Aeryn Fic!
OK, here we go: my story for the Aeryn Ficathon. This is for florastuart, who requested something involving Aeryn and Crais. About 600 words. Third season. Rated PG. Thanks to redstarrobot for taking the time to give it the once-over for me.
**
You Are Me
She lets herself into Crais's room, ready with an explanation should he wake up and demand to know why she has invaded his privacy. But he doesn't. He appears to be sleeping peacefully; after the crisis with the Budong was over, he must have given in and allowed himself to take something for the pain.
She looks down at him, at first concerned only for the state of his health. But as she moves her gaze across his welt-covered body and deceptively peaceful sleeping face, she finds herself moved by a strange mix of emotions to which she is entirely incapable of putting names. Crichton, she thinks, would know. The human is so familiar, so comfortable with these confusing matters of the heart. He would be able to tell her: This emotion, here, is this pity or compassion? Does this bittersweet tenderness she feels as she watches Crais sleep speak to the sense of connection she feels between them, or the sense of distance? Almost, she wishes she could go and ask him. But she can't, of course. Crichton wouldn't understand. And after that display of jealousy earlier today, she knows better than to send John's thoughts in that direction again.
Not that jealousy is warranted. Oh, she knows that Crais is... interested. He hasn't said anything, but it's there, in the way his body moves, in the timbre of his words, in the shine of his eyes. But what she feels for Crais is not sexual, and it certainly isn't -- she stumbles over the word -- romantic. It's something different than that. More and less, and... different.
What she sees when she looks at Crais isn't a potential recreation partner. In a strange way, what she see is herself. She considers the marks on his body, painful wounds inflicted in an emotional struggle between two beings who, she is sure, truly do love each other, and the thought that there is a metaphor buried there, none too deeply, is almost too accurate to bear.
You are me, she thinks, as she smooths down the sweat-soaked hair across his forehead. He is what she once was, and more of what she still is than she truly wants to admit. She wishes she could tell John that, too, explain to him all the things about Crais that he refuses to see. But he wouldn't understand this, either, because he never saw the Crais she knew herself to be. Always, from that very first moment of their meeting, when he looked at her, he saw her not for who she was, but for who she could be. Even now, she know he sees more of the potential in her than the actual, a thought that frightens and reassures her simultaneously. "You can be more," he told her, because he looked at her and saw the "more."
When he looks at Crais, he doesn't see the "more." But Aeryn does. Aeryn can't look at him and not see it. Sometimes she half-thinks the similarities will break her heart.
Aeryn has become more, is still and always becoming more, but she has no illusions that she could have done it on her own. She has learned to be truly herself only because she had Crichton there to help her, to show her what she could be. And Crais? Crais has an adolescent Leviathan as conflicted as he is, and he has... her. She remembers a phrase Crichton used once. The blind leading the blind. "I'm sorry," she whispers as she takes his hand. "I'm very, very sorry."
Crais stirs in his sleep and moans.
**
For the record, Flora, I'm really sorry if this isn't quite what you were looking for. It seems kind of wrong to offer something up as an Aeryn-Crais story when Crais is actually unconscious for the entire thing. I can only hope that it works well enough not to be a disappointment.
It also strikes me as kind of ironic: I bitched and moaned and worried about being asked to write J/A, was immensely relieved when I wasn't, and then proceeded to write something laden with rather a surprising amount of J/A-ness anyway. I never will understand my subconscious.
Well, hey, at least it wasn't fluff...
**
You Are Me
She lets herself into Crais's room, ready with an explanation should he wake up and demand to know why she has invaded his privacy. But he doesn't. He appears to be sleeping peacefully; after the crisis with the Budong was over, he must have given in and allowed himself to take something for the pain.
She looks down at him, at first concerned only for the state of his health. But as she moves her gaze across his welt-covered body and deceptively peaceful sleeping face, she finds herself moved by a strange mix of emotions to which she is entirely incapable of putting names. Crichton, she thinks, would know. The human is so familiar, so comfortable with these confusing matters of the heart. He would be able to tell her: This emotion, here, is this pity or compassion? Does this bittersweet tenderness she feels as she watches Crais sleep speak to the sense of connection she feels between them, or the sense of distance? Almost, she wishes she could go and ask him. But she can't, of course. Crichton wouldn't understand. And after that display of jealousy earlier today, she knows better than to send John's thoughts in that direction again.
Not that jealousy is warranted. Oh, she knows that Crais is... interested. He hasn't said anything, but it's there, in the way his body moves, in the timbre of his words, in the shine of his eyes. But what she feels for Crais is not sexual, and it certainly isn't -- she stumbles over the word -- romantic. It's something different than that. More and less, and... different.
What she sees when she looks at Crais isn't a potential recreation partner. In a strange way, what she see is herself. She considers the marks on his body, painful wounds inflicted in an emotional struggle between two beings who, she is sure, truly do love each other, and the thought that there is a metaphor buried there, none too deeply, is almost too accurate to bear.
You are me, she thinks, as she smooths down the sweat-soaked hair across his forehead. He is what she once was, and more of what she still is than she truly wants to admit. She wishes she could tell John that, too, explain to him all the things about Crais that he refuses to see. But he wouldn't understand this, either, because he never saw the Crais she knew herself to be. Always, from that very first moment of their meeting, when he looked at her, he saw her not for who she was, but for who she could be. Even now, she know he sees more of the potential in her than the actual, a thought that frightens and reassures her simultaneously. "You can be more," he told her, because he looked at her and saw the "more."
When he looks at Crais, he doesn't see the "more." But Aeryn does. Aeryn can't look at him and not see it. Sometimes she half-thinks the similarities will break her heart.
Aeryn has become more, is still and always becoming more, but she has no illusions that she could have done it on her own. She has learned to be truly herself only because she had Crichton there to help her, to show her what she could be. And Crais? Crais has an adolescent Leviathan as conflicted as he is, and he has... her. She remembers a phrase Crichton used once. The blind leading the blind. "I'm sorry," she whispers as she takes his hand. "I'm very, very sorry."
Crais stirs in his sleep and moans.
**
For the record, Flora, I'm really sorry if this isn't quite what you were looking for. It seems kind of wrong to offer something up as an Aeryn-Crais story when Crais is actually unconscious for the entire thing. I can only hope that it works well enough not to be a disappointment.
It also strikes me as kind of ironic: I bitched and moaned and worried about being asked to write J/A, was immensely relieved when I wasn't, and then proceeded to write something laden with rather a surprising amount of J/A-ness anyway. I never will understand my subconscious.
Well, hey, at least it wasn't fluff...