&fic;

 

Shadowboxing

by sugargroupie

PG, 1350 words

Summary: this is the Crichton she's come to know.

Disclaimer: Not mine; O'Bannon, Henson, Kemper, et. al.

Notes: Written for Pukajen in the Uncharted Elves gift exchange. Spoilers up to Natural Election. Many thanks to StarsGoBlue for the beta, and to Shannon and Kernezelda for brainstorming with me. Mistakes are mine.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

She expects to find John in command this late into the sleep cycle, but finds the room empty instead. His notebook lies on the center console, held open by the weight of his pen, seemingly waiting on his return.

The temptation to peek at his notations rides her, and she glances warily from the notebook to the front view portal and back. The notebook looks exactly like the one he had on Talyn, the same as the one now in her possession that she consumes greedily, sounding out English words and Human thoughts.

Not his thoughts exactly, but they could have been.

Aeryn sighs and hooks her fingers under her gun-belt, takes one step closer to the console.

It is utterly ridiculous how out of sorts she feels. That Crichton can make her this uncertain, scrambling for equilibrium, is enough to give her pause; fumbling to a halt, when they've done nothing but run into and around one another for cycles. But his indifference, his distance, leaves her wanting to lash out. It leaves her with a slicing pain, and no way to treat the wound.

Closing the remaining distance to the console, Aeryn reaches out to touch the creased brown pages of John's notebook. Her fingers trace the dried ink, not really seeing his handwriting, transferred from skin to paper in her absence. Instead she flips through the pages, beyond the scribbles of wormholes and straight to Crichton -- his words, at one time whispered into her skin on a backdrop of red and black.

And familiar words that she's never heard before.

She's only beginning to understand what this means. She remembers telling him there's no distinction in her mind, but that's not exactly true. The other John hadn't survived monens by himself on a dying leviathan; he hadn't been deemed yesterday while standing directly in front of her. He'd never had need for armor against her like a soldier going into combat.

This John is like inverted space; a deflecting vacuum that can't hold her, and she falls through zero-gravity every time.

**

Aeryn can sense the moment John returns to command. Hears the heavy tread of his footfalls, the steady breaths she'd charted long ago. She glances over her shoulder as he comes closer, a drinking cup raised to his mouth with one hand, while the other is relaxed at his side. His DRD follows closely behind with short beeps and it almost makes Aeryn smile. This is the Crichton she's come to know -- resourceful and exasperating, this man who forges connections with things as well as people. A link that manages to override choice and the necessity for distance.

She waits until he occupies the space beside her. "Hey," she says and trails one finger on the edge of his notebook.

John's gaze barely flits in her direction, then he stares outward. "Aeryn. What are you doing up?" He cuts right to the point now; spares no need to indulge in small talk. She's missed it.

"I spoke with Pilot, and I wanted to check on things here."

"Couldn't sleep?" His tone is flat, but Aeryn notices the curiosity in his eyes at the way she hovers near his notebook. John sets the cup on the console, grabs his pen and begins tapping it against his thigh.

Catching his eyes, she shakes her head. "Not exactly."

The silence that follows shouldn't bother her, and ordinarily wouldn't, but even she knows they need to talk. She refuses to accept his blatant dismissal of her, as she'd done days ago in the atmospheric scrubber. She'd been too surprised, too overwhelmed by John's reaction and with her own shortsightedness.

"We need to talk..." she begins quietly, tries not to make it a demand.

Utterly fails, by the expression on his face. "Not this again."

Frell this, she thinks. "John, you can't just dismiss me and think I'll go away." He shakes his head and the quickness of this situation turning to dren infuriates her.

"It's like a damn merry go round, and I want off," he says, more to himself than anything.

Of course she hears him. The microbes completely bypass the former part of his sentence, but Aeryn has no problem deciphering the latter part. John has never been intentionally cruel...

I would put my life in your hands, but not my heart.

Though he has certainly learned to cut her with words. "Fine," she snaps, and turns to leave.

"Aeryn!" She pauses only a few paces away, glances back at his hesitation. "Wait," he sighs. "I'm sorry, I just... I can't do this right now, with you."

Can he no longer bear her presence? Facing him once more, she struggles for calm. It would be so easy to strike back, hurt him the way he's hurting her, but that's not why she's here. "For frell's sake John, I'm not the enemy."

"No, you just brought the enemy to Moya." His mouth tightens, and she wonders if it is because of what he's said, or that he said it at all.

Yet another difference, she reminds herself. The other John didn't have to live with Scorpius underfoot. This John was well within his rights to turn her away, but he'd kept his promise to her so far and that had to count for something. "And I told you I had no choice. I'm sorry."

"I believe you," he murmurs, "but it doesn't change --" He closes his eyes for a microt and cants his head to the side, then calls out to the room. "Yo, Pilot?"

Pilot's image appears in the clamshell. "Yes Commander."

"You might wanna hit a reverse, there's a wormhole due to open up in a bit."

"Right away. Moya and I appreciate the warning." He blinks slowly, and with a short nod, returns to multi-tasking.

Aeryn watches John until he fidgets, weighing the possibility of pushing him further. So many times when their roles were reversed, he'd hovered and persisted until he'd prodded the words from her mouth. And now, his skills of avoidance and deception are staring her in the face. Discarding her plan of attack, she deliberately changes the subject. "How much longer?"

"Quarter arn, maybe." When she turns to leave, he yawns and gestures to her with one hand. "You don't have to go, Aeryn..."

She thinks it might be better if she does, but nods and comes to stand beside him again. "I can stay for a while."

"Okay." John yawns again and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

With a deep sigh, he rolls his shoulders and leans forward to rest his elbows on the console. His demeanor is more inviting now, and Aeryn considers pressing closer into his warmth, feeling the solidness of him. She lays her palm against the back of his neck but pulls away when he flinches. Another cut, but she weathers the rejection and waits him out; forces stillness into her body and curls her fingers into his hair as he shifts and softens. An exhalation matches each draw down his scalp, and she settles at his back for the long haul. She allows John enough room to escape her touch, and hopes that he doesn't because they have to start somewhere.

They stand there for half-an-arn as the wormhole appears -- a swirling mass that tints their skin blue and momentarily steals their breath. A while longer, exhaustion seeping from them both, Aeryn finally finds her voice. "You should get some sleep," she whispers.

He nods. "I will. You should too."

"Yes." An economy of words that feels like arns of conversation. His voice is relaxed now, and she visualizes his eyes closed and mouth soft as he leans into her caress. This is something. More than she had yesterday, and for that she is grateful.

She wants to kiss him but lets her hand linger on his shoulder and trail down his arm instead, striving for patience. She has time now, to seek her own answers; to relearn John Crichton, and to make him hers again.

*

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