feldman

You're not eating, are you? Good.

It's like a scavenger hunt in a way, collecting all the pieces for the game. Despite the green shirt bestowed on him by Aeryn, John is slowly winning.

The early bird gets the worm, or in this case, he got the boots and the gun, taking advantage of the deep sleep his clone had dropped into after his injury on Kanvia. Over the last few days, John has taken the best pieces of clothing and equipment and stashed them around Moya, squirreling the material detritus of his life whenever an opportunity presents itself. He even popped a circuit board out of the Farscape and stowed it behind a grate in the docking bay--the next best thing to hiding the keys. His journal is the last missing piece.

The copy has his journal and his girl. John tries not to dwell on this setback, rationalizing the amount of time those two spend together on Talyn. It's the best tactical use of the two men, an efficient distribution of their skills. And if Aeryn touches him a lot it's only because she's worried about him. He still looks like crap.

Even if Crais seems to think they're together. Crais gets off on needling him, that's all. It doesn't mean anything.

What worries John is that it's been days now, and his copy looks even worse than he did bleeding out in the medical bay. Equal and original is what Jool said, and John wonders if he's now as fragile as the other man, if the next injury is going to hit him that hard. Because it's only a matter of time before someone takes a crack at him again.

John watches his copy ambling up the corridor, eyes dark-rimmed and droop-lidded, mouth parted like he's surreptitiously talking to himself. He's heading toward the galley just like John, and more importantly, he's got the journal, riding in his lax hand like he forgot it was there.

John ignores it, greeting his clone with a grunt and a nod. As much as they each whisper and mutter when alone, neither of them enjoy talking to themselves in the flesh. His clone drains a big glass of water with thirsty gulping noises. John tears open a bag of food cubes, orange and pellet-sized, and offers dibs. His clone paws into the bag, obviously exhausted, then cheerily pops some of the pellets into his mouth like Cheetos. "Tired?"

"Busy day" His voice is gravelly, but there's a hint of a smirk. "Had to release an amnexus build-up."

John spots a fresh bruise on his clone's neck, and days of rationalizations fly apart like a scout ship hitting an asteroid. He can almost feel the bile surging in his belly. "Do tell."

"Nothin' to tell bro." The bruise looks like it has teeth marks. His clone sighs, rooting for another handful of not-Cheetos. "You know how it is. Repairs, repairs. Got to keep the Leviathans flying."

John's knuckles are white from gripping the edge of the counter. Doesn't mean a thing. The explosion was only a few days ago, besides, he's still running a quart low and maybe he bruises easily. Maybe it's a side-effect from the cloning, and he's been lucky enough not to personally find out how flimsy he is now? John watches the man seize another clumsy handful of food, like a drunk attacking a bowl of beer nuts. "Do me a favor, man."

His clone's eyes are bloodshot at the corners, weary and leery. "What?"

"I think Jool should take another look at us."

He draws another glass of water, and as he drinks, little rivulets drip from the corners of his mouth. He wipes his chin with the back of his hand. "Why?"

"Frankly? You still look like crap." And John wants to know why. "Maybe you need another transfusion."

"Not enough blood in the system." He lets out a humph, and seems to come awake as he mutters, "...could explain..." He shrugs and nods in agreement. "Okay, let's go."

"After you, man." John waits until his clone heads for the door, then sweeps the journal from where he left it on the counter. He untucks the back of his shirt and slips it under his waistband. To think, the soft covers of the book used to annoy him. The scavenger list is complete, all that's left is the real prize.

That had better not be a hickey.

~*~

Not enough blood in the system. The relief makes him a little giddy. It makes perfect sense that a hydraulic function, even a biological one, would be adversely affected by lack of fluid pressure. His smile is hidden from Silent Bob, who trails behind him as they walk to the medical bay. Despite his own fluid level difficulties he'd managed to satisfy Aeryn, if the way she grabbed his ears and nearly crushed his head was any indication.

He was right, she did taste amazing. Really, nothing Silent Bob can do right now could possibly harsh his mellow, so why not humor the poor bastard?