Author: wiscaper

Disclaimer: Farscape, its creatures, and characters are owned and operated by Henson, O’Bannon, Kemper and Company. I reap no monetary reward from this venture into their space. In fact, I try to mind my own business, but the words tumble out onto the computer screen...

Category: episode tag; drama

Notes: Won’t Get Fooled Again was classic ‘Scape. Yet, I am left hanging. I want more!! John has been through hezmana. He's had the dren kicked out of him. (I really think he’s a good candidate for some kind of post-traumatic stress syndrome.) I want to see how John gets out of that room. I want to know how long he's been missing. I want to know how he got there in the first place. I want to witness the scene where he is found. I want...I want... I want more!!! And so it happens - the muse takes over.

Rating: PG-13

Aftermath

The acrid stench of charred wood and burnt flesh assaulted his senses. In air filled with smoke he choked and coughed as his lungs fought for much needed oxygen. Movement brought fiery splinters of pain to all parts of his body, as if every muscle had been asleep and now circulation was returning with a vengeance. He desperately wanted to curl up in the fetal position and tell the universe to take a hike, but he knew he had to move, had to leave. Gritting his teeth, he dug down into his meager reserves and pushed himself upright, each muscle crying in agony when summoned to do its job. He stumbled, catching his side on a metal rod that protruded from the wall against which he had been leaning. He tucked his arm tightly against his freshly bruised rib cage and turned to the left because… because S… someone had told him.

But who could have told him?

He frowned, shook off his puzzlement, and concentrated instead on walking, bleary eyes finally registering a doorway in front of him. He pushed through it on unsteady legs and found himself in a dimly lit passageway.

Bracing himself against the wall of the corridor with one hand, he hung his head and bit back the bile that rose to his throat, gagging him.

Concentrate. Move. One foot in front of the other.

The floor beneath his feet was sloped and as he walked, he realized he was climbing. After what seemed like hours, he found himself at another door in the passageway. Light from the outside passed through a small, grimy window, faintly illuminating the corridor. He leaned heavily against the door, groping in the dim light for some type of handle, almost crying with relief when his exploring hands located one. He took a deep breath, turned the handle and pushed. The door opened easily and John Crichton tumbled through the doorway into the light of day.

He hit the ground on hands and knees, grunting in pain as his battered muscles cried anew in protest, the fresh bruise on his side adding to the cacophony. Collapsing to the ground, he stretched his body out and allowed his muscles to relax. It felt so good just to lie there. The air was damp and cool, and he sucked in great gulps of it. The chilled stone beneath his cheek was wonderfully refreshing after the hot, claustrophobic atmosphere of the dungeon from which he had just escaped.

Escaped?

Yeah, that’s what he had just done.

Escaped.

But from what?

He screwed his eyes shut and forced his mind to concentrate. He remembered jaws and teeth and scaly hide. A Scarren - he’d been captured by a Scarren. Fragments of memory swirled in his brain, faces floated just out of reach.

Concentrate on the Scarren.

He remembered waking, coming to on the floor, hearing the Scarren report that someone was dead.

Had he been the ‘someone’?

He didn’t feel dead.

Then again…

He remembered instinctively reaching for his pulse pistol, elated to find it still snug inside the holster. Somehow knowing that the blast from the pistol would not penetrate the hide of the Scarren, he had flipped a switch and set the pistol on overload.

Hearing the warning beep from the pulse pistol as the energy chamber backed up, the Scarren had bent to investigate and John remembered jerking the pistol from its holster and jamming it into the Scarren’s toothy mouth. As the human had scrambled to get away, the weapon exploded and he was flung across the room by the force of the blast that took the head off his captor. He slid along the floor, coming to a bone-jarring halt against the far wall of the room.

A wave of dizziness assaulted him, yanking him back into the present. He mentally backed away from the memories of the past and the pain they brought with them. There would be time later to sort out the details of what had just happened to him. At this moment, he really needed to concentrate on returning to Moya and his friends.

The arrogant lizard-man had evidently assumed that a puny human would not be able to use his pulse pistol while a captive, and so had left the weapon in its holster. John lifted his hand to his shoulder and laughed shakily. It had obviously reasoned the same with the comms unit! “P-Pilot?” his voice was hoarse and raspy from - what? Disuse? Screaming? He blinked his eyes and swallowed, trying to grasp the bits and pieces of memories that zipped through his brain like a bullet train.

“Commander Crichton? Commander, is that you?” the formal disembodied voice that responded to his call on the comm unit was music to Crichton’s ears and he laughed with relief.

“Yeah – yeah, it’s me, Pilot. I – I could use some h-help here…” his voice trailed off.

“Commander! Where are you?”

Crichton forced himself to survey his surroundings, demanded that his brain concentrate on his location. Pinkish hued sky greeted his gaze, and a single sun wavered low on the horizon, casting shadows from the buildings that surrounded him. “Warehouses. Rows of them. Gray. Abandoned, maybe.”

“Ah, Moya and I have you on the scanner now. You are some distance outside the city. Aeryn Sun and Ka D’Argo are searching for you as we speak. I shall notify them. Are you in danger, Commander?”

“D – don’t think so, Pilot. Had a little trouble. Seem to have found my way out of it.”

“I suggest you remain where you are,” Pilot’s calm voice floated back to John’s ears.

“No problem, there, man,” John mumbled, slowly sitting up and leaning against the building he had just vacated. He eased his head back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he attempted to clear his mind of the jumble of thoughts that assaulted him. How had he gotten into this predicament?

The crew from Moya had decided to visit this particular planet more as a chance to relax than to lay in supplies. Lately, it had been just one thing after another, finding out that Aeryn had previously been aboard Moya, having personalities switched after being fired upon by the Halosians, tangling once more with Scorpius on the Royal Planet, finding parasites in cargo and hunting with the Vorc – everyone’s nerves had been stretched to the breaking point.

There was nothing special to note about this commerce planet – it had the usual strange variety of merchandise available, with the usual strange variety of species milling about, buying, selling, trading. The lone human on that side of the universe had chuckled to himself as he wandered down an aisle of one of the shops. Here he was again, walking on some distant alien planet, rubbing shoulders with actual alien beings from other worlds - living someone’s science fiction novel.

Suddenly his attention was riveted to the back wall of the shop. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide with disbelief. A painting hung there, depicting a small blue planet floating on a black background, circled by a single moon. What had demanded his attention were the landforms: Africa, Europe, South America, North America – Earth!

His traveling companions were all but forgotten as he had made his way to the back of the stall, his eyes never leaving the picture as he threaded through the tables of junk. The human stepped close to the painting and reached out his hand to touch it, awe and wonder and deep sadness playing on his face. It seemed to shimmer in the dim light -- and that was the last thing he remembered until waking on the floor and blowing the Scarren to bits. He had found his way out of the prison in which he’d been held, and now sat waiting for his friends to find him.

Leaning against the building, he must have dozed, for the next thing he was aware of was the sound of the engine of Moya’s transport pod as it set down not far from him. He watched as the hatch opened, and sighed deeply as two familiar figures jumped to the ground.

“There, D’Argo! There he is!” The voice of Aeryn Sun, ex-peacekeeper commando, was the sweetest sound John ever heard. He only had eyes for the Sebacean woman as she sprinted toward him, the Luxan hot on her heels.

John tried to laugh, but only managed a cough. The cavalry had arrived. Smiling, he closed his eyes – it was too much of an effort to keep them open. He listened as two pairs of booted feet jogged close, and then reality once more faded out of his grasp.

“Hezmana! What is that stench?!” Ka D’Argo came to an abrupt halt next to the human, instinctively covering his mouth and nose with a gloved hand.

Aeryn Sun knelt beside the human, heart in her throat. “Crichton!” she leaned closer, and saw that he was breathing. Relief at finding him still with the living washed over her, and the knot in her stomach began to loosen. She nudged the human gently, and then wrinkled her nose as the smell that had halted D’Argo in his tracks registered in her own senses. Crichton smelled of stale sweat, charred cloth - and something else. She noticed bits and pieces of burnt matter clinging to his vest and pants, and a dark damp stain running down his leg.

“Frell! D’Argo! We’ll need a blanket or coat or something from the transport pod to cover him. We’re not taking him back to Moya like this!”

D’Argo’s eyes were watering and he gagged. Through his choking, he managed to gasp, “Is he alive?”

“He’s still breathing. Now, go!” Aeryn ordered. “Find something quickly!”

The Luxan gave her a grateful nod and jogged back to the transport pod. Aeryn held her breath, leaned over and unbuttoned John’s vest. She eased his arms out of the leather and then began to work on the fly of his pants, when she felt his eyes on her. She looked up to see John watching her, a silly grin on his face. “You do this in my dreams, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Shut up, John. You are not coming aboard the transport with these clothes on. You’ve…”

John glanced down. “Oh, shit.” His pale features reddened with embarrassment.

“Close,” she replied with a slight grin, “and blood and bits of bone and flesh. What happened in there?

“Pulse pistol overload. Took out a Scarren.”

“What did you do to the Scarren to make him angry in the first place?”

He rolled his eyes at her standard accusation. “I-I remember I was - looking at a picture.” He wiped his face with his hand. “I don’t know. Maybe he wanted it,” he finished wearily, closing his eyes again, the effort of talking draining him. Aeryn returned to her task and maneuvered his pants off his hips and down his legs. She scooted over to his boots and unlaced them, then was able to pull the offending garments from his body. Tossing soiled vest and pants aside, she pulled her pulse pistol and fired, igniting the clothing in a bright burst of light.

The blast from the pulse pistol caught Crichton by surprise and instinctively he tried to bolt. He scrambled to an upright position, knocking Aeryn over in his haste, and turned to run but his muscles betrayed him and he collapsed in a heap on the ground, the breath driven from his lungs. He lay gasping for air as Aeryn crawled over to him. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into her lap. “John! John, it’s okay. That was just me.”

John’s chest heaved as he tried to focus on Aeryn’s words, on her touch. Her strong arms encircled his body and brought him back to reality. “Wha - what was - that?”

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you. Your clothes. They were not coming back with us to Moya.”

“Oh,” he responded weakly.

Aeryn laid a cool hand on his forehead. He felt unnaturally warm to her touch. If he were a Sebacean, she would be checking him for memory loss and motor function impairment. She gently brushed damp tendrils of hair away from his temple. He smiled up at her gratefully, and passed out.

“Zhaan!” Aeryn commed the blue priestess on Moya.

“I am here, Aeryn. Have you found him?”

“Yes. He’s unconscious, looks like he may have been in an explosion. We’re bringing him up as quickly as possible. He needs medical attention – and a bath.”

“I’ll have things ready.”

D’Argo returned and together, he and Aeryn wrapped the human in a blanket. The Luxan lifted him easily and carried him to the transport, laying his friend on the floor of the vehicle as gently as he could. He bumped the unconscious man’s side, eliciting a moan of pain from the human. D’Argo grimaced and mumbled an apology, as Aeryn gave him a stern look and hissed, “Be careful!” between clenched teeth. She took the pilot’s seat and they lifted off, heading back for Moya.

John lay like a dead man on the floor of the transport. D’Argo and Aeryn were reassured only by the slight but steady rise and fall of the blanket that covered his chest. For some reason, the transport pod seemed to have only one speed at that time, and for both Sebacean and Luxan, it was way too slow.

Finally within range of Moya’s docking web, Aeryn gratefully gave over the controls to the leviathan, rolling her shoulders to relax tense muscles as Pilot guided their craft into Moya’s hangar bay. The pod came to a stop and once more D’Argo lifted John, carrying him down the ramp and depositing him on the gurney that Zhaan had waiting.

“What happened?” Zhaan wanted to know as she began her cursory exam of the human’s inert form.

“He said something about tangling with a Scarren,” Aeryn answered. “I didn’t get the full story, he passed out. But he did say that he overloaded his pulse pistol. Must have somehow got it close enough. There were bits and pieces of burnt Scarren on him when we found him.”

“That would account for the stench,” D’Argo commented. “It’s not that bad anymore, but I can still smell it on him.”

“I tried to brush the worst of it from his hair, but he does need a bath.”

“What did you do with his clothes?” Zhaan wanted to know as she directed D’Argo to wheel her patient to the medbay.

The Luxan laughed, “Aeryn used them for target practice,”

Zhaan glanced at Aeryn, smiling at her sheepish grin. “Well, then, I believe you ought to find something else for him to wear, while D’Argo and I clean him up.”

“Where are Chiana and Rygel?” Aeryn asked, wanting nothing more than to collect the rest of Moya’s crew and leave this planet behind in the leviathan’s wake.

“They should be returning momentarily,” Zhaan answered as she walked beside the gurney, blue robes swirling about her body, one hand lightly resting on Crichton’s shoulder. “Rygel reported that he was concluding some business now that their services were no longer required to help in the search for Crichton.”

“They can’t get back here too soon for me,” Aeryn voiced her concern as she turned a corner and headed for Crichton’s quarters.

In the medbay, Zhaan began work on her patient. She ran a scanner over John’s body, and while it indicated a rather high level of brain activity in the recent past, the patterns were now settled down. The Delvian healer decided that bumps, bruises and exhaustion were most of John’s problems. What had happened to him on the planet during the day he had been missing was not entirely clear, but he was now safe aboard Moya and they had plenty of time to hear his tale.

“I believe that a mild stimulant is in order here, D’Argo," she said quietly as she moved to prepare one of her many concoctions. “We’ll need him conscious if we are to clean him up properly.”

D’Argo nodded his agreement. He did not relish the thought of holding the unconscious human upright in the shower stall. He watched Zhaan administer a shot of purple liquid to the side of Crichton’s neck.

Crichton blinked as awareness of his surroundings intruded upon his oblivion. He focused his eyes and found himself the object of the intense scrutiny of two pairs of alien eyes. “Hi, honey,” he croaked from his dry throat. “I’m home?”

“Yes, John, you are,” the Delvian priestess answered, smiling.

“How long – have I been – gone?”

“Thirty arns,” D’Argo answered as Zhaan slipped an arm under the human’s shoulders, helping him to a sitting position. John gave a low whistle in response to the Luxan’s answer. D’Argo went on, “When you did not meet Aeryn at the appointed time, we began to search.”

“They spent the night and most of the day on the planet looking for you,” Zhaan continued, her hand still resting on John’s shoulder in support. “We are all quite happy that Pilot was finally able to locate you. Now, we need to get you into the shower. You offend D’Argo’s senses.”

John sniffed and wrinkled his nose, eyes widening in realization. “Is that me?” D’Argo and Zhaan nodded, chuckling at his dawning awareness of the odor in the med bay. “Uh, yeah, okay, Blue, I guess I do need a shower.” But he was not at all sure that his legs would support him if he attempted to stand. D’Argo sensed his concern and moved to his side, standing ready to catch the human if he fell.

“Thanks, big guy,” John said softly. He began to undress, slowly lifting his t-shirt, moving no faster than he had to. He heard the intake of Zhaan’s breath as she eyed the darkening bruise on his side. “Looks worse than it feels, Zhaan,” John reassured her. “Nothing broken. It’ll heal.” Zhaan patted his arm in understanding and left the med bay. John managed to get off the gurney and into the shower under his own power. D’Argo hovered nearby, giving the human as much privacy as he dared.

Crichton stood in the stall, reveling in the feel of hot water on his tired and aching muscles. He ducked his head under the flow and let it wash away the smell and the grime from his imprisonment, hoping that some of the memories would go with it. He let water dribble into his mouth to ease dry tissues, but it only partially satisfied his thirst. What he really wanted was an ice-cold beer.

“John, Zhaan isn’t sure how long the stimulant will work. Perhaps you had better quit while you are still standing.” D’Argo tried and failed to keep the concern from coloring his voice.

“Got the first layer off, big D. Workin’ on the second. Okay so far.” As he scrubbed his body with soap thoughtfully provided by Zhaan, John’s mind wandered back to the planet and the torture to which he had been subjected. Images assaulted him, images of Zhaan in a suit, D’Argo making a pass at him him, Aeryn in curlers, Rygel falling from the parking ramp, DK’s blood spurting from his wrists. The muscles in his legs and arms began to tremble and darkness hovered on the periphery of his vision. “D – D’Argo, I could use a – a towel,” he managed to push the words out, suddenly needing to lean against the wall, remaining upright only through sheer will power. He felt rather than saw D’Argo hand him a towel, and was grateful that the big Luxan realized his weakness and stayed to prop him up. “Need to sit,” he whispered.

D’Argo nodded and ushered John to an exam table, onto which the human sank gratefully, head bowed. The spinning room came slowly came to a halt.

Frowning, the Luxan folded his arms across his chest, silently cursing this frelling stubborn human who had become such a close friend. “You belong in bed.”

“Right. Yeah. Soon. Soon as I dry off – and get some clothes,” the human looked up and chuckled, draping the towel around his midsection as best he could. Rivulets of water ran down his chest and back, disappearing into the folds of the drying cloth. At that moment, Aeryn arrived with a fresh set of clothing and tossed it at D’Argo. She eyed the dripping human. “John, you look like dren. You should be in bed.” Crichton snorted and was about to make some wise crack when Zhaan re-entered the med bay and gave him a stern look. “You belong in bed.”

“Thank you, one and all, for your kind concern,” the human responded dryly. “But I can’t go anywhere looking like this.” He pointed to his state of undress. “Now if you all will excuse me…”

“John, now is not the time for modesty,” D’Argo chuckled as he handed John the fresh shirt and shorts. “You need help or you will fall flat on your ugly face. Besides, we have all seen you naked, unless you’ve forgotten the day we met.”

“Ouch,” John grinned at the Luxan’s good-natured insult, and his reference to the first time he had set foot on Moya. At least that was a memory that didn’t hurt. “Okay. Okay. Humor me. Just give me a little privacy this time, will ya?”

Aeryn and Zhaan honored his request and left the room, stopping just outside the door, within hearing distance in case they were needed.

John pulled on the clean tee and shorts, surprised at how exhausted these simple efforts left him. The memories that found him in the shower came back, this time slower and with more definition. He looked at D’Argo and saw a rocket jockey with a devil-may-care attitude. He remembered his dad and DK arguing about pilot error in the Farscape project.

Aeryn and Zhaan, apparently satisfied that they had given the human enough time to dress, returned to the med bay and John’s mind flashed to doctors and nurses and leather and needles. He shook his head. These were, of course, not real memories. Just add the Scarran to the growing list of alien beings screwing with his head. “Man, you guys would not believe the things I’ve seen,” he managed to mumble. “My mind must be a mess.”

“John,” Aeryn paused in front of him, searching his face, eyes catching and holding his glance. “You mentioned a Scarran when we first found you. I have heard - stories about their methods of ‘interrogation.’ They are particularly fond of creating delusions that break down the resistance, making it easier for - information extraction. The process has been known to – drive the subject - insane.”

“I’ll attest to that,” John nodded his agreement, seeing something in Aeryn’s face that kept his attention.

“Those who – survived – a Scarran interrogation – and there haven’t been many – were, um - no more than shells of what they had been when they were found…” her voice trailed off, the question evident in her eyes.

John reached for her hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Don’t worry, Aeryn, I think I got the upper hand. I took his head - before he could take mine.”

The dark haired Sebacean nodded, somewhat reassured. She had never personally seen nor spoken to anyone who had been interrogated by a Scarran, but she had heard the rumors. John seemed to be himself, perhaps a little worse for wear, but in his right mind.

“Aeryn,” Zhaan patted her shoulder. “Perhaps it would be best if we let John get some rest. He can do it right here where we can keep an eye on him.”

John shook his head. “Nope, Blue, no way. This boy’s heading for his own room and some peace and quiet.” He was not going to allow his well meaning friends to persuade him to stay anywhere other than his quarters on Moya, and in the end, they relented and allowed him his choice.

“D’Argo and I will see to it that this stubborn meliote gets to his room safely,” Aeryn stood and motioned for D’Argo to help her assist John. But he shrugged out of their grasp.

“I want to walk, Aeryn.”

The ex-peacekeeper gave him her best ‘you won’t make it’ look and shrugged. “Go ahead. Walk.”

John took a deep breath and steeled himself, draping the towel over his shoulders and sliding off the table. He had no intention of letting the others know how shaky he really felt. He headed for the door, pleased that no one said another word about his physical condition. He turned down the corridor that led to his quarters, firmly concentrating on staying upright and moving, only vaguely aware that Aeryn followed him.

Neither Aeryn nor John was aware that Zhaan had caught D’Argo’s elbow as he tried to follow the two out of medbay. Silently communicating with her eyes, Zhaan shook her head. The Luxan hesitated, then reluctantly let them go on alone.

The closer John got to his quarters, the more difficult it became to remain upright. The muscles of his legs felt like rubber and his most fervent wish was to get his hands on the throat of the director of the band marching in his head. It wouldn’t be pretty. His pace slowed and he found himself reaching for the support of Moya’s corridor walls more often than he cared to think. By the time he reached his room, he was sweating and shaking, and the walls were beginning to spin. But he had made it under his own power, and that gave him a supreme sense of satisfaction. He entered the room, grateful that his bed was only a few steps away.

Aeryn followed him, rather surprised that she hadn’t had to assist the human. She had guessed he’d make it about halfway. As he sank onto his bed, she filled a cup with water and handed it to him. He nodded his thanks and swallowed the contents gratefully, setting the cup down and resting his head in his hands when he was through. She eyed his pale features. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and she was sure that his body temperature was still higher than normal. “Zhaan sent this along.” She pressed a small vial into John’s hand. “Zeccan leaves. Chew some. It should help with pain.”

“Hope it works. Feels like I got a brass band marching in here right now,” he tapped his forehead. Opening the vial, he shook some of the contents onto his palm.

“A little goes a long way,” Aeryn advised. “Chew, don’t swallow.”

John picked out a small leaf and put it in his mouth, giving it an experimental chew, fully expecting it to taste vile. He was surprised to discover that it was slightly sweet and tart, reminding him faintly of the first apples of the season.

“Are you going to tell us what happened down there on the planet?”

John smiled and shook his head wearily. Leave it to the former peacekeeper to get right down to business. He spat the chewed leaf out and sighed with relief as the pounding in his head immediately began to subside. “Aeryn, I’m tired. The Scarran had me. But I got away. I’m okay. And I don’t want to think about it anymore.” He lay back on his sleeping pad, yawning and stretching, hoping she’d take the hint.

Aeryn stood there, puzzled. It was normally difficult to get the human to stop talking. Lately, though, he had become quiet, moody, withdrawn. Granted, a lot had happened to him in the past cycle. She had even discussed the possibility of transit madness with him, but he had assured her that he was fine. Still, she found herself at a loss, uneasy because the human did not seem to be himself.

“You don’t have to stay, Aeryn,” John startled her out of her reverie. He had raised himself on one elbow and was watching her. She was suddenly self-conscious, aware that she had just been standing there and staring.

“I need some sleep,” he continued. “You are – distracting.” At her look of affected offense, he grinned. “Hey, it’s a nice distracting. Go on. I’ll be fine.” He dimmed the light and lay back on his mattress.

Aeryn shrugged and turned to leave, stopping long enough at the door to make sure that John remained in his bed. Finding no real reason to stay, she walked out of the room, and the door swished shut behind her.

She wandered Moya’s corridors, agitated, her mind uncharacteristically preoccupied. She could not shake the unsettled feelings that gripped her insides. The Scarran had done something to John on the planet. There was no other explanation for his current physical condition. The stories of Scarran interrogations still haunted her. She tried to bury her disquiet in the familiar routine of evening rounds. Maintenance, med bay, command, hangar deck – all was as it should have been. Her rounds took her to the galley where she found D’Argo, Chiana and Rygel, obviously in the middle of an evening snack.

“Aeryn!” The Luxan seemed surprised to see her. “How is John?”

Before Aeryn could respond, Chiana voiced her concern. ““Did he tell you what happened?” she asked as she placed another plate full of food in front of Rygel. The Hynerian seemed to be quite content to fill his stomachs and leave the questions and answers to the others.

“John says he is fine. He is sleeping. He refused to talk about the Scarran or anything that happened on the planet,” Aeryn let some of her exasperation color her reply.

“You are worried,” D’Argo observed.

“He says he is fine!” Aeryn snapped. “Am I always supposed to doubt his word?” She grabbed a handful of food cubes and stormed out of the galley. Chiana and D’Argo exchanged glances, surprised by her outburst.

“Frelling stubborn trelks,” Rygel commented, burping contentedly as juices dribbled down his chin. “Either of you care to wager how long it will take for her to find out what really happened?” Neither Luxan nor Nebari took up his challenge.

With the uneasy feelings still plaguing her, Aeryn continued her rounds. Her path took her past the crew’s quarters and once more she found herself in front of the door to Crichton’s room. She intended to walk by when she heard his voice. She quietly asked Pilot to open the door. Slipping inside, she stopped to let her eyes adjust to the dim light.

The human was stirring in his sleep, tossing his head from side to side, mumbling words and phrases. She made out what she thought might be names: Bettee. Deekay. Garree. She wondered what connection they had to his past. Friends? Enemies?

Moving to his side, she lightly touched his shoulder. He still felt warmer than normal to her. She laid her hand gently on his forehead and his eyes fluttered open briefly, but there was no recognition there. The coolness of her touch eased his feverish features and he quieted, sinking into a deeper slumber. This only increased her agitation. Crichton was obviously too exhausted to realize someone was in the room with him, and that bothered her. Even though they were safe aboard Moya for the moment, letting one’s guard down like this could only lead to disaster. Years of peacekeeper training had instilled this in her and could not be shrugged off easily. She lowered herself to the floor, watching him. He looked so vulnerable. She told herself it might be a good idea to watch his back while he slept, so she leaned against the wall and began her vigil. She tried and failed to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day and she could use some sleep herself. Soon, she told herself, soon she would seek out her own sleeping quarters.

The quiet of the room was suddenly broken by John’s desperate pleading voice. “You’re not real! I just want out of this! Please! Please, no, this is cruel! You’re not - you’re not…!” And then his outright tormented cry shattered her heart, “Don’t do this to me!”

John was thrashing, trying to back away from some unseen vision. Before she realized what was happening, the human had half-rolled, half-fallen off his sleeping pad, taking with him the blanket that had covered him, holding it up as a makeshift barrier against the forces assaulting him.

“Crichton? Crichton, wake up!” Aeryn scrambled to his side, placing her hands on his shoulders, shaking him. “Do you hear me? John!”

He recoiled from her touch, fighting some invisible demon. She tried to calm him, but the more she tried, the more he resisted. She finally resorted to pinning him to the floor with her body, hands firmly grasping his wrists, legs entangled with his. He struggled and cried incoherently, and it was all she could do to hang on.

Nothing in Aeryn Sun’s peacekeeper training prepared her to deal with a situation such as this. In fact, several cycles ago she probably would have beaten the hastiest of retreats. Now she wanted to help, but John was fighting her.

She remembered his actions the day the peacekeeper vid chip had brought her past aboard Moya into the glaring light of reality for all to see. She had been the one fighting the memories then, and the feelings of shame and guilt and anger and despair that they dredged up. He had come to her, held her, talked to her, stroked her hair – and she didn’t have to face her memories alone. She mimicked his actions now. “Shhhhh, John. It’s me. Aeryn. C’mon, wake up,” she coaxed, whispering in his ear. She kept up a litany of soothing sounds, just like John had done that day, and eventually he began to respond. She felt his body slowly relax beneath her. She held on to him until his struggling ceased. He turned tormented eyes to her, and blinked. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as the light of recognition slowly seeped back into his eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “You were dreaming.”

John turned his head away, screwing his eyes shut against the fresh onslaught of memories of his imprisonment.

Aeryn wasn’t about to let him sink back alone into the terror of his dreams. “No! John, look at me. Tell me what is happening.”

John shook his head, and his breath hitched in his throat. He groaned and tried to move his arms. Aeryn let go of his wrists and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Aeryn – my mind - has been so frelled. First the ancients, then Scorpius,” his voice trailed off and the Sebacean felt the involuntary shudder course through his body as he remembered his time in the Aurora chair. “And now the Scarran...”

He was quiet for a few moments and then he giggled, the incongruous sound echoing in the room. “Damn! I’m gonna have to get people to take a number – or at least, start charging. Ladies and gents, step right up, see the one and only human brain this side of the universe!” At Aeryn’s puzzled look, John tried to laugh and only succeeded in making himself cough. Disengaging her tangled limbs from his, Aeryn helped him sit up to ease the coughing fit. Exhausted and spent, he turned a whiter shade of pale, if that were possible.

Somehow, Aeryn sensed the onslaught of the nausea that gripped him and grabbed a bowl, just in time. John got to his knees and vomited.

She sat next to him, a cool hand lightly on the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the ends of his sweat-dampened hair, offering what comfort she could as she waited for the spasms to subside.

When his retching ceased, John collapsed to the floor. Moya’s surfaces were hard and cool, but he had no strength left to get up. He sensed movement as Aeryn stood and walked away. With a conscious effort he opened his eyes and watched her return with a towel she had just retrieved from the water basin. She pushed him onto his back and gently wiped his face and mouth, working the cloth between his lips and teeth, soothing the tissues inside as well as out. Closing his eyes, he submitted to her ministrations, managing a smile around the towel. The feel of her fingers was simply wonderful and unbidden fantasies raced through his mind.

Aeryn tilted her head, watching him. “Better?”

“Depends on what you are referring to,” he captured her hand with his, pressing his lips to her open palm.

“John, we…” gray eyes met blue, but she did not remove her hand.

“It’s okay, Aeryn. Just saying thanks. I feel like crap.”

Aeryn’s smile lit her features and John’s heart skipped a beat. “Don’t mention it,” she quipped, her grin growing wider. “And you look like ‘krap,’ whatever that is. Now. You were missing on that frelling planet for more than a solar day. You obviously tangled with a Scarran, and hezmana only knows how you survived. He did something to you – and don’t shrug it off. Tell me what is giving you nightmares.”

John shivered again, blinking, trying to block the memories. “It’s nothing. I - I don’t want to talk about it.” One look from Aeryn and he knew that he had given her the wrong answer. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to put pieces together that would satisfy her. “He must have been waiting for me. I walked right into his trap. He caught my attention and the rest is history. Delusions. Hell, he got inside my head, messed me up real good.”

Aeryn was afraid he’d close up again. “Go on,” she encouraged.

“At first I thought it was the same game the Ancients played with me back on the false earth. I woke up in a hospital. My dad was there. But things just started getting a little too weird,” John stopped as the memories of his interrogation at the hands of the Scarran filled his mind. He saw Aeryn as the doctor, Zhaan as the shrink. His father and his best friend argued about pilot error on the Farscape project, and D’Argo, dressed to kill, drove around in a convertible. Was he telling all this to Aeryn, or was he just watching it in his head? He opened his eyes, saw that Aeryn was listening attentively, and tried to continue coherently. “There was this bar, seems like most everyone hung out there. D’Argo, you, Chiana, Pilot - except that they weren’t you, they were people who looked like you. And Scor – Scorpius, he was the drummer in the band! So I figure maybe he’s behind it. We'd party, and then suddenly I‘d find myself back in the hospital. Crais – Crais was there, too. He was a policeman, wearing red shoes, and he writes me a ticket for twenty-nine dollars and forty cents...” John stopped again, realizing that his heart was racing and that breathing was becoming more and more difficult. He brushed a hand over his eyes, tried to catch his breath. “The weirdness kept right on happening. It’s all so jumbled, bizaare…”

Aeryn was watching him intently as he spoke, her furrowed brow the result of trying to comprehend his ramblings. John knew that his earth references puzzled her, but he did not have the strength at the moment to think of a better way to describe what he had been through. Suddenly all of his attention was drawn to his legs. A trembling that had begun in his muscles as he talked progressed to a shaking that he couldn’t seem to stop. He stared at Aeryn, eyes wide. The shaking spread to his arms and hands, threatening to consume him.

Aeryn’s concern was written plainly on her face. “John? What’s wrong? Are you cold?”

“I – I don’t – know,” John tried to spit the words out through chattering teeth. “I – I can’t – s – stop.”

Aeryn laid a hand on his forehead. He jerked away, tried to get up and failed. “Aeryn, please…Go!” his voice was harsh, his breathing ragged and uneven.

She grabbed the blanket and pulled it around the human, and then wrapped her arms tightly around his chest, ignoring his demand to be left alone. She lifted him so that he was half in her lap and held him against her, hoping to ease the shaking.

Wave after wave of memory, real and false, assaulted John’s mind, crashing against his weakened defenses. He could not resist any longer. He was in a hospital room, strapped to a chair, being examined by Aeryn, her hair wrapped up in curlers. He was at the top of a parking garage, throwing Rygel off the roof. He heard his parents arguing about whether or not they really wanted a child. He was beating Crais to a pulp on the hood of a police car. He watched as Aeryn came on to D’Argo.

He was in the Aurora chair, screaming as his entire life was laid wide open on the table for everyone to see.

He was in the ancient’s chamber as the creature masquerading as his father gave him knowledge of wormholes.

He was in a convertible with D’Argo, Chiana and Aeryn, crashing head-on into an eighteen-wheeler.

He was back in the hospital -- and his mother was there, whole and healthy -- and suddenly he was in the disco, his critically ill mother begging for his help, IV bottle and tubes trailing behind her.

He felt his heart slamming against his rib cage, bruising his body from the inside out. He knew hot tears were streaming from his eyes. Every nerve in his body was on fire, ragged cries were torn from his throat.

Witness to only the physical part of what was happening to John, Aeryn held on tighter. She remembered the way that John had comforted her when he found her on the floor of the cargo bay, her knuckles beaten to a bloody pulp, weeping hysterically as the floodgates of memory were torn open. She had been forced to relive the past that she had buried, the past that she’d rather forget. He had been there for her, no strings attached, just holding her.

It had been very difficult for her to face the memories and the emotions they forced to the surface, but when it was over, she had felt better. She knew she could ask Pilot to have Zhaan bring a sedative to calm John. She knew she could also deliver a pantak jab that would render the human unconscious for the next several arns, but that might only be putting off the inevitable. Now it was her turn to hold him while he rode out his own storm of memories. She pulled John closer and pressed her lips into his hair, rocking slightly, resorting to the whispered litany she had used to calm him before. She held him and he clung to her, a sure and solid port in a wild raging ocean of memories that assaulted his psyche.

She did not know how much time passed before she realized that John’s violent trembling started to ease. She kept her arms around him, but loosened her hold. His head rested on her chest and her gray shirt was wet with his tears. His breathing was still hoarse and uneven, catching in his throat as spasms still gripped his muscles. She placed a crooked finger under his chin and gently tilted his head back, bending hers down to look at him. Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes gazed back, pain wrenchingly evident. His face was streaked with moisture. She smiled through her own watering eyes and was rewarded with a tiny smile from the man clinging to her. “Easy, John. Let it wash over you. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”

“Aer – Areyn – he had me, Aeryn, - had me - on the edge - at the br - breaking point, I – I don’t know - how I got - out of there – without - without – what if – what if he – succeeded – and pushed me – over the – edge…?” he hiccoughed between the words, muscles still contracting unevenly.

“Shhhhh. He can’t hurt you any more. You beat him. Besides, I have always considered you over the edge, Crichton,” Aeryn’s attempt at humor was rewarded with a chuckle from the man in her lap. John tried to sit up, only to collapse back into Aeryn's arms as another paroxysm gripped his muscles.

“Breathe.” Aeryn commanded. “In. Out. Concentrate.” She kept her voice low and soothing and firm. It was the anchor that held John steady and he focused on her voice, following her orders, forcing his lungs to regulate his breaths.

Finally the tremors stopped, and John’s breathing evened out. Time passed with no sign of a relapse. Still Aeryn held him in her lap, arms wrapped lightly around his chest and back. She had felt the rapid and erratic beating of his heart earlier, and was relieved when it finally slowed down to a sure and steady rhythm.

Although she hated to disturb him, she suddenly realized that her legs had fallen asleep. Stretching, she gasped as the blood rushed back into starved tissues with its tell-tale needle pricks. “John? Are you still with me?”

“Mmm-hmmmm,” came the quiet reply.

“I have to move. Let’s get you back to your bed.”

“Oh, baby, I must be dreaming,” his whispered reply was muffled in the material of her shirt. Aeryn shook her head and helped him sit up. She guided the human off the floor and onto his bed, pulling the blanket back over his body, tucking it gently around him. She walked around the room, encouraging the blood to resume its normal circulation in her legs. She hesitated at the door, knowing he was watching her.

“Don’t go.” He looked at her, blue eyes pleading. “Please.”

Aeryn smiled. “I’ll stay. But you must rest. Zhaan will have my head if you get any weaker.”