It feels good to be at the Prowler's controls again. This is what she what she knows, where is she confident. It is familiar, unlike the Sebacean-Leviathan hybrid that sits behind her.
Crais is silent as she flies and she wonders what he is thinking, if he is in communication with Talyn, if he regrets his decision. For herself, she is recovering from the shock more readily than she thought possible, is adapting to his strange appearance. Though it probably helps that his personality has not changed – he is still very much Bialar Crais.
She manoeuvres the Prowler on a vector, heading towards a nearby commerce planet. Though he has survived a contained Starburst his clothing has not. But going planet-side is going to bring its own dangers – he is not recognisably Crais, not recognisably anything – and new things attract attention. Fear. Trouble.
"I think you should stay with the Prowler," she tells him.
"Why?" His tone is stiff. She tenses.
"Because you are going to attract unwanted attention. The planet is mostly Sebacean and you… well you aren't now."
"I thought we were going to replace my clothing?" he says then.
"I am."
"And you know what will fit me?"
Aeryn sighs. "No but–"
"Then I need to come too."
"But–"
"We need not use the more populated paths," he suggests. "If we avoid the crowds, then we'll attract less attention, no?"
"I suppose," she says, though she still does not like it. "Just… try not to draw attention."
He snorts but says nothing. He doesn't need to – she knows how unlikely that will be. But the planet is ahead of them now and there is no time to talk him out of his decision. If that was ever going to be possible. Stubborn drannit, she thinks with a grimace.
She lands the Prowler at the spaceport. There are only a few people about, so she clambers down and then stands, rifle at the ready, as Bialar follows suit. He looks so different that she is immediately concerned again. He catches her expression and folds his arms.
"You're going to have to get used to being around me sooner or later," he says sourly. "Or you can get back in the Prowler and leave me to it. Make your decision."
She wants to tell him that is not fair, but her words dry at the black stare – she has no right to claim unfairness here. "I'm staying with you," she says quietly and holds his gaze unflinchingly. "I'm just worried for you."
His eyes narrow and he frowns. Then he looks away. "I don't need your pity."
Aeryn feels a sudden urge to slap him and fists her hands to contain it. "It's not about pity, Crais," she snaps. "It's about wanting to keep you alive. I've mourned you once and–" She stops, paling at her words – she had not intended to tell him that.
The look he gives her is oddly vulnerable.
"You mourned me?" he asks softly. "Not just Talyn?"
"It was brave," she starts and then stops again. She owes him more than pithy statements. "No, not just Talyn."
"Why?" It is incredulous, disbelieving. And it hurts.
"Because!" Aeryn closes the gap, stares into those impossible eyes. She touches him then, cups his face as she did just before she left him – to die, the thought sparks in her mind – that last time. "Because I cared about you," she tells him. "And I am staying because I still do."
He blinks. "After everything?"
She smiles. "After everything."
"Oh."
It is rare to see Bialar Crais lost for words, so Aeryn stores the current expression in her mind, grins at him and then pats his cheek. It does not feel the same as it once did, but the difference is mattering less and less.
"Come on then," she says. "Let's go cause a stir."
Actually they manage to cause very little. By going the quieter routes, they avoid most people, though Bialar does garner a few wide-eyed stares. If he notices, he does not comment on it. They find a tailor shop and go inside.
The proprietor is startled by Crais' appearance but reassured by the rifle in Aeryn's hands. He measures Crais and dares a few questions about style and colour. Bialar looks at her. She shrugs and tilts her head, considers her appearance.
"There's not much point trying to hide it," she notes. "So you might as well go with it. Black and dark red." She glances round and settles on a bolt of deep mahogany. "That one."
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Good choice," the proprietor says. "The lady is right – that shade would become you very well."
"Right."
Aeryn stifles a chuckle at the lost expression on Bialar's face. "It'll be fine," she assures him. He glances at her, his face rather doubtful. "But just to make things fair, perhaps I should choose something too. What do you think?"
It is, she realises when the words are out, something of an invitation. His eyes widen slightly and she knows he is thinking something she'd rather he didn't but decides not to dig herself in further and just frowns at him.
"There is a nice blue," the proprietor announces and holds up a piece. It is a watery blue-green silk.
"No," they say as one and Aeryn notices Bialar shudder, avert his gaze. She knows why. The silk is a close match to that of the dress she wore on Valldon. Clearly neither of them wants a reminder of that.
"The grey," Bialar says then. She arches an eyebrow at him and then glances to where he is looking. It is a dark grey and, she thinks, rather plain but then the proprietor drapes it over his arm and it shimmers like a pearl.
"It'll do," she replies in what she hopes is a non-committal tone of voice. In actual fact she is trying to figure out how he has such an eye for colour. She is aware of him watching as the proprietor takes her measurements and then writes everything down.
"Be ready by tonight," he announces.
"We were not planning on staying," Bialar says.
"No? Well… there is a hotel on the corner. Good rates."
"Alright." Aeryn keeps her tone brisk and decisive. He is staring at her but she ignores him. "Please deliver them there. The name is Aeryn." She hands over half the credits. "The rest on receipt," she tells the man.
"Yes, yes. Very good."
She grabs Bialar's arm and hauls him away before he can say anything. The hotel is obvious since it towers over the other buildings, and she drags him towards it.
"Isn't staying going to attract more attention?" he asks.
"Perhaps, but I don't care. Look at you! That uniform is falling to bits."
He stops and glances down. "I suppose."
"I don't care how far down that colouring goes – you still need clothing whilst you're flying in my Prowler."
Bialar looks up, his mouth open. He blinks several times in rapid succession. And then he laughs.
Aeryn stares at him. She has never heard him laugh before and she finds she rather likes the way it sounds. The humour of the situation hits her then and she smiles ruefully. She grabs his arm again.
"Come on. I'm hungry and thirsty and hoping they have raslak."
"They better had raslak," he notes. "I really need a drink."