Farscape: The End [Paul is Dead Remix] (PG-13)
3600 words, written for remixredux08.
A remix of Carry That Weight by kernezelda.
AU, spoilers through 4.16 Bringing Home the Beacon
Summary: It should have been perfect, but everything went wrong.
The End (Paul is Dead Remix)
I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me
He’d been pathetically eager to see Aeryn again, to wrap her up in his arms and pull her close, burying his face in the shining fall of silky black hair, and to press his lips to the fluttering pulse point of her throat just below that curve of stubborn jaw. He meant to tell her all about the Froot-Loopy ridiculousness of Scorpy’s boy Katoya and his boy scout training camp from hell; John figured she would roll her eyes and shake her head in solemn disbelief, but he’d be able to spot that telltale twinkle in her eye, the minute twitch of good humor in her lips that she wouldn’t be able to completely suppress.
Together again, that was all that mattered and more than enough reason to be happy. They hadn’t had much practice at it, and John didn’t know quite what to make of this prodigal Aeryn, who was still lithe and sleek and dangerous but quieter, too, almost shy, as if unsure of herself around him. This Aeryn wore cherry-scented, pale pink lip gloss that lured him close, sniffing and scenting like a big cat, and drew his stare to her painted mouth - an exotic and perplexing statement from the ever-pragmatic Aeryn Sun. This Aeryn had worn jeans and watched Sesame Street and sat cross-legged on the sofa, looking through photo albums with his dad.
This Aeryn seemed to want John - want him.
He’d been terrified, when they had first reunited, by the changes and what they might mean, the long hair and the fever and the appalling sight of her, weak-kneed and trembling and dying in Scorpy’s jury-rigged coolant suit; but Aeryn had stuck close, even when he pushed her away. She’d taken his crap but then she’d pushed back, too, grabbed his chin and forced him to look her in the eye, called him on the lakka. She’d fought for him - a subtle, patient war, unlike the Aeryn Sun of old who might’ve just pinned him to the workout mat and sat on him until he cried uncle and spilled his guts.
Though, John had to admit, he really wouldn’t mind Aeryn sitting on him - anywhere, anyplace, anytime. His hands itched to be on her skin, to trace the swell of her hip with a bare palm; to tangle themselves up and around and in the curtain of dark tresses until his knobby knuckles brushed against the hidden nape of her neck.
So he waited for her to round the bend in the corridor, to welcome her back to Moya. Back to him. Back home.
It should have been perfect, but everything went wrong.
He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land
making all his nowhere plans for nobody.
Doesn’t have a point of view, knows not where he’s going to…
Nowhere man, the world is at your command.
Sikozu whispers to Scorpius. John doesn’t really care what they’re conspiring about, and he knows that D’Argo doesn’t trust either of them, so it’s not much of a surprise when John discovers that 1812 has been fitted out for covert ops.
D’Argo stops by before every sleep cycle, relates the events of the day and ignores the fact that John lies spread-eagle on the floor of Command, or sits tucked away in a tiny alcove on tier seven, or curled into the cockpit of Aeryn’s prowler. Wherever John ends up, D’Argo finds him and gives him the ol’ captain’s log with a synopsis of 1812’s surveillance detail.
So John knows that Sikozu is becoming increasingly frustrated, that she believes - and strongly opines - that they should be doing something about Grayza. They should send a message to PK high command, or mount a rescue effort, or whip up some crazy scheme of shenanigans to derail the Scarrans’ plan for intergalactic conquest.
It vexes her to the extreme, as evidenced by regular and predictable fits of temper, that no one aside from Scorpius shares her opinion. Rygel takes to pre-emptive farting whenever she draws near, Chi hides behind Noranti’s smelly skirts, and D’Argo just growls. Pilot flatly forbids her permission to enter the den and minimizes communication with her whenever possible.
Sikozu keeps her wits about her, though. She knows better than to try to talk to John… or even to approach him at all. But she’s stubborn and determined, and John knows what can be accomplished by relentless chipping away, the drip drip drip of just a single drop of water over time on even the most solid object.
Yeah, John knows all about erosion.
Oh darling, please believe me - I’ll never do you no harm
Believe me when I tell you I’ll never do you no harm
Oh darling, if you leave me, I’ll never make it alone
Believe me when I beg you, don’t ever leave me alone
They all agreed that Rygel’s eulogy had been beautiful. Pilot expected the compliment would puff up the Dominar’s already considerable ego, leave him smug and self-congratulatory, but found instead a rather subdued Hynerian hovering over the console near his far left claw. Pilot considered engaging him in conversation, but after brief consultation with Moya, left Rygel to speak or remain silent as he chose.
It wasn’t until Rygel withdrew a heavily jeweled goblet from his robes, raised it to his lips and took a lip-smacking gulp - followed by a hiccup and what sounded suspiciously like a choked-back sob - that Pilot realized to his dismay that the Dominar was intoxicated.
I am three sheets to the proverbial solar winds, my little frog prince. I am drunk as a skunk - which, believe it or not, still smells better than you, Ryge my man, Crichton had giggled over the clamshell in the early stages of his disastrous banishment to Lomo.
“Shouldn’t have to do this twice,” Rygel slurred. “Not frelling fair.”
Pilot paused for the merest fraction of a microt, recalling with vivid detail the effort made to recover Aeryn Sun from the depths of a frozen lake. How, as Crichton raved and spouted gibberish, and hurled himself in a frenzy against his restraints until Zhaan had rendered him unconscious, it had been the Dominar who slipped into the icy waves and dove down, and down, down so deep to where Aeryn drifted lifelessly, strapped to her jump seat.
Rygel had cut her free and brought her back to the surface. As he waited for the others to take charge of her body, the crusty Hynerian had bowed his head close to her ear and whispered a brief but poignant farewell, full of regret and sorrow, unaware that his comms broadcast every unexpectedly tender word into Pilot’s den.
Pilot had silenced the transmitter immediately, unwilling to intrude further upon such a private moment. As it was, he’d needed a microt himself to recover his equilibrium before turning his attention to what else must be done.
“Stupid human,” Rygel grumbled, taking another swig, mindless of the rich red wine that dribbled down his chin and stained the velvet neckline of his best robe. The hoverchair hummed and weaved ominously; Pilot kept a wary eye on its proximity to his carapace. “Frelling unlucky probacto. I told him - I told him, Pilot, that he should let her go.”
“Regrettably, it appears that he was unwilling to take your advice,” Pilot murmured, swiping one of his smaller claws just under his eyes. “Or perhaps he tried, but was unable to do so.”
What remained unspoken between them was simply the truth: that Aeryn Sun appeared every dench as incapable of leaving John Crichton - even for her own good.
Would you believe in a love at first sight?
Yes I’m certain that it happens all the time.
What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine.
I get by with a little help from my friends - get high with a little help
from my friends. Gonna try with a little help from my friends…
Afterward - arn after arn, day after day - Chiana and D’Argo shadow his steps. Noranti offers potions; John assumes Pilot monitors him too but can’t bring himself to care much. He accepts the babysitting with preoccupied resignation, willingly ingests every pill and brew the old witch concocts, though nothing eases the all-encompassing ache of emptiness that spreads outward from the wreckage that was his heart.
He’s bleeding to death inside his own skin, mal sanguine draining from the tattered remnants of a once full-to-overflowing organ, seeping away from his vitals and there’s no way to staunch the flow. John reckons it’s a gut-shot to his psyche and wonders if D’Argo might relent and deliver one bullet - just another kind of mercy killing - as a favor to a mortally wounded friend languishing on the battlefield of despair.
1812 stations himself in the doorway of Command, the center chamber, the amnexus chamber, the maintenance bay, Aeryn’s room, John’s room - their room, it was his and Aeryn’s room briefly, and it hurts like a punch in the gut every time he sets foot inside - even the fresher. Wherever John goes, his faithful sidekick doggedly keeps watch, whistling and tootling to himself in the melancholy minor keys.
“Good boy,” John tells him softly. After all, none of it is 1812’s fault. Or anyone’s fault, other than his own.
This time it’s all on him. Can’t blame Scorpius, can’t blame Harvey, can’t blame a chip in his head or insanity or confusion delusion hallucination -
Aeryn Sun died by his own hand.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darlin’, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Chiana wrapped the body, her tears staining the golden fabric. She made no move to wipe them away; instead, she lowered her forehead to Aeryn’s, nestling at her side half-atop the table, monotonously combing slim grey fingers through the carefully-brushed hair.
John nudged the privacy curtain aside a few denches to get a better view. He was supposed to be sleeping, but he’d overheard Chiana and D’Argo in consultation with Noranti in the center chamber and knew that the next drugs he’d get would knock him out - if he took them.
He figured he had four arns at least before Noranti woke up; it wasn’t like she’d known to dose herself with the antidote beforehand.
A muffled sob from Chi stole his breath away as a sympathetic pang of agony ripped through him from head to toe. Swallowing hard against the nausea roiling in his empty belly, John tightened his clammy fingers convulsively around the bars of the door, clinging desperately to keep himself upright.
He gasped and panted as noiselessly as he could manage, his mantra of counting each inhalation and exhalation interrupted by the idle thought that they’d done a good job of cleaning the blood and bone and cartilage
and grey matter, don’t forget the brains, braaaaaaaaaaains, John, you blew Aeryn’s brains out, what are you going to do now…?
from Aeryn’s hair. And he’d clearly underestimated Pip’s courage, not for the first time. It couldn’t be easy to gaze upon the ruined half of what remained of Aeryn’s face, what hadn’t been blown away by the force of a pulse blast at point-blank range.
He could probably calculate the physics involved in that, if he tried. He had plenty of blood to spare and a wide bare floor in what used to be his quarters - he couldn’t sleep there anymore. He couldn’t sleep anywhere anymore, really, which had been a secondary motivation for Noranti’s latest batch of miracle powder.
No sleep for the wicked, no rest for the weary - there was only waiting, waiting for Chi to pull herself together and leave the body so he could have the room, have Aeryn one last time for one last night, all to himself, all his. To nuzzle the sweet spot behind her ear and rest his warm, shaking hand on her cold, flat belly.
To offer his apology one final time, too little too late, inadequate as always. Second chances, third chances, so very many chances and all of them wasted, everything come to this, devastation wrought by his hand and his gun. The last words Aeryn had heard had been those of his betrayal
What about the baby? Where’s the baby? Whose baby is it? Who’s the daddy, Aeryn? Say ‘baby,’ Aeryn…
just as her frantic, wide-eyed darting glance had shown a circle of grim-faced and suspicious supposed-to-be-friends surrounding her, as her lover drew his weapon, aimed it straight at her face -
Where’s Aeryn, Aeryn?
and with the slight pressure of a single finger, made the biggest mistake of their lives.
Here I stand, head in hand, turn my face to the wall
If she’s gone I can’t go on
Aeryn might have made him suck it up and deal - once upon a time. But she went away, and came back with secrets, and now her silence is forever.
She will never wear his mother’s diamond on her finger; John will never hold their son or daughter in his arms. He will not wake to their bodies entwined together, snug under the blankets with a lazy good-morning smile spreading from her face to his, contagious as any space flu.
She will not cradle him between her thighs, arms embracing him fiercely as he shudders and shakes and finds release and pleasure in her body, mouthing a silent I love you when he comes. He will never again bring her to the edge of climax over and over, teasing with fingers and tongue and husky words of passion and love breathed into her ear, sentiments she once scoffed at, derided as weak and inferior but inextricably part of his human makeup that perhaps she came to cherish.
Aeryn’s body will be burned, her ashes scattered in the Leviathan sacred space beside Talyn. Aeryn will never grow rounded and heavy with child; she will be spared the indignity of waddling and the discomfort of morning sickness. D’Argo will not take a wistful interest in the progress of her gravid state, will never have the opportunity to impart gems of paternal wisdom or give piggy-back rides or be Uncle D’Argo.
Jack Crichton will never be a grandfather. John Crichton will never be a husband. He cannot say that he will never be a father, but those circumstances are beyond his control.
There is one surety, he knows, and it is this: that his days will forever be lonely, even if he is not alone; that he will forever be guilty, even if it was all a terrible, tragic mistake; that as long as he has wormhole knowledge, he will always be a danger to himself and others.
No exceptions to that rule.
You say you want a revolution, well, you know
we all want to change the world…
But when you talk about destruction,
don’t you know that you can count me out
Scorpius stands at the door; John feels nothing. He’s pleasantly numb from whatever Noranti dosed him with this time; it might have smelled and tasted like rancid socks, but it gave him enough of a buzz to finally be able to think, to work out what he needs to do.
“It’s time to go,” Scorpius says.
John shrugs and follows without fuss. “The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,” he recites from memory, eyes on his boots and not the armor-clad back before him. “Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun…”
He’s too broken to go back, too brittle to keep going. He’s Apocalypse Now in leather and boots, and for all of Scorpy’s techno-gadget wizardry, the freak must not have a doomsday detector, because he’s still fucking oblivious to the fact that John’s non compos mentis.
Well, more so than usual. Deeply - like to the power of infinity plus one. John can’t quite wrap his head around it, but he’s grasped enough toward the edges to realize that in this scenario he is the pooch, and he is screwed beyond belief.
Because if John stays on Moya, if he’s forced to plod through day after solar day slowly bleeding out from the gaping, aching, fist-sized wound just below his rib where his helpmeet was ripped away, torn asunder in the blink of an eye by his own stupidity, he fears - no, he’s certain - that the degree of his self-loathing will come to be matched only by his capacity to hate. To hate the Scarrans and Peacekeepers, to loathe Grayza and Scorpius and war minister Ahkna; to despise Einstein and the Ancients for saddling him with a responsibility he’s not clever enough, sure enough, man enough to handle.
He can’t carry that much weight; a not-so-tiny straw named Harvey broke his back once already, shredded his reason and shattered his sanity into jagged-edged shards that never fit back together quite right. John’s a beast - no doubt about that now - but he’s no camel; he should’ve known that poorly-healed vertebrae would fail again when subjected to even a meager burden. Would crumple spectacularly in a horrific fashion beyond even his own worst imaginings.
Step on a crack, break Aeryn’s back. Wring her neck, crush her skull, shoot her in the face…
If he stays, he’ll snap. Again. For good, this time.
But he can’t go back to Earth, not without Aeryn. He’d never be able to look his dad in the eye, or Livvie, or idol-worshipping Bobby, and confess his crimes - Hey guys, turns out I’m really Adolph Fucking Hitler of the Uncharted Territories, who knew? And all I needed was a wormhole and a little bit of rage - they fucked me up and I killed Aeryn by mistake, and then I slaughtered the rest of them on purpose.
Because he is tempted; oh, so tempted. It would be justice. It would be biblical; it would be Human. An eye for an eye. Calling down the wrath of a wormhole’s eye strikes John as fair recompense for the ocean-grey orb he shot out of Aeryn Sun’s head.
John Crichton was here, motherfuckers.
Aeryn probably wouldn’t like it; that’s the only rationale that stayed his hand so far. Chi’s so mad she could chew nails - she spit on him once already - and D’Argo’s been stomping around in near hyper-rage for the past monen, ever since John started listening to Scorpius.
(Sikozu he still ignores, utterly. She got away, and Aeryn got caught - the crux of the mishap, the root of the confusion that cost him everything. John can think of nothing civil to say to her, cannot look at her without wanting to scream, to grab her and shake, shake so hard - so to him she no longer exists. He figures that, too, is a sort of justice for Aeryn.)
When they reach the maintenance bay, John hops up into the module while Scorpius clambers less elegantly after him. Pilot runs the checks John asks for, though he’s turned off visuals and the disapproval comes through loud and clear in his tone.
John can’t worry about any of that anymore. He fishes something out of his boot - a metallic disk, roughly the size of what was a half-dollar back on Earth - and tosses it lightly, catching it in his fist.
“What’s that, John?” Scorpius inquires behind him as John closes the canopy, verifies the integrity of the seal.
“Nothin’, grasshopper,” John replies easily, casually, before he’s pushed back in his seat by the g-forces of launch. “Just a little something for luck.”
Scorpius says nothing more, distracted by the pale blue gleam of a nascent wormhole-bubble against the black, star-dotted abyss of space.
John grins. “Ain’t you a beautiful thing,” he whispers.
He raises the oversized coin to his lips, brushes a kiss over the cold metal face. Two flips will see everything sorted. Two flips at most, because the first question is - live or die? Enter the wormhole on a hard angle and burn out, or exit through the rabbit hole?
John doesn’t think, given his luck with Fate, that he’ll get the easy out on the first toss. Hence the second and final question: will he suffer his loss and exact his vengeance, wipe the Scarrans and Peacekeepers from existence without a single regret… or will he go back instead, reset the timeline as many times as it takes, by any means necessary, and fuck the Ancients and their rippling consequences?
“Buckle up,” John says over his shoulder to Scorpius, with one last lingering look back at Moya. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
The coin arcs high in the air, and falls.
When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
And I stop and I turn and then I go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again
A remix of Carry That Weight by kernezelda.
AU, spoilers through 4.16 Bringing Home the Beacon
Summary: It should have been perfect, but everything went wrong.
The End (Paul is Dead Remix)
I once had a girl, or should I say she once had me
He’d been pathetically eager to see Aeryn again, to wrap her up in his arms and pull her close, burying his face in the shining fall of silky black hair, and to press his lips to the fluttering pulse point of her throat just below that curve of stubborn jaw. He meant to tell her all about the Froot-Loopy ridiculousness of Scorpy’s boy Katoya and his boy scout training camp from hell; John figured she would roll her eyes and shake her head in solemn disbelief, but he’d be able to spot that telltale twinkle in her eye, the minute twitch of good humor in her lips that she wouldn’t be able to completely suppress.
Together again, that was all that mattered and more than enough reason to be happy. They hadn’t had much practice at it, and John didn’t know quite what to make of this prodigal Aeryn, who was still lithe and sleek and dangerous but quieter, too, almost shy, as if unsure of herself around him. This Aeryn wore cherry-scented, pale pink lip gloss that lured him close, sniffing and scenting like a big cat, and drew his stare to her painted mouth - an exotic and perplexing statement from the ever-pragmatic Aeryn Sun. This Aeryn had worn jeans and watched Sesame Street and sat cross-legged on the sofa, looking through photo albums with his dad.
This Aeryn seemed to want John - want him.
He’d been terrified, when they had first reunited, by the changes and what they might mean, the long hair and the fever and the appalling sight of her, weak-kneed and trembling and dying in Scorpy’s jury-rigged coolant suit; but Aeryn had stuck close, even when he pushed her away. She’d taken his crap but then she’d pushed back, too, grabbed his chin and forced him to look her in the eye, called him on the lakka. She’d fought for him - a subtle, patient war, unlike the Aeryn Sun of old who might’ve just pinned him to the workout mat and sat on him until he cried uncle and spilled his guts.
Though, John had to admit, he really wouldn’t mind Aeryn sitting on him - anywhere, anyplace, anytime. His hands itched to be on her skin, to trace the swell of her hip with a bare palm; to tangle themselves up and around and in the curtain of dark tresses until his knobby knuckles brushed against the hidden nape of her neck.
So he waited for her to round the bend in the corridor, to welcome her back to Moya. Back to him. Back home.
It should have been perfect, but everything went wrong.
He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land
making all his nowhere plans for nobody.
Doesn’t have a point of view, knows not where he’s going to…
Nowhere man, the world is at your command.
Sikozu whispers to Scorpius. John doesn’t really care what they’re conspiring about, and he knows that D’Argo doesn’t trust either of them, so it’s not much of a surprise when John discovers that 1812 has been fitted out for covert ops.
D’Argo stops by before every sleep cycle, relates the events of the day and ignores the fact that John lies spread-eagle on the floor of Command, or sits tucked away in a tiny alcove on tier seven, or curled into the cockpit of Aeryn’s prowler. Wherever John ends up, D’Argo finds him and gives him the ol’ captain’s log with a synopsis of 1812’s surveillance detail.
So John knows that Sikozu is becoming increasingly frustrated, that she believes - and strongly opines - that they should be doing something about Grayza. They should send a message to PK high command, or mount a rescue effort, or whip up some crazy scheme of shenanigans to derail the Scarrans’ plan for intergalactic conquest.
It vexes her to the extreme, as evidenced by regular and predictable fits of temper, that no one aside from Scorpius shares her opinion. Rygel takes to pre-emptive farting whenever she draws near, Chi hides behind Noranti’s smelly skirts, and D’Argo just growls. Pilot flatly forbids her permission to enter the den and minimizes communication with her whenever possible.
Sikozu keeps her wits about her, though. She knows better than to try to talk to John… or even to approach him at all. But she’s stubborn and determined, and John knows what can be accomplished by relentless chipping away, the drip drip drip of just a single drop of water over time on even the most solid object.
Yeah, John knows all about erosion.
Oh darling, please believe me - I’ll never do you no harm
Believe me when I tell you I’ll never do you no harm
Oh darling, if you leave me, I’ll never make it alone
Believe me when I beg you, don’t ever leave me alone
They all agreed that Rygel’s eulogy had been beautiful. Pilot expected the compliment would puff up the Dominar’s already considerable ego, leave him smug and self-congratulatory, but found instead a rather subdued Hynerian hovering over the console near his far left claw. Pilot considered engaging him in conversation, but after brief consultation with Moya, left Rygel to speak or remain silent as he chose.
It wasn’t until Rygel withdrew a heavily jeweled goblet from his robes, raised it to his lips and took a lip-smacking gulp - followed by a hiccup and what sounded suspiciously like a choked-back sob - that Pilot realized to his dismay that the Dominar was intoxicated.
I am three sheets to the proverbial solar winds, my little frog prince. I am drunk as a skunk - which, believe it or not, still smells better than you, Ryge my man, Crichton had giggled over the clamshell in the early stages of his disastrous banishment to Lomo.
“Shouldn’t have to do this twice,” Rygel slurred. “Not frelling fair.”
Pilot paused for the merest fraction of a microt, recalling with vivid detail the effort made to recover Aeryn Sun from the depths of a frozen lake. How, as Crichton raved and spouted gibberish, and hurled himself in a frenzy against his restraints until Zhaan had rendered him unconscious, it had been the Dominar who slipped into the icy waves and dove down, and down, down so deep to where Aeryn drifted lifelessly, strapped to her jump seat.
Rygel had cut her free and brought her back to the surface. As he waited for the others to take charge of her body, the crusty Hynerian had bowed his head close to her ear and whispered a brief but poignant farewell, full of regret and sorrow, unaware that his comms broadcast every unexpectedly tender word into Pilot’s den.
Pilot had silenced the transmitter immediately, unwilling to intrude further upon such a private moment. As it was, he’d needed a microt himself to recover his equilibrium before turning his attention to what else must be done.
“Stupid human,” Rygel grumbled, taking another swig, mindless of the rich red wine that dribbled down his chin and stained the velvet neckline of his best robe. The hoverchair hummed and weaved ominously; Pilot kept a wary eye on its proximity to his carapace. “Frelling unlucky probacto. I told him - I told him, Pilot, that he should let her go.”
“Regrettably, it appears that he was unwilling to take your advice,” Pilot murmured, swiping one of his smaller claws just under his eyes. “Or perhaps he tried, but was unable to do so.”
What remained unspoken between them was simply the truth: that Aeryn Sun appeared every dench as incapable of leaving John Crichton - even for her own good.
Would you believe in a love at first sight?
Yes I’m certain that it happens all the time.
What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine.
I get by with a little help from my friends - get high with a little help
from my friends. Gonna try with a little help from my friends…
Afterward - arn after arn, day after day - Chiana and D’Argo shadow his steps. Noranti offers potions; John assumes Pilot monitors him too but can’t bring himself to care much. He accepts the babysitting with preoccupied resignation, willingly ingests every pill and brew the old witch concocts, though nothing eases the all-encompassing ache of emptiness that spreads outward from the wreckage that was his heart.
He’s bleeding to death inside his own skin, mal sanguine draining from the tattered remnants of a once full-to-overflowing organ, seeping away from his vitals and there’s no way to staunch the flow. John reckons it’s a gut-shot to his psyche and wonders if D’Argo might relent and deliver one bullet - just another kind of mercy killing - as a favor to a mortally wounded friend languishing on the battlefield of despair.
1812 stations himself in the doorway of Command, the center chamber, the amnexus chamber, the maintenance bay, Aeryn’s room, John’s room - their room, it was his and Aeryn’s room briefly, and it hurts like a punch in the gut every time he sets foot inside - even the fresher. Wherever John goes, his faithful sidekick doggedly keeps watch, whistling and tootling to himself in the melancholy minor keys.
“Good boy,” John tells him softly. After all, none of it is 1812’s fault. Or anyone’s fault, other than his own.
This time it’s all on him. Can’t blame Scorpius, can’t blame Harvey, can’t blame a chip in his head or insanity or confusion delusion hallucination -
Aeryn Sun died by his own hand.
Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darlin’, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby
Chiana wrapped the body, her tears staining the golden fabric. She made no move to wipe them away; instead, she lowered her forehead to Aeryn’s, nestling at her side half-atop the table, monotonously combing slim grey fingers through the carefully-brushed hair.
John nudged the privacy curtain aside a few denches to get a better view. He was supposed to be sleeping, but he’d overheard Chiana and D’Argo in consultation with Noranti in the center chamber and knew that the next drugs he’d get would knock him out - if he took them.
He figured he had four arns at least before Noranti woke up; it wasn’t like she’d known to dose herself with the antidote beforehand.
A muffled sob from Chi stole his breath away as a sympathetic pang of agony ripped through him from head to toe. Swallowing hard against the nausea roiling in his empty belly, John tightened his clammy fingers convulsively around the bars of the door, clinging desperately to keep himself upright.
He gasped and panted as noiselessly as he could manage, his mantra of counting each inhalation and exhalation interrupted by the idle thought that they’d done a good job of cleaning the blood and bone and cartilage
and grey matter, don’t forget the brains, braaaaaaaaaaains, John, you blew Aeryn’s brains out, what are you going to do now…?
from Aeryn’s hair. And he’d clearly underestimated Pip’s courage, not for the first time. It couldn’t be easy to gaze upon the ruined half of what remained of Aeryn’s face, what hadn’t been blown away by the force of a pulse blast at point-blank range.
He could probably calculate the physics involved in that, if he tried. He had plenty of blood to spare and a wide bare floor in what used to be his quarters - he couldn’t sleep there anymore. He couldn’t sleep anywhere anymore, really, which had been a secondary motivation for Noranti’s latest batch of miracle powder.
No sleep for the wicked, no rest for the weary - there was only waiting, waiting for Chi to pull herself together and leave the body so he could have the room, have Aeryn one last time for one last night, all to himself, all his. To nuzzle the sweet spot behind her ear and rest his warm, shaking hand on her cold, flat belly.
To offer his apology one final time, too little too late, inadequate as always. Second chances, third chances, so very many chances and all of them wasted, everything come to this, devastation wrought by his hand and his gun. The last words Aeryn had heard had been those of his betrayal
What about the baby? Where’s the baby? Whose baby is it? Who’s the daddy, Aeryn? Say ‘baby,’ Aeryn…
just as her frantic, wide-eyed darting glance had shown a circle of grim-faced and suspicious supposed-to-be-friends surrounding her, as her lover drew his weapon, aimed it straight at her face -
Where’s Aeryn, Aeryn?
and with the slight pressure of a single finger, made the biggest mistake of their lives.
Here I stand, head in hand, turn my face to the wall
If she’s gone I can’t go on
Aeryn might have made him suck it up and deal - once upon a time. But she went away, and came back with secrets, and now her silence is forever.
She will never wear his mother’s diamond on her finger; John will never hold their son or daughter in his arms. He will not wake to their bodies entwined together, snug under the blankets with a lazy good-morning smile spreading from her face to his, contagious as any space flu.
She will not cradle him between her thighs, arms embracing him fiercely as he shudders and shakes and finds release and pleasure in her body, mouthing a silent I love you when he comes. He will never again bring her to the edge of climax over and over, teasing with fingers and tongue and husky words of passion and love breathed into her ear, sentiments she once scoffed at, derided as weak and inferior but inextricably part of his human makeup that perhaps she came to cherish.
Aeryn’s body will be burned, her ashes scattered in the Leviathan sacred space beside Talyn. Aeryn will never grow rounded and heavy with child; she will be spared the indignity of waddling and the discomfort of morning sickness. D’Argo will not take a wistful interest in the progress of her gravid state, will never have the opportunity to impart gems of paternal wisdom or give piggy-back rides or be Uncle D’Argo.
Jack Crichton will never be a grandfather. John Crichton will never be a husband. He cannot say that he will never be a father, but those circumstances are beyond his control.
There is one surety, he knows, and it is this: that his days will forever be lonely, even if he is not alone; that he will forever be guilty, even if it was all a terrible, tragic mistake; that as long as he has wormhole knowledge, he will always be a danger to himself and others.
No exceptions to that rule.
You say you want a revolution, well, you know
we all want to change the world…
But when you talk about destruction,
don’t you know that you can count me out
Scorpius stands at the door; John feels nothing. He’s pleasantly numb from whatever Noranti dosed him with this time; it might have smelled and tasted like rancid socks, but it gave him enough of a buzz to finally be able to think, to work out what he needs to do.
“It’s time to go,” Scorpius says.
John shrugs and follows without fuss. “The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,” he recites from memory, eyes on his boots and not the armor-clad back before him. “Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun…”
He’s too broken to go back, too brittle to keep going. He’s Apocalypse Now in leather and boots, and for all of Scorpy’s techno-gadget wizardry, the freak must not have a doomsday detector, because he’s still fucking oblivious to the fact that John’s non compos mentis.
Well, more so than usual. Deeply - like to the power of infinity plus one. John can’t quite wrap his head around it, but he’s grasped enough toward the edges to realize that in this scenario he is the pooch, and he is screwed beyond belief.
Because if John stays on Moya, if he’s forced to plod through day after solar day slowly bleeding out from the gaping, aching, fist-sized wound just below his rib where his helpmeet was ripped away, torn asunder in the blink of an eye by his own stupidity, he fears - no, he’s certain - that the degree of his self-loathing will come to be matched only by his capacity to hate. To hate the Scarrans and Peacekeepers, to loathe Grayza and Scorpius and war minister Ahkna; to despise Einstein and the Ancients for saddling him with a responsibility he’s not clever enough, sure enough, man enough to handle.
He can’t carry that much weight; a not-so-tiny straw named Harvey broke his back once already, shredded his reason and shattered his sanity into jagged-edged shards that never fit back together quite right. John’s a beast - no doubt about that now - but he’s no camel; he should’ve known that poorly-healed vertebrae would fail again when subjected to even a meager burden. Would crumple spectacularly in a horrific fashion beyond even his own worst imaginings.
Step on a crack, break Aeryn’s back. Wring her neck, crush her skull, shoot her in the face…
If he stays, he’ll snap. Again. For good, this time.
But he can’t go back to Earth, not without Aeryn. He’d never be able to look his dad in the eye, or Livvie, or idol-worshipping Bobby, and confess his crimes - Hey guys, turns out I’m really Adolph Fucking Hitler of the Uncharted Territories, who knew? And all I needed was a wormhole and a little bit of rage - they fucked me up and I killed Aeryn by mistake, and then I slaughtered the rest of them on purpose.
Because he is tempted; oh, so tempted. It would be justice. It would be biblical; it would be Human. An eye for an eye. Calling down the wrath of a wormhole’s eye strikes John as fair recompense for the ocean-grey orb he shot out of Aeryn Sun’s head.
John Crichton was here, motherfuckers.
Aeryn probably wouldn’t like it; that’s the only rationale that stayed his hand so far. Chi’s so mad she could chew nails - she spit on him once already - and D’Argo’s been stomping around in near hyper-rage for the past monen, ever since John started listening to Scorpius.
(Sikozu he still ignores, utterly. She got away, and Aeryn got caught - the crux of the mishap, the root of the confusion that cost him everything. John can think of nothing civil to say to her, cannot look at her without wanting to scream, to grab her and shake, shake so hard - so to him she no longer exists. He figures that, too, is a sort of justice for Aeryn.)
When they reach the maintenance bay, John hops up into the module while Scorpius clambers less elegantly after him. Pilot runs the checks John asks for, though he’s turned off visuals and the disapproval comes through loud and clear in his tone.
John can’t worry about any of that anymore. He fishes something out of his boot - a metallic disk, roughly the size of what was a half-dollar back on Earth - and tosses it lightly, catching it in his fist.
“What’s that, John?” Scorpius inquires behind him as John closes the canopy, verifies the integrity of the seal.
“Nothin’, grasshopper,” John replies easily, casually, before he’s pushed back in his seat by the g-forces of launch. “Just a little something for luck.”
Scorpius says nothing more, distracted by the pale blue gleam of a nascent wormhole-bubble against the black, star-dotted abyss of space.
John grins. “Ain’t you a beautiful thing,” he whispers.
He raises the oversized coin to his lips, brushes a kiss over the cold metal face. Two flips will see everything sorted. Two flips at most, because the first question is - live or die? Enter the wormhole on a hard angle and burn out, or exit through the rabbit hole?
John doesn’t think, given his luck with Fate, that he’ll get the easy out on the first toss. Hence the second and final question: will he suffer his loss and exact his vengeance, wipe the Scarrans and Peacekeepers from existence without a single regret… or will he go back instead, reset the timeline as many times as it takes, by any means necessary, and fuck the Ancients and their rippling consequences?
“Buckle up,” John says over his shoulder to Scorpius, with one last lingering look back at Moya. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
The coin arcs high in the air, and falls.
When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
And I stop and I turn and then I go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again