Farscape Potluck Ficathon fic
Written for pellucid and her prompt "D'Argo and Chiana between BT and PKW". Isa, I had it plotted out in my head but when I started writing, Rygel took over my brain. Sorry! Squint, hon. Squint and maybe you'll see your quote: "What we call the beginning is often the end/ And to make an end is to make a beginning./The end is where we start from." (T. S. Elliot, "Little Gidding", 1943)
Title: The Boat, although the working title was Crap then Crap 2.0 and the final title is Crap 3.0
Author: scrubschick
Characters: Rygel, D'Argo/Chiana, Stark, Noranti and an unnamed guest.
Setting: Immediately following BT
Rating: G
Length: 1150 words.
Beta props: Huge thanks to simplystars who forced this thing into submission like a dominatrix with a new whip, and to cretkid who offered suggestions and laughed at the working title. You guys are the best. It is a much better fic for your efforts. Stars tested, CK approved.
The Boat
In the end, it had been Rygel’s task.
Luxans didn’t swim, the Nebari was blind for the foreseeable future, Stark was even less sane than usual, and Noranti would drown from the weight of wet skirts. The benefit of that, aside from the obvious, would be that at least he would be rid of her stench. But with the old witch gone, someone else would need to prepare his meals and, well, the Luxan didn’t cook, Chiana was blind, and Stark was even more farbot than usual.
They argued, squabbling like children, standing on the observation deck as all but Chiana watched the tiny boat drift farther away from Moya, bobbing gently in the swells of the tepid sea. D’Argo had tried a harpoon rifle fitted with a grappling hook but by the time the first rush of anguish had subsided and thoughts of recovery arose, the boat Crichton had so determinedly rowed away from the Leviathan for “just a little privacy, okay, Sparky?” had floated out of reach. The Luxan had been prepared to attempt the swim, reasoning that if he sank he could simply hold his breath while he walked to the boat, but then there was the problem of retrieval if he was standing on the bottom of the shallow sea with the boat floating metras overhead.
In either case, swimming or walking, Chiana forbade the attempt.
“No, D’Argo! I can’t… I can’t lose you, too!”
“Can’t lose you, too!” echoed Stark, popping up beside her like a puppet.
“Aeryn, Crichton, and my eyes!” she continued. “No! Not you, too.”
“My eyes! Not you, too!”
“Shut up, Stark!” she shrieked, and he cowered away from her as she swung at him, clipping D’Argo on the arm instead with her roundhouse punch. “There’s nothing wrong with your eye, fek-face!”
She stumbled and would have fallen but for D’Argo who pulled her into his arms, soothing her. “Okay. Okay. We’ll think of something else. Shhhh.” Chiana wrapped her arms around him and clung to him like a Hynerian leech.
D’Argo next tried to coax Stark into attempting the task but the Banik worked himself into a frenzy, cowering in a corner, hands over his ears and shrieking “Can’t swim, can’t swim, can’t swim!” By then, the boat was barely visible at that distance in the fading light.
Noranti regarded Rygel expectantly but said nothing, her thoughts plain on her face. He turned his back on her and maneuvered his chair to the other side of the deck but was dismayed to find this position gave him a clear view of the boat bobbing gently from side to side, still drifting away.
“What about your ship?” he asked. “Couldn’t you just fly it over there and pick up the boat?”
“No,” said D’Argo, shaking his head. “She was designed for speed and destruction in space, not a water rescue. I could blow it up but I can’t retrieve it.”
Rygel stared out at the boat and sighed, shaking his head at the inequity of it all. Then, grounding his throne sled, he pulled his nobility around himself and, shedding his robe and sense of entitlement, he slipped into the darkling sea to do what must be done.
Ungainly and overbearing on dry surfaces, the amphibious monarch was lithe and, in these unfamiliar waters, diffident, eyeing its denizens with caution, wondering where were the creatures that dined on the Hynerian-sized and whether he could outswim or outwit them. He regretted that the throne sled was insufficiently powered to tow the boat and hoped that he had the strength for the job.
But it was good to swim again. The taste of the water was different from the pools where he and his offspring had been spawned, but the density was almost identical and, had it not been for the somber situation, he would have completely enjoyed his weightlessness. He swam just above the subsurface layer of vegetation, which camouflaged him from below and was near enough to flee to if threatened from above. Closing his eyes, he could almost believe himself home at last, enjoying his nightly moonlight swim with his wives, concubines, and children, quite the contrast to his last swim on Aeryn’s behalf, through the dark frozen waters of a snowbound planet.
He felt the vibrations of something large swimming beneath him and froze, instinctively curling into a ball as his eyes scanned for threat. “Small, unassuming, not tasty at all!” he muttered to himself, wishing he could broadcast the thought. He spotted the creature, quickly gauging the line of the snout and the shape of the torso to determine whether this was predator or prey. It was a young herbivore grazing on the floating greenery below and it startled, disappearing when it caught sight of him with a speed its bulk made improbable. He chuckled inwardly at his own apparent menace, then looked about uneasily, wondering if in fact it had been him the creature evaded. Sensing nothing else nearby, he surfaced briefly to check on the tiny boat’s position and found he had arrived. He came up at the tail, and, placing both hands on the skiff, kicked for all he was worth, turning it back toward Moya, lit in the darkness by her natural phosphorescence, and glowing in welcome.
He took them home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do you think it hurt?” Chiana asked him later, cradling D’Argo’s head on her shoulder. The final proof of their loss had brought fresh tears but their sobbing faded quickly and her quiet question could be heard by them all.
Rygel hovered nearby, wanting to comfort and to be comforted but unable to accept either role. “Did what hurt?” he asked, gently fingering the jewel-like remains of his friends, hoping the rough quality of his voice would be taken for gruffness and not heartache.
“When they… You know. When they died. When Crichton and Aeryn were shot. Do you think… did it look like it hurt?”
He frowned, considering her question and even D’Argo seemed to pause, awaiting his answer. Death hadn’t been welcome, he thought. It seldom was. But its presence had been almost unobtrusive in the end in a way that Crichton and Aeryn had never been in life.
“No,” he said at last. “They were together and completely focused on each other. They never knew what happened. They’d never been happier.” He glanced out into the night, reliving that quiet moment he’d seen before the end, their lips and bodies twined together. “They were going to be married and have a child and they’d never been happier,” he repeated, assured. “To die in a moment of such joy and never know another microt of pain is a blessing.”
Chiana was quiet for a moment, considering. “Thanks, Rygel. You know. For going out there. For bringing them home.” She reached out a hand to him and he took it, comforted.
Title: The Boat, although the working title was Crap then Crap 2.0 and the final title is Crap 3.0
Author: scrubschick
Characters: Rygel, D'Argo/Chiana, Stark, Noranti and an unnamed guest.
Setting: Immediately following BT
Rating: G
Length: 1150 words.
Beta props: Huge thanks to simplystars who forced this thing into submission like a dominatrix with a new whip, and to cretkid who offered suggestions and laughed at the working title. You guys are the best. It is a much better fic for your efforts. Stars tested, CK approved.
The Boat
In the end, it had been Rygel’s task.
Luxans didn’t swim, the Nebari was blind for the foreseeable future, Stark was even less sane than usual, and Noranti would drown from the weight of wet skirts. The benefit of that, aside from the obvious, would be that at least he would be rid of her stench. But with the old witch gone, someone else would need to prepare his meals and, well, the Luxan didn’t cook, Chiana was blind, and Stark was even more farbot than usual.
They argued, squabbling like children, standing on the observation deck as all but Chiana watched the tiny boat drift farther away from Moya, bobbing gently in the swells of the tepid sea. D’Argo had tried a harpoon rifle fitted with a grappling hook but by the time the first rush of anguish had subsided and thoughts of recovery arose, the boat Crichton had so determinedly rowed away from the Leviathan for “just a little privacy, okay, Sparky?” had floated out of reach. The Luxan had been prepared to attempt the swim, reasoning that if he sank he could simply hold his breath while he walked to the boat, but then there was the problem of retrieval if he was standing on the bottom of the shallow sea with the boat floating metras overhead.
In either case, swimming or walking, Chiana forbade the attempt.
“No, D’Argo! I can’t… I can’t lose you, too!”
“Can’t lose you, too!” echoed Stark, popping up beside her like a puppet.
“Aeryn, Crichton, and my eyes!” she continued. “No! Not you, too.”
“My eyes! Not you, too!”
“Shut up, Stark!” she shrieked, and he cowered away from her as she swung at him, clipping D’Argo on the arm instead with her roundhouse punch. “There’s nothing wrong with your eye, fek-face!”
She stumbled and would have fallen but for D’Argo who pulled her into his arms, soothing her. “Okay. Okay. We’ll think of something else. Shhhh.” Chiana wrapped her arms around him and clung to him like a Hynerian leech.
D’Argo next tried to coax Stark into attempting the task but the Banik worked himself into a frenzy, cowering in a corner, hands over his ears and shrieking “Can’t swim, can’t swim, can’t swim!” By then, the boat was barely visible at that distance in the fading light.
Noranti regarded Rygel expectantly but said nothing, her thoughts plain on her face. He turned his back on her and maneuvered his chair to the other side of the deck but was dismayed to find this position gave him a clear view of the boat bobbing gently from side to side, still drifting away.
“What about your ship?” he asked. “Couldn’t you just fly it over there and pick up the boat?”
“No,” said D’Argo, shaking his head. “She was designed for speed and destruction in space, not a water rescue. I could blow it up but I can’t retrieve it.”
Rygel stared out at the boat and sighed, shaking his head at the inequity of it all. Then, grounding his throne sled, he pulled his nobility around himself and, shedding his robe and sense of entitlement, he slipped into the darkling sea to do what must be done.
Ungainly and overbearing on dry surfaces, the amphibious monarch was lithe and, in these unfamiliar waters, diffident, eyeing its denizens with caution, wondering where were the creatures that dined on the Hynerian-sized and whether he could outswim or outwit them. He regretted that the throne sled was insufficiently powered to tow the boat and hoped that he had the strength for the job.
But it was good to swim again. The taste of the water was different from the pools where he and his offspring had been spawned, but the density was almost identical and, had it not been for the somber situation, he would have completely enjoyed his weightlessness. He swam just above the subsurface layer of vegetation, which camouflaged him from below and was near enough to flee to if threatened from above. Closing his eyes, he could almost believe himself home at last, enjoying his nightly moonlight swim with his wives, concubines, and children, quite the contrast to his last swim on Aeryn’s behalf, through the dark frozen waters of a snowbound planet.
He felt the vibrations of something large swimming beneath him and froze, instinctively curling into a ball as his eyes scanned for threat. “Small, unassuming, not tasty at all!” he muttered to himself, wishing he could broadcast the thought. He spotted the creature, quickly gauging the line of the snout and the shape of the torso to determine whether this was predator or prey. It was a young herbivore grazing on the floating greenery below and it startled, disappearing when it caught sight of him with a speed its bulk made improbable. He chuckled inwardly at his own apparent menace, then looked about uneasily, wondering if in fact it had been him the creature evaded. Sensing nothing else nearby, he surfaced briefly to check on the tiny boat’s position and found he had arrived. He came up at the tail, and, placing both hands on the skiff, kicked for all he was worth, turning it back toward Moya, lit in the darkness by her natural phosphorescence, and glowing in welcome.
He took them home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do you think it hurt?” Chiana asked him later, cradling D’Argo’s head on her shoulder. The final proof of their loss had brought fresh tears but their sobbing faded quickly and her quiet question could be heard by them all.
Rygel hovered nearby, wanting to comfort and to be comforted but unable to accept either role. “Did what hurt?” he asked, gently fingering the jewel-like remains of his friends, hoping the rough quality of his voice would be taken for gruffness and not heartache.
“When they… You know. When they died. When Crichton and Aeryn were shot. Do you think… did it look like it hurt?”
He frowned, considering her question and even D’Argo seemed to pause, awaiting his answer. Death hadn’t been welcome, he thought. It seldom was. But its presence had been almost unobtrusive in the end in a way that Crichton and Aeryn had never been in life.
“No,” he said at last. “They were together and completely focused on each other. They never knew what happened. They’d never been happier.” He glanced out into the night, reliving that quiet moment he’d seen before the end, their lips and bodies twined together. “They were going to be married and have a child and they’d never been happier,” he repeated, assured. “To die in a moment of such joy and never know another microt of pain is a blessing.”
Chiana was quiet for a moment, considering. “Thanks, Rygel. You know. For going out there. For bringing them home.” She reached out a hand to him and he took it, comforted.