A/N: "Bless Your Heart" takes place between Thrown for a Loss and Back and Back and Back to the Future.
Crichton hadn't realized she was there, not hearing her footsteps over his own labored breaths. So Sun paused where the shadows still gave cover and watched the human exercise. It was more rigorous than expected, sets of unfamiliar calisthenics, at a number and clip that had him sweating through the sleeveless undershirt borrowed from one of Moya's former guards.
If she understood the movements correctly, they were focused for the most part on building strength in his major muscle groups. In her opinion, a misstep. He needed to improve his combat function, not add bulk to a physique already showy enough to land him on parade detail. If-she reminded herself-he had been the Peacekeeper he appeared to be.
Though in truth, he would have been classified Tech, not Infantry. Muscles enough to pull panels and lift engine blocks. Mind enough to understand a readout. He was even beginning to be able to diagnose basic issues with Moya's systems. But no warrior's instinct at all. His first solution in any conflict was always talking.
If they lingered in the less savory corners of space, that habit would get him killed. It might doom them all. If not for the chemical arm cannons, he would have been utterly useless in their recent entanglement with the Tavleks. Sun really should at least teach him how to handle a pulse weapon.
"That movement is very inefficient." She moved into the light, noting that he only jerked slightly in his up and down motion at the rasp of her voice. The human was counting, One part of her brain cataloged the Eengrish number words, another was noting the approach to ten-tens. He didn't answer until he hit that limit, pushing back on his heels to look her up and down.
Sun had dressed for a long session, minimal clothing. Her temperature regulation was still not what it should be, since the Drak, a monen ago. From Crichton's sour expression, he didn't find her physique as interesting as she found his. Or her simple observation had managed to offend him yet again. "Well bless your heart , Officer Sun. Why don't you show me how a Peacekeeper does a push-up ."
Push up was clear enough, but the other phrase was a puzzle. His voice had gone into that rolling slow cadence Sun knew was the quieter version of anger for Crichton. Using her title was another warning sign. He would be too touchy to ask why he was saying prayers for her internal organs. If it was a threat, she could ignore it this time, and just do as he'd requested.
Kneeling near him on the mat, Aeryn tried out his movement a few times, a simple body-weight challenge she found trivial even performed slowly through the whole range from floor to arms fully extended. After several repetitions, more conscious than she liked of his fixed attention, she rolled into the closest training equivalent. Shifting her balance to one hand, Sun lowered down, then up again, arching out and back until her fingertips brushed the mat behind her, to test her strength through complete extension on each side. Her version utilized every muscle from spine to core. Performed in alternation of fast and slow, it trained the body to hold power in every possible position, and improved reflexes.
She finished a ten set, muscles starting to warm up nicely, before stopping to gauge Crichton's reaction. Not every commando she'd served with had taken correction, or being shown up in conditioning, with grace. To her relief, she didn't see angry tension anymore. Instead, the human moved up next to her, and tried out the exercise. As she expected, he wobbled as he shifted to one hand and tipped upward. His strength failed him and his balance was poor at full extension, so that he tumbled backward to the mat, rather than executing the touch and return.
He only laughed though, and tried again. So Aeryn shifted closer, cueing him with her hands, the way she would help a cadet showing good effort. "Slowly, slow. Just one side. Feel here, at the pivot, you are disconnected. That's causing the drop. And then you have nothing left to hold you." His damp skin felt fevered to her. She squeezed into it anyway, supporting his greater weight through the correct motion. "Now the other side. Contract here, hard for speed," she jabbed gently at his abdomen, "then switch hands and over. I'll guide you."
Straddling him, Sun pushed and pulled until Crichton followed her through the full motion. He didn't know where his arms should go, and bashed her awkwardly more than once, but managed the full movement on the third try, though she practically carried him through it. The human was even heavier than he looked. He used it ineffectively now, but Aeryn would not like to catch the wrong end of a fist from him, once he learned to make use of the power in his oversize build. His face was turning red though, as he splayed under her, right arm shaking from strain even with her help. Remembering that he had been exercising for some time already, Aeryn stepped back and let him collapse down to the mat.
"Good. You see, Crichton? More efficient. When you aren't tired, I'll show you more. We should start you on hand-to-hand combat drills too."
"I'm not your Peacekeeper recruit, Aeryn." That slow, drawling note of danger was back again.
The illusion of comradery shattered. What now? "I know that, Crichton." She couldn't see his face. He'd grabbed a scrap of rag and was scrubbing at it. "I can't forget for a microt that I'm not a Peacekeeper anymore. And you never will be."
"Is that supposed to be a bad thing, Aeryn? Not being a space-fashist?"
She didn't know what a fashist was, and she didn't want to have this fight again, especially right over the top of their insignia. She turned her back on him, trying to ignore his unnecessary emotions, to focus on a crisp elbow drop exercise. She couldn't decide whose face she wanted to picture driving her arm through.
"Are you ever going to forgive me for not being a Peacekeeper? Why are you still so loyal to them? They would have killed you!" His voice was rising and she found herself pivoting and yelling back.
"Trying to teach commando training exercises to an unclassified species is the opposite of loyalty! I deserve execution for even thinking about it. But you must have made me weak, too, because I'm not ready to die from your Earfling incompetence!"
"Earthling, Aeryn. EarTHling incompetence." His tongue practically protruding between his teeth as he emphasized her error. "Well, I wouldn't want you to betray any more precious Peacekeeper secrets." He plunged to his feet with a suppressed violence that set her on alert, even though all he did was stalk off the mat. "Enjoy your workout."
Sun didn't move until the echo of his footsteps faded. By then she'd given up on calisthenics. Instead she spent the next arn hitting the training pillar over and over until her hands turned red and swollen. Earthling. Earthling. Earthling.
The human couldn't handle the resumption of silence for long. The second solar day he sidled up to her in the maintenance bay. She had their remaining pulse rifle disassembled across the work bench.
"Haay." She just continued carefully cleaning each piece with lubricant and checking for cracks or clogged sensors. Undeterred, the irritating man plopped his eema down on the table and forced the issue. "Aeryn, don't do this again, ohkay? Let's talk."
"What do we have to talk about, Crichton?"
"Well, for one, I owe you an apology." That wasn't what she expected, and she finally looked up at him. He was staring down at her with calm focus. There was something soft with his mouth, as if he were ready to smile if only she would give him a reason.
"For what." She returned to teasing a bit of dust from the chakkan oil injection tube, uninterested in his apologies or his softness.
He sighed then pushed on. "For being a jurk--" Sun cut him off.
"I don't know what a jurk is." She could guess from context, of course, but she knew how much this kind of question aggravated him. When he sighed again, louder, she tasted victory.
"An ass, Aeryn." Eema? "Inconsiderate. Unsympathetic. Are any of these words translating into Peacekeeper?"
"A frellnik"
"Yes, Aeryn, I'm a frellnik!" He didn't sound apologetic anymore. She couldn't help smirking, but that gave the game away. "Dammit. You did that on purpose." He picked up one of the loose pieces, flipping it around and around in his fingers. She let him have it, and kept working until he broke the silence again.
"I know a little about what it's like to be born to a military family. Both my parents' male sires fought in World War Two, Armee and Nayvee. My dad was in the Air Force before he was tapped for theSpace Program. It's not the same, I know, but I can't remember a time I didn't want to be an aztronot." He'd used that word many times, Sun gathered it was a technical classification, something in between rank and service organization. Something to do with space travel.
"Why are you telling me this, Crichton?" It was surprising that someone bred for military service would be so bad at it, but who knew what humans meant by the idea.
"Because I'm sorry, Aeryn. I should understand how hard it is to give up on something you've dedicated your life to. I might be on the wrong side of the galaxy, but at least I'm still an aztronot, maybe not the way Ayahsa would classify it, but I'm still in space. I'm still exploring. Hek, I'm still doing engineering, and even a little science." He thrust out the part he'd been toying with. "What does this piece do?"
It was part of the targeting scope, but if she told him that, he would want to keep talking. "I don't know."
"You don't..." he trailed off, incredulous. "What about the part you're cleaning? What does that do?"
She could tell him the name, chakkan injector piston, part PKR2249-0D4. She didn't have the number memorized. It was etched on the end, to prevent errors when swapping in replacement parts. And as Peacekeeper equipment tended to be clearly labeled, obviously it was part of the chakkan injection assembly, moving oil from the cartridge into the firing chamber in controlled amounts, to avoid misfires or overload. But that wouldn't placate Crichton.
They had done this with every bit of tech they came across, and her answers never satisfied him. He always wanted to know how it worked, the science. She could tell him where the piston should be oriented in the stock, or which valve to check for residue if the rate of fire was slower than expected. But it wouldn't end there.
Why was there a piston at all? What did it pump, and what was its chemical composition? How did the mixture change the power and distance of each blast, and what decisions had been made between longevity and effectiveness, to determine the optimal settings? The very thought of fielding another endless stream of questions was exhausting. "I don't know, Crichton. It's not part of my training."
Amazingly, he stopped talking, letting her return to work under his unsettling gaze. She did not allow her fingers to fumble as she clicked the piston back into the assembly, checking the orientation twice. This rifle was from the Marauder, more powerful than the standard issue one he had overloaded, and they hadn't found replacement parts for it anywhere on Moya. She didn't want to risk unnecessary wear.
"Well bless your heart, Miss Sun." That confounding phrase again. But this time, the way he said it, low, soft, and slow, carried a clear note of pity. "Aren't you even curious?"
Against her will, Aeryn was reminded of another man, another Tech, who chided her for her lack of interest, as if keeping questions to a minimum and minds on task wasn't drilled into every soldier from the creche.
She knew the question was a mistake the moment it left her mouth. The instructor didn't know either, it was clear from the way his mouth tensed, and then his gaze shifted from the disassembled pistol in front of her, to her face. "You're very curious for a warrior, Sun." The instructor flipped open his datapad with that little flick that never meant anything good. "Head of your cohort in equipment maintenance. Excellent field resourcefulness marks. Top 2% intelligence profile. But 36th in your unit for conditioning. Your hand-to-hand scores have dropped four ranks this cycle, as well. Are you looking for a transfer to Tech Corps?"
To join the almost faceless swarm who kept the Prowlers running, rather than flying one. No glory but finishing an engine refit in time for the next battle. No risk but an angry captain and an impossible repair schedule. Becoming one of the girls who rolled their work suits low over their hips and lingered outside the pilots' mess at shift change.
Only seeing the stars through the hangar shields. "No sir!"
Sun recognized the threat. She spent every rest period in the training room, practicing the most challenging exercises until her arms quivered and sweat ran down her back. By the next testing period, she had already moved up to 25th.
She stopped asking questions.
Aeryn's thoughts returned to the present with a flare of aggravation. "Get your eema off my workbench and find something useful to do, before I show you what I was actually trained on."
He slid down, but lingered at her shoulder, forcing her to keep going on the reassembly rather than throw something. "I'm being a frellnik again. I'm sorry."
"Be useful, Crichton." Why he wasn't taking the warning in her voice was a mystery.
"I'm trying, Aeryn. Can you show me what I did that blew up the other rifle?" Well, that would be useful, since they couldn't afford for him to do it again. She stood up abruptly, forcing him to step back or be run over.
"Fine, Crichton. Let's teach you. I'm not busy." For some reason this made him chuckle, and for some other reason, his throaty laugh didn't send her irritation over the edge into anger.
She threw a fire suppression blanket over the bench to protect her work, then retrieved a pulse pistol from the locker. She checked that it was unloaded before handing it to him. With relief, and a little surprise, she noted that he copied her movement, checking that there was no cartridge. He even kept the barrel pointed away from her as she rummaged the shelves for the holsters they'd cataloged and stored.
Finding one that should fit, she held her hand out for the pistol, clicked that into place and then knelt to buckle the holster on the human. "I can do that!" He sounded a little panicked. Maybe he didn't trust her that near his mivonks. Aeryn ignored the protest.
"Let me adjust it, you can barely do up your pants, and these buckles are tricky. This is a quick clip, and if it doesn't sit right, it's easy to knock the pistol off." He stilled, spread his legs a little wider, and let her maneuver him. It took a little time, testing the length of his arm-he was long limbed and long-fingered-and adjusting the straps until she was satisfied.
After checking the cartridge she'd grabbed, to ensure it was as low on charge as she had planned, Sun handed it over and stepped back. "Don't put that in yet, We'll start with holstering and unholstering, then loading and unloading, then move on to not blowing things up, and maybe, if you can manage that, some target practice."
"Lead the way, Officer Sun." The habitual hint of humor had disappeared from his voice, and the softness. Crichton was looking down at the pulse pistol with an absence of any expression she recognized.
He had some experience with weapons, that was clear, and strapping on the holster had changed his posture into something more upright and loose hipped at the same time. Between that and his sudden, icy calm, Crichton looked dangerous. He looked familiar.
Aeryn felt an almost physical squeeze, somewhere near that heart he kept praying over. Freeing her own pulse pistol, she popped the cartridge to check its charge, letting the strong spice hit her tongue. Hoping it would drive away the taste of homesick.
Feedback from readers is the best motivation in the world. Please consider clicking the review button. I accept anonymous reviews.