Fiddle and Drum
Author's Notes:
It had been a long time since I've posted fic at
Farscape Friday, but it's their 3rd birthday and I couldn't let it go by
without even an attempt. This is the result. I swear it started out as a nice
little drabble, but grew to 1,618 words. Thanks and another rose for her shrine,
for dealing with my grammar, should go to OneEyetheDRD
for the beta. All other mistakes are my own and all feedback is welcome.
Rated: PG-13 (language and
sexuality)
Setting: Shortly after SnS.
Summary: This is John. This is John on toxic levels of alcohol.
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
Oh, my
friend
How did you come
To trade the fiddle for the drum.
- Fiddle and the Drum by
"Give me a raslak and a two telak whore,"
the man next you roars, bellying up to the bar. You take a sip of your drink
and hiss at the unfamiliar bite, taking the opportunity to see where D'Argo has
gotten to.
Still three seats down, leaning back in his seat against the bar, watching both
the door and the purple girl with four breasts, doing a pole dance on stage.
A large hand claps you on the back; your hand is on the grip of your gun before
it leaves the leather surface. A festive laugh coming from the bald alien
relaxes you, but only marginally.
"Someone's in a good mood I see." You try and keep your voice
light, but even you can tell that the words are sharp and bitter, actually
meaning get the fuck away from me.
The guy's had three too many before even coming into this joint, though, his
head almost wobbling as he answers, "I'm getting married
tomorrow." He gives you a bleary-eyed grin along with another pat on
the back before his order saunters up, takes the drink from his hand and downs
it.
"Congratulations." Another long swallow leaves your glass empty and a
small inferno in the pit of your stomach. You wave the empty glass vaguely to
order another; a couple more of these, along with the six pack of fellip nectar
from earlier, and you’ll reach the other man’s level of happiness.
That’s not really your goal. All you want at this moment is to forget. Forget
that you’re exiled to this planet for god knows how many more arns, and the hissy fits that both you and D’Argo seem to toss up in each
others faces over the stupidest reasons. Forget the dreams that were replaced
by nightmares, the most important of those consisting of Aeryn and who she’s
with. You don’t know which are worse: the ones where she dies because of
something he did, or the one where she’s happy and there’s no more room for you
in her life.
You can take a wide selection of pain, just not that flavor or brand.
“Drink with me and – and….” The drunk's head almost corkscrews like an owl when
he tries to look at the hooker nibbling on his ear. “What’s your name?”
Whatever she says is too much for your microbes to decipher or for the guy to
pronounce. He shakes his head as he turns back to you, blinking all three eyes
rapidly and trying to focus them on you. “D-drink with me and
my lady friend.”
“I thought I was already,” you answer, holding up your glass before
knocking it back and emptying it – again.
“Oh, yeah.” He laughs loudly and grabs a purple titty. “I forgot. S-so what brings you to our lovely, fine
planet?”
It’s neither fine nor lovely. It’s a scorched wastehole
that shouldn’t be called a planet any longer since they decided to blast away
most of their resources building warships to whomever has the price.
There are a lot of people with the right price nowadays.
“Got kicked off my ship for a few days, so you could say I’m on
vacation.” You give D’Argo a glance, expecting him to chime in as usual.
“Women trouble.”
You’ve lucked out that the guy doesn’t recognize you from any beacons, but you
still don’t want him to know that your boat is alive. Leviathans don’t seem to
be in too abundance in these parts. The fewer clues left out in the open, the
better.
“You c-could say that. She don’t like arguments.”
The guy is distracted by the girl getting her groove on as she slides a leg
between his thighs. “How long?”
It takes you a few microts to think, staring at the reflection in the mirror
behind the bar. You blink a few times when it seems as if you were about to be
swallowed by yourself. A low groan brings you back and you actually smile for
the first time in days.
“Not sure really.” You sniff the empty glass a
couple times, imagining it smells of peppermint schnapps. “This is really good
dren, you should try it,” you comment, before running your tongue along the
inside edge of the glass. The thought doesn’t even arise that you may be
drawing attention to yourself.
“Hmm?” There’s a hand down the guys pants and you
don’t in the least feel like a voyeur since you saw, and probably did, a lot
worse on the previous planet.
You’re feeling pretty numb, and the conversation is starting to sound like it’s
hiding beneath a fur-lined blanket. So you laugh. “I don’t have an
ever-frelling clue, man.”
D'Argo notices the attention you're getting, the hand at your side, and the
girl loses her spot in the pecking order. He spins in his seat and orders
another drink from the even larger purple chick running things behind the
counter. She passes a look between the two of you, and drops her rag on the
counter before leaning over and whispering something in D’s ear. His answer is
quiet, but she seems to hear him well enough over the loud music and voices,
gives him a single nod of the head before filling his glass from a bottle that
looks like it’s been snatched out from a gutter. She mouths something else and
walks away, leaving his credits on the counter top.
When she takes a step in your direction, you hold out the glass as if you’re
waiting for the booze fairy to come along. “There a problem?”
“Nope.” You can hear the smile in her voice and look up to a grin. “I just told
him that his drink was on the house.”
“Oh, and how did he rate that treatment?” You don’t
really care, but it’ll kill a few minutes and maybe this guy will quit trying
to show you the pictures of his new blushing, hard to tell through the beard
really, bride while being jerked off.
She leans in closer, giving a little lift to her shoulders to get all four
breasts up on the bar to reach you easier. “I think he’s cute.” Her voice is
all low and sultry and you want to laugh in her face. She was playing a game,
and what the hell – you’re drunk enough to play along.
“Yes. He is abzolutely gorgeous.” You match her
forty watt smile with your own.
The soon-to-be bridegroom finally pays attention to what is being said. His arm
drops away from your back and he begins to have a little nervous giggle, but
you set his mind at ease by declaring that he isn’t as good looking as your
luxan buddy.
“John.”
After almost four cycles of being hunted, you’re usually on your toes and
wouldn’t jump, but then the voice saying your name usually doesn’t appear
spontaneously, standing right up against you and looking down as you lay your
head against your arm.
There’s two of him for a second, and it's official.
You’re shitfaced. “Ya, D!”
“I think it’s time to go.” Pressing in close, he slides his hand down
your hip, down the leather on your thigh and slowly removes your hand from the
gun. D’Argo’s voice has always had that Barry White sound, but when it rolls
across your ear, it’s a killer. “The bartender is starting to play you, John,
and someone’s going to get killed tonight. I’d prefer it not be one of
us, and I know you don’t want to hurt anyone else. So let’s go.”
For a guy that used to suffer from permanent PMS, he’s playing it cool. Your
head is no clearer than it was before he came up, but D’Argo’s words get
through the fog. So you stand on shaky legs and the world tilts. If not for
D’Argo's arm against your back, you would have lost a couple teeth and been
able to tell people what wood finish tastes like.
He reaches for the hand that is still warm from holding
“I’m drunk.”
“Yes, you are,” he replies just as your head tilts forward slightly. You take a
deep breath and try and hold it up.
"D’Argo.” You don’t feel too hot all of a sudden, and just want the
comforting sights and sounds within Moya’s walls. “Take me home.”
“Hotel first. Pilot says we can return in the morning.”
“Okay.” Passing by the stage, you try and swing around, almost causing
you both to fall to the floor, and stare up at the girl. D’Argo practically
lifts you to get you back in the right direction.
“D, am I seeing double, or do the women have four boobs?”
“They have four.”
Leaning your head all the way back to keep watching the girl as she does the
splits while standing on her hands, you squint your eyes to see them more
clearly. “But they have no nipples, how can you suck…”
“I’ll explain when you have sobered,” he answers as you both step out through
the door and out into the street.
Neither of you sees the bartender sigh and shove your
glasses into the sink. “I think they’ll work out their problems.”
The guy, who’d been your best friend for a few hundred microts, nods in
agreement and says, “But that was one big, ugly woman.” The hooker sticks her
tongue down his throat at that point, so he misses the other woman rolling her
eyes at him as she goes to find something else more entertaining until the end
of her shift.
Originally
posted April 11, 2006