It's been a while since I've posted something, but apparently the muses wanted me to produce this in time for Loco's birthday today. They prodded me out of bed at 1 a.m. (when I was trying to sleep but actually running through dialog for the "Fallout" story I'm writing!) to WRITE THIS NOW! It's had some slight betaing (thanks, Loco and Shipsister!), and a drive by by Atana, but blame all errors on me.... I would have posted it HOURS ago except for trying to come up with a title I actually liked!
This is more or less filler fic -- or anyway, sort of an epilogue to IYYY. It takes place shortly after that episode.
Rating: PG (for some cranky language)
Setting: post-IYYY
Spoilers: Through IYYY
Disclaimer: Definitely not my characters, not my universe, no disrespect intended, and no money being made!
I hope you like this little addendum!
Personal Indulgences
Dressed in a pair of faded blue board shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, John Crichton stomped along the water's edge. The wet sand gave beneath his feet with every angry footfall, leaving a trail of solid impressions to be washed away by incoming waves.
From behind him came a familiar, equally angry voice, easily audible over the roar of the sea. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
He whirled around and found himself looking into the late afternoon sun. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he saw just what he expected – the same face he saw every morning in his mirror, with the addition of a scar over the left eye. "Great," he snapped. "Dead me!" He flapped a hand in the direction of the foamy waves breaking against the shore. "Go haunt someone else!"
As he turned and stomped off, his alter ego followed him and carried on as if he'd never spoken. "Don't push her, asshole! Didn't I say don't push her?"
John didn't have to guess who the other guy was referring to. Aeryn Sun, of course.... He stopped once again and counted to 10 under his breath before he turned back around and glared without a word, waiting.
"That includes not
pushing her the frell away!"
Crichton snorted. "That's easy for you to say. She ran off with you!" he said bitterly.
"She did no such thing! She 'ran off' with Talyn, because she loves him and he needed her! Wouldn't'a mattered if I went along or not. She'd still have gone." After a brief pause, he added, softly, "And I got lucky by bein' the sunuvabitch who was there when she was ready to reach out."
John's shoulders slumped, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. "And I wasn't."
The other guy, the ghost, looked at him with warm sympathy in his eyes for a couple microts, and then his gaze sharpened up again. "I'm dead, hotshot. No way around it. And she's grievin'. But she just got done telling you in that cryptic way of hers that she feels the same way about you, and you, you frelling moron, what do you do? You push her away like a kid who didn't get his way!"
"That's not how it was!" John protested hotly, even though some part of him admitted it was true, partly. It had hurt like hell to hear her talking about how perfect everything had been back on Talyn, how happy she'd been with someone who wasn't him. It was even worse because she was still having trouble even
looking at him, the guy who'd been left behind, missing her like his heart had been ripped in two!
"I know, I know," said dead Crichton. "You're you, not me. You needed to say it. I even know she needed to hear it. But think for a microt. Do you honestly think she's capable of handling her grief and yours at the same time? Huh? Tell me the truth."
John considered the question, or tried to, without his own hurt interfering with his objectivity. No, he admitted in his heart of hearts, the woman who'd retreated from him half a cycle ago in the face of Zhaan's sacrifice would be using every bit of strength she had just to hold herself together and try to keep going, one day at a time. There wouldn't be any to spare for him, not yet. And she'd just lost Talyn, too. Grudgingly, he turned towards his mirror image...and woke up flat on his back in his bed on Moya, in the middle of night cycle.
Disoriented, he could almost hear the roar of the waves on that dream seashore, but as he lay there coming awake in the dim light, he decided it was probably the blood pounding in his ears. He could feel his pulse racing...was that hope he felt in his heart? Could things somehow still work out between him and Aeryn? Could they be "perfect" one day?
Oh, no you don't, John, he told himself sternly, yanking his pillow from under his head and dropping it onto his face with a groan. His subconscious was probably right. She really did need time to grieve if there was ever going to be any chance for them. But time was something they didn't have. They were heading into the lion's den, out to destroy Scorpius' wormhole project once and for all. The other guy had thwarted the Scarrans, but the galaxy was counting on the surviving John Crichton to keep wormhole weapons out of Peacekeeper hands as well.
And there was no place for complications and distractions like trying to mend broken hearts – or jealous ones. No, the only sane thing was to accept that he and Aeryn had to work together, just work, and they'd probably be dying together sooner rather than later. There'd be no happy ending this time.
He considered the situation just a little longer. Working side by side for something they both wanted was better than nothing. Let her go. Concentrate on the plan to stop Scorpius. It was the right thing to do.
Then why did his heart feel so hollow?
Reluctantly, he shoved the pain deep down inside and rearranged himself on the bed so his head was on top of the pillow again. With one last pang of loss, he closed his eyes tightly, and tried to fall back asleep....
Author
