Fic: Drift
Title: Drift
Word Count: 210
Rated: PG-13
Fandom: Farscape
Setting: Early S4
Characters: Aeryn Sun
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to the Jim Henson Co and not to me.
A/N: John's quote is from TTLG. I know this barely constitutes a story, but I was encouraged to post. Thank you, vinegar_dog!
Drift
Moya arches over and around the bath, burnished skin and long, strong bones; and Aeryn allows herself to surface, to breathe with the Leviathan. To believe, if only for a microt, that her child will live longer than Talyn.
Listen to me. Whatever happens, we go together. We keep the baby.
Listen to me.
Listen.
John's words had been meant for Pilot, for Moya, but Aeryn had clung to them during the dark monens of her disconnect, crafting them into a curse when haunted by his smile, a prayer when the thought of his touch pushed her hand between her thighs. Strength when she looked in the mirror and her mother looked back, restraint when she would have given anything for a little pill, a little blood, to signal the end of this intolerable limbo.
Whatever happens, we keep the baby.
Aeryn pulls herself from the bath and her clothes, black but for the threadbare Calvins, over damp skin. We go together, John had said, but he's already gone. Dead on Talyn, gutted on Moya in ways she doesn't understand and he won't explain.
Sometimes Aeryn believes the loss of John Crichton, teacher, is worse than the loss of John Crichton, lover, John Crichton, friend.
Word Count: 210
Rated: PG-13
Fandom: Farscape
Setting: Early S4
Characters: Aeryn Sun
Disclaimer: Farscape and its characters belong to the Jim Henson Co and not to me.
A/N: John's quote is from TTLG. I know this barely constitutes a story, but I was encouraged to post. Thank you, vinegar_dog!
Drift
Moya arches over and around the bath, burnished skin and long, strong bones; and Aeryn allows herself to surface, to breathe with the Leviathan. To believe, if only for a microt, that her child will live longer than Talyn.
Listen to me. Whatever happens, we go together. We keep the baby.
Listen to me.
Listen.
John's words had been meant for Pilot, for Moya, but Aeryn had clung to them during the dark monens of her disconnect, crafting them into a curse when haunted by his smile, a prayer when the thought of his touch pushed her hand between her thighs. Strength when she looked in the mirror and her mother looked back, restraint when she would have given anything for a little pill, a little blood, to signal the end of this intolerable limbo.
Whatever happens, we keep the baby.
Aeryn pulls herself from the bath and her clothes, black but for the threadbare Calvins, over damp skin. We go together, John had said, but he's already gone. Dead on Talyn, gutted on Moya in ways she doesn't understand and he won't explain.
Sometimes Aeryn believes the loss of John Crichton, teacher, is worse than the loss of John Crichton, lover, John Crichton, friend.