Author's Note:

My first Farscape story ever. There may be more.

.

.

ONE

My Dren's Frelled Up

.

It was peaceful, relaxing, warm and…

Aeryn opened an eye in suspicion.

Was that a sound?

She waited. Nothing.

She closed her eye again and let herself relax into the warm, soft sheets.

Where was I? Oh, right, peaceful, relaxing… Got it.

It was green and bright, sunny and cheerful. There were happy sounds of children, Sebaceans, running and playing, too young to be drafted, too young to know what their parents actually did, not being here.

A shadow passed over the sun. She concentrated, trying to stop the dark thoughts of Peacekeepers and--

The sunshine was gone. The happy sounds stopped.

She huffed.

This 'dreaming' thing is stupid, she decided. It's all Crichton's fault. 'Dreaming's fun, Aeryn', she scoffed. 'Dreaming's all about getting what you want while you're asleep, cos you never get it while you're not.'

She turned onto her back and threw her arms over her head, banging them into the headboard.

Ignorant human, she managed. Ignorant, arrogant, thick-headed, crazy… Weird… quirky… funny… kind of… pleasant to have around when he's smiling… Gah!

She shook her head clear and turned onto her right, curling up slightly.

A huge huff strapped on its armour and grabbed up its sword, ready for battle. It saw the legions of Aeryn's will standing in its way but drew itself up. It stepped forward and battle was joined - the will to forestall the huff against the angry might of the huff itself. The fight raged, bloody and loud, her will torn and slashed left and right. The huff stood alone, victorious, and let out a huge bellow of vindication.

Then it turned toward the exit and threw itself at the portal, bellowing still.

The monstrous huff escaped her nose and Aeryn tutted at her loss of self control. Linking it with the fact that she was trying not to think about the annoying - amusing - annoying human at the time, she realised a pattern was forming.

Human = loss of self control. Must do something about that. She curled herself up a little tighter. While I'm awake. Why can't I just get back to sleep?

Her eyes snapped open. Without thinking she lurched for the bedside table. She snatched up the pulse pistol. She turned and her straight arm had it pointed in the direction of the sound she knew she had definitely heard a second time.

She stared. She thought for a second. She let her arm go limp and dropped the gun to the bedspread beside her.

In the wide open space of her room, on the slightly dusty, slightly scuffed, slightly used, slightly dirty floor, was a slightly unshaven, slightly rumpled, slightly used, slightly abused, slightly battered but wholly asleep human.

Wearing nothing but bright white underwear. And large black Peacekeeper boots, the laces sprawling every which way, the tongues hanging out as if they, too, were affected by whatever had struck the human down.

She stared for a long moment, wondering how and why he was lying spread-eagled on his back as if he had dropped from a great height. And why he was asleep. In her personal space.

She cleared her throat.

"Crichton," she called, annoyed.

The human didn't even flinch.

"Crichton!"

He mumbled something, but other than that, appeared too deeply occupied by sleeping to actually hear her.

She tossed her loose hair over her shoulder, left the pulse pistol on the bed, and climbed out. She stomped over - no mean feat, considering her lack of shoes - and stood over him, hands on her hips, glare in place.

"Crichton. How did you get in here?" she demanded.

No response.

She let her head tilt and her eyes run over him.

"No blood," she noted. "No obvious signs of… injury."

She drew her eyes back up to his face quickly, taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders.

Then she lifted her foot, pulled it back, and, perhaps a little roughly, pushed the heel into his ribs.

The effect was instantaneous.

"Whoa! Hey!" came the slurred, indignant shock.

John tried to roll to his left, away from her, but he seemed to be having muscle control problems. He grumbled something but had to give up and fall on his back again.

"Crichton!" she barked.

The human blinked and struggled with something inside his head. A hand came up, she guessed on course to wipe his face, but it smacked into his eyes instead.

"Ow! Somebody - somebody hit me!" he raged, his voice thick with confusion and outrage.

"This is all very amusing," she began, then stopped. Yes, it is amusing. Because he's hitting himself in the head and doesn't even know it. He must be intoxicated. "Crichton, what are you doing here?"

"Nguuuuh… I feel like the floor of a taxi cab…"

"Crichton!" she snapped.

"Huh?"

"Listen to me very carefully." She stared down at him, watching his eyes - which seemed extremely red just now - blink and then swivel to fasten on her.

"Aeryn?" he croaked. Then he looked around blearily, apparently finding his situation enough in order to cease worrying. He looked back up at her.

"What. The. Frell," she said clearly, bending over slightly to make sure he knew he was being pinned with the sharpest glare she had, "are you doing on my floor?"

He stared back into the large, blue - beautiful - no, no, blue, dammit! - eyes, assessing his next words very carefully, rightly judging that, should they come out wrong, they would also be his last.

"That," he managed, his voice creaky with abuse, "is a long story."

Aeryn bent down and put her hands out, grabbing at his wrists.

"Get up," she tutted.

He pulled at his wrists, waving his hands free.

"Get offa me," he managed. "I can do it."

She stood back, folding her arms and watching. "Then amaze me."

He stared up at her for a long second, and she wondered if it was anger or indignation on his face. He huffed and pushed his elbows under him, hiking himself up to look around the room slowly.

"Any time today," she managed, ice clinging to her voice.

"Alright, slow your roll, I'm - workin' on - waking up," he protested.

"I can see that," she blinked, surprised.

He looked up at her and realised her gaze was not on his face, but rather his underwear. He looked down quickly.

"Ho! Now--" he managed, jumping slightly.

He slapped a hand over the front of his shorts to somehow deflect her sharp eyes from making the lines of them any more obvious and rolled to his left, hoping some of his back would block out the sight. He cleared his throat, pushing at the floor with his left elbow to try and get up.

He managed it halfway before his knee gave. She rushed into him, holding him up with an arm round his back and the other hand up under his arm.

"Heh," he managed weakly, making sure he avoided her gaze. "It's - er - not me," he added, flicking his eyes down and up again. "It er… it kind of does that."

"Really," she said scathingly, her arm round his back trying to take some of his weight.

"Yeah - er - mornings," he bit out. "It's not like - it's not, well, cos you're here--"

"Crichton, I don't care. It's not the first time I've seen you in your skivvies, and as I am doomed to live a cursed life I doubt very much that it'll be the last. Now stand up," she commanded.

"I am!"

"By yourself."

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder," she ordered, hefting him upwards.

He managed to get his feet under him but as she lifted her hands free she could feel him sliding downwards. She tutted and grabbed at him again, and his left arm landed over her shoulder, bolstering him somewhat.

She looked at him, their faces inches apart.

"Thanks," he managed. "My leg's gone kind of dead."

"Leg or brain?" she scoffed.

"Should I come back later?" came a chuckle from the door.

Human and Sebacean turned and looked to see a Nebari sticking her head through one of the gaps in the obstruction.

"Cos I mean, if you're in the middle of sex, I can wait," Chiana added with a wide grin.

Human and Sebacean opened their mouths at the same time: "Chiana--"

"Alright, ok, I'm going," she grumped.

"No, Chiana, you can help us," Aeryn said quickly.

"Really?" she gasped, a delightful grin lighting up her playful face. "Well, you know, I had this dream, but it was me and - and - Crichton - and - and - D'Argo," she admitted, pulling her head free. "But hey, three's three."

"That's not what she means," John growled. "Get over here and keep me standing."

"Looks like Aeryn's already got you standing," she bubbled.

John looked down again. Then he let his head roll back on his neck in mortification even as Chiana pressed at the opener. The door fanned open and she bounced in, coming to a stop by John's arm.

"Which bit goes where?" she asked with marked enthusiasm.

"Take an arm," John sighed.

Chiana slid up under his free shoulder, lifting upwards. "So what gives?" she asked, following as Aeryn helped him limp to the bed. "Did I miss the sex? Did she wear you out?"

"Pip, shut up," John bit out sharply, and the Nebari giggled saucily.

"Why has your face gone red?" she teased.

"Drop me."

Chiana let go and he collapsed to the bed underneath, barely able to sit up.

Aeryn released her hold on him and the two girls stood back, shoulder to shoulder. Chiana let her head tilt as she studied him, a cheeky smile on her face. Aeryn folded her arms, widening her stance and looking him up and down with precision.

"Start at the beginning," the taller woman ordered.

"Now?" John moaned, wiping his hands over his face. "I've got like the biggest, nastiest hangover from Hell and you want me to explain--"

"What's a hand-over?" Chiana asked. She put her hand out, pointing to his shorts. "That?"

Rightly judging that there was no further way he could be humiliated any more, John's hands dropped from his face and he fell over backwards, his arms out wide.

"A hangover is when you suffer from the withdrawal of alcohol after bingeing on it," he grumped. "Now leave me alone."

"No," Aeryn stated clearly. "You get off my bed and back to your own room."

"I can't," he moaned.

"Why not?" she asked suspiciously.

"Rygel won't let me in."

"Why not?" Chiana gasped. "Kick the little dridgenaught in the mivonks and take your room back!"

"It's not as simple as that," John muttered.

"Why not?" the girls said together.

"I think D'Argo is going to want to kill me."

"What?" Chiana chirped.

Aeryn looked at Chiana, then back at the human who was slowly slip-sliding back to sleep. "I can tell we could all be here some time," she sighed. She looked down at Chiana. "I think we need chairs."

"You need some clothes," Chiana grinned, pushing at Aeryn's shoulder.

It was then that former Officer Sun realised she was standing in a small, strappy black top and matching briefs. She sighed, let her shoulders sag, and turned to her pile of clothes on the far chair.

Chiana bounced up and onto the bed, kneeling by John's head and bubbling with laughter. She put her hands either side of his head and peered down at him, upside down.

"Are you dying?" she grinned, bouncing her hands to make his head wobble.

"Don't do that," he groused.

"So you are dying," she judged. "Can I have your stuff?"

"Don't do that!"

She bounced and bounced, until she noticed a funny shade steal over his face.

"Hey. I thought hoomans were kind of… pinky brown," she observed.

Aeryn pulled on her trousers and a leather waistcoat, picking up the chair and carrying it over to the bed.

"Apparently," she said. "Unless he's the only one of his kind like that."

"Then why does his face look sort of… white. No, green. White-green," she havered.

"Cos he's going to barf if you keep shaking him!" John threatened.

Chiana jumped back slightly, resting back on her heels and watching him carefully.

"Uhm, ok," she said quickly, looking up at Aeryn. "You - ah - question him," she added, waving a hand at the man airily.

Aeryn set down the chair and sat in it with a heaviness born of resignation and irritation.

"Right," she announced, leaning over and slapping the human's knee harshly. "Crichton. Hey! Crichton!" she snapped, this time making a fist and hammering it down into his kneecap.

"Ow!"

"Now I have your attention," she said sweetly, "start at the beginning. And make it good."

"Ok, Aeryn - you asked for it," he wheezed. "It goes something like this…"

.

Title taken from Warren Zevon's song 'My Sh*t's F*cked Up':

'Well, I went to the doctor. I said, "I'm feeling kind of rough." He said, "I'll break it to you, son - your sh*t's f*cked up."'