Two Birds, Two Stones
Chapter 25
Old Habits
The only good thing to come out of smashing his nose so hard off the ground that everyone thinks he broke it, is the fact that they give him some downtime.
It's obvious that aside from Dr. Happy, no one else has hopped galaxies recently and remembers the hangover it brings. Not so much the sensitivity to lights and noises, but more of the airhead feeling, like after riding a real fast rollercoaster.
His mind is all disorientated—like he can feel his brain hitting the inside of his skull.
The doctor scans his head—apparently the medical staff here only know how to do scans—and that doesn't help the dizziness in his head.
Aside from being amazed that his nose isn't broken—she's a but late because back in high school he got sacked while paying football and broke his nose then—but there's also a little something that shows up on his scan that shouldn't be there—or at least concerns her enough to elicit a dissatisfied hum.
At first he thought it was her response to his football injury story.
When Aeryn presses, sitting on the side of his bed, twisting to look at the doc because in the past three days—despite only being able to chew on baby Tylenol—her ribs have almost healed. Found it out while everyone was concerned with the bloodbath on his face—a 'mere' dislocation as the doc put it—he was concerned with her ribs, with her being left alone with a bunch of bozos who don't know how to treat her right.
He was concerned about the little one—the itty bitty, miniscule, microscopic one.
The doc shoos them away, and both he and Aeryn are too enticed by the idea of actually getting to be alone with each other—getting to catch up after his three-day vacation back on Moya where things could be a lot better—to push for an explanation.
He figures if it was life threatening—or turning life threatening—that they would tell him anyway, and it's probably just a side effect from getting Mad Hatter shuffled through galaxies.
They catch up in bed, her hair fanned out and coiled up his arm, and three days is a hell of a long time to remember just how cool, how silky her hair is—see it every day—and not be able to reach out and touch it.
They're not cuddling in so much as they are reclining next to each other with a few of their less-than-important body parts still intermingling.
When she gets a little tremor to her voice, telling him of how she thought he abandoned her—like she was physically hurt by this thought—his arm curves back, his fingers falling into her hair, massaging at the roots, feeling her chest flush against his side as she heaves out an inhalation.
"I don't know why I'm like this now."
It's a whisper, like she's sharing a secret.
"You just had a baby," he reminds like he even needs to—she thinks of the kid more than he thinks of her—"you're also pregnant—your hormones must be going haywire. Besides—" he shifts, collecting her closer to him, relaxing at her scent, her touch, the way her body curls when his fingers stroke certain areas "—there's nothing wrong with being like this."
"It's not very becoming of a soldier."
"Honey, I hate to break it to you, but you're not a soldier," he laughs, nuzzling into her hair expecting her to react playfully. "You haven't been for a long time."
But Aeryn hardens beside him, like he said the exact wrong words. Ducking her head back from his embrace she stares at him.
"I will always be a soldier."
It's times like these when he realizes just how different they are. When he remembers how much she's grown—she's changed—from holding her, rocking her crying in the middle of the workout space, hearing about how she was ashamed to love—to now when she openly bashes him for not thinking of their son more.
But maybe that's not how she sees it.
He needs a subject change quick, and his mind scrolls through the rolodex of things he wanted to tell her about Moya when he got back, after they took care of—a few things—then he remembers what he was going to shout out before he warped back suddenly.
"I think someone's poisoning Deke's food."
That's good enough to get her to forget about the beartrap he almost shoved his head in. She pushes back from him, the palm of her hand digging into his chest, as close to scrambling as he's ever seen her.
"What?"
"The other you—Vala—was showing me how to feed him, and—"
"Why did you need another woman to show you how to properly feed our son?"
Swerved right around that beartrap to just set up another, his nose so close to pushing down on the pressure point. His mind flickers, trying to think of a way to diffuse the situation before he can possibly make it worse.
Picks laughing, a tense chuckle that he knows she can tell is forced, but maybe she's so angry about the last two things he's said not to notice. "It's funny because that's what she said too—"
"Crichton—" last name—he's in it deep "—eventually you're going to have to—"
"And I will, but right now I'm more concerned with our son."
Did a spin on her there, flipping her own concern back, making her seem like the negligent parent. When she doesn't snap his neck, he assumes that it's safe to keep speaking. "Deke's been crying nonstop, just being in a really shitty mood."
"He's a baby."
It's her only argument, but a good one. There's not exactly a lot that a five- or six-week-old—man, he's gotta get that straightened out before she finds out that he doesn't know how old Deke is—can do in terms of communication other than crap his pants and scream.
"Well, apparently Vala's been getting some stomach aches—"
"Please tell me your limited time on Moya was better spent than inquiring of the health of my—"
"If you wanna let me finish!" The glare she gives lets him know just how thin the ice he's tap dancing on is. Immediately, he wipes away any form of aggravation on his face to try and save the conversation. "When she told me to test his food before giving it to him, I got bubble gut too."
"You ate his food?"
Tries but fails to conquer the returning annoyed expression too late. "I didn't sit down and have a picnic with him, Aeryn, I tested it to make sure that it wasn't rotten or—"
"Or what?"
Now this part is tricky.
What he says could have the exact opposite impact that he wants. She could freak out more, because she's not there herself to protect Deke, or it could shut her up for a second and let her see how serious he is about this.
It's a risk he's gotta take.
"Or if someone tampered with it."
"Tampered?"
"Poisoned, Aeryn." Glances down at the bed because he does not want to talk about how their son is potentially the target of a political assassination, how even though they forced this peace throughout the galaxy, that it didn't make them any more allies, or seem any less of a threat to their old enemies, and probably put them on the radar for a whole slew of new ones. "We're not exactly winning any intergalactic popularity contests."
Aeryn sputters something in Sebacean, from what he can make out of the guttural gulps, and glottal stops, she's calling him the equivalent of an idiot. She hides her face in her outstretched fingers, and for a moment he thinks she's lamenting, she's panicking, because she's not there, because baby one and baby two have her hormones set on overdrive.
Through her split fingers, she explains, "that infant pabulum is not meant to be consumed by anyone but Peacekeepers."
"Yeah, and like I said, we weren't actively chowing down on it, we were taking toothpaste-sized globs and—"
"That would be enough, John."
"Enough to what?"
Aeryn sits up, gathering the sheet around her body and it might be because she's actually the worst blanket hog he's ever had the pleasure of sharing a bed with—give her an inch and she'll take a mile—but something about it is so innocent, so naïve, so unlike her.
Normally when they argue—when they 'debate'—she's quick to anger, and quick to either strike or walk away, ignoring him until he's ready to apologize—last time she went and became an assassin and he still doesn't know why or how—or why or how Scorpy found her—but when he thinks about all that, he just has to remind himself to be happy that she's actually here with him.
"To cause the upset stomach you're speaking of."
"Aeryn," he sighs into his hand because it's so hard to keep the timelines clear now. Feels like Einstein is running him through all the possible universes at once. There's a Chiana-Aeryn, and a Peacekeeper Aeryn that never left, and this galaxy's version of her—from what he knows about Vala, she's an adept fighter and shooter, but out of necessity not upbringing and rivals Rygel in her thieving ability. "Just tell me what you're trying to say."
"I told you, Peacekeeper pablum is engineered specifically for infants of the Peacekeepers."
Okay, so she's still missing the point.
"Why?"
"Because it contains ingredients that would be harmful to other species."
Okay, he thinks he gets it—species differentiation and everything. How some reptiles can eat bugs poisonous to people, how some plants are only poisonous for specific animals. "But healthy for Peacekeeper babies?"
"Not exactly."
Wait, what?
"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"
"The harmful ingredients are intentionally used as additives into the pablum."
"What ingredients?"
"Chemicals and mixtures you've likely never heard of—" When he does his best to glare at her, she rolls her eyes at him, and he ignores the warm feeling that spreads throughout him, because she learned that from him. "It's fine John, really. I was fed that food. Like everything the Peacekeepers do, it's done in regiments."
"Meaning?"
"That as the infant grows, more of the harmful ingredients are added so that as an adult, the soldier will have a resistance to most noxious gases and poisons used in battle."
"You're—" he tries to wrap his mind around the sentence, the reason why Vala's been getting sick, the reason why Deke's mood is usually dren all the time. "Feeding our son—poison?"
"Not directly."
"But intentionally."
"Not with malice intent."
"You're feeding him poison for a good reason?"
"In order for him to be able to survive a gas attack or—"
"You're—feeding our son poison."
"All Peacekeepers receive the same formula—"
"He's not a frelling Peacekeeper, Aeryn!" Feels his body grow hot under the revelation, the fact that the little guy has been screaming literally his entire life because of the food they've been giving him is burning in his belly. "You said that it had nutrients that he needed."
"It does." Her eyes trail him as he flips himself out of bed, getting the overwhelming urge to puke because they've been torturing their own son—is this considered torturing him?—there must be some kind of torture in this.
"With poison being one of them?"
"I. Am. Not—"
"Do you even remember how all he does is cry?" Snaps, and he doesn't mean to—really, he doesn't—but he keeps thinking of the little guy in his arms, flailing his fat little limbs, weighing next to nothing, and just screaming because it's all he can do. "Do you even remember how—"
"I assure you, I remember much more than you do." She flips the sheet off of her, stooping and collecting her clothing—not the booty shorts and tank top he's used to seeing her in, but sweats and an American air force t-shirt. "This is the way that Peacekeeper infants become immune to most—"
"He's not a Peacekeeper—he never will be—and that one won't be either." He points down to her stomach, now hidden under the layer of cotton as she turns her back to him, collecting her sweatshirt off the chair.
"It doesn't mean he won't be attacked." Without glancing at him, she breezes by him and into the other room. "You're the one who said he was a good target."
"Aeryn, where are you going?" Doesn't reach for her, or trail her into the other room, just listens as the doors hiss open, and then closed in as much as a slam as he thinks automated doors can. Craning his head up towards the ceiling, he closes his eyes, running a hand over his forehead, and trying to stay clear of his nose. "Great."
"The baby's out of food?"
"Yes." Noranti answers him in the same manner she usually does with a weird half grin on her face and a vacant happiness despite the current situation.
"And that's the only place we can go to get the food for him." His eyes drift over to Vala who's currently keeping Deke content as she bounces the little boy, her expression dire as she nods along.
"In the next three solar cycles, yes."
"But the guys who want us—" Before Vala interrupts to correct him, he catches himself "—want Crichton and Officer Sun dead—are guarding the planet."
"Yes."
He groans, giving up on the near impossible plan by burying his face in his hand as he leans into the table, stretching his leg because something tells him it's going to be a long day, only half listening as Noranti tries to explain how the plan is still plausible.
Nothing feels right anymore.
He was at home—in Commander Crichton's body—but home, got to sleep in his own bunk on the base for two days, look at the pictures of his parents on his dresser, find the keys to his car in the top drawer of his side table, have a cup of the sludge the base serves as coffee, and immediately recoil because in ten days, the resistance he's built up to consuming it went away.
Worked with the team he has been with for the last three years, saw Sam's smile, and her ideas, and Jackson's doubtful glances, that maybe he was just Crichton putting on a good show, or maybe he's been himself the whole time, and just needed a good long psych leave.
It was all recognizable and maybe a little relaxing because it was familiar, but none of it felt like home.
Is about to stop his lamenting—his complaining—and rejoin the conversation, when he feels the tickle of cool fingers on the back of his neck, and it's like a fresh gulp of water—like a good inhalation while jogging—something he realizes that he never did during his time back on base—never even went outside.
When he lets his hands fall to the table, glancing over his shoulder, he finds her smiling at him softly, coaxingly, like she knows how hard for him this is—because she might be the only person other than Crichton and Officer Sun who knows just how confusing it is. To have a home that feels right, but no longer suits his needs—and being in an unfamiliar place is becoming more preferred because someone familiar is there—no, not someone familiar—someone in particular.
He grasps her fingers, sharing her smile—though his may be a little wearier—and keeps hold of her hand as he forces himself to stand back up, to ignore the pain that's been omnipresent for years that he got a three-day break from, and now notices more.
"Noranti still thinks we can do it." Vala shifts the baby up in her arms, he's still at a low level of whimpering.
"Of course, she does."
"It's more than plausible," Noranti scoffs back at them, turning away from the graphic of the planet Pilot is still projecting.
"More than that, it doesn't matter." Vala's hand curls around the baby's back, coming to rest on his head, while Noranti nods in a silent agreement with her. When he cocks and eyebrow at her—he sort of checked out for a second—he feels her fingers twitch within his. "We only have enough food for him until tomorrow morning."
"I guess we'd better get dressed then."
It takes them longer than it should. Despite being home three days, Crichton only managed to wash one of his shirts, but forgot to pull it out of the fountain like structure filled with blue fluid so it could dry.
By the time that it did, he'd washed all the other shirts he could find—some his, some Val—Officer Sun's—and hung them up to dry around the room.
When he finally made it back to their room, Deke was napping calmly in the makeshift bassinet as she fought to pull on the long leather jacket with the bright red interior.
"Here."
Setting his folded shirt and pants on their bed—keeping his head down a few seconds longer because he thinks of it as their bed—he takes the jacket from her, holding it, and helping her put it on.
"Thank you—" her laugh is sheepish, and when her eyes meet his over her shoulder, she draws them away quickly, back to the ground. "It's a lovely jacket, but not very practical."
He knows something's wrong—why shouldn't it be?—they've had no time to talk about what happened since he left—and no time to talk about what happened before. He knows that it's not as important as other issues they have to deal with, but they still need to have the conversation.
But there's no time now.
They've got to pay attention to the mission, and romantic entanglements on the team were one of the reasons—practically the only reason—why he didn't want to start a relationship with her, even though when he sees her with Deke, his heart melts.
Instead, he sweeps her two iconic pigtails over her shoulders. "Might want to do something about your hair."
"Oh, yes," she mutters, stepping away from him and towards a mirror on the wall. Her fingers tugging out the ties, and then running through her hair up to her part. "People tend to not take you seriously when you wear them."
"I love it when you wear them."
"Daniel doesn't think they're professional."
"He's just jealous."
She turns away from the mirror, her hair collected in a single ponytail behind her head, and she looks more military than she ever has.
Completely Vala but dressed up for an entirely different part—it's not even like when she would act as Qetesh because he could always see her lips tug into a hint of a grin showing that she was enjoying herself. This time there's no grin on her face, it's empty of emotion and so stoic it hurts.
"Because he wants pigtails?"
"Because he's too chicken to break protocols the way you do."
"Hmm." She considers his words while fixing a few strands of her hair. "That is solid reasoning, however, on more than one occasion airmen have stopped me for inappropriate dress—"
"Gimmie their rank and names and I'll have them talked to."
A grin grows on her face, one he hardly sees because it's genuine. She taps his bicep once, trying to shift around him "that's very sweet but—"
Before she gets a chance to sneak around him and through the door, he grabs her hand how he wanted to at the high school reunion. He really wanted to have just one cheesy dance to an 80s one-hit wonder, but there was never a good time to ask.
"I mean it, Princess."
"I know, Darling."
Her hand slides up his arm to rest on his cheek, and her eyes held the same glimmer they did underneath stardust in rainbow shades that no one else would ever see.
When he leans down to kiss her, she doesn't duck away.
They have an hour and forty minutes—or an arn and forty whatevers—before they make it through space and atmosphere to the planetside. If the trajectory on this pod is set up right, then they're going to land right beside the marketplace they need to be at.
"Noranti was more than clear in her instructions." Despite looking the part of a military bred super soldier, Vala is curled up in her chair, her big-booted feet tucked underneath her.
"She was." Get in. Get the food. Get out. No stopping for any other reason. Don't talk to anyone—or anything—that might engage them. Don't leave each other's sides.
"Then why do I feel this nervous?"
The space between the chairs is too wide for him to reach across and touch her hand, to reassure her that he's not going to be abandoning her in any marketplace on this planet, the last one, or the next.
So, he tries something that doesn't usually work with her: logic.
"You've already been shot by them. You know how bad it hurts."
When she doesn't respond, he turns away from the controls to find her bottom lip trembling. She catches it with her teeth in a last-ditch effort not to cry, but the first tear jitters clean from her lashes.
"Hey—" he leans, knowing he's not going to be able to reach her, knowing that it's fruitless to try, and overstretching his leg while he does, but he hides the hiss as concern in his voice. "It's not gonna go bad this time."
It takes her a few seconds, but she snaps back, blinking away the rest of her tears, and clearing her throat with an exhale. "I'm sorry."
"You don't need to—"
"I just keep thinking of Chiana in that bed because of us."
"We didn't shoot her."
"No, but we should have been more alert."
"Vala, we're doing the best we—"
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Pilot's voice rings clear over the comm system set in the console of the pod. "But you asked me to warn you when you would be parallel with the marauder in the orbit of the planet."
"Thanks, Pilot."
The interruption comes at a bad time. If their lives keep up this way, there's never going to be a chance for them to just sit down and talk. Two hours ago, he was at the SGC trying to tell them to contact Atlantis so that they could get help with the long-range communication device—or at least an extra pair of stones—and then he woke up face planted on the floor with blood everywhere and one hell of a headache.
They keep their conversation to a minimum as they drift silently through the orbit of the planet and towards the atmosphere, only sharing the same nervous expression with each other. The marauder is almost on the other side of the planet, definitely not visible from here. Other than Officer Sun, no one can be certain of the technology they have on board to trace them, and the last thing either of them wants is a repeat of last time.
Once they break the upper atmosphere, they get a clear view of the planet. It's not exactly Earth-like, more brown and grey from over industrialization. There aren't many trees, many fields to grow crops, but he's seen Noranti eat fingernails, so who knows what alien species can survive on.
"This reminds me of when I was first doing flight training," breaks the silence once their pod breeches through the last layer of clouds.
"Why's that?" Her response is hesitant but too quick all at once, and he's never seen her this nervous before a mission—maybe when she wanted to bring the big guns to Ba'al's removal ceremony—but it's helping keep him calm that she's here and not another galaxy away—that if something does happen, he's right here to help—not that he doesn't trust Crichton, but he's always been a hands-on sort of guy.
Man, does he ever want a chance to be more hands on with her.
"They said that I'd get used to seeing the land break after the ocean, or a desert after a mountain range." He shakes his head releasing the controls as they automatically kick in, faring the pod directly into the parking area for the market. "They're wrong. Stuff like this? It never gets old."
"The first time I flew a ship it was stolen—"
"Of course, it was."
"No, it was stolen from us—from my father and I."
"Oh."
A wistful smile grows on her face as the sun breaks through the clouds to highlight her. "I was asleep in the back when some ne'er-do-wells decided it would be an easy steal."
He's not even looking out the window anymore. "What happened?"
"I bested them of course," the line is said with her usual confidence, but the grin fades from her face as she blinks away from her memory. "I managed to steer the ship back to where we were camping out but crashed it into the ground."
"You obviously came out okay."
"Yes, but that's when my father decided it was best to be rid of me and my antics." Shuffling in the chair, she wraps her arms around her knees tighter, resting her chin on top of them. "He sold me to an arms dealer the very same day."