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taxonomites2009-09-07 04:19 pm
frell-me.livejournal.com) wrote in taxonomites2009-09-07 04:19 pm
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[Location Aeryn Sun's quarters] Politics aint the only things that make strange bedfellows
Aeryn had only just arrived, her first day was eventful. Learning about hatches, the rules and patterns of this city. Of course there had been John, bittersweet meeting. Now, alone she regretted being so cold to him, but every time she looked at his face she saw the light fade from his eyes. It was watching him die all over again, no loss, no torture had ever pained her so much and now he was a living constant reminder.
The time on Talyn with Crichton had been bliss, that might have been enough to signal the impending disaster. She'd truly learned to love, and possibly more importantly to be loved. John showed her depths of emotion she'd never known and could not have earlier accepted, and with his death the most bitter possible pain.
Now they were both here and Aeryn had to find a way of reconciling that John was alive. It did not come easy to her, nor painlessly. How would he react to her history with his other self, or the fact of what had come of that love? Neither of them pressed for anything immediate and when Aeryn made the comment of needing to find quarters, John did not argue or offer his own. They both seemed to know that such steps were not going to do either of them any good right now.
At Crichton's suggestion Aeryn had another beer, and later that even another, followed by a dozen. Sebaceans were far more alcohol tolerant than humans but eventually she reached a point of blissful inebriation in the solitude of her small personally appointed rooms. It felt like a Peacekeeper ship. Small, utilitarian, lacking in personal touches. It was comforting to her and at long last she fell asleep, last bottle dangling from her fingertips to fall to the floor in her sleep.
Aeryn woke with a start, the bed was warm, warmer than it should be, there was weight. Head pounding with the after effects of a night of hard drinking, she rolled and tugged her pulse pistol form under her pillow, same movement pressing her arm up under the jaw of the man who laid in her bed. Aeryn snapped her body over to straddle him, pinning his arms with her calves. Comical vision for a woman dressed in a tank top and 'stolen' boxer shorts.
"Who are you?" Gruff voice demanding of the unknown male, easing off with her arm only enough to let him breath and reply.
The time on Talyn with Crichton had been bliss, that might have been enough to signal the impending disaster. She'd truly learned to love, and possibly more importantly to be loved. John showed her depths of emotion she'd never known and could not have earlier accepted, and with his death the most bitter possible pain.
Now they were both here and Aeryn had to find a way of reconciling that John was alive. It did not come easy to her, nor painlessly. How would he react to her history with his other self, or the fact of what had come of that love? Neither of them pressed for anything immediate and when Aeryn made the comment of needing to find quarters, John did not argue or offer his own. They both seemed to know that such steps were not going to do either of them any good right now.
At Crichton's suggestion Aeryn had another beer, and later that even another, followed by a dozen. Sebaceans were far more alcohol tolerant than humans but eventually she reached a point of blissful inebriation in the solitude of her small personally appointed rooms. It felt like a Peacekeeper ship. Small, utilitarian, lacking in personal touches. It was comforting to her and at long last she fell asleep, last bottle dangling from her fingertips to fall to the floor in her sleep.
Aeryn woke with a start, the bed was warm, warmer than it should be, there was weight. Head pounding with the after effects of a night of hard drinking, she rolled and tugged her pulse pistol form under her pillow, same movement pressing her arm up under the jaw of the man who laid in her bed. Aeryn snapped her body over to straddle him, pinning his arms with her calves. Comical vision for a woman dressed in a tank top and 'stolen' boxer shorts.
"Who are you?" Gruff voice demanding of the unknown male, easing off with her arm only enough to let him breath and reply.