Two Birds, Two Stones
Chapter 14
A Sprinkle of Time
"How did it happen?"
She stands solemnly, her son flush against her chest, quiet as if such a little mind could comprehend the gravity of the location, of the situation, of a member of his family laid out on a bed before them. The gentle raise and fall of his chest grounding her as she stares at Chiana, unmoving, her neck bandage tinged with bits of her blue blood.
"I—honestly—I don't know."
Colonel Mitchell, stands behind her, leaning in Moya's ovular door. Parts of him are like Crichton, though he is not complete. There is joking, and compassion, and a near overdose of what her husband calls 'Southern hospitality' in being overly accommodating to each of her moves, answering each of her questions to the best of his knowledge, allowing her room to move, privacy with her son.
But she can sense a fellow soldier, a fellow pilot at that, and it's dangerous to know that however far removed he is, that his loyalty still rests with Stargate Command, whose job is simply to go forth in the galaxy and colonize.
Her fingers play through Chiana's hair, setting her part straight, wishing she could talk to the girl, to relax in all her questions about the other world, to find solace in a familiar face and sound, in not talking about the second division of a cell pulsating a galaxy away. Talk about how these people are treating those on Moya, how well they care for her son, put her fears to rest because this exchange is temporary—she can feel it, the tingling feeling circulating over her skin slowly diminishing, as is her time with loved ones.
"How do you not know?"
"I got shot, and—Vala tried to—it was a real mess. I had to frag one of the guns to get away." He speaks into the knuckles of his hand, his voice terse, heavy. "How's your side feel?"
"Like your shoulder does." Her friend is pale, gray skin pallid under the lights, the lamps that John lay under for over a weeken. "Who attacked you?"
"I don't know."
"How can you not—" She pivots on the spot, her free hand dropping from Chiana's unconscious body, to support her son. He fusses against the side of her neck, and she inhales deeply, tempering her voice.
Colonel Mitchell patiently waits, part of his Southern hospitality, and when her pause is no longer caused by an outburst he responds, "I'm not from your galaxy, I have no idea what the hell has been going on here, except the cliff notes Chiana sometimes feeds me."
Briefly turning back to Chiana, she whispers a Sebacean coda for good health, while holding her hand. Wishes she could stay, be present for her awakening, but she needs to examine the device, see if there's any difference, something that can allow them to piece together a way home.
"Can you describe them?"
The colonel trails her out the door, keeping a respectable distance, until she slows her stride to allow him to step into place beside her.
"Four of them. Looked human. In red leather, sort of like one of the vests in the clothing pile—"
"—the clothing pile?"
"It's a long story."
"Sebacean, Peacekeeper. Marauder most likely. Can you describe any of them individually?" When the colonel gives her a questioning glance, she clarifies, "I'm afraid Crichton is very good at collecting enemies."
"The leader had a real burnt up face. It looked like a side of Canadian bacon."
"I don't know what that is."
"It was really scarred, one of his eyes might have been gone." He points to her son, whose mouth stretches slanted across his face as he hiccups once. "Deke had more hair than him."
They cross through another hallway, traveling from the medical unit up to command and she wishes anyone of use was conscious. Noranti apparently went to rest after healing Chiana, and the colonel hasn't mentioned anything of Stark.
"Does it help at all?"
"Well, we know that Grayza has either revoked her portion of the peace treaty, or there's a rebel marauder unit who has a vendetta against us." She steps over a DRD as it zips by her path, not really thinking, just feeling the static scaling over her skin lessen.
"Either one of those likely?"
When they stop at command, as she juggles Deke, the colonel leans over swiping his hand over the switch to open the door. Then just as quickly, returns his hands to clasp behind his back, allowing her through first.
"Both of those are likely." It's said absently to him as in the jolt of the transfer, in the pain eating away at her side, the shock of viewing Chiana, and the ecstasy in holding her son, she forgot about her best confidant. "Pilot?"
"Yes, Ms. Mal Doran?"
"No, Pilot, it's Aeryn."
There's a brief pause before Pilot materializes on the clamshell communicator to their left. His eyes narrowing, judging, trying to discern her words. "I'm sorry, but my physical scan still reads a non-Earth originating human."
"We've switched." Steps delicately closer to the communicator, reaching a hand out to touch the hologram, watching it fizzle at her fingertips and straighten in her wake. "Please believe me, Pilot, as I don't have much time here left."
From her periphery, she notices the colonel's eyes grow wide with her emission, but he allows her the grace of having her conversation with Pilot. "The men who attacked us—who attacked Chiana and our counterparts on Valdun, they were Peacekeeper, most likely marauders."
Pilot nods in understanding, one of his hands coming up in the hologram, and she wonders if he's doing the same. "I will do periodic scans of the space around us, Officer Sun. If there is a marauder ship approaching us, Moya and I will be aware of their presence before they are of ours."
"Please, Pilot." She exhales, refusing to shed her tears on her lightly slumbering son. "Protect our family while we're gone."
"You have my word, Officer Sun, that I will do my very best."
"Thank you." She nods and watches the hologram disintegrate from the clamshell.
They're defenseless. An unconscious Nebari, an old woman, a man who apparently still has not left his quarters, a ship not equipped with offensive measures, an immovable Pilot, and a baby. "Tell me." She turns her attention back to the colonel, snuffing her emotions and instead focusing on how she can help. "Are you good at combat?"
"I'm an ex-air force pilot, near perfect marksmanship skills, and Teal'c been training me in hand-to-hand for the last two years."
With another inhalation, the emotions have almost subsided. She feels them more often now, in swarms and hoards, just an overabundance of sadness, longing, fear—emotions she's been trained since birth to ignore.
"And her?" She nods down at her borrowed body, pausing to caress the side of her son's face.
"Well, I've never sparred with her, but she can kick some butt if she wants to. Has great aim. Has flown almost every alien ship. She's a fast thinker—she's gotten us out of some major jams before." A grin grows on his face, similar to the one Deke gave her earlier, almost wistful in nature. "She's got a horseshoe up her ass."
"Even with the microbes, I doubt that—"
"She's really lucky—just—" he produces the same grin again "—naturally lucky."
There another rush of emotion, because she recognizes the grin now—not wistful, but calming, what John calls 'puppy-dog eyes' which the microbes translated to innate adoration. Despite holding her son, she misses her husband, and she doesn't comprehend why it's so frelling hard to just have both. She clears her throat, turning back to the device, standing solitary on the precarious table, the one that hasn't stood strong since Chiana pierced the Qualta blade through the top.
"You've got a stone."
"Yeah. Vala, must've stolen it during the shootout." He steps closer, moving to the opposite side of the table from her. In a very gentle voice, a voice that isn't fair because he looks and sounds like Crichton, who should be here—he should be here—the colonel asks, "what did you mean when you said you didn't have long?"
"I can feel the energy used to switch my being into this body waning."
Deke stirs in her arms, his small face growing sour, his skin turning red as the first cry bursts from his mouth followed by the continual stream she's accustomed to. She doesn't know how these humans managed to satiate him so well, to calm him into what seems to be a trusting nature.
She tries to soothe him, bring him to her shoulder and rock or bounce while whispering comforting words in Sebacean, but his wails only increase in volume, his tiny hands balled into fists.
She doesn't know what her son wants, and for a brief moment, the fear creeps in, that perhaps he misses the other woman.
"Here." Colonel Mitchell sets a Peacekeeper infant food pouch down on the table, before jamming in the nursing apparatus. Bits of the green goop leak from the side, but he hands the pouch to her. "He's probably hungry."
"How—" Confused, angered, ashamed, she accepts the pouch and slips the puckered end into Deke's mouth, stunned briefly into silence as her son immediately accepts his meal. The wails cease and there's only the sound of him greedily suckling. One of his hands raises, his fingers skimming her own. "Why didn't I know?"
"Hey, you're all turned around from shooting galaxy to galaxy." The colonel approaches her now, moving slowly, but closer. "You're in a body that's not your own, dealing with injuries and functions that aren't your own. Hell, you were probably so relieved to see the kid that you didn't realize what time it was."
It's placation at it's very basis, but somehow coming from a man who resembles her husband, but is not her husband, in this situation, at this time, she finds solace in his words. In his kindness as he smiles at her.
"While we're sorting out this situation, I promise, we'll take care of the little guy." He stands beside her now, not towards her, but staring at the device along with her, the single stone glowing a light blue. "That means protecting him from burnt faced men too."
She swallows, the energy streaking over her skin is almost depleted and she knows she has less then microts remaining. "Thank you, Colonel Mitchell."
"My pleasure." He scratches at the back of his head, his eyes still not meeting hers as the blue of the stone drops in brightness. "Hey, I know we got to sort this whole stone thing out, but is everyone back home okay?"
"Everyone seems normal." Deke's mouth slowly loses suction and strength, the Peacekeeper formula beginning to leak from the side of his mouth as his eyes drift closed. She takes her thumb, pulling the hem of her shirt around it, and wipes at the corner of her son's mouth. He is at peace, and content. "The doctor, the bespectacled one, stares at me which John doesn't appreciate."
The colonel chuckles, his grin meeting his eyes. "He probably still thinks you're Vala trying to pull a fast one over on him."
Doesn't comprehend his answer, because the energy has ebbed from her body, almost depleted. Lifting her napping son to her shoulder, she places a gentle kiss on the side of his face and runs her fingers over the soft hair on his head. His lips bumble, and she knows it's time.
"Would you mind holding him for a second?"
Voluntarily releasing her son into the care of someone else, into the care of a practical stranger, burns her heart. She gave up everything to guarantee the safety of a child she was hesitant to admit existed for over a year, whom she went through hell to keep alive, and now all of her sacrifice has resulted in her depending on the competence of two unfamiliar humans.
She will be back in that frelling mountain where the temperature makes her nauseous upon waking, and be tethered to that room, where she needs to take frequent ice baths in order not to succumb to heat delirium. She must rely on her husband, whom they keep dispatching, to let her know when the temperature has become too much for her and relieve her with bags of ice or direct her to the shower. She is no longer the strong solider she was bred to be, her military knowledge is no longer sought after, instead she is domesticated, and it infuriates her.
Would infuriate her greater, if the resolution wasn't returning here permanently and falling asleep with her beautiful child tucked at her breast.
She touches his cheek one last time, skin so incredibly soft, skin she created within her, a feat she never thought she would experience, and she knows she will see her son again. That it doesn't matter if he doesn't miss her because she will miss him enough for two beings.
"I love you."
She falls unconscious, transferring back after the last word, her timing, for once, is perfect.
"Why do you people always insist on videotaping me?"
She stares into the dead eye of the lens of a rather large recording device, her hands pasting with sweat against the metallic tabletop, the set up is very reminiscent of when she commandeered Daniel's body to warn them about the Ori. Each time she was working with limited accessibility, and each time they insisted on taking half an hour to set up lights and a camera.
"You wouldn't even let me go freshen up before you did. You wouldn't even let me go get food."
This transfer has been the most difficult of all four. She's in Officer Sun's body, which while resembling her own, doesn't feel the same. There's a tightness in the muscles in her arms and legs, a stiffness in her lower back that's familiar from overworking the farming fields when she was younger. She has a horrible hunger, one so ravenous, she's almost lightheaded, and a thin layer of sweat has been on the back of her neck since she got dressed which the lights only work to intensify.
There is also an omnipresent heat. A heat which is definitely palpable.
Perhaps most noticeable over all her discomforts is the pinch of something in her pelvis. Not exactly the cramping she was experiencing, more like something tight, and stuck in place. Something she can't shake loose.
"Vala, stop fidgeting." Daniel chides, resetting the camera, aiming the lens directly at her and she swallows harshly.
"I'm really hungry," but even as she says it, her stomach does flip flops, souring her expression.
"Okay, hold the phone." Crichton steps in front of the camera, the monitors at the side only broadcasting the black from his t-shirt. He's stacking his hands together to look like a 'T'. "You can videotape her testimonial after she's eaten."
"It's—"
"No," his voice is stern, but tapers off as he adds, "it's not."
Daniel throws his hand over his face, an idiosyncrasy he usually saves for her, when her irking becomes too much to handle, and sends her from the room to 'bug' someone else. "It's answering a few simple questions, Crichton."
"That's Aeryn's body, and your teammate, who I'm willing to guess has never inhabited a Sebacean before." He points back at her, while continuing to argue with Daniel. "She hungry, she's going to get heat—"
Daniel rips his hand away from his face, it going as red as the splotches on her bare legs, itchy patches of skin hot to the touch. "It's less than ten questions."
She holds her head in her hand, the room growing very tight, stocked with each individual's breathes, their body heat, their perspiration, the heat curls at the bottom of the wall, inching upwards, growing towards her.
"Just ask your stupid questions already." Huffs it, surprised at the own exhaustion in her voice as her face angles towards the metallic table, her breath leaving the same wisps of heat against the surface.
"She's done this before." Daniel shrugs his shoulders with a smirk as he shakes off his BDU jacket, tossing it to one of the vacant chairs. "She just wants ice cream."
"How do you know?" Slants her head and blinks downwards, ignoring the heat crawling up the wall. Ignoring how it makes her think of sitting on the bench, the feeling as the lit oil swerved closer and closer. "I was you last time."
"I watched the tapes." Daniel slants to the side of Crichton's body to shout at her directly. "Partly out of curiosity, partly to make sure you didn't do anything to my body."
"Okay enough." Crichton spreads his arms out between them, as if he were going to physically hold them apart, as if she wasn't feebly trying to stay upright while sweat swivels down her back and the backs of her bare thighs stick to the chair. "I don't know what the hell is going on between the two of you, but you could've already gotten through your damn interview."
There's a brief pause, during which only the sound of her scratching at Officer Sun's leg is heard. When she leans forward with the motion, the pinch is more pronounced, not painful, just distracting, constant, an odd bit of pressure that redirects her attention every few seconds.
"Vala?"
"What?"
"Is that agreeable or not?" Daniel's crossed his arms, an expression of disappointment on his face, his lips in a tight smirk again.
"Is what agreeable?"
He huffs, shifting on his feet and approaching her a bit, behind him, Crichton's eyes don't leave her. "Crichton's going to go get you some food and an ice pack."
"Why?"
"You said you were hungry."
"Did I?"
"Okay. We can do this later." Mitchell approaches her, his face stern, the one he wears when she follows him lost down the hallways out of boredom. She shrinks beside him when he reaches for her, but his hand lands softly against her forehead, and his eyes burn as much as her entire body. "You've got the first stage of heat delirium."
His hand slips under hers soldered to the table, and he helps her stand precariously. She doesn't remember him being this gentle—she does, but not in this environment, somewhere cooler, darker.
Somewhere where he snores into the back of her head each night.
Can't connect the pictures, the ideas, the memories, but can grasp the feeling of safety, of comfort, and she keeps hold of his hand as he tries to lead her from the area.
"Crichton," Daniel begins, "we have a specific set of—"
"Let me help you get this straight." He stops rather quickly, almost causing her to trip up her steps. "This is Aeryn's body. You know it's sensitive to heat and right now, your girl Vala is driving it and doesn't know the controls."
Daniel says nothing but drops his crossed arms.
There's sweat between each of her fingers and toes.
"Aeryn is all I have while we're stuck here, and if anything happens to her you won't be able to make it to that gate fast enough." His hand slips slick against hers and she wobbles a bit on her feet.
"Why do I remember a baby?" Her voice breaks on the word because she remembers more than one, and the pinch pulls her back to Mitchell, who has his hand on the zipper to her sweater.
"You gotta take this off, you'll feel better."
She nods, unzipping the fleece lined sweater and dropping it, sweat soaked, to the floor. There is a blast of relief, but it wanes quickly. The pressure distracts her again, and she's able to collect Mitchell's words.
"—I thought she was your teammate."
"She is."
"Then why do you treat her like she's not?"
He helps her sit on one of the boxes of what she assumes is a refrigeration unit, and takes a seat across from her, his arms huddling to his chest and frequent exhalations puffing from his mouth.
"How do you feel?"
"This is delightful." Reclines against the boxes, the swirls of heat threatening her on the borders of the room destroyed, and instead, she feels the healthy flow of cool air circulate around her.
"You know who I am?"
Glances at him with a cocked eyebrow. If this is a game, it isn't a very clever one. "You're Crichton."
"Good." He sighs and the largest puff of air swells around his face.
"Why?"
"The first stage of heat delirium is short-term memory loss." He shifts on the box, crunching down the edge with his behind and a pained look on his face, forcing him to stand. He dusts off his hands on his pants, before offering her one. "I think you thought I was Mitchell."
Accepts his hand, gracious for his help, for knowing what he did because the illness that overtook her was swift and debilitating like a fire scorching through her veins. "I think I did too."
He gives her a pitying smile and is kind enough not to ask about her and Mitchell, or her and Daniel. Instead, pounding a fist into the thick metal door, and tossing her the white package of generic peas he pulled out from under the collapsed box. "You might wanna take that. We gotta go through the kitchen."
"I don't remember going through the kitchen."
"I know you don't."
The door opens and the blast of heat hits her like a metal bat in the chest. He keeps his hand grasped around her, swerving through various workers and cooks, until almost at the end of the preparation area.
"Wait." She stiffens her foot, covered in a sneaker she doesn't remember putting on, into the tiles.
"What." He stops, turns immediately, waiting for her to dictate a problem.
She points at a food on the counter, a shallow metallic bin just full of breaded meat. "Chicken nuggets."
"Chicken nuggets?" He repeats the words like he doesn't understand them.
Jabs her finger out again at the mound of them, her mouth watering despite all the turmoil this body has recently been through.
"Hey chicken nuggets."
He grabs a massive handful, dumping them, overflowing into her cupped palms after she maneuvers the frozen peas under her arm. He snatches another handful, shoving three or four into his mouth before the wails of upset staff chase them from the kitchen.
They reach a hallway which runs behind the commissary, slamming the door shut behind them, both laughing and spewing masticated chicken from their mouths. That is, until the pinch causes her back to straighten suddenly.
His chuckles die in his throat. "You okay?"
"Yes, it's nothing."
"Sounds like something."
"Well, your wife has a very distinct pinch."
His stern brows furrow with confusion, his arms crossed, but his attention completely on her. "A pinch?"
"Yes, it's this little troublesome bit of pressure—"
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it's more of a constant distraction."
"Where is it."
"Her pelvis."
There's a pause where a concerned expression ghosts over his face very briefly, and if she hadn't been chained to Mitchell's side for the better part of a week, she may have missed it entirely. Then he shakes his head. "It's probably just the scar. When she got stabbed they hit a vital—"
"It's in the middle. Closer to—"
And the pinch absolves itself as unconsciousness consumes her.