Glycerine

Notes: Well, this started out as one thing and ended up being something else. It’s just a little different. What can I say? My gratitude and props to Eva for beta duty above and beyond the call and to my reviewers, Susan, Kaz, and Agent Rouka, for their encouragement enthusiasm, and everything else. As always, all mistakes remain mine.
Warnings: Read and heed. Sex: Nope. Not this time. Sorry. Next time. Violence: Nope. Not really. A little pushing and shoving. Language: Yep. Bad words. Dark, adult themes: Yep. Yep. Yep. If that sort of thing disturbs you, if you are easily or not so easily distressed, please do not read this. Consider yourselves warned.
Rating: R
Setting: Post TS
Spoilers: Through TS
Disclaimers: Definitely not mine. They belong to Henson, et. al. No copyright infringement intended. There is definitely no money being made. Musical guests making an appearance in this interlude are Bush who provided the title and a song that reminds me greatly of John and Aeryn in S4.

********************

He loved to watch Aeryn brush her hair; loved it like he loved watching the moon sail across the sky, or the sun sinking into a rainbow palette horizon. John Crichton sat in the curve of Moya's view port and watched his wife stroke glossy life into her hair. God, he loved these moments.

Aeryn, for her part, was completely aware of his scrutiny as she bent to her task. Finishing, she straightened up, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and brush-bristles pressing into her palms, said...

“Is this real?”

He shivered slightly as he leaned forward, reached out a hand that hovered just short of the waterfall of ebony spilling over slivers of pale shoulders.

Even white teeth slid into view as a broken smile split her lips. It didn’t reach cool, storm-grey eyes that shone dimly in the half-light shadows of the cell. Her voice, low and brittle, sliced surely through the distance between them like a scalpel.

“Am I alive?”

His eyes snapped open as he twitched violently to consciousness, dropping his journal from lifeless hands. He grunted harshly against the strain of uncooperative limbs, shifted legs heavy as lead, pins and needles stabbing at him as he struggled to his feet.

Bracing himself with one hand on the warm living wall beside him, he folded over to snag his journal. Standing, he staggered the width of her quarters.

Our quarters.

Exhaling harshly with effort, he dropped like a rock into a ball on her bed.

Our bed.

Not that they’d ever shared them. Not really. Not before and not in the five cycles since she’d been gone. Not in the time he’d had with her before that. But he’d lived here, slept here, ate here more often than not since that day, and he hadn’t considered it anything but theirs since then.

It was still early, arns until the sleep cycle when he could leave his cocoon without running into the others. Arns until he could begin his ritual roaming along empty corridors, tend to duties Pilot would have scheduled for him.

He shivered again, violently, chilled to the bone as cold seeped through him from the glacial hollow in his gut. Without bothering to remove his boots, he curled more tightly into himself, pulling the journal close to his chest as he reached back to pull the blanket over him.

Arns.

Waiting was the worst. He’d never waited well. Teeth chattering, he snugged himself tighter, closed his eyes and drifted into memory and deep, dark silence.

********************

She’s tired of waiting. But she knows she’s done harder things, endured worse things, and now the waiting comes as naturally as any of the other tactics and tools she’s developed to survive. It’s necessary and useful, so she settles more comfortably in place.

She’s sitting in a corridor, back up against Moya’s warm wall as she waits. In the near silence of the tier, she hears his steps coming closer.

“Do you know what you’ve done?”

“You won the coin toss.” He throws the words like knives as he walks past, twitchy as a cat on crack because it’s long past time for the lakka express.

He’s all about better living through chemistry these days and he needs his hit. Everything else is just white noise in his foggy, groggy brain.

He hears her rising to follow him, but he’s learned a lot about cutting her off lately, about going on the offensive to get what he wants, and what he wants is in his cell.

He needs to get back there now before his need for her bleeds through his barriers and makes things worse than they already are.

He spins on his heel, only slightly unsteady, watches her pull up short and run hooded eyes over him. He doesn’t like what he thinks he sees there, care, concern, fear, so he cranks up the aggression and takes a step.

He snarls something, he’s not sure what. She doesn’t back up and instead takes a stance. Her lips are moving but he’s not listening.

He doesn’t have to hear her to know what she’s saying.

She waves the bulb in front of his face. He’s right. She knows.

But he’s jonesing pretty bad right now and he’ll be damned if he’s going to have this conversation with her.

She’s on a mission though, and won’t be denied.

He knows she’s talking again, but he can’t seem to focus. It doesn’t matter though. Even this far gone he still recognizes the dangerous drop in her voice before she takes a step toward him.

He may be jammed but he’s always been able to shift gears. He’s never been too jacked up to run his own patented dog and pony show.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He’ll agree to anything just to get her to shut up so that her voice stops echoing around inside his aching head. He’s on a roll, but in his haste he just can’t seem to stop his tongue from tripping all over itself as he mumbles more to himself than to her, “I’m a coward. Move on. It’s over.”

“No.” She growls that simple truth like a dog with a bone it won’t be giving up anytime soon.

The rest of her words are swallowed up in the rising tide of nausea, rage, and haze as she waves the lakka in front of his face again. It sets him off like an aurora. “Shut up,” he snarls as he tries to push past her.

“Don’t tell me to shut up.” The warning is growled harsh and low as her hand comes down heavy on his arm with a steel grip.

He spins to shake her off and never sees the pantak jab coming.

***************

His head pounds in time with his pulse, a low, dull thudding. He doesn’t fail to appreciate the elegant irony that the echoes in his skull still allow him to hear the sound of his eyelids scraping against the grit in his eyes.

His thick, fuzzy tongue scrapes along the dry roof of his mouth before reaching out to swipe at uncooperative lips.

The sheets are soaked beneath him from the heat and sweat of his body, and it takes him a microt to realize he’s not alone.

And then it all clicks into place.

He knows who it is without even opening his eyes, can feel her presence invading his personal space even across the cell. The electricity is there in the air, arcing up his spine into his wildly misfiring synapses.

Mild muscle contractions promise to become full blown spasms and he wants her out of here.

Now.

He carefully opens his eyes, expecting a white stab of light to pierce his brain like an ice pick. He thinks he might actually welcome that, but the cell is dimly lit, comfortingly bathed in the soothing golden glow of Moya’s night cycle.

But nothing else is right. He doesn’t recognize the cell, doesn’t know where he is. And she’s here.

He needs a hit. He needs her gone. He knows what’s coming and doesn’t feel like sharing it with her.

His eyes slide gingerly to the left and his stomach rolls. When he opens them again, he sees her sitting there in the portal seat, serene as the Madonna, backlit by the black of space and glittering diamond stars.

He feels her gaze and her silence heavy on him as he sucks in his breath and jerks upright to sit; waits for the cell to quit spinning before he swings his feet to the floor and leverages himself to stand.

He staggers to the grate, rests an arm on the wall to steady himself as he palms the sensor.

Nothing.

He palms the sensor again, then once again before slapping his hand against the grate. “What the hell is going on, Aeryn?”

There’s no answer and her silence is deafening in the stillness of the cell. It lights him up, pisses him off to no end that even through the tidal wave of nausea rolling through him, through the haze and the holes in his head, through the heat baking him from the inside out, she can do this to him.

He steadies himself against the grate, turns slowly to face her. She’s still sitting there, wrapped in that waterfall of hair. The tilt of her head allows her eyes to stay in shadow as she finally speaks softly, voice low and calm and in control.

“Pilot’s locked the cell.” She uncurls herself smoothly, slowly unfolds long, supple legs and stretches to stand. “He won’t open it until I ask him to.”

“That’s what this is all about? You think that’s gonna make me talk to you?”

“That’s what this,” she brings her hand up to roll one of his bulbs between her fingers, “is about. I think that,” she nods her head toward the locked grate, “is gonna make you stop this.”

She drops her hand to her side, lets the bulb hit floor before crushing it under her boot. He jerks forward at the sight and she shifts ever so slightly to take a stance, silently daring him to do something stupid.

“God damn it, Aeryn,” he growls, flicks his eyes to the spot where her boot meets the deck.

He wonders if that’s the only one she found, wonders if his stash is safe. He knows he’ll have to get past her and out of here to find out. He tries to take a deep breath, calm his racing heart, but he can’t seem to suck enough air into his lungs.

“Open the fucking door, Aeryn,” he breathes hard and harsh as the band around his chest tightens just a notch, just enough to hurt.

“When we’re finished,” she says calmly, sitting back down and settling in like she’s got all the time in the world for a chat.

“We’re finished, Aeryn,” he grunts, three angry strides taking him right up to her. “Right here. Right now. We. Are. Finished.”

She doesn’t bother to move, just tilts her head and looks at him, her eyes luminescent in the shadows of the cell. “No. We have unfinished business.”

“Why?” He grabs her wrists roughly and yanks her up out of her comfy spot, shoving her arms behind her as he pulls her up close. He steps around her and presses her hard into the wall. “Because you say so?”

He’s shaking with anger, with need, her face so close to his he can feel her warm breath on his cheek. He feels her body trapped between the wall and his heavy weight, presses tight against her even as he feels the fine muscle tremors in his limbs.

A soft smile tugs at the corner of her lips and he can’t help himself, his gaze is drawn to them, follows that gentle curve. She snaps her head forward so quickly he can’t track it and hits him like a hammer square between the eyes.

He staggers back a step and her hands come up to shove hard against his chest.

He can’t breathe again; he can barely stand as she slides quickly off the wall and dances in his vision just outside his reach. Her voice floats over to him as his stomach clenches violently and a roaring wave of heat and nausea floods the hollow pit of his gut.

“Yes, John. Because I say so.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” He spits the words at her even as she shimmers in his vision. “You’re not my mother, my lover, my wife, or my friend.” He stalks the cell with loud, angry strides, turns on his heel to face her as he rubs itching palms hard against his thighs. “You have no right.”

“That may be,” she agrees calmly, silhouetted picture perfect once again by space and stars. “But this will end. Now.”

His brain sloshes in his skull and his vision clouds with a red-black haze as he snorts blood harshly through raw nasal passages. “You gonna save me from myself?”

He watches her eyes narrow as he sniffs and scrubs the heel of his hand hard back and forth against his nose. It comes away smeared with bright crimson as the taste and scent of copper floods his senses.

“Help me understand, John. Why this. Why now.”

He wipes his hand against his leathers, slides it out of her line of sight.

“Understand what? That you think I’m jacked up?” He sniffs and swipes again; tries to focus beyond the pounding in his chest and head.

“It’s nothing, Aeryn. Just knocks things back a little.” Things like silence and loneliness, blind terror and lies. “No problem.”

“So…” She leans back gracefully against the wall, crosses her arms across her chest as her eyes track him. “This makes everything better.”

“As good as it gets,” he smirks with a shrug. “And it’s no problem at all.”

He adjusts his trajectory, angles his body as he steps away from her, drops his hands to his sides, itchy fingertips drumming against his thighs and rubs his palms hard again against the leather there.

“I got it under control.”

‘You’re lying to yourself then.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he explodes mid stride, spinning on his heel to cross the distance between them with three long, angry strides. “That’s your thing isn’t it?” He jabs a sharp finger into her shoulder. “Lying to me?”

She bats his hand away with a quick flick. “What’s it going to take to get through to you, John? Why do you want to throw everything away like this?”

“I threw you the obvious and you threw it all away.”

“Think about this, John. I don’t want to watch you…”

“Watch me what, Aeryn?” Voice low and harsh, he steps and cocks his head, tendons cording on his neck as he dares her to say it.

“Lie to my face.” She’s off the wall, smooth, liquid motion coming straight at him. “And I don’t want to watch…”

That’s his girl, steps right up, but he’s not backing down.

“Watch me what, Aeryn?”

He may be jammed, but he’s not going to beg. Need drives him, flash-firing through his veins, revving up his motor, and he feels his heart as it beats in his ears.

He’s got an objective and if he’s got to inflict a little damage, so be it. Won’t be the first time. Or the last. And if she decides to willingly put herself in his line of sight, he can’t be held responsible for the collateral damage.

“Die? Been there? Done that? Got the tee-shirt? So I’ve been told.”

“What’s your rush?”

“Everybody has their day.” He barks a laugh. “Some of us have more than one.”

“So you’re a suicidal idiot, too? Is that what I’m supposed think?”

“Think what you want. But don’t you think that if I wanted to cross over I’d just eat Winona?”

“You’re still lying to my face. You’re a mess, John.”

“Did ya ever think that maybe that’s your fault? Or hadn’t that little thought ever entered your one-track little mind. That maybe I need it to just even be around you. In the same space as you? On the same ship as you?”

She wraps long, slender arms around her midsection, tilts her head as an eyebrow arches elegantly. “So this is my fault?”

“What? That I’m jacked up? Hell yeah, I snort this shit just to be able to look at you. Or do you really think you’re all that special?”

Her eyes narrow as her fingers curl into tight balls. “I don’t think…”

“Hell, no,” he explodes. “You don’t think. Not about anybody but you. I mean how the hell could this be your fault? I mean you are the only one around here who’s ever really suffered.”

He strings the words like barbed wire, watches her flinch as he drags her along the razor sharp edges that score like a razor. She can’t camouflage the damage in the sudden eerie stillness of the cell.

“What?” He steps and stops dead in his tracks as her hands drop and she takes a stance, eyes targeting him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He rubs itchy palms along his leathers as he takes another step.

“Come on, you can tell me. Just you, me and the walls here, baby. You decided that since you didn’t know who the kid’s daddy was that I’d do in a pinch? I mean, just how many guys were in the running?”

Her lips tighten as she runs suspicious eyes over him. “I just thought…”

“Thought what? That you’d come back and I’d be all ready to go? That I was just so weak and desperate that I’d jump at the chance?” Shaking with rage, his hands fly up and out against her shoulders.

“Hell, I might as well dig my own grave and jump in that as wait for you. You don’t know what you want. I don’t know what I’m willing to give you, but I can tell you I don’t think it’s a hell of a lot.”

She steps toward him, eyes narrow and hard. “Think about this, John. Think about what you’re doing.”

He doesn’t want to hear a word she has to say. The devil’s in his ear right now because he’s in hell, and he figures that’s why he’s so hot. He’s on fire, burning up, shirt and leathers pasted to him by rivulets of sweat trailing down his chest, his back, his ass.

And he thinks that if he’s in hell, he wants a little company.

“I’ve done nothing but think about it Aeryn.” He jabs two steel fingers hard into her shoulder. “I told you before. You play your little games and I get stupid and I get fucked. And then you come back.”

She knows he’s just laying down suppression fire, trying for a tactical retreat, and she thinks she knows where the perimeter is.

For better or worse, she’s engaged, laid in for the siege. So she lets it ride, lets it roll off her like the rain she remembers from Earth.

He’s got her in his line of sight though, knows the drill and starts going through his arsenal to execute the beginnings of a plan.

“It’s always you,” he drawls. His lips curl in an unpleasant smile as he asks her again, “Do you really think you’re that special?”

She stiffens slightly at his smile, and he knows he’s right on point. So he rolls it up, keeps pushing, tightens up the line.

“You leave and then you come back.” His voice is soft and low as the half-light in the cell. “What do you think I do in the meantime? You think I wait? You really think there’s been no one else?”

She’s calm, cool, collected, certain. And still silent.

“You left me on the Royal Planet? Remember?”

“Yes, John,” she says finally, her soft smile only slightly broken. “And you married the princess.”

His brain is bleeding and he thinks his eyes might just pop out of his head. It makes him feel mean.

“Yeah. Got married and fathered a kid. And you weren’t there. Too busy running away. But Chatto was there.” His mouth is having trouble keeping up with his brain as the words spill out on a tidal wave of rage.

“In more ways than one. Fucked that PK tralk. That part of your good little Peacekeeper training? How to be a really great frell? I mean, she was a really great one. Did ya know that, Aeryn?”

“Yes, John,” she exhales on an almost sigh.

Her voice is low and a little rougher that he’s used to. She sounds a little less in control. He can feel it surge through the fine trembling in his limbs, the knowledge that he is the one in control.

“I knew that,” she says quietly, arms wrapped around her waist, staring at him with eyes suddenly shadowed.

The words are almost inaudible under the roaring in his head. He doesn’t ask her how or when, but that stops him cold, dead in his tracks for a microt.

He thinks it might be shame churning in his gut, suspects it might be the bitter taste in his mouth.

He hates that she can do that to him, hates himself for letting her. He knows he’s going to have to do better than this.

“And Caroline?”

Some part of him he barely remembers knows he’s being a real bastard, but he really wants to see her bleed.

“You remember Caroline? Ever wonder what I was doing in that cabin with her? Let me tell you. She was fucking my brains loose.”

He can tell that’s a direct hit by the way she goes suddenly rigid, her mouth a taut line pulled so thin her lips are bloodless in a face that’s a pale mask, chin tilted slightly, eyes hooded.

Crystal clarity explodes in his randomly firing synapses, and he thinks that if he presses now he can break her.

“You really think I was thinking about you while I was nailing her? That I was fucking her because I loved you?” The shame in his gut flames into white-hot rage boiling up and out along his veins as his heart rate speeds with the need for a hit.

Bust loose, get out.

“Newsflash, baby. I don’t need that.” He jerks his head toward the powder on the floor, snaps his eyes back to hers. “And I don’t need you.”

She smiles suddenly, if it can be called that, her lips twitching spasmodically up at the corners. It makes him shiver and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he registers the change in the atmosphere. His hand rises, wraps around the base of his neck.

“I know what you’re trying to do, John.” Her shoulders drop as she leans up against the wall, slender arms wrapping around her thin middle. “And it won’t work. I've frelled more males in my lifetime than you've known in yours. So you can shut the frell up.  If this was a contest, I'd win. Hands down."

He’s sweating balls and his face is on fire, but a sudden shiver of cold, hard mean shudders through him. His lips twitch in the parody of a grin as a spasm ripples along his jaw line.

He cocks his head, keeping her in his line of sight, and steps slowly toward her.

She doesn’t blink as her eyes track him, doesn’t move as he presses her up against the wall. His fingers feather down her arms to twine with hers, pins her to the wall with his greater mass as he slides his lips along her smooth, soft cheek to breathe warmly into the delicate shell of her ear.

“Of course you’d win, baby. We both know that. And that’s what this is all about, right?” He cants his hips hard, grinds against her. “Just how many guys did you frell? And just who really is the daddy.”

She snaps her hips forward hard, knocking him back as her hands come up to push against his chest. His stomach rolls as the room spins. A tidal wave of nausea washes over him as his gut heaves and he vomits violently.

He drops to his knees, falls to all fours, feels strong arms hold him as he spasms and wretches and gasps for air. When his insides untwist and his breathing subsides, the room finally spins to a slow stop.

He feels her move, half-carrying, half-dragging his dead weight to the bathing chamber. He misses the feel of her hands on him as soon as they’re gone, and he curls into a ball right where she’s left him.

The last thing he remembers is the soothing sound of water coming down like gentle summer rain before her hands return to him and he slides into blessed black.

********************

He’s floating in a sea of darkness, wrapped up in a black haze of silence. Strong, silken fingertips, cool to the touch, whisper along his sensitive skin. They glide through his hair, massage his temples, slide softly along his brow to caress his cheek and jaw line.

He murmurs as he shifts slightly under the fingers flowing down his neck to trace his collarbone and shoulders, stroke their way down his arms and back. A satin palm traces circles softly on his chest and he settles under the delicate touch as it moves lower to soothe his cramping abdominals, then circles back to complete the circuit.

He doesn’t know how much time has gone by, but the fingers are gone and he’s still floating in darkness. A muted whoosh invades the silence and a low, heavy voice carries in the dark.

“This won’t make him forgive you. Surely you know that. Surely you don’t expect that.”

“Yes, D’Argo, I know. I don’t.”

Aeryn’s voice floats soft and sad in the haze, swaddles his burned-out brain. He wants to open his eyes, see her, but he can’t. His eyes feel gummy and sticky and glue his heavy lids shut. Her voice hovers in the haze again, covers him, settling over him like a silken shroud.

“I don’t even expect him to thank me.”

He wants to…needs to tell her…

…everything…

…but his lips are thick, his tongue swollen and fuzzy, and he can’t find his voice in a throat that feels like sandpaper.

“That’s good, then. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Thank you for your concern, Captain.”

“Does he need anything?”

“No. He’s quiet and resting, now. The DRDs and Pilot can watch him.”

Chiana’s voice filters through the darkness. “Where are you going?”

“Out. I need some air.”

Footsteps echo and the quiet whoosh comes again, then silence wraps him up again as he slides back into his cocoon.

********************

The next time he hovers at the event horizon of consciousness, he can’t say for sure what it is that pulls him through. The pounding in his head is down to a dull roar, he’s warm but not burning up, and his eyelids flutter and open without the expected explosion.

It takes a microt for things to register. He’s laying flat on his back in the comfort of his own bed, in his own quarters. The quiet light doesn’t hurt his eyes, the soft hum of Moya around him doesn’t rumble in his skull. Grunting softly on a quiet exhale, he arches his spine of the bed, stretches his legs, flexes his feet.

He settles for a moment, savoring the familiar not-quite silence, runs a mental checklist. He’s hungry and a little weak, but his stomach isn’t rolling and his brain isn’t wrapped in cotton. The pressure on his bladder though demands attention.

With a quick flick of his hands, he tosses the cover off, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, elbows on knees, hands hanging between his knees loosely.

So far, so good.

The room doesn’t spin as he gets to his feet and stretches. Six easy strides bring him to the fresher. He runs the cold water, eyes the stall, wonders if he should shower. He really feels the need to wash the stupid off.

He settles for splashing his face, stares at his reflection as he dries off. His head is as clear his eyes, and he wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen or felt this kind of clear.

Before Aeryn…

He sucks in a quick, sharp breath as his thoughts slam up against his last memory of her. Them. In this cell. His eyes assess the image staring back at him and he thinks he might be up to this.

He needs to see her. Talk to her. Let her know it’s over. He’s over his anger and pain. He’s done running. He’s done hiding behind his fear and the old woman’s powder. He’s done taking leave of his life.

He’s finally clear as a bell and he needs to show her how much he wants her with him.

With a last look at his reflection, he tosses the towel, turns around. He pulls on his leathers, snaps on Winona, snags his shirt and palms open the grate.

“Pilot?”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Where is…everyone?”

“Rygel and Noranti are in their quarters. Scorpius and Sikozu are in the center chamber and…everyone else is on command.”

He ignores the hitch in Pilot’s response. “Thank you, Pilot.”

“Commander?”

“Yeah?”

“Moya and I would like to know…how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Pilot, thanks,” he said softly and smiles. “Crystal.”

He lengthens his strides down the corridor, rounds a junction and breaks into a run.

********************

His heart is thumping in his chest, and that has nothing to do with his dash through the tiers. Raised voices carry and he reins himself in to long, quick strides as he enters command and glides to a stop, wide eyes searching.

Chiana sits on her hands facing him, feet idly swinging. She cocks her head and her eyes widen as one corner of her mouth curves up gently. She leans over to nudge D’Argo roughly with her shoulder.

The tall Luxan turns around, his blue eyes hooded as a small smile splits his lips. His voice carries quietly. “Welcome, back.”

“How long was I out?” He’s not really interested in that and his eyes slide from the pair in front of him to roam command.

“Better part of three solar days,” D’Argo informs him.

His eyes snap back to the Luxan. “Three days?” His chest tightens, presses hard against the beating of his heart. “Where’s Aeryn?”

“Out there.” Chiana jerks her head toward the forward portal. “She needed some air.”

“Air?” A lead ball settles in the cold, hollow pit of his gut. “How long has she been gone?”

“Three arns.”

Relief explodes in his chest, snaps the steel band constricting it and lets him breathe again.

“We tried to help, but she wouldn’t let us. Wouldn’t leave you until she was sure you were…over the worst of it.”

He drops his eyes as his hand comes up to rub against the back of his neck as a wave of shame surges out of his gut. He lets it roll through him, glad that he can once again recognize it.

He thinks it’s been too long since he’s been able to feel. It’s a gift. And he reminds himself that he has her to thank for that.

“When will she be back?”

“She didn’t tell us. I wanted to go with her. She hadn’t slept and...”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

With a snort, she shoves hard against D’Argo’s shoulder again. “She was tinked at Captain Fekkik here and just took off.”

The warning growl is low and deep in the back of his throat. “Chiana.”

John’s own growl is soft and quiet, but no less dangerous as his eyes target the Luxan. “Why was she pissed at you?”

“Gah.” She jumps off the table, shoving D’Argo hard on the shoulder again on her way down. Her voice drops as she takes a stance to mimic him. “This won’t make him forgive you.”

“You said that to her?”

“Look, John, I know you’ve lost a lot of…perspective…”

“Captain…” Pilot’s voice carries over the comms.

John cuts him off. “What is it, Pilot?”

“Aeryn has contacted Moya. Her Prowler is approaching.”

He spins on his heel to stare out the forward portal and there she is. His heart thumps painfully against his chest as he locks his eyes on the ship coming home.

Nothing else exists or matters for the space of several microts as he simply stops breathing.

The wormhole blossoms without warning, blinding in its blue-white brilliance against the starless black. An adrenaline surge and a cold shot of terror flood his veins as Moya shudders and seizes.

He grabs the console as waves of blue undulate within the gaping maw, but he doesn’t have time or breathe or do anything other than scream.

“Aeryn!”

Her name is barely off his lips before it the monster closes in the wink of an eye.

The sky is black as pitch and empty as Moya jerks to a stop.

He slaps his comms. “Pilot…”

The flare of the wormhole opening again cuts him off as something comes hurtling out of the maw. The swirling blue vortex vanishes as if it had never been there and his heart begins to beat again as he recognizes the Prowler.

“Pilot…” he yells into the comms.

“Moya and I have already deployed the docking web.” Pilot’s voice is sharp with an odd mix of fear and relief. “We have her.”

He spins on his heel and is at a full out sprint by the time he hits the corridor, running for his life toward the docking bay.

********************

He doesn’t hear D’Argo and Chiana come up behind him as he slaps at the wall and bounces on his feet, waiting for the air lock to cycle so that he can get to her.

He wants to meet her coming across the bay, pull her into his arms and never let her go. He’ll be happy to settle for her screaming him stupid.

After an eternity, the air lock finally cycles. He breaks for the Prowler and stops dead in his tracks, hands balled into tight fists at his sides.

She’s not in the bay. The Prowler is still sealed up tight and silent where it sits. His pulse pounds a bassline just under the roar in his ears.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

His feet start moving of their own volition and he’s up on the stairs of the ship before he even knows he’s moved. Shaking like a palsy victim, he reaches to release the hatch.

It pops with an explosive hiss in the stillness of the bay. Liquid red the color of flesh pours from the cockpit and spills down the stairs.

He doesn’t recognize the howl that splits the silence as his own grief come to life and he doesn’t feel the snap of D’Argo’s tongue just before he falls off the cliff into oblivion.