Two Birds, Two Stones
Chapter 26
Fool's Errand
The hallways are always colder at night, even when the temperature system was malfunctioning. She and John would meander through the complex unsupervised, after bringing their feud to resolution, a feeling of familiarity set in. They would amble shoulder to shoulder, by rooms all secured behind different levels of clearance, and he would explain to her the basics behind each. What an accounting department does, what a custodial staff does, the different responsibilities of those on the base, and how it was so similar to what he knew on his Earth.
She knew it then for him as well, that the recognizable traits he found in these humans were a small solace. That watching the news each night, hearing about the frequent wars, the violence, and the horrible nature inherent in this species—how John ever adapted from their primitive nature, she doesn't know—comforts him even though so many of their variables are still unknown.
Though these bright hallways are a stark contrast to the maze of Moya's hallways that they both know without sight, the ability to move freely, even under fake, bright lighting, is relief in itself.
Now she roams to be away from him.
From the constant burden of his worry which is now teetering on blame. How he doesn't know what it's like to be reared on a Peacekeeper cruiser just as she doesn't know what it's like to live in a familial unit in a single stationary home.
Although they know so much about each other—particularly about their upbringings—they still know nothing. She keeps making vast comparisons throughout all humans based on what she sees on television.
There is always a victim and a perpetrator.
There is always an act of violence.
He does the same when learning about her background and through his faulty human eyes, can only view giving a small dose of poison with each feeding in a negative context. Can only see the harm in an inherently harmful thing.
Can only watch the news.
Whereas she is more knowledgeable on the matter. Has experienced the benefits of being resistant to aerosol poisons and those injected into water supplies firsthand. Has also seen the negative effects the crippling fumes can have on those not tempered correctly and is it something she will never have her son—her children—exposed to, but there are only so many precautions she can take.
In her jaunt, she finds herself back at the lab which exploded on them, leaving him with a still healing back laceration that has absorbed whatever film they placed on top of it, along with his newly acquired displaced nose—which she doesn't understand as his nose is still in the center of his face.
Despite not being able to take drugs in order to help her pain, she still heals faster—something again, attributed to her superior genetic makeup, but also to enhanced formulas found in the Peacekeeper pablum that ignite latent genes after birth. Her ribs, the cracks and the breaks are healed, were almost unnoticeable the second day of Colonel Mitchell's return, yet it went unnoticed in the frantic collections of people.
There is yellow tape strewn around the soot smudged door, which stands open, yet somehow impenetrable by the yellow X they've placed from corner to corner. Unsure of what this means, she simply walks through it and into the wreckage of the lab—the large pieces of rubble, the torn and singed pages of books, pieces of building material fallen from the ceiling, office supplies and furniture, and a single standing fan.
Though the debris has been settled for more than a few days, when she steps through to investigate, clouds of dust burst into the air and scatter in the wake of her movements. The few machines littering the counter, the ones she remembers glaring at her with disconcerting blue screens as John helped her to her feet, are still operational.
He managed to get her to hobble a few steps, but her footing was unusually precarious, the explosion still reminiscent in her ears, destroying her equilibrium. When she slipped the first time, he was quick to steady her, waiting as she heaved in particle laden air into her lungs being compressed by jagged bones.
When she slipped the second, she fell further as he was distracted—most likely preoccupied with the same issue she was.
The little life that was, and then was not.
The bigger little life left a galaxy away who was and may not be now.
She thought that she could not do it again if it were true.
She could not spend almost a week nurturing and growing another human, only to have them destroyed so easily. Though it was quick work that exhausted her body, testing her to the extreme—the war helped to preoccupy her from how her body changed, from how she could feel the life draining from her and into someone else—she did not sacrifice all she had for someone to undo it almost as a novelty, marveling at just how easy it was.
When John had walked in on her changing because the clothing she was wearing before they approached the final battle was tight against her skin, he stared at her in awe as her stomach was bared due to a zipper stuck in its track. Try as she might to yank it back into place, it would not cede.
"Honey," he spoke once words returned to him, stepping into the room, and once again equipping the privacy. His deft fingers overtook hers on the tag. "You sure you want to wear this?"
She fought to keep the offense from her answer, but there was to be much more fighting, and the battle with her attire didn't seem as important to win. "What's wrong with this?"
"Nothing," he sensed her unease, and turned his attention back to guiding the zipper up from where it hitched below the slope of her stomach. "It's just a little revealing."
She glanced down at the leather suit she'd chosen because she didn't need to worry about her stomach being accidentally bared and the color would help to camouflage her among the dark ruins and shadows of a once great city. "Shall I wear gloves?"
Insolent, he rolled his eyes at her, carefully directing the zipper over her misshapen stomach where the little life jostled within her, apparently happy to have even a moment with family. "You know what I mean."
"Whatever I wear is going to be revealing, John—"
Her rebuttal cut short by his sudden nuzzling of her bare stomach with his warm cheek. He rested against her, using their child as somewhat of a pillow, and his hot breath sent shivers through her. When his large hand appeared, sneaking through the split zipper of her suit, she dropped one of her hands to his head, stroking it through his hair, trying to do as he and their child were—enjoying a brief moment.
"I just want—" he exhaled sharply against her stomach, and the child within her revolted, attacking the spot where his words landed in warmth. His hand felt the tremors, sliding to rub them away. "I just want you two safe."
Pilot called for them, and he rose from his knees, working the zipper over the expanse of her still growing stomach, but not before planting a single kiss, the only kiss he would transfer to his son for a weeken.
They didn't speak any more on the matter.
He was terrified for them, and she was nervous—the pain, the all-encompassing pain like nothing she'd ever felt and as she tried to breathe through it, to concentrate on the gunfire blasting just beyond her head, it was a combination of emotions she'd never felt before—the first of many.
In the dust on the table among bits of rock and infrastructure, stands the piece of evidence she came searching for. A silver packet of Peacekeeper infant pablum. The packaging reflects the light filtering in from the hallway, and it's only adorned with the simple symbol, the one she grew up with, the one she wore so proudly for years until she decided to be better.
There are still remnants of green formula clotting at the nozzle, and she holds it in her hand, swiping it with her swift fingers, blowing in order to clear the rest.
"You know the yellow tape is up to keep random bystanders out."
Knows it's not her husband, not his voice, and not his charm.
After disagreements he tends to stray from his usual attitude of what he considers good humor and references, over half of which she still doesn't understand, and directly try to correct the problem. To use his communication to discuss the root of the issue—always using his frelling communication.
They all do.
Humans rely too much on what comes out of their mouths.
"That tape means nothing to me."
Doesn't bother turning to greet the doctor, or offer him the basis of acknowledgement, because she's learned that once she offers these people a klance of acceptance, of congeniality, that they'll immediately demand more, their words pouring out of their mouth and ladening the air with insinuations.
They are not friends.
She felt the same way when she first met those on Moya—those who ended up developing into her family—most of whom she lost.
But these people are not hers, and she doesn't care to know the aspects of their personal lives, and she doesn't care to divulge those of hers. Ironically, the only one she somewhat trusts, the only one who hasn't divided her down to the basic parts of her relationship with John and her anatomy, is the one who possesses her husband's body.
But the ground crunches as he sidles up beside he, his shadow stretching long beside hers over the field of debris. Despite his spoken years of service to this military faction, he's not stealthy at all and the lack of his training becomes glaringly obvious.
From her peripherals, she's able to view him crossing his arms, either mimicking or mocking her position. In the murkiness lingering in the crashed laboratory his spectacles appear to be just circles of light.
"I'd ask what you're doing here, but I know you won't answer."
"How astute of you."
"Huh—" he chuckles, his cadence sounding somewhat bemused as he nods thoughtfully to the packet of formula in her hand. "I'm surprised that survived the cave in."
"Peacekeeper products: food, clothing, weaponry, vessels, are constructed with expertise." True to her word, the packet in her hand is in one piece and unmarred by the explosion aside from a few extra sprinklings of dust. "Our livelihoods depend on these essentials; therefore, it is insured they are of high quality."
"Good to know." His words are reserved, but also borderline on mocking, since she actually bestowed to him information about her lifestyle—or rather her rearing—that he was uninterested, yet he constantly barrages her with an onslaught of personal questions she refuses to answer.
Perhaps he's always unsatisfied and it's her time to interrogate him.
"You stated this inconvenience was caused by a cave in?"
"Yeah," his brows rearrange confused, offput by her sudden eye contact. "The working idea is that there were some faults in the floor and—"
"It was not a simple cave in."
"Okay." Again, the way he elongates the vowel suggests that he's mocking her, or that he doesn't believe her. John has employed this speech pattern rarely with her, but from the situations in which it occurred, that's how she translates his intentions.
"This was caused by an explosion from an improper output in the ventilation system which then leaked, backfired, and combusted."
"Well, when the experts come back with their theories, I'll be sure to let them—" his voice trails off as he follows her finger to the end of a ventilation shaft, smudged in more soot, evidence of a brief immolation before an explosion, and as he places the pieces together, he nods. "So, then I'm guessing Peacekeepers are great with sciences."
"Not at all."
"So, what are you doing here, then?"
He answers with a grin, and it's different from the usual smirks or sniggers that he pulls when he's opposite John and fighting for dominance. The belittling is vacant on his face and is replaced with curiosity.
"You're a doctor?"
"Well—yes—but not in the medical sense of the word. See on Earth there's—there's many different—"
She rolls her eyes, knowing it's a mannerism that she stole from John through integration, through being by his side. "I assume you've sent away a sample of this food to be analysed?"
"Oh—uh—yeah, I did that as soon as you gave it to me." But he becomes aware of her not so hidden intentions lowering his brows and his voice once again collecting his sceptic nature. "Why?
"I need to see the results."
The sunlight is bright white on the marketplace, blanketing over the grey industrialization of the planet. Noranti explained the planet was known only for commerce, being only a home to shopkeepers who sign contracts for various lengths of time. The stores range from stalls similar to the ones they saw on Valdun, to shops with fronts decorated in available goodies, to massive multilevel buildings equivalent to skyscrapers on Earth.
Places like this bring out mixed feelings within her.
She grew up on planets like this, starting out in petty thieving and conning with her father, but then after she gained her own freedom by killing her weapon's smuggler of a master, she thieved and conned for meals.
It was a long time afterwards that she would speak to her father again.
Something she told Cameron as the transport pod docked itself in the vessel parking lot. Stopped on a metallic landing strip only a few feet longer and wider than the ship itself, and then it was filed away in a circular motion. He has a chip in his pocket to reclaim it and the entire situation is all vaguely reminiscent of the one time when Daniel took her out for dinner.
Her fingers twitch at her side, as the nervousness of the crowd pushes against her. She knows no one in this galaxy and therefore has no need to worry, however, the woman's face that she happens to sport an extreme likeness too has made more than her fair share of enemies.
Perhaps it's the burden that comes with being this flawlessly attractive.
"Man, I bet you'd love to spend a day at this place." Cameron is keeping a steady pace beside her, his shoulders a bit higher than usual as if to block out his face from any scanning enemies they may be unaware of.
"Under different circumstances, yes—it's been quite some time since I've been shopping."
"Well, as much as I'd love to let you have this planet as a playground—"
"And be my unwitting accomplice?"
"That too—" he shares her grin, though only momentarily until he ducks down, staring at a form of an address written on a scrap piece of paper. "Unfortunately, we've got an appointment to keep."
"And a baby to feed—" her voice peters out once the transportation station gives way to the vast array of stores, of goods and services, of people of all species trying to peddle their wares for an exorbitant price.
The things she knows about how these types of places operate—the memories she's burden with because of it.
Cameron's fingers, tickle against her own as he takes hold of her hand, and although her arm stiffens, she does her best to keep her composure and keep walking.
"Sorry, is it not—"
"No—it's just—Noranti told me that when they—" meaning their counterparts, the ones that are married with a child, the one whose lives they've hijacked "—go out on missions, they usually don't openly show their affection."
"They have to hold hands from time to time." He shifts closer to her, allowing a group of hip height aliens to waddle by like a gaggle of geese.
"I'm sure they do."
"If it makes you uncomfortable—" he lets the word hang, like he doesn't truly want to know the answer.
It does and it doesn't.
If extenuating factors weren't a case it wouldn't.
But despite her outward nature, she's never been one to flaunt her relationships—flaunt her trysts with countless airmen and majors. Always makes sure those she does bed know how to keep their business just that—theirs.
However, she's found that several aspects of her relationship with Cameron have changed—namely, that she knows how it feels to kiss him, that he's accepted—and is willing—to overlook her less than chaste past, and that he feels openly affectionate towards her.
But she's unsure how this makes her feel.
How he will act once they return to the mountain—if he will still be as physical with her—as blatantly unashamed.
Adding to her unease about the situation, is that in order to have intercourse and not end up pregnant, they're going to have to take some precautions. She's followed other forms of prophylactics on many different planets, but to the Tau'ri, condoms seem to be the main choice.
She doesn't know about him, but she certainly doesn't have any condoms on her, and is willing to bet that Crichton doesn't have any stored on the ship from the mere presence of his child.
Despite her worry, and her uncertainty in areas concerning physical relationships—just romantic entanglements actually—she shifts her body closer to his, because he always exudes a certain security. Even before he expressed romantic interest in her, she knew she could trust him to help her or fight for her, the same way he did on that abandoned highway when she'd lost her memory.
"I don't have a good feeling about this," speaks honestly, as she did in the transport pod, as she told him a few of the trials of her childhood and what it was like to be eleven without any parents.
Expects him to retort with a humorous line about how that isn't good, or how whatever thoughts she thinks is what she reaps, but instead he gives her hand a gentle squeeze, just enough to anchor her for the moment so her thoughts don't stray too far. "It'll go fine."
"How do you know?"
"Because based on the odds of everything that's happened to us, it's about time that something just went as planned."
Glancing up at him, now actively ignoring the bodies brushing by her, the loud noises of multiple languages all being bellowed at once, and then translated by tiny little machines in her brain, the scents of different species' cooking wafting thick into the air and curling with the wet humid wind of a world so bleak and gray, he grins at her.
And instead of reminding him, of arguing, all the parts of this stitched together plan that could go wrong, she grins back. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"We could get back to the transport pod within an hour. Spend the hour travelling to Moya just talking—"
"Then tag team a no doubt fussy baby while an old, three-eyed woman makes a somehow delicious supper despite the fact that I've never viewed any ingredients in that kitchen."
"Put the baby down and take a shower to wash off all the spit and puke—" he chuckles for a few steps, then almost stops in the spot as he realizes what he's inadvertently suggested to her. Wrenching his head towards her, his eyes wide, he trips over words to explain, "I didn't mean—"
"I like that you did."
Regardless of her worries of intimacy and what could develop from said intimacy—be it a viable relationship or an accidental child—she wants to be physical with him, and the thought of being in the blue hued shower room, slowly plucking off clothing heavy with sweat from each other's bodies is still as enticing as ever.
Wishes she could kiss him, that it weren't so taboo in this bizarre as it is in their own galaxy—that their counterparts have survived as long as they have by remaining focused on their objectives first when outside the protection of the ship and rewarding themselves with intimate moments when not.
He stops, tugging her to the side so the same group of hip high aliens can pass by them again, this time in the opposite direct, and with added members, bobbling along happily while making throaty undulations.
He's very close, though not embracing and certainly not kissing, his hand as dropped to her hip, warming her through the leather that she thought she was done wearing. She can feel the front of his body, flush against her back, his chest pressing into the long coat she wears, his leather's friction against hers, something about it is very protective, but also very provocative.
These little gestures, these intimate moments have to be how their counterparts stay sane.
"This is the address." He taps at her hip once, pointing to a number scrawled out on a board and hanging by only one bolt above a swerving trail down a tight alley between stalls.
Takes Noranti's note from him, and then angles her head to the side to better view the same number. When the wind blows the mesh awning holding it up sways and creaks.
"Of course, it is."
"It's not that bad."
"Last time we were on one of these planets, you pulled me out of an alley."
"So."
"So, now we're going in one."
"If you're scared—"
She cuts him off, not allowing him to finish his sentence and diminish her character further.
"I am not scared."
"Okay."
But the expression on his face tells her that he believes anything but her words.
"I'm not."
"All right."
"I'm confused, and turned around, and my stomach hurts from earlier, and I may be a little bit peckish—"
"But not scared," he interrupts this time, holding up a finger to remind her.
"Absolutely—" staring down the dark alley, there appears to be no form of electricity or lighting, and from what she can see, it simply gets tighter and darker "—not."
Cameron crumples the paper and shoves it in a pocket on his jacket, reaching back behind his belt to ensure his weapon is still secured. "I was going to say that if you do get scared—"
"Which I won't."
"But if you do—" this time he raises a finger prematurely to silence her argument. "You can press closer to me."
"I won't be doing that."
The alley is longer than expected, and despite having a cover over it made with cheap mesh and scrap pieces of metal, there is a constant leakage of gathering water from atop, dripping down through various openings, leading their walk to be more akin to traveling in a sewer than a covered pass.
Halfway through the passage narrows to half the width it was at the entrance, forcing her to file in behind Cameron, instead of walking beside him, which was comforting as if something came at them, they'd both bet able to respond.
Now her concentration is focused on not banging into his back as he navigates fairly well in the dark—almost as well as her, though his skill is diminished by his obviously aching leg.
"How is your nose?" The question squeaks out of her because if she has to keep listening to the sound of dripping water, and the small scurrying of whatever rodents inhabit this miniscule portion of land, she may go mad.
"Still aching a bit, but nothing to write home about." To punctuate his statement, Cameron snorts, trying to clear his nasal passages. "I kinda forgot about it before you mentioned something."
"Sorry—" her weak apology evolves into a shriek as something scurries down the wall her shoulder is almost dragging against. Jumping in response, she pants for a few breathes, stilling before reclaiming a somewhat calm nature.
Cameron notices, but continues on a step or two before realizing that she's not at his back any longer. Without a word he retreats, collecting her hand and gently guiding her behind him. Though her heart rate is still quite elevated, his touch allows her to focus on something other than what could be waiting for them.
"How's your side?" His question breeches through the drippy silence as a welcoming distraction. Though there's no way for him to address her directly, as there's no possible way for him to turn around, but she can imagine the expression on his face as he tries to mask his concern, how it rivals his stern colonel image.
"It's healing quite well, though the scars are itching like mad."
"Mine are too."
"It's near impossible not to scratch them."
"Don't scratch them."
"I haven't been—" she shrugs her shoulders using the weight of the coat as friction to create a ghost of a scratch "but every piece of fabric against the scars is unbearable."
"Once we get back to the ship, I can—"
But Cameron's sentence falls mute leaving her wondering how he was going to end it, if he was going to be somewhat suggestive, because she's categorized him as what the Tau'ri refer to as 'old-fashioned'—not one to engage in sex talk.
It's what she refers to as respectful, though since their work relationship drastically shifted, it's been leaving her imagination with only a sketch instead of a full portrait.
The ending of the pathway is what interrupts him. A single slit in the wall that he has to turn sideways in order to slip through, while she has no problem shimmying her shoulders through, to stumble out into somewhat of a dark clearing only wide enough to be a thoroughfare to a black door adorned with blue handprints.
Cautiously—and unfortunately—Cameron drops her hand to knock, his jaw setting in the weak reflection of sunlight bouncing off the slanted scraps of metal. The drops of water are still louder than his breathing, but she can see the bounce of his chest, how he's trying to calm himself, even though his hand floats above the handle of his weapon.
She's about to ask what they should do if no one answers—they could most likely break down the door and face the wrath of whomever is within, or they could ask around for answers, although in this level of commerce, they're probably not going to get any solutions for free.
But the door creaks open, wet wood stuttering, revealing a face only half visible in the light. It's of a man, who has a basic human appearance, with a black tattoo twisted from his forehead down the right side of his face. There's a coin-shaped indentation on his forehead reminiscent of Teal'c's, and letters scrawled over the opposite eye.
His eyes evoke sadness, pulling downwards, and when he grins his teeth are in disarray. Along with his earrings, it makes him reminiscent of a pirate.
"Crichton," he greets, immediately shifting to the side, allowing them entrance into the small hovel. "You and the missus are late."