Tough Love (G / NC-17)

[KernilCrash]

Good Morning, Wonderful Scapers!!

This is an offshoot from a story called ‘Birthright’.  ‘Tough Love’ should stand up pretty well on its own, but it might work a little better for you if you read ‘Birthright’ first.  (It’s kind of long, so I’ll understand if you don’t want to read it.)  I wanted to include a fast version of this story in ‘Birthright’ (we’re talking a two or three paragraph memory from Aeryn’s perspective); only it refused to fit in anywhere.  So here it is, all on it's own. 

Hope you enjoy it.

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Tough Love

Word 6.0 Printable Version

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First posted:  July 24, 2003.

Rating: G with an NC-17 Addendum.
Disclaimer:  Not mine, no profit.
Spoilers:  Several very small ones for ‘Die Me, Dichotomy’, ‘Season Of Death’, and ‘Prayer’. 
Beta-readers:  Scrubschick.     

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Part 1

John Crichton gripped the edge of a console to steady himself as all of Command took a two-motra hop to one side.  He glanced at Aeryn and shook his head.  “They’re down,” he said.  The lurch meant that a ship had just landed on Moya’s hull.  Its grapples would be digging into the gentle beast’s skin, the first and least savage of the assaults they were expecting from the enemy ship’s passengers. 

“Pilot?  How is Moya?” Aeryn asked the semi-transparent figure in the clamshell.   

“There has been some minor damage to her outer hull, but she is otherwise unharmed,” he replied, sounding only slightly harried. 

“Ian?” John called to their young son over his comms.  “Where are you?” 

“Near Quarters.  Hey, Dad?  Moya just did something really funny.”  The energetic voice sounded amused by the leviathan’s antics, no hint of alarm in the tone. 

“I hate this.  I hate doing this,” Aeryn whispered in the background. 

John flattened his hand his over his comms badge to prevent his next comment from being transmitted.  “Options?”

“None.  Do it.”  Aeryn rested both hands on the other console and hung her head, slowly shaking it in useless denial of what they were about to do. 

“Ian … Scuttle,” John ordered. 

It sounded so innocuous.  But the otherwise innocent word was a code for an emergency procedure they’d trained Ian to obey without question.  They’d practiced the drill dozens, perhaps hundreds of times over their son’s short lifetime, until they were certain he would comply without hesitation or deviation from the established sequence. 

By this time, Ian would be crawling into the first DRD maintenance hatch he could find.  He would wait out of sight of the corridor until a DRD appeared to lead him to a small enclosure not too far from Command but deep inside Moya’s internal spaces.  It was shielded from every type of scan they could think of, and was equipped with a small bed, duplicates of several of his favorite toys, food and water for ten solar days, and no communications of any sort.  Ian had named it ‘Treasure Island’ in one of his confusing twists of imagination, and had played there quite happily for over eight arns the last time they tested the system.

“Pilot?” Aeryn asked at the same time that John was comming D’Argo. 

“In progress with ten,” Pilot answered. 

“All set,” D’Argo responded to John’s query. 

The two equally cryptic answers told them all they needed to know at this point.  Pilot’s code meant that Ian had been met by a squadron of ten DRDs that would protect and watch over him, and was on his way to the hidden chamber.  Depending on how bad the situation became, the number of small, robotic guardians would increase to as many as forty.  If everything was running on schedule, a high-energy pulse generated by Pilot had already disabled his comms.  Cut off from all communications, their eight-cycle old son could not be lured out of his hiding place by deception or threats of harm to his parents, and there was no way for an intruder to locate him.  As long as Moya survived, so would he. 

“D’Argo’s hidden,” John repeated for Aeryn’s benefit. 

Lo’La was cloaked and hovering less than five motras from Moya’s hull where he could get aboard in a matter of microts, and would be sucked along with the leviathan if she were forced to starburst.  At first D’Argo had adamantly refused to ‘cower’ in the cloaked ship, as he had phrased it.  The argument had raged for precious microts that they couldn’t spare.  John had turned away for two microts to confer with Pilot about the unknown attackers, and when he returned to the discussion, Aeryn had convinced D’Argo to wait outside Moya.  He made a mental note to ask her later how she’d managed it so quickly, then dismissed the anomaly in the interest of preparing for the impending fight. 

“Let’s go,” Aeryn said.  “Time for fun and games.”  They left Command on the run, headed for where they had already agreed to create the first ambush. 

“Pilot?  What have we got?”  John yelled. 

Barely a quarter of an arn earlier, Pilot had reported the sudden appearance of a Coreshi ship on the short-range sensors.  Their attackers hadn’t revealed themselves until it was too late for Moya to run, hide, or starburst.  It suggested that the Coreshi had gotten their hands on the cloaking technology that the Scarrans had acquired when they overran luxan space four cycles earlier. 

“Ten life forms, definitely not Coreshi.  Their lifesigns are somewhat atypical, but they appear to be Scarran,” Pilot reported.  “One is remaining aboard their ship.  Nine have already boarded Moya.” 

“Frell, frell, frell, frell,” John chanted.  He skidded to a stop and reversed course, nearly barreling into Aeryn who had changed direction faster than he had.  “Bigger weapons.  Big honkin’ weapons.”  Trying to stop Coreshi was bad; Scarrans were worse. 

“Pilot, where’s Noranti?” Aeryn asked.  The pair accelerated toward the locked cell where they kept the weapons safe from Ian’s inquisitive little hands. 

“Unknown.  She was last observed in one of the maintenance tunnels, heading toward Tier Zero.” 

The last portion of his transmission was another of their precautions.  Everyone on board had agreed that in an emergency of this sort, no one would mention the existence of a small child aboard Moya, or even hint of ‘Treasure Island’ -- especially not over a comms channel that might not be secure from eavesdroppers.  Tier Zero was their code for the shielded chamber, and Pilot had let them know that Noranti’s life signs might be detected until she reached Ian.   

“I will kill her myself!” Aeryn yelled in anger.  “We have told her and told her not to go near there.”  No matter how many times they assured her that Ian was being cared for by the DRDs, the old Traskan insisted on accompanying him into his hideaway. 

“You’ll have to beat me to it,” John said, sounding equally furious.  “I want first shot at Granny if she frells this up.”

They ran side by side through the gleaming corridors, trying to reach the heavy weapons before they were cut off by the invaders. 

A fast discussion in the first microts after the Coreshi ship had appeared had summarized the bad news.  Whoever had boarded Moya had chosen a moment when most of the crew was absent.  Chiana had gone with Nerri and his new wife, Hendlah, to see how many members of the decimated Nebari Resistance they could locate and spirit away to safety.  Rygel had departed for Hyneria only three solar days earlier, accompanied by a personal guard of more than one thousand loyalists intent on restoring him to the throne.  The remaining four members of their growing crew were on a supply run.  John, Aeryn, D’Argo and Noranti were all that remained aboard to fight off the intruders. 

Even worse, the timing meant that their unwanted visitors had probably been following them undetected for some time -- possibly for days -- and that, in turn, meant that they might already know about the youngest member of the crew.  They would have to wait to find out if the Coreshi ship’s sensors were good enough to track Ian as far as the shielded room.

They’d scrambled to get Lo’La launched in time to destroy the approaching ship, missing their opportunity by a matter of microts.  D’Argo could destroy the ship crouched on Moya’s hull without so much as scratching her outer skin, but Aeryn had pointed out that if the nine intruders lost their transportation, they would be even more intent on getting control of the leviathan.  Lo’La’s weaponry was being held in reserve.

John had wanted Aeryn to be the one outside Moya, waiting where it was safer, but D’Argo had been closer to the hangar bay in those first frantic moments, and unlike the aging Prowler, Lo’La could be hidden. 

“I frelling hate Scarrans,” John announced.  They were one tier and twenty motras away from the massive, shoulder-slung cannons that had enough fire power to stop one of the scaled creatures.  He thought about facing as many as nine of the nearly indestructible Scarrans with only Aeryn beside him. 

“D’Argo was right.  We need him inside,” John said abruptly.  The prospect of Aeryn getting captured by Scarrans for the second time in her life was creating an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, and increasing a pre-existing breathlessness.   

“Shut up and run,” Aeryn commanded.  Her sharply delivered order said that the subject was closed.  They turned the corner together and sprinted toward a vertical shaft leading to the next lowest tier. 

“You first,” John said, motioning for Aeryn to lead the way. 

“So I can get shot from below.”  Despite her retort, she swung lithely onto the oval-holed ladder and disappeared from sight in a fast, hissing slide.   

“Something soft to land on.  I always frell this up.”  Despite all his cycles aboard Moya, he hadn’t mastered her method of pressing his hands and feet against the outer edges and using the friction to control his speed.  This time he made it halfway down before one foot slipped off the smooth side of the construct.  John yelped as he tilted to one side, let out a warning cry as his other foot flew loose, and fell the last two motras.  “Crap!” 

He bounded to his feet, intending to go after Aeryn.  One large hand swung in from the edge of his vision, clouted him on the side of the head, and the last thing he saw as he went flying across the unusually crowded corridor was Aeryn on her knees, surrounded by several armed Scarrans. 

   * * * * *

A blow from one of the guards knocked Crichton stumbling across Command.  He was still fighting to regain his balance when his hip caught the edge of the Strategy Table.  The force of the impact flipped him over several times before he crashed to the floor on the far side in a tangle of arms and legs.  John lay where he landed for several microts, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, and tried to get his aching head to function.  There was something wrong with what was going on, but between his concern that the Scarrans might locate Ian, the headache that was making an effort to melt his skull, and the sight of Aeryn standing defiantly in the midst of three heat-producing Scarrans, he could barely form a coherent thought. 

The takeover had been quick and well executed.  One warrior was on guard in the Den, providing an additional threat of killing Pilot, and another was in the only open hangar bay in case the transport pod returned early.  The remaining seven had gathered in Command, raising the temperature to a sweat-popping level that John feared was challenging Aeryn’s capacity to tolerate heat. 

They were trying to find the one item aboard Moya that would, without question, force him into finally giving up the secrets of wormholes.  It had been a long and dangerous thirteen cycles since the knowledge had been implanted in his brain, and throughout every encounter he’d managed to keep the horrors of a wormhole weapon from being unleashed on the universe.  The Scarrans were getting desperate though; this attack was clear proof.  Between the destruction of their crystherium facilities, and a completely unexpected alliance between the Peacekeepers, the Nebari, and the Sheyang, the Scarran Empire was facing destruction.  Unless they got their clawed hands on an unstoppable weapon, and did it soon, they would be forced to surrender within a cycle. 

Two of their captors came to get him.  Getting pulled to his feet and hauled back across Command to stand next to Aeryn gave John a brief moment to think.  They’d tried their heat ray on him, knocked both him and Aeryn around a bit, and were nothing like the focused, ruthless interrogators he’d come to expect from Scarrans. 

The seven individuals crowding Command were all of the ruling elite and yet they all wore the armor and close fitting helmets of the dim-witted warrior caste.  Their attack had been well planned and executed, and now that they had their prisoners, they had become inept.  Crichton’s sense that something was peculiar about the group increased. 

“They’re not very good at this, are they?” he asked Aeryn.  His mocking tone was designed to sound as though he was ridiculing their guards, but he was asking her for some input.  The answer was there; he could feel it.  He only needed a little help finding it.   

“Headed back down the evolutionary chain a bit faster than I’d expected,” she agreed. 

“Tell us where he is,” insisted Grisvolk, the leader of the squad.  “We know your offspring is on board.” 

“Get frelled,” John said.  He was trying impudence simply to see what would happen.  Although it was dangerous, it was one way to test their reactions. 

Deep-set black eyes glared at him; then the head swung back and forth between them several times, clearly at a loss.  It was as though the planning for the mission had only covered certain possibilities, and anything outside that prepared script mystified them.  John began to wonder if Aeryn was correct and their devolution was progressing faster than nature normally demanded. 

“Kill him!” Grisvolk ordered.  “Then she will tell us where the child is located.” 

“You’re an idiot!” Aeryn exclaimed, using the same mocking tone as John.  “He’s the one you want!  If you don’t have him, you don’t need the child because I can’t tell you anything about wormholes.” 

“Kill her!” the leader tried again. 

“Think again, Gridlock!” John misaddressed the Scarran.  “You think I’m going to tell you anything if you kill the mother of my child?  She’s my Eve, the bearer of the fruit of my loins, the Bonnie to my Clyde, the sweet Nell to my Dudley Do-right.  Kill her and you get diddly squat, nothing, nada, zip, zero, zilch.”  He flicked a trickle of blood away from his upper lip with a thumb, crossed his arms, and glared at the hulking Scarran. 

The perplexed officer shook his head, snarled, and extended his hand toward the pair.  Too late, Crichton realized he’d overdone it -- as usual.  The heat lashed out toward both of them.  It might burn him, but it would certainly drive Aeryn into heat delirium. 

“NO!” he yelled.  Instead of pushing Aeryn out of the way, which the other guards might prevent, he lunged forward and grabbed at the clawed, extended hand, bellowing out his pain as he shoved it to one side.  The skin on his hands singed, blistered, and wept fluid in a matter of microts. 

Time slowed as the painful struggle to keep Grisvolk’s hand from aiming at Aeryn continued for too long.  Behind him, Aeryn was yelling his name.  His wrists began to blister, the misery crawled up his forearms, and yet he hung on to the massive wrist, pushing it aside with what seemed like too little effort.  A Scarran growled a warning.  His world became the sickening agony of overheated flesh, a weapon fired, and he was shoved out of the way to stumble and fall to the deck, burned hands sliding a trail of fluid across Moya’s burnished deck plates. 

“You idiot.”  Aeryn was beside him, helping him turn over.  “You frelling idiot.” 

“What happened?  Why did he stop?” 

“Noranti.  She snuck out of the crawlspace while they were watching you.  She was the one who pushed you out of the way.”  Aeryn gestured to one side with an elbow; both of her hands were occupied with helping him sit up.  Five of the Scarrans were examining the sprawled body while the other two kept their weapons trained on John and Aeryn. 

“Dead?” he asked.  Aeryn nodded.  “I didn’t really want her dead.”

“Neither did I,” she agreed.       

Deprived of its frequently misdirected vitality, the spindly body had performed the death-trick of shrinking inside its clothes.  There was a spill of snarled gray hair, one hand with its palm upturned holding a bit of fur, and a loose mass of clothing.  None of the pieces seemed to suggest that there had once been a wrinkled, cheerful old woman living within. 

There had been plenty of times over the cycles when he’d been ready to pitch her out an airlock in the hope that it would stop her prattling or at least remove her unwashed stench from Moya, but he’d also come to respect her wisdom.  More importantly, she had loved Ian without qualification.  This moment had almost certainly occurred because Noranti had been trying to save their child from the heartbreak of losing one or both of his parents. 

“That’s Ian’s fluffy,” John agonized, recognizing the stuffed animal in Noranti’s gnarled hand.  Ian had stopped sleeping with the amorphous bit of fur two cycles ago, but he’d transferred it to ‘Treasure Island’ on his own, apparently deriving comfort from the familiar, inanimate companion.  “They’ll find him.”     

“They didn’t see where she came from,” Aeryn assured him.  “John, there’s something wrong with these Scarrans.  They’re morons.  They were going to shoot you.”  John’s knowledge was the entire purpose for the boarding party.  No well-prepared group would risk killing him. 

He shrugged.  “They’re still dangerous, and even if we get to our pistols, they’re impervious to pulse weapons.”  Their pistols and comms were on the far side of Command, tossed into an untidy heap.  Assuming they could get to them, it would take critical microts to pull a single pistol loose from the tangle of holsters and belts.  John wrapped a forearm around Aeryn’s shoulders, and used her support to get to his feet.  “Even if they’re brainless Scarrans, they’re still Scarrans.” 

It hit him.  He knew why they were acting so strangely.  “I’ve got it” he whispered into her ear, pulling her close.  “Aeryn, these bozos, they’re …”

“Bring the woman!” Grisvolk ordered before he could finish.  Two of the armor-clad troopers dragged her away while two more kept John from going after her.  She was hauled across Command to stand before Grisvolk, sweat beginning to stream as the heat-intense bodies surrounded her.  “This one is Sebacean.  That one is not,” the officer reasoned slowly.  “He attempted to sacrifice himself to keep her safe.” 

John tried to move closer.  He was shoved back, and at a motion from Grisvolk forced to his knees. 

“Tell us where the child hides,” he was ordered. 

“Screw you, Gridlock,” John snapped.  The remaining two Scarrans closed in around Aeryn and she seemed to slip, the finely conditioned soldier’s body losing its balance for no reason.  She struggled upright and it happened again.  It was the first sign of heat delirium.  It hadn’t happened very often, but he’d seen the symptoms too many times over their cycles together.  She was already flushed, and had crossed her arms in front of her to hide her trembling hands. 

“The Living Death,” Grisvolk said. 

The three words were all he needed to say.  John tried to swallow against a suddenly dry mouth and nearly choked.  Breathing was suspended for several microts until he got the muscles in his throat rearranged.  “I won’t trade my son for her.”  The attempt to sound forceful was destroyed when his voice cracked into a scratchy squeal half way through.  “This is useless.” 

The sixth guard went to join the ring, leaving one Scarran to lean on John’s shoulders, keeping him pinned on his knees. 

“Say goodbye to your mate,” Grisvolk invited Aeryn.

She turned toward John, head held high in defiance.  She was shaking from head to toe as her body began giving way to the destructive heat.  “I love you.  Take good care of him.” 

“No,” John whispered.  “Don’t.”  He swallowed and spoke more loudly.  “Take me.  I’ll give you what you want.  Leave her alone and I’ll give you the wormhole tech.” 

“Your history does not support your claim.  All accounts indicate that you will wait until your loved ones are safe, and then you will break your assurances.”  Grisvolk left the group ringing Aeryn and came to stand in front of John, looking down at the trapped human.  “We must have a more certain method of retaining your help.  Where is your child?  Call to him.” 

The strength to say ‘No’ out loud didn’t exist.  John shook his head, keeping his eyes locked on Aeryn.  It became a motion he couldn’t stop, feeling at first like a refusal to give up his son, and then turning into an expression of denial as he watched Aeryn deteriorate.  Refuse, deny, refuse, deny -- the headshakes continued.  He couldn’t get it to stop. 

“I love you,” she repeated.  Aeryn slipped again and fell to her knees. 

“Aeryn!”  John got one foot on the ground and strained against the hands holding him in place.  “No!  Don’t do this!” 

Grisvolk positioned himself two motras from the deadly group and extended his hand again, subjecting Aeryn to even more heat.  John could feel it washing over him from his position on the far side of Command.  It wasn’t designed to burn her; it was designed to push her into heat delirium even faster.  The muscles seizures began, punctuated by her labored gasps for breath, fighting against failing muscles. 

“NO!” Crichton screamed, fighting and bucking against the one guard.  “No! Stop it, stop it.”  He lost track of what he was saying, knew only that he was swearing, pleading, screaming for them to stop.  His mind raced, exploring every possibility -- envisioning the ludicrous, the extreme, the impossible plans to save Aeryn while safeguarding Ian.  “I’ll do it!  I’ll tell you!” he yelled. 

He hadn’t meant to say it, but as it flooded out of his mouth, he was willing in that isolated instant to give up Ian’s hiding place if it meant that the horror in front of him would stop. 

It stopped. 

Grisvolk lowered his hand and the ring of Scarrans backed away from Aeryn’s prone body.  John tried to get to his feet; this time he was allowed up.  Aeryn was lying without moving but she was breathing easier, the bright crimson smears of heat sickness across her cheeks already fading to something less lethal in intensity.  All he’d done was to postpone her fate, however.  Unless he carried through on his desperately screamed promise, they’d both have to endure a rerun of the last few unendurable moments. 

A wild plan began forming -- something having to do with fooling them, getting Ian out of the hidden room and doubling back, with D’Argo providing cover in some totally impossible manner.   It was desperation, and down deep he knew that if he tried it, Ian would wind up in Scarran hands. 

Aeryn’s head came up in fits and starts.  Gray eyes bored into his.  “You swore,” she accused him in a rasping whisper.  “You took a vow.” 

They had argued over it for more than half a cycle after Ian was born, driving everyone aboard Moya crazy with their nearly daily shouting matches.  It had taken an additional quarter cycle for them to agree on the wording.  On Ian’s first birthday, they’d stood in the Den with everyone assembled, Pilot presiding over the event like a great unfrocked minister, and exchanged vows.  The carefully selected phrases hadn’t been spoken to each other, however.  They’d been delivered solemnly to their infant son.  They’d sworn that his life would come before either of theirs, and that if necessary they would sacrifice each other to safeguard him. 

John had been afraid of a moment like this, when he’d be forced into a single alternative.  He’d argued vehemently against the vows, willing to commit himself silently to his son’s safety.  Promises were like religious doctrine to Aeryn.  She found comfort in the defined path that required no deviation.  His life remained in the gray areas between extremes where the different factors of every situation combined to breed new possibilities.  There had to be a way out of this without giving either one of them up.  He only needed enough time to figure out how. 

“I can’t,” he admitted.  “I can’t lose you.  Please.”  John sank to his knees, palms resting on his thighs, the pain of his singed hands a relief when compared with the agony in his heart.  “Aeryn.  Don’t make me do this.” 

She struggled up to face him more directly, sweat streaming, body gripped by an unstoppable palsy, close to collapse.  “You … promised … HIM!”  She spaced the words out deliberately with her grating, quavering voice, and forced him back into his self-created prison.

He looked up at Grisvolk, the eternity of their short conversation having taken less than five microts, and delivered Aeryn’s death sentence.  “I won’t give you my son.” 

   * * * * *

It was taking longer because he’d managed to tear loose from his one guard and Grisvolk had delegated a second warrior to hold him.  When he tried to turn away, they forced him to watch.  Behind his yelling, he could hear Aeryn choking, fighting to live even as her body broke down.  He beat at one of his captors with his forearm, adding torn skin to the list of damage, bucked and struggled, trying to reach her in her last microts as a functioning person. 

“AERYN!”  He twisted in their grip, fighting against one grasp then the other, and a flash of black caught his eye.  He turned, expecting to see either one of the other Scarrans or D’Argo. 

Ian knelt outside the now-open DRD hatch, both hands firmly grasping a pulse pistol.  One knee on the floor, one foot planted alongside his knee, arms outstretched but not locked, he sighted over the top with both eyes open.  The only clothes they’d been able to find for him this cycle had been some Peacekeeper cadet uniforms.  He’d been ecstatic to be dressed in black leather pants and a dark-hued t-shirt like his parents.  Between the clothes and the stance -- unmistakably the result of Aeryn’s training -- he was magically transformed before John’s eyes into one of the lethal Sebacean child-soldiers.

Ian’s tongue crept out of the side of his mouth, and the small pink evidence of total concentration broke the spell.  Once again it was his son kneeling on the far side of Command, not a trained killer.  John made another frantic effort to break free, desperate to prevent this particular rite of passage.  Ian was too young, as yet too innocent to be forced into this moment. 

Crichton’s struggle had an unintended result.  One of the Scarrans holding him shifted his position, and was in danger of spotting the small marksman. 

“Gridlock!” John bellowed.  “I’ll do it.  Leave her alone and I’ll do it!” 

Grisvolk turned to look at him, and a pulse blast ripped squarely through the center of the Scarran’s torso.  The energy pulse flew the short additional distance and killed the individual standing across from the already dead officer by removing the top of his head, helmet and all.  The entire chamber seemed to freeze in time for a single microt.  The moment ended as both bodies toppled over and collapsed to the floor with a soggy smack.       

“Again!” John yelled.  “Shoot again, Ian!”  The damage was done; the innocence of childhood irrevocably sacrificed.  Emerging from the situation alive was all that mattered now.  The next few shots were no where near as accurate as the first.  Pulse blasts flew in every direction around Command, chasing and mostly missing the scattering, leaderless Scarrans.  A few shots headed in Ian’s direction, but the Scarrans were retreating too fast to offer much resistance. 

John slithered across the floor in a fast crawl to where their weapons and comms had been tossed into a pile. 

“D’Argo!  Destroy the ship and get in here quick!” 

“On my way, John.”  The deck shook from a distant explosion.

“Pilot!  All DRDs fire.  They’re bioloids, not Scarrans.  Fire!”  John rolled onto his back.  He’d snared Winona as he’d been yelling instructions, and he began firing at the two Scarrans remaining in Command.  “Ian, get down!  Scuttle, kiddo.  I’ve got it.” 

Twenty microts later John got to his feet, paused to examine where a close call had torn away a piece of his pants but left his leg unscathed, and looked around at the devastation.  Burned circuits from Ian’s wild shots sizzled and sparked, cables hung down from the overhead conduits, and half the lights had burned out from an overload.  There were also four dead Scarrans lying on the floor, and Ian was peeking out at him from his refuge in the tunnel. 

John leaned down to retrieve his comms from his gunbelt.  “D’Argo?  Where are we at?”

“Pilot reports one dead in the Den, killed by the DRDs.  I killed the one patrolling the hangar bay.  How many are left, John?”  The gravelly voice was coming across in pulses, suggesting that D’Argo was running. 

“Three.  They’re likely to head for the Den to try to get control of Moya.  Aeryn’s down.  I’ll be a few microts.”

“I’m on my way,” D’Argo responded and then the comms went silent.   

John laid Winona to one side, and knelt beside Aeryn’s unconscious body.  She was breathing, and most of the overheated flush had disappeared, but there was none of the involuntary trembling that usually accompanied her recovery.  She lay absolutely still. 

“Aeryn?  Come on, Sunshine.  Time to wake up.”  There was no reflexive grip when he held her hand, no flutter of eyelids when he gently brushed his fingers across her cheek, no sign that Aeryn and her body were a functioning unit any longer. 

“Dad?”  Ian had come to stand beside him, a smaller version of himself.  From the boots and leather pants to the short cropped hair he’d asked for recently, Ian had begun modeling himself on his father more and more.  John’s thoughts drifted to his life in the Uncharted Territories, and how the people he cared for most seemed to be the ones who came to harm while he walked away unscathed.  It had happened again.  “Dad?” he was summoned again. 

John forced himself to think and act.  The crisis wasn’t over yet.  There were three armed Scarran-replicas loose on Moya. 

He started by addressing the anxious frown next to his shoulder.  “You came to the rescue just like Superman.  You’re our superhero.”  The anxiety eased, but not the fear; a small shift in Ian’s expression expressed the subtle adjustment.  “Ian, I’ve got to go help Uncle D’Argo and I’ve got to go quick.  But you and Mom need to hide for a little bit in case the bad guys come back.  If I slide her into the tunnel, can you watch out for her while she sleeps?” 

Ian nodded. 

“You go first and make sure she doesn’t hit her head,” John suggested.  He turned Aeryn onto her back, retrieved her comms so Ian would be able to get help if anything happened, and slid her to where Ian waited just inside the small hatch.  Three microts later, he replaced the grate and bent down to peer in at Ian.  “You’re going to be fine.  Uncle D’Argo’s on Moya now.  I’m going to be right back.  See if you can make your mother cooler.  If she seems cold, don’t cover her up, Ian.  Keep her cold.” 

“Okay, Dad.”  The tremulous voice suggested that the dimly seen figure was crying. 

“It’s over.  Everything’s going to be fine,” John reassured him one more time, then got to his feet and ran toward the sounds of the Qualta rifle firing in the distance. 

   * * * * *

[KernilCrash]

Part 2

John ran into Command, tossed Winona carelessly onto the Strategy Table, and slid to a stop by the DRD hatch on one leathered hip.  He yanked the grating loose, tossed it half way across Command in his rush, and then peered in, expecting to find the bottoms of Aeryn’s boots.  The tunnel was empty. 

“IAN?” he yelled.  A sickening gut-lurch accompanied the irrational fear that perhaps there’d been a second ship, and both Aeryn and his son had been taken captive while he’d helped D’Argo and the DRDs finish off the last of the Scarran-bioloids. 

“Dad?”  It was a weak, shaking reproduction of Ian’s usual cheerful shout.  “DAD?” 

“Where are you?  I can’t see either of you.”  He lay down on his stomach and peered into the gloom. 

“Further in.  Pilot told me he could make the air colder in one of the other tunnels, but I had to move Mom.  She’s still asleep.  I’m scared, Dad.  She won’t wake up.”  A quiet hiccup of distress echoed quietly in the dark conduit. 

“Here I come.”  John got to his knees long enough to pull off his vest.  He’d managed to squirm through the small openings countless times over the last cycles, always in pursuit of a mischievous toddler who had a talent for getting lost in Moya’s innards, but it was close fit every time.  Even the small addition of his vest might be enough for him to get stuck. 

“Pilot, how far in are they?”  Although most of the tunnels opened up almost immediately, many of them turned into impossibly narrow passageways within two motras.  His concern for Aeryn was making it hard to think, and he couldn’t remember which type this was even though he’d been in there more than once. 

“Young Eiyan is five and a half motras from the bulkhead,” Pilot answered, using the Sebacean pronunciation that Aeryn preferred.  “The access tunnel opens up immediately beyond the bulkhead, and does not narrow again.”  Pilot had participated in enough of the rescues to know what information John would want before he needed to ask.  “Aeryn is no more than twelve motras from the Safe Room, close to the intersection of the primary fore-and-aft access shaft.” 

Crichton slithered through the triangular opening.  As soon as he got inside, away from the brighter lights in Command, he could see Aeryn lying in the center of the narrow corridor.  There was a damp cloth and a small basin of water next to her, and a very small shirt had been folded and placed beneath her head as a cushion.  Ian was sitting beyond her, knees and arms tucked up against his bare chest, shivering in the abnormally cool draft.  He watched John approach, eyes flicking back and forth between his father’s hunched-over scuttle and his mother’s motionless body, and didn’t move.

“How you two doing?” John asked as he sank down beside Aeryn.  She was breathing easily, her color was better, and she was unnaturally still.   

“Okay.”  It was a small sound, barely managing to turn into two syllables.     

“Has Mom said anything yet?” 

Ian shook his head this time, not bothering to answer out loud.  John looked at him more closely.  There wasn’t so much as a hint that Ian wanted to cry, but the dirt on his face was smeared in broad lateral patterns that suggested he’d been wiping his face frequently, and there were wandering clean tracks down both cheeks.  Ian had been waiting here for nearly two arns, crouched in the dark beside his silent mother, obediently following the instructions his father had given him before disappearing to fight large, ugly creatures.   

“Come here, buddy,” John summoned him.  He turned so his back was against the curving side of the tunnel and braced himself for the impact.  “Come on.  They’re all dead.  It’s over.”  The little body unwound all at once, the uncharacteristic lack of motion disappearing in a flash.  A split microt later, Ian crashed into John’s chest and wound his arms around his neck. 

“I was scared you were never coming back,” the small voice wailed into his shoulder.  “Nobody commed for arns and arns.”   

“I’m here,” John assured him over and over again.  One of Ian’s knees was coming close to permanently damaging his most prized anatomy, he was getting choked by the desperate embrace, and he didn’t try to change his son’s position except to hug him more tightly.  “I’m not going to make you stay by yourself again.  Don’t worry.” 

Quivers, jerks, and uneven breaths continued for tens of microts while John continued to murmur small assurances, rocked him, and hummed the calming rumbles deep in his chest that had soothed Ian from the time he was an infant.  Ian’s breathing evened out first, then the shaking slowed and stopped.  There was a long gusting sigh against the side of John’s neck, and the choke-hold on his neck was released.  John shifted him, easing Ian’s knee away from his pummeled groin. 

“Better now?” he asked once they’d gotten settled into a more comfortable position.   

Ian nodded and wiped a grimy hand across his eyes.  The pattern of dirt and smears on his face became more intricate.  He wasn’t crying though, only hovering on the verge and fighting hard to stay in control.  John waited; his son wouldn’t stay silent very long if there were things on his mind. 

“The Scarrans are all dead?”  It was the small, whispery voice again, as if saying it more quietly would make it less frightening. 

“Deader than doornails,” he answered as lightly as possible.  “We’re gonna make handbags out of them.” 

Ian nodded, unbothered by the portions of the explanation that didn’t make any sense.  He’d long ago come to accept that there were times when no one aboard Moya understood what his father was saying.  “Dad?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Is Grammy dead?” 

“Yeah, she’s dead, Ian.  She saved me.  Were you watching that part?” 

“Yes.  I didn’t want her to go out there, but she said it was time for her to meet her destiny.  What did she mean?” 

John sighed in something approaching despair.  What it meant to him was that this eight-cycle-old child had seen his crazed attempt to keep Grisvolk from burning Aeryn, had watched as he’d deliberately allowed himself to be burned, and had also observed the entire devastating process of Aeryn’s collapse.  Ian knew about the Living Death; they’d explained his mother’s susceptibility to heat to him when he was four.  He’d never had to watch her succumb to it though.  And Ian had waited silently through it all, crouched inside the tunnel until it was the right moment to act.  It had been a very tough day on his son.

Before John could formulate an answer to Ian’s question, something else occurred to him.  During the chaos of the preceding several arns, there hadn’t been time to consider several facts.  “Ian, where did you get the pulse pistol?” 

“Grammy gave it to me.  She shut off the DRDs too, so I could leave the room.”  Ian squirmed around in John’s lap until he was facing the spot where Aeryn continued to lie without moving or making a sound.  “I disobeyed orders.  Am I in trouble?  Is Mom going to be mad at me?” 

Aeryn was a harsher disciplinarian than John had ever been.  In a reversal of his own childhood, “Wait until your mother hears about this,” carried a threat great enough to turn Ian into a temporarily well-behaved little angel. 

John wanted to go to that strict, disciplined person and try to wake her.  He wanted desperately to get Aeryn out of this dark, musty smelling place, and down to the medical bay where he might be able to determine if she would ever look at him again, make fun of his remaining Earth-habits, and gently tease him in the way that left him breathless with love.  He shifted several denches closer to her and answered Ian instead.  Right now, his son needed him more than Aeryn did.  Her recovery was dependent on how far toward the Living Death she’d been driven before Ian’s heroic arrival had stopped the process.  There was nothing he could do except wait to see if she would recover. 

“She won’t be mad this time.  You were our own Jedi Knight today.”  Ian giggled briefly, pleased with the pronouncement.  Jedi knights and beyond-death assistance from Obi Wan Kenobi he understood; forever sleeping mothers, he did not.  John laid his cheek against Ian’s head and tried to derive some strength from his newly knighted son. 

The pair sat quietly in the maintenance tunnel for a while.  The only sounds were Ian’s occasional sniffles once his short-lived giggles had faded, and the nearly inaudible whoosh of cool air. 

“Dad?” 

“Yeah?” 

Ian’s already high-pitched voice shifted upward more than an octave, into a stress-filled wail.  “Is Mommy dead?” 

“No, Ian.  She’s still breathing.  Only people who are alive breathe.”  Life and death weren’t the only options for Sebaceans though.  John closed his eyes, fighting back the fear that Ian’s question had let loose.  It had been a long time since he’d sent a message to the single deity of Earth-type religions; he found himself pleading mentally with an imagined all-powerful father-figure to let Aeryn recover.  “She’s not dead,” he repeated to Ian, hoping it was entirely true.   

“I tried to get her to wake up.  I tried and tried.  She won’t wake up, Dad.” 

“Ssshhhh,” he urged.  “You did good.  You did a great job taking care of her.” 

“Pilot helped.  Pilot told me that he could make the air colder back here.  I couldn’t move her, Dad.  I had to pull and pull, and the DRDs came to help, and we still had trouble, and then she finally slid only I couldn’t get her all the way back to where it was coldest.”  The explanation tumbled out, words falling in odd cadences that merged the syllables together into indecipherable groups, then separating into coherent sounds microts later. 

John let him ramble. 

“Pilot sent a DRD with some water, and another one showed up with a cloth and I tried to make her colder like you said.  She kept sleeping, Dad.  No one’s supposed to sleep when they’re getting wet, are they?  Mom moved a little and made some noises, and I thought maybe she should sleep some more, like I do when I get sick?  You know?  So I told her a bedtime story, that stupid story you told me about the crunchy critters that you squished?  I know she hates it, but it was the only one I could think of, and she was quieter after that, so I didn’t try to wake her anymore.” 

The flood of words eased, slowed to a confused trickle, and finally trailed off.  Ian took a steadier breath and made the heartbreaking request that John had been expecting.  “Dad, I think Mom should wake up now.  Please make her wake up.  She’s going to wake up, right?” 

John closed his eyes, searching for the wisdom that would tell him what was best for his son:  the brutal truth or a pleasant tale that might turn out to be a lie.  “I don’t know, Ian,” he said truthfully.  “I want her to wake up, but they did something to her that might make her sleep for a very, very long time.” 

“I want her to wake up, Dad.”  Ian’s pleas continued despite the explanation, increasing in desperation with each repetition.  “I want her to wake up now.  Wake her up.  Please, Dad.” 

“She needs time.  We have to wait.”  He rocked Ian some more, trying to soothe him.  Tens of microts slid by; Aeryn didn’t move or make a sound.     

“They hurt both of you,” Ian said abruptly.   

The questions and observations were shifting from one topic to the next in a seemingly random order, subtle hints of a larger, underlying trauma.  John turned a hand palm-up so Ian could examine the damage.  A small finger prodded very carefully at a large blister. 

“Ouch,” he whispered with his lips touching Ian’s ear.  He endured the mild pain as another blister was explored. 

“You were yelling a lot.”  Ian started to shake.  John turned him around so they were face to face.  “You were screaming, Dad.”  The tears arrived at last, rolling fast as he grabbed on to his father and sobbed into his shirt. 

John shifted the small, shaking body more securely into his lap and held him tightly against his chest.  “You did fine, buddy.  You did great,” he said into the silky, dark hair. 

“I was so scared, Daddy,” Ian wailed into his chest, using the child’s term he’d abandoned almost two full cycles earlier.  Great shuddering sobs wracked the half dressed body, pounding out his fright.  “I should have come out and shot sooner, but I was too scared.”   
 
“That’s okay.  You were supposed to be scared.  Your mother and I were scared too.” 

John freed a hand long enough to check Aeryn’s pulse, the self-proclaimed fear curling into a chilled ache in the center of his chest.  The rhythm pounded away under his fingertips, slow and steady, and he had to face the possibility that the small thumping might be the only motion he ever felt from her ever again.  It had been too long for her to still be unconscious.  She’d always recovered before this.  And for the first time since she’d lost consciousness, he was truly afraid.  The idea of life without Aeryn was unbearable.

“Not you, Dad,” Ian protested.  “You weren’t scared.”  He raised his head and examined his father’s face intently for signs of deception.  The tears had eased to occasional trickles.   

“Yes, I was.  I still am, but it’s how you handle that scared part that matters.”  John caressed Aeryn’s forehead one more time, deriving some small bit of hope from the cool feel of her skin, and then turned all of his attention on the leviathan’s youngest fighter.  “When did you first feel scared?” he asked.

Ian bit his lower lip, looking more like Aeryn than he had at any time of his life.  The last tremors died away as he was distracted by the question.  “When you first told me to Scuttle.  Your voice sounded wrong.  It was kind of scratchy like it wasn’t working right.” 

“So you Scuttled, exactly the way we’ve always practiced, and then what did you do?” 

“I didn’t do what I was supposed to,” Ian said, admitting his crime for the second time.  “I left the Safe Room.” 

“And even though you were really, really scared, you came up where the big scary monsters were being --”

“They’re called Scarrans, Dad,” Ian protested. 

“-- where the big, Scarran monsters were being mean to me and your Mom, and you shot the biggest one.”  Ian nodded, looking more assured.  “You kept going when you were frightened, kiddo.  That’s courage.  That’s what a brave person does.  You saved Moya and Pilot and me and your mother and even Uncle D’Argo.” 

John tucked Ian’s head in under his chin, hugged him tightly, and felt empty.  He would need to be strong for Ian over the coming cycles.  It wouldn’t be easy raising him on his own, but it was beginning to look like he didn’t have a choice.  “We’re going to be brave together, Ian.  You and me.  We’re going to be okay.” 

“What about me?” a quiet voice interjected. 

“MOM!”  Ian’s shrill cry echoed up and down the tunnel, setting several nearby DRDs to chirping.

John let go of the suddenly re-energized little body, and skidded across the short distance to Aeryn’s side.  He brushed a single tendril of hair away from her face, then lifted her head and shoulders and slid underneath her to hold her upper body in his arms.  “Hey there.” 

“Hey there,” she returned. 

“You scared the crap out of me.”  The words emerged in a shaking rasp when poorly controlled muscles had to struggle to function around a large lump in his throat.  Ian was kneeling on the other side of Aeryn, holding her hand, looking as though he wanted to launch himself into her arms.  “Come here, buster,” John ordered, holding out one arm.  His son made it in one flying leap, trusting his father to snare him out of the air before he hit the wall of the access tunnel.  John hugged the two bodies together, one arm around each, and tried to remember if there was a time when he’d ever felt this close to fainting. 

“You’re squishing me, Dad,” Ian complained after several microts. 

“Sorry.”  He loosened his grasp and looked at his family.  A moment earlier he’d felt as though he’d be able to muddle through day to day, surviving for his son’s sake.  In an instant, someone had replaced his heart and soul; all the parts necessary for life were present. 

“Eiyan,” Aeryn summoned her child.  “My small miracle, come here.”  He slid the short distance from John’s embrace into Aeryn’s, snuggled in close, and wrapped his arms and legs around her body.  They seemed to merge into a single entity, drawing energy and strength from each other. 

John smiled at the sight of them, content with coming in second place in Ian’s affections.  He had a small shadow that followed him all over Moya, dressed like him, and tried in so many ways to be just like John Crichton; there was no reason to be jealous of the special bond between mother and son. 

Aeryn rested her chin on the top of Ian’s head and smiled back at John’s grin.  “He seems to be in one piece.”

“He shot Gridlock,” John told her, trying to keep his voice entirely casual.  “Took the helmet right off another one.”  Aeryn’s eyes widened.  “Along with its head.”   

“I killed them, Mummy,” the muffled voice proclaimed into her chest.  “It was awful messy.” 

John caught a laugh before it burst out, and thought that perhaps Ian might emerge from this with less emotional damage than he’d first feared. 

“Want to get out of here?”  The tunnel was dark, snug, and safe, but it was also drafty, and smelled of machinery and Moya’s less pleasant varieties of amnexus fluid. 

“I like it here,” Aeryn answered immediately.  “Let’s sit for a while.  An arn or two.” 

John checked her expression in surprise, half expecting to find the gleam in her eyes that meant she was teasing him.  The grayish eyes caught his, flicked very deliberately toward where Ian was trying to fuse himself into her body, and then fastened on John again.  It was an unmistakable signal.  She wanted to tell him something, and didn’t want Ian around when she did.

“Hey, Superman.”  Ian raised his head grinning with pleasure at the hero’s label.  “Can you find your way to Treasure Island and back?  Your mother could use a drink.” 

“Abso-frelling-lutely,” the youngster said very deliberately and disentangled his arms and legs from Aeryn’s embrace. 

“Ian!” Aeryn barked at him. 

“Dad says it!” the smallest Crichton protested. 

“He shouldn’t say it either,” she scolded both of them at once.

“Punishment tour?” Ian asked, fidgeting.  It was the Peacekeeper phrase for something far less severe than what she’d endured at his age.  Swearing normally cost him an arn of cleaning DRDs.  A brief interval when he’d first learned the new vocabulary had resulted in a shining fleet of drones that had Pilot and Moya as close to ‘ecstatic’ as they ever got.  There hadn’t been a grease spot or smudge to be found on any of the yellow carapaces.   

Aeryn motioned him back to her for a small hug.  “I think you’ve earned one single swear.  But not another!” she warned quickly seeing the smile appear.  “Go.” 

Ian disappeared at a run, small enough to stand upright in the limited confines of the access tunnel. 

“Can you walk?” John asked as soon as the footsteps were beyond hearing.  He’d used the few microts during their exchange to think about why Aeryn might want Ian to disappear for a few moments.   

“Not yet.” 

Her hand was shaking as she reached up to place two fingers on his lips, silencing him before he could voice his concern.  It demonstrated how much physical stress she’d endured, how far down the finite path toward heat delirium she’d been forced to travel this time.  There’d never been any residual damage in the past, but Aeryn had never taken this long to recover either. 

She continued to reassure him.  “The feeling is back almost to my ankles.  I’ll be fine.  He’s been scared enough already.  I didn’t want him to worry.” 

“You’re sure?  You’re sure there’s no damage?  What about your memory?”  John pulled her further into his embrace, rearranging her legs to lie more comfortably now that he knew she couldn’t do it on her own. 

“I’m positive.  I was awake for most of Ian’s bedtime story.  I could hear him, but I was concerned that if I tried to answer and didn’t make any sense, that he’d get more scared.  He was so brave.”  Aeryn grasped one of his wrists carefully and turned his hand over.  Her breath hissed in sharply as the damage was revealed.  “These are bad, John.  We have to find a medical facility.” 

“We will,” he assured her.  “There’s time for that now.” 

All but a few of the blisters had burst during the wild two arns it had taken to kill the remaining three Scarrans.  Both hands were a mass of raw, oozing flesh and tattered skin.  John flexed his hands several times.  It hurt, but not so much that he couldn’t stand it.  He hadn’t consciously noticed the discomfort until the touch of Aeryn’s cool fingers provided a contrast to the pain.  It was a gnawing ache from fingertips to above his wrists, reverberating unpleasantly to beyond his elbows.  They bent over his hands together, examining them and discovering that although widespread, the burns weren’t deep or severe.  He would heal.   

“What happened?  I don’t remember much.  How did you stop them?”

“They were bioloids.  That’s what I figured out at the last moment.” 

“They couldn’t be.  Bioloids aren’t that stupid,” she argued.  “Occasionally some information gets lost during the neural transfer, but they should be every bit as intelligent as the host they’re patterned on.” 

“I know,” John repeated several times during her explanation.  “Fact, Aeryn.  There are bio-guts all over Command and bits and pieces scattered across various other portions of Moya.  What would happen if the Scarrans were short of troops and began turning out more than one unit per host?  What if they’re building them too fast, or maybe making dozens of copies from each individual?” 

“I suppose it’s possible” she said pensively, considering his theories. 

John launched in again, ideas tumbling out in quick succession.  “They might even be making bioloids from other bioloids.  This could be the kind of degenerative errors that begin to show up whenever someone tries to clone a clone.  Something else, Aeryn.  Those warriors were all copies of the elite caste.  If they’re using their leaders as troops then they’re in more trouble than even the Peacekeepers realize.” 

“If that’s true, then we need to get word to someone in the Alliance,” Aeryn said thoughtfully.  “They’re avoiding ground battles because it’s so difficult to kill a Scarran.  If they can detect bioloid troops, it’ll allow a change in tactics.  But they had a heat gland,” she added, returning to the bioloid debate.

John shrugged, expressing his inability to explain it.  “Sputnik had that radiation thing going that could toast Scarrans.  It wouldn’t be much of an adjustment for a bio-lizard to be able to create thermal energy instead of radiation.  It explains why my hands don’t look like charcoal briquettes.  A real Scarran should have turned me into a crispy critter.”  He pressed his lips against Aeryn’s forehead, half a caress and half a check for body temperature, and then changed the subject.  “You taught Ian to shoot.  I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to do that until he was ten.” 

With the exception of their disagreement over the vows, the argument about teaching Ian to handle weapons had exceeded all others in terms of length and vehemence.  They’d hammered away at each other verbally for nearly three solar days, going without sleep or food, nearly resorting to physical violence several times.  They’d covered the same arguments repeatedly in an unparalleled display of stubbornness on both their parts.  It had been fatigue that had brought the fight to an end, and he could have sworn they’d agreed to wait two more cycles. 

“You dictated; I never agreed,” Aeryn responded without any vestige of humor.   

Crichton’s angry retort was forestalled by a quiet chirp from the comms and D’Argo’s concerned voice.  “John, where are you?” 

“Inside the access tunnel leading off Command,” he answered.  It sounded ludicrous.  It was as though he’d just announced that they were going to spend the night camping inside a storm drain.  He listened to make sure Ian wasn’t on his way back, then added more quietly, “Aeryn needs a couple of arns to recover.  Do you need any help?”

The unpleasant task of disposing of the bodies, and in some cases body parts, remained.  The fact that the intruders had been bioloids made it no less repulsive. 

“I can handle it.  Take your time.  Do you need anything?”

To John’s raised-eyebrow inquiry, Aeryn shook her head.  “Not right now.  We’ll comm if we need any help getting her out of here.”  D’Argo acknowledged and the comms went silent. 

John rested his cheek against Aeryn’s head and thought about their chaotic afternoon.  The nightmare in Command might have been prevented if D’Argo had been inside Moya to help them, but because he’d stayed on Lo’La, he’d been in the right place when the three remaining Scarran-look-alikes had split up.  Once they’d left Command, the bioloid-Scarrans had shown more of the competent behavior they’d demonstrated during their initial assault.  Without D’Argo’s help, the temporary rout might have turned into a disaster.   

“What are you thinking?” Aeryn asked. 
 
“I’m trying to figure out how you got D’Argo to wait in Lo’La.”  He hadn’t been having any luck reasoning with the irate luxan, and she’d managed it in one brief sentence.  “You hit him with his blood oath, didn’t you?” 

The day after they’d pronounced their vows to an infant Ian, D’Argo had summoned everyone to the Den and made a similar commitment.  He’d performed a Luxan Blood Oath ritual, slashing several of his tanktas as he first explained that he wouldn’t promise to always remain aboard Moya, and then sworn that as long as he did he would always put Ian’s well-being before his own.  His oath had included a pledge to defer to John and Aeryn’s judgment whenever it involved Ian’s safety. 

“Yes.”  Aeryn bent and extended her legs several times, concentrating on that movement while John considered her actions. 

“Would he have left Lo’La if I’d yelled for help?” 

“No.”  Aeryn dropped the single word into the hush of the tunnel without apology or explanation.   

John thought about how close he’d come to losing Aeryn, and the fury was unlike anything he’d had to cope with in the past.  Pain, stubbornness, anxiety, and fear combined to goad him into a level of anger he didn’t think himself capable of producing.  It was the type of anger that only hurt and the specter of loss could produce.  “God damn it, Aeryn!  We’re supposed --”

“Let me explain!”  The barked order silenced him long enough for her to continue in a more moderate tone.  “Listen to me for a few microts.  I want you to understand something, and I don’t want Ian to overhear, so let me talk.” 

She started by taking his head between hands that had quieted to mild trembles, and kissed him.  The caress worked.  The flood of anger abated to levels he could control.  “Go ahead,” he said.

“You’ve been trying so hard to give Ian the kind of childhood you had.  You want him to be happy and carefree and to enjoy the same kind of innocence that you had when you were growing up on Earth.”  John nodded in agreement.  “And I’ve let you because I love you both and you’re right, he should have those cycles of fun.  But despite all your cycles living here, and all the things we’ve been through together, you aren’t able to admit to yourself that Ian can never have your childhood.  This isn’t Earth, and if you continue to protect him, you’ll get him killed.” 

“We can keep him safe,” he interjected. 

“We can try to keep him safe.  You dreamed up every single facet of the Safe Room.  It’s a wonderful idea, so I let you do it without arguing, but the one thing you have refused to do over the last eight cycles is make the hardest choice imaginable.  Ian needs at least one parent.  All of your precautions are designed to protect Ian with no regard for whether it puts both of us at risk at the same time.  You can’t accept that you might have to sacrifice me in order to make sure that you survive for Ian’s sake.” 

“You forced D’Argo to stay outside Moya today.  That’s the same thing.” 

“We got caught by surprise.  There wasn’t enough time to do it differently.”  Aeryn stopped to listen for Ian.  The tunnel leading toward the shielded room was silent.  “I told D’Argo that if we both died, that his blood oath demanded he raise Ian as his own son.  That’s why he stopped arguing.” 

“None of this has anything to do with teaching Ian to shoot, or what happened in Command today.  You’re eliminating options, Aeryn.  We need more options, not less.  We need to dissolve the vows.  I won’t honor them.  I won’t let us get pushed into this kind of situation ever again.” 

“We will not dissolve them, and you’re going to keep your word.” 

“No,” he argued, suddenly close to tears.  “I can’t.”  His voice turned thick and guttural as he imagined having to go through a repeat of what he’d experienced that day, possibly with a lethal outcome.  They’d been lucky this time around.  “I won’t.” 

“Yes, you will.  You promised me, and you promised Ian.  I forced you to make that promise because I need for you to be strong when you don’t want to be,” she said gently.  Aeryn brushed her fingers along his temple and took several microts to examine his face.  “After everything you’ve learned here, you are still the most gentle, compassionate person I’ve ever known.”
   
“You’ve obviously been hanging out with a tough crowd.”  It was designed to give him time to consider what she was saying.  He wanted to deny it, to argue with her and show her that she was wrong.  John tried to formulate some sort of argument to her carefully marshaled points, and came up empty.     

“So have you, and it hardened you for a while.  But you learned how to love and care again.  You want that easier life for Ian.  I want to make sure he never has to go through anything like what Jothee experienced when he lost both of his parents at once.  When you get pushed into a difficult choice like today, you get desperate and start making up your hideous plans.  Until you learn to accept that sometimes you have to give up one thing you love in order to protect another, I’m going to do it for you.”

“That’s cruel and unfair.” 

“Life is cruel and unfair.”  Aeryn threw his words back at him, then pulled his arms around her more firmly.  “Hold me.”  She was letting him know that she wasn’t angry.  John hugged her as tightly as he could without using his hands.  “What do you see when you wake up in the middle of the night and worry about Ian?” 

“I keep seeing him lying dead.”  He didn’t need to wake up to envision it.  The blood-soaked nightmares revolving around a grisly death for his son had begun before Ian was born.  The horrors generated by his subconscious had changed four cycles ago when they’d discovered what knowledge was embedded in their son’s genes.  Since that day, it was the dream-sight of Ian’s eviscerated body lying in a Peacekeeper lab that woke him sweating and chilled too many nights.  “Dead or dying.” 

“I don’t.  It’s the prospect of Ian winding up all alone that keeps me awake.  I hear him crying for us -- sometimes dressed in rags and starving, sometimes laboring as a slave, sometimes in a Scarran prison cell where they’ve discovered what’s hidden in his genes.  And every time, we’re both dead and he’s scared and alone.”  Aeryn freed a hand long enough to wipe her eyes.  “I will not let that happen to him, John.  I’m going to make sure that he can take care of himself, and that he always has at least one of us there to protect him.  If that means that one of us has to watch the other one die, then that’s what we’re going to do.”

John rested his cheek lightly against the top of Aeryn’s head and thought about everything she’d just told him.  The need to argue had been buried beneath the layers of her reasoning.  He was angry and hurt that she hadn’t mentioned any of this for eight entire cycles, but every one of her arguments was so compelling, it was difficult to debate her choices. 

At some point during the long-ago half-cycle she’d never completely described to him, Aeryn had learned how to live without him.  She’d gone the whole route:  watched him die, moved past the grief and the depression, and come out of it stronger.  He’d lost her again and again in different ways, and had been granted a reprieve each time.  She’d left to protect Talyn, and had come back almost immediately.  The neural clone had taken control and killed her, and Zhaan had brought her back to life.  He’d survived a half-cycle without her, and she’d returned.  The interminable days aboard Elack had been painful, and he’d known that she was alive.  He’d never had to face the brutal reality that she was gone forever. 

Aeryn had watched John Crichton die, and had come to terms with it.  She knew she could survive without him.  He hadn’t learned the same lesson yet.   

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” John demanded in a shaking whisper.  “You know how much I hated the vows.  If you had explained this, I wouldn’t have fought you on it.”  Aeryn’s quiet chuckle yanked him back to reality.  “Okay, I wouldn’t have fought as hard.  I would have traded in intolerably pig-headed for merely incredibly stubborn.  But you’ve kept this secret from me for more than seven frelling cycles, Aeryn!  We’re supposed to be partners.” 

“Partners doesn’t mean we have to do everything the same way -- you know that.  We compensate for each other’s weaknesses.  And I didn’t say anything because you’ve taught me about hope and love.  I was hoping that Ian would grow up without needing any of my preparations, and I love you, so I didn’t want you to be worrying that a day like today would happen when you’d be forced to choose.” 

“You are so damn tough, Aeryn Sun.”  John didn’t like her methods, but he was beginning to see that Aeryn wasn’t entirely wrong.  Ian was far more prepared for the harsh life in this portion of the universe than any child on Earth ever would be, and most of that was Aeryn’s doing.

“You know how to love,” she replied, using the same intonation he had.  “I’ve been teaching you about being tough, and you taught me how to love someone.  Between the two of us, we can make sure that Ian knows how to balance the two.  He’s going to need more of that than ever after today.  John, I didn’t want him to have to use a weapon so soon, but I could not let him get any older without knowing how to protect himself.” 

Anger, hurt, and depression mixed together, cancelled each other out, and rendered him numb and unable to object.  “He’s only eight,” he said after several microts.  It was too young to take a life, regardless of whether it was Scarran, bioloid, or something else.   

“It was too soon,” she agreed.  “So we’ll have to work together to make sure he adjusts.  We work together well when it comes to Ian.” 

“We work together great all the time,” John countered.  “There’s just a lot less yelling whenever he’s within earshot.” 

Aeryn turned inside his arms so she was facing him, snuggled in as closely as Ian had been less than a quarter-arn earlier, and kissed him.  John closed his eyes and let the myriad complexities of Aeryn Sun wash over him.  The smell of chakan oil, leather and the musty scent that came from lying in Moya’s innards; a mildly salty taste that he knew from experience followed heat delirium; the warmth of her body and her fingers pressing against the side of his neck to hold him close, her thumb rubbing him lightly behind his ear -- the deluge of small inputs combined into a crashing wave of sensation.  For a long, suspended moment his entire universe consisted of this one woman.  There was nothing but Aeryn. 

“Wow.”  He broke away to catch his breath, then gave her another, shorter kiss.

“I can sit up on my own now.”  Her attempt to lift her legs from where her knees were bent over one of his thighs was only partially successful.   

“I like it this way,” he complained.  John lifted her legs clear anyway, helped her turn so she was facing away from him, and hugged her from behind.   

“So do I, but we’re missing one son.  He’s been gone too long.” 

“Crap!  I lost track of time.”  He made sure she was sitting comfortably, and got to his feet.  “Probably found something more interesting than his parents.” 

“He’s a Crichton.  It’s more likely that he’s off dreaming up some terrible plan that won’t work right,” Aeryn teased him. 

“And since he’s your son, when it starts to go to dren, he’ll fix it by shooting something.”  John knelt long enough to give her another quick kiss, then headed for the Safe Room at the fastest pace his hunched-over posture would allow. 

He’d made it more than halfway when he heard footsteps and a strange slithering sound coming toward him.  John dropped onto one knee, a more comfortable position in the constriction of Moya’s maintenance tunnel, and waited.  Ian appeared around a corner.  He was wearing a clean shirt and his jacket against the abnormal chill in the tunnel, and was towing one of the golden thermal sheets.  The sheet was weighed down with an organized array of items, as though he’d selected each one with great deliberation and placed it in a particular spot. 

John waited as Ian traversed the five-motra distance between them.  Their son was a thorough blending of his parents.  It was as though their genes had tried to compensate for the enduring differences that continued to lead to arguments and misunderstandings after so many cycles together.  The figure coming toward him had his own sturdy build, tempered by Aeryn’s leanness.  Her fast reflexes married to his stamina had given Ian the limitless energy that regularly left both parents exhausted at the end of the day.  Ian had her glossy black hair with his unruly waves; strange forever-changing blue-gray eyes that were never quite Aeryn’s or his own; and a fusing of both their tempers and stubbornness that had miraculously turned into an uncaring adaptability to whatever life threw at him.

Aeryn had conducted her pregnancy like everything else:  a militarily planned campaign to be executed with a minimum of fuss.  In an attempt to control the mercurial, hormone-driven mood swings, she’d reverted to something close to the emotionless Peacekeeper he’d encountered his first day in the Uncharted Territories.  That had eased after a quarter cycle, to be replaced by a fanatical regimen of good health and physical fitness.  He’d tried to get her to relax a little, and enjoy motherhood.  It had almost earned him a pantak jab.  Kicks and punches from the developing life had elated her; her expanding waistline had not.

Four attempts to get her to a medical facility to check the baby’s progress had nearly gotten them killed every time.  He’d given up, and spent the remainder of the pregnancy praying that their interpretation of the display from the medical scanner was accurate.  The long awaited day had arrived, and their luck didn’t change.  Aeryn had delivered Ian in the midst of an attack on Moya.  His exhortations to ‘breathe’ and ‘don’t push yet’ had been met with ‘Frell this, I have better things to do’ and Aeryn had almost broken his left hand with her grip as she did her best to hurry the process. 

Ian had emerged healthy and squalling, with a human’s ability to tolerate heat and a Sebacean paraphoral nerve.  He spoke nine languages interchangeably, knew his way around a leviathan better than a DRD, thought weightlessness a definite improvement over gravity since it meant the clutter on the floor of his room would drift into a single corner if it continued long enough, and had no idea that there was any other way to live.

He truly was their Eiyan.  The Sebacean word meant ‘small miracle’, as Aeryn sometimes called him, to Ian’s embarrassment.  From conception, through Aeryn’s torture at the hands of the Scarrans, to the danger fraught days of gestation, culminating in his chaotic delivery, every moment of Ian’s life was a miracle of survival.  This latest event was only one entry on a very long list of near disasters.       

Crichton watched the coordinated movements inside black leather, spent a useless microt wishing that Ian could have had a blissfully peaceful childhood, and marveled that this was his son.  There had to be a way, he decided.  There had to be a way for them to fulfill both his and Aeryn’s goals for Ian’s safety and well-being.  He swore a new vow in the last microt while he waited for Ian to reach him -- a silent vow that he would find a way to make sure that all three of them remained healthy and alive until Ian was old enough to be on his own.   

John leaned to one side as Ian came to a stop in front of him, trying to see what he was dragging on the thermal-sheet-sled.  “Whatchya got there, Boo-Boo?  Pick-a-nic baskets?” he asked. 

Ian dropped the front edge of the sheet.  It held the drinking water John had asked him to retrieve -- along with three drinking flasks, a container of food cubes, what looked like all the pillows from the safe room, and a glow lamp to provide more light.  There was also a squat container of the type that lined the racks in their medical bay and several rolls of bandages. 

“I asked Pilot to have the DRDs bring that stuff,” Ian explained, gesturing at the first aid items. 

“Burn gel?” John concluded. 

“Yeah.”  The lightness was missing from Ian.  Even when he was angry or throwing one of his rare temper-tantrums, there was always a vestige of humor lurking, waiting for the bad mood to end so it could take over. 

“You’re getting to be brighter than your old man,” John tried.  There was no sign that the compliment brought any pleasure.  “We were getting worried about you.” 

“Dad?”  Ian sat down and stared at his boot toes. 

John copied his position, sitting toe to toe with him.  “Yeah?” 

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Mom?” 

“I can’t promise until I know what it is, but I’ll try.”  He waited through some sighs, a scrunched up frown of indecision, and a head shake that said Ian wasn’t going to confide in him.  “If you tell me that you’ve just blown up the Prowler, I think we’d have to tell her.  She’d notice sooner or later.  Same thing if you say that you accidentally jettisoned Pilot into space.  We tend to find those things out pretty quick.” 

“Dad.”  It was a long drawn out syllable used to let him know he was being absurd. 

“I won’t tell her unless I have to,” he promised Ian.  John waited silently through several more microts of indecision.   

“I don’t like shooting people,” came the confession.  “I don’t mind shooting the targets Mom sets up for me in the hangar bay, but I don’t want to kill anyone anymore.”  He looked up, eyes brimming with tears.  “You won’t tell her, will you?”

Until that moment, John hadn’t been aware of the spot somewhere near the base of his spine that he’d been holding very still ever since he’d spotted Ian holding the pulse pistol.  It wasn’t a muscle or a joint.  It was a fear, a hope, a held breath of desperation that was afraid his son would learn to kill quickly and callously.  In the moment that the tears began to spill down Ian’s face, the rigidly maintained spot relaxed, and a hot liquid weakness flooded outward through his stomach and along his spine.  He let his breath out slowly, and waited for the lightheadedness of relief to pass. 

“She won’t mind.  You could tell her yourself,” he suggested very gently.  “I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to, but I promise you she won’t be disappointed.”  John shuffled forward until his legs were wrapped around Ian and they were sitting face to face. 

“Are you sure, Dad?  You don’t seem to understand Mom an awful lot of the time.” 

The candid observation caught him off-guard; Crichton was laughing before he could stop to think how it would affect Ian’s depression.  The tears disappeared and a weak grin met his broader smile.  “This time I’m pretty sure I’ve got it right, wise guy.  You tell your mother, and if she gets mad, I promise to do your punishment tour for you.” 

“Okay!”  The possibility of watching his father scrub DRDs seemed to cheer him up.  The light was back.  It wasn’t shining at full intensity yet, but the promise of a full-wattage smile was waiting for an excuse to appear.  “Mom’s going to be worried about us.  We better go.” 

He was tough and he was loving, and more importantly, he was happy.  John got to his feet more slowly than Ian’s energetic bound, saw the unmistakable signs of both his and Aeryn’s influences, and felt better about the cycles that lay ahead.  He reached for the sheet with the intention of towing the moderate sized load. 

Ian snatched the edge of the sheet away when John tried to take over for him.  “I’ve got it, Dad.  Your hands are hurt.” 

Side by side, two figures in black leather, one tall and one small, made their way back to where Aeryn was waiting for them. 

   * * * * *

[KernilCrash]

Part 3 - An Addendum:  (NC-17)

Note:  In the event that you, the reader, are new to one of my Addendums, please keep in mind that this next section is not critical to the story.  It is tacked on solely for smut’s sake, and because so many of us love it when John and Aeryn finally wind up in the sack together.  Farscape may be the show where even the puppets get some, but it seems like John and Aeryn get precious little of it, so it’s up to the fanfic writers to go where the actors’ contracts said they wouldn’t tread. 

   * * * * * 

Aeryn woke to the unpleasant grip of soaked bedding clinging to her skin.  She lay still for several microts while she tried to recall some reason for the damp pillow and thermal sheet.  There was a hole in her memory where the explanation was supposed to reside.  She tried to sit up to disentangle herself.  Nothing happened.  The first twinge of irrational panic squirmed along her spine, urging her to try something more strenuous, seeking proof that her body would work if she tried hard enough.  She managed to roll onto her side, turning into the radiating warmth beside her that was John.  Everything suddenly got worse.

“John!” she gasped, fighting for air.  Even her lungs seemed to be malfunctioning.  He grumbled a not-awake acknowledgement.  “John, I need help.” 

“Aeryn?”  He was awake in an instant; groggy with a sleep-slurred voice but attentive.  “What’s the matter?” 

“I can’t … think.  I can’t move.  Something … something’s wrong.” 

A split-microt later John’s lips were against her forehead, strangely bundled hands holding her head motionless long enough for him to make a firm contact.  “You’re burning up, babe.  This shouldn’t be happening.  You were fine this evening, this shouldn’t be happening.” 

“I was f-f-f-fine from what?” she stammered.  There was no recall of the arns leading up to the moment when she’d awoken dripping with sweat.  “John, I feel terrible.”

“You’ve got heat delirium, Aeryn, and I don’t know why.  Oh God, please tell me they didn’t infect you with something.”  John was out of bed, moving about their chamber so quickly it was making her dizzy.  He grabbed his comms off his gunbelt, clipped the badge to the waist of the black trunks he slept in, and was magically beside her again.  She didn’t remember him crossing from where Winona was hanging to the side of the bed. 

“Come on.  We’ve got to get you cooled down.”  John’s hard muscled arms dug in beneath her shoulders and knees and she was lifted, clutched securely against his chest.

Aeryn looped her arm around his neck and pulled herself close to kiss the side of his neck.  “I love you,” she said into his ear.  “Put me down and let’s make love.” 

“Not right now, Aeryn.”  He was in a hurry for some reason that she couldn’t fathom.  “Pilot!  Check Moya’s datastores for anything about this sort of thing.  And then get the DRDs to fire up the scanner in the medical bay.  If getting her cooled down doesn’t help, we may need it to figure out what’s wrong.” 

“Working on it,” came Pilot’s standard response.  “Shall I prepare the cold room?” 

“No, that’ll take too long.  She’s burning up.  I’m on my way to the Center Sluice Chamber.  Ask Moya to fill it with cold water, Pilot.  As cold as possible.”  John ducked through the curtains, barely waiting for the bars of the door to swing out of the way, and broke into a run. 

“Not cold,” she murmured against the side of his neck.  “Need hot.  Hot and wet so we can recreate.  Frell, frell, frell our brains out.” 

“That proves you’re delirious,” John grunted through the strain of carrying her at a sprint.  “But you can bet I’ll hold you to that suggestion when you’re better.  Pilot?  Any clue why this is happening to her?” 

Aeryn listened with little interest to the fast-paced exchange between John and Pilot, taking even less note of their conclusions.  The words were strung together in long, confusing chains, discussing Sebacean physiology and mysterious causes that she couldn’t be bothered to disentangle.  She clutched John around the neck, concentrated on the solid bulk of his body, breathed in the wonderful smell of him, and let everything slip very far away.  John Crichton was taking care of her; that was all she needed to know.  John would make everything right. 

   * * * * *

Crichton barely slowed as he turned the corner into the Sluice Chamber.  The last four steps as he approached the low rim of the trough were a hard, barefoot-slapping deceleration, followed by a cautious bound over the edge.  He’d gotten his balance right, Aeryn’s weight was in close to his chest where it wouldn’t upset his center of gravity, and he’d completely overlooked the nearly frictionless layer of fine silt that coated the bottom of the trough.  Both feet shot out from under him, and he hit the water with a loud smack, Aeryn on top of him. 

“Ohhhh, SHIT!” he howled as the icy water closed in over both their bodies.  Moya had taken his request for cold water to an extreme.  “Oh god oh god oh god,” he chanted in an anguished moan.  His left arm was devoted to holding Aeryn’s head clear of the water while his right hand worked beneath her body to clutch at his aching scrotum.  “Oh dear God, they’ll never thaw out.”  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the discomfort.  The situation bordered on funny, but it was also approaching excruciating.  He gasped for breath against the cold-induced ache, and watched Aeryn’s face as the flaming signals of an overheated body faded from her cheeks. 

Tens then hundreds of microts passed as he let go of his tortured anatomy and began sloshing cold water across Aeryn’s upper chest and throat.  His breathing became increasingly ragged as hers steadied and slowed; his body started to shudder from cold as her muscle spasms eased and faded.  He’d been forced to make a decision based on almost no information, and had guessed that the shower wouldn’t provide enough cooling to stop her runaway physiology.  Taking the time to bring her to the sluice trough had been a risk.  He prayed that it had been worth it. 

“Come on, Aeryn,” he whispered through chattering teeth.  “Don’t do this to me.  We made it through today, don’t you go Easy-Bake Oven on me now.” 

“John?”  Aeryn’s mumbled greeting was marginally more coherent than the slurred invitations to frell that had accompanied his wild dash through Moya’s corridors. 

“Hey there, hot stuff.”  The flush was gone and she’d stopped shaking.  Crichton let her slide out of his lap to sit on the bottom of the trough.  It brought the water level up to the base of her throat. 

“What’s happening?” she asked slowly.  “I … Do I have heat delirium?” 

“I don’t think so.”  His feet had long since gone numb from the cold, which was a relief since they didn’t ache anymore.  The lack of sensation was working its way up his legs, and for the first time in arns, his hands didn’t hurt.  His hands, like his feet, were almost completely senseless.  John ignored the expanding chill, more concerned about her recovery than his own discomfort.  “Aeryn, tell me what happened aboard Moya today.” 

Aeryn bit her lower lip and frowned.  “Scarrans?  Something to do with bioloid Scarrans?  That can’t be right.” 

“No, your recall is perfect.”  Her symptoms were fading as fast as they’d appeared.  “What else do you remember?” 

Aeryn reached underwater and groped until she found one of his hands.  It came up streaming water from sopping bandages.  “You burned your hands trying to protect me.  I did have heat delirium; it was this afternoon though, not tonight.” 

“Pilot found a single reference in the datastores to some sort of rebound reaction to what you went through today.  Our theory is that your body was under so much stress that it’s having trouble regulating internal temperatures.  This could be all there is to it, or it may go on for arns before it settles down; there’s no way to know how long it will take for your body to recover.”  His explanation was punctuated by the clatter of chattering teeth. 

“Can I get out?  I feel better.” 

“If you can stand up on your own, I suppose you’re well enough to get out.”  He gave her the smallest of nudges to get her started, then hovered protectively as she first sat up, and then got to her feet. 

“There’s something wrong with you,” Aeryn said in concern as he floundered for several microts.  “What’s that matter?” 

“My feet are frozen, and my mivonks are so cold, they’re making love to my tonsils.” 

John shook his head when she tried to help him; she might get hurt if she lost her balance while supporting any portion of his weight.  He made it to his feet, and they sloshed together to the edge of the trough and made their way carefully over the rounded edge. 

John sat down on the rim and pounded one foot and then the other on the floor, waiting for some feeling to return to his shriveled, bloodless feet.  The wandering air drafts in the chamber felt warm at first, almost hot in comparison to the excruciating cold of the water.  The swirling air changed from comfortable to chilling in a matter of microts though, and his shivers escalated to violent shuddering.   

“You’re freezing,” Aeryn said.  Their roles were abruptly reversed as she helped him to his feet and guided his progress into the corridors.  “Why didn’t you bring any clothes or a towel with you?” 

“I w-w-w-was in a hurry,” he stammered through clattering teeth.  “Toss my lovely wife into an ice cold bath because she’s the hottest babe in the universe.”  The small bit of silliness emerged in rushes, stammers, and uncontrolled pulses of air.

“You sound delirious.” 

His laughter was every bit as uncontrolled as his speech.  “You were sounding a bit delirious not too long ago.  You made an interesting suggestion.”  The cold had bored deep inside.  The mild exertion of walking wasn’t doing anything to warm him up, and John began to wonder what it would take to disperse the chill. 

“What did I say?” Aeryn asked hesitantly.

“Frell, frell, frell our brains out,” he quoted, and began laughing even harder at her look of confused embarrassment.

They lurched and stumbled their way back to their quarters, stopping across the corridor long enough to make sure Ian was sleeping soundly before finishing the short journey.  Aeryn guided his erratic progress toward the bed, a contrast to how they’d left the chamber. 

“I’ll warm up in a while,” John protested.  Aeryn was hurrying around the converted cell, grabbing towels, dry clothes, a heavier shirt than his usual thin t-shirt, and a fistful of bandages for his hands.  “Aeryn, take it easy.  The last thing we need right now is for you to exert yourself and raise your body temperature.  Once I’m in bed and covered up, I’ll be fine.”  His complaint emerged in broken phrases, interspersed between the gasps of his uncontrolled breathing and continuous shivers. 
 
“Your lips are purple, and you feel like a block of ice.  Why the frell didn’t you get out of the water and just hang on to me from the edge of the trough?”  The question sounded more like a concerned outburst than an actual inquiry, so John clamped his chattering teeth together, and didn’t bother answering. 

Aeryn dumped everything on the bed beside him and plucked her well-worn commando blade out of the jumble.  John eyed it warily, wondering if he was going to be forced into bed at knifepoint.  She took a microt to pull one of the shimmering thermal sheets around his shoulders, then reversed the knife with a quick flip in the air, and neatly slit the bandages from wrist to fingertips.  In a scant two hundred microts, despite having to cope with his violent shaking, both hands were carefully dried, coated with the antiseptic burn gel, and bandaged from wrists to just short of his fingertips.

“You’re not getting any warmer.  If anything, you’re worse,” Aeryn observed as she began wrapping his second hand.  “John, there are times when you are an absolute idiot.  Why didn’t you get out of the water?” 

“Runaway temperature, remember?” he stammered back.  “I was … I was worried about you, Aeryn.  I couldn’t think about --”  The rest of his explanation was lost in a staccato clattering of teeth.   

“You couldn’t think about anything but me,” she finished for him, sounding more sympathetic than she had microts earlier.  She spared a hand long enough to run her fingers across his cheek, the touch of her caress lost to the numbing effect of cold, then she went back to fastening the last of the bandages in place. 

“If you start to overheat again and we have to go in the shower, then this is a waste of time,” he changed the subject with relief.  She ignored him and went on with her self-appointed tasks, her brief show of aggravation vanishing as fast as it had appeared.  Despite his concern, Aeryn showed no sign of a repeat of the night’s earlier problem … but she’d also seemed fine when they’d gone to bed.  The dark-haired whirlwind of activity tossed the knife and used items into a corner and began toweling him dry.  He reached for the towel, intending to do it himself.  It was twitched out of his reach, and she worked her way down his shoulders and torso. 

“Aeryn …” he tried again.

“Get out of those wet shorts,” she ordered.  Aeryn pulled him to his feet and performed the small chore for him, sliding the soaked fabric down his legs until they slopped to the floor.  That was when the fast, assured movements came to a stop. 

“John,” she said in a choking, nearly strangled voice.  “You’ve lost something.” 

He looked down at himself, if only to confirm what he’d felt ever since his abrupt landing in the sluice trough.  “You already know that happens when I get cold.  You said it happens with Sebaceans too.”  It had been nearly a quarter of an arn since he’d gotten out of the freezing water, but from the level of discomfort, he didn’t need to look to know that the situation between his legs hadn’t improved to any significant degree. 

“It’s never been this bad.”  Aeryn pushed him back to sit on the bed, strange little puffs of breath and snorts working their way loose as she finished drying his legs.  One laugh got loose and she turned her head away from him as she fought to keep it under control. 
 
“It’s not funny,” John complained.  He huddled over his lower body and called to his missing anatomy.  “Guys, you can come out.  No more ice torture, I promise.”  Aeryn burst out laughing.  “You’ve hurt their feelings.  They’ll never come out now,” he lamented. 

“We need to warm you up.”  Aeryn pushed him back to lie on the bed, wrapped the thermal sheet more securely around his upper body, then stepped away long enough to slip out of her damp top and shorts. 

“Aeryn,” John started hesitantly.  She’d deliberately left his lower body uncovered, and the blue-gray eyes were bright with the mischievous gleam that always appeared when she decided to take the lead in their love-making.  Aeryn joined him on the bed, kneeling over him with her legs straddling his thighs.  “If you’re thinking that this is a good time for --” 

His objection was lost to a long jerking sigh that bordered on a moan.  Both of her hands were between his legs, cupping his chilled anatomy.  It was a sensation unlike anything he’d ever felt:  warm gentle caresses against his painfully cold scrotum, her heat enveloping him, the mildest of inducements to restore normal blood flow.  Warm fingers, burning hot against his overly cool skin, stroked his hips, left hot trails up his belly to rub his stomach, then traveled down to rejoin the one hand that had remained in place.  Gently massaging, kneading, coaxing the shrunken organs to return to their normal condition, Aeryn paused only long enough to blow onto her fingers, bringing them back to the incendiary level of warmth before diving back to tend to his quickly warming genitals. 

John closed his eyes tightly, and shook in reaction to what was happening below his waist.  The sudden rush of blood to his groin was creating a single magma-hot zone in his otherwise frozen body.  Aeryn shifted to one side, the soft flesh between her legs coming to rest on one of his thighs, pouring the heat from her body into a single section of his.  She lowered herself onto him, tucked herself in against just one side of his body, and pulled the thermal sheet around both their bodies. 

He was hot and cold, fire and ice -- one side of his chest freezing and the nipple hardened into painful constriction, the other side rapidly thawing beneath the elegant body of Aeryn Sun.  The insistent stroking between his legs hadn’t stopped when she’d lain down beside him.  The combination of her warmth and his arousal was doing what the thermal sheet and his own meager body warmth had not been able to accomplish, restoring warmth, not to mention a painful level of desire, to his body.  Aeryn kissed him on the chest, then massaged the nipple closest to her with her tongue, gentle rollers of warmth and texture rocking across the small bit of puckered flesh in time with the movement of her fingers between his legs, increasing the bodily schism he was enduring.

“Aeryn,” he tried to complain.  Her hand reached lower and rubbed his leg, found a cool spot on the inside of his thigh and restored life to it one warm pass at a time.  It was only his leg she was stroking, and the result was immediate and intense.  There was another, unbelievable surge of warmth within denches of where her fingers were barely brushing the tender skin of his inner thigh, a wondrous easing of the discomfort in his groin, and he let out a long, chuckling moan.  “Good God,” he exclaimed, his voice gone guttural and thick. 

“They weren’t permanently frozen after all,” she hummed into his shoulder.  Aeryn eased his hardening cock to one side and returned to the slow, gentle massage of his balls as they emerged from where they’d retracted.  “The boys are going to be fine.”     

“Aeryn,” he panted through his growing arousal.  “This is a bad idea.  You were -- Oh Jesus!”  His protest was lost as she bent over his lower body and ran her tongue up his semi-hardened shaft.  The already warming, partially engorged tissue was caressed by a warmer touch.  Streams of liquefied heat worked from base to tip repeatedly, and then treated the head to a gentle basting.  As though a magnet had drawn every red blood corpuscle into his groin, he was suddenly, achingly erect, and on the verge of an unstoppable release.

“No!  God, stop!” he pleaded. 

Aeryn sat up.  “I thought you liked that.”  Despite her obvious disappointment, one hand continued to stroke his hardened shaft, occasionally diving deeper to fondle the now-relaxed mass of his balls.  John grabbed at her with clumsy, mittened hands, trying to stop her before it was too late. 

“I do love it when you do that, but it’s too much tonight.”  His breath was coming out in shudders and gasps, this time due to an impending climax rather than cold.  John closed his eyes for several microts and fought for control -- deep, slow breaths helping him back away from the brink.  Tens of microts ticked by before the tension receded to sustainable levels.  He let out a long breath of relief and had to think for a while before he could remember what he’d wanted to say. 

“Aeryn, you were delirious not much more than an arn ago.  We both need some rest.  This is not a good night to do this.”

She eased down on top of his chest and kissed him, slowly at first and then with more fervor.  She started with small nipping tastes, then progressed to something hungrier until her tongue dove deep, forced itself inside his mouth and took over.  He pulled her securely against his body, her breasts rubbing silky and warm, one firm thigh continuing the massage between his legs, and met her kiss with enthusiasm.  Aeryn’s fingers were running behind his ears, rubbing hard at the tendons at the base of his skull, stroking lightly along his jaw, and all the while it felt like she was trying to become one with him, starting with their mouths.   

She broke away long enough to breathe, ducked down to suck at one of his earlobes, and then worked her way back to his lips.  “Want to stop?” she whispered deviously between kisses.  “Want to stop now?” 

Her warmth radiated against him, from the blast-furnace heat of her breasts against his chest, to the subtle glow of her arms lying across his shoulders.  The cool air of the chamber drifted through his damp hair, insinuated its way along his feet and lower legs, providing a reminder that he wasn’t entirely warm yet.  And behind it all was the hot, painful-sweet pressure of his erection, dwarfing every other sensation.  The need for release was building again, making it difficult to argue with her.  The mischievous gleam in her eyes as Aeryn continued to touch him --deliberately provoking his body even as she feigned waiting -- was almost more than he could stand. 

“What about now?” she prompted again.  Her lips were working slowly down the underside of his throat while her fingers drifted up and down his neck beneath his ears -- a sensation so exquisite he could barely think to answer her.  “Want to stop?” 

He didn’t.  He wanted to turn her over, spend long microts admiring her body, and then examine every dench of her until the long, erratic breaths began, signaling her expanding arousal.  He wanted to feel the wondrous slide of her muscles beneath the warm, smooth skin, and finally, when she began to plead with him, enter her slowly and carefully, treasuring every incremental bit of progress until he was buried in her depths.  More than any of that, he wanted to watch her watching him, laughter lurking as he approached the end of his control.  Aeryn loved it when he was hovering on the brink of an orgasm, delight plain to see in her smile and in her attempts to hold him in that thought-dissolving pre-ejaculation moment.  No matter how many times they made love, he thrilled to watch that grin appear, and too often lost the battle to hang on within microts once she was watching him like that. 

“We should stop,” he said anyway.  It was Aeryn’s health he was concerned about.  If her body wasn’t regulating her internal temperature correctly, the last thing she needed was the exertion of recreating. 

Aeryn rested her hands alongside his head and looked down at him.  He peered down his nose at her breasts hovering so close to his chest, brushed his fingertips along the pale, soft skin, and waited for her answer. 

“Ian was exhausted after everything that happened today,” she said with a hint of a smile.  “He hasn’t even moved since he fell asleep.”   

He spent several microts considering the rarity of a soundly sleeping son, weighing it against the possibility of triggering another bout of heat delirium.  He brushed sheets of dark hair back behind Aeryn’s ears with singed fingertips, thought about how close he’d come to losing her that day, and desperately wanted to be one with her -- to feel her hands clutching hard at his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his hips to keep their bodies together, two bodies moving as a single unit in a wordless affirmation that they would always be together. 

“He’s sound asleep,” Aeryn repeated in a whisper. 

A lone finger ran from the base of his throat, down the center of his chest to his stomach, where it traced a wandering pattern.  It was a familiar habit.  She was writing her thoughts invisibly on his body, her finger arcing and dodging across his abdomen in the jerky Sebacean script.  He would sometimes wake to the gentle scribing across his back or a shoulder, turn in the dark, gather her into his arms and ask what tale she had been spelling out upon him.  He had his pen and his notebook; Aeryn used the more fleeting method of her fingertip on his skin to record her inner wishes and reflections. 

“What does it say?” he asked. 

A quiet smile appeared above him.  “Frell, frell, frell our brains out,” Aeryn whispered, and blushed. 

John felt the soft, exciting punch in his guts, elated that after so many cycles together, openly admitting that she wanted to make love could still bring the soft tinge of embarrassment to Aeryn’s cheeks.  It was only the lighter pink of mild discomfiture and arousal however, without any of the dangerous highlights of heat delirium.  And he would have her in his arms, where he would know immediately if she was beginning another relapse.   

“Come here.”  At his order, Aeryn lowered herself onto his chest, watching him with an inquisitive half-smile from no more than four denches away.  He kissed her forehead, then each side of her neck. 

“What are you doing?” she asked when the caresses began mapping out an unusual pattern. 

“Making sure you’re cool as a cucumber.” 

Aeryn submitted patiently, using the microts to consider how much the day’s events must have taken out of him.  For her it had been a physical battering; for him it had been nothing less than emotional torture.  In many ways, her recovery was simpler.  Heat delirium was a frightening but familiar enemy, easily forgotten once it was past.  John would need more time to get over his ordeal -- if he ever did.  From this day forward, his days and nights would be filled with the reminder that it might happen again.  She needed to give him time to adjust to the new reality.     

Softly lipped kisses were progressing along her neck to one side, interspersed with nearly silent snuffles.  He pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair, taking deeper breaths.  One heavily-wrapped hand drifted down her back, the other held her tight against him, keeping her close so he could continue nuzzling her beneath one ear.

“Now what are you doing?”  She turned her head so she could kiss him in return, the quiet rasp of his beard against her cheek a prickling contrast to the softer touch of his lips. 

“More checking,” he answered.

“You don’t seem to be checking my body temperature anymore,” Aeryn observed.   

A sudden heave shifted her more securely onto his body and he wrapped both arms around her, a well-known signal that he intended to roll them over so he was on top.  Aeryn moved fast, faster than human reflexes could ever match, and got a knee and an elbow out to the side to stop them.  There was a muffled grunt beneath her as they rocked to one side and came to an abrupt stop.  John eased his grip on her so he could look into her eyes. 

“No?” he asked, looking puzzled. 

“Your hands,” she explained succinctly. 

The overly simple answer implied that he wouldn’t be able to support his weight with his arms, but it was something else -- something she didn’t want to explain to John at this moment.  She wanted to watch him, gauge his responses, hold him at the peak of excitement for as long as possible tonight, and that meant being in control.  There was a need gestating within her:  something far greater than a desire to give him something back in return for the impossible decision he’d been forced to make that day, far beyond wanting to let him know how much she loved him.  There were no words to explain how badly she needed to be with him this night, no description of the level of passion she felt.  Saying ‘Frell, frell, frell our brains out’ out loud had been the work of her brief delirium, but it had been a concise expression of the near obsession taking over her every thought.     

It began slowly, with light teasing touches, building on the arousal they’d already achieved and left simmering.  Small moments emerged from the tidal wave of sensation to be recorded indelibly on her memory:  whispering fingertips rounding her breasts, half-bandaged thumbs pressing against her nipples as she leaned down to kiss him; John’s stomach muscles flexing beneath her hands, pressing hard against her weight as he breathed deep, and returned the darting exploration of her tongue; his thighs pressing hard against her butt as she leaned over to kiss him again, thrusting her body upward along his so he could reach a breast with his lips.  There was the wonderful crawling burst of excitement as he sucked at one nipple, every nerve from head to toes tingling with reaction to the single touch; the warm hiss of his breath against her chest; and the soft ruffle of his hair between her fingers as she encouraged him to continue. 

From the nape of her neck to her buttocks, the padded hands wandered in long sweeps, cooler fingertips exploring the contours of her body, stopping to caress the spots he knew would excite her.  The outer rim of a breast, the spot at the base of her spine, a firmer pressure against her buttocks, digging deep into the muscle to find the nerves that seemed to lead straight to her stomach:  nothing was passed over as he met her kisses with enthusiasm and used her body’s reactions as a weapon against her.  The growing sphere of heat within her pelvis expanded, reached the critical point, and broke loose, infusing her entire torso.  John’s lips wandered along the underside of her breast, caught at the nipple and gave it a soft, painless pinch; another heavier pulse expanded from the center of her being outward.  Quiescent muscles tightened, pulled hard against unresisting flesh, and a warm tickle eased along her inner thigh, warning her that patience was finite. 

She pulled away from him and eased down his body, lowering her hips carefully to trap the bulk of his erection between them.  John took a deep breath and let it out in stages as she settled into place, pinning the hardened organ against his belly.  The tendons in his neck flexed and eased in waves as he fought against something invisible, his breath straining in rhythm with whatever he was fighting.  She rubbed his chest while she waited for the surges to fade away, signaling that he was under control, and then began sliding gently against his length, massaging him with the moist tissues between her legs.  Aeryn closed her eyes, willingly abandoning the wonderful site of John’s gradual rise toward the point of release in favor of relying on solely on touch and sound. 

The sound of his breathing matched her tempo, interspersed with guttural sighs and small groans.  The rigid warmth slid easily, the slick head giving her own engorged bundle of nerves an exquisite nudge with every pass, the heat between their bodies increasing with every microt.  She faltered for a moment when John grasped her about the waist, felt the brief tremor in his body that spoke of the pain generated by that simple embrace, and let him continue despite her concern for his injuries.  He was guiding her, steadying her so that she remained in the position that was bringing her more pleasure than she could sustain. 

Nearly frictionless from her own fluids, the prodding tip and ridged head was like a burrowing entity:  pursuing her if she raised herself off him, constantly seeking her out, rubbing firmly across the swollen, overcharged button of nerves.  The first sparking pangs of an impending climax created the nearly painful ache deep within, plucking uncomfortably at her stomach for a split-microt before blossoming into a wild need to goad it into a full blown orgasm.  The vibrating frisson traveled from the base of her spine to her skull, tightened her scalp, and begged for release, for a shrieking frenzy to expend the massed energy waiting to be let loose.  Her legs eased wider, seemingly of their own volition, and she stopped moving, a drawn-out tremor shaking her body as she fought to stay in control. 

“More,” John whispered from somewhere far away. 

She pulled his hands away from her waist, pinned them to the mattress, and froze where she was on top of him.  It took more than ten breaths before the teetering near-climax eased, ten breaths during which she concentrated on John’s body instead of her own:  the feel of his hips and thighs where she sat on him, the small surges beneath her that was him trying to move enough to continue the provocative massage, and the wondrous feel of him between her legs, promising something far better than she had just passed up. 

“Stop that,” she said once she was certain she was under control.  John was strong enough to lift her weight with his hips.  His subdued effort was nothing more than teasing.  His laugh was so quiet she felt it more than heard it, the small rumbles transmitted through his frame into hers, but at least he stopped moving. 

He continued to laugh at what he had done to her, the blue eyes gazing up at her filled with delight and the untroubled happiness that had been too rare for too many cycles when they’d first known each other.  Aeryn knew that she was the source of his pleasure; no one else in the universe could make him look like that.  He loved Ian with an intensity that often overwhelmed her, but this particular look was reserved for when he was with her.  A wave of muscle-weakening warmth flooded out from the center of her body, a physical reaction to the love that she had taken so long to understand and accept.  She leaned down to kiss him, and his hands burrowed in under her legs, pressing hard but relying on her to lift her weight off him. 

The prodding hardness of his cock followed her as she raised her hips, until she hovered poised above the glistening shaft.  He lunged convulsively upward with his lower body, as though not in control of his own actions, and she leaned against his stomach with both hands, pinning him to the bed.  John licked his lips and peered down at where their bodies were barely touching, where she was easing back and forward, brushing herself lightly across the already wet head of his erection. 

“Killing me,” he protested in a breathless gasp. 

“Is there a problem?”  It was her turn to tease. 

“There’s going to be one in about ten microts if you keep this up.”

“So you’re sure you’re ready?  We could wait a little longer if you think you need some more time.”  John glared at her, and she relented.   

Aeryn sank onto him in stages, cherishing the straining muscles in his chest, the fluttering eyelids, and the far-away distracted look that each additional small engulfment created.  Before coming to rest, she raised herself clear of his entire length, then settled onto his hips with one firm slide.  Internal muscles made one brief complaint, a twinge that stopped just shy of painful, then stretched to accommodate the welcome intrusion.  John lay without moving for several microts, as though he were the one impaled, staked to the mattress by something unhurtful, and then sat up with a lunge, pulling her forcefully into his lap, and helping her wrap her legs around his hips.   

He was deep within, the pressure seeming to nudge against her spine, quietly pulsing against already spasming muscles, the inner cadence matched by the small pounding where her fingers rested against the side of his throat -- as though his body was singing to her, within and without.  John hugged her close, one hand pressing her hips into his, and rocked, each small movement nudging at the limits of her internal spaces, and she was too close, too ready, too needful of this particular moment. 

“It’s all right, Aeryn” he whispered, suddenly tender, somehow sensing the battle she was losing.  “Go ahead.  Let go.”  He brushed her hair back away from her face, and watched her as though enthralled.  He held her securely, keeping her safely against him, and slowly massaged one breast with the other hand, leaning down long enough to draw his tongue across the nipple.     

She couldn’t have stopped it if she’d wanted.  It was a quiet, shuddering, shivering climax:  one of her mouth pressed against his shoulder to muffle the small cries, of rampaging inner muscles and the wild firing of synapses while the rest of her body remained still, and of John holding her tightly, warm, strong arms wrapped around her, and him rocking into her whenever the frenzy threatened to lag.  It was his lips against the side of her neck, the hard support of his thighs beneath her, and one hand pressing harder against her butt, urging her to drive herself onto the comfortable thrusting of his cock. 

Her awareness spun back gradually, first registering the brush of her erect nipples against the hair on his chest, then the taste of John Crichton where her teeth had sunk into the flesh of his shoulder, biting hard without breaking the skin, and finally the gently lipped caresses against the side of her neck that hadn’t stopped at any point throughout her orgasm.  She leaned away from him at last, ran her fingers through his hair, lingered at the back of his neck for a microt to rub the muscles there, and then continued down his back to embrace him.  He kissed the underside of her throat, and it began again. 

It started out slowly, in partnership, resuming a coordinated rocking with arms and legs keeping them together as though they were one.  Her body was momentarily depleted; his resumed its slow build toward a final crescendo.  Face to face where they could watch and touch, hands free to explore, tease, stroke and caress, it became a contest to see if he could hold out long enough for her to rejoin him, while she was trying to drive him to the point of complete surrender.  John tried hard, but this time he was the one who was too close. 

She felt it begin, the nearly subliminal thrumming traveling through his body as a single organ took over his existence.  John’s head lolled back on his shoulders, his eyes closed as he turned his awareness inward, and a dark flush spread across his upper chest and throat.  Each breath became deeper, throatier, until he sucked in a lungful of air and held it.  Aeryn grasped him tight with arms and legs, and held still, concentrating on keeping even her internal muscles quiet, freezing in place against him.  John let out a long whine, nearly a whimper, and shuddered against her, every bit of his body responding to the stimulus except the critical organ, which remained hard and undiminished inside her.     

“Aerynnnnn,” he strung out her name in what was both a complaint and a plea.  “Sweet Jesus.” 

It was her turn to smile at him, watching as he recovered from the pleasurable torture of an orgasm without release.  “Ready?” 

John shook his head.  She could tell when it was time to stop all movement, but only John knew when he was under control to the point that they could begin again.  He loved to complain about her doing this to him, but he never asked her not to do it, and he never gave her the signal to start again if he was still teetering on a loss of control. 

“I love you,” she said, breaking their ritual.  Silence allowed him the concentration he claimed he needed in order to survive what she had just done to him.   

He opened his eyes, looked up at her, and smiled, transitioning back into the here and now.  “And I love you.” 

This time it was nearly frantic; it was physical, sweating exertion, and desire that wouldn’t wait for tender touches and teasing.  She lost track of time, the microts passing unnoticed as she focused on friction, fullness, and the quiet internal ache.  Her memories were of a trickle of sweating coursing down John’s face, him leaning closing to run his tongue up the center of her chest, him trying to lay her down and the confused moment of tangled arms and legs when she’d stopped him because he could penetrate more deeply this way.  His fingers pushed into the hair at the back of her neck, familiar but strange because of the bandaged hands, and he forced her head back so he could kiss the underside of her throat.  Interspersed were the suspended moments when she held him with every bit of her strength, preventing him from moving long enough to ease back from an impending climax, each denied release driving him further toward an unequalled pinnacle, until finally there was only his body shaking beneath her, his motions breaking down under extreme provocation, and she knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. 

“Wait,” she whispered into his ear.  She was close, but lagging behind.  “Wait for me.” 

His nod was a confused, jerking series of twitches, and she knew he didn’t have much restraint left.  John pressed hard, driving deep, filling her to overflowing.  Muscles stretched to aching capacity, small spasming twinges beginning as her body strove to accept him, legs thrown wide apart to give him more access.  Gone was the energetic thrusting, replaced by an insistent rocking, short-lived riffs sounding her depths, forcing the strong internal of muscles to accept him with each thumping arrival, insistent and needful, demanding that she join him in release.  She was full of John Crichton, surrounded by him, possessed by him, and she loved him beyond comprehension.  Wetter mouthings circled her breast, found the center and sucked more heavily at the entire mass, suctioning energy into that one link, inciting her stomach to the queasy surging of infinite excitement.  Fabric-padded hands pressed against her lower back, swept up and down her spine, and stroked her lightly beneath the ear.  And all the while, the thick, hot bulk of him thrust at her depths, until, in a series of irrevocable steps, always traveling upward without the possibility of descent, she found herself teetering on the brink, ready to join him.     

“Look at me,” she commanded.  John’s head came up obediently and he looked into her eyes.  He looked stun-shot, eyes dazed and unfocussed as he tried to split his attention between her and something more far more commanding occurring inside his body.  “I love you,” she said, kissed him, and felt the internal explosion begin, her muscles seizing his cock, urging it to join in the frenetic release.  “Now.  Now, now, now,” she begged, trying to draw him along with her. 

“Aeryn?” he called out to her in a whisper, not asking for permission, but somehow confirming that she was there, with him, ready to enjoy the moment in tandem. 

“Yes, John.  Yes.”  She grasped him roughly by both sides of the head and kissed him, tongues intertwining no different than the rest of their bodies.  He sighed against her cheek, and they came together. 

It was like being fused to another being, two nervous systems merging into one.  Her own spastic clenching goading the hot pulsing within, his long groan of release harmonizing with her higher-pitched sighs and nearly inaudible cries, the soft nudge of his balls, pressure of her breasts against his chest, the hard, flat slab of his stomach as he froze in the momentary rigor of ejaculation, and her own shuddering response, the vibrations pounding against his motionless body. 

John was the first to relax, slumping against her with a whispered, “Good God.” 

Aeryn spun down more slowly, draping herself over his shoulder in stages, leaning into his strength and letting him support her.  “Did we do it?” she asked after several microts.

“Do what?” he sighed into her shoulder.

“Frell our brains out?”  He was rubbing her back, the bandages creating an odd muffled sensation where there was supposed to be the easy slide of warm skin.  It wasn’t unpleasant; only different. 

“Definitely.  Might have lost a little more than my brains on that one.”  John eased her legs out from behind him one by one, then laid back, pulling her down on top of his chest.  “Warm enough?” 

“Mmhm,” she hummed her answer.  He was keeping her warm, his body heat radiating into her from nose to toes. 

The slow caresses up and down her back hadn’t ceased.  His other arm was wrapped around her lower back, hugging her to him.  The holding and the petting wasn’t unusual for John, but it was continuing longer and with more emphasis than usual.  She loved him more than she ever would have thought possible, but after all their cycles together, he still loved her in ways that she couldn’t begin to fathom.  It had taken her almost too long to learn that an ability to love the way John did was a form of strength, not weakness.  It made him vulnerable at times, but it compensated by giving him unequalled focus and motivation.  She understood that now, even if she couldn’t always match it. 

“I’ll release you from the vows.”  She hadn’t thought about it.  The decision was simply there -- an impulse. 

John didn’t answer at first.  He glanced at her, then reached for a pillow and took an inordinate amount of time getting it tucked behind his head so he could look at her without strain. 

“What set that off?” he asked.

“Thinking about who you are and what motivates you,” she explained.   

He watched her for nearly one hundred microts, then shook his head.  “No, we’ll let the vows stand.” 

It was Aeryn’s turn to be confused.  Using his method of stalling in order to give herself time to think, she leaned to one side to snare a thermal sheet, then recovered a pillow.  By the time she’d come to the conclusion that she didn’t understand John after all, she had the pillow tucked under her chin, still lying on top of John, with the thermal sheet pulled over both of them. 

“Explain,” she said at last, baffled by his refusal to accept her offer. 

“You were right about me making hard decisions, Aeryn.  At the end of the game, I want all the marbles, not just half of them.  If something like today happens again, I’ll do exactly what you said.  I’ll stand there dreaming up some half-baked plan that only works if you’ve got the A-Team to pull it off …”  He held up a hand before she could complain about the portions that didn’t make any sense.  “I’ll get desperate, and do something stupid,” he summarized. 

“You do that even when you’re not desperate.” 

“Thanks so much.”  Aeryn smiled at him in silent response to the note of sarcasm in his voice.  “No, Aeryn.  We’ll keep the vows, I’ll go on hating them, and in the meantime, I’ll spend lots of time figuring out ways to never get stuck in a situation where I get held to my promise ever again.” 

“Motivation,” she concluded.  “For coming up with more hidden rooms and safeguards.” 

“Safeguards for all of us -- not just for Ian, and not just for you and me.  All of us.  Pilot and Moya and D’Argo, and everyone on board.” 

“You think you can keep everyone safe?  John Crichton, Scourge of the Uncharted Territories is going to turn into some sort of all-powerful protector of the down-trodden?”  The question was delivered in a gentle tone that belied the mocking choice of words. 

“No, I know I can’t keep everyone safe.  But I can try.”  He gave her a devious grin that promised bizarre plans and precautions, intricate warning signals, and peculiar codes to prevent anyone who might intercept their transmissions from understanding the conversations.  “You go on being tough, and I’ll continue being the love-sick human who will do almost anything to protect his family and friends.  Deal?” 

“Deal,” she agreed happily.  Aeryn snuggled more comfortably into his embrace, and went to sleep with the light touch of John’s hand on her back, keeping her safe though the night.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Thanks for reading,

Kernil Crash

Purveyor of Hallucinations