The Way It Should Be:
A Farscape fanfiction
*****
WAFF
Heavy AU
Spoilers for the episode shown 9 March 2001
*****
Farscape belongs to its creators.  Even if they are a bunch of
frelling sadistic bastards on the same level as Anno Hideaki.
**********
Spoiler Space















     He woke screaming.  "Aeryn!"

     "John?"  And she was there.  Alive.  Real.  Just that little bit
cooler to the touch than a human.  Musty-sweet-spicy, the natural
scent of a healthy Sebacean, once alien, more familiar now than jet
fuel or morning coffee.  Her arms about him, and her head laid on
his shoulder.  "What is it?"

     "Aeryn.  You were.. drowned.  In an ice lake.  I did it. 
Scorpius was inside my head."  He held her tightly, fingers twining
around her braid, feeling the hard smooth muscles-- their
attachments ever so subtly different to a human's-- tense and relax
against his skin.  .

     "John?  Aeryn?"  And she was sitting up in bed, nuzzling his
other shoulder.  Aeryn reached out with the thoughtlessness of
much practice to draw her into their embrace.  Blonde hair, longer
than when they'd first met, trailed across her forearm and down his
chest.  He took one arm from around Aeryn, holding her tightly
with the other, and slipped it about Gilina's shoulders.

     "Gilina?  You... you were dead, too.  You were shot when
they broke me out of the Gammak base."

     "I'm here."

     "We're here."

     "And we're never leaving."

     "Scorpius did it."

     Aeryn gently kissed him on the cheek.  "John, there isn't
anyone named Scorpius.  He's a monster in a story for children. 
Nothing more."

     "But... I..."

     "It was a dream.  A nightmare."  Gilina kissed his other
cheek.

     "Thank God."  He held his wives to him.  Already the
nightmare was fading away, the cycles of agony and guilt.  None of
it was real.  But they were.  And so were the soft sounds of Moya's
night, the DRDs scuttling about their tasks, the quiet pulse of the
leviathan's systems.

     "Thank Goddess," two soft voices murmured in sleepy
consort.  The cabin was dim around them, illuminated only by the
faint light of the tiny glowbulb before a portrait of a bearded man
and a gray-haired woman, ancient Peacekeeper saints depicted in
soft-coloured enamel.

     Aeryn murmured something his microbes refused to render. 
They'd taught him enough Old Sebacean to keep him from making
a complete fool of himself at the wedding, but three cycles later he
was still struggling with the archaic language of religious ceremony
and its multiple dialects.  Gilina took it up.  He listened respectfully
until the end, and joined in the whispered "Ahmiin" and the soft
triple kiss that followed it.

     "What was that?"

     "A prayer.  Now lie down."

     "Yes, Officer Sun."  She cuddled against his chest, and he
wrapped his arm around her.

     Gilina nuzzled the back of his neck.  "An old one.  So
nightmares don't come true."

     "Now go to sleep," Aeryn said.  "We rendezvous with
Talyn tomorrow at eight arns."

     "And Crais and Teague's brood won't be happy if their
Uncle Crichton isn't awake enough to play foodbowl."

     "Football."

     "Whatever."  The two women's hands twined together,
resting on their husband's hip.  A few microts later, all three were
asleep.
**********
     I hammered this out immediately after seeing the episode
shown on 9 March 2001.  Call it therapy.  A hug from one of my
sweethearts would have been better.  Finding the scriptwriter and
giving him/her/it a piece of my mind might have worked almost as
well.  Unfortunately, neither was available.

     I am sick and tired of all my favourite shows turning into
some sort of sadistic swipe at the fans!  Damn it to nine hells, we
may be a bunch of geeks, but we love these characters.  For our
sins.  I'm hoping that somehow Farscape and the X-files will turn
around, but I have a nasty feeling that the Anno virus has infected
their creators.  For God's sake, if you're going to off them, at least
give them a chance to go out right.  Tragedy is fine, but make it
decent tragedy, not this vicious existential garbage, please.  People
we've come to care for so much, like Crichton and Aeryn, Scully
and Mulder, Asuka and Shinji and Rei and Misato, they deserve a
chance to go down together, back to back, if they deserve nothing
else.  Together in life, together in death.  End of story.  Just
because the idiots who write "literary fiction" say nasty things
about "genre fiction" doesn't mean you have to listen to the stupid
bastards and try to prove how sophisticated you are by being
pointlessly vicious, just like them.  There's a reason why only critics
and English majors like that garbage.