This was originally posted at Kansas on February 17, 2003.
Greetings! My short take on how John and Aeryn coped after Twice Shy.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing, no infringement intended.
Setting: various spoilers through Twice Shy.
Thanks: to my wonderful betas for their invaluable suggestions, and constant support and inspiration: aeryncrichton, Atana_Mirtai, imloco2, scrubschick, and Tazey. Am I blessed or what?
Hope you enjoy it; and remember, fic writers need feedback like Rygel needs KitKats!
sis Scrubschick's Psychic Smut Twin!
Holding On
Aeryn sat across from him at the table in the Center Chamber, both in their usual seats. She stared down into her bowl of spider soup, managing to register surprise in the midst of her other emotions, at how good it really was. She had hesitated to eat anything that was created from the creature that almost destroyed them all, but D'Argo had encouraged her to try it, suggesting that at least one good thing came from their encounter with the arachnid.
She had smiled to herself, knowing that something much more precious that soup had resulted from Chiana's insistence that they take in what appeared to be a desperate and abused woman. Seeing Crichton in his weakened state, almost losing him again, had spurred her on, added fuel to her anger about the lakka, steeled her determination not to back down, no matter how strongly he resisted.
And that determination had yielded far more than she had dared imagine. Not just John off the lakka. Not just John talking to her, listening to her again, willing to work things out. But John loving her, kissing her, caressing her, holding her. John back in her arms again, as she had dared whisper to him, in one of their very brief, very quiet, very hidden encounters. He had laughed, silently, and put his lips to her ear, humming a tune, shaking with laughter he could not release. "You'll always be supreme to me, babe," he'd whispered, as laughter overtook him again. She was sure this was one of his earth jokes, and had made a mental note, adding it to the list of things to ask him when they could talk freely.
But now, he was sitting across from her, as she slowly ate the soup. Slowly, so she could prolong the time they shared the same space without drawing suspicion. Prolong the time her heart felt so incredibly light, because his was so near.
She dare not look at him directly. Even though they were alone now, if someone were to come in while they were each lost in the other's gaze, the charade would be over. Especially if it were Rygel. The disagreeable Dominar was likely to comment immediately, and the comment would be broadcast, free to be picked up by Scorpius.
So she peered down into her soup, seemingly focused on her meal, not him.
But as she methodically raised the spoon to her mouth, she allowed her eyes to shift across the table, and linger on his hands.
Along with his soup, he was eating a sandwich, thick slices of Chala bread spread with something he had brought from earth, a brown pasty substance that smelled reasonably good but looked like it would be sticky in one's mouth. It was one of the few foods she didn't think any of them had sampled during their visit.
As one of his hands held the sandwich, the other spooned soup, and she admired how rhythmically they moved. How easily one gripped the sandwich, and the other cradled the spoon. A tech's hands, precise and sure.
Her thoughts drifted back to the first time she'd allowed herself to notice his hands. After D'Argo in a fit of temper had destroyed the Peacekeeper shield that served as a birth control device for Moya, and the biomechanoid ship had conceived. In the chaos that followed, as Moya tried to cope with her pregnancy, the DRDs had become hostile and one attacked Aeryn with some sort of sticky substance that glued her boots, then her hand to the floor. After Zhaan finally discovered a solvent that freed her, John had helped as she scrubbed the remaining glue and solvent off her hand.
She could still see the look of intense concentration on his face, as he carefully made sure nothing would remain to irritate her skin. His hands had worked quickly, but gently, applying just enough pressure to loosen what remained, but leave her skin unharmed. She had been amused at the time, not knowing how else to react to someone, especially a man, taking so much care with her. When he had finished and realized she was staring at him, he moved away from her abruptly, embarrassed, amusing her all the more.
She understood now the stirrings his tenderness had sent swirling within her then. She had been aware of them for some time. Had worked hard at suppressing and denying them until not even denial could protect her from the fear, so she had fled, sometimes physically, more often emotionally. But slowly, despite her fear, the stirrings had evolved into a love that became impossible for her to deny, a love that bound her to him completely. So completely that in her heart she knew she would never be parted from him again. Not even in death.
Her attention returned abruptly to the table as he laid down his spoon, his bowl empty, sandwich finished. His hands lightly gripped the edge of the table, poised for him to push away and stand.
She stifled a sigh as she prepared for his departure, another encounter, all too brief, about to end. She would keep the vision of his hands in her mind's eye today, as his avatar. Being careful, however, not to let her thoughts drift from their physical beauty to the exquisite sensual pleasure she knew they could evoke. Those incredibly flexible fingers, neither too long nor too short, could create impossible sensations in sensitive spots she had never known existed . . . until he found them. No, think only of beauty, not of pleasure. At least for now.
*******
He'd realized she was watching him soon after they'd begun to eat. As they sat in silence, he'd noticed that although her head was down, as if she were looking at her soup, her eyes would stray across the table towards him. But he couldn't tell at first what drew her attention. His peanut butter sandwich? His spidey soup? Then when he raised a hand to rub the back of his neck, her eyes followed, and he realized the objects of her attention - his hands.
The knowledge that she was surreptitiously watching him sent a warmth that he could not control throughout his body. He forced himself to focus on chewing his sandwich very carefully, so he would not reach across the table and capture her face in the hands that seemed to hold her interest so intently.
Why was she staring at his hands? he wondered. Nothing remarkable there. They were just ordinary hands. Not like hers.
Stealing a glance at her deceptively delicate hands, he watched as she deliberately spooned her soup. He knew many were surprised when confronted by their power, unaware of their hidden strength.
Smiling into his soup, he remembered their first encounter, when he hadn't had time to be surprised. Mere moments after they'd met, she'd caught him in her capable grip, her efficient hands flinging him around their holding cell.
And she had reinforced the message of just how strong and able her hands were, those first few monens he'd known her. But not just with jabs and punches directed at him; mostly in other ways. Like the way she held a weapon - any weapon. It became an extension of her body; the steadiness and accuracy of her aim saving them more times than he could count. And of course, her hands on the controls of anything that could fly. Hands that seemed to become part of any craft, coaxing it, guiding it, persuading it to maneuver in ways that should have been impossible, but weren't, under her direction.
Yet he knew that although her hands were gifted in manipulating machines, and not uncomfortable with necessary violence, those things no longer defined her. They were not her essence.
Her essence . . .
Her hands pressing his chest, forcing the blood in and out of his heart; vague impressions of her struggle to revive him when they were caught in the flax. Her hands ripping at his space suit and then her own, seeking one final desperate frell before their oxygen ran out; until they were rudely rescued by D'Argo and his new . . . friend.
Her hands quickly, expertly searching his body for injuries after the research probe that had invaded Moya spat him out, shivering, none of them aware that he had been replicated.
Her hands drawing his head down to rest on her shoulder, one gently stroking his hair, tracing soothing circles along the back of his neck, as he struggled against the madness induced by Scorpy's neural chip.
Her hands cradling a dying Vorc, her sorrow at their mistake spilling from her eyes.
Her essence . . .
Life giving. Life sustaining.
He looked across the table at her hands again, his thoughts turning to the life she held within her, waiting to be released. A life depending on them to re-create reality before it was too late.
********
Finished with sandwich and soup, he laid down his spoon, searching for a reason to prolong this time with her. But he knew there wasn't one. If someone came in and caught them sitting silently across from each other, it might lead to questions that would be difficult to answer.
So he pushed against the table, preparing to stand, but then heard her muffled sigh, and hesitated. Frell. He couldn't just leave her like this. He had to think, find some way for them to steal a few microts . . .
"Pilot?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Where is everybody? Aeryn's here; I'm here, in the Center Chamber for first meal, and nobody else seems to be around."
Pilot then went through the crew, one by one indicating that not only had they all already eaten, but each was engaged in some task necessary to Moya's well being. Even Scorpius was assisting Sikozu in reviewing Moya's systems to determine if there was any damage from traveling the wormhole.
"OK, Pilot, I'll be ready for my assignment as soon as I'm finished eating."
"Of course, Commander. And you, Officer Sun?"
"In a few microts, Pilot. I need to go back to my quarters first; then I'll be ready."
"As you wish."
Aeryn dared raise her eyes now, and look at him. All the others were far enough away from the Center Chamber that she and John could spend a short time together without fear of interruption.
He reached over and captured her hands in his, brought them to his lips, kissed each softly.
Then looking at her, he raised his brows and mouthed "Why?"
She blushed slightly, not realizing until that moment that her reverie had been detected. She pulled her hands from his grasp, then caught his in hers, and brought them to her lips. But instead of just kissing them, she held them, one on each side of her face, sliding them gently against her skin, running her lips over the palms, turning them to give the backs the same caress. Then she turned them again and placed a gentle kiss in the middle of each palm. "Because I love you," she silently responded.
She had expected an answering lopsided grin or his declaration of love in return. But instead, his face went very still, almost void of emotion, except for the sheen she detected in his eyes. He turned his hands until their fingers were entwined, and then stood, leaning over the narrow table until his lips connected with hers, at first trembling, then increasingly intense, demanding. The desperate longing and visceral need he let escape startled her; how had he managed to keep that contained until now? She let the release of her own pent-up need match his, the heat between them building until she wondered why Moya's sensors did not set off an alarm.
Finally he managed to pull away, both of them struggling to quiet their raspy breathing.
Once his voice steadied, he put his lips against her ear. "Tonight, three arns after the sleep cycle begins. Tier 17, hammond side storage."
He pulled away, his eyes searching hers. Did he actually think she would refuse? she wondered. That even if her soldier's mind screamed out all the dangers, her body would not propel her there, insisting on fulfillment?
She smiled at him, the fullest, brightest smile she could manage, and nodded. He smiled back, relieved that she had not deemed his plan too risky. Slowly, reluctantly, he let go of her hands and straightened up.
"Pilot? Ready for that assignment now."
As she stood, she reached out to caress his face one last time, unwilling still to leave him. He covered her hand with his, gently moved it to his lips, and kissed her palm.
"Tonight," he breathed wordlessly.
"Tonight," she pledged silently.
As she made her way back to her quarters to comm Pilot, she heard them discussing the various maintenance chores that needed attention. As their voices faded, she resigned herself to being away from him for most of the day today, and many days to come. She knew they would continue this charade, this deceit, as long as necessary. The cost to them was small compared to the consequences if they failed.
Reaching her quarters, she raised the hand he had kissed to her face, running it across her skin, imagining his hand, not her own.
Breathing deeply, she cleared her mind, steadied her heart.
"Pilot? I'm ready."
The End.
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