After my first fanfic, the Picture in The Paper, I got feedback from a number of people asking for it to be made longer and more detailed. I didn't want to rewrite it, so I started to think about continuing it. This is Chapter 1 of that continuation.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, just for fun (!?), please don't sue as my kids claim they need any money I might have.
RATING, SPOILERS and SETTING: AU, spoilers up to PKW (in later chapters). Setting is 7 years post season 4, the assumption being that John stayed on Earth after TF. Follows on from the Picture in The Paper: You probably don't need to read that first, but it might make (more) sense if you did. Previously posted on TF.
No sex, no violence, but mental illness, grimness and angst, so PG rating. Further chapters may or may not have sex and violence in them, if they do, I'll revisit this rating. They might even get more cheerful, but I make no promises on that (I Have an end in mind, I just havent decided how grim vs happy to write it).
Lost and Found: Chapter 1
Dr Ellen Kaminsky's office was brightly lit, cheerful and spacious, but, as John sat there with his psychiatrist and Caroline, his wife, his world was dark and closed. He sat impassively, not much more than an observer to his own life, whilst the two women talked.
Once, when he was a child, John had dissected a golf ball, and had been surprised by the tightly knit, hard knot of rubber bands within. He found himself comparing the inside of that ball to how he felt now. Tightly wound, hard, ready to come apart completely if only he knew how. In his mind everything was broken, everything was frelled. His heart and soul was in a dark place and he could see no way to get anywhere else, anywhere less grim. There could be party streamers decorating the room, happy music playing and a clown in the corner, it would make no difference to John. Despair was a fiend that held him by the throat and was squeezing: It was only the tightness of the demon's grip that stopped his tears from flowing.
Caroline was talking to the psychiatrist, who barely seemed to respond beyond taking the occasional note.
'…..he's been getting steadily worse for the last year. But since last week….. I've hardly been able to get anything out of him, get him to respond to anything….. He came home late and just sat up all night clutching a stupid newspaper…… I've barely been able to get him to respond to anything since….. I can't cope with him anymore… It's too much for our daughter…. It's too much for both of us….. I'm leaving him….The government owes us…..'
John listened to the words, part of his mind understood where they were leading, what this meant, but he struggled to find a part of him that cared, much less a part which had the strength to do anything about it. It barely seemed like they talking about him. It didn't even seem like they were talking in the same room. He was at one end of a long, dark, funnel of despair and their words were being overheard, amplified and transmitted down that funnel. Eventually, Caroline stood up, walked over to him and, with tears in her eyes, knelt beside him. She took his hand in hers and kissed it gently, before, with a brief, desperate smile, she managed to say 'Goodbye John.' She stood and strode out of the office. As the door shut behind her he could hear her beginning to cry loudly on the other side. John sat there, silent and still. Part of him tried to care, to act, but when it came down to it, he couldn't seem to summon the will to feel or to do anything.
Dr Kaminsky sighed. It was always difficult to see a patient in a state such as this, and especially a man who had once been so much more, so strong inside. But that was before the Farscape mission, and before his subsequent return to Earth, apparently a victim of unknown alien tortures.
Kaminsky called her assistant to arrange for Crichton to be taken to a secure ward down on the thirteenth floor. She'd been hoping against this day ever since she had been assigned to the Crichton case, and that had been a long time, over seven years ago, before the one-time astronaut had even set foot back on Earth. She looked across to where he now sat, motionless and silent, and shook her head. He was one of her two most interesting cases, of course, but it was frustrating to see him decline like this. And it was not as though she could further her professional reputation by discussing either him, or her other inpatient, for that matter, with her peers. But she had known, when she had accepted this job, that secrecy was the price she would pay for dealing with such unique and interesting cases.
It was unfortunate that Caroline had decided that she could take no more and would leave Crichton: She and then their child had been so instrumental in keeping him sane, or at least functional. for so long. But Kaminsky could not really blame the woman, especially knowing all that she, Kaminsky, knew: In many ways, it was astonishing that Caroline had stuck by him for so long. Kaminsky felt sure that she herself could not have found it in her to do so.
There was a knock at the door: It was the orderlies, come to take Crichton away. Kaminsky stood to give them brief instructions about Crichton: Not that they needed telling, of course; this wasn't the sort of facility that used casual staff: all the medical and paramedical staff here knew who Crichton was and were used to dealing with him. Once they had led Crichton away, she returned to her desk and sat down with a resigned sigh. Reluctantly, because she knew it would not be an easy conversation, she picked up her phone and dialled on a secure line.
'Mr Holt? Can you talk freely? This is Dr Kaminsky. I'm afraid there has been a development, an unfavourable development, with the principal case……. Yes, I know the timing is appalling…….. I am well aware of the what is happening elsewhere, but since when has his timing been good?'
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Years Earlier:
Almost before the dust had settled, the Secret Service were crawling all over the remains of Jack Crichton's house, asking questions, poking guns into dark corners and muttering darker words into their radios. Jack sat trying to comfort and calm Olivia on the remains of one couch, whilst John and Aeryn sat on another, in an agitated, but largely one-sided, conversation.
'….you said the wormhole will be at peak stability for about another 48 arns,' Aeryn whispered to John earnestly and urgently in Sebacean, determined that as few people as possible should have any opportunity to overhear or understand her. 'With D'Argo and Chiana back up on Moya, that leaves just us down here. We have to go.'
John's thought's on the matter, however, seemed far from clear to Aeryn: He mumbled something non-commitally to her as an agent came and stood before them.
'Commander, ma'am, we've been asked to escort you to a secure facility for debriefing,' the agent said brusquely.
Aeryn met the man's blank gaze with her own icy stare. She refused to be ordered around, far less intimidated, by some glorified policeman. John's thoughts, irritatingly, seemed to be elsewhere, forcing her to continue to take the lead in this difficult and alien situation. Frell him and his stubborn moods, she thought. Of all the times to go silent and withdraw into himself.
'Are we going to the IASA base? We need to check on our ships,' Aeryn demanded to know of the agent.
'I'm not at liberty to say, ma'am.' Aeryn frowned. She was not at all happy with these humans' obsession with keeping her in ignorance all the time. Especially now, with all that had happened this evening with the Skreeth. With all that had not happened between her and John before the Skreeth. Aeryn was in no mood to play stupid human mind games.
'We need to check on our ships. You will take us to the IASA base,' she said flatly, developing her expression into with one of her I'm-a PK-commando, don't-mess-with-me glares. The agent was made of stern stuff, and was not easily influenced, but he did seem to soften a little in his demeanour.
'I'm sure that will be part of the schedule. Please…' he held out his hand to her in a gesture that she should come with him now. Let's get this over with quickly and then get to the Prowler, she decided. None too gently, Aeryn elbowed Crichton in the ribs.
'Come on Crichton, your disruptors want to ask us some questions.' Aeryn ignored the agent's offered hand and stood up, brushing down her coat, whilst Crichton grunted and stood a moment later, his distracted movements and frown betraying that he was still preoccupied with other things. As they were led from the room, Aeryn briefly caught Olivia's eye and flashed her a supporting smile and nod, which Olivia gratefully returned. Outside, through the shattered window, Aeryn thought she saw Olivia kneel beside the Christmas tree and palm a small package before the agents hustled her into a waiting, black SUV.
Jack Crichton sighed and shook his head, before taking a sip from the coffee which Dr Kaminsky's assistant had brought for him. He had just spent a long and largely fruitless hour with his son, down in John's bedroom on the 13th floor. John had not said a word, had barely responded at all to Jack's presence. The only time he had shown any reaction was when Jack had brought out pictures from the alien technology projects IASA was overseeing. John had flicked through some, before settling on two pictures, one of part of a hetch drive, the other of part of a pulse pistol. John had stared at them for some time, occasionally touching the photos with his fingers, and, eventually, a tear trickled down one of his cheeks. He didn't say a word.
'I agree, I've never seen him this bad before,' Jack agreed sadly. 'I can barely tell if the John I knew is in there at all.'
Kaminsky nodded, 'We we're hoping that he might open up a little to you, being his father…'
'I doubt it,' Jack interrupted, shaking his head ' Ever since he got back, he's not felt able to talk to me. You know I believe some terrible things happened to him in those years he was away: He's never been able to talk to me, or any of his family, about it.'
Kaminsky made a note in her records and nodded in agreement 'We've never really been able to get him to open up about what really happened to him in those years either. It's always been a concern.'
'For those first few months he seemed stable enough, you know. Although there were whole sections of his story that he wouldn't elaborate on, but he seemed sane enough. Looking back, I think it was after Moya and the aliens left that he first started to slide. Caroline held it back for a while, she was good for him, gave him something to live for, but she's told me he never opened up about those years to her either. I think he bottled it all up. And not having anyone he felt he could talk to, who had shared those experiences, who understood. I think that's what got to him in the end.'
Kaminsky made another note in her book.
Aeryn was becoming increasingly agitated. They had spent hours sequestered in the soul-less, unfamiliar, secure building that the Secret Service people had taken them to. It was not on the IASA base, and seemed to be staffed solely by disruptors in dark suits, most of whom Aeryn did not recognize. For many of those hours she had been left alone, in a small, bland meeting room, her discomfort and unease growing steadily. At the very best it was a frustrating waste of time: They had only briefly questioned her about the Skreeth, but then, it hadn't taken her long to tell them everything she knew about it.
Aeryn was bored, tired, but mostly, she was growing angry. She wasn't sure who to be most angry with, John or Holt and his people. Now it was the early hours of Christmas morning, and she had learnt enough of John's culture to know that very little work got done on Christmas day. Keeping them here all night seemed pointless. She wanted to get cleaned up, she wanted to eat, to sleep, to talk to John and to get in her Prowler and fly back to Moya. Not necessarily in that order. She wanted done with Erp and with annoying, time-wasting Erplings.
At long last, a man in a black suit entered her room and indicated to her that she should follow. They didn't speak as he led her the short distance down two short, featureless corridors to another room. Going inside, she saw John, sitting on a black, angular couch. He gestured for her to sit on a second couch, opposite his: Apart from a low table between the couches, it was the only other furniture in the room.
She didn't sit, but glared at him, arms crossed, 'What the frell has been taking so long, John? Your people have had me shut up in a room on my own for arns - I am tired, I am worried, I am still picking debris out of my clothes and hair and I want to get back to Moya….'
He interrupted her, bluntly and, to Aeryn's mind, with little concern for her feelings, although she had grown used to that from him in recent monens.
'I've decided to stay on Earth: They need me here, the attack made that clear to me. They're not prepared, and they need to be. There's so much I still need to tell them,' he said in flat manner which would have more befitted that of a stranger discussing the weather than a former lover discussing their life plans.
'And do you expect me to stay here with you, here on Erp?' Aeryn snorted in disbelief.
'Do what you like, Aeryn,' he replied in an offhand manner. Aeryn didn't know whether to cry, scream or punch him in the face on the spot. After all they had been through, how could he be so blasé about something that would strand both of them on Earth, or could mean them separating forever?
'Frell you, Crichton,' she spat, opting merely to slap his cheek, barely hard enough to leave a mark. He looked a little surprised, but then quickly regained his blank expression. She span on her heel and marched defiantly from the room, banging shoulders with the disruptor who had brought her, and who had been too slow to move out of her way. At that moment she didn't know whether she would stay on Earth or go, but she did know that if she stayed in the same room with John right now she would do something far worse than swear at him.
Aeryn marched back to her room, her escort tagging along behind her muttering into his wrist radio. Aeryn made no attempt to hear what he was saying: She was too angry with humans right now to care about their stupid plans. When she reached her room, she flung herself down on the couch and exhaled deeply. She couldn't believe John, her John, was being like this. She knew things were bad between them right now, but this? Did nothing they had shared, nothing they might yet share, if only he would allow it, nothing they had done and had been done to them over the last four cycles mean anything to him anymore? She brushed away a tear from each cheek with the back of her hand as a second agent entered the room, carrying a tray.
'I've brought you some coffee, ma'am, and some sandwiches. The agent in charge told me it could be a long night, and that you might be in need of something to eat or drink.' The newcomer set the tray down on a low table in front of her and smiled at her. She briefly returned his smile. Stupid frelling, deficient humans! she seethed. She patted the pockets of her coat until she found her comms badge, which she laid on the table beside the tray. She'd just have a quick sandwich and a coffee to ease her hunger pangs and sharpen her thoughts before she called Pilot.
John Crichton sat on the bed in his room, his cell, his asylum, absently staring out the window at the rainy cityscape. Nice place for a government clinic, part of his mind thought. And it was a good view from up here, on the thriteenth floor. Not that Crichton cared, really. Two weeks ago his wife had left him and had had him committed on the same day, and he hadn't cared much about either of those things. What was a rainy view, compared to that? Besides, it could never compare to the view from the Terrace on Moya.
There was a knock at the door. He ignored it. He wasn't expecting anyone for a few arns…. Hours, he corrected himself, and he didn't much care about any of the visits he was likely to have , be they his lunch, his doctor, his father or anyone else that he could imagine. The door opened anyway, and he sensed someone, a woman from their breathing and footsteps, walk into the room. A nurse? Dr Kaminsky? Maybe it was one of his sisters, as they had brought his dad to see him for the last three days, maybe his sisters were next? He didn't really care. None of them could change the misery his world had become. None of them could understand. None of them could set him free.
John shifted the focus of his eyes onto the rain running down the window, bringing into view the reflection of the woman who now stood, silent and immobile. half way between him and the door. She was slim, quite tall, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, with long dark hair: she didn't resemble any of the medical staff he knew or his sisters, or Caroline. He frowned: something about her reminded him of someone.
He turned his head and he felt as though his heart had missed a beat.
'Aeryn!' he breathed in disbelief, before the dark knot of despair tightened around his chest. Then he turned back to the window and hardened his heart. 'Go away. You're not real.' It was the most he had spoken in one go since his committal.
Reflected in the window he saw the woman scowl and flick her hair back behind her shoulders. She picked up the chair from his table and carried it slowly and purposefully across to the window, before sitting, stiffly, in front of him. She reached out a hand as if to touch him, before pulling it back sharply. He did not look at her: His gaze remained locked on some random, distant cloud. Then came a familiar voice.
'They told me you were not well…. Is it Scorpius' neural clone?' The vision sounded like Aeryn. Either his ravings were getting more realistic, or her voice, as well as her appearance, was remarkably like his long-departed lover. Part of his mind registered that he was imagining her speaking in English, and with much more proficiency than he remembered from seven years ago.
'This isn't the first time I've imagined you, you know?' was all he said in reply. He turned to look at her. Yes, his delusions were getting really good: she looked so like Aeryn. However, her face was much more drawn and sad than he remembered, as though she had suffered years of troubles since they had last met. His fantasies were getting so much more complicated to include such details, he almost laughed to himself. 'But it doesn't matter, you left, years ago.' He turned back to look at the rain.
'They really told you that, didn't they?' she sighed. 'Did you not think that Holt might have lied to you? I could not leave, Crichton: They took me prisoner and tricked the others into thinking I chose to stay here. Seven years I've been a frelling prisoner here, Crichton. Seven years. On this planet full of deficients' He turned slightly to watch as the imaginary Aeryn stood and paced the room, as though struggling with her words and emotions. She stopped by the door and turned back to face him. 'Seven frelling years, John!' She repeated, wiping away a tear from her right cheek. 'They tell me you are now too unhappy to talk: Fine: You think you have had a bad time, wallowing in your self-pity? I have had your doctors and scientists and disruptors all over me, I have had them interrogating me in shifts. I have had……'
'I'm sorry, Aeryn, I just can't deal with this now…'
She strode quickly back to him and slapped his face, gently by her past standards. The slap certainly felt real, and, if she really had been Holt's prisoner for so long, he deserved that and more for dismissing her so brusquely, for being so selfish, but still he did not respond. She was not real, he knew: Even if she were really still on Earth, he could not think why they would suddenly let them see each other. Yes, she must just be in his imagination. Even in his depressed state, he knew it made no sense for her to be here, now, in this room.
'Well you have to!' she replied angrily. 'Why do you think, after seven years, they are letting you see me, letting you know I am here?' she voiced his unspoken question. I wonder what the shrinks would say about that, he almost smiled to himself. Johnny, your delusions are just getting better and better!
'They're not. You're not real.' he asserted. Before he even finished speaking she placed both her hands on his shoulders and pushed him roughly back against the window, exasperation pouring from her, driving her to communicate in the way she felt most comfortable, through actions rather than words. With scarcely a pause, she leant across him, surrounding his head in the near-forgotten halo of her raven hair as she briefly and fiercely forced her lips to his.
She stood up immediately and slumped back into the chair. Pushing the hair back from her face she demanded of him 'What does that taste like? Was that real enough for you, you deficient fekkik?'
Crichton sat up, looking at her more carefully, confused now, and, for the first time in months, able to see a glimmer of light through the shadow of his depression. He frowned, trying to make sense of his conflicting thoughts. She couldn't be real. It made no sense. But she felt real, she smelt real. Damn it, she tasted real.
'But you left - you stormed out and went back to Moya, on Christmas eve, after the Skreeth attack,' he said quietly. By God she looked tired, he thought. Could it be true? Could it really be Aeryn here in this room, and not just here in his mind? That part of him that could still think things through truly hoped not, for her sake.
'I never got out of the building that night. I never got back to Moya,' she said quietly, her whole body slumped, so different from the stiff, controlled way she used to hold herself. 'Holt had a plan in place to keep as much as he could, and it worked. That last time we met was the last time I was free.'
John reached out, lifted her hand slightly from where is rested on her knee, and laced his fingers with hers. She certainly felt real. Part of him wanted so much to say he was sorry, but the words just would not come.
