Fic: Symbiote Dreams: Five Things John Crichton is Thankful For
This month I was in charge of picking the Starburst Challenge over at Terra Firma. After toying with a Shakespearean challenge, I settled on a theme more in tune with the season: Gratitude.
Having read many a five things meme over here in LiveJournal country, I decided to write a Five Things Meme for John Crichton on the subject of Gratitude. The result was this story, "Symbiote Dreams: Five Things John Crichton is Thankful For." As usual, I don't own Farscape and these wonderful characters. I'm just having some fun.
One thing I know I would be thankful for is comments on this story. So, please, if you like this story, comment.
Symbiote Dreams:
Five Things John Crichton is Thankful For
For as long as he could remember he’d dreaded the semi-annual trip to the dentist-the metal probe scraping along teeth and gums, the smell of antiseptic and mint and burning enamel over the high pitched whine of the drill while he lay prostrate in the chair. Cavity prone teeth. That’s what the dentist told his mother after finding four new cavities on his eighth birthday. He had a mouth full of mercury fillings by age twelve. It was a good thing IASA didn’t require perfect teeth or he’d have never made it into the program.
Now he was back on earth, reclining in another chair, his mouth wide open while a dentist poked and scraped. It took some getting used to-a fat slimy worm crawling around his mouth gave him the willies-but there was an upside: he was cavity free.
~ * ~ * ~
He’d been the stranger in a strange land. A neophyte. An imbecile. Hell, he couldn’t figure out how to open the damned doors on his own. But it could have been much worse. He would have been nothing more than a trained monkey without the ability to communicate. At least with their help he had the chance to bridge some of the chasms that separated him from the others.
Of course there were limitations. No swear words or idioms. Metaphor was meaningless without a common reference and what did he have in common with a warrior, a priestess, a deposed frog prince, or an exiled commando. But the years-the cycles-proved otherwise. And what really mattered was something that transcended language-friendship, sacrifice, honor, love-and became their common tongue.
~ * ~ * ~
She’d been his first refuge, the first one to shelter him in this crazy-assed end of the universe. It never ceased to amaze him that he lived in the belly of the whale, floating in an ocean of stars. He loved to walk alone through her endless halls, trace his hand along her warm walls, talk to her about his day and listen for any change in the slow rumble of her engine or the blink of a DRD’s eye; and he’d wonder if she ever regretted the decision to bring him on board.
He was dangerous cargo.
Because of him she’d been hunted, burned, speared and boarded. Because of him she’d broken her vows of non-violence and let him bring peace through breaking a world to pieces. She hadn’t asked him to leave since and it humbled him to think that such a beautiful creature would consent to be his home.
~ * ~ * ~
A wormhole shot him across the galaxy, tossed him unprepared and defenseless into a pitched battle. A second wormhole took him to a counterfeit earth, complete with alien autopsy and alienation and the unconscious knowledge to navigate and manipulate wormholes, not to mention a bulls eye tattooed to his butt. A third wormhole opened and the Pathfinders’ ship pierced Moya’s side, nearly killing her and Pilot; their lives bought with Zhaan’s. Wormholes brought Scorpius and Scarrans and Peacekeepers all after the Holy Grail he carried in his head. Another wormhole brought him home, along with a green space monster that left DK and Laura dead.
But he’d do it all again. Wormholes brought him to her. Again.
~ * ~ * ~
He often found it impossible to find the words for what she meant to him. It was more than romantic love-though there was plenty of that. She was bedrock. She was breath and sunlight, food and water. And he knew that despite hell and fire, despite dying and living and fighting, despite empires raging against them, she had his back and he hers.
Love songs were inadequate. No sonnet however well crafted could delve the depths of his feelings. Only action-terrifying action.
There may be a limit to what he would do for her, but he hadn’t found it yet.
~ the end ~