" Scars "
by, huzzlewhat
~~ *** ~~
The interior of the bar was warm, darkened but not oppressively dark. Crichton sat at a table in the corner, nursing something that wasn't nearly enough like bourbon to suit him. He needed something familiar, he thought with a sudden ache. He needed something of home. He was tired of everything being strange, of every single damn thing in his life needing him to adapt to it. He wanted a familiar pair of Levis, his ragged old flannel shirt. He wanted to walk into a bar and order a drink without having to figure out what he might like, and what wouldn't poison him. He wanted to go to an ATM and punch in his pin -- 4682, his mind supplied automatically -- when he needed to buy something, not try to figure out how many Hynerian reklahs were worth a Instik'ran meljah and whether offering a case of drenath in trade for a new power coupling would insult the trader or get him labelled a rube. He wanted to call up Mario's and have a pizza delivered to his door, he wanted to sit on the back porch and eat it, looking at grass that was green, a sky that was blue, and trees that didn't look like they'd been plucked up by the roots and replanted upside down. He wanted to drive his T-Bird down to the beach, and listen to the radio. He wanted to spend a Sunday working on overhauling that old engine -- if he closed his eyes, he could smell the oil -- to a soundtrack that flipped from Charlie Parker to Etta James to Buddy Holly and back again. He was tired, and he wanted to go home.
Homesickness was hard to describe to the others. They must understand the concept, surely -- or then again, maybe they didn't. Maybe life was just so different in this stretch of the universe that they just didn't get it, didn't get how you could miss a place so much that it was a physical ache. Certainly it was hard to explain to anyone who had grown up exposed to all the different worlds and cultures, as they had, who had accepted space travel as easily as breathing. For them, this stuff was easy. For him, it was a constant struggle. There were always adjustments to be made, it was never possible for him to just sit back and do what came naturally -- he always had to be thinking.
He was tired of thinking.
He took another gulp of his not-bourbon.
He was just damn tired.
There weren't very many of these days, but when they hit, they were hard to shake. Every so often, his reserves would be low, or life would be especially crappy, and he'd miss the very air of Earth with an intensity that was physical. A longing to be surrounded by people who just... understood.
Damn, I miss Dad.
Of course, things were especially crappy at the moment. He looked down into his glass, surprised to find that it was empty again. Funny, he hadn't noticed drinking the last of it. He sighed, put it down.
"Crichton."
He looked up, sighed again. Crais. Not exactly the person he wanted to talk to right now. But then again... he didn't think he could take D'Argo's helpless sympathy, or Jool and Chiana's too-cheerful attempts to cheer him up. Stark would have been all too pleased to join him -- although the Banik had taken to staring at him with a liquid empathy that got on his nerves. Rygel, surprisingly enough, probably would have been the best choice; he'd been startled at the little Hynerian's open affection at their reunion, but Sparky had quickly backed off, settling almost immediately into the kind of gruff needling that they were both long accustomed to. But both Rygel and Stark seemed to be watching him, waiting for... what? Waiting for him to act like the other guy? Or to act differently? To... become something? He had the strangest sense that they were three steps ahead of him, waiting for him to catch up. And it pissed him off.
"I could... come back later, if you prefer."
Damn. Caught up in his own thoughts, he'd left Crais standing there. My mama taught me better than that. He gestured vaguely. "No, it's all right. Have a seat."
Crais smiled, an expression that Crichton had yet to get used to, and slid into the seat across from him. There was something decidedly different about Crais' demeanor these days. His eyes didn't slide away from Crichton's as they always had before -- a habit that had always raised Crichton's hackles and made him suspicious. And he seemed to be watching, too.
Well, at least with Crais, he could call him on it.
"Okay, Crais, I give. What are you waiting for?"
Crais frowned, confused. "Waiting for?"
"Yeah. You, Rygel, Stark... you stare at me like you're cats at a mousehole, waiting for me to do something. It's freakin' me out."
"Ah." Crais smiled again, chuckled to himself. "You don't trust me, Crichton."
"Well, that's hardly a headline grabber," Crichton grumbled.
"I, on the other hand, trust you." Crichton's eyebrows went up, and Crais' slight smile actually widened as he put his own glass and a bottle of something on the table between them. "I know that the man on Talyn... wasn't you. And yet he was. And he and I... reached an understanding, before his death. We were not friends, but we were no longer enemies."
Crichton eyed him, head tilted slightly, measuring. Then, unwillingly, but genuinely, he said, "I believe you."
"You sound surprised."
"Hell, I'm constantly surprised these days." He sighed. "So, you're thinkin' that you were getting along well with... the other me, and that given time, I'll come around and you and me, we'll get all warm and fuzzy, too."
"Not... exactly as I would have phrased it, Crichton, but essentially, yes. Our relationship does not need to be adversarial. When I see you now, I see potential. I have learned that John Crichton makes a valuable ally."
"An ally." Crichton sighed. "Ally's a beginning, I guess." D'Argo and I tried that -- and we've just managed to get back to that. Damn, can't a guy just have friends out here? He missed DK, the easy silences, the understanding that went back to third grade. Adversarial alliances. God, how DK would laugh at the idea of that -- the two who had always been about working together, all the way up until the wormhole...
"Yes, it is." Crais paused. "So we have a... truce?"
Crichton leaned back, sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. "Why the hell not? If you're gonna screw me, I'm too damn tired to see it coming anyway."
"Perhaps not the firmest foundation for an alliance, but I shall... take what I can get." Crichton looked up in surprise at the dry amusement in Crais' tone. Damn, could the man actually be showing a sense of humor?
He grinned. "I'll drink to that."
"Allow me," Crais said, and filled Crichton's glass.
"So." Crichton took a sip, looked evenly at Crais. "You come here for any reason other than just to make nice?"
"I did want to talk to you. About Aeryn."
"Aeryn. Right." Crichton was the one to look away. It always bothered him when Crais spoke of Aeryn with such familiarity -- a minutes-old truce wasn't going to change that. But what bothered him wasn't the point right now. "I'll be good, don't worry."
"Your... being good is not what I'm concerned about, Crichton." Crais paused, obviously uncomfortable. "You should go see her."
Crichton repressed his instinctive snort of disgust, knowing that it wasn't the appropriate response. He had been being good. Containing his anger and his hurt, being gentle. Being considerate. She'd made it clear, when she'd come back on board Moya, that he was not what she wanted -- hell, she couldn't even look at him.
It had been two weekens since the two Leviathans had been reunited. A very long two weekens. Crais and Talyn had stayed, as if waiting for some sort of decision, some sort of resolution. And Crichton had kept his head down, kept to himself, working in his cell, working on the Farscape, taking his shifts on command in the middle of the sleep cycle, finally leading to drinking alone in a bar on some planet that he didn't even bother learning the name of. He'd kept his dealings with Aeryn to a minimum, only as much as they needed to interact in order to keep Moya running, letting her come and go as she wished. He refused to make her have to avoid him.
He'd stayed away, because the sight of him hurt too damn much, even though the sight of her was something he'd been aching for ever since she'd left Moya, even though the sound of her voice made him remember what it felt like to be alive.
"You're wrong, Crais," he sighed. "She doesn't want to be anywhere near me."
"What she wants... is irrelevant. I am speaking of what she needs."
"So... what? I should break her heart again for her own good?"
"She needs to know that you're alive."
"She knows." He took a deep drink from his glass. "She knew."
"Is this about you?" Crais asked, his tone stern, disapproving. "That she... became involved with... your counterpart?"
"What Aeryn's going through isn't about me, Crais. It's never been about me," Crichton snapped. "If you can't see that..." he broke off, his frustration and anger finally breaking. "I can't help her. Do you have any idea what that's like? To know that someone you care about is suffering, and you can't do a damn thing about it? That even trying would just make it worse? She needs to mourn him, what they had. And if we're ever going to have any kind of future -- even just as shipmates, as friends, 'cause I sure as hell can't hope for anything more -- I've got to give her space. I can't go in there as Mr. Substitute. Because I'm not, and I never can be. It wouldn't work, for either of us. She loved him. And she can't just pick up where she left off."
Crais considered for a long moment, mulling over what Crichton had said. He was surprised at that -- Crais actually thinking about his words, rather than arguing his own point of view.
"Crichton," he finally said, almost conversationally, "Did you know that when you were being held prisoner at the Shadow Depository, Aeryn came to me for help? She needed Talyn's firepower to penetrate the base. She offered me... anything I wanted in return for my assistance."
Man, the hits just kept on coming. "She..." Crichton stared at him, eyes wide, unable to ask the question, not even sure what question he wanted to ask. "You..."
Crais waved a hand. "Nothing came of it, don't worry. But... she did offer. Nothing mattered to her, except your safety. I honestly thought that given no other options, she would tear the place apart with her bare hands in order to get to you." He leaned forward. "That was you, wasn't it?"
Crichton felt numb, nodded.
Crais sat back, appraised him coolly. "Do you remember what it was like, when she was dead?"
Crichton felt tears sting his eyes, didn't let them fall. Not in front of Crais. Not again. "Yeah." I wanted to die. I never wanted to get up off that table. I wanted to lie there in the cold and never get up.
"And when you saw her again, when you knew that she was alive?"
He had to look away.
"That is what Aeryn has now. A second chance."
Crichton couldn't resist; he didn't trust Crais, not yet, truce or not. "You're pretty good at this advice crap all of a sudden, Crais. I don't get it. I don't know whether you were keeping track at the time, but I was the one who was there when you woke up and found out she was alive. I saw your face. I know how you feel about her. So why help me?"
"Because, Crichton, as you said, this isn't about you. It's about Aeryn. What she wants, and what she needs. And for the moment, she needs you."
"For the moment?"
"Yes." Crais looked him in the eye, steady, unwavering. "I have not forgotten that the life cycle of Sebaceans is approximately three times that of humans. I have time, Crichton."
Crichton matched his gaze for a long moment, then, improbably, laughed. "You know something, Crais? If you can keep being that straightforward with me, this whole ally thing might just work out after all."
~~ *** ~~
He found her with D'Argo, her back ramrod straight, staring out at the stars. He entered quietly, unobtrusively. She seemed so small, so frail. She had such a force of life about her, such indomitable energy, that he didn't often realize how slender she was, how small. D'Argo, seeing him hesitate in the doorway, managed a smile and a reassuring nod, and beat a hasty, un-warriorlike retreat.
Crichton approached slowly, ready to stay, or run, as necessary.
"Hey."
She didn't answer, but turned her head slightly to acknowledge his presence. If she hadn't, he probably would have run. As it was, he took it as an invitation. A slight one, but at least she wasn't shutting him out.
He moved to stand at the console next to hers, not too close, but close enough. "I... um... was wondering how you were holding up."
"Holding up?" Her voice was flat, but inquisitive. "Holding up what?"
He smiled gently, self-consciously. "Sorry. Erp saying. Holding up ... enduring. We use it when someone's carrying a metaphorical burden."
"Ah." She nodded, then considered. "After all this time, I tend to forget. There's still so much we don't understand about each other."
He was quiet for a moment. He had the feeling that she was talking about something else, something that he couldn't ask about. "They're just words, Aeryn."
She did turn then, to look at him fully. She was frowning slightly, and he shrugged.
"Communication. Connections. It's not just about what words we do or don't know. We can understand each other, but still not know what holding up means, or what Looney Toons are, or..."
"Or what a drannit is?"
He frowned in confusion, and despite everything, she smiled faintly. It was a relief -- he'd never thought he'd see her smile again.
"Right. It doesn't matter, really. We don't need to get the exact words, Aeryn. Just the meaning."
"And you think you understand me?"
Memory tingled. This very spot, almost three cycles ago. After the Zelbinion. Don't presume to understand me, John... she'd said, and he'd proven her wrong. Proved that he did understand.
And he would prove it again. As many times as he had to.
"I think... what if the woman I loved died, and I'd had to go on living? What if I'd been there, what if I had held her body, kissed her lips when they were cold? What if I lived through that, and felt what it was like to know, really know, that she was gone? That I was alone, and always would be, for the rest of my life. And then I think... what if... somehow... I got her back. After mourning her, and wanting to die myself just so that I could see her face again, what would it be like if, when I really needed her, she came through for me, just like she always had, stepping in and saving my ass? What would it be like to see her then?"
Her eyes were glittering with tears. "And what would it be like?"
"Wonderful. Awful. Scary as hell. A goddamned miracle. Too much to take. Everything I wanted. More than I deserved. And knowing what it was like, when she was dead, would I be brave enough to touch her again?"
She moved then, toward him, and he turned to face her. She left space between them, looked up steadily into his eyes. "You were. When we came back to Moya, you were brave enough to touch me. To tell me you loved me." She paused. "I never understood how brave that was."
He didn't say anything. Nothing to say. Nothing that wouldn't be wrong, wouldn't be taking this out of her hands.
"And after you told me, you waited, until I was ready. And when I was... you weren't there. And he was."
He swallowed. The pain was too close. "Aeryn." His voice was rough, he could hear it, but didn't give in. She didn't need to see his tears, didn't need to know how much it had hurt. "I will always... wait for you."
She reached up, one hand hovering just above his left temple; he could feel the warmth of her skin, so close to his. It would only take the slightest tilt of his head to curl into her palm like a cat, and every nerve ending in his body wanted to do it. But he didn't. Easy, too easy, to advance. This had to be her call.
"When he and I were... together," she said, her voice quiet, sober, "when he was asleep, I used to touch the scar that he had -- right here. He nearly died in that explosion. He would have, if you hadn't..." she broke off, braced herself again. "It was a reminder of how close death is, all the time, how sudden. I'd be happy, content, and then I'd look at that scar, so that I'd remember." She dropped her hand.
"And I don't have a scar," he said simply.
"You are a scar," she answered brutally. Her words hurt him, he could feel the breath caught somewhere in his chest, like a knot that refused to loosen. "How were you brave enough, when I'm a such a frelling coward?"
"You're not a coward, Aeryn. You're..."
"Tell me," she interrupted, demanding. "How were you able to say that you loved me, to want me, when you knew what it was like to lose me?"
Nothing for it except total honesty. "Because I knew what it was like to lose you when I knew that I hadn't made the most of our time together. Because when I lost you, I looked back on what we had, but I also looked back on what we might have had -- all the chances we'd missed. I had regrets, Aeryn, when you died. And for you to die again, and to have the same regrets... I wasn't going to let that happen."
For a long moment, she stared at him, her expression unreadable. He held himself steady under her regard, not moving, not flinching, not looking away. Finally, she reached up again, again not quite touching him. "You know," she said, her voice shaky, "scars do fade."
"Yes, they do," he answered. "In time."
She closed that small distance, laying her hand against his brow, running her fingers lightly down his cheek. "In time," she agreed.
- end -
