A/N:Just a quick heads up that there are some Sebacean translations in this title. Usually only three abrupt words. I was going to italicize them, but I didn't like the way it looked. So, when one word is spoken followed by a period then another single word and a period, Sebacean is being spoken. I think it works better then just trying to write the screaming phonetically.
Two Birds, Two Stones
Chapter 17
The Big Bang
He doesn't know what happened, all he knows is that his back hurts.
When he intakes the first breath, it's gritty, full of dirt—no, not dirt.
Something else.
A powder.
Talcum?
Deke.
Bolts upwards, not testing his strength first, and flops right back down on the ground, which isn't just the lackluster industrial tiles he's sure is all the rage with alternate Earth militaries, but hunks of the ceiling, office furniture, and some rebar maybe.
He can only make out a few things in the emergency siren circling a red highlight around the room.
Tries again to stand and finds his shoulder held down with a bit of drywall or insulation from the ceiling, flopping on his good side, it's easy to topple it off, but man those muscles haven't hurt that bad since sophomore year football.
Sits for a moment, just uneven in the wreckage trying to place himself. He's in a lab, that classicist's lab, and—he scans around, trying to see what he can in the cloud of dust, in everything piled up, and he coughs, wiping his hand across his cheek, streaking dirt, the grime, to his ear.
Then he sees it, gleaming in the red ray of the emergency light, the standing fan—still standing, still a fan—no Aeryn.
No Aeryn.
"Aeryn!" Bolts up, his shoulder seizing, sending him to his knees, and when he reaches back, tacky blood sticks between his fingers, but he crawls a step or two and then pulls himself up again.
Calls for her again, and again, but the siren is a lot louder than him, blasting through a system on the wall by the swirling light. He reaches down, grabbing a hefty chunk of ceiling or floor or whatever—maybe an actual piece of the hollowed-out mountain, and hurls it at the alarm, which fizzles and lets out one last dying wheeze.
"How is that productive?" The classicist coughs behind him, constructing himself against the counters at the far wall.
"Where's Aeryn?"
"I haven't seen her—"
"Aeryn!" He cups his hands around his mouth, projecting his voice in the moderate-sized room. For what it's worth the computer by the doc is still on, still active, a pipe screensaver scribbling over it. "Aeryn!"
"She's—"
He flips on the classicist, knows his eyes are wild, but this keeps happening—stuff keeps happening to try and separate them. He promised her they were done, promised her they weren't going to get dragged into any intergalactic dren anymore, that they were going to be the Swiss Family Robinson, drifting along on their Leviathan island. He swore to her and then he built a weapon of mass destruction—not including the bomb he set off on Katratzi—and then zoned out for a week.
Now he's hollering like his Ma used to holler for him when he was a teenager to get him to come in the damn house. Using up all air and stamina he doesn't have an ample supply of, to locate a woman who keeps getting put through the ringer. A woman he loves more than he's ever cared about anything including the fate of another galaxy, including the fate of this one. The one he gave Earth to. The one he gave up Earth for and it wasn't even a question, he didn't even need to show his work to come up with the answer, because from the moment she tugged off her helmet, and he saw her, he was sunk.
"Aeryn!"
"Crichton." The classicist puts his hand on his bad shoulder drawing him away
He wrenches away in response. "Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'she's right there'—"
The doctor points to a steeple of concrete, a pile that's built up around the table they were surrounding—specifically to the small gap in between two slabs. "She's right there."
Stops his hollering for a moment to listen, cupping an ear, and faintly, hearing her voice call out in Sebacean. He grins wildly, shoving the classicist, who is also still recovering from being in a—what? Explosion? Cave in?—who stumbles back on weak feet. "Way to go, Doc."
Picks his way through rubble and around the biggest crate he's ever seen in his life—were they shipping an elephant?—kneeling before the gap, trying to navigate his gashed shoulder with his piss poor balance.
"Aeryn?"
Her hand flings out, swats around, gripping into the concrete, trying to drag herself out with a grunt, but she's rambling in Sebacean, quickly, he's picking up little bits from what she's taught him—laying with him in bed, his head cushioned in her lap as she stroked his hair and corrected the way he screeched.
Stuck. Hot. Dren.
"Aeryn, Honey, relax." Grabs on to her flailing hand, expecting to calm her, but she tenses, her arm growing rigid and her words more pronounced, more threatening.
Baby. Hot. Baby.
"Deke is fine. He's not here."
Thinks that the concrete might have smashed something loose in her head, until he realizes that he's sweating, that the dust piled up on his face is being washed away by sweat pouring out of his forehead and cheeks, that every time he wipes his eyes or nose he comes back with a layer of schmutz.
Hot. Baby. Baby. Stuck.
If it's this hot for him.
Baby. Hot. Hot.
Then it's beyond dangerous for her.
"Why isn't she speaking English?" The doc asks, crouching a bit, staring at her one swinging hand and the one caught in his own.
"She's got heat delirium bad." Grabs the other hand, bracing his legs against each chunk of concrete to tug her out. "She's gonna need to cool down ASAP."
Expects the doctor to argue, but maybe it's his tone, the no nonsense one he uses to tell his infant son that Crichtons don't cry often or for very long, when he can't even think about what he's doing now or he's going to lose his goddamn mind. Then again, maybe it's Aeryn's hectic shrieking, the calm ex-Peacekeeper façade fading away into frantic yowls—but the doc doesn't argue, just nods, regains his balance, and starts off towards the door to get help.
Moves to yank her out by the wrists, but a thought occurs, she said 'stuck'. Does she mean between the rocks, or on something else? Is something keeping her pinned in place? Doesn't want to wrench her out, only for her to have a piece of steel pierced through her shin or something.
Aeryn. Stuck?
Yes. Stuck.
No. Stuck?
Yes. Stuck.
No. Stuck? Pinch? Hurt?
There's a pause and the rigidity in her arms settles. His fingers are over her pulse because he almost just lost her to a shower and is not going to risk losing her again, this quick, when she just got back, and even brought him baby chow as a souvenir.
Aeryn. Stuck? Pinch? Hurt?
No. Baby. No. Pinch. Baby. Baby. Baby.
Baby. Good. Baby. Moya.
No. Pinch. Baby. Gone.
Her words are flying fast, but he thinks she's trying to place herself, forgot that Deke was on Moya, forgot that she's here in this god-awful mountain with just him and a handful of soldiers they'll be glad to never see again.
Her arms are slack, and he takes it as a sign to start yanking her out because she said there was nothing pinning her.
With a less than manly groan, he gives the first tug, guiding her out from where she's laying face up, captured between the two slabs. Did she move there on purpose, or was it just dumb, blind luck that both chunks managed to hit each other before they hit her?
Grunts again and her head slides out to her neck, her face covered in dust, in the same sweaty dirt his is, and she's breathing heavy, starting to panic again. Her hands crunch down on the concrete and she pulls herself. He gets his fingers under her arms and gives a harsh pull with her. She gets one foot out, and against the rock, pushing harder.
Her other foot finally snaps out, but without a shoe.
They tumble back at the same time, her head falls to his thigh and she stares at the ceiling, panting, and he does the same. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, as he sits up again, his hands scaling her face until her eyes cycle to meet his.
Aeryn. Hurt? Pain?
Pain. Yes. Side.
Leans forward, his shoulder absolutely screaming at him—hollering his name and not listening for a reply—calling him into the house for dinner— and he presses into her one side, which she doesn't react to, then her other which she flinches against.
Holds his hand to her side, over her ribs—it has to be broken ribs. Cracked ribs even. Something light. Maybe a bruise. Just a small bruise. Nothing internal. Nothing paraphoral because there is no Peacekeeper base nearby he can lie his way into and need his ass saved from.
No. Pinch. Baby.
Doesn't understand her phrasing. From what he's learned of Sebacean it's a very abstract language. Basic words are used, and the listener has to construct a sentence, a meaning, a hint, a suggestion of what the speaker means.
Aeryn. Pinch? Where?
No. Pinch.
Doesn't know what's pinching—did she pull a hammy getting out?—holds his hands against her cheeks, her head still in his lap, upside down to him, and her lower lip trembles as she turns to her side.
Repeat. Pinch? Where?
Without looking at him, she takes a hand from her face, using the arm on her uninjured side, and directs it down, down, down to her hips and in a little, placing his hand flat against her abdomen.
Aeryn. Pinch? Here?
No. Pinch.
Repeat. No. Pinch?
But then he remembers standing in a hallway, watching the woman being his wife chow down on chicken nuggets with happy bounce in her step and a bag of frozen peas tucked underneath her arm like a fancy clutch. Listened to her as she complained about a pinch in her pelvis, one that wouldn't go away.
His hand rubs back and forth unsure, not knowing what the underlying issue is. If something happened when they jumped galaxies. What if it was a blood clot?—nope it's a bruise, a tiny, minuscule, faded bruise that just stings a bit.
Aeryn?
No. Pinch. No. Baby.
No. Baby?
Yes.
And he gets it.
Just like that.
Just as quick.
Where his hand is rubbing back and forth like he did before she got scanned by the Diagnosian, when she said she felt weird, but not pickle ice cream weird.
Where she said the baby always was.
Knows exactly what she's saying.
Baby isn't Deke.
He's not a gambling man. He doesn't like to play the lottery, doesn't like to stake bets against sports or horses or when a baby is going to be born. Sure, he'll take a risk on a mission if it's the only way to save his ass, but he'd rather have a well-formulated plan that someone else has thought of, but that he understands completely. Will ask them to explain it to him in two sentences. Two not run-on sentences.
He doesn't play the odds.
But in a million years, he never thought he would be the one to make a move on her.
If someone told him he would eventually kiss Vala Mal Doran of free will, before she ever made a move on him, he would flat out call them a liar and then ask for an apology against his character.
It's not like she's bad to kiss.
She's not.
He knows because he is currently kissing her.
But it's also not like she's tainted in some way—that's not the reason he wouldn't kiss her—it's because she's his teammate, she's an alien who is currently under the regulation of the SGC, and to quote his grandma, 'you don't dip your pen in the company ink.'
Only he's dipping—his fingers through her hair, his nose brushing against hers, his tongue touching her lower lip cautiously—oh man, is he ever dipping.
But he can't stop, because she was here, and she was somewhere else—she was somewhere else and as basic as he can lay it out—poor choice of words—it worried him, saddened him, made him distraught that she wasn't here with him. Not that she wasn't safe, because she was back at the SGC, and he knew they would help her, take care of her, they're all teammates after all, but it made him upset that he wasn't with her.
He missed her.
He cared for her.
Although he'll never admit it, part of him likes the thing they have here, where they cuddle and take care of a baby together. It's a small part, infinitesimal in comparison to the part of him that is a decorated air force pilot, and team leader of SG-1, but sometimes there's an itch that's just got to be scratched.
She flickers her tongue against his lips, and hooks her good arm around his neck, pulling him closer, close enough that the fur blanket is flush against his bare chest, and sighs through her nose, keeping the rhythm of the kiss, the puffs of air cool against his face.
His hand slides up her arm, her bad arm—avoiding the roadwork area—over her shoulder to caress the skin across her back. He wants to nuzzle against the side of her neck, kiss his way down, convince her to drop that blanket and just—just—but he doesn't.
He's scratched the itch that showed up the first night they did on Moya—ignores the fact that he still remembers perfectly what she looked like in Daisy Dukes, or a Qetesh gown, or waltzing through the gate like she owned the place in a tight leather get up—and his military attitude seizes him again, closes his mouth and ducks his head back.
She observes him with a smile, and God, she's gorgeous, a flush creeping into her cheeks, pale skin glowing in the low light he set. Her eyes are heavy, but sparkling, lit up and alive in a way he's never seen them before and somehow her hair has gotten more enticing, more perfect when it's been messed up just a bit.
"Cameron?"
Uses his name with that accent.
Saying it like no one in his life has ever said it.
He shakes his head at her, letting her know this is over, letting her know that it shouldn't have happened in the first place, but he was just so weak because she was in pain, and then she relaxed under his fingertips as he worked to heal her, pressed his heel into her, eased away blisters and burning, the same way she did for him, and her touch, her fingers, delicate but dept, so cold yet warmed him perfectly.
Felt better than amazing against his skin—felt right against his skin.
Was weak because the way she looked up at him, speaking so lowly of herself when she's accomplished so much, when she's been dragged through hell, and just keeps bouncing around with a hop in her step and a grin on her face and a glittering barrette in her hair. She could complain about so much constantly, she could pour her heart out to any therapist at the SGC, she could use any number of things that have happened to her as a sob story—maybe Jackson wouldn't fall for it at this point, but he's pretty sure—he knows he would—but she doesn't.
She keeps it all bundled away because she's ashamed of herself.
Thinks that she wasn't strong and that's why all the bad things happened.
Thinks that she wasn't smart, and that's why all the bad things happened.
Thinks that she trusted the wrong person and got screwed over and that's why all the bad things happened.
She looked up at him with those huge, expressive eyes drowning in sadness, having to admit she's worth so little, and he needed her to know that she's worth her weight in gold to him.
But he's not the right guy, in this circumstance or any other.
He's just a guy with an itch and she just happened to be around to scratch it with.
He's military and has been for so long that it's who he is and kissing her was a big fuck up—but man, did it ever feel good.
"We—" sighs because this isn't going to go over well at all. Vala may be tough as nails, may be self-sacrificing to a fault, but she's drama, and although she thinks lowly of herself, she wants everyone else to hold her in high regard. Telling her this is going to set her off, and she's probably going to give him the silent treatment—did it once to Jackson when he told her purple wasn't really her color and didn't speak to him for days. "We can't do this."
Her lips twitch, and he thinks she might cry. If she cries, he doesn't know what to do, because he can't handle crying women to begin with. If she cries, he's going to break, and he can't write down in a mission report that they had sex on a living ship because she cried, and he panicked.
But to his surprise her lips twitch into a grin, it's not exactly a happy grin, more rueful, the words sort of fall out of the side of her mouth, "I know."
"What—" He flinches, knows his face must be real attractive right now with hunched eyebrows and squinting eyes because he's completely lost, and it's not just the semi-hard problem in his pants because he got to touch her hip—the hip from his dreams, it was like meeting a celebrity. "What do you mean."
"I know we can't, how did Daniel put it—" She cocks her head, trying to think of the proper phrasing probably, and comes up with "—'fraternize'?"
He should agree with her, thank her for being professional where he wasn't, should shake her hand, call it a day, go to the showers before he remembers he's on a living ship, and just scream from frustration—but he doesn't. "Why were you and Jackson talking about fraternizing."
"When my apparent attempts at flirtations kept going unrequited, I questioned Daniel about the matter, and he told me it was strictly against military policy to partake in sexual activities with anyone from the same team."
Her words all make perfect sense.
He can picture the conversation, her draped over the corner of Jackson's desk, Jackson paying more attention to the computer screen than whatever charisma she was giving off. But he doesn't understand, because despite understanding the words completely, and the words being completely from Vala and valid, it doesn't seem like something she would do. "So, you just gave up?"
"On Daniel, yes." She snuggles deeper into the fur blanket, wraps her bare arms around it to hold it to her chest and he tries not to look. "What's that Tau'ri saying? 'No sense in beating a flaccid m—"
He fails at not looking, but then to make it more obvious at the comprehension of her words, he whips his head to the side, wrenching his eyes closed. "Dead horse. No sense in beating a dead horse."
"Well, whatever you're beating, there's no sense in chasing after unreciprocated feelings of desire."
"But that's all bullshit," laughs scornfully, he doesn't understand why this conversation has taken the direction it has, or why he feels so offended at her words. Maybe part of him wanted her to be disappointed that they couldn't continue making out, because part of him definitely was. "You flirt with Jackson all the time. In front of people. In front of state officials."
"All playful banter meant to unnerve him, which it does quite well I might add." She waves away his accusation, leaning back on the bed, her arms still hugging the blanket to her chest. "To clarify, it's far more entertaining to pursue who actually shows interest in me."
And there it is, the reason he's so pissed.
Sometimes he wants to believe she's changed, needs to believe it because he's seen her be so different, but maybe she's just really good at acting, she spent almost ten months in the Ori galaxy and none of them were the wiser.
Maybe she's just great at the long cons.
"So, is that what flirting with me is? A form of entertainment?"
"While I do say or do things to unnerve you, it is hardly for my entertainment."
"Meaning what exactly?"
"I play off you, Darling."
"You want to be a little more direct here?"
"You kissed me, Cameron."
"Yeah." Nods, and stands, his thigh trembling from overexertion, from dealing with so much shit in the last five hours. How did he let himself be wrapped up in this? "And now I'm regretting it."
She sits again, grunting as she pushes herself back up against the bed, her eyes wrenching closed in pain, her bad arm going limp again. She looks like shit, exhausted and probably starting to get a bit of the pain back, because he is too. But not tired enough to not rub in, "you kissed me."
"Yeah, because I thought you were different," shouts at her because he can't take all the shit that's happening. Dealing with her straying on that planet, and flirting with squid-faced men, trying to sacrifice herself, not telling him about her injury, and then using the stone to just zap back to the SGC.
Five hours.
Five hours all this shit happened, and he's concerned for her—then angry because she just does whatever she wants, apparently with anyone willing.
"I am different."
"No, I thought you were, the way you take care of the baby, the way you were actually working with me instead of going off and doing your own thing." Marches to the door, waving his hand over the sensor to open it. "You may not be stealing anymore, but you're still just as selfish as ever."
"Cameron." Her good arm quakes as she pushes herself from sitting to standing, her body teetering and he doesn't care if she takes a dive. She's so ready to sacrifice herself, might as well let her take care of herself to because he's done being her plaything. She stoops a bit, leaning back against the bed, and her voice rasps, "I have changed."
The doors whoosh open.
He's done being anything but a leader.
Has to figure out how to get home, because the longer he's stuck on this ship with her, the angrier he's going to get.
Steps out into the hall, planning on examining the device. Hell, maybe he'll put the stone in and get to go home for a bit.
But he makes sure his last words to her sting.
"You can call me Mitchell."
A/N:On a happier note, I will be updating stories twice a week now. Once Wednesday and once Sunday. Let me know if there's a specific story you'd like to see updated and I'll post it next time around!