Fic: A Flutter of Green
Title: A Flutter of Green
Word Count: 1487
Rated: PG-13
Fandom: Farscape
Setting: Between Eat Me and Thanks For Sharing
Characters: Jool, Chiana, Aeryn
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to The Jim Henson Company, and not to me.
AN: This was inspired by the poem Bee Keeping In The War Zone by Maura Dooley. Great big thank yous to Oleg and Em :-*
A Flutter of Green
The logistics of suicide were more complicated than Jool had anticipated, the pulse rifle a monstrous thing that strained her arms and made her fingers tremble. She pressed it against the seat, against her head; but the muzzle was scratched, cold enough to give the illusion of wetness, and when she closed her eyes all she could think of were teeth.
Outside the pod there were bright bursts of noise and a staccato silence; and Jool thought the silence worse, the way it stole inside and smothered her scream. She clutched the barrel of the rifle in one hand, the scope in the other, and cried only when she realized she would never know another truth or piece of music, never eat another sweet.
“This is the best way,” she said and realized she would never hear another voice; and then Chiana crashed through the door with wild eyes and a mocking mouth; and when Jool screamed again the silence didn’t stand a chance.
*
Jool had been plagued by insomnia since she’d woken on Moya, unaccustomed to the artificial, and in her mind arbitrary, sleep and wake cycles.
Space was a medium you traveled through, she believed, not a place civilized people lived. She was not a Peacekeeper, pirate, or vagrant. She needed the warmth of the sun above her and the earth, tangible and thick, beneath her feet.
The night after Rovhu no one but Rygel slept, but Jool didn’t feel any less alone.
*
Aeryn and Chiana were in the corridor; they spoke in hushed tones and fell silent as she approached, Aeryn sculptural in her severity, Chiana curving against Moya’s wall.
Jool observed the small signifiers of friendship - the way their boots nearly touched, the shared ghost of a smile, the easy slope of Chiana’s shoulder towards Aeryn’s - and jealousy bit her, smaller and unexpected.
Then Aeryn turned, striding towards Pilot without a word, and Chiana said, “Hey. Princess.”
Jool paused but kept her distance; her cheekbone was bruised from the Nebari’s lesson in violence, her knuckles swollen.
“There’s a commerce station on the fifth moon,” Chiana said. “I’m going down.”
Stark had sewn up the sheer material of Chiana’s undershirt as well as her skin; her hand danced over the doubled line as she spoke and Jool found the motion disorienting, a drizzly kaleidoscope of greys and blacks and blues. She folded her arms across her own stomach. “And?”
“And you’re coming with me.”
“If you want me to come with you, ask me to come with you,” Jool said. Her exhaustion echoed through the corridor. “I’m not your animal, Chiana. I’m not going to come or stay on your order.”
Chiana laughed. “Yeah, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yeah,” Chiana said, and her voice was thunderclouds, low and threatening. “You are.”
*
It wasn't the same pod, but it didn’t matter. Jool stepped aboard and her anxiety sparked like a wire.
She spun on her heel and Chiana spun her again, pressing her against the passengers’ bench. The edge of the bench bit into her calves and Jool swayed but didn’t sit. She could smell the warmth of the raslak on Chiana, cheap and bitter sweet.
“I almost died,” Jool said. Sudden tears stung her eyes. “Crichton said D’Argo did. Crichton said you were twin - “
“Don’t listen to Crichton,” Chiana said and tapped the stays on Jool’s collar, worn leather playing an absent melody. “He talks too much. Listen to me. Whatever happened, or almost happened? Forget it. Find a way.” She smiled. “If you don’t it’ll eat you up.”
It’ll eat you up.
It was innocuous, intolerable. The cruelty stripped Jool of her wider vocabulary and stained her scarlet. “Frell,” she said, and this was so much easier than violence. “You whore.”
Chiana’s eyes were soft black pools shifting into stone. She stepped forward and Jool stepped backward, tumbled against the seat.
“You always say that word like you know what it means,” Chiana said. Her hair fell across her face and Jool thought of spring snow, lashed with ice. “Like you know me. But you - you don’t know anything.”
Jool flushed with resentment, regret. “It’s been a horrible day,” she said. “You’ve been horrible. I thought - ”
“You’re a tourist,” Chiana said. She slanted into her own seat. “I don’t care what you think.”
*
The station was unlicensed, three illicit levels of squalor and confusion Jool couldn’t process. Too many languages overwhelmed her translator microbes, too many smells thickened the air. Too much desperation was written on the faces of those around her. She stood as close as she dared to Chiana.
The Nebari ignored her, her bare fingers flicking through a pile of fabrics. Jool extended her own hand towards a bolt of Ilanic lace, then withdrew. She said, “I’m not a tourist.”
Chiana tilted her head. “Where do you live, Princess?”
“Interia Prime,” Jool said. “The Roostuin District. I have a view of the National Gallery.”
Her voice softened as she remembered her apartment and everything that filled it: art and books and clothes, fine linens and a feather bed, six types of bubbles for her bath and the dishes she had purchased the weeken before her anniversary, sleek stone squares the envy of her friends.
Her clothes would be vintage now, Jool thought, her dishes kitsch.
“Tourist,” Chiana said. She pulled her glove back on, her gaze drifting past Jool to the barroom that lay diagonal the stalls. “The rest of us live on Moya.”
“You might be able to call whatever gutter or latrine you happen to wake up in home, but I can’t.” Jool sniffed, her hand on her hip. “Especially if I’m not welcome.”
Chiana laughed and for once it didn’t sound like scorn. “If you weren’t welcome your eema would’ve been left at the memorial.”
Jool tugged on one of her ringlets. When she let it go it bounced against her shoulder. “Really?”
“Really. Here,” Chiana said. She pressed a piece of paper into Jool’s palm. “Get these. You’ve got enough credits. I’ll meet you back at the pod.”
“Oh no, no, no, no.” Jool grabbed Chiana’s arm before she could gravitate any nearer the bar. She studied the paper, a list written in a Sebacean patois and five different hands, and couldn’t contain her pout. “All this? What are you going to get?”
“Laid,” Chiana said. She smiled, almost sweet.
Jool stared. “You can’t be serious.”
Chiana slipped out of Jool’s grasp, the pink of her tongue saturated in contrast with her pallor. “Look, Princess, you know how I said you need to find a way to forget? This - this is mine.”
“But that’s so…so…” Jool couldn’t find words that weren’t stupid, selfish, or gross; but Chiana’s unapologetic gaze was fixed on her now, and she settled for “…dangerous.”
“I hope so,” Chiana said and she sauntered towards the bar, pausing on the threshold. “Hey, Jool?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember where we parked.”
Jool sputtered.
*
She strode into the pod three arns later, laden with packages and an unforeseen sense of achievement. Somewhere between the chakan oil cartridges and the licorice whips her fury had given way to purpose, fear to curiosity; and for the first time since she had been sold to Grunchlk, Jool felt a semblance of control over her life.
Shopping was a thin accomplishment, she thought, but it was tangible.
Chiana lay across the pilot’s seat, loose-limbed and limpid. She popped a Hynerian saltbomb in her mouth and licked her lips.
Jool collapsed beside her, resisting the urge to shed her boots and collar. She said, “Did you get what you needed?”
“Yeah,” Chiana laughed. She folded herself into a sitting position, her chin on her knee. “You?”
Jool looked again at the shopping list, every item crossed off save one: Stark’s carefully lettered request for seeds. “Chiana,” she said, “tell me about Zhaan.”
*
Aeryn met them in the hangar bay, her fingers flying through her hair. She finished her braid, then unfurled it and began again.
“Kanvia’s the only planet in three systems with chromextin,” Chiana said. “Ask for Felor.”
Aeryn gave Chiana a half-smile, and took her box of chakan cartridges from Jool. “Thank you.”
“Anything for Talyn.” Chiana nudged Aeryn with her elbow. “Let me know if you need help handling Crichton, Crichton and Crais.”
Aeryn angled her head, not amused.
*
The morning after Rovhu Jool shared the first meal with D’Argo, and didn’t feel entirely alone.
Rygel and Stark fought over the last of the moyesii fruit; and Rygel’s victory was short-lived, Chiana plucking the spoils from his hand for herself. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and Jool excused herself to take a soak.
In her room she found a measure of Ilanic lace draped around the edges of her mirror and Chiana’s chaotic script scrawled across its surface. It read, welcome home princess.
And Jool smiled.
Word Count: 1487
Rated: PG-13
Fandom: Farscape
Setting: Between Eat Me and Thanks For Sharing
Characters: Jool, Chiana, Aeryn
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to The Jim Henson Company, and not to me.
AN: This was inspired by the poem Bee Keeping In The War Zone by Maura Dooley. Great big thank yous to Oleg and Em :-*
A Flutter of Green
The logistics of suicide were more complicated than Jool had anticipated, the pulse rifle a monstrous thing that strained her arms and made her fingers tremble. She pressed it against the seat, against her head; but the muzzle was scratched, cold enough to give the illusion of wetness, and when she closed her eyes all she could think of were teeth.
Outside the pod there were bright bursts of noise and a staccato silence; and Jool thought the silence worse, the way it stole inside and smothered her scream. She clutched the barrel of the rifle in one hand, the scope in the other, and cried only when she realized she would never know another truth or piece of music, never eat another sweet.
“This is the best way,” she said and realized she would never hear another voice; and then Chiana crashed through the door with wild eyes and a mocking mouth; and when Jool screamed again the silence didn’t stand a chance.
*
Jool had been plagued by insomnia since she’d woken on Moya, unaccustomed to the artificial, and in her mind arbitrary, sleep and wake cycles.
Space was a medium you traveled through, she believed, not a place civilized people lived. She was not a Peacekeeper, pirate, or vagrant. She needed the warmth of the sun above her and the earth, tangible and thick, beneath her feet.
The night after Rovhu no one but Rygel slept, but Jool didn’t feel any less alone.
*
Aeryn and Chiana were in the corridor; they spoke in hushed tones and fell silent as she approached, Aeryn sculptural in her severity, Chiana curving against Moya’s wall.
Jool observed the small signifiers of friendship - the way their boots nearly touched, the shared ghost of a smile, the easy slope of Chiana’s shoulder towards Aeryn’s - and jealousy bit her, smaller and unexpected.
Then Aeryn turned, striding towards Pilot without a word, and Chiana said, “Hey. Princess.”
Jool paused but kept her distance; her cheekbone was bruised from the Nebari’s lesson in violence, her knuckles swollen.
“There’s a commerce station on the fifth moon,” Chiana said. “I’m going down.”
Stark had sewn up the sheer material of Chiana’s undershirt as well as her skin; her hand danced over the doubled line as she spoke and Jool found the motion disorienting, a drizzly kaleidoscope of greys and blacks and blues. She folded her arms across her own stomach. “And?”
“And you’re coming with me.”
“If you want me to come with you, ask me to come with you,” Jool said. Her exhaustion echoed through the corridor. “I’m not your animal, Chiana. I’m not going to come or stay on your order.”
Chiana laughed. “Yeah, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yeah,” Chiana said, and her voice was thunderclouds, low and threatening. “You are.”
*
It wasn't the same pod, but it didn’t matter. Jool stepped aboard and her anxiety sparked like a wire.
She spun on her heel and Chiana spun her again, pressing her against the passengers’ bench. The edge of the bench bit into her calves and Jool swayed but didn’t sit. She could smell the warmth of the raslak on Chiana, cheap and bitter sweet.
“I almost died,” Jool said. Sudden tears stung her eyes. “Crichton said D’Argo did. Crichton said you were twin - “
“Don’t listen to Crichton,” Chiana said and tapped the stays on Jool’s collar, worn leather playing an absent melody. “He talks too much. Listen to me. Whatever happened, or almost happened? Forget it. Find a way.” She smiled. “If you don’t it’ll eat you up.”
It’ll eat you up.
It was innocuous, intolerable. The cruelty stripped Jool of her wider vocabulary and stained her scarlet. “Frell,” she said, and this was so much easier than violence. “You whore.”
Chiana’s eyes were soft black pools shifting into stone. She stepped forward and Jool stepped backward, tumbled against the seat.
“You always say that word like you know what it means,” Chiana said. Her hair fell across her face and Jool thought of spring snow, lashed with ice. “Like you know me. But you - you don’t know anything.”
Jool flushed with resentment, regret. “It’s been a horrible day,” she said. “You’ve been horrible. I thought - ”
“You’re a tourist,” Chiana said. She slanted into her own seat. “I don’t care what you think.”
*
The station was unlicensed, three illicit levels of squalor and confusion Jool couldn’t process. Too many languages overwhelmed her translator microbes, too many smells thickened the air. Too much desperation was written on the faces of those around her. She stood as close as she dared to Chiana.
The Nebari ignored her, her bare fingers flicking through a pile of fabrics. Jool extended her own hand towards a bolt of Ilanic lace, then withdrew. She said, “I’m not a tourist.”
Chiana tilted her head. “Where do you live, Princess?”
“Interia Prime,” Jool said. “The Roostuin District. I have a view of the National Gallery.”
Her voice softened as she remembered her apartment and everything that filled it: art and books and clothes, fine linens and a feather bed, six types of bubbles for her bath and the dishes she had purchased the weeken before her anniversary, sleek stone squares the envy of her friends.
Her clothes would be vintage now, Jool thought, her dishes kitsch.
“Tourist,” Chiana said. She pulled her glove back on, her gaze drifting past Jool to the barroom that lay diagonal the stalls. “The rest of us live on Moya.”
“You might be able to call whatever gutter or latrine you happen to wake up in home, but I can’t.” Jool sniffed, her hand on her hip. “Especially if I’m not welcome.”
Chiana laughed and for once it didn’t sound like scorn. “If you weren’t welcome your eema would’ve been left at the memorial.”
Jool tugged on one of her ringlets. When she let it go it bounced against her shoulder. “Really?”
“Really. Here,” Chiana said. She pressed a piece of paper into Jool’s palm. “Get these. You’ve got enough credits. I’ll meet you back at the pod.”
“Oh no, no, no, no.” Jool grabbed Chiana’s arm before she could gravitate any nearer the bar. She studied the paper, a list written in a Sebacean patois and five different hands, and couldn’t contain her pout. “All this? What are you going to get?”
“Laid,” Chiana said. She smiled, almost sweet.
Jool stared. “You can’t be serious.”
Chiana slipped out of Jool’s grasp, the pink of her tongue saturated in contrast with her pallor. “Look, Princess, you know how I said you need to find a way to forget? This - this is mine.”
“But that’s so…so…” Jool couldn’t find words that weren’t stupid, selfish, or gross; but Chiana’s unapologetic gaze was fixed on her now, and she settled for “…dangerous.”
“I hope so,” Chiana said and she sauntered towards the bar, pausing on the threshold. “Hey, Jool?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember where we parked.”
Jool sputtered.
*
She strode into the pod three arns later, laden with packages and an unforeseen sense of achievement. Somewhere between the chakan oil cartridges and the licorice whips her fury had given way to purpose, fear to curiosity; and for the first time since she had been sold to Grunchlk, Jool felt a semblance of control over her life.
Shopping was a thin accomplishment, she thought, but it was tangible.
Chiana lay across the pilot’s seat, loose-limbed and limpid. She popped a Hynerian saltbomb in her mouth and licked her lips.
Jool collapsed beside her, resisting the urge to shed her boots and collar. She said, “Did you get what you needed?”
“Yeah,” Chiana laughed. She folded herself into a sitting position, her chin on her knee. “You?”
Jool looked again at the shopping list, every item crossed off save one: Stark’s carefully lettered request for seeds. “Chiana,” she said, “tell me about Zhaan.”
*
Aeryn met them in the hangar bay, her fingers flying through her hair. She finished her braid, then unfurled it and began again.
“Kanvia’s the only planet in three systems with chromextin,” Chiana said. “Ask for Felor.”
Aeryn gave Chiana a half-smile, and took her box of chakan cartridges from Jool. “Thank you.”
“Anything for Talyn.” Chiana nudged Aeryn with her elbow. “Let me know if you need help handling Crichton, Crichton and Crais.”
Aeryn angled her head, not amused.
*
The morning after Rovhu Jool shared the first meal with D’Argo, and didn’t feel entirely alone.
Rygel and Stark fought over the last of the moyesii fruit; and Rygel’s victory was short-lived, Chiana plucking the spoils from his hand for herself. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and Jool excused herself to take a soak.
In her room she found a measure of Ilanic lace draped around the edges of her mirror and Chiana’s chaotic script scrawled across its surface. It read, welcome home princess.
And Jool smiled.