|
TITLE: And the Sky Full of Stars AUTHOR: seraC EMAIL: seraphcelene@yahoo.com RATING: PG13 ARCHIVING: Essential-Imperfect. All others, please ask. SUMMARY: Because inspiration comes in many colors and flavors. NOTES: Psuedo Real People Fic, which I never write and think is rather icky, so beware. This fic has not been beta’d. Watch out for your fingers. Portions of this were inspired by this and this. Go visit when you’re done, but not before or you might spoil the cream filled center. FEEDBACK: Is like air and highly addictive. In other words, yes please! DISCLAIMER: Farscape belongs to David Kemper, Henson and Co., Sci-Fi channel, etc. The Cracker Jack surprise at the end belongs to herself. She builds wormholes, too. That’s why he comes. Sometimes he leaves, resigned still to the thought that home is Earth and somehow that is where he should be. When he is gone, he counts stars. It’s a pattern of place. A method for mapping his way. The names are always the same: Gilina, Alex, Jool, Chiana. Zhaan. He names the brighter ones after his mother, and one for her. The brightest star he still names Aeryn. He works. He tries, and when it fails to come together, he returns. To her. He lost Aeryn a long time ago. His blind spot is merely a trick of the light. Infinite realities, unrealized possibilities. Been there, done that. He’s heard it all before. There’s one for every breath he takes and he's sure that somewhere along the way he lost one. He comes to this builder of wormholes and sometimes she makes things right. Sometimes she makes them worse, reminding him of why he had to leave in the first place. Reminding him of all the reasons Moya was home and better than summer nights’ spent chasing fireflies in the woods. She doesn’t mind that he comes, all southern-down-home charm and alpha male swagger. He sprawls at the foot of her bed, waiting for her to notice him. His grin is wicked when she ignores him. Peeking up at him from beneath her lashes, she tries to deny that he is anything important. He doesn’t buy it for a second. He teases her and calls her darlin’, and she blushes. Sometimes she is as ribald as he is and that makes him blush. He knows she watches him when he leaves the room. He can feel her eyes fastened to the stretch and sway of leather on his ass. He doesn’t mind. Sometimes he comes during the darkest part of the night and curls up, broken and needy, his head near hers on the pillow. He lies close enough to feel the whisper of her breath on his lips. He slides his hands beneath the blankets and with a single finger, touches her. His will is to infect her dreams. The art of invasion, he has learned, is in its subtly. He inhales the scent of her. On his hands, in his hair, impressed into his skin, and reminds himself that he belongs out there. Searching for Aeryn, for Moya, for home. Still, he returns. He can only hope that somehow she will ease his ache. So, he curls up against her pillow, no longer the tom about town lounging cocky and smart at her feet. Now he needs her to hold his hand and kiss him near his ear, maybe even lay with her head on his belly while he stares up at the ceiling reciting wormhole equations. He wouldn’t mind if she did. Sometimes she will. And sometimes she slaps at his hands, pushing him away. She forces him to face the searing, painful, heart-breaking things. Holding open his bleeding eyelids, she demands: SEE. SEE. LOOK. It burns all the way down. She is supposed to be his safe harbor, instead she reveals and she lashes and he is hurt by the reality she gives him. Then he curls into her lap, his face reaching for her spine through the tenderness of her belly. He huddles as close as he can to her heart and cries silent tears that leave his eyes red-rimmed and dull. Despite the pain, despite the anger and melancholia, despite how many times he calls her ‘sweetheart’ and still can’t convince her to sit out with him under the stars, just them and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, he returns. He returns and he returns and he returns. Different and new and old and tired and broken. He comes to her in love, tortured, placid, insane, drugged and disillusioned. He comes back to her and waits for her to create more wormholes so that he can escape. He knows that one day she will build him a wormhole home and there he will find a house built like Moya. Zhaan will be there, in the garden. Chiana will be in the den gambling with DK. D’Argo will be in the woods nearby. Rygel will be in the kitchen and Aeryn will be there, too. Somehow he knows she will make sure that Aeryn is there too. Then he will be happy and content because he knows that she will live in the back bedroom at the top of the stairs. He will never forget. And when he is restless and yearns for the stars, he will walk up the stairs, dressed in PK black, and he will open the door softly, they’ve never bothered with knocking. She won’t look up until he whispers her name: “Maayan.” Her smile will light his heart and she will build him a wormhole. end |