Farscape: The Desperate Necessary (R), John/Aeryn.
Aeryn is willing to sacrifice anything to get her John back--even the John that's left.
Note: AU in which The Choice never took place.
John lay beside her unmoving. This time, unlike the last, she could see his chest rise and fall and it comforted her. She reached out hesitantly to touch him, and then pulled back. He was still too hurt; he did not want to be touched. He did not yet understand she had no choice but to do what she had done.
She could not live without him, didn't he understand? The other was him but he wasn't really and it wasn't enough. He had not been the one that held her as her mother was executed, letting her scream and cry, he had not been the one she finally let herself truly love. She needed the one, or she had nothing at all.
The John on Moya was only a copy, she knew, not like the one she had loved. The one she had loved was John Crichton--and this man, before her and Stark's intervention, had been nothing but a pale comparison. The duplicate. She had helped him, really, as well as herself.
She hadn't expected him not to understand. When the screams of the copy had died down, and he opened his eyes she had seen the one she loved inside and thought everything would be better. She had reached for him, desperate for his touch again, but he had pulled away. He had quietly wanted to know how he was alive, what had happened--and though he accepted it briefly at first, he did not understand when she explained.
It wasn't as though it was that wrong even, and it had not been her idea. Once Stark had mentioned it, once he had explained what he could do, she had no choice but to allow it. How could she do anything less? If their places were reversed, would John have stopped for anything if he had thought to get her back?
John's spirit was strong, and his memories safely stored within Stark's mind--all he had needed was a body. And she had one, one that looked just exactly like his. That this body had grown into a separate person since the last time she had seen him was unfortunate, and something she preferred not to dwell on.
Sacrifice, there always had to be sacrifice. Zhaan for her, John for them all, and now this John for hers. It had been necessary--her John was more important than the other. Her John had unlocked the knowledge, he knew how to reach it, and he had unlocked her heart. Without him, there was no reason for it to keep beating.
She had told the copy they needed to talk, told him she wanted to work through it. Stark had been leaning against the door when he entered, and the other had been enveloped by the soft gold light before she could even see the realization of what was going to happen in his eyes. She was grateful for that, because copy or not, he still had her John's eyes and she had not wanted to see that terrible look in them.
The light didn't stop the screams, though, it caused them. They had been . . . disconcerting.
It had sounded like her John screaming. Like her John pleading for them to stop. It had taken much to convince herself it wasn't; that it was only the copy and this was necessary. Stark had been hesitant as well, she had seen it in his movements. At one point she had been forced to draw Winona and demand he not stop--half way through, both Johns would have been lost if he let his reservations lead him astray. Necessary, all of it had been necessary.
Now she sat up beside him, taking his hand in hers. John's hand. Her John. She took out a small knife from the holster at her ankle, and placed it at his temple. She ran it carefully across his skin, slicing open that small section above his left eyebrow--creating a scar. One like the one he was supposed to have.
He moaned in his sleep but she leaned down and kissed him, and he fell quiet once more.
She worried about the others. What they would say when they found out what she had done. Sometimes she thought it would be best if she took Crais up on his offer, to leave with him again--he said Crichton would be welcome as well. Welcome was a stretch, she knew, but Crais found John useful and he would not object to his presence.
And Crais did not disapprove of her actions, he, more than anyone, understood--he would have made a similar sacrifice for his brother. Rygel had called her fahrbot for considering it, so she had told him of course she had no intention of going through with it. She wondered what he would think of her when he found out she had. After all, this was his John too--the one he knew, the one he had been through hezmana with. Why should Rygel care about the copy?
He was more practical than that.
It was D'Argo and Chiana that worried her. Her John was a copy to them, and she had taken their John away. They would be angry, probably, but they would have to understand. John was more hers than theirs--it only made sense that she be the one that got to keep the right one.
"Don't . . ." John whispered.
She placed a finger to his lips, and slowly, he turned and went silent. The resurrection had been traumatic. At first, he had not accepted he was alive. She had finally convinced him it was real, he was back, he was fine. And he had been so happy. Then Harvey had shown up.
She had never seen John so terrified.
She had forgotten this body still had the neural clone, it had been oversight she regretted, but she would still rather have her John with Harvey than nothing but a copy. John was less sure.
Apparently Harvey was not happy that his host had been so altered, he wanted the other John back--the one that was not the copy to him. He would not leave John alone, and she could do nothing to help. She could not hurt Harvey without hurting John.
And when what Harvey was saying had finally broke through John's confusion, he had looked at her with that look she hadn't wanted to see, that terrible realization in his eyes as he learned what she had done.
Necessary, she had told him. It was necessary. He didn't understand.
He said he could hear the copy now, as well as Harvey, somewhere deep inside of him. He wanted it to stop, he had tried to get Stark to send him back--back where there dead were supposed to be. Stark would have done it, but she was too close to having everything to have been able to allow it--she had raised Winona once more, and what she had screamed she could not remember, but it had sent Stark running from the room and he had not come back.
She had locked the door after he had gone, shooting the controls to jam it shut, just in case. Just in case Stark brought the others. There was nothing they could do now, though. Only Stark could change this and even that was dangerous because there was no guarantee John's mind would survive the trauma twice--she would kill him before she would allow him to try. John was not going to die again, not her John. Not while she was still breathing.
She heard footsteps down the hall and knew they were finally coming. Chiana, D'Argo, and that Jool woman appeared at the bars, out of breath and looking strangely horrified.
"What have you done?" Jool whispered.
Aeryn did not even look at her. She would not expect her to understand. What did she know of her love of John? None of them could understand. She and John were fated, he had said so. The wormhole, the collision with Tauvo, the subsequent manhunt--all of it had conspired to bring them to this point.
She heard Chiana screaming at her while D'Argo tried to get open the door, but it sounded as though she were underwater and the words would not separate. What they said did not matter, anyway, they did not understand what was necessary. They could not realize she had not had a choice in this, any more than John had a choice when he had touched that radiation and flew circles around a star--fate. It was fate.
She owed it to fate to hold them together now. After all, it had done so much for them already.
She avoided looking towards the bars, afraid of what she would see, and even when Pilot's gentle voice reached her from far away, asking she undo what she had done and to release the door, she did not listen. They would betray her, betray John--they would take him back to Stark and have him murdered for the sake of a copy.
She would not allow it.
When John woke she would explain it to him again and he, in turn, to the others. They would not listen to her, but they would listen to him. She just had to convince him he was worth more than the copy, so much more, and that he had to stay alive for her. She could not live without him, and she knew his love for her would be enough to make him stay.
He was still scared now, had too many things conflicting in his mind. She knew well what it was like to come back from the dead, and she had not been dead so long as him. It was the same exact feeling as she had had when she had been immersed in icy water, she couldn't breathe and everything hurt even as it all went numb--it was not something she wanted ever to feel again, and it was unacceptable that John should be left there.
Idly, she wondered if that was where the copy was now, in that icy cold, but she shook her head at the thought. The copy was not there. He was not real. Only her John was real--she could feel his pulse beneath her fingers, his skin--warm now, and not cold like the last time she had laid next to him. Yes, he would accept that this was the way it had to be.
She would make him understand, and the voice of the other, it would quiet with time. He would see it had been necessary, and he would be hers.
Note: AU in which The Choice never took place.
John lay beside her unmoving. This time, unlike the last, she could see his chest rise and fall and it comforted her. She reached out hesitantly to touch him, and then pulled back. He was still too hurt; he did not want to be touched. He did not yet understand she had no choice but to do what she had done.
She could not live without him, didn't he understand? The other was him but he wasn't really and it wasn't enough. He had not been the one that held her as her mother was executed, letting her scream and cry, he had not been the one she finally let herself truly love. She needed the one, or she had nothing at all.
The John on Moya was only a copy, she knew, not like the one she had loved. The one she had loved was John Crichton--and this man, before her and Stark's intervention, had been nothing but a pale comparison. The duplicate. She had helped him, really, as well as herself.
She hadn't expected him not to understand. When the screams of the copy had died down, and he opened his eyes she had seen the one she loved inside and thought everything would be better. She had reached for him, desperate for his touch again, but he had pulled away. He had quietly wanted to know how he was alive, what had happened--and though he accepted it briefly at first, he did not understand when she explained.
It wasn't as though it was that wrong even, and it had not been her idea. Once Stark had mentioned it, once he had explained what he could do, she had no choice but to allow it. How could she do anything less? If their places were reversed, would John have stopped for anything if he had thought to get her back?
John's spirit was strong, and his memories safely stored within Stark's mind--all he had needed was a body. And she had one, one that looked just exactly like his. That this body had grown into a separate person since the last time she had seen him was unfortunate, and something she preferred not to dwell on.
Sacrifice, there always had to be sacrifice. Zhaan for her, John for them all, and now this John for hers. It had been necessary--her John was more important than the other. Her John had unlocked the knowledge, he knew how to reach it, and he had unlocked her heart. Without him, there was no reason for it to keep beating.
She had told the copy they needed to talk, told him she wanted to work through it. Stark had been leaning against the door when he entered, and the other had been enveloped by the soft gold light before she could even see the realization of what was going to happen in his eyes. She was grateful for that, because copy or not, he still had her John's eyes and she had not wanted to see that terrible look in them.
The light didn't stop the screams, though, it caused them. They had been . . . disconcerting.
It had sounded like her John screaming. Like her John pleading for them to stop. It had taken much to convince herself it wasn't; that it was only the copy and this was necessary. Stark had been hesitant as well, she had seen it in his movements. At one point she had been forced to draw Winona and demand he not stop--half way through, both Johns would have been lost if he let his reservations lead him astray. Necessary, all of it had been necessary.
Now she sat up beside him, taking his hand in hers. John's hand. Her John. She took out a small knife from the holster at her ankle, and placed it at his temple. She ran it carefully across his skin, slicing open that small section above his left eyebrow--creating a scar. One like the one he was supposed to have.
He moaned in his sleep but she leaned down and kissed him, and he fell quiet once more.
She worried about the others. What they would say when they found out what she had done. Sometimes she thought it would be best if she took Crais up on his offer, to leave with him again--he said Crichton would be welcome as well. Welcome was a stretch, she knew, but Crais found John useful and he would not object to his presence.
And Crais did not disapprove of her actions, he, more than anyone, understood--he would have made a similar sacrifice for his brother. Rygel had called her fahrbot for considering it, so she had told him of course she had no intention of going through with it. She wondered what he would think of her when he found out she had. After all, this was his John too--the one he knew, the one he had been through hezmana with. Why should Rygel care about the copy?
He was more practical than that.
It was D'Argo and Chiana that worried her. Her John was a copy to them, and she had taken their John away. They would be angry, probably, but they would have to understand. John was more hers than theirs--it only made sense that she be the one that got to keep the right one.
"Don't . . ." John whispered.
She placed a finger to his lips, and slowly, he turned and went silent. The resurrection had been traumatic. At first, he had not accepted he was alive. She had finally convinced him it was real, he was back, he was fine. And he had been so happy. Then Harvey had shown up.
She had never seen John so terrified.
She had forgotten this body still had the neural clone, it had been oversight she regretted, but she would still rather have her John with Harvey than nothing but a copy. John was less sure.
Apparently Harvey was not happy that his host had been so altered, he wanted the other John back--the one that was not the copy to him. He would not leave John alone, and she could do nothing to help. She could not hurt Harvey without hurting John.
And when what Harvey was saying had finally broke through John's confusion, he had looked at her with that look she hadn't wanted to see, that terrible realization in his eyes as he learned what she had done.
Necessary, she had told him. It was necessary. He didn't understand.
He said he could hear the copy now, as well as Harvey, somewhere deep inside of him. He wanted it to stop, he had tried to get Stark to send him back--back where there dead were supposed to be. Stark would have done it, but she was too close to having everything to have been able to allow it--she had raised Winona once more, and what she had screamed she could not remember, but it had sent Stark running from the room and he had not come back.
She had locked the door after he had gone, shooting the controls to jam it shut, just in case. Just in case Stark brought the others. There was nothing they could do now, though. Only Stark could change this and even that was dangerous because there was no guarantee John's mind would survive the trauma twice--she would kill him before she would allow him to try. John was not going to die again, not her John. Not while she was still breathing.
She heard footsteps down the hall and knew they were finally coming. Chiana, D'Argo, and that Jool woman appeared at the bars, out of breath and looking strangely horrified.
"What have you done?" Jool whispered.
Aeryn did not even look at her. She would not expect her to understand. What did she know of her love of John? None of them could understand. She and John were fated, he had said so. The wormhole, the collision with Tauvo, the subsequent manhunt--all of it had conspired to bring them to this point.
She heard Chiana screaming at her while D'Argo tried to get open the door, but it sounded as though she were underwater and the words would not separate. What they said did not matter, anyway, they did not understand what was necessary. They could not realize she had not had a choice in this, any more than John had a choice when he had touched that radiation and flew circles around a star--fate. It was fate.
She owed it to fate to hold them together now. After all, it had done so much for them already.
She avoided looking towards the bars, afraid of what she would see, and even when Pilot's gentle voice reached her from far away, asking she undo what she had done and to release the door, she did not listen. They would betray her, betray John--they would take him back to Stark and have him murdered for the sake of a copy.
She would not allow it.
When John woke she would explain it to him again and he, in turn, to the others. They would not listen to her, but they would listen to him. She just had to convince him he was worth more than the copy, so much more, and that he had to stay alive for her. She could not live without him, and she knew his love for her would be enough to make him stay.
He was still scared now, had too many things conflicting in his mind. She knew well what it was like to come back from the dead, and she had not been dead so long as him. It was the same exact feeling as she had had when she had been immersed in icy water, she couldn't breathe and everything hurt even as it all went numb--it was not something she wanted ever to feel again, and it was unacceptable that John should be left there.
Idly, she wondered if that was where the copy was now, in that icy cold, but she shook her head at the thought. The copy was not there. He was not real. Only her John was real--she could feel his pulse beneath her fingers, his skin--warm now, and not cold like the last time she had laid next to him. Yes, he would accept that this was the way it had to be.
She would make him understand, and the voice of the other, it would quiet with time. He would see it had been necessary, and he would be hers.