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fic_promptly prompts or for prompts from scribblesinink, who also betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 385, 400, 495, 395 and 400 words.
Prompt: Any, any, she goes running to get away from her life
You can run, but you can't hide
Crichton checked on the threshold of the Center Chamber. The room was empty—not what he'd expected.
He hit his comms unit. "Pilot, where's Aeryn?"
There was a slight pause—presumably while Pilot checked the sensors—before the reply came in Pilot's usual calm, measured tones. "Officer Sun is in the exercise bay."
"Figures," John muttered, more to himself than Pilot. "Thanks, Pilot." Swiveling on his heel, he headed down several tiers.
He wasn't much surprised to find Aeryn kicking the dren out of a punching bag.
"Hey." He strolled toward her with a nonchalant air.
She landed another kick and two more punches before she gave the barest nod of her head to acknowledge his presence.
"I was wondering." He caught the bag and held it steady as she landed another blow. "You wanna teach me some of that hand-to-hand stuff? Might come in useful."
"I'm—" A kick."—not—" A punch. "—in—" Another punch. "—the—" A kick. "—mood."
"Come on," he cajoled, pushing the bag away and reaching for her. "It'll be fun."
She brought her arm up to force him away, her mouth shaped into a snarl, but he blocked the movement, anticipating her reaction.
An instant later, he was flat on his back on the mat, the air knocked out of his lungs, with Aeryn glaring down at him. He wheezed for a moment, before managing to squeeze out, "See? Isn't beating the crap out of me a much better way of dealing with that bug up your ass?"
She frowned at him briefly, before twisting around to squint at her backside. "What bug? What are you talking about?" He could hear the impatience in her voice.
"It's—." Crichton rolled his eyes, frustrated at how many Earth idioms proved too great a challenge for the translator microbes. Drawing in a deep breath, he explained patiently, "It's just an expression. It means something's bothering you."
Aeryn turned back, a sneer on her face. "Nothing's—." She stopped at the sight of him waggling his eyebrows mockingly. After a moment, she flopped down on the mat next to him. She peered at him from under her lashes. "Am I really that obvious?"
"Uh-huh." He reached out and gently ran the back of one finger up her bare arm. "Just as well. I am a pretty simple sorta guy, after all...."
oOo
Prompt: Crichton learning new things when he first arrives on Moya. (The title is an advertising slogan for laundry detergent)
My kind of clean
Crichton picked up his T-shirt and spread it out, examining it carefully. It didn't look dirty, but.... He sniffed at it cautiously, wrinkling his nose when it proved as sour-smelling as he'd feared. But it wasn't as if he'd packed for an overnight trip when he'd set off in his module.
Yet there must be some way of doing laundry on Moya: the rest of the crew's clothes looked clean enough, even Rygel's, despite the amount of food that managed to miss his mouth while he was eating.
But John was not asking Rygel how to do laundry.
He knew just the person, though. He found her in the Center Chamber, quietly murmuring to herself. Meditating, he supposed. "Uh, Zhaan...?"
She drew in a deep breath, before opening her eyes and turning one of her radiant smiles on him. "Yes, John?"
"Uh, my clothes are getting a little funky, and I wondered—."
"Funky?" Zhaan tilted her head to one side, giving him a puzzled look.
"Smelly. Stinky. Sweaty." Seeing that she understood him now, he went on, "So, uh, I was wondering how everyone else cleans their clothes."
Zhaan dipped her head at him. "My apologies, John. It is hard for us to remember that you do not know even the simplest things."
"Right," John muttered, wishing he didn't feel so damn stupid all the time, even though Zhaan's tone had been gentle and tolerant.
She rose to her feet and gestured for him to precede her out of the Center Chamber. "We wash our clothes in Moya's amnexus fluids. There is a chamber where—."
"Whoa!" John stopped dead and held up his hands. "You want me to wash my clothes in pregnant lady juice?"
Zhaan made an effort to hide her smile, but didn't fully succeed. "Amnexus, John. Not amniotic. It's a cleansing fluid that Moya creates to sanitize herself. It really is most effective." She touched her hand to her own robe.
"Right." John reluctantly followed Zhaan as she led him to a chamber on a lower tier where there was a pool of milky fluid. It didn't look much like it'd get anything clean but, at Zhaan's encouragement, he dipped his T-shirt in and swirled it around. Drawing it out, he gave the armpits a tentative sniff. To his surprise, the shirt smelled fresh and the color looked a little brighter, too.
Huh. My kind of clean.
oOo
Prompt: Crichton goes clothes shopping in the uncharted territories
If the coat fits
"No." Crichton shook his head.
"But it will be very warm and comfortable and practical, John." Zhaan rubbed the material between her fingers as she showed it out to him.
"It's—." Crichton stopped short of voicing his thoughts. It's a dress. He knew customs were different here, but he still couldn't get over the fact Zhaan was expecting him to wear a dress. "It's too visible," he amended lamely. "The color." Which was also true: the dress was not only a dress but also bright purple—hardly the best color to wear when trying to keep a low profile in the face of the many Wanted beacons that Crais had spread across the sector.
"You make a fair point, John." Zhaan let the dress fall back into place. "What colors would you prefer?"
"Uh, black? Brown? Maybe green?" Crichton looked around uneasily, seeing vivid blues and reds and oranges pressing in on him from every side of the garment section of the commerce planet.
"How about over there?" Aeryn dipped her head in the direction of a dimly-lit corner. "There's a trader seems to have some liberated Peacekeeper gear. Assuming you don't mind looking like a Peacekeeper."
Crichton raised his hands defensively. "Hey, Larraq's stuff fit well enough. And all that leather's pretty hard wearing." As he and Zhaan followed her toward the booth, he picked up on something else she'd said. "Liberated?"
Aeryn shrugged as she pulled pairs of pants from a rack, examining each in turn. "Peacekeepers are not likely to willingly trade their uniforms on the secondhand market."
Crichton rolled his eyes. "Great. More dead men's clothes," he muttered.
"Here." Aeryn thrust a pair of pants at him. "These look like they'll fit."
The booth owner bobbed out from behind another rack of clothes, bowing and gesturing. "This way, this way to the trying-on room. If the ladies and gentleman would like to enter."
Crichton looked at Aeryn in alarm as he accepted the pants from her.
"Zhaan and I will wait out here." Aeryn's tone made clear she had just as little interest in viewing more of Crichton's anatomy than she could already see as he had in showing her—at least, in the present circumstances.
Five minutes later, Crichton was admiring himself in a rather uneven mirror. The pants were damn comfortable and fit like they'd been made for him. Aeryn had a good eye—or else she'd been spending more time than she'd ever admit studying his ass.
Pulling back the curtain that shielded him from view and stepping outside the changing room so he could show the others, he came face to face with a peg sporting a long, black Peacekeeper duster. On impulse, he reached out and grabbed it and swung it around his shoulders. Turning, he took another look in the mirror, letting the duster swirl around his legs.
John Crichton, space cowboy...? He grinned to himself. Hot damn, now this was more like it than any damn purple dress....
oOo
Prompt: Farscape, Aeryn Sun/Captain Larraq, an AU of 'Bug's Life' where they were able to hook up, at least for a little while
A moment out of time
"So you'd rather fly?" Larraq arched an eyebrow at Aeryn as they made their way around one of Moya's tiers.
"I like being on the edge. Pushing the limits when I'm in combat. Having the autonomy to do my own thing." Seeing Larraq's slightly surprised look, she added hastily, "Within the parameters of my captain's orders, of course."
Frell, this was proving harder that she'd expected. Crichton had told her to get what information she could from Larraq, but it seemed like Larraq was asking all the questions and she was giving all the answers.
"Sounds a lot like Special Ops to me." Larraq was giving her that look again, the one that said he'd like to recreate with her.
Truth was, she wouldn't mind that at all. He was a good looking guy—and he understood her in ways Crichton never would. It'd been a while since she'd felt lonely on Moya, but she was feeling lonely for her own kind right now.
Larraq was still looking at her with eyes that promised he'd enjoy her and make sure she enjoyed him. "The captain of this ship. He keep you on a tight rein?"
Aeryn shrugged slightly. "As long as I do my assigned duties, he lets me do what I want."
Larraq made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat, before casting a casual glance around him. "So, I've seen the tier where the prisoners are kept and the command tier. Care to show me where the crew quarters are?"
Aeryn suppressed a smile as she dipped her head in acquiescence. "Of course."
They barely made it through the door of her quarters before he was kissing her, his hands exploring her body hungrily as he removed her uniform. She kissed him back just as hard, flinging him back on the bed and tearing at his jacket and pants. They were both still half dressed for their first coupling, Aeryn riding him until he satisfied her and she satisfied him.
While they lay sprawled next to each other, gathering themselves to recreate again, Aeryn reflected that it might not have been quite what Crichton had in mind—in fact, she was pretty sure it was the polar opposite; she'd seen the way he'd looked at Larraq—but she was following his request to keep Larraq occupied and away from finding out the truth.
oOo
Prompt: Any - any - all the pieces of my heart
All the pieces of my heart
Aeryn had thought she didn't have a heart.
Oh, she had an organ that pumped blood around her body, but that thing John called "heart"? Based on some superstition from even more primitive humans that the bundle of muscle in their chests was where love and compassion and kindness lived? She didn't think she had one of those.
Not until parts of it had been stripped away. Not until she realized how much she cared for so many things she'd either taken for granted or never expected to care for.
Like her life as a Peacekeeper soldier. For all she could now see how frelled up it was, it had enveloped her, safe and comforting. And though she no longer wanted to collect all those pieces and try to glue them back together—to return to her regiment and her old life—there were still things worth caring about, pieces of her heart worth gathering: honor, strength, loyalty.
Flying her Prowler, too. That had meant more to her than some nebulous feeling for Velorek: a man who, whatever else he was offering her, was also betraying the trust placed in him by others. That alone had been reason enough to inform on him. The chance to get her Prowler back had just made it easier to ignore the other part of her heart.
She wasn't sure she ever wanted to find that piece again; she wasn't sure she had much choice, not with John dragging her, unwilling yet longing, step by step toward it.
And her hard-won friendships, forged here on this ship. She hadn't known how much of her heart they'd taken up, these criminals and renegades, until she saw the loathing on their faces when they learned what she'd done. Loathing she couldn't fault them for, even if they'd committed crimes of equal weight themselves.
Those pieces of her heart she was going to hold tight, though she'd found they could hurt more deeply than any cut from a Qualta Blade.
What she'd said to Pilot was true: when Velorek had stroked Pilot's cheek, she hadn't been able to fathom why he'd do a thing like that, and now she couldn't fathom not doing it. Just like she could no longer imagine what it was like to not have a heart or to not want one, even if hers was broken into fragments and scattered across the universe.
fic_promptly prompts or for prompts from scribblesinink, who also betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 385, 400, 495, 395 and 400 words.Prompt: Any, any, she goes running to get away from her life
You can run, but you can't hide
Crichton checked on the threshold of the Center Chamber. The room was empty—not what he'd expected.
He hit his comms unit. "Pilot, where's Aeryn?"
There was a slight pause—presumably while Pilot checked the sensors—before the reply came in Pilot's usual calm, measured tones. "Officer Sun is in the exercise bay."
"Figures," John muttered, more to himself than Pilot. "Thanks, Pilot." Swiveling on his heel, he headed down several tiers.
He wasn't much surprised to find Aeryn kicking the dren out of a punching bag.
"Hey." He strolled toward her with a nonchalant air.
She landed another kick and two more punches before she gave the barest nod of her head to acknowledge his presence.
"I was wondering." He caught the bag and held it steady as she landed another blow. "You wanna teach me some of that hand-to-hand stuff? Might come in useful."
"I'm—" A kick."—not—" A punch. "—in—" Another punch. "—the—" A kick. "—mood."
"Come on," he cajoled, pushing the bag away and reaching for her. "It'll be fun."
She brought her arm up to force him away, her mouth shaped into a snarl, but he blocked the movement, anticipating her reaction.
An instant later, he was flat on his back on the mat, the air knocked out of his lungs, with Aeryn glaring down at him. He wheezed for a moment, before managing to squeeze out, "See? Isn't beating the crap out of me a much better way of dealing with that bug up your ass?"
She frowned at him briefly, before twisting around to squint at her backside. "What bug? What are you talking about?" He could hear the impatience in her voice.
"It's—." Crichton rolled his eyes, frustrated at how many Earth idioms proved too great a challenge for the translator microbes. Drawing in a deep breath, he explained patiently, "It's just an expression. It means something's bothering you."
Aeryn turned back, a sneer on her face. "Nothing's—." She stopped at the sight of him waggling his eyebrows mockingly. After a moment, she flopped down on the mat next to him. She peered at him from under her lashes. "Am I really that obvious?"
"Uh-huh." He reached out and gently ran the back of one finger up her bare arm. "Just as well. I am a pretty simple sorta guy, after all...."
Prompt: Crichton learning new things when he first arrives on Moya. (The title is an advertising slogan for laundry detergent)
My kind of clean
Crichton picked up his T-shirt and spread it out, examining it carefully. It didn't look dirty, but.... He sniffed at it cautiously, wrinkling his nose when it proved as sour-smelling as he'd feared. But it wasn't as if he'd packed for an overnight trip when he'd set off in his module.
Yet there must be some way of doing laundry on Moya: the rest of the crew's clothes looked clean enough, even Rygel's, despite the amount of food that managed to miss his mouth while he was eating.
But John was not asking Rygel how to do laundry.
He knew just the person, though. He found her in the Center Chamber, quietly murmuring to herself. Meditating, he supposed. "Uh, Zhaan...?"
She drew in a deep breath, before opening her eyes and turning one of her radiant smiles on him. "Yes, John?"
"Uh, my clothes are getting a little funky, and I wondered—."
"Funky?" Zhaan tilted her head to one side, giving him a puzzled look.
"Smelly. Stinky. Sweaty." Seeing that she understood him now, he went on, "So, uh, I was wondering how everyone else cleans their clothes."
Zhaan dipped her head at him. "My apologies, John. It is hard for us to remember that you do not know even the simplest things."
"Right," John muttered, wishing he didn't feel so damn stupid all the time, even though Zhaan's tone had been gentle and tolerant.
She rose to her feet and gestured for him to precede her out of the Center Chamber. "We wash our clothes in Moya's amnexus fluids. There is a chamber where—."
"Whoa!" John stopped dead and held up his hands. "You want me to wash my clothes in pregnant lady juice?"
Zhaan made an effort to hide her smile, but didn't fully succeed. "Amnexus, John. Not amniotic. It's a cleansing fluid that Moya creates to sanitize herself. It really is most effective." She touched her hand to her own robe.
"Right." John reluctantly followed Zhaan as she led him to a chamber on a lower tier where there was a pool of milky fluid. It didn't look much like it'd get anything clean but, at Zhaan's encouragement, he dipped his T-shirt in and swirled it around. Drawing it out, he gave the armpits a tentative sniff. To his surprise, the shirt smelled fresh and the color looked a little brighter, too.
Huh. My kind of clean.
Prompt: Crichton goes clothes shopping in the uncharted territories
If the coat fits
"No." Crichton shook his head.
"But it will be very warm and comfortable and practical, John." Zhaan rubbed the material between her fingers as she showed it out to him.
"It's—." Crichton stopped short of voicing his thoughts. It's a dress. He knew customs were different here, but he still couldn't get over the fact Zhaan was expecting him to wear a dress. "It's too visible," he amended lamely. "The color." Which was also true: the dress was not only a dress but also bright purple—hardly the best color to wear when trying to keep a low profile in the face of the many Wanted beacons that Crais had spread across the sector.
"You make a fair point, John." Zhaan let the dress fall back into place. "What colors would you prefer?"
"Uh, black? Brown? Maybe green?" Crichton looked around uneasily, seeing vivid blues and reds and oranges pressing in on him from every side of the garment section of the commerce planet.
"How about over there?" Aeryn dipped her head in the direction of a dimly-lit corner. "There's a trader seems to have some liberated Peacekeeper gear. Assuming you don't mind looking like a Peacekeeper."
Crichton raised his hands defensively. "Hey, Larraq's stuff fit well enough. And all that leather's pretty hard wearing." As he and Zhaan followed her toward the booth, he picked up on something else she'd said. "Liberated?"
Aeryn shrugged as she pulled pairs of pants from a rack, examining each in turn. "Peacekeepers are not likely to willingly trade their uniforms on the secondhand market."
Crichton rolled his eyes. "Great. More dead men's clothes," he muttered.
"Here." Aeryn thrust a pair of pants at him. "These look like they'll fit."
The booth owner bobbed out from behind another rack of clothes, bowing and gesturing. "This way, this way to the trying-on room. If the ladies and gentleman would like to enter."
Crichton looked at Aeryn in alarm as he accepted the pants from her.
"Zhaan and I will wait out here." Aeryn's tone made clear she had just as little interest in viewing more of Crichton's anatomy than she could already see as he had in showing her—at least, in the present circumstances.
Five minutes later, Crichton was admiring himself in a rather uneven mirror. The pants were damn comfortable and fit like they'd been made for him. Aeryn had a good eye—or else she'd been spending more time than she'd ever admit studying his ass.
Pulling back the curtain that shielded him from view and stepping outside the changing room so he could show the others, he came face to face with a peg sporting a long, black Peacekeeper duster. On impulse, he reached out and grabbed it and swung it around his shoulders. Turning, he took another look in the mirror, letting the duster swirl around his legs.
John Crichton, space cowboy...? He grinned to himself. Hot damn, now this was more like it than any damn purple dress....
Prompt: Farscape, Aeryn Sun/Captain Larraq, an AU of 'Bug's Life' where they were able to hook up, at least for a little while
A moment out of time
"So you'd rather fly?" Larraq arched an eyebrow at Aeryn as they made their way around one of Moya's tiers.
"I like being on the edge. Pushing the limits when I'm in combat. Having the autonomy to do my own thing." Seeing Larraq's slightly surprised look, she added hastily, "Within the parameters of my captain's orders, of course."
Frell, this was proving harder that she'd expected. Crichton had told her to get what information she could from Larraq, but it seemed like Larraq was asking all the questions and she was giving all the answers.
"Sounds a lot like Special Ops to me." Larraq was giving her that look again, the one that said he'd like to recreate with her.
Truth was, she wouldn't mind that at all. He was a good looking guy—and he understood her in ways Crichton never would. It'd been a while since she'd felt lonely on Moya, but she was feeling lonely for her own kind right now.
Larraq was still looking at her with eyes that promised he'd enjoy her and make sure she enjoyed him. "The captain of this ship. He keep you on a tight rein?"
Aeryn shrugged slightly. "As long as I do my assigned duties, he lets me do what I want."
Larraq made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat, before casting a casual glance around him. "So, I've seen the tier where the prisoners are kept and the command tier. Care to show me where the crew quarters are?"
Aeryn suppressed a smile as she dipped her head in acquiescence. "Of course."
They barely made it through the door of her quarters before he was kissing her, his hands exploring her body hungrily as he removed her uniform. She kissed him back just as hard, flinging him back on the bed and tearing at his jacket and pants. They were both still half dressed for their first coupling, Aeryn riding him until he satisfied her and she satisfied him.
While they lay sprawled next to each other, gathering themselves to recreate again, Aeryn reflected that it might not have been quite what Crichton had in mind—in fact, she was pretty sure it was the polar opposite; she'd seen the way he'd looked at Larraq—but she was following his request to keep Larraq occupied and away from finding out the truth.
Prompt: Any - any - all the pieces of my heart
All the pieces of my heart
Aeryn had thought she didn't have a heart.
Oh, she had an organ that pumped blood around her body, but that thing John called "heart"? Based on some superstition from even more primitive humans that the bundle of muscle in their chests was where love and compassion and kindness lived? She didn't think she had one of those.
Not until parts of it had been stripped away. Not until she realized how much she cared for so many things she'd either taken for granted or never expected to care for.
Like her life as a Peacekeeper soldier. For all she could now see how frelled up it was, it had enveloped her, safe and comforting. And though she no longer wanted to collect all those pieces and try to glue them back together—to return to her regiment and her old life—there were still things worth caring about, pieces of her heart worth gathering: honor, strength, loyalty.
Flying her Prowler, too. That had meant more to her than some nebulous feeling for Velorek: a man who, whatever else he was offering her, was also betraying the trust placed in him by others. That alone had been reason enough to inform on him. The chance to get her Prowler back had just made it easier to ignore the other part of her heart.
She wasn't sure she ever wanted to find that piece again; she wasn't sure she had much choice, not with John dragging her, unwilling yet longing, step by step toward it.
And her hard-won friendships, forged here on this ship. She hadn't known how much of her heart they'd taken up, these criminals and renegades, until she saw the loathing on their faces when they learned what she'd done. Loathing she couldn't fault them for, even if they'd committed crimes of equal weight themselves.
Those pieces of her heart she was going to hold tight, though she'd found they could hurt more deeply than any cut from a Qualta Blade.
What she'd said to Pilot was true: when Velorek had stroked Pilot's cheek, she hadn't been able to fathom why he'd do a thing like that, and now she couldn't fathom not doing it. Just like she could no longer imagine what it was like to not have a heart or to not want one, even if hers was broken into fragments and scattered across the universe.