TITLE: Define Happiness
E-MAILl: eli @ popullus.net
RATING: PG-13
POSTED: Aug. 30, 2003
SUMMARY: Five things that never happened to Chiana
AUTHOR NOTES: I never intended to do a "five things," and I certainly didn't intend to do *this* one, but here it is. Thanks to Apathy and Kernezelda for the beta, no matter what got in their way.
STORY NOTES: Spoilers through Bad Timing, just to be sure. Although even I couldn't tell you when #2 or #4 branch off from canon. And damage is done (this is Farscape, after all), but I imply more than I show.
DISCLAIMER: Heap the credit and blame on others. Read.
1.
Falling, bouncing, shining through the smoke. She tracks the droplet, tracks its every shiver and quake. That droplet is going to be her savior.
One...
...twelve...
...nine...
...four...
...nineteen...
...sixteen...
...seven.
The bets she casts without hesitation each time, they start small, but the pile rising beside her attracts a crowd and a crowd attracts attention. She notices. As she calls a last number and then sweeps up the credits that officially give her a "haul," she sees the signal pass from watcher to enforcer. Latching onto the arm of a hulk of a man -- whose size shields her, though it serves as no defense for its possessor against her smile -- she makes her way out the door to laugh at the bright sun that has appeared to celebrate with her.
The ship, its close quarters beyond cramped now that the hulk has a passenger on his lap, reflects that sun, momentarily blinding her while it flies her one step closer to Nerri.
2.
"What," she snags a flailing hand as it flies behind its owner on its way out the door, "do you think you're doing, nixar?"
"Toys!"
"Yeah, toys." Toys are the reason for everything, and it's comforting to see that certainty has passed on to the blood of the child dancing in circles around her. "But," she tries to frown, "toys are supposed to stay out of the field, aren't they? Wouldn't want one of them getting lost and crushed by the plow because your father doesn't seem to be capable of turning the blade quick enough."
"Nooo." A tiny head drops and she crouches to pull it against her shoulder in time to hear the lisp, "Crushed toys bad."
A heavy boot steps into her vision and the annoyance in the voice of its owner stops her giggle. "And what are you implying, Chiana, 'doesn't seem capab-?'"
"Aw, nothing, John." She nuzzles the warmth curled close to her heart before looking up to award him with a satisfied grin. "Slow...can be good."
Blue eyes widen in shock as she broadens the grin. He clears his throat.
Her laugh follows him back to their room, and she soon will as well.
3.
She doesn't think about it. Really she doesn't, not all the time. Maybe most of the time, but no more than would be normal and not when she can help it.
Those eyes bright with panic, confusion, tears...but no blame. Why no blame? It relieved her then, but now it's what haunts her in her dreams about those eyes.
Tears form in her own and she forces them to dry without a helping hand.
Nerri notices -- does she count on him to? -- and puts his hand on her arm. She rests her head on that support and wraps her arm around his waist, timing her breathing to his so they will hear any other breaths that intrude. They've been together again so long now that the danger of words is not often part of the risk they face.
Few have that luxury. Connecting like that, it's special. She had forgotten, had made herself forget...a connection that frayed when she stood facing Crichton over Aeryn, who lay far too still on a floor that glistened far too much...a connection that snapped when she turned from his eyes and walked away.
Thinking, remembering, she willingly takes the risk. "Do you ever want to know-"
His hand tightens and offers her a gift: "No, Chiana. You arrived when you were needed. That is enough."
She pushes up to press cold lips to Nerri's cheek in gratitude, then hooks her other arm around him to anchor her in the present.
4.
...Different.
Directions, harsher. Don't fear. Do almost shudder. Would, if all levels used.
Fear, personal. Unshared before. Not understand now. No way to. Cannot relate.
Love, solid. Love touch, not feeling. Stroking hands, not minds. Still strong.
Must stay slow. Speak small. Overwhelm bad. Wrong. Cause disconnect.
Cannot be self. Not with small one where big one not.
Where?
Why not here?
**
She feels the moan through every part of her, has felt it for cycles. It's getting stronger. Even if it is silent.
"What's wrong Moya?"
Chiana tries to whisper her worry through a throat that is too large to speak softly. But no one else ever frelling understood; not even D'Argo, who should've understood. They all changed and they only had to change on their own, so when they changed, they left. But she wasn't alone. And she couldn't leave. She had to watch Pilot die with her face, but without teaching her his body. So she's left speaking only to herself.
"Why can't I tell what's wrong?"
5.
The naïve Sebacean -- she smirks down at his slack face before pushing herself up, avoiding placing her hands in the blood by bracing them on his chest -- had been a fool.
Kicking the collar as far as she can manage, she slides down the corridor the opposite direction. Who knows if it's the right way to get to the bay and who cares? She just has to avoid Salis long enough to make her way around whatever half of this ship she's stuck on. What matters is that he can press all the buttons he wants, she's not going to jerk and writhe for his pleasure any more. Not when he's standing on the other side of bars and locks. Not when he's lying back prodding her to dance for him.
A noise, a growl makes her tense.
She never makes it through the spin. The floor, it's no colder than the glare of the Peacekeeper, her weapon settling against her side for the final shot.
##
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