Vaya Con Dios (PG-13)
1,098 words, written 4/25/04
AU, no spoilers; warnings withheld
For kixxa, who requested it, but probably didn't expect it to be quite like this.
Summary: "It took us ten solar days to find you, this time," the Commandant said calmly. "You still possess an impressive ability to hide."
Vaya Con Dios
The drinking establishment's heavy wooden door fell inward with a thud, but that wasn't what silenced the occupants.
A silver-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Recognizing the distinctive uniform, the barkeep nodded respectfully as the Commandant scanned the room. Once accustomed to the dim light, his eyes narrowed.
Focusing, the barkeep realized uneasily, on the shabby figure slumped in front of him.
The Commandant moved briskly toward the far end of the rustic counter, ignoring the murmurs that followed in his wake. His party of four commandos split to accompany their superior and secure the exit.
The barkeep decided it would be best to avoid sudden moves as the Peacekeepers halted next to the scruffy, odorous customer. "Wilcom, sirs. My I h'offer you gens eh freshmet?"
A muscle ticked in the Commandant's jaw as he looked down upon the unconscious humanoid. He shook his head decisively. "Has there been any damage?"
"Oh, 'e's jus a lil tosst, sir," the barkeep replied nervously. "He'm's bin downin 'em fer toe sowler deys, like."
The Commandant's dark eyes snapped with impatience; his translator microbes were hard pressed to decipher the mangled dialect. "I ask if there has been any damage caused by this individual. Is restitution required?"
The barkeep's brow furrowed in thought. "Wol, 'e's harly muved frum 'e's playce thair, sir. 'e ant doon eh theng sep dreynk." Well, he's hardly moved from his place there, sir. He ain't done a thing 'cept drink.
Nodding, the Commandant gestured to the pair of commandos. "Take him into custody." Reaching into his uniform pocket, he withdrew two crisp currency pledges and laid them on the bar. "This should be adequate payment."
"Oo, 'em's eh noo pliges, sir?" The barkeep stared at the red-and-black images. Them's the new pledges, sir?
"Yes," the Commandant replied curtly as the commandos disentangled the fugitive from the barstool and supported the unconscious prisoner between them.
" 'em's the wuns wif eh wor 'erows onim?" The ones with the war heroes on them?
The Commandant glanced at the familiar faces printed on the currency. A Sebacean woman with long, loose hair. A wrinkled visage behind a black mask.
"Heroes, yes," he said quietly. Then he smoothed his jacket and led the way from the bar.
******
The soldiers dumped the unkempt alien on the bed, relieved to be rid of their smelly burden.
The Commandant interrupted the usual routine of search-and-strip. "That will be all."
"Sir?"
"You are dismissed. I will attend him."
Wide-eyed, the pair looked at each other, then their superior officer. "But sir, surely it is beneath your station-" the braver of the two began.
The Commandant lifted one hand for silence. "Do not forget who he is. Who he was. We owe him a great debt, no matter his current state."
Once alone with his charge, Braca moved to the bed. Kneeling down, he began with Crichton's boots, unlacing and removing them one by one. He paused to unbuckle the Human's gunbelt, setting Winona gently on the bedside table, before hauling him upright to shrug him out of the leather jacket.
Blinking at the scent that assaulted his nose, Braca supported Crichton with one hand while the other reached for the fresher cloths set in their customary spot. Stripping off the grubby shirt, he tossed it aside and gently scrubbed Crichton clean. Settling the Human back against the bedpillows, Braca tended his face next, the cloth fibers catching on stubbly facial growth. Crichton grimaced and mumbled incoherently, but did not wake.
With thumb and forefinger, Braca peeled off Crichton's socks, quickly consigning them to the waste chute. The leather pants slid more easily; Crichton had obviously not been eating. Even his PK-issue undershorts were loose on his body; Braca stripped them away with as much dignity as he could muster before applying the cleansing cloths once more.
When his ministrations were finished, he covered Crichton with a thermal blanket. The Human had turned to curl on his side, one arm outstretched, seeking. Braca tucked a pillow in the empty space.
Satisfied that Crichton would sleep for arns, Commandant Braca returned to duty. Several pressing matters deserved his attention, but with the celebrations well underway he intended to take his third watch meal in Crichton's quarters.
******
Crichton opened one eye disinterestedly when Braca entered his quarters and drew a chair up to the bed. A server placed a tray of covered dishes on the counter near the door and then quietly left the room.
"It took us ten solar days to find you, this time," the Commandant said calmly. "You still possess an impressive ability to hide."
"There is no hiding," Crichton said. His voice---flat, dead---matched the expression in his pale blue eye. "Harvey won't let me go, you won't let me go... but maybe one of these times I'll get lucky and someone will finally kill me."
Braca had once found Crichton's stare to be unsettling. Now, the lifeless words sent a chill up his spine, as they had for cycles.
"I have good news to share," he finally said, lifting the small flask and shot glasses held in one hand. "Peace accords have been signed between High Command, the Scarran Imperium, and the Nebari Establishment." He poured a generous splash into each glass.
Anger pushed Crichton to sit upright. "Do you think I give a frelling fuck about any of that? Do you expect me to be goddamned happy that because of me there's a wormhole cold war alive and well in the universe?"
Braca set his jaw. "I understand the pain of your loss, Crichton."
"The hell you do," the Human spat at him, blue eyes burning cold and bright.
"I understand more than you think," Braca interrupted softly. "High Command will never release you, we both know that. But now there is peace. I can help you, if you'll let me."
A long look passed between them.
Braca held out the glass with a steady hand. "Why don't we have that drink?"
A ghost of a smile played over Crichton's lips. "One for the road, so to speak?" He reached out, cradled the shot glass in his fingers. "Here's mud in your eye." One gulp, a shudder, and he thumped the glass down on the table.
Braca met his gaze unflinchingly. "Good fortune." He drank.
It only took a few microts for Crichton's eyes to glaze over. Braca took his hand, held it in both of his as the Human gasped once, then exhaled in a slow sigh.
"Go in peace, John Crichton."
AU, no spoilers; warnings withheld
For kixxa, who requested it, but probably didn't expect it to be quite like this.
Summary: "It took us ten solar days to find you, this time," the Commandant said calmly. "You still possess an impressive ability to hide."
Vaya Con Dios
The drinking establishment's heavy wooden door fell inward with a thud, but that wasn't what silenced the occupants.
A silver-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Recognizing the distinctive uniform, the barkeep nodded respectfully as the Commandant scanned the room. Once accustomed to the dim light, his eyes narrowed.
Focusing, the barkeep realized uneasily, on the shabby figure slumped in front of him.
The Commandant moved briskly toward the far end of the rustic counter, ignoring the murmurs that followed in his wake. His party of four commandos split to accompany their superior and secure the exit.
The barkeep decided it would be best to avoid sudden moves as the Peacekeepers halted next to the scruffy, odorous customer. "Wilcom, sirs. My I h'offer you gens eh freshmet?"
A muscle ticked in the Commandant's jaw as he looked down upon the unconscious humanoid. He shook his head decisively. "Has there been any damage?"
"Oh, 'e's jus a lil tosst, sir," the barkeep replied nervously. "He'm's bin downin 'em fer toe sowler deys, like."
The Commandant's dark eyes snapped with impatience; his translator microbes were hard pressed to decipher the mangled dialect. "I ask if there has been any damage caused by this individual. Is restitution required?"
The barkeep's brow furrowed in thought. "Wol, 'e's harly muved frum 'e's playce thair, sir. 'e ant doon eh theng sep dreynk." Well, he's hardly moved from his place there, sir. He ain't done a thing 'cept drink.
Nodding, the Commandant gestured to the pair of commandos. "Take him into custody." Reaching into his uniform pocket, he withdrew two crisp currency pledges and laid them on the bar. "This should be adequate payment."
"Oo, 'em's eh noo pliges, sir?" The barkeep stared at the red-and-black images. Them's the new pledges, sir?
"Yes," the Commandant replied curtly as the commandos disentangled the fugitive from the barstool and supported the unconscious prisoner between them.
" 'em's the wuns wif eh wor 'erows onim?" The ones with the war heroes on them?
The Commandant glanced at the familiar faces printed on the currency. A Sebacean woman with long, loose hair. A wrinkled visage behind a black mask.
"Heroes, yes," he said quietly. Then he smoothed his jacket and led the way from the bar.
******
The soldiers dumped the unkempt alien on the bed, relieved to be rid of their smelly burden.
The Commandant interrupted the usual routine of search-and-strip. "That will be all."
"Sir?"
"You are dismissed. I will attend him."
Wide-eyed, the pair looked at each other, then their superior officer. "But sir, surely it is beneath your station-" the braver of the two began.
The Commandant lifted one hand for silence. "Do not forget who he is. Who he was. We owe him a great debt, no matter his current state."
Once alone with his charge, Braca moved to the bed. Kneeling down, he began with Crichton's boots, unlacing and removing them one by one. He paused to unbuckle the Human's gunbelt, setting Winona gently on the bedside table, before hauling him upright to shrug him out of the leather jacket.
Blinking at the scent that assaulted his nose, Braca supported Crichton with one hand while the other reached for the fresher cloths set in their customary spot. Stripping off the grubby shirt, he tossed it aside and gently scrubbed Crichton clean. Settling the Human back against the bedpillows, Braca tended his face next, the cloth fibers catching on stubbly facial growth. Crichton grimaced and mumbled incoherently, but did not wake.
With thumb and forefinger, Braca peeled off Crichton's socks, quickly consigning them to the waste chute. The leather pants slid more easily; Crichton had obviously not been eating. Even his PK-issue undershorts were loose on his body; Braca stripped them away with as much dignity as he could muster before applying the cleansing cloths once more.
When his ministrations were finished, he covered Crichton with a thermal blanket. The Human had turned to curl on his side, one arm outstretched, seeking. Braca tucked a pillow in the empty space.
Satisfied that Crichton would sleep for arns, Commandant Braca returned to duty. Several pressing matters deserved his attention, but with the celebrations well underway he intended to take his third watch meal in Crichton's quarters.
******
Crichton opened one eye disinterestedly when Braca entered his quarters and drew a chair up to the bed. A server placed a tray of covered dishes on the counter near the door and then quietly left the room.
"It took us ten solar days to find you, this time," the Commandant said calmly. "You still possess an impressive ability to hide."
"There is no hiding," Crichton said. His voice---flat, dead---matched the expression in his pale blue eye. "Harvey won't let me go, you won't let me go... but maybe one of these times I'll get lucky and someone will finally kill me."
Braca had once found Crichton's stare to be unsettling. Now, the lifeless words sent a chill up his spine, as they had for cycles.
"I have good news to share," he finally said, lifting the small flask and shot glasses held in one hand. "Peace accords have been signed between High Command, the Scarran Imperium, and the Nebari Establishment." He poured a generous splash into each glass.
Anger pushed Crichton to sit upright. "Do you think I give a frelling fuck about any of that? Do you expect me to be goddamned happy that because of me there's a wormhole cold war alive and well in the universe?"
Braca set his jaw. "I understand the pain of your loss, Crichton."
"The hell you do," the Human spat at him, blue eyes burning cold and bright.
"I understand more than you think," Braca interrupted softly. "High Command will never release you, we both know that. But now there is peace. I can help you, if you'll let me."
A long look passed between them.
Braca held out the glass with a steady hand. "Why don't we have that drink?"
A ghost of a smile played over Crichton's lips. "One for the road, so to speak?" He reached out, cradled the shot glass in his fingers. "Here's mud in your eye." One gulp, a shudder, and he thumped the glass down on the table.
Braca met his gaze unflinchingly. "Good fortune." He drank.
It only took a few microts for Crichton's eyes to glaze over. Braca took his hand, held it in both of his as the Human gasped once, then exhaled in a slow sigh.
"Go in peace, John Crichton."