Shanghaied - Chapter 1
Rating: PG-13 (to be safe)
Summary: "I should invest in a leash for you," Scorpius said to John's heaving back. On second thought, though, John would probably manage to wrap it around his neck on accident and strangle himself. And then where would Scorpius be?
A/N: First official fanfic. Feedback is craved.
"They shlipped me a Mickey," John slurred.
"A what?" Scorpius leaned closer to the obviously overwrought, obviously inebriated human he'd managed to saddle himself with. Life had been much much easier before John Crichton, he mused, but it had also certainly been… boring. John could turn any normal innocent situation into a hotbed of mortal peril by his presence alone, and Scorpius was frankly surprised that the crew of Moya had not just banned the man from ever leaving his quarters. Definitely the first thing he'd have done, were he in charge.
Or, at the very least, designate a guardian. Take shifts, something of that nature—this week, Ka D'Argo would watch John, next week, Aeryn Sun, next week, Chiana—on second thought, Scorpius decided, it would be much better if he, Scorpius, followed his former quarry at all times, in all places, preparing himself for any… incidents that might and probably would occur.
"A Mickey, Grasshhopper. I'm bein' Shanghaied. Bu' thass okay. He shaid you'd be here." John's eyes, though glazed, looked up into Scorpius's own in very much the same way that small domesticated animals looked at their masters when they knew they'd been indiscreet, but were still hopeful for a non-punishment kind of solution to the whole issue.
Scorpius found John's eyes to be intriguing. Blue eyes. He'd heard it said, over and over, that not that many Sebaceans had blue eyes. This wasn't exactly true, in his personal experience. Aeryn Sun had blue eyes. The commander on Scorpius's former Gammak base had had blue eyes. The Bannik slave Stark—not Sebacean, of course, but close—had blue eyes. Scorpius, for that matter, had blue eyes.
None of them had John's particular shade of blue, however, and Scorpius very much felt that that might be the key as to a the trouble John managed to get into, and b why everyone in the uncharted territories was desperate for his… company.
"Who said I'd be here, John?" Scorpius rather hoped that there was another of Moya's crew here, someone who could help him lug John back. He'd even welcome a friendly local, who – upon finding the obviously inebriated John Crichton – had taken it upon himself (or herself, or itself) to make sure that the hapless human got home safely, simply out of the goodness of his (her, its) heart. It could happen.
John beckoned him forward conspiratorially. "You know," he said when Scorpius was inches away from John's face. "In here," John whispered, tapping his temple.
Immediately the metaphoric light went on, although Scorpius thought that it could only have helped the situation if a literal light had gone on, as the tavern was not only musty but terribly lit. "The neural clone?"
John shook his head violently, unsettling his already admittedly precarious balance and nearly toppling himself over. "Thass not it at all, Scorpy. 'S Harvey."
Scorpius blinked slowly. "That would be the neural clone, John."
John puzzled it over. "Ohhh. Right."
"Did… he tell you anything?"
John squinted, trying to remember. "Jus'… just keep holding on, Johnny boy, he's coming, keep it together…" He trailed off, eyes drooping shut.
Scorpius entertained fantasies of possibly doing John grievous bodily harm.
"Now, John, you need to come with me. Let's get you back to Moya." As he moved to pick up the extremely limp Crichton, a large meaty hand settled on Scorpius's shoulder plates. It was attached to a large meaty body, a male of a species Scorpius had never encountered before. A large, armoured species. "May I help you?"
"Yeah. You can go to sleep."
Before Scorpius was even able to get out that he was not in the least bit tired, nay, was feeling quite chipper, all things considered, the meaty man's other meaty fist, heretofore hidden behind his back, held out some kind of gun. He fired.
Scorpius was awoken several hours later by a horrific noise. He shot to his feet, ready for anything—and there was John. Who, by the looks of it, was trying to vomit up the soles of his boots, and not particularly succeeding.
"I should invest in a leash for you," Scorpius said to John's heaving back. On second thought, though, John would probably manage to wrap it around his neck on accident and strangle himself. And then where would Scorpius be?
Probably in a better situation than the one in which he now found himself entangled.
The room was dark. What little light there was streamed fitfully from the single grime-encrusted window, set right where the wall joined the ceiling. The walls looked solid. The air was stuffy, not particularly helped by John's emulsions in the corner.
Really, how could anyone think with that going on.
And think he must, because who was going to get them out of this situation if not Scorpius himself? Even if John weren't – indisposed – at the moment, the human wasn't exactly the brains of the operation, now was he? How that man had managed to evade him for as long as he had was quite frankly a mystery.
By the time Scorpius had investigated the walls, the window, the extremely durable metal door, John had passed out again. Luckily, not in his own sick. Scorpius thanked whatever deities watched over accident-prone deficient clumsy species for that – it was bad enough that he'd have to deal with a grouchy hungover John Crichton. Dealing with a vomit-covered grouchy hungover John Crichton would have absolutely made his life a living Hezmana.
It was probably about time he checked on Crichton.
Carefully bypassing the mess on the floor to the right of the man, Scorpius crouched down over him, noting the worrying paleness of his skin and the way that sweat had dampened his hair, sticking it to his face. Not exactly the normal aftereffects of heavy drinking, then.
Perhaps there was something in the drink – he cast his mind back to the tavern. What was it Crichton had said – a "Mickey." At the time, he'd assumed that a) it was another annoying conversational carryover from Crichton's silly little backwater planet or b) it was the name of the drink that had managed to put him down so quickly.
Perhaps there was a third option – something, some substance in the drink that was obviously still affecting his former prey.
Or maybe this was just another in a long list of Crichton's annoying idiosyncrasies.
"Crichton," he said. John didn't move. Was his breathing more labored than usual? He looked hotter than was normal. Scorpius reached out and shook him gently. "John, I need you to open your eyes."
No reaction.
"Miss Sun is here, and she appears to have left her clothing behind."
Nothing.
Now Scorpius was worried.
