Title: Pistols At Dawn
Author: agent_blakeney
Fandom: Farscape/Alias crossover
Disclaimer: None of it belongs to me.
Rating: PG, I guess.
Timeline: Set during Farscape 4.13, Terra Firma. No Alias spoilers.
Summary: Congress isn't the only organization interested in Moya's crew…
A/N: Thanks to Jaina for the beta. *squirk*
He was just another vulture in a suit as far as Crichton was concerned, but the way that he hovered around the back of the tour group set off a warning somewhere in his head. As he watched the man slip discreetly back into the bay housing Aeryn's Prowler, Harvey sidled up in a tuxedo holding a martini glass elegantly in his leather gloved hand.
"Better go in after him, John. He is quite obviously up to no good." He paused to sip his martini. "He also appears to be the sort who always gets the girl."
"Harvey, you have got to stop watching my James Bond movies," John muttered as he strode toward the bay, a hand resting on his holstered pulse pistol.
***
"She's a beaut, isn't she?" The man turned smoothly, not startled in the least, though Crichton was sure he hadn't seen him approach. "John Crichton," he offered, backing up the greeting with his extended hand and a guarded smile.
"Julian Reynolds." He clasped John's outstretched hand, and turned back to the Prowler. His voice was laced with an accent that came as a bit of a surprise. It came close to the way that Scorpius sounded in his head, although that, he reminded himself, was more the fault of the translator microbes than Scorpius' real manner of speaking. Even so, the smooth, lightly predatory tone raised his hackles slightly.
"I take it you're not with the President's people." He assessed Julian out of the corner of his eye.
"British Consolate," Julian answered briefly, and then pinched his lips into a tight smirk.
"Right." The silence was uncomfortable, and Crichton had very little patience for crap. "Look, man, I can show you around this craft if you're interested in something particular, but otherwise you really should think about rejoining the tour." The corner of the other man's mouth lifted slightly.
"Oh there is something which particularly interests me, and I believe you are, indeed, the man to see about it." He paused to sip his wine. "Wormholes."
The one word made John's blood turn to ice. Scorpius was back on his transport on the other side of the wormhole. He wasn't here, he couldn't be frelling with his head long distance -- through a wormhole. Could he? Better safe than sorry.
In less than a microt, John's pulse pistol was unholstered and trained on the man's chest. "Wrong answer."
Julian slowly raised his hands. "I have no desire to harm you, Commander Crichton. I merely wish to impress upon you that such knowledge is very powerful. If you were to share your knowledge of electromagnetic anomalies with my employer, I know I can make it worth your while. In fact, as a scientist and," his eyes swept over the Prowler, "as a connoisseur of unique weaponry, I would think that you might be interested in some of our recent developments as well."
"Your employer. The British government."
"Something like that."
"Scorpy, you picked a really bad time to frell with me."
"It's not me, John." Harvey reappeared wearing a bulletproof vest over his leather and toting a rope. "This being, this Julian Reynolds, is unknown to me, from either your memories or my own."
"Yeah, well, excuse me if I don't quite buy that."
"You know I don't want harm to come to you, as it would also endanger me. I do not believe this man poses a threat."
John rolled his eyes, and flipped his pistol hand behind his ear, as if he could swat Harvey away like a fly. "Just... just go break into your bank or whatever stunt you're going to pull. I don't want..." He returned to reality to find that he had been disarmed and pinned face-down against the Prowler, the muzzle of a gun pressed at the base of his skull. He could just pick out his pulse pistol on the floor, knocked back against the wall.
"Travel the universe, and you find that there's so much that's the same, no matter where you go." Crichton's sarcasm wasn't lost, despite having his face mashed against the Prowler's fuselage. "A gun to the back of your head, for example..."
"Believe me, Commander, I dislike this method of persuasion, but it does seem to be effective. All I need is about twenty minutes of your time, and we can both be on our way." The voice was so calm. So conversational. So Scorpius.
"Okay -- look, man. There are some things you gotta know. First of all, twenty minutes isn't going to cover half of it. Second, I don't even know the whole story behind how it works. And thirdly," his voice hardened, "I wish I had a nickel for every time someone threatened my life if I didn't tell them this dren, because I'd be a rich man. But mostly, I wish that one of them would just GO AHEAD AND SHOOT ME!"
BANG.
With his eyes closed, he tried to decide whether to thank God for finally ending it or to protest that he had really been kidding and beg to be sent back. Before he could make up his mind, he was thrust back to consciousness by the impact of the floor where Julian had just thrown him. His sudden freedom allowed him to recover his pulse pistol, and on instinct, aim it at the catwalk in the top of the hangar bay, in the direction of the shot. The same direction, he assumed, that Julian Reynolds was sighting now.
"SARK!" It was a woman's bellow, followed quickly by the appearance of her handgun and her business-suited frame. Crichton vaguely registered her as another of the tour group of politicians. "Release him, Sark, I mean it. You don't want to be there when I get down there."
"Sark?" He wheeled on the man now crouched behind the Prowler's wing, weapon trained on the catwalk. Of the two, he'd rather keep an eye on the man who'd held a gun to his head than the woman who had apparently fired to save him. Although he of all people knew that you could never be sure. "Who are you people?"
"Sydney Bristow. I'm an operations officer with the CIA. The man holding you hostage is Julian Sark. He is an enemy of the United States."
"What the... How many of you people are packing?! We come here with all of our cards on the table, to show you that this isn't about war, it's about bringing the universe closer together. And all you can think to do is bring guns? You people disgust me. The uncharted territories make more sense." A light bulb went on in Crichton's head. Girl points gun at boy, boy points gun at girl. Johnny-boy leaves the room while the other kids are busy with their stand off.
"I'll tell you what we're going to do." He didn't care how condescending he sounded as he holstered his pistol. "I'm going to leave you two lovebirds to your little standoff here, and I'm going to go get Aeryn. If she finds you guys here using her Prowler for target practice, she's gonna kick both your asses - James Bond over here" -he nodded his head at Sark- "and Spy-barbie" - he flicked a glance up to the catwalk - "alike. So I suggest that you both be gone by the time she gets here." He sauntered toward the hangar door. "Sayonara, kids. Have fun in here."
Harvey met him at the door, back in his tux and poking at the olive in his martini with a little plastic sword.
"Spies," he said with an exasperated sigh. "More effective at entertainment than at espionage, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't mind dealing with CIA chick in reality," Crichton glanced back in the direction of the hangar, "but I could do without the bad guys who only love me for my brain."
"He reminds you of me, and yet you'd rather talk to me than him. Why is that, do you think, John?" He tilted his head inquisitively. "Have I become that predictable to you?"
"Well, you are in my head, Harv." He looked pointedly at his own personal figment. "And I always have the option to send you back to the dumpster."
"True." Harvey wisely turned and began meandering off on his own. "Very true."