Chapter 4: If You Can't Get Rid Of The Family Skeleton You Might As Well Make It Dance
John Crichton leaned back in his chair, a pair of disassembled pulse pistols sprawled out on the table in front of him. He turned the grimed cloth in his hand, thought about it, turned it to a clean spot, thought about it again, then thought about it a little more—before finally picking up the unusually cold pistol frame to wipe it down.
A goofy shit-eating grin extended across John's face as he looked over to his young son, who was diligently copycatting his actions, cleaning the other stripped pistol.
John put down his work and ruffed D'argo's short dark brown hair. The boy decided that the gun was clean enough, and placed it back on the table, before tossing the hair that had fallen (or more accurately, John had mussed) into his face back.
'Looks like his mom when he does that.' John absently thought.
Five years had gone by, so quickly. Most of it on that greenhouse asteroid a hop skip and a transport away from the Gammak base, or where the base had been, getting the Eidolons prepped for a housewarming. But looking at his son, size and motor skills for a child years older than his true age, reminded him how quickly. He was losing the best part of D'argo's—or of any future children's—lives.
He needed to stop thinking about it. So he resumed cleaning the pistol's barrel, and let his mind wander back to Aeryn.
Aeryn. She was in the adjacent room, still sleeping off the fight. With Chi's help they had carried her to quarters and stripped her armor. John had washed her of the sweat and blood, and (in absence of Noranti) did his best to patch her up. She had officially scared the living crap out of him when she collapsed in the hanger. For a moment he thought—
Whenever he did anything incredibly stupid or risky, or both (mostly both), Aeryn would always find time to remind him that she couldn't imagine raising D'argo on her own if anything should ever happened to him, but whenever she pulled shit like this…John was fairly certainly he wouldn't do so well either.
----
A room over, Aeryn opened her eyes—and quickly snapped them shut when the light seared them. Moya's illumination should never feel that bright. She opened her eyes again, slower, taking time to reacquaint herself with the lighting.
Aeryn slowly propped herself up, careful not to disturb her sore ribs. She tossed the golden coverlet aside, finding that someone had dressed her whole torso with white bandages while she was out. John and Chiana she guessed.
She eased further out of bed, taking her time standing up, smoothing her leathers as she went. An old, soft pair that John knew she loved best and was the most comfortable. From the next room she could just make out the muffled conversation between her mate and young son. Something about Muppets. Maybe. She didn't really know.
Aeryn rolled her head. The cracking vertebrae sounded more like a piano key flourish then the bones that supported one's head.
As she walked towards the door, more and more of the conversation began to filter through. She grabbed one of John's old black Ts that was lying in heap next to the door, and tugged it over her head as she exited their room. Aeryn crossed the corridor, stopping short of entering the room where John and D'argo sat cleaning her pulse pistols. Or at least had been cleaning. Now they seemed more focused on shoving each other back and forth for no discernable reason.
She leaned against the entry's frame, content, watching as John leaned over and pinched D'argo's nose between his middle and forefinger.
"Hah. Got your nose." John teased.
D'argo lunged forward, taking up the game, "Give it back!"
D'argo crawled all over his father trying to retrieve his stolen 'nose', but John kept his hand always just out of his son's reach. D'argo pulled himself up by digging the heel of his free palm into John's eye (much to Crichton's dismay) and managed to wrap his small fingers halfway around his father's the closed fist, hollering with victory.
John tilted his head, freeing his one eye. "Shhh, shh!" He managed to gasp out between laughs, "We'll wake mom."
Through the giggling, and coarse laugher, D'argo miraculously noticed his mother was not only already up, but leaning in the doorway and watching them.
Fears of waking his mother dispelled, D'argo opened his mouth to call out to her, but he was cut short when Aeryn brought a finger up to her lips. D'argo took the hint, though with some mild confusion, and said nothing indicate she presence.
John, pleasantly oblivious to this exchange, pulled D'argo into a bear hug before helping him climb back to his chair. Once situated, D'argo resumed cleaning the pistols, while John did the same.
Aeryn decided it was time to leave her perch and slunk behind John, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. John gave a brief start at the contact. It was odd, that her ability to sneak up on him could be comforting to them both.
John let Aeryn's hand melt into him; and felt the warmth as it jumped from his body to spread though her fingers.
"They were frozen." John explained with surprising brevity as the component he just cleaned slid across the table.
She guessed as much. They had probably already cleaned and polished her armor. Unfortunate. She rather enjoyed performing those activities on her own. A ritual she had developed over the years to help her wind down from battle that served as much as a cleansing of her equipment as it was for her own self. But she understood and appreciated their gesture nonetheless.
"Hey!" Chiana's somewhat curt voice crackled through the comms. "You feks heading down anytime soon? Or am I supposed to do this all myself?"
"We're on our way Pip." John nonchalantly called backed. He turned to the rest of the family. "Shall we?"
It was about this time that D'argo realized he had been sitting down, and very quietly too, for an extraordinarily long time. He whooped his agreement before dashing straight out the door.
One of those rare and beloved laughs escaped Aeryn Sun's lips as she and John watched their son remember his infamous hyperactivity. "Let's."