Farscape fic: In His Father's House [the Teenage Angst Remix] (pg-13)
Title: In His Father’s House (the Teenage Angst Remix)
Author: sabaceanbabe
Summary: “I’d like to see your home, John,” Aeryn had said. “Take her for a tour, John,” Livvy had prodded.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Farscape
Warnings: none
Spoilers: through Terra Firma
Title, Author, and link to original story: In Our Bedroom, After the War by amidalashari
Author's note: Thank you so much, grammarwoman and lyssie, for the beta.
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“I’d like to see your home, John,” Aeryn had said.
“Take her for a tour, John,” Livvy had prodded.
And, fool that he was, that’s what he’d done. His sister made the suggestion, Aeryn had focused on him, challenging, and now here he was, feeling like an awkward teenager with a girl in his room. The only thing he’d wanted to do was talk to Jack, but his dad wasn’t home. Instead, he’d arrived to find Aeryn here with Olivia - they’d been to lunch together and were talking on the couch in the living room when John had opened the door.
The first floor had been easy enough (cowardly, hiding behind the generic). The thing that had seemed to interest her the most had been his dad’s study, the shelves full of books. She’d pick one up, puzzle out the words on the spine, on the flyleaf, on a page or two within, and then carefully replace it on the shelf, something precious and fragile. It occurred to him that he’d never seen a book in any of the Peacekeeper facilities he’d been in, not even Scorpius’ command carrier.
He’d meant for the tour to be a quick thing, breezed through and quickly forgotten, but she was so curious about everything. And then he’d brought her to the room that had always been his.
John stood in the doorway of that room and watched her as she moved around the smallish space. She’d stop and take a closer look at something here and there, run a finger lightly over this and that surface, trying to soak in everything. Even though she’d asked him for a tour, asked him to show her his home, it was almost as if he wasn’t there at all (been that way since she came back).
For a moment, Aeryn stood with her back to John, long hair cascading over her shoulders, catching on the collar of her coat as she looked up, studying the John Crichton “wall of fame” (Dad wouldn’t take it down) with his diplomas and awards and newspaper clippings. She couldn’t see him, wouldn’t know or care if he stared, and so he did. His fingers itched to touch her hair, her skin; one hand lifted partway from his side, almost as though it had a mind of its own. But the moment passed as she turned again, moved toward the dresser. John looked away, looked down at his (traitorous) hand, forced his expression to remain impassive, unconcerned. For another moment, he itched to reach for the lakka in his pocket.
“What is this?” she asked.
Guilt coursed through him and he looked up at her question, but didn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t; those clear gray eyes always saw too much (not enough) and there was simply too much at stake.
She held up a paperweight; within it, flecks of glitter shimmered in swirls from the movement. He shrugged. “It’s a paperweight.” There were several on the dresser, collecting dust. From where he stood, the way she held it in the palm of her hand, fingers curling around the smooth surface of the globe, John couldn’t tell what object the glitter swirled around. One step, another, and he reached out, took it from her, careful not to let his fingers brush hers.
Outside the bedroom window, the palms swayed. A breeze had picked up and clouds, dark and angry-looking (storm coming), drifted and swirled almost as much as the glitter swirled around Jessica Rabbit. The paperweight had been a gift from Olivia too many years ago. The movie had come out the year he’d turned nineteen, Livvy sixteen, and it had been a running joke between them how hot John had found Jessica Rabbit. A flush crept up his skin (flash of fevered dream, of cartoon Aeryn), surprising him.
“Paperweight?” She concentrated on the English, each syllable a little exaggerated. It still weirded him out (turned him on), that she was learning his language.
“Yeah.” He handed the globe back to her, not quite as careful this time to not touch. “Like a decoration.” A spark ran through him (Aeryn in leather, in white satin, in nothing at all) as skin brushed skin in a butterfly touch; he forced himself to not show any reaction, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
“So it doesn’t do anything?” Her expression clearly asked, then what’s the point?
A half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he returned the paperweight to its place on the dresser, matching the base with the clear spot in the dust. “No. It doesn’t do anything.”
“John!” Olivia called from below as the first drops of rain pelted the window. “Dad’s home and he brought a Christmas tree with him!”
Eighty-five degrees outside before the storm rolled in and Jack Crichton went out to buy a frelling Christmas tree. John shook his head, amused, and looked over at Aeryn. She had a puzzled smile on her face and he found that he couldn’t look away. Their eyes met for the first time since he’d started the grand tour of his dad’s house.
“Tree?” she asked, again in English, cocking her head to one side. “Kreesmuss?” She mouthed the word again, trying to fit her tongue around the unfamiliar syllables (trying to kill him). John realized that he really shouldn’t be up here with her (this girl in his room), that if he stayed much longer, he wouldn’t be able to hide anything from her.
Livvy provided the kick in the ass he needed. “John! Get down here! Dad’s trying to get the thing off his truck and it’s a monster!”
He turned toward the open doorway as another spatter of raindrops hit the window, breaking the moment of connection with Aeryn. Livvy moved away from the bottom of the stairs, grumbling about stubborn Crichton men. He turned back to Aeryn, glad that he could again control his expression, his voice.
“I’d better get down there.” But he made no move to leave her.
“Yes, John. This… kreesmuss tree sounds like a dangerous thing.” There was a light of amusement in her eyes, one of those rare sparks of Aeryn Sun humor, and suddenly, John felt a little better about being here (in his father’s house), about having (wanting) her so close to him (not close enough).
Author: sabaceanbabe
Summary: “I’d like to see your home, John,” Aeryn had said. “Take her for a tour, John,” Livvy had prodded.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Farscape
Warnings: none
Spoilers: through Terra Firma
Title, Author, and link to original story: In Our Bedroom, After the War by amidalashari
Author's note: Thank you so much, grammarwoman and lyssie, for the beta.
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“I’d like to see your home, John,” Aeryn had said.
“Take her for a tour, John,” Livvy had prodded.
And, fool that he was, that’s what he’d done. His sister made the suggestion, Aeryn had focused on him, challenging, and now here he was, feeling like an awkward teenager with a girl in his room. The only thing he’d wanted to do was talk to Jack, but his dad wasn’t home. Instead, he’d arrived to find Aeryn here with Olivia - they’d been to lunch together and were talking on the couch in the living room when John had opened the door.
The first floor had been easy enough (cowardly, hiding behind the generic). The thing that had seemed to interest her the most had been his dad’s study, the shelves full of books. She’d pick one up, puzzle out the words on the spine, on the flyleaf, on a page or two within, and then carefully replace it on the shelf, something precious and fragile. It occurred to him that he’d never seen a book in any of the Peacekeeper facilities he’d been in, not even Scorpius’ command carrier.
He’d meant for the tour to be a quick thing, breezed through and quickly forgotten, but she was so curious about everything. And then he’d brought her to the room that had always been his.
John stood in the doorway of that room and watched her as she moved around the smallish space. She’d stop and take a closer look at something here and there, run a finger lightly over this and that surface, trying to soak in everything. Even though she’d asked him for a tour, asked him to show her his home, it was almost as if he wasn’t there at all (been that way since she came back).
For a moment, Aeryn stood with her back to John, long hair cascading over her shoulders, catching on the collar of her coat as she looked up, studying the John Crichton “wall of fame” (Dad wouldn’t take it down) with his diplomas and awards and newspaper clippings. She couldn’t see him, wouldn’t know or care if he stared, and so he did. His fingers itched to touch her hair, her skin; one hand lifted partway from his side, almost as though it had a mind of its own. But the moment passed as she turned again, moved toward the dresser. John looked away, looked down at his (traitorous) hand, forced his expression to remain impassive, unconcerned. For another moment, he itched to reach for the lakka in his pocket.
“What is this?” she asked.
Guilt coursed through him and he looked up at her question, but didn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t; those clear gray eyes always saw too much (not enough) and there was simply too much at stake.
She held up a paperweight; within it, flecks of glitter shimmered in swirls from the movement. He shrugged. “It’s a paperweight.” There were several on the dresser, collecting dust. From where he stood, the way she held it in the palm of her hand, fingers curling around the smooth surface of the globe, John couldn’t tell what object the glitter swirled around. One step, another, and he reached out, took it from her, careful not to let his fingers brush hers.
Outside the bedroom window, the palms swayed. A breeze had picked up and clouds, dark and angry-looking (storm coming), drifted and swirled almost as much as the glitter swirled around Jessica Rabbit. The paperweight had been a gift from Olivia too many years ago. The movie had come out the year he’d turned nineteen, Livvy sixteen, and it had been a running joke between them how hot John had found Jessica Rabbit. A flush crept up his skin (flash of fevered dream, of cartoon Aeryn), surprising him.
“Paperweight?” She concentrated on the English, each syllable a little exaggerated. It still weirded him out (turned him on), that she was learning his language.
“Yeah.” He handed the globe back to her, not quite as careful this time to not touch. “Like a decoration.” A spark ran through him (Aeryn in leather, in white satin, in nothing at all) as skin brushed skin in a butterfly touch; he forced himself to not show any reaction, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
“So it doesn’t do anything?” Her expression clearly asked, then what’s the point?
A half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he returned the paperweight to its place on the dresser, matching the base with the clear spot in the dust. “No. It doesn’t do anything.”
“John!” Olivia called from below as the first drops of rain pelted the window. “Dad’s home and he brought a Christmas tree with him!”
Eighty-five degrees outside before the storm rolled in and Jack Crichton went out to buy a frelling Christmas tree. John shook his head, amused, and looked over at Aeryn. She had a puzzled smile on her face and he found that he couldn’t look away. Their eyes met for the first time since he’d started the grand tour of his dad’s house.
“Tree?” she asked, again in English, cocking her head to one side. “Kreesmuss?” She mouthed the word again, trying to fit her tongue around the unfamiliar syllables (trying to kill him). John realized that he really shouldn’t be up here with her (this girl in his room), that if he stayed much longer, he wouldn’t be able to hide anything from her.
Livvy provided the kick in the ass he needed. “John! Get down here! Dad’s trying to get the thing off his truck and it’s a monster!”
He turned toward the open doorway as another spatter of raindrops hit the window, breaking the moment of connection with Aeryn. Livvy moved away from the bottom of the stairs, grumbling about stubborn Crichton men. He turned back to Aeryn, glad that he could again control his expression, his voice.
“I’d better get down there.” But he made no move to leave her.
“Yes, John. This… kreesmuss tree sounds like a dangerous thing.” There was a light of amusement in her eyes, one of those rare sparks of Aeryn Sun humor, and suddenly, John felt a little better about being here (in his father’s house), about having (wanting) her so close to him (not close enough).