Spoilers: Infinite Possibilities: Icarus Abides, when Aeryn rejoins Moya.
Disclaimer: Farscape and all of its characters, etc. do not belong to me. They belong to
Jim Henson, etc. do I really have to go on?
Distribution: Anywhere, as long as I know where it's going.
Pain has been a constant in my life since the beginning. Always there. Never far.
So why should now be any different? It's been months since John died in my arms, his body
racked with radiation poisoning. I still remember every detail from our life aboard Talyn,
every microt imbedded in my brain, playing over and over again like that thing John described
to me as a 'movie.' For a while I tried to block it out, tried to close off those emotions,
trust, pain, love. I have shut out Crichton completely since I rejoined Moya. Every overture
he has made has been rebuffed with a hollow look or icy silence. Indifference has been my
defense. Crichton still loves me. He never stopped. That will never change, but I have.
Holding my lover in my arms as he took his last breath and then feeling his body grow cold
beneath mine, no matter how much I tried to get him warm, alive again, changes a girl. Even
now though, I still have these feelings for Crichton. I can't. It can't- Maybe if I isolate
this feeling, if I cut it off, then it will go away.
Crichton pushes. He can't help it. He wants me back, but what he doesn't understand
is that he had me and he died. And I can't go through that again. So I push him away. I know
what buttons to push to make him angry at me. I know the words to make him hurt, to make the
knife dig deeper and for a little while, at least, make him back off. For a long time I kept
this indifference, this wall between us. But sometimes he would say something that would
make me think I was talking to my John and for a moment, I would forget. Forget he was dead.
Forget the ending on Talyn and almost respond to Crichton as if he was mine. But then a
microt later, everything would come rushing back, Furlow, that frelling bomb, his painful,
agonizing death in my arms, and the pain would be unbearable. I wouldn't be able to breathe,
it hurt so much. Cutting myself off from those feelings, from my grief was sometimes a
blessing and a curse. Most times I could block it out, but sometimes like just now, it would
lance through me all at once, before I was aware of it enough to shut it down. To block the
pain was the only way I know how to survive, but it didn't always work. Like now.
It is the middle of the sleep cycle and I am awake. Moya is quiet as I walk her
passageways, searching for something. Today Crichton said something, now I don't even
remember what, but he said something that almost made me burst into tears in front of him
and the others. It was like my John was here, and yet he wasn't. How frelling confusing. I
barely made it back to my quarters before I started crying. Gods, how I miss him!
I find myself at Crichton's quarters. The door is not locked and so I quietly step
inside. Crichton is asleep on the cot, his chest slowly rising and falling as he breathes.
His light snoring reminds me of the time we spent together on Talyn and the sleepless nights
I had because of it. My smile freezes on my face as I remember. How could I ever forget?
Tears spring to my eyes as I take in his sleeping form. Walking slowly over to his bed, I
lower myself hesitantly to the edge and sit cautiously down. I do not wish to wake him. For
long moments I watch his chest move up and down in a rhythmic pattern, hear the slight
whistle as he breathes. Compelled, my fingers are drawn to his bare chest and arms and I
gently stroke his chest and upper arms lightly, so lightly. My skin tingles at the touch. It
remembers this. The muscles under the skin are so warm, living, familiar. I know how he
likes to be touched. How biting the juncture between his thigh and groin in the right spot
makes him orgasm. I know that nibbling on his neck will earn me a soft moan and that one of
his favorite things is to just kiss for hours.
My eyes drink in every curve and hard plane of his body. It is as familiar to me as my own body. It feels right, to be touching this body. It is familiar. Real. Alive. I lie down and face him cautiously and tense anxiously as Crichton moves slightly. When he settles down, I move closer to his warmth and breathe in his scent. My John. His scent is indescribable. Crichton's face turns toward me, as if by instinct and something in me compels me to kiss him. His taste . . . ah, his taste . . .warm, sweet, home. He is home to me and I love him. Loved him, I think. Fresh tears trickle silently down my face in a hot river and my throat closes on the ache originating in my
heart. Gods, I loved him so much, and he's dead. And yet he's not. And I don't know what to
do. I don't know what to do with that. Pretend, a small voice whispers inside. Yes. For a
little while, let me pretend that this is my John, that we are safe on Moya, that he survived,
and that we are together. Tomorrow morning I will go back to what I was, what I chose, but
for now . . . I will pretend.