This is the result of a 'snippets challenge' on the Crais' Cohorts board, over at The Ultimate, and was first published 7/31/03. The challenge was simply "Crais Meets Daddy", and was to be 1,000 words or less. That's it - pretty loose guidelines, eh? Needless to say we had quite a variety of entries. I did two myself (this was my second entry). At the time of the challenge, we all submitted our fics anonymously, so that we could try to guess who wrote what. Since my beta (valleyforge) was also participating in the challenge, and I was curious if she would be able to guess mine (she did, of course), this is unbeta'd.

Oh yeah - I don't own Farscape (and wouldn't want to), and I don't own Crais (but he could own me if he wants). And if my bank account is any indication, I sure as hell ain't makin' any money on this…

First Meeting

"Out. Out with you! You can pace outside as well as here and I'd really rather not hear your continual demands to 'hurry things up'. Besides, it will be quite a while yet and these things can NOT be rushed."

With that, I am unceremoniously ushered out my own front door. To think that I once liked this woman. Well, respected at any rate. My mother would've made an excellent Peacekeeper commando…

Why did it have to be now, at harvest time? As if that's not bad enough, it has been ages. Nine arns already, and now here I am exiled from my own house.

I hope she is all right…

****

"You can see them now," her sister calls to me from the hall. "And you'd best wash up first."

The nerve of the woman, talking to me as though I were a child. Still, best not to incur the wrath of the women in the house, as this is their domain today. "I have already," I reply quickly as I come in to finally see my son.

He is beautiful, lying in his mother's arms, suckling at her breast. He seems so tiny with his little hands clutching at her sweat-soaked gown. I kiss my wife's forehead as I cover her hand with mine. "He has an appetite I see."

"Like his father," she replies with a tired smile.

I reach down to softly stroke his dark hair, tracing his arm, and coming to hold his tiny hand in mine. I am amazed as he grasps my finger tightly. There is still a smudge of dirt there. 'Better that than blood,' the thought comes to me unbidden. If only the soil of these fields would be all that taints these hands. He turns to look up at me with shining dark eyes, his hand still in mine. 'And better to hold his father's hand than to hold a pulse rifle.'

Dare I even hope?