AERYN'S JOURNEY - #20 DOG WITH TWO BONES

[nymeria_dw]

Aeryn's Journey - Dog With Two Bones
(A Farscape Fanfiction)

Author: Nymeria

Disclaimer: the Farscape universe and its characters do not belong to me - I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

Rating: PG

Setting: Season 3 - episode 22



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We're going home! I'm going home...!

 

Good for you, Rygel.  I'm glad you can find a reason to rejoice after so much death and destruction, that you have something to look forward to, be it restitution or vengeance.

 

It's better than this emptiness.

 

I must keep hold of my purpose without giving in to the void, or it will consume what little is left of me.

 

Laying down Talyn's remains on sacred space drained me of anything I had, and I'm just running on dregs.

 

I need…I need to get myself back.

 

In the short time I've known you, you've changed so much. Don't go backwards.

 

Backwards is all I know, Jool. You see, there's safety in that.  Certainty, order, rules.

 

It was enough before, and it must be now.

 

Believing that I could change, get out of the box, be more, was a mistake.

 

Being more means only pain and death. They called it a choice. Getting out of the box demands too high a price and I don't want to pay it. Not anymore.

 

No more choices.

 

 

 

 

"You're not leaving without me."

 

Somehow I expected this. Or dreaded it. I'm not sure which.

 

And I don't know how this makes me feel.  Can't. Won't.  I just don’t want to feel again, not when I can’t bear the crushing weight of loss.

 

…all the days before it hurts. The good days. When you're in love…

 

He was wrong, so frelling wrong!  The good times only make it worse, carving new scars with the promise of more to come.

 

"You died. I watched that happen and yet you're still alive. I have to go."

 

"Then say good-bye."

 

No. Not that. That would be a choice too.

 

"We don't say good-byes."  We never close the door. Don't make me.

 

"We do this time."

 

He wants finality. So be it.

 

"Fine. Good-bye Crichton."

 

"John! My name is John! 'Good-bye John.' To my face."

 

Rage. The blinding rage that always managed to smother what I couldn't handle is back, and I embrace it like an old friend.

 

Wear it like armor.  Attack.

 

"Guarantee you won't die in my arms again!" 

 

"Guarantee you won't die in mine!"

 

"I can!  By leaving!"

 

Tactical mistake. I've let down my guard, and he's seen an opening.

 

"Do you love John Crichton? Not him. Not me. John Crichton."

 

The rage subsides. The armor crumbles.

 

"Yes."

 

Close. So close. Mixed signals. Sight and touch and smell battling with knowledge.

 

"Then what does that taste like?"

 

Earth. Minus the sunshine.  You have worked your way...into my heart. My point of reference, my guide, my one constant.  

 

"Yesterday."   All the lost yesterdays wrapped in tomorrow's pain.

 

"I am so much better dead." 

 

"I. Can't. Do. This. Again."

 

Not when all I can hear, inside, are clashing echoes of past and present, overwhelming the whispers of the future.

 

"You once said it was as if the fates meant for us to be together."

 

You were the one who taught me the meaning of hope. Will it be enough? For both of us?

 

"Well then if it's true we will be together again."

 

Hope is not enough. Not when he wants everything, right now.

 

Not when he keeps challenging fate, intent on bending it to his will.

 

Like daring fate to make him survive a stroll through a Gammak Base unscathed.

 

Like daring fate to help him stop a deadly machine.

 

He never learns. "Just make a frelling wormhole and go home."  Where you can be safe.

 

Rage is not enough, either. Not even to stop the words that tear me up inside. There is no home! There is no wormhole! There's only you–

 

Because it's too late. Because there is no more me – for him or anyone else.

 

She takes time.

 

Remember his words. Yours. John Crichton's. And let me find myself first.

 

"Do you love Aeryn Sun?"

 

"Beyond hope."

 

"Then don't make me say good-bye and don't make me stay."

 

He seems to give in, finally. It's what I wanted, isn't it?

 

Then where does this all-encompassing anger come from? Or the despair?

 

I'm so tired of choices. Worn out.

 

Let fate decide, then.  Let a frelling bit of metal make the choice for me. Us.

 

Let it fly.

 

 

 

 

We're in the hands of fate now.

 

Good-bye John Crichton.