There is a longer version of this available, if anyone wants it, but my trustworthy beta reader assures me the shorter version is better.

*****

"Commander Crichton?"

He rolled over, coming awake instantly. It used to take him time and several cups of coffee to "achieve functionality," as the perenially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed DK used to say. Yet another adaptation to life in the Uncharted Territories. Too many sudden dangers to afford the luxury of a snooze button.

"Yeah, Pilot? Something wrong? Moya all right?"

"Everything is fine, Commander. But I was hoping to speak with you personally. I need your assistance with... something."

For a moment, Crichton simply stared at the ceiling. It was getting harder and harder to bolster enthusiasm these days, let alone only an arn or so after he'd finally put his body to bed. He was tempted to tell Pilot to go take a flying leap and just stay where he was for the foreseeable future.

But he'd made a promise to himself, not to let Pilot and Moya down again. And the request had piqued his curiosity.

"All right," he said, levering himself up. "I'm on my way."

_____

Pilot looked up as Crichton entered, giving the human a look that managed, in a very typically Pilot sort of way, to be simultaneously hesitant and eager.

Crichton started to speak, but only loosed the jaw-splitting yawn he'd been trying to stifle.

"My apologies, Commander. I did not realize it was your sleep period."

"I um . . . switched shifts with D'Argo." Ordinarily, his duty shift overlapped Aeryn's. Aeryn, too proud to bow out, kept on showing up exactly on time, jaw set and eyes distant, enduring his presence as though it was a penance to be done. After two weekens, he'd begged D'Argo to trade shifts; D'Argo, all sad-eyed compassion, agreed. If Aeryn had commented on the change, he didn't know. Certainly he couldn't very well ask.

"Are you well, Commander? You look . . . tired."

Crichton eyed Pilot with some exasperation. "You didn't wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me to get some sleep, did you? 'Cause if you did, I may have to shoot you." His grin defused the harsh words. "You said you needed my help?"

"I . . . um . . ." If he had feet, Crichton thought, he would have shuffled them. Crichton wanted to shake it out of him. Instead, he leaned forward, angling his head to look up into Pilot's face. "Hey. Talk to me."

Pilot sighed. "I have observed you and the others presenting each other with . . . small tokens."

"Gifts, yeah."

"To. . . convey a certain intention. Reassurance, friendship, remorse . . ."

"Remorse." Crichton chuckled. "Like the locket Chiana gave Aeryn." He fumbled for an explanation. "It's . . . just a way to tell someone that you care about them. To cheer them up." He wondered where this was going.

"Ah." Pilot was silent for a moment, then said suddenly, "I wish to give a gift to Officer Sun."

For a moment, Crichton didn't answer. He wanted to say that it would take a heck of a lot more than a knick-knack or a bunch of flowers to make Aeryn smile. That they should let her work through this on her own.

But Pilot's face, hesitant, hopeful, stopped him. //After all, Aeryn's problem isn't Pilot. It's me. And given how close they are . . . it might be a really great idea. It's only important that _someone_ helps her, not that it's _me_ who does it.//

He smiled. "That's a great idea, Pilot. Do you know what you're going to give her?"

Pilot's expression, relieved pleasure at his answer, shifted into crestfallen confusion.

"I have been unable to think of something. I hoped . . . you could suggest something."

"Me." It wasn't a question. Crichton blew out his breath. //Jeez, couldn't you ask for something easy? Infiltrating another Gammac base, or taste-testing Rygel's mahjols?// "I don't know. Aeryn's always been tough to shop for, even when..."

//Even when we were on speaking terms,// his mind finished for him.

"Please, Commander," Pilot entreated. "You know Aeryn the best of us all. And I . . . I have never seen a commerce planet."

"I'm thinking, Pilot, but I'm drawing a blank. Except for weapons, and I'm not sure that reinforcing the Peacekeeper ideal is really what we're going for here."

"Perhaps . . . on the next commerce planet, you could . . . find something appropriate?"

"I . . ."

"I cannot do this without your help, Commander."

//Right. Because nothing would make me happier than shopping for the perfect present for the woman I love, who can't stand the sight of me. And someone else will give it to her, because if it came from me, she'd probably burn it.//

But he couldn't say no. It was a small enough thing to do for the gentle being who had been such a staunch friend to them, especially to Aeryn. And it might help Aeryn. So it was worth it.

"Okay," he said. "I'll do it. Any preferences? Color, size, price range?"

"Something small, but meaningful," Pilot answered promptly.

Crichton rolled his eyes. //Great. That narrows it down.//

_____

Shopping was not going well. He'd already ruled out weapons, and everything else just seemed . . . wrong. A scarf, to match her eyes? Silly, ineffectual. Scent for her hair, her skin? Didn't bear thinking about. A jewel of some sort, to wear at her neck, on her wrist? Aeryn didn't wear baubles, and to his all-too-human mind, jewelry had associations that were _too_ meaningful.

He winced. No. He'd have to go back and tell Pilot . . .

He stopped as his eye fell on a booth across the square, and he smiled slightly. Maybe. . .

The booth was manned by a small, decrepit alien with disconcertingly large eyes and a wide mouth; he looked, Crichton reflected, like someone had started in on Mr. Potato Head after a night of binge drinking.

"Can I be of assistance, Peacekeeper?"

He struggled to keep a straight face; the voice was high, falsetto, a near squeak. "Thanks. But I'm not a Peacekeeper."

"Ah. That is good. You like?"

He examined the array of paper and beautifully bound books. "They're beautiful." Memory tugged, and he grinned. "In fact, they're perfect."

______

"It is . . . paper." Pilot observed carefully.

Crichton sighed. Pilot was obviously trying hard not to show his disappointment.

"I know it's not what you expected . . ."

"Perhaps . . . you could explain the significance?"

Crichton considered his words carefully. "Writing down your thoughts, your feelings, your observations of the world around you, is a way of getting things out, things you can't talk about. My Dad gave me my first journal when I was 16. It was like . . . I didn't confide in him, like I used to when I was a kid -- it's a whole teenager thing -- but the gift was a way of saying that he knew I still _needed_ to, and that he was there for me." That had been the first in a long line of journals, including the audiotapes AW -- After Wormhole. Replaced, when the batteries died, by low-tech paper. His twin had taken the half-filled journal, so God knew where it was now. Lost, destroyed, maybe burned with the body . . . that gave him a weird chill, and he shrugged it away. He thought of other journals, left behind on Earth. He hoped that his father found them comforting now. He met Pilot's earnest gaze. "Does that make any sense?"

Pilot nodded, pleased. "I understand, Crichton. It is perfect."

Crichton smiled ruefully. The perfect present for a boy who'd always kept everything bottled up inside. //And lord knows, a human teenager's got nothin' on Aeryn Sun.//

______

"Crichton."

The voice was so unexpected that Crichton blinked. When was the last time she'd actually commed him?

"Crichton," she prompted, her voice tinged with impatience and something he couldn't identify, but that set butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

"Yeah, Aeryn?"

"Come to Pilot's den. I want to talk to you."

It wasn't a request, or an invitation. It was an order.

He felt the butterflies grow, intensify. Yep, sure enough. Full-fledged rattlers.

This was not good.

______

He stopped dead at Aeryn's expression. He'd been hoping that she'd break through her detachment, show some emotion. But somehow fury wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

He squared his shoulders. //All right, John. Take it like a man. Whatever it is.//

"How dare you?" she hissed, and despite himself, he flinched. Her eyes were narrowed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. He felt vague relief that he wasn't standing closer.

"I thought perhaps you were capable of adult behavior. But this . . ."

"Okay," he threw up a hand to forestall her. "Help me out here. What are you talking about?"

"This . . . this . . . _gift,_" she spat, gesturing sharply to the journal sitting on Pilot's console.

"Pilot's present? I just . . ."

"You _just_ used Pilot's request for your own purposes," she said, and her voice could have cut glass. "Sending a message? Blank pages, to start over? I don't think so." She stepped forward, and he resisted the instinct of self-preservation that made him want to step back. "Get this through your head, human. There will never be anything between us. Don't insult John's memory with such . . . veiled gestures. I'm not going to trade his memories, his journal, for your blank one."

//Human. I'm not even real to her.// Crichton looked down, struggling. //Be smart,// a voice exactly like his own echoed in his brain. //Don't push. . . Don't push. . . don't . . . //

Nope. Didn't hold. As his head came up, she recoiled. He had no idea what she saw in his face, and at that moment, in his blazing anger and hurt, he didn't care.

"Pilot _asked_ me to find something for you. I thought this might help -- since you can't talk to me, and you sure as hell aren't talking to anyone else. You walk around like a zombie, and everyone walks on fucking eggshells, twisting themselves into pretzels so they don't upset Aeryn. I _know_ I'm nothing to you. We're not married, we're not lovers - we aren't even functioning as shipmates. But here's one thing you need to get through _your_ head, Officer Sun. I _am_ John Crichton. You make whatever choices you need to make, you ignore me, you treat me like the fucking furniture if that's what you need to do, but you damned well better accept that it's _me_ you're doing it to. Because I _am_ real, and I have to live on this ship, too."

He was suddenly aware that he was standing too close, inside her carefully set boundaries, that her eyes were wide as she stared at him. God, what he must look like to her. He'd never blown up at her like this, never given way so completely. No wonder she didn't recognize him as the man she'd known. Self-loathing tugged hard. He was giving in to his own unhappiness and selfishly taking it out on the one person who couldn't take it right now.

//God, what an asshole.//

He slumped as he turned and walked away. "I-I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke on the words. He could feel the tightness in his jaw, the strain in his face, the ache in his shoulders as he pulled it all back again, held it in. He looked back, but couldn't meet her gaze. "Aeryn. I wasn't trying to replace the old journal. I didn't even know you had it."

_____

He stood on command, checking Moya's systems, one by one. Monotonous, but necessary, and what he needed right now. Productive, but mindless. The others were all asleep, and that was good, too. He wasn't fit for company right just now.

He'd gone over the line. He knew it, but he couldn't make it right. Before, he could have tracked her down and apologized. Not now. Now, the kindest thing he could do was leave her alone.

"Crichton."

He straightened in surprise, then turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence. "Aeryn." There was a long silence, and he sighed. "You're up late."

"I couldn't sleep."

He felt the tension grip him, walled it away. "I _am_ sorry, Aeryn, for what I said. I was unfair."

"We were both unfair," she said softly, and he chuckled sadly.

"How 'bout if we just say that _life's_ unfair?"

"I'll accept that."

//You shouldn't have to.//

"Aeryn," he started, and winced at the tone in his voice. //God, what a jerk. Either I'm bottling it all up in a cold sulk, or I'm a ranting idiot. And she doesn't deserve either.//

He took a deep breath, tried again. "Aeryn. I'm sorry... truly sorry for your loss, but we're going to have to find a way to live together."

She didn't answer. But he could feel her move closer. Not too close. She leaned forward, placing something on the console next to him. “Here.”

He didn't need to look down, just shook his head. "Returned gifts go back to the giver. No matter what you think, it _was_ Pilot's idea."

She hesitated, then spoke, her voice soft and rough. "I'm not returning it. I'm . . . giving it to you."

He frowned.

"John . . . the other John . . . explained why he kept a journal. I. . . I thought you might need it."

The pain was too much; he closed his eyes against it. He heard footsteps, and knew she was gone.

The other had told her about his journal, had probably told her about Dad and that damned 16th birthday. How much more did she know, freely given by his twin, while he himself hadn't reached the point where he could share?

She had understood, and so did he. She thought he might need it. To talk to, because he could no longer talk to her. The gift acknowledged his loss, the shadow of her own. He had lost her, as completely as she had lost him, even while they were trapped together on the same ship.

He reached out, flipped through the book. //Everything I saw and thought and wondered and dreamed and despaired over the last three years, he gave to her. This is what's left for me -- blank pages. I can't ask for my journal back, but I sure as hell can't start my life again from scratch right here. I'm not carrying on _his_ life, I'm living my own. That past _is_ mine. I can't pretend it's not, no matter how much she wants that past to belong to a dead man.//

He let the pages run through his fingers, wondering what he would fill them with. Right now he felt too empty to even leave a single mark.

He shook his head, remembering his father's words as he'd given him the journal. //I think we both know by now that I'm not always going to be here when you need me. But don't ever think that it's because I don't want to be. If you need to talk, and I'm not actually here,"// Jack had said, smoothing his hand across the blank pages, //"I'm here. But remember, it's just paper. Nothing more. It doesn't have to have to have world-shaking significance, or define your life. It doesn't have to be profound, or spelled correctly, or even very smart. Just use it to get it all the crap out of your head before you explode. Okay?"//

Crichton's hand mimicked his father's remembered movements on the smooth, unmarked pages before he closed the book and picked it up. "Okay, Dad," he said, smiling. "I hear you. Now I just need to find a pen."