SAINT JOHN OF THE UNCHARTED TERRITORIES
Classification: Birthday Present for Ria. AU, Crichton POV. Weird ramblings.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including "Unrealized Reality"
***
Cowabunga.
Crichton stands at the lip of the wormhole, strangely unafraid, utterly free,
his body shaped like a T, like a cross. Saint John of the Uncharted Territories.
He is barefoot; he imagines he has better control that way. It's an interpretive
dance, after all. His toes are curled tightly under, and the frilly edges of
this newborn wormhole lap at his insteps like the cool waves of the Atlantic.
He's just going to surf until he finds her. He'll will stay on any Moya where
Aeryn is alive, he tells himself as he plunges into the vortex. It's smooth,
silky-smooth, like Aeryn's hair, like the flesh on the underside of her arm,
like her lips, and he lands again on Moya.
This Moya is a terrible place. D'Argo is dying in this universe, still chained
to Moya's wall. Aeryn's in this universe, but Crichton cannot bear to stay,
because she's just gotten done murdering the female Pilot, the creature's guts
covering the black plates of her uniform. He turns away before D'Argo can take
his last breath, runs past the Peacekeeper phalanx, and spaces himself just in
time to slip into the temporal tornado. I'll stay in the next one, he tells
himself. No matter what.
Auntie Em, Auntie Em...
This time he plunges headfirst through the tunnel, has to fight his way free on
the other end, gasping, trying to take in a breath.
The great ship rocks from side to side, the walls slick with moisture, thrumming
with subaural groans. Moya is giving birth. To John Crichton. He's the offspring
in this universe, the Leviathan/Sebacean hybrid Crais had dreamed of. His arms
are fused to his side and his legs are the great tail of the baby gunship.
Turning around is a nightmare of concentration and fear, but he has to look, has
to know. Maybe Aeryn can join with him in this universe, be inside him, be his
guide. God knows, Aeryn loved Talyn. He stares into Moya's "face." Looking for
Aeryn. Finds her, and she looks at him in loathing and disgust.
He's still shaped like sperm, really, so it's easy to slip into the next
wormhole.
Talyn is here again, really Talyn, only he's born insane and is already fighting
his mother and her crew. Fires. Fires again, taking D'Argo out while Chiana and
Zhaan leap under control panels. Rygel's hit, all three stomachs slithering out
of the vast gap in his steaming body.
Aeryn's hit. Screams once, then falls to the floor.
Crichton cradles Aeryn in his arms, feeling her grow ever colder, and keeps his
eyes open for the wormhole. It's not fair, Einstein. He's not staying here. This
isn't part of the bargain, finding Aeryn alive but only for a microt.
Whoosh.
This ride's a little rougher. Bumpier, full of twists and turns. Crichton knows
it's not a good sign. On this Moya, Rygel is still a Dominar, has never been
held captive, has learned nothing, nothing. Imperious and malodorous, he sits on
his thronesled and barks orders at his slaves. Zhaan bows and blesses him.
D'Argo stands at his side, growling menacingly at anyone who draws too near.
Crichton enjoys seeing Rygel's pet, Scorpius, running on a giant leather-covered
wheel in his cage. But that's only in the part of his brain that can think of
anything but Aeryn. He goes in search of her, down the endless amber corridors
that all smell vaguely of Zhaan's incense trying to mask the stench of unclean
Hynerian.
Aeryn's in Pilot's den. It's a scene Crichton has witnessed a thousand times,
and it never fails to make his heart skip a beat. So what if Rygel's in charge?
Aeryn is here, Aeryn is standing next to Pilot...
Aeryn is shooting her gun. Peacekeeper again, born to kill another innocent
Pilot.
Nope. Not staying here.
Next time, he finds Chiana alone on the ship. She knows him somehow, beckons to
him, lying spread-eagle on downy cushions. Gray smoke and childish insouciance.
He wants to rest, wants to bury himself in her sleek, warm body. Wants to forget
Aeryn for an arn or two, get rid of the urgency boiling up inside him. Fluid
levels. Only…Aeryn. Aeryn. He caresses Chiana's smooth cheek, then lets the next
wormhole take him where it will.
Slip-sliding away, slip-sliding away…
Not Moya this time. Talyn. This isn't just different – it's wrong. It's how
Rygel and Stark described it, to the letter, the only distinction in this
reality is that he's here and the Other John is not.
So, Einstein, the John who died – he's on Moya, in my place?
Yes. His fate is yours, and yours, his.
Crichton looks down, sees Aeryn rumpled and flushed between the covers. Picks up
the mixed scents of Chakkan oil and some ointment Chiana gave her after filching
it from Jool. He'll have half a cycle with Aeryn as his lover. Then he'll be
dead, and the other John will live.
His fate is yours, and yours, his.
Crichton runs his hands over Aeryn's body. She'll let him, because she thinks
he's John. For half a cycle, she'll be his. Even if he has to die, God, it's
worth it.
His fate is yours, and yours, his.
The other one, the one Aeryn would've loved, will become him. Will have to face
Scorpius and Grayza and the whole frelling lot of them, but, worst of all, he'll
have to face Aeryn and the emptiness in her eyes. But this time, he'll live. Who
knows? Maybe he'd do a better job of being Crichton than Crichton had done.
He should go back. Make the exchange. But Aeryn breathes evenly, sweet dreams
making her stretch and smile in her sleep, and the Crichton who died far too
young will not have his life brought to a horrible end. That's for me now, he
thinks as he wraps his body around Aeryn's. I get to die this time.
His fate is yours, and yours, his.
Cool.
***
END
***
Feedback is welcome at Marguerite@operamail.com.
Back to miscellaneous fic.
Classification: Birthday Present for Ria. AU, Crichton POV. Weird ramblings.
Spoilers: Everything up to and including "Unrealized Reality"
***
Cowabunga.
Crichton stands at the lip of the wormhole, strangely unafraid, utterly free,
his body shaped like a T, like a cross. Saint John of the Uncharted Territories.
He is barefoot; he imagines he has better control that way. It's an interpretive
dance, after all. His toes are curled tightly under, and the frilly edges of
this newborn wormhole lap at his insteps like the cool waves of the Atlantic.
He's just going to surf until he finds her. He'll will stay on any Moya where
Aeryn is alive, he tells himself as he plunges into the vortex. It's smooth,
silky-smooth, like Aeryn's hair, like the flesh on the underside of her arm,
like her lips, and he lands again on Moya.
This Moya is a terrible place. D'Argo is dying in this universe, still chained
to Moya's wall. Aeryn's in this universe, but Crichton cannot bear to stay,
because she's just gotten done murdering the female Pilot, the creature's guts
covering the black plates of her uniform. He turns away before D'Argo can take
his last breath, runs past the Peacekeeper phalanx, and spaces himself just in
time to slip into the temporal tornado. I'll stay in the next one, he tells
himself. No matter what.
Auntie Em, Auntie Em...
This time he plunges headfirst through the tunnel, has to fight his way free on
the other end, gasping, trying to take in a breath.
The great ship rocks from side to side, the walls slick with moisture, thrumming
with subaural groans. Moya is giving birth. To John Crichton. He's the offspring
in this universe, the Leviathan/Sebacean hybrid Crais had dreamed of. His arms
are fused to his side and his legs are the great tail of the baby gunship.
Turning around is a nightmare of concentration and fear, but he has to look, has
to know. Maybe Aeryn can join with him in this universe, be inside him, be his
guide. God knows, Aeryn loved Talyn. He stares into Moya's "face." Looking for
Aeryn. Finds her, and she looks at him in loathing and disgust.
He's still shaped like sperm, really, so it's easy to slip into the next
wormhole.
Talyn is here again, really Talyn, only he's born insane and is already fighting
his mother and her crew. Fires. Fires again, taking D'Argo out while Chiana and
Zhaan leap under control panels. Rygel's hit, all three stomachs slithering out
of the vast gap in his steaming body.
Aeryn's hit. Screams once, then falls to the floor.
Crichton cradles Aeryn in his arms, feeling her grow ever colder, and keeps his
eyes open for the wormhole. It's not fair, Einstein. He's not staying here. This
isn't part of the bargain, finding Aeryn alive but only for a microt.
Whoosh.
This ride's a little rougher. Bumpier, full of twists and turns. Crichton knows
it's not a good sign. On this Moya, Rygel is still a Dominar, has never been
held captive, has learned nothing, nothing. Imperious and malodorous, he sits on
his thronesled and barks orders at his slaves. Zhaan bows and blesses him.
D'Argo stands at his side, growling menacingly at anyone who draws too near.
Crichton enjoys seeing Rygel's pet, Scorpius, running on a giant leather-covered
wheel in his cage. But that's only in the part of his brain that can think of
anything but Aeryn. He goes in search of her, down the endless amber corridors
that all smell vaguely of Zhaan's incense trying to mask the stench of unclean
Hynerian.
Aeryn's in Pilot's den. It's a scene Crichton has witnessed a thousand times,
and it never fails to make his heart skip a beat. So what if Rygel's in charge?
Aeryn is here, Aeryn is standing next to Pilot...
Aeryn is shooting her gun. Peacekeeper again, born to kill another innocent
Pilot.
Nope. Not staying here.
Next time, he finds Chiana alone on the ship. She knows him somehow, beckons to
him, lying spread-eagle on downy cushions. Gray smoke and childish insouciance.
He wants to rest, wants to bury himself in her sleek, warm body. Wants to forget
Aeryn for an arn or two, get rid of the urgency boiling up inside him. Fluid
levels. Only…Aeryn. Aeryn. He caresses Chiana's smooth cheek, then lets the next
wormhole take him where it will.
Slip-sliding away, slip-sliding away…
Not Moya this time. Talyn. This isn't just different – it's wrong. It's how
Rygel and Stark described it, to the letter, the only distinction in this
reality is that he's here and the Other John is not.
So, Einstein, the John who died – he's on Moya, in my place?
Yes. His fate is yours, and yours, his.
Crichton looks down, sees Aeryn rumpled and flushed between the covers. Picks up
the mixed scents of Chakkan oil and some ointment Chiana gave her after filching
it from Jool. He'll have half a cycle with Aeryn as his lover. Then he'll be
dead, and the other John will live.
His fate is yours, and yours, his.
Crichton runs his hands over Aeryn's body. She'll let him, because she thinks
he's John. For half a cycle, she'll be his. Even if he has to die, God, it's
worth it.
His fate is yours, and yours, his.
The other one, the one Aeryn would've loved, will become him. Will have to face
Scorpius and Grayza and the whole frelling lot of them, but, worst of all, he'll
have to face Aeryn and the emptiness in her eyes. But this time, he'll live. Who
knows? Maybe he'd do a better job of being Crichton than Crichton had done.
He should go back. Make the exchange. But Aeryn breathes evenly, sweet dreams
making her stretch and smile in her sleep, and the Crichton who died far too
young will not have his life brought to a horrible end. That's for me now, he
thinks as he wraps his body around Aeryn's. I get to die this time.
His fate is yours, and yours, his.
Cool.
***
END
***
Feedback is welcome at Marguerite@operamail.com.
Back to miscellaneous fic.