Farscape fic, "Blame it on the Rain" PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Characters are the property of Jim Henson Company. The “man hands” conversation is taken almost verbatim from “Seinfeld”, episode 135, “The Bizarro Jerry” and is used without permission.
Rating: PG
Summary: John and Aeryn’s island retreat doesn’t quite go as expected.
Notes: Thanks to sunshine for appreciating all things “Seinfeld”, saying “yeah, write this” (or maybe we can blame her for that), and to sarahjane for beta. This silliness is born of my “Seinfeld” love, stories about lobsters and plain ol’ late summer boredom.
“She had man hands.” HHHhHe He took another drink from the rough hewn cup in front of him. The liquid smelled like raslak. It looked like raslak but it sure didn’t taste like raslak. It tasted like moonshine or lighter fluid or some combustible, lethal combination of the two that he was sure would have him on the floor before long.
Maybe she’d have her way with his prone, unconscious self. That way his big mouth would be shut, the man brain would be turned off and he’d essentially be one giant sex toy.
He snorted a little at the thought until he heard her clear her throat.
“Man…hands…?” she said.
He looked up at where she sat across from him, her hair loose and curling around her shoulders and face, skin glowing in the humidity. One eyebrow was raised in a question, lips pursed in skepticism…he could see that little frown line forming between her brows. He supposed now was not the time to tell her how cute it looked; she’d probably kill him with her eyes.
He rested his cup on the table’s sticky edge, catching it before it could fall. Some of the liquid sloshed out the top; he could honestly say he was surprised to see that it had not burned a hole in the grass-like seat of the bench where he sat.
Tropics. Oh, yeah, great idea, Johnny boy. He’d had this whole Hawaii scenario cooked up, little D safe on Moya with Chiana and Rygel, the two of them likely bickering over who got first dibs on the holding and the feeding. Too many sleepless nights while little D had worked his way through what appeared to John’s mind to be a Sebacean form of colic.
The boy’s painful crying had worked both he and Aeryn into exhaustion; their sex life, as he had expected, had fallen off to not much. Most of the time, he’d been too tired to care.
But the tropics! Yeah, the lure from the last commerce planet had been too much and he’d fallen for the brochure, procured himself the equivalent of an alien rental car and…
…had promptly gotten them lost, stuck in some rain swept bog that looked like Bangladesh during the rainy season.
Of course the alien car had gotten swamped, of course they’d abandoned not much more than their currency and a change of clothes, of course they’d gotten covered in mud and, of course, they’d found the only hospitable place, a trashy bar that looked like a bizarro set piece out of Gilligan’s Island, complete with bizarro extras.
Not a Ginger or Mary Ann in sight. Hell, not even a Mrs. Howell. Just some very red skinned people who did not look like the other red skinned people he’d seen in the past few cycles, not like those tannot addicts or any ex priests with the hots for Zhaan.
And the four arms on the humanoid bartender freaked him out just a little bit.
“John?” She’d raised her own cup to her lips, took a swig then set it down and crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back, and waited.
“The hands….” He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. Man, exchanging stories about old lovers had been a terrible idea. “…of a man. It's like a creature out of Greek Mythology. You know, Greek mythology, Aeryn…”
“Yes, yes, I remember. Gods and monsters and some such dren like that. Humans!”
“I mean, she was like part woman, part horrible beast.” He peeked out from between his fingers, saw her lips twitch as she tried to control a smile…or at least, that was how he was going to see it. Better that than her fingers twitching like she wanted to kill him.
“Huh…well, John, would you have preferred it if she’d had no hands at all?” She reached for the pitcher between them and poured herself another drink.
“What…you mean, like…hooks instead?” He sat up.
“Would that have made it more attractive?”
He shrugged. “Mighta been kinda cool.”
“Have you got a problem with man hands?” she said
Aeryn did in no way have man hands. She had hands that could snap him in two maybe, but that wasn’t the same. No, her skin was soft, long fingers that ran themselves over his body in so many ways…
He actually sighed.
“Well.” She answered her own question. “I certainly have nothing against man hands. And since you started this, I can assure you that I’ve had some memorable experiences with ‘man hands’.”
“Maybe. But I bet they weren’t attached to an otherwise hot chick.”
She raised an eyebrow and twitched her lips into a half smile.
“No. Stop. Don’t answer that.” He held up his own paw, noticing the fact that he really needed to trim his nails and get that chakkan oil off his cuticles.
He certainly did not want to remind himself that he knew little to nothing about his wife’s past activities.
“Why? Or do you want to tell me more about this ‘man hands’?” She leaned forward, chin resting on her fist, and the barest trace of that evil smile still on her lips. That smile…
It was like the alcohol had just exploded in his groin.
“She had a grip,” he said.
“On…?”
He sat back and shifted a little, partially in pain from remembering and partially with the thought that he’d like to feel Aeryn’s hands…
“Um…on what do you think?”
“Your pulse pistol?”
“This was earth, Aeryn. Earth? Oh…Oh…Well, let’s just say Mr. Johnson was not a happy camper after that experience.”
She laughed, rich and throaty. The sound rippled through his spine, big head to little one and he shifted again. The liquor might have been strong but it sure wasn’t dampening.
“She could have ripped a lobster in two with those things!” he said.
“’Mr. Johnson?’” She took yet another drink and poured more into his glass. “What is it with your need to name inanimate objects, Crichton?”
“I’ll have you know, Aeryn, that Mr. Johnson is not ‘inanimate’. Lonely, maybe. In need of some TLC, definitely. But never inanimate.” He took another drink and tried to rest his own elbow on the table to mirror her pose; his elbow slipped off the table’s edge. He couldn’t move fast enough to keep himself from falling forward, chin hitting the table’s edge. Hard.
Crap!
And it was lights out.
***
Aeryn sighed and stood up to inspect her unconscious mate. “Husband,” she corrected herself under her breath. John didn’t like “mate”.
“I mean, I like to mate,” he’d said, “but I’d rather be a noun than a verb.”
Nouns, verbs, adjectives…she sighed again at the thought. Sometimes there were just too many words. Of course, she had a few choice adjectives of her own. All those hours spent walking up and down with their squalling son, who seemed to cry louder if John was the one holding him, had certainly brought out the colorful and creative side of her vocabulary.
If he only knew, “mate” wouldn’t have sounded nearly as offensive to him.
She bent towards his unconscious body. Some of the drink had spilled onto the table; his cheek rested in it. She took his chin in her hand and lifted his head. No blood. She lifted an arm and let it drop. It flopped alongside him, fingers slightly curled, his arm like rubber.
“John?” She leaned in towards his face, ignoring the smell of liquor. It certainly wasn’t raslak but she was sure that she’d had it before, on some backwater respite during her Peacekeeper days. Long nights with no sleep and constant vigilance, holding her liquor…
She never would have guessed such training would have held her in good stead for motherhood and marriage.
“Crichton!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face then heard his slight snore.
“Yeah…inaminuteaeryn…baby’sokay…” Sleep laden words slipped from his mouth where it was crunched up against the table.
Well, he wasn’t dead. That was the good news. He likely wasn’t brain damaged. Also good.
The tavern’s roof was leaking rain in a corner and the few patrons scattered throughout were keenly avoiding her eyes, merging themselves into corners like camouflage. There appeared to be a few small groups huddled in conversation.
Ordinarily she might have felt conspicuous, dressed as she was in light colored, light weight clothing, her pulse pistol strapped to her thigh regardless. Not even John had tried to talk her into leaving it on Moya, although he had made a veiled comment about pulse pistols and romance not seeing eye to eye.
Ultimately, they’d both arrived armed.
As it was, no one gave her a second look.
She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. The place had dusty floors and she could make out some dead insects in the corner. It smelled like sweat, urine and drink.
She stood up and stretched, her fingers playing absently in John’s hair. Man hands…the thought brought a smile to her lips. Yes, he had man hands and, yes, she loved them.
Yet… she couldn’t help but feel some small sense of relief. She was alone on this waste hole of a planet, at least for the time being.
“You,” she called out to the bartender who leaned against the bar top, only one of his four arms occupied with any business.
He nodded to her in acknowledgement. “Yessee?” His accent made him sound like a sleepy, drunk John.
“Keep an eye on him for me. I’ll pay extra.” She took out three crindars and held them up for him to see. His eyes gleamed and two of his hands started clenching and unclenching like he could feel the money.
“Nothing until I come back,” she said. “Understand?” She pulled her pulse pistol from her holster and held it up. “And if there’s any harm to him…understand?”
His hands stopped their movement and he nodded vigorously. “Yessee…no harm.”
“Excellent.” She nodded, tight lipped, hearing the rain beat down on the thin metal roof, perspiration sliding down her spine in the stifling humidity.
She leaned down and kissed John on the cheek. He smiled slightly and continued to snore. She left one crindar on the table, holstered her pistol and walked outside.
***
She stood outside the tavern under a small overhang. The drops falling into the puddles below splashed the toes of her boots with water and mud as it pelted the walkway in front of her. Everything was lush and green; she could feel the moisture in the air and she breathed in deeply. The smell of urine and liquor and sweat melted away into the dense green beyond. It smelled like a planet…
Like Earth.
She could understand John’s attraction to this place. None of the time she’d spent on Earth had truly been happy. The first time had been a fake, the second time had been marred by half truths and unspoken words.
None of it mattered now except one thing.
Rain.
The path was clear of anyone else. This truly was a remote, quiet place. She held her hand out beyond the overhang, felt the drops splash on her palm, the water cool and inviting.
They had come here to get away from Moya and the others, away from little D’Argo for just a few days. And it had all sounded inviting more or less.
But…sometimes…all she wanted was peace and quiet and an opportunity to be alone. No demands, no conversation, no crying child, no sleepless nights. Fluid reduction was simple for her, if need be. She didn’t always need the emotional attachments. There was something to be said for not having to meet someone else’s desires as well.
She stepped onto the path, five, ten, twenty steps away from the tavern. Rain rolled off the tip of her nose, the strands of her hair. Her clothes clung to her body like a second skin.
She raised her face to the sky and opened her mouth, catching droplets like drink, hands outstretched and palms up.
She shivered slightly and smiled.
***
“Hey!” John awoke with a start, legs kicking the chair across from him as he reached for Winona. He sat up, wiping the drool and liquor off his face with the back of his hand.
He had a four alarm headache and no fire hose, one spilled drink, a crindar on the table, and no wife.
“Hey!” he said again. He leveraged himself to his feet, head screaming, mouth dry as cotton. “Where the hell’s my wife?”
The creature at the bar who looked like something out of the Star Wars cantina, now that he thought about it, waved all four arms like a Ganesh. One arm went up, palm down, to indicate height. The other moved from the top of his head to about just past his shoulder as the creature gracefully shook his head back like he was shaking back hair.
“Missee, yes?” he said.
“Huh? Um…yeah. My wife?” John held up his own hand to about the level of his nose. “Yay big, um, tall…”
The third arm pointed towards the door. “She go. You owe 2 crindars.”
“Yeah, sure, buddy, whatever.” John fished into his pockets and pulled out some currency then laid it on the table. “Sorry about the mess.”
The fourth arm snapped out like an extension ladder and plucked the money off the table. John leanded back, just out of reach, head screaming.
Okay. That he had not expected.
“Cool.” He nodded at the barkeep and started outside, Winona out of her holster and securely in his hands as he pushed his way out the door.
She stood in the center of the pathway like a statue. He could just make out her profile, watched as the rain streamed off her hair in rivulets.
He stood transfixed as well, felt that familiar pull in his gut as he put Winona back in the holster. Aeryn’s face was relaxed, almost as if she was sleeping. Her eyes and mouth were closed but there was a grin on her face that sleeplessness and motherhood had done a relatively good job of erasing these past few months.
He saw her take a deep breath and then she turned towards him, opening her eyes. She took a step back in surprise but didn’t seem particularly concerned to find him there.
“Hey,” she said as she walked towards him.
“Hey.”
“So…you’re awake, then. I promised the barkeep…”
“He’s all paid for.” He reached out his hand and she took it then pulled him forward, into the rain.
“No sense in letting it all go to waste.” She locked him into an embrace, the water from her soaked clothing plastering her to him.
Blame it on the rain.
#END#
Rating: PG
Summary: John and Aeryn’s island retreat doesn’t quite go as expected.
Notes: Thanks to sunshine for appreciating all things “Seinfeld”, saying “yeah, write this” (or maybe we can blame her for that), and to sarahjane for beta. This silliness is born of my “Seinfeld” love, stories about lobsters and plain ol’ late summer boredom.
“She had man hands.” HHHhHe He took another drink from the rough hewn cup in front of him. The liquid smelled like raslak. It looked like raslak but it sure didn’t taste like raslak. It tasted like moonshine or lighter fluid or some combustible, lethal combination of the two that he was sure would have him on the floor before long.
Maybe she’d have her way with his prone, unconscious self. That way his big mouth would be shut, the man brain would be turned off and he’d essentially be one giant sex toy.
He snorted a little at the thought until he heard her clear her throat.
“Man…hands…?” she said.
He looked up at where she sat across from him, her hair loose and curling around her shoulders and face, skin glowing in the humidity. One eyebrow was raised in a question, lips pursed in skepticism…he could see that little frown line forming between her brows. He supposed now was not the time to tell her how cute it looked; she’d probably kill him with her eyes.
He rested his cup on the table’s sticky edge, catching it before it could fall. Some of the liquid sloshed out the top; he could honestly say he was surprised to see that it had not burned a hole in the grass-like seat of the bench where he sat.
Tropics. Oh, yeah, great idea, Johnny boy. He’d had this whole Hawaii scenario cooked up, little D safe on Moya with Chiana and Rygel, the two of them likely bickering over who got first dibs on the holding and the feeding. Too many sleepless nights while little D had worked his way through what appeared to John’s mind to be a Sebacean form of colic.
The boy’s painful crying had worked both he and Aeryn into exhaustion; their sex life, as he had expected, had fallen off to not much. Most of the time, he’d been too tired to care.
But the tropics! Yeah, the lure from the last commerce planet had been too much and he’d fallen for the brochure, procured himself the equivalent of an alien rental car and…
…had promptly gotten them lost, stuck in some rain swept bog that looked like Bangladesh during the rainy season.
Of course the alien car had gotten swamped, of course they’d abandoned not much more than their currency and a change of clothes, of course they’d gotten covered in mud and, of course, they’d found the only hospitable place, a trashy bar that looked like a bizarro set piece out of Gilligan’s Island, complete with bizarro extras.
Not a Ginger or Mary Ann in sight. Hell, not even a Mrs. Howell. Just some very red skinned people who did not look like the other red skinned people he’d seen in the past few cycles, not like those tannot addicts or any ex priests with the hots for Zhaan.
And the four arms on the humanoid bartender freaked him out just a little bit.
“John?” She’d raised her own cup to her lips, took a swig then set it down and crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back, and waited.
“The hands….” He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. Man, exchanging stories about old lovers had been a terrible idea. “…of a man. It's like a creature out of Greek Mythology. You know, Greek mythology, Aeryn…”
“Yes, yes, I remember. Gods and monsters and some such dren like that. Humans!”
“I mean, she was like part woman, part horrible beast.” He peeked out from between his fingers, saw her lips twitch as she tried to control a smile…or at least, that was how he was going to see it. Better that than her fingers twitching like she wanted to kill him.
“Huh…well, John, would you have preferred it if she’d had no hands at all?” She reached for the pitcher between them and poured herself another drink.
“What…you mean, like…hooks instead?” He sat up.
“Would that have made it more attractive?”
He shrugged. “Mighta been kinda cool.”
“Have you got a problem with man hands?” she said
Aeryn did in no way have man hands. She had hands that could snap him in two maybe, but that wasn’t the same. No, her skin was soft, long fingers that ran themselves over his body in so many ways…
He actually sighed.
“Well.” She answered her own question. “I certainly have nothing against man hands. And since you started this, I can assure you that I’ve had some memorable experiences with ‘man hands’.”
“Maybe. But I bet they weren’t attached to an otherwise hot chick.”
She raised an eyebrow and twitched her lips into a half smile.
“No. Stop. Don’t answer that.” He held up his own paw, noticing the fact that he really needed to trim his nails and get that chakkan oil off his cuticles.
He certainly did not want to remind himself that he knew little to nothing about his wife’s past activities.
“Why? Or do you want to tell me more about this ‘man hands’?” She leaned forward, chin resting on her fist, and the barest trace of that evil smile still on her lips. That smile…
It was like the alcohol had just exploded in his groin.
“She had a grip,” he said.
“On…?”
He sat back and shifted a little, partially in pain from remembering and partially with the thought that he’d like to feel Aeryn’s hands…
“Um…on what do you think?”
“Your pulse pistol?”
“This was earth, Aeryn. Earth? Oh…Oh…Well, let’s just say Mr. Johnson was not a happy camper after that experience.”
She laughed, rich and throaty. The sound rippled through his spine, big head to little one and he shifted again. The liquor might have been strong but it sure wasn’t dampening.
“She could have ripped a lobster in two with those things!” he said.
“’Mr. Johnson?’” She took yet another drink and poured more into his glass. “What is it with your need to name inanimate objects, Crichton?”
“I’ll have you know, Aeryn, that Mr. Johnson is not ‘inanimate’. Lonely, maybe. In need of some TLC, definitely. But never inanimate.” He took another drink and tried to rest his own elbow on the table to mirror her pose; his elbow slipped off the table’s edge. He couldn’t move fast enough to keep himself from falling forward, chin hitting the table’s edge. Hard.
Crap!
And it was lights out.
***
Aeryn sighed and stood up to inspect her unconscious mate. “Husband,” she corrected herself under her breath. John didn’t like “mate”.
“I mean, I like to mate,” he’d said, “but I’d rather be a noun than a verb.”
Nouns, verbs, adjectives…she sighed again at the thought. Sometimes there were just too many words. Of course, she had a few choice adjectives of her own. All those hours spent walking up and down with their squalling son, who seemed to cry louder if John was the one holding him, had certainly brought out the colorful and creative side of her vocabulary.
If he only knew, “mate” wouldn’t have sounded nearly as offensive to him.
She bent towards his unconscious body. Some of the drink had spilled onto the table; his cheek rested in it. She took his chin in her hand and lifted his head. No blood. She lifted an arm and let it drop. It flopped alongside him, fingers slightly curled, his arm like rubber.
“John?” She leaned in towards his face, ignoring the smell of liquor. It certainly wasn’t raslak but she was sure that she’d had it before, on some backwater respite during her Peacekeeper days. Long nights with no sleep and constant vigilance, holding her liquor…
She never would have guessed such training would have held her in good stead for motherhood and marriage.
“Crichton!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face then heard his slight snore.
“Yeah…inaminuteaeryn…baby’sokay…” Sleep laden words slipped from his mouth where it was crunched up against the table.
Well, he wasn’t dead. That was the good news. He likely wasn’t brain damaged. Also good.
The tavern’s roof was leaking rain in a corner and the few patrons scattered throughout were keenly avoiding her eyes, merging themselves into corners like camouflage. There appeared to be a few small groups huddled in conversation.
Ordinarily she might have felt conspicuous, dressed as she was in light colored, light weight clothing, her pulse pistol strapped to her thigh regardless. Not even John had tried to talk her into leaving it on Moya, although he had made a veiled comment about pulse pistols and romance not seeing eye to eye.
Ultimately, they’d both arrived armed.
As it was, no one gave her a second look.
She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. The place had dusty floors and she could make out some dead insects in the corner. It smelled like sweat, urine and drink.
She stood up and stretched, her fingers playing absently in John’s hair. Man hands…the thought brought a smile to her lips. Yes, he had man hands and, yes, she loved them.
Yet… she couldn’t help but feel some small sense of relief. She was alone on this waste hole of a planet, at least for the time being.
“You,” she called out to the bartender who leaned against the bar top, only one of his four arms occupied with any business.
He nodded to her in acknowledgement. “Yessee?” His accent made him sound like a sleepy, drunk John.
“Keep an eye on him for me. I’ll pay extra.” She took out three crindars and held them up for him to see. His eyes gleamed and two of his hands started clenching and unclenching like he could feel the money.
“Nothing until I come back,” she said. “Understand?” She pulled her pulse pistol from her holster and held it up. “And if there’s any harm to him…understand?”
His hands stopped their movement and he nodded vigorously. “Yessee…no harm.”
“Excellent.” She nodded, tight lipped, hearing the rain beat down on the thin metal roof, perspiration sliding down her spine in the stifling humidity.
She leaned down and kissed John on the cheek. He smiled slightly and continued to snore. She left one crindar on the table, holstered her pistol and walked outside.
***
She stood outside the tavern under a small overhang. The drops falling into the puddles below splashed the toes of her boots with water and mud as it pelted the walkway in front of her. Everything was lush and green; she could feel the moisture in the air and she breathed in deeply. The smell of urine and liquor and sweat melted away into the dense green beyond. It smelled like a planet…
Like Earth.
She could understand John’s attraction to this place. None of the time she’d spent on Earth had truly been happy. The first time had been a fake, the second time had been marred by half truths and unspoken words.
None of it mattered now except one thing.
Rain.
The path was clear of anyone else. This truly was a remote, quiet place. She held her hand out beyond the overhang, felt the drops splash on her palm, the water cool and inviting.
They had come here to get away from Moya and the others, away from little D’Argo for just a few days. And it had all sounded inviting more or less.
But…sometimes…all she wanted was peace and quiet and an opportunity to be alone. No demands, no conversation, no crying child, no sleepless nights. Fluid reduction was simple for her, if need be. She didn’t always need the emotional attachments. There was something to be said for not having to meet someone else’s desires as well.
She stepped onto the path, five, ten, twenty steps away from the tavern. Rain rolled off the tip of her nose, the strands of her hair. Her clothes clung to her body like a second skin.
She raised her face to the sky and opened her mouth, catching droplets like drink, hands outstretched and palms up.
She shivered slightly and smiled.
***
“Hey!” John awoke with a start, legs kicking the chair across from him as he reached for Winona. He sat up, wiping the drool and liquor off his face with the back of his hand.
He had a four alarm headache and no fire hose, one spilled drink, a crindar on the table, and no wife.
“Hey!” he said again. He leveraged himself to his feet, head screaming, mouth dry as cotton. “Where the hell’s my wife?”
The creature at the bar who looked like something out of the Star Wars cantina, now that he thought about it, waved all four arms like a Ganesh. One arm went up, palm down, to indicate height. The other moved from the top of his head to about just past his shoulder as the creature gracefully shook his head back like he was shaking back hair.
“Missee, yes?” he said.
“Huh? Um…yeah. My wife?” John held up his own hand to about the level of his nose. “Yay big, um, tall…”
The third arm pointed towards the door. “She go. You owe 2 crindars.”
“Yeah, sure, buddy, whatever.” John fished into his pockets and pulled out some currency then laid it on the table. “Sorry about the mess.”
The fourth arm snapped out like an extension ladder and plucked the money off the table. John leanded back, just out of reach, head screaming.
Okay. That he had not expected.
“Cool.” He nodded at the barkeep and started outside, Winona out of her holster and securely in his hands as he pushed his way out the door.
She stood in the center of the pathway like a statue. He could just make out her profile, watched as the rain streamed off her hair in rivulets.
He stood transfixed as well, felt that familiar pull in his gut as he put Winona back in the holster. Aeryn’s face was relaxed, almost as if she was sleeping. Her eyes and mouth were closed but there was a grin on her face that sleeplessness and motherhood had done a relatively good job of erasing these past few months.
He saw her take a deep breath and then she turned towards him, opening her eyes. She took a step back in surprise but didn’t seem particularly concerned to find him there.
“Hey,” she said as she walked towards him.
“Hey.”
“So…you’re awake, then. I promised the barkeep…”
“He’s all paid for.” He reached out his hand and she took it then pulled him forward, into the rain.
“No sense in letting it all go to waste.” She locked him into an embrace, the water from her soaked clothing plastering her to him.
Blame it on the rain.
#END#