For pdxscaper, who requested angst or John/D'argo buddyfic, and the Farscape Ficathon
Title: The Sum of the Parts
Author: Schneck (agent blakeney at yahoo.com)
Fandom: Farscape (John, D'argo)
Timeline: Season 2, loosely. Spoilers through 3.1.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
Summary: The worth of a man is more than just the sum of his parts.
I. Hands
"Your hand, human!"
"D'argo, if I had a hand to give you, I would."
"It was not my idea to carry our acquisitions back to the transport pod instead of hiring a cart."
"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly think we'd be hopping fences with a frickin' Peacekeeper platoon on our tail."
"Toss it to me then." D'argo shed his outer cloak and held out his arms, ready to make a catch.
"Toss it? D, these things look kind of fragile. Does that seem like the best idea to you?"
"It was your frelling idea that got us into this mess, Crichton."
"Yeah, but Zhaan said –"
"Do it!"
Crichton gave an annoyed hiss and then lobbed the bluish glass beach ball over the two-metra tall wall. On the other side, D'argo caught it gracefully. He gently laid it on his discarded cloak and took a moment to ensure that it wouldn't roll before turning and hurling himself at the wall once more.
"Now, Crichton! Your hand!"
Crichton grinned at the Luxan's ability to launch himself over a six-foot wall before reaching up to grasp the offered hand. Once his companion was safe, D'argo picked up the sphere, cradled it in his arms, and began striding off in the direction of the transport pod. John had to jog to keep up.
"Is it that important to you?"
"Is what important?"
"The beach ball," John puffed. "You're handling that thing like it's your own child. I don't even know what the heck it's supposed to do."
"Neither do I." He glanced sideways at the human, and then resumed his riveted focus on the transport pod. "But Zhaan needs it. That's enough for me."
John let him continue up the ramp into the ship and turned to sweep the perimeter to make sure they had really lost their pursuers. He entered the cargo bay in time to watch D'argo finish delicately tucking the ball into a lined case and carefully closing the lid.
Luxans were powerful – that much he had learned – but this one also had grace.
II. Feet
"So, it really doesn't have anything to do with your feet."
"Not really, but you can score by kicking the ball-"
"It's not even a ball. It's a... It's a..."
"Prolate spheroid. It's called a prolate spheroid. Pigskin for short. Or you know-" he tossed the pod he carried and watched it arc from one hand to the other "-a stuffed padlak seedpod sealed with thermal adhesive, if you're out in the Uncharteds."
"Okay, look." He glanced frantically over the work tables in the maintenance bay and retrieved a piece of marking chalk from under a coil of cables. "It'll be easier if you see the picture. There are 22 guys on the field at a time..."
The floor of the maintenance bay became a map of X's, O's, and arrows.
"It looks like a battlefield," D'argo breathed.
"Yeah, kinda," John considered, sitting back on his haunches. He smiled at D'argo's serious contemplation of the sport and then went on describing the new play. "So the quarterback – that's me – gives the plan to the rest of the team. After the ball is snapped and the play begins, the quarterback drops back and hands the ball off to the running back – that's you. Now the running back-"
"I should be the quarterback and you should be the running back. I am familiar with leading men into battle. And you are better at running away."
"Well, it's like a battle, but it's not... Trust me, dude. I'm the quarterback. Now what the running back can do is go for the sideline, or look for holes in the line here." He looked up at D'argo for signs of comprehension. Rewarded only with the lift of an eyebrow, he added, "So, see, the running back has to be an intelligent and adaptable player – he has to think on his feet. That is, he has to think fast and make critical decisions."
Crichton turned back to the chalk, still rambling on about how a good quarterback is important, but that a team working together is greater than its individual members. Behind his back, D'argo let the smile he was repressing reach his eyes, and even quirk up the side of his mouth.
Sometimes, it was all D'argo could do to get through the day without trying to strangle the human, but some days, he had to admit that it was good to have him on board. If only for a good laugh now and then.
III. Eyes
"Ha! Let's do another one!"
"D'argo, I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
"Just one more?"
"Can I just say I don't see anything there and go to sleep?"
"The bottom shelf – there's a label on it. What does it say?"
John squinted. "Okay, I see the scratches. It could be writing."
D'argo grinned. "'Weight capacity: One-half sakmar.' It's perfectly clear."
"Yeah, well, maybe if it were English, and written in black Sharpie..." he mumbled under his breath, and rubbed his eye in weariness. "G'night, D. Have fun reading." He turned down the passage toward the crew quarters.
"John."
Crichton stopped and turned, but did not speak.
"You did well yesterday. We owe you our lives." D'argo lowered his eyes to hide the smirk that was forming. "...you and your eyes."
"My deficient eyes." His tone was hard and perhaps angry, but there was a smile behind it.
The two men considered each other for a long moment. It threatened to degenerate into an old-fashioned staring contest as they each fought back grins. Finally, John bent his head slowly in an acknowledging nod, before turning to go to his quarters. He walked a little taller as he went.
IV. Mind
"You know that I will kill you, John. I will not let him take your mind."
"My mind's already been taken."
A bolt of fear that John would ask him to do it right there coursed through the warrior.
"Swear."
D'argo stared into John's eyes, as if he could reach in and rip out the echo of Scorpius that haunted him. "I swear it."
"You're an honorable man, D'argo."
D'argo's eyes narrowed and his hands slid from Crichton's face. "And you are a pain in the eema."
"No, D, shut up and let me say this. I might not get the chance to say it again." Crichton breathed in deeply and pulled himself up straight, though his eyes were still wild and bloodshot. "You've been... a friend to me. I know that we've had our ups and downs, but I know there was a time when all we thought we could manage was respect. But I'm telling you now: you are my friend – one of the best. And I have been privileged to know you." He glanced over at Jothee, still in the room and looking bewildered. "Your dad..." He wasn't going to cry. "Your dad is a great man. Don't let anybody tell you different. He's a hero."
D'argo spoke again, his voice raw. "We will find help for you, just like we rescued my son. We will not let Scorpius win."
John shook his head and smiled weakly. "Yeah, okay, buddy." He dragged his hand over his face. "Look, I think I'm doing a little better. I'm going to take a walk."
As he walked off to find some kind of distraction in the maintenance bay, he spared one last glance for his friend. Jothee was alive and with them; D'argo's hope was realized. One for two wasn't too bad.
V. Blood
"Your blood is red, John."
"Uhhhh... yep," John croaked. "S'the way i'supposed to be. 'Cept i'supposed to be in my body."
"Peacekeeper blood is red. There was a time I thought it was the most beautiful sight."
"You don't still? I know a few Peacekeepers I might like to see bleed."
D'argo gave a short laugh, and then frowned. "It actually is making me nervous. It is so dark – that cannot be healthy."
"Don't start beating on me, buddy, trying to make it go clear. I don't think I can take you right now."
"You could not 'take me' even if you were not laying on a table with your brain exposed."
John smiled slightly, but his eyelids began to droop. "Whatever. Just don't forget that my blood isn't yours, okay?" He trailed off as he slipped into unconsciousness.
"It may as well be," D'argo spoke into the sleepy silence.
He stood sentinel while his friend slept fitfully until the Diagnosian returned.