My Remix Fic
The Remix authors have at last been revealed! So I figured I'd repost mine here. (I have a few things to say about this fic, and about the remix challenge in general, but I think that's going to be a separate post a bit later. Stay tuned!)
This was a remix of lady_smith's "If Wishes Were Kittens". It's Farscape. PG-13 for non-explicit het sex and mild swearing. A little under 1,000 words. Set sometime in the short interval between "We're So Screwed" and "Bad Timing," and contains possible spoilers through that point. (Oh and I've corrected a typo that was in the archived version. Sigh. Why is that that no matter how carefully I re-read and how thoroughly I get stuff beta'd, there are always typos when it's done?)
If Wishes Were Kittens (The Cheshire Remix)
A part of him knows this isn't real. His grasp on sanity is a tenuous thing these days, he's aware of that; it becomes difficult to tell inside from outside, memory from reality, This Side from That Side. But he is not quite so far gone that he cannot recognize an impossibility when it shares his bed.
He clings to an excuse, a loophole: if he himself is dead, then anything may be possible. Even Stykera have only glimpses of the realms beyond, but many things are said of them: that all the sweetest longings of our corporeal lives may find fulfillment there, enfolding us in never-ending joy; that we will be reunited with our heart's companions as if we had never for a moment been apart. It fits together. It is logical, believable -- save for the fact that he cannot remember experiencing death, and it is hardly something he would fail to recognize when he saw it.
He refuses to think of this, walling it off in the deep part of him, the safe part, with all the hidden memories, and concentrates instead on the touch of her hands, the taste of her lips, the blissful relief of having regained, unlooked for, what he had believed to be lost forever.
Regained and more... They'd never had time for this, while she lived. Not this slow, reverent exploration of spirits and bodies, this single-minded testing of the limits of pleasure. There were always crises, interruptions, illness. Guilt on her part, at taking the time from nursing the injured Moya. Guilt on his, at the risk of hurting her in her frailty. But there is no guilt now, no fear, no awkwardness. Only perfection. It goes on and on, until they are both exhausted and spent, and that, too, is perfect.
Until Crichton ruins it.
He bursts into the room surrounded by a cloud of small, furry animals, tumbling and pouncing at his feet. Kittens, a voice whispers from the bottom of Stark's mind, bringing with it jumbled memories of soft fur and sharp claws and an animal improbably named "Mr. Jingles." It's Crichton's voice, the dead Crichton's, and it shatters the blissful, pleasure-soaked silence in his mind.
The live Crichton stands there, gaping and blinking, and one of the kittens leaps onto the bed. Zhaan lets out an exclamation and picks it up, smiling, stroking its fur and rubbing it softly against Stark's skin. It makes a pleasant buzzing noise, and he smiles, too, lost in her delight, live-John and dead-John fading from his senses.
But only for a moment. "Okay, something very seriously ain't right here."
"No," he murmurs, covering his ears. "No, no, no." He doesn't want to hear this. If they don't say it isn't real, don't believe it, then it won't be true.
But Crichton persists. "Five minutes ago I was thinking about kittens, and look!" He gestures towards the animals, and one of them twines around his legs. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure kittens are not indigenous to the Uncharted Territories. Plus, I just passed Chiana in the corridor, carrying a giant suitcase of porn, and we all know how often Chiana thinks about porn. And you..." You're always thinking of Zhaan. He doesn't need to say it for Stark to hear it.
"Go away," Stark says, fingers drumming now against his mask, distracting him from the thoughts he doesn't want to think. "You're lying, you're wrong. Go away."
Crichton doesn't. "Look, I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm telling you... This is, like, Star Trek shit. No... Deep Space 9, that's what it is. 'If Wishes Were Horses.' Rumplestiltskin, dead baseball players..."
Stark shakes his head, as much in confusion now as in denial.
"I don't know how it works," Crichton says, "but it's some kind of, I dunno, some force that takes what we're thinking, what we wish for and turns it into physical reality. And that never goes well on TV. Come on, Stark. You've gotta be the guy to help with this one. Isn't that what your people do... or are, or something?"
Yes, and no, he thinks, but he doesn't want to discuss it. "Go away!" he shouts, and kittens leap and scatter about in panic.
Crichton stares at him for a moment. "Fine. You want to just lie here and enjoy your little fantasy world, fine. I'd probably be a big frelling hypocrite to tell you to stop. But if you change your mind and would actually rather, y'know, help me save our asses from whatever freaky alien menace we've managed to bring on board this time, you know how to use the comms."
Stark says nothing. Crichton shakes his head, mutters a curse, and leaves. A moment later, Stark can hear him shouting for Noranti down the hall.
Zhaan -- still here, still real! -- lays a hand on his arm. He suddenly realizes that he is quivering beneath her touch, shaking like a badly-tuned hetch drive. "It's all right, love," she says. "I am here. I am with you." She kisses him softly.
"Yes," he says. "Yes." He puts his arms around her and clings tightly as, one by one, the kittens begin to disappear.
When Crichton comes back to find him, he is holding empty air and still desperately trying to convince himself he is not alone.
This was a remix of lady_smith's "If Wishes Were Kittens". It's Farscape. PG-13 for non-explicit het sex and mild swearing. A little under 1,000 words. Set sometime in the short interval between "We're So Screwed" and "Bad Timing," and contains possible spoilers through that point. (Oh and I've corrected a typo that was in the archived version. Sigh. Why is that that no matter how carefully I re-read and how thoroughly I get stuff beta'd, there are always typos when it's done?)
If Wishes Were Kittens (The Cheshire Remix)
A part of him knows this isn't real. His grasp on sanity is a tenuous thing these days, he's aware of that; it becomes difficult to tell inside from outside, memory from reality, This Side from That Side. But he is not quite so far gone that he cannot recognize an impossibility when it shares his bed.
He clings to an excuse, a loophole: if he himself is dead, then anything may be possible. Even Stykera have only glimpses of the realms beyond, but many things are said of them: that all the sweetest longings of our corporeal lives may find fulfillment there, enfolding us in never-ending joy; that we will be reunited with our heart's companions as if we had never for a moment been apart. It fits together. It is logical, believable -- save for the fact that he cannot remember experiencing death, and it is hardly something he would fail to recognize when he saw it.
He refuses to think of this, walling it off in the deep part of him, the safe part, with all the hidden memories, and concentrates instead on the touch of her hands, the taste of her lips, the blissful relief of having regained, unlooked for, what he had believed to be lost forever.
Regained and more... They'd never had time for this, while she lived. Not this slow, reverent exploration of spirits and bodies, this single-minded testing of the limits of pleasure. There were always crises, interruptions, illness. Guilt on her part, at taking the time from nursing the injured Moya. Guilt on his, at the risk of hurting her in her frailty. But there is no guilt now, no fear, no awkwardness. Only perfection. It goes on and on, until they are both exhausted and spent, and that, too, is perfect.
Until Crichton ruins it.
He bursts into the room surrounded by a cloud of small, furry animals, tumbling and pouncing at his feet. Kittens, a voice whispers from the bottom of Stark's mind, bringing with it jumbled memories of soft fur and sharp claws and an animal improbably named "Mr. Jingles." It's Crichton's voice, the dead Crichton's, and it shatters the blissful, pleasure-soaked silence in his mind.
The live Crichton stands there, gaping and blinking, and one of the kittens leaps onto the bed. Zhaan lets out an exclamation and picks it up, smiling, stroking its fur and rubbing it softly against Stark's skin. It makes a pleasant buzzing noise, and he smiles, too, lost in her delight, live-John and dead-John fading from his senses.
But only for a moment. "Okay, something very seriously ain't right here."
"No," he murmurs, covering his ears. "No, no, no." He doesn't want to hear this. If they don't say it isn't real, don't believe it, then it won't be true.
But Crichton persists. "Five minutes ago I was thinking about kittens, and look!" He gestures towards the animals, and one of them twines around his legs. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure kittens are not indigenous to the Uncharted Territories. Plus, I just passed Chiana in the corridor, carrying a giant suitcase of porn, and we all know how often Chiana thinks about porn. And you..." You're always thinking of Zhaan. He doesn't need to say it for Stark to hear it.
"Go away," Stark says, fingers drumming now against his mask, distracting him from the thoughts he doesn't want to think. "You're lying, you're wrong. Go away."
Crichton doesn't. "Look, I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm telling you... This is, like, Star Trek shit. No... Deep Space 9, that's what it is. 'If Wishes Were Horses.' Rumplestiltskin, dead baseball players..."
Stark shakes his head, as much in confusion now as in denial.
"I don't know how it works," Crichton says, "but it's some kind of, I dunno, some force that takes what we're thinking, what we wish for and turns it into physical reality. And that never goes well on TV. Come on, Stark. You've gotta be the guy to help with this one. Isn't that what your people do... or are, or something?"
Yes, and no, he thinks, but he doesn't want to discuss it. "Go away!" he shouts, and kittens leap and scatter about in panic.
Crichton stares at him for a moment. "Fine. You want to just lie here and enjoy your little fantasy world, fine. I'd probably be a big frelling hypocrite to tell you to stop. But if you change your mind and would actually rather, y'know, help me save our asses from whatever freaky alien menace we've managed to bring on board this time, you know how to use the comms."
Stark says nothing. Crichton shakes his head, mutters a curse, and leaves. A moment later, Stark can hear him shouting for Noranti down the hall.
Zhaan -- still here, still real! -- lays a hand on his arm. He suddenly realizes that he is quivering beneath her touch, shaking like a badly-tuned hetch drive. "It's all right, love," she says. "I am here. I am with you." She kisses him softly.
"Yes," he says. "Yes." He puts his arms around her and clings tightly as, one by one, the kittens begin to disappear.
When Crichton comes back to find him, he is holding empty air and still desperately trying to convince himself he is not alone.