Fic: Gratitude
It seems my Farscape "muse" has finally graduated from drabble to vignette. Any longer and I'm going to have to hunt down a Farscape beta. (Which is to say, then, that this ficlet has not been betaed--fair warning.)
Title: Gratitude
Spoilers: takes place between "Self-Inflicted Wounds" and "Different Destinations"; probably helps if you're familiar with all of season 3
She finds him just outside the town, sitting on the ground, staring across the vivid meadow. The blades of grass are light purple on one side, deep indigo on the other, and as the breeze ripples across the field, Aeryn is reminded of the great body of water on Nimta Prime. John is probably thinking of the ocean on the false Earth, but the color is wrong. Pale yellow flowers dot the view at irregular intervals. She sits down beside him, shoulders touching.
"Hey," he says softly.
"We've got everything we need for Moya's repairs. D'Argo wants to go back soon."
He nods. "I didn't hear you comm me."
"I didn't."
Neither of them makes any motion to get up. After a few microts, John takes her hand and threads his fingers through hers. This is the sort of planet he loves-warm suns, fresh breeze, plenty of vegetation-and she wishes they had found it under different circumstances. She prefers the emptiness of space, but still, it might have been nice, peaceful even, to stay for a couple of solar days.
"This place would have been just right for her, wouldn't it?" His voice is tight as it breaks the silence. "All these plants."
"Pilot didn't say," she replies. No point in a reminder that they had been too late. But probably, yes, she thinks. It would have been perfect.
Aeryn suddenly feels helpless and weighed down by the planet's gravity. She tries to extract her hand, to get up, to go back to Moya to do something useful, but John tightens his grip. "Frell," she mutters, at him, at herself, at Zhaan.
"'S not your fault, babe." His voice is deceptively calm, but she can see the strain in the taut muscles of his neck. "It was her choice. She knew what she was doing."
"I wouldn't have let her do it. I wish I could have stopped her."
"I know it's selfish, but I wouldn't have let you stop her, Aeryn. Not that I could have done anything about it just then." He sighs. "And then I screwed it up again with Nialla and the wormhole."
"We're frelling useless, Crichton." She rests her cheek against his shoulder. "You couldn't stop Scorpius's neural clone, I couldn't stop you, and neither of us could stop Zhaan from throwing away her life for us. I told her it was a bad trade."
One of the planet's suns slides out from behind the clouds that had been shielding it, and Aeryn squints against the brightness. The temperature rises quickly, and she fights a wave of nausea as a trickle of sweat runs down the back of her neck. She's absurdly glad they're leaving anyway, that it won't be the heat and her weakness that prevents John from staying.
"It's like being born, I guess," John muses after more microts of silence. She's used to his non sequiturs by now, so she simply waits to see whether the explanation will make any sense. "Nobody asks to be born, you know? And sometimes I think everything would have been a lot easier if I hadn't been. Woulda saved a lot of folks a lot of grief. But it wasn't up to me, and I can't take it back. It was my parents' choice, and I've got to honor that."
Aeryn lifts her head and studies his profile, the familiar lines backlit by the glare of the double suns.
"Zhaan gave you life. And she gave me a reason to live. Like a parent." He pauses. "I don't know whether it was a bad trade or not, but it was her trade to make."
"But your parents didn't give up their lives for you to be born," she counters. "I'm not worth that much."
"Not all parents have to sacrifice so much," he concedes. "But some do. Zhaan loved you. She wanted you to live. I'm glad she did."
She has no response that she hasn't already given. She has no response that would make any difference. Her whole life she's held on to a shard of a memory: a mother who wanted her to be born. That secret always tasted like hope, like flying free. Suddenly it's death and helplessness instead, and she imagines a figure-a woman she barely remembers merged with a familiar Delvian priest-falling from the sky and disappearing in a frozen lake. She shivers despite the heat.
Her comm crackles to life. "John, Aeryn, where the frell are you?"
"Coming, D'Argo," she replies. She releases John's hand and stands up.
He stands slowly, scanning the horizon as if committing it to memory. Then he stoops down again to pluck one of the flowers, which he hands to her. Up close it has no color at all.
Title: Gratitude
Spoilers: takes place between "Self-Inflicted Wounds" and "Different Destinations"; probably helps if you're familiar with all of season 3
She finds him just outside the town, sitting on the ground, staring across the vivid meadow. The blades of grass are light purple on one side, deep indigo on the other, and as the breeze ripples across the field, Aeryn is reminded of the great body of water on Nimta Prime. John is probably thinking of the ocean on the false Earth, but the color is wrong. Pale yellow flowers dot the view at irregular intervals. She sits down beside him, shoulders touching.
"Hey," he says softly.
"We've got everything we need for Moya's repairs. D'Argo wants to go back soon."
He nods. "I didn't hear you comm me."
"I didn't."
Neither of them makes any motion to get up. After a few microts, John takes her hand and threads his fingers through hers. This is the sort of planet he loves-warm suns, fresh breeze, plenty of vegetation-and she wishes they had found it under different circumstances. She prefers the emptiness of space, but still, it might have been nice, peaceful even, to stay for a couple of solar days.
"This place would have been just right for her, wouldn't it?" His voice is tight as it breaks the silence. "All these plants."
"Pilot didn't say," she replies. No point in a reminder that they had been too late. But probably, yes, she thinks. It would have been perfect.
Aeryn suddenly feels helpless and weighed down by the planet's gravity. She tries to extract her hand, to get up, to go back to Moya to do something useful, but John tightens his grip. "Frell," she mutters, at him, at herself, at Zhaan.
"'S not your fault, babe." His voice is deceptively calm, but she can see the strain in the taut muscles of his neck. "It was her choice. She knew what she was doing."
"I wouldn't have let her do it. I wish I could have stopped her."
"I know it's selfish, but I wouldn't have let you stop her, Aeryn. Not that I could have done anything about it just then." He sighs. "And then I screwed it up again with Nialla and the wormhole."
"We're frelling useless, Crichton." She rests her cheek against his shoulder. "You couldn't stop Scorpius's neural clone, I couldn't stop you, and neither of us could stop Zhaan from throwing away her life for us. I told her it was a bad trade."
One of the planet's suns slides out from behind the clouds that had been shielding it, and Aeryn squints against the brightness. The temperature rises quickly, and she fights a wave of nausea as a trickle of sweat runs down the back of her neck. She's absurdly glad they're leaving anyway, that it won't be the heat and her weakness that prevents John from staying.
"It's like being born, I guess," John muses after more microts of silence. She's used to his non sequiturs by now, so she simply waits to see whether the explanation will make any sense. "Nobody asks to be born, you know? And sometimes I think everything would have been a lot easier if I hadn't been. Woulda saved a lot of folks a lot of grief. But it wasn't up to me, and I can't take it back. It was my parents' choice, and I've got to honor that."
Aeryn lifts her head and studies his profile, the familiar lines backlit by the glare of the double suns.
"Zhaan gave you life. And she gave me a reason to live. Like a parent." He pauses. "I don't know whether it was a bad trade or not, but it was her trade to make."
"But your parents didn't give up their lives for you to be born," she counters. "I'm not worth that much."
"Not all parents have to sacrifice so much," he concedes. "But some do. Zhaan loved you. She wanted you to live. I'm glad she did."
She has no response that she hasn't already given. She has no response that would make any difference. Her whole life she's held on to a shard of a memory: a mother who wanted her to be born. That secret always tasted like hope, like flying free. Suddenly it's death and helplessness instead, and she imagines a figure-a woman she barely remembers merged with a familiar Delvian priest-falling from the sky and disappearing in a frozen lake. She shivers despite the heat.
Her comm crackles to life. "John, Aeryn, where the frell are you?"
"Coming, D'Argo," she replies. She releases John's hand and stands up.
He stands slowly, scanning the horizon as if committing it to memory. Then he stoops down again to pluck one of the flowers, which he hands to her. Up close it has no color at all.