FS/BSG: Disdained Potential (Crichton & Apollo)
andrastewhite organized the Multiverse Challenge (multiverse2004). I wrote a back-up story for storydivagirl, who requested John Crichton & Lee Adama.
Title: Disdained Potential
Author: voleuse
Fandoms: Farscape/Battlestar Galactica
Characters: Crichton & Apollo
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: I took time very seriously in those years.
Notes: Futurefic for both series
The theme is always the same.
Death. Destruction. Rubble and mushroom clouds.
Everybody dies, and he doesn't know how to stop it.
A woman stands before him, turns her head. Her eyes flash red.
The shockwave hits.
He wakes with a ragged gasp.
Aeryn rolls over behind him, sleepily rubs her hand over his back. In the cradle, the baby murmurs, and Moya pulses all around them.
He breathes.
*
Welcome to Prthivi. Planet #412, give or take a few dozen. He hasn't always been careful to keep track.
Moya shimmies back and forth under his feet, and Crichton stares at the space outside.
The black is packed with ships, hundreds of them. He imagines he could put on a suit and hop from wing to wing.
"Pilot?"
A hologram shimmers on the clamshell. "Yes, Commander?"
"Why's it so crowded?" He leans against a console. "Did Bono finally make it out here?"
Pilot blinks. "According to the transmissions we're receiving, many of these ships compose a refugee fleet."
"Refugees?" He frowns, watches a shuttle pass in front of them. "Nebari sector?"
"Unknown." Moya banks again. "Do you still wish to take a shuttle down to the planet?"
Crichton drums his fingers against the console, nods. "Yeah, we'll need those supplies."
"Will anyone be joining you?"
Another ship passes, and something about its design tickles the back of his brain.
"Not this time, Pilot." He clears his throat. "Is the shuttle ready?"
"Yes, Commander."
"I'll go saddle up."
*
It's a milk run, plain and simple. Scope the marketplace, snag a few bargains, then ship the goods back to Moya.
Crichton jostles his way through the crowded bazaar, pins down a few crates of food and new blankets for the baby.
Everywhere he goes, he hears more about the refugees, but doesn't spot any of them.
Gossip is, a solar system got itself blown up, or maybe taken over. The fleet in orbit is all that's left, and nobody but nobody's heard of the system before.
Crichton's sympathetic, but he's also in a hurry. There's only so many galaxies he can save in a lifetime.
He's set to get back to Moya, shaking hands over crate of raslak, when he hears a trader mumble a word in English.
Earth.
He spins around, locates the vendor in question. "What did you say?"
The Sebacean shrugs. "They're looking for a planet called Earth, the refugees. Thought it was here." He laughs, harshly.
Crichton turns his back on the man, returns to the raslak seller and smiles.
"Do you deliver?"
*
The best way to get the real dirt, Crichton has learned, is to find the grungiest bar in the grungiest neighborhood, and buy two rounds of drinks. If you wait long enough, the news will find its way to you.
Prthivi doesn't have much in the way of grungy neighborhoods, but he manages to find a saloon stocked with shady characters.
He ambles into the establishment and wishes he had a ten-gallon hat to tip at the barkeep.
He seats himself at the bar and eyes the line of bottles. After a few minute of perusal, he recognizes something he's pretty sure won't poison him, and nods to the bartender.
The alcohol burns going down, but he survives.
"What's the word?" he asks the bartender, and almost adds hummingbird, but suppresses the urge just in time.
The bartender mumbles something, a mouthful of marbles that makes the microbes churn.
Crichton sticks a finger in his ear. "What's that?"
The bartender shrugs, points to the corner, where a man is seated, slouched in a chair in a way that screams Stay away.
Crichton thanks the bartender and picks up his three shot glasses.
The man looks up at his approach, eyes the proffered drinks.
"It's kosher," Crichton reassures him. "You're Sebacean, right?"
"No." The man's eyebrows draw together. "Human."
Crichton chokes on his drink.
*
The man's name is Lee Adama, and he's from a planet called Caprica.
He is also, Crichton soon discovers, a complete lightweight. Two rounds in, and Crichton switches to raslak out of sheer pity.
"They say," he says carefully, "you're looking for Earth."
Adama chuckles, a bitter sound. His hand clenches around the glass, and his eyes are haunted. Dark with shadows.
"This isn't the place," he mutters into his drink. "The scriptures were wrong."
Crichton bites his lip, considers the statement. Tries to decide how much he doesn't want to know.
"So what are you doing here?" he finally asks, spreading his arms to encompass the planet.
"The arrow," Adama replies, working his jaw between the words, "pointed the way."
"Okay." Crichton draws out the vowels. "Why?"
"Why not?" Adama swirls the raslak in his glass, knocks it back. "Where else?"
Crichton signals the bartender for another round, and leans back.
"Let me tell you a story."
*
It takes a while, and Crichton has to pause midway to let Aeryn know he's delayed.
Adama watches him the entire time, skepticism painted over his face. But he listens.
"You don't want to go there," Crichton finishes. "Find someplace close and settle down."
"Even if you're right," Adama says, "they won't believe me." His voice is hollow, and Crichton winces at it. "They believed him, and her, and they're both dead."
Crichton doesn't know who he means, but he knows the feeling.
"Why not you?" he asks.
Adama shrugs.
Crichton sighs. "Forgive me, but I'm going to try for something profound." He claps a hand on Adama's shoulder. "Make your own destiny. Screw the book."
There's a stir by the door, and a couple of soldiers come through. Not Peacekeeper.
Adama lifts his hand and waves.
Crichton stands. "That's my cue." He holds out his arm.
Adama half-smiles, shakes his hand. "Thanks for the drinks."
"Good luck," Crichton says, and slips away as the others approach.
*
He lies awake and stares at the ceiling. Wonders what he would do in Adama's place.
Aeryn rests her head against his shoulder. "Why can't you sleep?"
"Thinking about destiny."
She raises her eyebrows. "I don't think I believe in it."
He manages a smile. "Neither do I."
And he wraps his arms around her, and closes his eyes.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Louise Glück's Aubade.
Archived here. Originally linked here. Linked on bsg_creative.
Title: Disdained Potential
Author: voleuse
Fandoms: Farscape/Battlestar Galactica
Characters: Crichton & Apollo
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: I took time very seriously in those years.
Notes: Futurefic for both series
The theme is always the same.
Death. Destruction. Rubble and mushroom clouds.
Everybody dies, and he doesn't know how to stop it.
A woman stands before him, turns her head. Her eyes flash red.
The shockwave hits.
He wakes with a ragged gasp.
Aeryn rolls over behind him, sleepily rubs her hand over his back. In the cradle, the baby murmurs, and Moya pulses all around them.
He breathes.
*
Welcome to Prthivi. Planet #412, give or take a few dozen. He hasn't always been careful to keep track.
Moya shimmies back and forth under his feet, and Crichton stares at the space outside.
The black is packed with ships, hundreds of them. He imagines he could put on a suit and hop from wing to wing.
"Pilot?"
A hologram shimmers on the clamshell. "Yes, Commander?"
"Why's it so crowded?" He leans against a console. "Did Bono finally make it out here?"
Pilot blinks. "According to the transmissions we're receiving, many of these ships compose a refugee fleet."
"Refugees?" He frowns, watches a shuttle pass in front of them. "Nebari sector?"
"Unknown." Moya banks again. "Do you still wish to take a shuttle down to the planet?"
Crichton drums his fingers against the console, nods. "Yeah, we'll need those supplies."
"Will anyone be joining you?"
Another ship passes, and something about its design tickles the back of his brain.
"Not this time, Pilot." He clears his throat. "Is the shuttle ready?"
"Yes, Commander."
"I'll go saddle up."
*
It's a milk run, plain and simple. Scope the marketplace, snag a few bargains, then ship the goods back to Moya.
Crichton jostles his way through the crowded bazaar, pins down a few crates of food and new blankets for the baby.
Everywhere he goes, he hears more about the refugees, but doesn't spot any of them.
Gossip is, a solar system got itself blown up, or maybe taken over. The fleet in orbit is all that's left, and nobody but nobody's heard of the system before.
Crichton's sympathetic, but he's also in a hurry. There's only so many galaxies he can save in a lifetime.
He's set to get back to Moya, shaking hands over crate of raslak, when he hears a trader mumble a word in English.
Earth.
He spins around, locates the vendor in question. "What did you say?"
The Sebacean shrugs. "They're looking for a planet called Earth, the refugees. Thought it was here." He laughs, harshly.
Crichton turns his back on the man, returns to the raslak seller and smiles.
"Do you deliver?"
*
The best way to get the real dirt, Crichton has learned, is to find the grungiest bar in the grungiest neighborhood, and buy two rounds of drinks. If you wait long enough, the news will find its way to you.
Prthivi doesn't have much in the way of grungy neighborhoods, but he manages to find a saloon stocked with shady characters.
He ambles into the establishment and wishes he had a ten-gallon hat to tip at the barkeep.
He seats himself at the bar and eyes the line of bottles. After a few minute of perusal, he recognizes something he's pretty sure won't poison him, and nods to the bartender.
The alcohol burns going down, but he survives.
"What's the word?" he asks the bartender, and almost adds hummingbird, but suppresses the urge just in time.
The bartender mumbles something, a mouthful of marbles that makes the microbes churn.
Crichton sticks a finger in his ear. "What's that?"
The bartender shrugs, points to the corner, where a man is seated, slouched in a chair in a way that screams Stay away.
Crichton thanks the bartender and picks up his three shot glasses.
The man looks up at his approach, eyes the proffered drinks.
"It's kosher," Crichton reassures him. "You're Sebacean, right?"
"No." The man's eyebrows draw together. "Human."
Crichton chokes on his drink.
*
The man's name is Lee Adama, and he's from a planet called Caprica.
He is also, Crichton soon discovers, a complete lightweight. Two rounds in, and Crichton switches to raslak out of sheer pity.
"They say," he says carefully, "you're looking for Earth."
Adama chuckles, a bitter sound. His hand clenches around the glass, and his eyes are haunted. Dark with shadows.
"This isn't the place," he mutters into his drink. "The scriptures were wrong."
Crichton bites his lip, considers the statement. Tries to decide how much he doesn't want to know.
"So what are you doing here?" he finally asks, spreading his arms to encompass the planet.
"The arrow," Adama replies, working his jaw between the words, "pointed the way."
"Okay." Crichton draws out the vowels. "Why?"
"Why not?" Adama swirls the raslak in his glass, knocks it back. "Where else?"
Crichton signals the bartender for another round, and leans back.
"Let me tell you a story."
*
It takes a while, and Crichton has to pause midway to let Aeryn know he's delayed.
Adama watches him the entire time, skepticism painted over his face. But he listens.
"You don't want to go there," Crichton finishes. "Find someplace close and settle down."
"Even if you're right," Adama says, "they won't believe me." His voice is hollow, and Crichton winces at it. "They believed him, and her, and they're both dead."
Crichton doesn't know who he means, but he knows the feeling.
"Why not you?" he asks.
Adama shrugs.
Crichton sighs. "Forgive me, but I'm going to try for something profound." He claps a hand on Adama's shoulder. "Make your own destiny. Screw the book."
There's a stir by the door, and a couple of soldiers come through. Not Peacekeeper.
Adama lifts his hand and waves.
Crichton stands. "That's my cue." He holds out his arm.
Adama half-smiles, shakes his hand. "Thanks for the drinks."
"Good luck," Crichton says, and slips away as the others approach.
*
He lies awake and stares at the ceiling. Wonders what he would do in Adama's place.
Aeryn rests her head against his shoulder. "Why can't you sleep?"
"Thinking about destiny."
She raises her eyebrows. "I don't think I believe in it."
He manages a smile. "Neither do I."
And he wraps his arms around her, and closes his eyes.
###
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Louise Glück's Aubade.
Archived here. Originally linked here. Linked on bsg_creative.