Disclaimer: Aeryn and John belong to other people.
Spoils: Season three. Set: Before Into the Lion's Den.
Rating: R
Feedback: Appreciated.
One Breath
by Petra Williams
She could swear the scent was there. Lingering in the air, filling up her nostrils with its essence. A sickly-sweet cloying smell, recognized from various battlefield clean-up drills she'd been attached to.
It was worse than the stench the old Pilot of Moya had made. And that makes her flinch, because John's not here anymore to make that memory redeem itself.
And yet he is. And that's why she can't be near him, can't even look at him. Because her logically-trained Peacekeeper brain wants to put him into his correct state of being. Dessicating flesh, rotting sinews, bones beginning to show--accelerated growth rate of decomposing tissue, but her nightmares let her see what he looks like now.
He even sounds the same.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she would swear to hearing him scream from the hell he's probably in.
It's not easy, it isn't supposed to be. But she wishes it was. Even bottled up, her emotions seethe under the surface. Because she couldn't save him, so he's not here. But she is, and she's alive. And the other him is alive. And it's all too much, because sometimes, when she's awake, she's certain he's nothing more than a walking corpse.
Zhaan once said she should live. And Zhaan died. John lived, for her. And now John died.
It isn't fair to live with this knowledge. That he could have been here, and isn't.
Not with this feeling, not with this stench that never seems to leave her. Cloying, rotting blood, and acid-edged tears. And they're always just there, under the surface.
She can't do this. Can't stay where he is, can't believe that this is him and this is her. And it's not HIM.
Because he died in her arms.
And now he walks, rotting away from the inside out.
She wonders, sometimes, if the others can see the broken flesh of the man who was John Crichton.
Of course, asking that could make everything go away. Not that she has anything left to lose. Except her sanity, of course. But that's chipping away piece by piece. The more she watches him, the more she breathes in his scent...
So she has to go.
Or she will finally succumb, and she can't do that. She's too frelling strong to do that. And it's all she has left.
But she will wait. She will help a dead man get revenge, she will get her own. And then she will be free to run.
-finis-
Spoils: Season three. Set: Before Into the Lion's Den.
Rating: R
Feedback: Appreciated.
One Breath
by Petra Williams
She could swear the scent was there. Lingering in the air, filling up her nostrils with its essence. A sickly-sweet cloying smell, recognized from various battlefield clean-up drills she'd been attached to.
It was worse than the stench the old Pilot of Moya had made. And that makes her flinch, because John's not here anymore to make that memory redeem itself.
And yet he is. And that's why she can't be near him, can't even look at him. Because her logically-trained Peacekeeper brain wants to put him into his correct state of being. Dessicating flesh, rotting sinews, bones beginning to show--accelerated growth rate of decomposing tissue, but her nightmares let her see what he looks like now.
He even sounds the same.
Sometimes, in her dreams, she would swear to hearing him scream from the hell he's probably in.
It's not easy, it isn't supposed to be. But she wishes it was. Even bottled up, her emotions seethe under the surface. Because she couldn't save him, so he's not here. But she is, and she's alive. And the other him is alive. And it's all too much, because sometimes, when she's awake, she's certain he's nothing more than a walking corpse.
Zhaan once said she should live. And Zhaan died. John lived, for her. And now John died.
It isn't fair to live with this knowledge. That he could have been here, and isn't.
Not with this feeling, not with this stench that never seems to leave her. Cloying, rotting blood, and acid-edged tears. And they're always just there, under the surface.
She can't do this. Can't stay where he is, can't believe that this is him and this is her. And it's not HIM.
Because he died in her arms.
And now he walks, rotting away from the inside out.
She wonders, sometimes, if the others can see the broken flesh of the man who was John Crichton.
Of course, asking that could make everything go away. Not that she has anything left to lose. Except her sanity, of course. But that's chipping away piece by piece. The more she watches him, the more she breathes in his scent...
So she has to go.
Or she will finally succumb, and she can't do that. She's too frelling strong to do that. And it's all she has left.
But she will wait. She will help a dead man get revenge, she will get her own. And then she will be free to run.
-finis-