Farscape - NC-17 for previous themes
Nov. 1st, 2004 01:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
feldmanMeanwhile, Silent Bob rues the fact that there are no sharp shovels on Moya...
John shuffles through the doorway, looking as tired and worn as ever. Aeryn sets the cleaning rag and the pulse chamber down in the array of parts on the oilcloth spread out before her, "Are you alright?"
He grunts, "fine," and his pace quickens as he approaches her.
She stands and half-smiles, expecting a little playful wrestling followed by his inevitable subjugation, but instead he barrels into her clumsily, knocking her back against the worktable. He's graceless, but quick, pushing her arms down and leaning on her with a blank look on his face.
"What the frell are you doing, Crichton?" He doesn't respond, not even a flicker of expression. Her first thought is that the neural clone has taken control once again. But it's not supposed to happen now that the chip has been removed--and he was a lot more graceful, under the influence of the chip or not, than is today.
She pulls her arms free and shoves against his shoulders, barking his name like an order. His skin is the color of ash and cold to the touch. The chip never affected the way he looked, only what he did. Something else is wrong, something just as devastating as the chip.
He stumbles back a step. There's a glimmer in his eyes, a flutter of the lids as he murmurs, "Aeryn? I'm...I'm starving, I...how did I get here?" Then his face blanks out again, suddenly slack as if he'd been tongued, and he surges toward her once more.
The pantak jab feels perfect even as she executes it, the bang of her knuckles against the sweet spot of the human's jaw satisfying in a way that she'd forgotten about since she'd started kissing him far more often than hitting him.
He doesn't fall. In fact, he's so far from falling that he takes advantage of her pause to catch her wrists and pull them behind her. He pins her against the table, bending her backward, pressing down with his weight.
She'd knee him but he's stepping on the toes of her boots. She works at getting one of her hands loose instead.
He's muttering her name but it's grunted and slurred. He knocks his forehead against her cheekbone, bouncing her head against the table and stunning her for a microt. She goes lax underneath him, and his grip on her wrists loosens as he concentrates on gnawing at her head.
His breath is stale with undertones of foul, and his teeth are scraping at her temple, pressing hard enough to make that eye ache. She slips her hand out and up. The pulse weapons behind her are all disassembled, and she can't reach her holster from here.
She reaches into the toolbox, grabs the heaviest handle her fingers find, and then brings it to bear on Crichton's head.
~*~
John surveys the man laid out on the floor, painfully aware of how many times he's been out like that himself. He looks more peaceful than John would have thought. "Pantak jab?"
Aeryn shakes her head, indicating the wrench on the table.
"Christ, Aeryn, you could've brained him with that thing."
"Pantak jab didn't work. It was either the spanner or the pulse pistol."
John grimaces, his hand absently rubbing his own jaw.
Crais clears his throat. "I wouldn't mention this, but he's going to rouse sooner or later and he's clearly a menace to the rest of the crew--"
"What are you suggesting, Blackbeard, that I put him down like a dog?"
Crais seems to wince with the effort of not rolling his eyes. "There is a perfectly serviceable set of restraints in the medical bay."
Aeryn crouches down to inspect the man, serene and unconscious for now. Her temple is grazed and raw. "He has a point."
John sighs as Crais pulls a wheeled cart from a corner of the bay and clears it of parts. John rolls his twin over onto his back and lifts under the shoulders. Aeryn takes hold of the legs and they heft him onto the cart.
Halfway to the med bay he starts moaning and moving around, and it takes all three of them to wrestle the man onto the prisoner's gurney and fix the metal braces over his arms, legs and chest.
Under the bright lights of the med bay, John takes an appalling inventory of his twin as he bellows and bucks against the restraints.
"I've commed Joolushko." Crais sidles up next to John. "She'll be here momentarily to look at you both."
John nods, watching his twin thrash and roar. He's grey like bad hamburger, his voice raw and his speech closer to the sputters and shouts of when their speech centers were broken on Hoth than real words. From the few words that make it through, he's hungry and angry. He's attacked two of the crew already, John glances at Aeryn across the room, cleaning the wound on her temple.
He put some kind of move on Chi and then bit her, and now he's bitten Aeryn. John adds "fucking moron" to the list of symptoms. He doesn't try to think about what rabid John might have tried with Aeryn before he got hungry. Before brains trumped tail.
John also refrains from checking his twin's vitals. He's cold, grey, and a biter. John's got a pretty good idea of what Jool with find when she gets here.
He doesn't say anything, not because he thinks he's wrong, but because it would sound more like jealousy than astute observation. As long as Dead John is kept restrained, John can bide his time. Mold will out.
John shuffles through the doorway, looking as tired and worn as ever. Aeryn sets the cleaning rag and the pulse chamber down in the array of parts on the oilcloth spread out before her, "Are you alright?"
He grunts, "fine," and his pace quickens as he approaches her.
She stands and half-smiles, expecting a little playful wrestling followed by his inevitable subjugation, but instead he barrels into her clumsily, knocking her back against the worktable. He's graceless, but quick, pushing her arms down and leaning on her with a blank look on his face.
"What the frell are you doing, Crichton?" He doesn't respond, not even a flicker of expression. Her first thought is that the neural clone has taken control once again. But it's not supposed to happen now that the chip has been removed--and he was a lot more graceful, under the influence of the chip or not, than is today.
She pulls her arms free and shoves against his shoulders, barking his name like an order. His skin is the color of ash and cold to the touch. The chip never affected the way he looked, only what he did. Something else is wrong, something just as devastating as the chip.
He stumbles back a step. There's a glimmer in his eyes, a flutter of the lids as he murmurs, "Aeryn? I'm...I'm starving, I...how did I get here?" Then his face blanks out again, suddenly slack as if he'd been tongued, and he surges toward her once more.
The pantak jab feels perfect even as she executes it, the bang of her knuckles against the sweet spot of the human's jaw satisfying in a way that she'd forgotten about since she'd started kissing him far more often than hitting him.
He doesn't fall. In fact, he's so far from falling that he takes advantage of her pause to catch her wrists and pull them behind her. He pins her against the table, bending her backward, pressing down with his weight.
She'd knee him but he's stepping on the toes of her boots. She works at getting one of her hands loose instead.
He's muttering her name but it's grunted and slurred. He knocks his forehead against her cheekbone, bouncing her head against the table and stunning her for a microt. She goes lax underneath him, and his grip on her wrists loosens as he concentrates on gnawing at her head.
His breath is stale with undertones of foul, and his teeth are scraping at her temple, pressing hard enough to make that eye ache. She slips her hand out and up. The pulse weapons behind her are all disassembled, and she can't reach her holster from here.
She reaches into the toolbox, grabs the heaviest handle her fingers find, and then brings it to bear on Crichton's head.
~*~
John surveys the man laid out on the floor, painfully aware of how many times he's been out like that himself. He looks more peaceful than John would have thought. "Pantak jab?"
Aeryn shakes her head, indicating the wrench on the table.
"Christ, Aeryn, you could've brained him with that thing."
"Pantak jab didn't work. It was either the spanner or the pulse pistol."
John grimaces, his hand absently rubbing his own jaw.
Crais clears his throat. "I wouldn't mention this, but he's going to rouse sooner or later and he's clearly a menace to the rest of the crew--"
"What are you suggesting, Blackbeard, that I put him down like a dog?"
Crais seems to wince with the effort of not rolling his eyes. "There is a perfectly serviceable set of restraints in the medical bay."
Aeryn crouches down to inspect the man, serene and unconscious for now. Her temple is grazed and raw. "He has a point."
John sighs as Crais pulls a wheeled cart from a corner of the bay and clears it of parts. John rolls his twin over onto his back and lifts under the shoulders. Aeryn takes hold of the legs and they heft him onto the cart.
Halfway to the med bay he starts moaning and moving around, and it takes all three of them to wrestle the man onto the prisoner's gurney and fix the metal braces over his arms, legs and chest.
Under the bright lights of the med bay, John takes an appalling inventory of his twin as he bellows and bucks against the restraints.
"I've commed Joolushko." Crais sidles up next to John. "She'll be here momentarily to look at you both."
John nods, watching his twin thrash and roar. He's grey like bad hamburger, his voice raw and his speech closer to the sputters and shouts of when their speech centers were broken on Hoth than real words. From the few words that make it through, he's hungry and angry. He's attacked two of the crew already, John glances at Aeryn across the room, cleaning the wound on her temple.
He put some kind of move on Chi and then bit her, and now he's bitten Aeryn. John adds "fucking moron" to the list of symptoms. He doesn't try to think about what rabid John might have tried with Aeryn before he got hungry. Before brains trumped tail.
John also refrains from checking his twin's vitals. He's cold, grey, and a biter. John's got a pretty good idea of what Jool with find when she gets here.
He doesn't say anything, not because he thinks he's wrong, but because it would sound more like jealousy than astute observation. As long as Dead John is kept restrained, John can bide his time. Mold will out.
no subject
Date: 2004-11-01 02:24 pm (UTC)This was COOL!
Are we going to find out what Dead!John is thinking about through all this? or is he even thinking besides about food and how Aeryn is finger licking good?
*looks innocent about the bad joke*
no subject
Date: 2004-11-03 09:21 am (UTC)Sometimes I can't reply to comments without yammering on about the next part--this was one of those comments ; )