StarsGoBlue
02-04-2004, 06:58 PM
Title: Wicked Game
Rating: PG-13, for angst and mature themes
Spoilers: Season 3, from Eat Me through DWTB
Beta: *blows kisses to Kixxa*
Disclaimer: Just took them out to play---for fun, not for profit---and then put them right back in Henson's toybox.
Author's Notes: This is the complete version of Wicked Game, which was written for the Farscape Friday "Games People Play" challenge.
Wicked Game
by StarsGoBlue
The world was on fire
and
No one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you
and
I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you
No, I don't wanna fall in love
No, I don't wanna fall in love
With you
-Wicked Game (Chris Isaak)
The silver disc arcs in a high parabola, spinning and twisting, until it reaches its zenith and begins to plummet. Her eyes, dark with emotion, rise and fall as she follows its course. She swallows and the long, elegant line of her throat rolls with the peristalsis.
You are unable to tear your gaze away from her face to see your future as it unfolds before you. Even without the gift of precognition, you know Lady Luck will spurn you---recent events have proven, in fact, that you’re little more than Fate’s bitch.
So you spend these last, precious microts trying to etch every detail of her into your mind’s eye. The sharp contours of cheekbone and jaw, emphasized by the severe braid that trails midway down her rigid spine. The slight swell of her breast, the angular join of neck and shoulder. Clenched fists pressed white-knuckled against her thighs, pale abdomen taut under the emerald green shirt. The porcelain of her exposed skin, blue veins tracing the rush of blood beneath the surface as her heart races.
Your eyes burn with the effort to memorize her, to capture something of her you can keep forever---and then your time is up. A metallic clink and rattle heralds the coin’s contact with the maintenance bay floor. Your destiny has arrived at your feet.
Neither of you looks down.
She meets your unflinching stare, and with every fiber of your being, you will her to acquiesce, to submit and surrender to your need for her. Without her, you have nothing. You hold your breath, fight the sweeping panic, and feverishly pray please, please, please…
For a long moment, she looks at you unhappily, conflicted and confused, and you know that she sees you for the first time since her return. Memories play behind her eyes and she wavers, she is so close to capitulation… then something indefinable and fleeting strengthens her resolve.
She leans down fluidly, graceful fingers grasping the heavy coin. She straightens---as if bracing herself against a blow---and opens her hand.
Gambled, and lost.
* * *
Fate has decreed he must let you go. But he is John Crichton (not your John Crichton) and you doubt it will be that simple.
Although your outstretched hand is steady, your mind is a jumble of confused thought. Just microts ago, you’d ducked your head to avoid him even as your traitorous lips had parted in anticipation that he would find your mouth. Your lips still tingle with the feel of his; the familiar taste you’d savored at leisure only scant weekens before.
Once more it had been perfect. You’d basked in the radiant heat of him---replacing the memory of cold and lifeless flesh---breathed in his gentle kiss, shivered as his warm skin brushed your cheek.
You’d craved his touch, his scent… so tempting, so easy to close your eyes and forget.
Unthinkable. Unforgivable. Your John is dead.
Now, meeting this one’s eyes, you see him twitch at the coin’s verdict, though he appears unsurprised. And you can’t stop the burning anger that wells up from some dark spot hidden deep within ---you’re the one who is bereft, you’re the one who watched as he died, as his skin swelled and cracked and seeped, you’re the one who can’t escape the constant, aching reminder of your loss. The man standing before you can’t conceive of it, the yawning, empty part of your soul that’s been torn away, because you allowed yourself to feel for him… for John.
You slap the coin down on a storage unit and turn away to finish loading your prowler.
His laugh is strangled, bitter---it reverberates along your spinal cord and settles in your chest, an icy sliver of pain, and you try to harden your heart but it frelling hurts and you’re so tired of hurting.
This Crichton is wounded, but at least he lives. You must go.
You should have expected it the second time---when has this stubborn man ever given up? But you’re caught off balance once again when he catches your arm, spinning you into his crushing embrace. Ink-stained fingers press fiercely against your bicep; his other arm snakes around your shoulders, seizing the back of your neck as he shoves you hard against the bulkhead. He doesn’t plead, doesn’t coax---his mouth overwhelms yours and he smothers you in a furious kiss, tongue ferociously insistent, teeth scraping your lips.
His forehead cracks into yours, hips grinding in frustrated need, triggering in your faithless body an unwelcome echo of desire. For one microt you want nothing more than to crawl inside his skin, be one with him and keep him from harm, stay with him forever.
But this Crichton is not yours… this is not the man you wanted to join in death, on Valldon.
So you push against him, but he has the strength of desperation and where once he was soft, now there is hard muscle and ropy sinew, and he’s not giving you up without a fight. Pressed together so tightly, you can’t sweep his legs from under him, but while he’s punishing your lips you work an arm free and bury a fist deep in his gut.
He grunts and you slip free of his mouth, but your head snaps back, hair tangled in his frantic fingers. So you stamp your booted foot down on his, angling for the vulnerable instep and he flinches, giving you the opportunity you need to force him to arm’s length.
Aboard Moya you’ve managed, somehow, to contain your rage and despair beneath a brittle veneer of stoicism, but this physical and emotional tug-of-war shatters your restraint. Crichton’s learned since his first days, and ducks the pantak jab, but you clout him a good one just above one ear. He grimaces, but doesn’t lose his hold on your braid.
“Frell you, Crichton, you bastard,” you snarl, panting. “Let me go.”
He’s regained a measure of self-control, but this is not the John Crichton you left behind on Moya, who would have been guilt-ridden and contrite after such ruthless, aggressive behavior.
“Damn you, Aeryn,” he rasps, his own chest heaving, “How the hell can you just walk away without even giving me a chance?”
The belligerent set of his jaw and hostile blue-eyed glare should be your salvation, should feed your fury and compel you to end the skirmish by knocking him on his ass. Instead, a thousand unshed tears prick your eyes, gasping breaths slide into sobs and you drop to your knees, crying silently before him as you cried over John in the privacy of Crais’ quarters aboard Talyn.
“God, Aeryn,” he chokes above you, releasing your braid to stroke your wet cheek.
You are drained, and if he persists you will surrender but nothing will be made right. You force yourself to raise your head and look him in the eye, but can only summon a weary, nearly inaudible whisper.
“I can’t stand to look at you. It’s too much… I can’t.”
He recoils, hissing in shock as your words assail his resolve. Shoulders hunched, he looks down and away with a mirthless chuckle, rolls his head and neck, taps Winona restlessly. For endless microts there is silence, and you close your eyes.
Eventually, he sighs and you know he has reached a decision.
“I hope you meant what you said… about fate.” He chooses the words deliberately, leans over to touch his lips to your forehead, gently. With a creak of leather he straightens and walks away, out of the maintenance bay, out of your life. He doesn’t look back.
* * *
You fly your prowler gratefully into the cold void of space. When you are past Moya’s sensor range, Pilot will relay your message to Crichton, who flew his module in the opposite direction of your vector.
You don’t hate him. But you need time, and you want him to understand. You picked your words carefully, and hope they will be enough.
We’re in the hands of fate now…we have to trust in that. Fly safe.
Goodbye, John Crichton.
Rating: PG-13, for angst and mature themes
Spoilers: Season 3, from Eat Me through DWTB
Beta: *blows kisses to Kixxa*
Disclaimer: Just took them out to play---for fun, not for profit---and then put them right back in Henson's toybox.
Author's Notes: This is the complete version of Wicked Game, which was written for the Farscape Friday "Games People Play" challenge.
Wicked Game
by StarsGoBlue
The world was on fire
and
No one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you
and
I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you
No, I don't wanna fall in love
No, I don't wanna fall in love
With you
-Wicked Game (Chris Isaak)
The silver disc arcs in a high parabola, spinning and twisting, until it reaches its zenith and begins to plummet. Her eyes, dark with emotion, rise and fall as she follows its course. She swallows and the long, elegant line of her throat rolls with the peristalsis.
You are unable to tear your gaze away from her face to see your future as it unfolds before you. Even without the gift of precognition, you know Lady Luck will spurn you---recent events have proven, in fact, that you’re little more than Fate’s bitch.
So you spend these last, precious microts trying to etch every detail of her into your mind’s eye. The sharp contours of cheekbone and jaw, emphasized by the severe braid that trails midway down her rigid spine. The slight swell of her breast, the angular join of neck and shoulder. Clenched fists pressed white-knuckled against her thighs, pale abdomen taut under the emerald green shirt. The porcelain of her exposed skin, blue veins tracing the rush of blood beneath the surface as her heart races.
Your eyes burn with the effort to memorize her, to capture something of her you can keep forever---and then your time is up. A metallic clink and rattle heralds the coin’s contact with the maintenance bay floor. Your destiny has arrived at your feet.
Neither of you looks down.
She meets your unflinching stare, and with every fiber of your being, you will her to acquiesce, to submit and surrender to your need for her. Without her, you have nothing. You hold your breath, fight the sweeping panic, and feverishly pray please, please, please…
For a long moment, she looks at you unhappily, conflicted and confused, and you know that she sees you for the first time since her return. Memories play behind her eyes and she wavers, she is so close to capitulation… then something indefinable and fleeting strengthens her resolve.
She leans down fluidly, graceful fingers grasping the heavy coin. She straightens---as if bracing herself against a blow---and opens her hand.
Gambled, and lost.
* * *
Fate has decreed he must let you go. But he is John Crichton (not your John Crichton) and you doubt it will be that simple.
Although your outstretched hand is steady, your mind is a jumble of confused thought. Just microts ago, you’d ducked your head to avoid him even as your traitorous lips had parted in anticipation that he would find your mouth. Your lips still tingle with the feel of his; the familiar taste you’d savored at leisure only scant weekens before.
Once more it had been perfect. You’d basked in the radiant heat of him---replacing the memory of cold and lifeless flesh---breathed in his gentle kiss, shivered as his warm skin brushed your cheek.
You’d craved his touch, his scent… so tempting, so easy to close your eyes and forget.
Unthinkable. Unforgivable. Your John is dead.
Now, meeting this one’s eyes, you see him twitch at the coin’s verdict, though he appears unsurprised. And you can’t stop the burning anger that wells up from some dark spot hidden deep within ---you’re the one who is bereft, you’re the one who watched as he died, as his skin swelled and cracked and seeped, you’re the one who can’t escape the constant, aching reminder of your loss. The man standing before you can’t conceive of it, the yawning, empty part of your soul that’s been torn away, because you allowed yourself to feel for him… for John.
You slap the coin down on a storage unit and turn away to finish loading your prowler.
His laugh is strangled, bitter---it reverberates along your spinal cord and settles in your chest, an icy sliver of pain, and you try to harden your heart but it frelling hurts and you’re so tired of hurting.
This Crichton is wounded, but at least he lives. You must go.
You should have expected it the second time---when has this stubborn man ever given up? But you’re caught off balance once again when he catches your arm, spinning you into his crushing embrace. Ink-stained fingers press fiercely against your bicep; his other arm snakes around your shoulders, seizing the back of your neck as he shoves you hard against the bulkhead. He doesn’t plead, doesn’t coax---his mouth overwhelms yours and he smothers you in a furious kiss, tongue ferociously insistent, teeth scraping your lips.
His forehead cracks into yours, hips grinding in frustrated need, triggering in your faithless body an unwelcome echo of desire. For one microt you want nothing more than to crawl inside his skin, be one with him and keep him from harm, stay with him forever.
But this Crichton is not yours… this is not the man you wanted to join in death, on Valldon.
So you push against him, but he has the strength of desperation and where once he was soft, now there is hard muscle and ropy sinew, and he’s not giving you up without a fight. Pressed together so tightly, you can’t sweep his legs from under him, but while he’s punishing your lips you work an arm free and bury a fist deep in his gut.
He grunts and you slip free of his mouth, but your head snaps back, hair tangled in his frantic fingers. So you stamp your booted foot down on his, angling for the vulnerable instep and he flinches, giving you the opportunity you need to force him to arm’s length.
Aboard Moya you’ve managed, somehow, to contain your rage and despair beneath a brittle veneer of stoicism, but this physical and emotional tug-of-war shatters your restraint. Crichton’s learned since his first days, and ducks the pantak jab, but you clout him a good one just above one ear. He grimaces, but doesn’t lose his hold on your braid.
“Frell you, Crichton, you bastard,” you snarl, panting. “Let me go.”
He’s regained a measure of self-control, but this is not the John Crichton you left behind on Moya, who would have been guilt-ridden and contrite after such ruthless, aggressive behavior.
“Damn you, Aeryn,” he rasps, his own chest heaving, “How the hell can you just walk away without even giving me a chance?”
The belligerent set of his jaw and hostile blue-eyed glare should be your salvation, should feed your fury and compel you to end the skirmish by knocking him on his ass. Instead, a thousand unshed tears prick your eyes, gasping breaths slide into sobs and you drop to your knees, crying silently before him as you cried over John in the privacy of Crais’ quarters aboard Talyn.
“God, Aeryn,” he chokes above you, releasing your braid to stroke your wet cheek.
You are drained, and if he persists you will surrender but nothing will be made right. You force yourself to raise your head and look him in the eye, but can only summon a weary, nearly inaudible whisper.
“I can’t stand to look at you. It’s too much… I can’t.”
He recoils, hissing in shock as your words assail his resolve. Shoulders hunched, he looks down and away with a mirthless chuckle, rolls his head and neck, taps Winona restlessly. For endless microts there is silence, and you close your eyes.
Eventually, he sighs and you know he has reached a decision.
“I hope you meant what you said… about fate.” He chooses the words deliberately, leans over to touch his lips to your forehead, gently. With a creak of leather he straightens and walks away, out of the maintenance bay, out of your life. He doesn’t look back.
* * *
You fly your prowler gratefully into the cold void of space. When you are past Moya’s sensor range, Pilot will relay your message to Crichton, who flew his module in the opposite direction of your vector.
You don’t hate him. But you need time, and you want him to understand. You picked your words carefully, and hope they will be enough.
We’re in the hands of fate now…we have to trust in that. Fly safe.
Goodbye, John Crichton.