking significance, or define your life. It doesn't have to be profound, or spelled correctly, or even very smart. Just use it to get it all the crap out of your head before you explode. Okay?"

Crichton's hand mimicked his father's remembered movements on the smooth, unmarked pages before he closed the book and picked it up. "Okay, Dad," he said, smiling. "I hear you. Now I just need to find a pen."

—End

FIC: Archiving

2007-06-01T15:41:12Z

I've been meaning to do this for a while, and I'm finally getting around to it. Before I wrote a few fics in Buffy fandom, I wrote a few fics in Farscape fandom. After the demise of the SciFi Bulletin Board, it was a bit of a chore to track down all of what I'd written. I'm still missing one, I think...

Anyway, for the sake of posterity, I'm going to be posting my old FS fic here over the next few days. Nothing exciting, nothing new.

It's sort of funny, seeing the original headers, pinpointing exactly when it was written — what I knew and didn't know at the time. I actually think this one holds up pretty well. The writing is a bit... rough in spots, but I'm still proud of my dialog. I got FS dialog in a way that I never have with other fandoms — it's one of the reasons why most of my Buffy fic is dialog-light, and the rest of it is like pulling teeth. And why I'll never, ever write Firefly fic. When characters have distinctive voices, it's a crime not to reflect that. The FS crew, however... I could hear the actors' voices in my head when I wrote dialog, and I've never had that with any other fandom.

Title: Scars
Author: huzzlewhat.
Summary: Sometime in the not-so-distant future, after the reunion of the two crews.
Disclaimer: Insert your favorite disclaimer here. :-)
Spoilers: Anything up to 'The Choice', everything else is the authors speculation only.
Feedback: Welcome.
Archiving: You want it, you can have it. Just let me know where "it" is, please!
Author's Notes: Written during the original airing of S3, before "The Choice" aired. Thanks to those who gave me advice on the BB, and thanks to AC, for her advice and encouragement behind the scenes. I started off intending to do something dark and angsty — but it turned into something else, against my will. Guess I'm just a shippy little marshmallow inside after all, huh? Anyway, I'm seriously buying into the idea of fic as therapy - finding a way to "fix it!"

The interior of the bar was warm, darkened but not oppressively dark. Crichton sat at a table in the corner, nursing something that wasn't nearly enough like bourbon to suit him.

He needed something familiar, he thought with a sudden ache. He needed something of home. He was tired of everything being strange, of every single damn thing in his life needing him to adapt to it. He wanted a familiar pair of Levis, his ragged old flannel shirt. He wanted to walk into a bar and order a drink without having to figure out what he might like, and what wouldn't poison him. He wanted to go to an ATM and punch in his pin — 4682, his mind supplied automatically — when he needed to buy something, not try to figure out how many Hynerian reklahs were worth a Instik'ran meljah and whether offering a case of drenath in trade for a new power coupling would insult the trader or get him labeled a rube. He wanted to call up Mario's and have a pizza delivered to his door, he wanted to sit on the back porch and eat it, looking at grass that was green, a sky that was blue, and trees that didn't look like they'd been plucked up by the roots and replanted upside down. He wanted to drive his T-Bird down to the beach, and listen to the radio. He wanted to spend a Sunday working on overhauling that old engine - if he closed his eyes, he could smell the oil - to a soundtrack that flipped from Charlie Parker to Etta James to Buddy Holly and back again. He was tired, and he wanted to go home.

Homesickness was hard to describe to the others. They must understand the concept, surely - or then again, maybe they didn't. Maybe life was just so different in this stretch of the universe that they just didn't get it, didn't get how you could miss a place so much that it was a physical ache. Certainly it was hard to explain to anyone who had grown up exposed to all the different worlds and cultures, as they had, who had accepted space travel as easily as breathing. For them, this stuff was easy. For him, it was a constant struggle. There were always adjustments to be made, it was never possible for him to just sit back and do what came naturally - he always had to be thinking.

He was tired of thinking.

He took another gulp of his not-bourbon.

He was just damn tired.

There weren't very many of these days, but when they hit, they were hard to shake. Every so often, his reserves would be low, or life would be especially crappy, and he'd miss the very air of Earth with an intensity that was physical. A longing to be surrounded by people who just... understood.

Damn, I miss Dad.

Of course, things were especially crappy at the moment. He looked down into his glass, surprised to find that it was empty again. Funny, he hadn't noticed drinking the last of it. He sighed, put it down.

"Crichton."

He looked up, sighed again. Crais. Not exactly the person he wanted to talk to right now. But then again... he didn't think he could take D'Argo's helpless sympathy, or Jool and Chiana's too-cheerful attempts to cheer him up. Stark would have been all too pleased to join him — although the Banik had taken to staring at him with a liquid empathy that got on his nerves. Rygel, surprisingly enough, probably would have been the best choice; he'd been startled at the little Hynerian's open affection at their reunion, but Sparky had quickly backed off, settling almost immediately into the kind of gruff needling that they were both long accustomed to. But both Rygel and Stark seemed to be watching him, waiting for... what? Waiting for him to act like the other guy? Or to act differently? To... become something? He had the strangest sense that they were three steps ahead of him, waiting for him to catch up. And it pissed him off.

"I could... come back later, if you prefer."

Damn. Caught up in his own thoughts, he'd left Crais standing there. My mama taught me better than that. He gestured vaguely. "No, it's all right. Have a seat."

Crais smiled, an expression that Crichton had yet to get used to, and slid into the seat across from him. There was something decidedly different about Crais' demeanor these days. His eyes didn't slide away from Crichton's as they always had before — a habit that had always raised Crichton's hackles and made him suspicious. And he seemed to be watching, too.

Well, at least with Crais, he could call him on it.

"Okay, Crais, I give. What are you waiting for?"

Crais frowned, confused. "Waiting for?"

"Yeah. You, Rygel, Stark... you stare at me like you're cats at a mousehole, waiting for me to do something. It's freakin' me out."

"Ah." Crais smiled again, chuckled to himself. "You don't trust me, Crichton."

"Well, that's hardly a headline grabber," Crichton grumbled.

"I, on the other hand, trust you." Crichton's eyebrows went up, and Crais' slight smile actually widened as he put his own glass and a bottle of something on the table between them. "I know that the man on Talyn... wasn't you. And yet he was. And he and I... reached an understanding, before his death. We were not friends, but we were no longer enemies."

Crichton eyed him, head tilted slightly, measuring. Then, unwillingly, but genuinely, he said, "I believe you."

"You sound surprised."

"Hell, I'm constantly surprised these days." He sighed. "So, you're thinkin' that you were getting along well with... the other me, and that given time, I'll come around and you and me, we'll get all warm and fuzzy, too."

"Not... exactly as I would have phrased it, Crichton, but essentially, yes. Our relationship does not need to be adversarial. When I see you now, I see potential. I have learned that John Crichton makes a valuable ally."

"An ally." Crichton sighed. "Ally's a beginning, I guess." D'Argo and I tried that — and we've just managed to get back to that. Damn, can't a guy just have friends out here? He missed DK, the easy silences, the understanding that went back to third grade. Adversarial alliances. God, how DK would laugh at the idea of that — the two who had always been about working together, all the way up until the wormhole...

"Yes, it is." Crais paused. "So we have a... truce?"

Crichton leaned back, sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. "Why the hell not? If you're gonna screw me, I'm too damn tired to see it coming anyway."

"Perhaps not the firmest foundation for an alliance, but I shall... take what I can get." Crichton looked up in surprise at the dry amusement in Crais' tone. Damn, could the man actually be showing a sense of humor?

He grinned. "I'll drink to that."

"Allow me," Crais said, and filled Crichton's glass.

"So." Crichton took a sip, looked evenly at Crais. "You come here for any reason other than just to make nice?"

"I did want to talk to you. About Aeryn."

"Aeryn. Right." Crichton was the one to look away. It always bothered him when Crais spoke of Aeryn with such familiarity — a minutes-old truce wasn't going to change that. But what bothered him wasn't the point right now. "I'll be good, don't worry."

"Your... being good is not what I'm concerned about, Crichton." Crais paused, obviously uncomfortable. "You should go see her."

Crichton repressed his instinctive snort of disgust, knowing that it wasn't the appropriate response. He had been being good. Containing his anger and his hurt, being gentle. Being considerate. She'd made it clear, when she'd come back on board Moya, that he was not what she wanted - hell, she couldn't even look at him.

It had been two weekens since the two Leviathans had been reunited. A very long two weekens. Crais and Talyn had stayed, as if waiting for some sort of decision, some sort of resolution. And Crichton had kept his head down, kept to himself, working in his cell, working on the Farscape, taking his shifts on command in the middle of the sleep cycle, finally leading to drinking alone in a bar on some planet that he didn't even bother learning the name of. He'd kept his dealings with Aeryn to a minimum, only as much as they needed to interact in order to keep Moya running, letting her come and go as she wished. He refused to make her have to avoid him.

He'd stayed away, because the sight of him hurt too damn much, even though the sight of her was something he'd been aching for ever since she'd left Moya, even though the sound of her voice made him remember what it felt like to be alive.

"You're wrong, Crais," he sighed. "She doesn't want to be anywhere near me."

"What she wants... is irrelevant. I am speaking of what she needs."

"So... what? I should break her heart again for her own good?"

"She needs to know that you're alive."

"She knows." He took a deep drink from his glass. "She knew."

"Is this about you?" Crais asked, his tone stern, disapproving. "That she... became involved with... your counterpart?"

"What Aeryn's going through isn't about me, Crais. It's never been about me," Crichton snapped. "If you can't see that..." he broke off, his frustration and anger finally breaking. "I can't help her. Do you have any idea what that's like? To know that someone you care about is suffering, and you can't do a damn thing about it? That even trying would just make it worse? She needs to mourn him, what they had. And if we're ever going to have any kind of future — even just as shipmates, as friends, 'cause I sure as hell can't hope for anything more — I've got to give her space. I can't go in there as Mr. Substitute. Because I'm not, and I never can be. It wouldn't work, for either of us. She loved him. And she can't just pick up where she left off."

Crais considered for a long moment, mulling over what Crichton had said. He was surprised at that - Crais actually thinking about his words, rather than arguing his own point of view.

"Crichton," he finally said, almost conversationally, "Did you know that when you were being held prisoner at the Shadow Depository, Aeryn came to me for help? She needed Talyn's firepower to penetrate the base. She offered me... anything I wanted in return for my assistance."

Man, the hits just kept on coming. "She..." Crichton stared at him, eyes wide, unable to ask the question, not even sure what question he wanted to ask. "You..."

Crais waved a hand. "Nothing came of it, don't worry. But... she did offer. Nothing mattered to her, except your safety. I honestly thought that given no other options, she would tear the place apart with her bare hands in order to get to you." He leaned forward. "That was you, wasn't it?"

Crichton felt numb, nodded.

Crais sat back, appraised him coolly. "Do you remember what it was like, when she was dead?"

Crichton felt tears sting his eyes, didn't let them fall. Not in front of Crais. Not again. "Yeah." I wanted to die. I never wanted to get up off that table. I wanted to lie there in the cold and never get up.

"And when you saw her again, when you knew that she was alive?"

He had to look away.

"That is what Aeryn has now. A second chance."

Crichton couldn't resist; he didn't trust Crais, not yet, truce or not. "You're pretty good at this advice crap all of a sudden, Crais. I don't get it. I don't know whether you were keeping track at the time, but I was the one who was there when you woke up and found out she was alive. I saw your face. I know how you feel about her. So why help me?"

"Because, Crichton, as you said, this isn't about you. It's about Aeryn. What she wants, and what she needs. And for the moment, she needs you."

"For the moment?"

"Yes." Crais looked him in the eye, steady, unwavering. "I have not forgotten that the life cycle of Sebaceans is approximately three times that of humans. I have time, Crichton."

Crichton matched his gaze for a long moment, then, improbably, laughed. "You know something, Crais? If you can keep being that straightforward with me, this whole ally thing might just work out after all."

~~ *** ~~

He found her with D'Argo, her back ramrod straight, staring out at the stars. He entered quietly, unobtrusively. She seemed so small, so frail. She had such a force of life about her, such indomitable energy, that he didn't often realize how slender she was, how small. D'Argo, seeing him hesitate in the doorway, managed a smile and a reassuring nod, and beat a hasty, un-warriorlike retreat.

Crichton approached slowly, ready to stay, or run, as necessary.

"Hey."

She didn't answer, but turned her head slightly to acknowledge his presence. If she hadn't, he probably would have run. As it was, he took it as an invitation. A slight one, but at least she wasn't shutting him out.

He moved to stand at the console next to hers, not too close, but close enough. "I... um... was wondering how you were holding up."

"Holding up?" Her voice was flat, but inquisitive. "Holding up what?"

He smiled gently, self-consciously. "Sorry. Erp saying. Holding up... enduring. We use it when someone's carrying a metaphorical burden."

"Ah." She nodded, then considered. "After all this time, I tend to forget. There's still so much we don't understand about each other."

He was quiet for a moment. He had the feeling that she was talking about something else, something that he couldn't ask about. "They're just words, Aeryn."

She did turn then, to look at him fully. She was frowning slightly, and he shrugged.

"Communication. Connections. It's not just about what words we do or don't know. We can understand each other, but still not know what holding up means, or what Looney Toons are, or..."

"Or what a drannit is?"

He frowned in confusion, and despite everything, she smiled faintly. It was a relief — he'd never thought he'd see her smile again.

"Right. It doesn't matter, really. We don't need to get the exact words, Aeryn. Just the meaning."

"And you think you understand me?"

Memory tingled. This very spot, almost three cycles ago. After the Zelbinion. Don't presume to understand me, John... she'd said, and he'd proven her wrong. Proved that he did understand.

And he would prove it again. As many times as he had to.

"I think... what if the woman I loved died, and I'd had to go on living? What if I'd been there, what if I had held her body, kissed her lips when they were cold? What if I lived through that, and felt what it was like to know, really know, that she was gone? That I was alone, and always would be, for the rest of my life. And then I think... what if... somehow... I got her back. After mourning her, and wanting to die myself just so that I could see her face again, what would it be like if, when I really needed her, she came through for me, just like she always had, stepping in and saving my ass? What would it be like to see her then?"

Her eyes were glittering with tears. "And what would it be like?"

"Wonderful. Awful. Scary as hell. A goddamned miracle. Too much to take. Everything I wanted. More than I deserved. And knowing what it was like, when she was dead, would I be brave enough to touch her again?"

She moved then, toward him, and he turned to face her. She left space between them, looked up steadily into his eyes. "You were. When we came back to Moya, you were brave enough to touch me. To tell me you loved me." She paused. "I never understood how brave that was."

He didn't say anything. Nothing to say. Nothing that wouldn't be wrong, wouldn't be taking this out of her hands.

"And after you told me, you waited, until I was ready. And when I was... you weren't there. And he was."

He swallowed. The pain was too close. "Aeryn." His voice was rough, he could hear it, but didn't give in. She didn't need to see his tears, didn't need to know how much it had hurt. "I will always... wait for you."

She reached up, one hand hovering just above his left temple; he could feel the warmth of her skin, so close to his. It would only take the slightest tilt of his head to curl into her palm like a cat, and every nerve ending in his body wanted to do it. But he didn't. Easy, too easy, to advance. This had to be her call.

"When he and I were... together," she said, her voice quiet, sober, "when he was asleep, I used to touch the scar that he had — right here. He nearly died in that explosion. He would have, if you hadn't..." she broke off, braced herself again. "It was a reminder of how close death is, all the time, how sudden. I'd be happy, content, and then I'd look at that scar, so that I'd remember." She dropped her hand.

"And I don't have a scar," he said simply.

"You are a scar," she answered brutally. Her words hurt him, he could feel the breath caught somewhere in his chest, like a knot that refused to loosen. "How were you brave enough, when I'm a such a frelling coward?"

"You're not a coward, Aeryn. You're..."

"Tell me," she interrupted, demanding. "How were you able to say that you loved me, to want me, when you knew what it was like to lose me?"

Nothing for it except total honesty. "Because I knew what it was like to lose you when I knew that I hadn't made the most of our time together. Because when I lost you, I looked back on what we had, but I also looked back on what we might have had — all the chances we'd missed. I had regrets, Aeryn, when you died. And for you to die again, and to have the same regrets... I wasn't going to let that happen."

For a long moment, she stared at him, her expression unreadable. He held himself steady under her regard, not moving, not flinching, not looking away. Finally, she reached up again, again not quite touching him. "You know," she said, her voice shaky, "scars do fade."

"Yes, they do," he answered. "In time."

She closed that small distance, laying her hand against his brow, running her fingers lightly down his cheek. "In time," she agreed.

-End

First Post

2007-06-01T03:07:01Z

I really like this place. It's funny, it's fast, it's smooth... Love the drop down tab bar across the top of the page.

Over the past couple of days, I opened up new accounts here and at GreatestJournal; so far I really like this place and am sort of meh about GJ. GJ feels like I took a step down from LJ; this feels like LJ 2.0.

The only thing missing are all of my friends. I've tried to keep an eye open for people I know here, and have friended as I've seen you. But please, if there's anyone out there who knows me from LJ, give me a heads up and I'll add you to my flist.

My plan, as of now, is to cross post everything, keep my options open.

Gotta say, though, it's very nice to be here.

ETA: I also realized, in rereading this, that it sounds like I'm just interested in LJ people — nothing is further from the truth! The last thing I'd want to do is form an LJ enclave/clique here in IJ. All are welcome — I've managed to update my user profile to show my interests, so the IJ people will have a better idea who I am.