A/N:Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed. I apologize about the delay between this chapter and last, real life and other stories got in the way. I will continue to update as I can and hope you continue to enjoy.

Two Birds, Two Stones

Chapter 3

Interrogation Tactics

"If you started answering my questions, things would go a lot quicker."

"Not until you answer my question."

He's chained to a metal table in a brand new room with white bumpy walls that are probably soundproof. It kind of looks like a place where the space military meets up for band practice without getting dad mad.

Woke up here with the side of his face pressed into a cold table. The same side of his face that hit the ground at high speed after the zen stones worked their voodoo. His face is sore. It's making him sore. The taste of tin in his mouth and the clanging of his cuff leash against the metallic surface reminds him of utensils scratching up the bottom of his mom's good china that last quiet Christmas before she died. Makes him miss Deke's screams. He misses Deke.

Feels like he's being good copped and bad copped at the same time by an army general who can't make up his mind. When his vision cleared for the second time tonight, the good General Landry introduced himself—he was still wiping the spit away from the corners of his mouth while the General apologized for their curt behaviour—tazed from behind by his own interdimensional Earth neighbors, an olive branch it was not. The exposition continued—the base couldn't have two people looking the same part as two other people—one who's in a position of power—running around. They needed to suss out the situation and blah blah blah—he might have taken a quick five. Still hasn't answered the good General. Not true. He's said several things, but they're the same sentence running on repeat to the tune of chain clanking music and Milli Vanilli lyrics.

"This isn't an interrogation, or a hostage situation." Landry's unchained hands mock him and teepee against the tabletop silently. "We want you to go home. We want you back with your people and our people back here."

So he smiles alluringly to draw the General in and mimics the teepee though it's not quick full steeple and the cuffs are so loud they sound like a dump truck hitting the side of a building. "Where is my wife?"

The good General groans at the question, a little bit of sweat peeking out from his temples and his receding hairline. He sort of looks like the human version of Rygel. How much does he eat? Does he have concubines? God, he wants to see him ride around on a little throne. "Are you hungry at all? Thirsty? Colonel Mitchell isn't the biggest fan of coffee, but I can get someone to bring you a cup."

Leans in on one elbow, slick skin greasing up their nice disinfected table. Everything about him is infectious, the vomit stain, the moist skin, the head wound that's going to open if he lands on his damn face one more time. Sets his jaw, mulling over the decision. Coffee on Earth from a military base is probably as good as coffee from the hospital where they spent all nighters with his mom. "Donde esta mi esposa."

Finally, the bullshit runs dry and the teepee collapses. The General's face looks like it's melting. His does too. Being in the hot seat, an obvious interrogation, makes him sweat a bit. Deke's dried vomit smells sweet and sour being aggravated by his sweat. "I just want to have a conversation about where you're from and what happened before you got here. What do I need to do to get that conversation started?"

"Quid pro quo, Lector. Bring me my wife."

He chuckles in this throat and it bobs like a certain Hynerian's. Small eyes rolling and disappearing into folds of skin. "Son, you have a one-tracked mind."

"Well Dad, you took my family away."

The laughter dies in his throat and his skin ripples when he swallows. Bushy eyebrows droop in seriousness. "We don't have your son."

"Yeah, I believed that before you tazed our asses and separated us into interrogation bunkers." Hasn't been tazed before, at least not with whatever they used—weird snake thing that made a weird non-snake sound. Every sound here is annoying, and he never thought he would wish for their son's deafening screams. Silence isn't silence on Earth.

"It's protocol to question off world visitors separately," The General states matter-of-factly with an empty hand gesture. Like he's being roped into rules that he's written.

"Ah-Ha," shouts and raises his hands to point his accusations, but the chain catches short and he hits himself in the side of his sore face. They have sides of the bed, the smallest bed on Moya—well Deke's space bassinet would be the smallest, but co-sleeping is so exhausting. Can't move off his side, the same sore side. The same punched up jaw from where he smacked his face off the floor resetting a wormhole weapon. "So this is an interrogation."

"No, it's a Q&A session."

"So, she's being questioned in another room?"

"Yes."

"And she's telling you less than I am."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you're interrogating her," he states matter-of-factly copying the empty hand gesture. His dad would tell him not to be a smart ass, respect the authority even if it isn't his Earth's authority. Aeryn would—well she'd be quiet because she's giving him the silent treatment because of the thing they're going through where they need to talk but can't get to it because of more pressing matters.

"She held Colonel Carter at gunpoint—"

"You. Tazed. Us." Slaps his hand against the table with each word. Phantom spasms still clench his muscles every few minutes.

"We have no malicious intent."

"Well, then you'd be the first."

"Stuff like this happen to you two often?"

"More often than not." The dance they do of obsessive to the point of entombment with emotions. The basic desire—the need to touch, and stroke, and taste resulting in shoving away, the fighting then silenced tongues. They separate and rekindle and set ablaze and now they're married and is this going to be happening forever? "She'll leave and I wait and I have to save her but to do that she has to save me after."

"Well, that is not what I meant, but it sounds tiring."

"That's not what's tiring." Woke up with a baby beside him. Their son, and he told him for the first time that Crichton's don't cry which is a lie. He cries all the time. In front of people. Alone. In the shower. The shower is great for fluid reduction that doesn't result in thousands of tiny crying Crichton's in a seven-cycle stasis. "Are we in Australia?"

"United States."

"Somehow I always end up back in Australia." Finding her behind him with a gun trained on him. His hand on her knee for stability. His, she was more solid than when he was a statue. Trusted him. Followed him. Strolled through the rain with open-mouthed awe and he was in love. He is in love. "Look, where's my goddamn wife?"

"You come back to Earth often?" A weird information seeking pickup line in the garage band bar. The subject change instant and distracting like rapid fire questions at the end of trivia shows. "Have family members who can vouch for you?"

"Just my wife if you wanna bring her in here."

"I'm willing to allow a break in protocol to reunite you two because SGC hasn't exactly extended an olive branch to you—"

"You did, you just beat us with it and then tazed our asses."

Ignores the interruption and launches from the table without even shaking it—so he tries to shake it and it doesn't budge. It must be made from pure adamantium. "—However, you need to give me some information about yourself: A full name, and where you came from."

"The first time we came back it was in Australia and they kept asking questions like that."

"Didn't end well?"

"They killed two of our friends but we—I always wondered if that was the night." The rain pounding at the window, the rain still wet on her neck. She was in a full business suit when he woke, maps everywhere and plotting a journey to India. What would it have been like to be on the lam with her. Playing Bonnie to her Clyde, telling her not to shoot every single person they spoke to. Would it have been hard to find a surgeon to release the baby if that had been the night. "It turned out to be a simulation and my friends are still alive—well, one of them is. It still felt so real."

"Not a simulation, Son. You're in America. Colorado."

"You know." Fidgets to get into a comfortable position—the heavy metal chair now digging into the back of his thighs no doubt leaving a red line or two. A blue line or two. When did she know? Really know. Because seven years is a lot of time, and maybe she always knew that it was his and not his all at once. "Normally, I'd say something rebellious like, 'you're not my dad', but I don't think my dad exists on this version of Earth. So you can be my this Earth Dad, I guess. Want to meet your daughter-in-law?"

"I'm sure if he does exist, he'd like to know you're okay."

Time to give a little because he's played banter backswing like Agassi and isn't getting anywhere. If anything is true it's that Aeryn can take care of herself and hold her own, and because of that he needs to be the weakest link and bend to keep things in motion. "We've spent most of our time in the Uncharted Territories."

"Where's that?"

"In the Milky Way and to the left a bit."

"How long were you there for?"

"Spent about a month there after the war to take it easy and deal with the baby." Thought Deke was always hungry—not a Crichton thing, but Rygel did carry him for a quadmester—Grandmama cooked up batches of food they mashed down until they could find a trading post. The money and the danger to grab a Capri Sun pack of the awful smelling crap almost wasn't worth it. He's a hybrid. Doesn't know of he needs the PK vitamins. Doesn't know if he can just have mashed space banana. Doesn't know of he can regulate his own heat because he's red and hot and always in an awful mood for being a fucking baby. "Look, I told you what you wanted to know, I just want to see my wife."

"I need a name."

"I thought it was General Landry." Fighting for her. Always fighting for her even when there's no one to fight. Even when it's her he has to fight for her. Even when he has to fight himself. Did other him ever treat her like this. "Commander John Crichton of IASA. I went up on a wormhole mission in 1999 called the Farscape Project."

"Well, I can honestly say I've never heard of you or your mission."

"Gee, thanks Dad."

A knock at the door interrupts the General's speed walk around the concrete floor. The door opens and a parade of Colonel Carter, the blonde scientist with the biggest eyes he's ever seen, strolls in followed by Aeryn, followed by fived armed guards—with their guns ready at attention. Two of the guards are bruised up and he's never been prouder.

When Carter stops, Aeryn stops and the guards form a semicircle around her, blocking out the doorway and creating one hell of a fire hazard. Carter divulges, "she's speaking an alien dialect, Sir, one I've never heard."

Both she and the General turn his way, eyes squinting with irritation or maybe allergies, or sweat because it's so damn hot in this room. His eyes slam to Aeryn, still in his shirt, still in Calvin's underwear and her body sort of glows under the lights. She's sweating. He worries.

"You might want to go tear Dr. Jackson away from his preparations." Carter nods and breaks through the wave of armed men at the door. The General nods to the soldiers, one steps out of formation to fiddle with Aeryn's handcuffs—ones she could very easily snap in two—another comes and undoes his because he's pathetic and can't move the table. "I'll leave you two alone for a moment."

The General walk to the soldiers—parting them like the red sea—but stops in the light of the open doorway. "These men and three more will be posted outside this door. We've just started building a rapport, becoming violent would be an awful setback to a peaceful alliance."

He rubs his raw wrists, he did try to break the cuffs—knew Aeryn would, and that's why he had to Bonnie. He has to take a backseat and be the platonic explainer. The off-planet orator. "Don't be calling the kettle black now."

His comment goes ignored, of course, and the door slams shut. Heavy clunking echoes as it's bolted in place. So, if they do break out and into the royal rumble in the hallway from the hell in the cell, it should prove to get him nice and tired.

Sways on his feet a bit while meeting her on the other side of the table. She's rubbing her wrists as well, her cuffs tighter because she obviously broke out of the first set. Red and a little raw, nothing too serious. His fingers trace over the where the soft skin becomes blistered. Her heat is obvious. "You okay?"

Aeryn wrenches her arm away so fast he thinks he touched a soft spot, or maybe his body heat is agitating hers. He takes a step back. "No Crichton, I don't know where my son is."

She bursts by him, away from the door and the mirror on the wall that's not fooling anyone. False anger to create a private situation where lips and words can't be interpreted. Or real anger and he's going to get hit in the side of the head again. "No, we know he's on Moya. We don't know where Moya is." He pads after her, loyal as ever, and adds, "Also friendly reminder—he is our son. Your son. My son. Your son. My son. Our son, Aeryn."

"Then start acting like it." Loud over his impression—the impression of a man who hasn't left his room in over almost a month because pinhead priests don't know how to keep the peace. Her words are loud. He sees them. Floating in the air, heavy like cartoon anvils. Bolded and underlined and italicized to for emphasis. So heavy they suck the air from his lungs from their gravitational pull and he can't answer her because other him probably wouldn't do this. "Do you even care?"

In the littlest of broken down squeaks he's able to answer while memorizing the concrete swirls in the floor. "Of course I care."

She's perched on the table now. Soundless and light. Legs sticking to the surface, skin glistening and reddening under her eyes, her tired eyes, the eyes that he made tired "You seem to have regrets."

And she thinks he doesn't want this—well of course he doesn't want this, he doesn't know where the hell they are, and he wants it to be cooler and her to be happier and not tired and just content and in his arms like the briefest of moments after an Australian cloudburst seasoned her skin. "I don't have regrets, it's just—" Plops beside her, the very image of a drunken bear, his ass hits the metal with a thunk and his leg jostles into hers, peeling the skin away to reveal more redness. "Everything happened fast, I need time to adjust."

"You adjusted to living in space quiet easily." Should be talking about more pressing matters, how many soldiers she thinks she can take out, so he knows how many he has to, what they're going to tell the General if they can't break out of here. If she has any idea at all how to get home. But sometimes less pressing stuff is just more pressing. Sometimes sitting with his wife in an interrogation room—that has definitely not been the place of an alien murder or autopsy—and talking about how their lives have changed since getting married and having a baby and stopping an intergalactic war is more pressing.

Sometimes watching the way her eyelashes fan and her teeth tap just before biting her lower lip, like the words she exhaled might hurt him because he taught her compassion—he didn't other him did—is always more important. "No, I didn't. I'm still adjusting."

Talking forward like they always do, giving the wizard behind the curtain—plump General behind a mirror—a good old show. "Do you assume it was easy for me?"

Wants to touch her. Needs to, jostle her again with his leg, or lean shoulder to shoulder, or ensnare her hand with his. Check to see how hot she is. Ask her short-term memory questions. "No, I know it was a hell of a lot harder for you, but you're stronger than me."

"I never wanted children."

"Okay, well, I think this conversation is a few weeks too late." His hand floats back to his lap cupping over the sweats on his knee. The notion in his head that touching her will make her hotter—not just temperature wise—cause an infinite loop of tiny Crichton spores kept in her Schrodinger's uterus.

Faces him straight, and he could trace the lines under her eyes with his fingers, taste the salt of her skin. "I never wanted children because they would be taken from me by the Peacekeepers and raised how I was. Then Scarrans wanted my baby and I had to fight for my life and a life that wasn't my own." She turns away from him again, eyes glassy but strong and narrowing as she adds, "and I did that for you."

"For me?"

"Because I knew how badly you wanted the baby, how important family is to you. I couldn't deny you your family."

"You—" He has to pause and think it through. Think through why she left Moya in her prowler without him if she was aware of the pregnancy. To release the baby, or to release the baby. "You didn't want our son?"

"He was never unwanted, just under appreciated by me." Her grin grows like the sun over Kansas fields, and her eyes light up and he's happy she's happy. "But when I saw him I knew I loved him and needed to protect him, so he didn't end up like me." Smile clouds over and everything returns to darkness. A single tear shudders from her eye. "And now I cannot do that John. I can't do that."

"Come here." Drapes an arm around her shoulders and is surprised when she doesn't immediately shrug it off or tear it from his body. She's burning up, and his calm expression washes from his face in the realization of the danger. "He's on Moya with Pilot and Chiana and Granny." Swallows hard and works double time to keep the panic from blurring his eyes. "They'll take care of him, they'll keep him safe for us because he's their family too."

"I hate this," mumbles into his shoulder, the black cotton sticking to both their skin.

"I know." His hand falls to her hip and he gives a small squeeze for reassurance, his and hers. Mostly his. She's too hot.

"No, being emotional." Finally, she pulls away with a large snuffle. Too hot to embrace—too dangerous. Kicks up the anxiety in his belly, the one that makes it so hard to sleep. The one where all the baddies in Arkham Asylum are vying to get revenge on him through his wife and son.

"Honey, you just had a baby. You just need time to adjust." Always forgets she did all the work. All of it, released the baby herself, stayed alive during torture he's never asked about because he thinks even if she sugar-coats it he'll cry—like a baby—with their son.

"That's the problem, John. I've already adjusted." He was moral support sure, but he also had a war to win and a wormhole to birth, does she ever take into account what he had to do to—No Deke's birth was definitely worse, he never tried to cut the wormhole out with a knife. It never got stuck breech in his frontal lobe.

"It's a big change being responsible for—"

"You were always responsible for us, and us for you. I don't think that's what's bothering you."

"Then what is?"

Her lips are starting to chap, and they pull tightly against her features as she speaks words she doesn't want to. Just as he's the scapegoat—the Curly always butterfingering their interrogations or interactions up to keep operations running smoothly—her sacrifice comes in being throat cuttingly honest even when she doesn't want to be. "The permanence of it."

Face down again. Face down and the air is humid from his nostrils to his face. The bridge of his nose hurts, but not enough to be broken. Does another push up, expects some blood, but there is none. Broke his nose before and doesn't want to fill out an incident report saying the cause of his broken nose was a just nasty fall.

His eyes dart around to focus on a baby crying and the phantom movements of someone rocking the kid. A voice, not Vala's accent, hits the air with small bursts like a songbird cheep. "Shush up little gnarl, your parents are just being a little fahrbot right now."

"I can hear her." Vala scrambles up beside him. Her shoulder knocks him arm out from under him and he half collapses.

"So can I," he mutters rubbing his nose, then his elbow.

She crouches and leans in, one of her pigtails rests on his shoulder and she whispers loud enough that the baby can probably understand her. "I meant understand her."

"Obviously."

"What the biznak's gotten into you two." The alien tilts her head, swiveling it forward as he pulls himself up using the unsteady table. Her cat eyes blink twice. Her voice, the words she chooses, she sounds much younger than he'd anticipated. "I—I mean the loud arguing is nothing, but whatever you did blew out your translator microbes which I never heard of happening."

"Okay, look." Takes a step forward, a diverting tactic. Draw attention to himself to protect his teammates. In less dangerous situation, the background teammate might even be able to scurry away using the distraction of the conversation. "We have no idea who you are or where we are."

Vala didn't get that memo, or the training. Or any basic understanding of tactics in a potentially dangerous situation. Instead she falls to conversation and flattery powered purely by luck. Her luck has the potential to overpower them all. As a team they agreed to never tell her about lottery tickets. "Not true we're on a ship—"

Slides a hand out at her side, halting her from making further contact or conversation with the alien. "Not helping."

The baby hiccups and the alien purrs at him, rocking him in the cradle of her arm. She plasters a nervous smile to her face—white teeth, pink gums, and silver lips. He's never seen anything that looks remotely like her before, except for maybe a slinky barn tabby he had as a kid. "Stop kidding around. We're still on Moya."

"What is Moya."

Her grin falls to the floor and the baby abruptly starts to choke back into crying. She moves forward, her head angling the opposite direction, Vala follows suit. He rolls his eyes. "Pilot did we go through any anomalies, cosmic magnetism, space dust, weird light? Anything like that?"

Not quite sure if she's speaking with him, or Vala, or a third party. Then on a device that resembles a clam, a picture of an alien—which also looks like a clam—joins their conversation. "No Chiana, Moya hasn't flown by anything like that in several solar days, why?"

He and Vala stand still, mouths still agape, her head still slanted, and both their eyebrows hit the roof. Glances towards her to gauge her reaction, after all she is the alien, and she just pulls her lips tight, nodding with the widest eyes he's ever seen.

"Aeryn and John are acting really weird." The alien's attention falls back on them, and he clamps a hand on Vala's wrist to get her to stop bobbing around. It's like she has her own gravity. Hell, maybe she does.

"I can analyze their physical data and see if I can verify—"

"What?" Hard to hear now because the baby hollers, his mouth gummy and opened. The alien—Chiana?—she places the kid back down on the table, unwrapping his blanket. The whiff of a very ripe baby enters the air and he groans. When the clam alien doesn't continue Chiana glances up from swaddling the kid. "Verify what?"

"Chiana," There's a long pause. Maybe their communication cut out. Maybe they did go through an anomaly and this whole thing isn't directly his fault for allowing the communication device back into SGC. "That is not John or Aeryn."

Chiana pivots with her whole body. The perfect basketball block. Ends up in the doorway. Eyes blinking wild and unfocused. "So who the frell are you then?"

"We're from Earth." Shows the palms of his hands to prove he's not a threat. "We work with the military using stargates."

"What the frell's a stargate?" Her head cranks to the side.

"It's a wormhole that—"

"Does every Crichton obsess over wormholes?"

"I'm sorry." Vala takes a step forward. When she tries to take another he tightens his grip on her wrist. She tugs once, and with an irritated sigh, continues, "but what's frell? What's a Crichton?"

"Frell, is, well," Chiana pauses, then with a grin and a shrug adds, "frell."

"Helpful."

"And Crichton is you." A gray finger directs to him this time. It circles in the air like any other of her appendages.

"We're Crichton?" Vala gestures with her hands between their bodies, then sends a flashy grin and nod to Chiana.

"No," Chiana shakes her head and Vala's grin falters. "He's Crichton."

Vala squints her eyes trying to decipher the language already deciphered for them by whatever they were injected with. His foot still aches like he stepped on a wasp. "So Crichton means man."

"No." Again Chiana shakes her head, and the kid is oddly quiet now, like himself, as they watch the exchange. "Man means man."

"Wonderful." Vala is all teeth and claps again even though she's been told information she's already knew. At this point Jackson would have escorted her back to the device and continued his conversation for more information. He, however, finds it slightly amusing because both women don't show any sign of irritation. Calmly trying to bypass what left of the language barrier with patience and grins. "what does Crichton mean?"

"Oh my God," he chuckles at her. Not entirely at her, more like at her tenacity, her inability to not stop poking the bear.

"Crichton is his name."

"No, he's Cameron."

"Well he looks like Crichton. Does he get grouchy quickly?" Vala and Chiana stand beside each other, like old friends meeting up in a coffee shop. The rapid-fire dialogue gives way to nodding and pensive looks before answers.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Vala touches her chest with one hand in a gesture of gratitude and Chiana's arm with her other. Jackson would hate this.

"Enough."

"Enough with you." Chiana tries to shoo him away even though his interruption isn't more than him situating himself back in the conversation.

Vala hugs herself to his arm and he fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Cameron isn't bad at all, he's very helpful and quite a gentleman. His mother also makes excellent pies." Her words leave him speechless for a moment. Usually, they carry a heavy tone of mockery, but her voice is very genuine and he cracks a grin at her making hers grow.

"Then who are you? You're supposed to be Aeryn."

"I'm Aeryn?"

"She's Vala." He introduces her and with her arms still wrapped around his and it reminds him of his high school reunion. He still has a picture of them with a bee and the worst smiles he's ever seen tucked away somewhere in his dorm.

"Vala." Chiana says the name again and then nods with approval. "Yeah you're way too happy to be Aeryn and your hair is cuter."

"Chiana, do you know what happened?"

"Frell if I know."

"Oh" Vala jumps making him jump slightly in surprise. The horseshoe crabs are still scurrying around the floor. Maybe they jabbed her with something else. They remind him of replicators. He hates replicators. "Frell means fuck."

Pats her arm in appreciation. "I got that."

"Hey, I did see that weird hookah light up though."

"The weird—"

"Ha." Vala slaps him in the chest and spins around back to the device. "See, I told you."

Guilt pricks at his stomach. She did warn him, and he assumed it was going to be a normal transfer. Up at 0600 to watch soldiers load the thing into a transport. Sign and stamp the papers and finish out the day. For his early morning sacrifice, he was going to get the next day off, and he had plans. Amy was flying in. "So much for not saying the actual words."

"What?" Chiana joins them soundlessly approaching from behind and shoves her head in the space between theirs to stare at the device. He gets a good second scare.

"This device," he begins but notices the kid is finally asleep in her arms. He lowers his voice to a whisper, "transfers consciousness from one body to another throughout galaxies"

"But we have our own bodies," Vala reminds both completely unhelpful and helpful at the same time. What caused them to teleport instead of transferring? The docs back at Cheyenne Mountain have hopefully realized about the switch—or disappearance—by now. Jackson and Carter working together should have this thing cracked by noon.

"Who else is on this ship?" Chiana's eyes flicker and she lurches on her feet, shoulders flying up in defense. Vala smacks him in the shoulder with the back of her hand and he clears his throat as he clarifies, "I just want to know if anyone else can help us."

Chiana's mouth skews to the side as she processes his question, "well there's me, Deke, Stark, Pilot, the old woman, and Moya."

"Oh, I want to meet the old woman first."

Again, silences Vala with a tug on her wrist and her enthusiasm disappears from her face. "I thought you said Moya was the ship."

"She is."

"So she's a person? Has an avatar?"

"No, but she's alive."

"We're inside a ship that's alive."

Vala grasps his wrist now, effectively killing off his next question. "Are we to be digested?"

"No." Chiana laughs and the baby gurgles. She sways him again and turns her eyes towards the ceiling and then the walls. "Moya's a ship, she's always happy to have passengers on board."

"Chiana," The clam lights up again showing the same shell alien, but it doesn't have the same peaceful tone as before, and its eyes squint as it speaks to her. "Moya wishes the trespassers be brought to my den immediately for examination."