Red Letter Day

As usual, Aeryn found herself waking up just moments before the baby began to cry. It was all right, now; she could force herself to get up, walk over to the crib, comfort her son, sit back on the bed and begin to feed him. In the early days she would wake, hearing the noise, and forget that the child was hers. Soldier mode would take over; she'd grab for her pistol and leap out of bed, crouching on the floor and looking for a safe exit.

John got into the habit of putting her pistol out of reach while she slept.

But it was all right now. That sound, that note in her child's voice meant milk; her breasts would ache, and she'd get up and settle him gently to feed. He'd snuffle and whimper and his tiny fists would wave about urgently, while he buried his face into her breast. She remembered the first time she saw that; she looked up at John and said dryly, "He's your son."

And John had been so proud that he hadn't even laughed.

He was asleep beside her; he hadn't even heard little D's cry. She watched him curiously in the faint light from the stars outside. He was terribly tired. They were so busy now, rushing from one part of the galaxy to the other with the Eidolons, trying to facilitate peace so that their child would never know war. Talking, explaining, landing on strange planets and being met with gunfire and suspicion. He'd been away the last week, and he'd just arrived back last night. Deep lines were etched on his face; he was filthy, and he had an infected cut on his arm. Only enough time to wash, and kiss the baby, before rolling into bed and collapsing into sleep.

Until little D was weaned, that was the way it had to be; after that, it would be slightly easier. But until then, she was sitting up alone at nights, talking softly to her child, joggling him when he stopped feeding and looked up at her with wide, wide eyes.

He'd stopped now, and she lifted him onto her shoulder and patted him gently, while she walked around the room. It was a simple routine, but in that first week it had been terrifying. She hadn't known how to position him to feed, or to get rid of the wind that made him cry, or even how to comfort him properly. She hadn't known how to wash him or take care of the tiny stump of his umbilical cord. She remembered while giving birth she'd cried out to John how frelling helpless she'd felt; but in those first few weeks she'd felt even worse. But between the two of them, they'd sorted something out. And now baby D was a sturdy, happy, smiling six-month old boy.

She sat back down and put him to feed on the other breast. Once peace had been declared, she'd gone onto the Peacekeeper command carrier and had got herself and the baby checked out by the medicos there. They'd given him all the necessary immunisations, given her something to replace some minerals she'd lost during the birthing process, and had handed her a list of child expectations. She remembered reading them out to John, and how he'd laughed, and told her to throw it away. "Human babies won't do that at that age; human babies can't do that, at any age; that won't work, either. Oh, I know what they are – we call them milestones. But forget them. Baby D won't meet any Peacekeeper 'expectations'."

"Mile Stones," she repeated in the dark. He'd explained that in the old days, when you went on a long journey, there were sometimes stones set beside the road which marked the miles you'd travelled. It didn't matter how slowly you took the journey; you'd still pass those stones, at some time or another. "Milestones," she repeated. She liked the sound of the word.

Remembering that, she picked up John's journal which he'd tossed from his pack onto the floor, the previous night. She flicked through it, trying to find words that she recognised. He seemed to like her revisiting some part of his life and demanding fuller explanations of the things he'd written. He sometimes laughed and she didn't understand why; but when he was sad she usually knew the reason.

There. She stopped at a page towards the front, where there was writing in big, bold, clear letters that were easy for her to read.

Red Letter Day

She frowned. She understood red, the colour; she understood letter; and she understood day. But the words put together didn't make any sense. She murmured them out loud; sometimes that made it clearer, especially if it was a phrase John often used. But this time it didn't help. She looked down further.

Aeryn is ticklish!

"Tick – lis", she read out, then shook her head. John had told her there was a rule when s and h came together. Was it a glottal stop? No – he said they didn't have those in his language. Perhaps it was the "ch" sound. She murmured it again. "Tick-lich". It still sounded unfamiliar.

Was it a positive thing? It had been early days, after all. Red could mean angry, she thought she remembered; perhaps he was angry and "ticklish" was an insult term. She'd often been angry with him in those early days, although she admitted that part of her frustration had been the tension between her attraction for him and her difficulty accepting it. Perhaps "ticklish" meant attractive. She seemed to recall that "tick" was a symbol that John used to express approval.

The baby had fallen asleep at her breast. She lifted him up gently and placed him back in his cot. Fastening her shirt, she settled back into bed beside John, wondering whether she'd be able to get a few more hours of sleep herself.

"Hey, baby; is it morning?"

Aeryn turned to see John's eyes flickering open. "Not yet. Go back to sleep – the baby just needed to - drink milk."

He smiled a little at her last English words, and opened his eyes, blinking and rubbing them. "I can sleep anytime. We're travelling to the Ruhij sector; it's going to take at least a weeken, Pilot says."

Aeryn brushed his hair back from his eyes. "I am glad to hear that. Your son has missed you. He doesn't laugh as loudly when you're not here."

"I missed him. And you." John raised himself on one elbow. "We did what we had to, though, and it turned out good. The Luxans are all in, every planetry system."

"I'm proud of you," Aeryn told him. "But I am still glad to hear we have a weeken."

"Me, too." He pulled her closer, settling her within his arms, stroking her hair. "What's my son been up to, anyway?"

"He is eating from a spoon," she informed him. "He spat mashed jitos all over Noranti."

John laughed out loud, and then stopped as Aeryn shushed him. "John, there's something I need to ask you."

He frowned, concerned. "What is it, honey? Is something wrong?"

"No. John, what is . . . tick-lich?"

"Tick-lich?" he repeated. "I don't know – is it some kind of baby illness?"

"No, no," she said impatiently. "It was in your book. You said I was tick-lich."

"I did?"

"Yes, and up above that it said . . . Red. Letter. Day. Were you angry with me? Or did it mean that –"

"Ohh!" John began to laugh again, and Aeryn quickly put her hand over his mouth. "Ticklish! Oh, that was definitely a red letter day." He sat himself up, grinning. "A red letter day means a really good day. A really, really good day."

"Why?"

"'Cause in the old days, the calendars printed special days in red ink . . . but that's not important. Come here, baby. I want to remind you about that particular day." He pulled her up to face him, cross-legged, on the bed. "It was about the time when . . . let me think. It was about the time when Moya split into different dimensions. Remember?"

"Yes." The first time he'd called her 'baby', she recalled; but she didn't tell him that. And she didn't mention that she'd been annoyed afterwards that he didn't say it again.

"For some reason, we got into an argument after that, about using brain versus brawn; you were saying the only reason I used my brain to get us out of the situation was because I wasn't tough enough." John grinned. "So we went down to the cargo bay to do a bit of training."

She'd been pissed-off at him, that's what he remembered. She wouldn't tell him why, and instead had mocked him about being a tech and not tough enough to take on a soldier. That had annoyed him, so he'd agreed when she offered to teach him a few moves, because he'd thought he would show her he wasn't as pathetic as she thought. Which, when he thought about it now, showed that he was pathetic, because Aeryn was a far better fighter, and would've wiped his ass all over the floor if he hadn't discovered something about her.

She'd showed him some move which was calculated to land him crashing on the floor, time after time after time. He'd got sick of that after a bit, and grabbed her, and brought her down crashing onto the floor after him. And then, when he'd started to get up and had sort of accidentally put his hand on her hip, he noticed her squirm a little.

He had sisters; he knew what that meant. He did it again, and this time, to his delight, she giggled, nearly. "Oh-ho, Aeryn, now I've found your weak spot," he'd muttered, and he'd tried to tickle her again. But then she picked herself up and threw him down onto the floor again. It hurt; it made him angry, so the next time she tried it, he brought her down with him and tickled her again. She wasn't expecting it, and she wriggled back, laughing. "Don't!"

"Don't?" he'd repeated. "What, you can handle a wrestle but you can't handle this?" He'd put on a straight face. "See, on Earth, you have to be able to withstand tickling, or there's no way you can rise up through the ranks."

Even back then she'd doubted him; but she was so worried that he wouldn't think she was tough enough that she didn't dare give up. "I can withstand it," she assured him. "It's nothing." She stood there, as stiff as though she were facing a firing squad, and squeezed her eyes shut. "Do it."

It had been kind of off-putting, but also kind of funny. He'd waited a moment, watching her body tense up; and then, when he put his hand on her hip, she'd shivered. He'd shivered, too; and he'd almost wanted to forget the tickling and start torturing her in a whole new way.

"But then," he finished, facing Aeryn on the bed, "frelling Pip stalked in, complaining about something Rygel had done, and you fled the scene."

A tiny smile began to grow on Aeryn's face. "I remember that. And I knew it was dren about your military and tickling. I just wanted you to touch me again."

"Like this?" John offered, putting his hand just above her hip. She wriggled, and grabbed his hands. "John . . ." she began warningly.

"Or like this?" he suggested, moving his fingers just under her ribs until she began to squirm and laugh. "Shh – baby's sleeping!"

"Or was it like this . . ." He pushed her gently back onto the pillows and moved over her, while she waited, grinning. He pressed his lips to that spot above her left hip, and she grabbed onto his shoulder, gasping. "Actually . .."

"That wasn't what you had it mind?" He moved across, trailing kisses over her belly. "You weren't thinking of . . . this, for example?" He pushed down the elastic of her sleeping-shorts and found another way to make her gasp. "Honey, baby's sleeping," he teased. "If you can't be quiet . .."

"I can be quiet," she promised, "that is, if you can." She remembered this tickling thing. She remembered he had his own sensitive places. Now it was his turn to squirm and laugh, with her hand over his mouth; now it was his turn to gasp out her name. "John, you'll wake the baby," she warned him. "You really need to learn to be quiet."

He pulled her up, face to face. "Maybe this is the best way to silence us both," he suggested, and then kissed her, sucking gently on her lower lip, tasting her warm tongue, their mouths moving around one another, hands clasped, bodies pressed close. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, and he entered her that way, muffling their cries in one another's mouth, kissing madly, moving together until finally he rolled her over, pushing her back against the pillows, pounding himself into her while watching her face, biting her lips in an effort to be quiet, before finally giving up and crying out his name, again, again, again. He followed her only moments later, except that he muffled his shouts against the palm of her hand.

The room was silent after that; both sets of ears straining for the sound of a disturbed baby. But there was nothing.

"Aeryn, honey – you have a wonderful son," John told her finally, raising himself up on an elbow. "One day I'm going to give him a present and he won't know why."

"Well, you know, I've been training him; whenever he falls asleep, I start shouting your name. He's learned to get used to it," she told him dryly.

"Hmm. I'll have to start doing the same with your name," John said admiringly. "Maybe with 'frell', too, just for variation."

"What about 'ticklish?" Aeryn suggested, her hand moving to his ribs. "That's a good word. Quiet, John! That's really a very good word . . ."