The Chrysalis - Part 3
It was easily the worst kiss she had received in her entire life. There had been some awkward, poorly
delivered, overly wet kisses when she was a senior cadet that came close to being as unpleasant, but those
had been the result of inexperience, the first fumbling forays into the realm of physical release by both her and
her partner at the time. This was entirely different. It was rough and hesitant at the same time; an affair
consisting of poor aim, aggression that wasn’t necessary, hunger, need, tension, and uncertainty, all wrapped
up into a confused mixture that got worse as he tried harder. She gave him several microts to sort it out,
hoping he could resolve the difficulties on his own. When the situation didn’t improve, she cradled his face in
both hands and pulled away.
“Relax,” she said. “Don’t force it.”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and ventured a grin. The nervous attempt at producing a smile looked
more like he had a bad case of stomach cramps than an expression of happiness … which under the
circumstances might have been true.
“Relax,” she said again. “I’m here; you’re here. That’s all that matters for the next few microts. Just let it
happen.”
John let out another long sigh, his shoulders dropped several denches, an outward reflection of an inner effort
to relax, and he tried again. His technique swung to the other end of the scale. This was little more than a
fleeting brush of his lips across hers, a soft, warm whisper that lingered barely long enough for her to register
that he had touched her. It was sweet, it was loving, and it was so brief it bordered on ethereal, the phantom
touch of an imagined sprite that couldn’t be captured.
He stepped back, ran his tongue across his lower lip, and seemed to quiver. The shudder was so slight that
she wasn’t sure she had actually seen it; more a suggestion of movement than visible shaking. It might have
been a mild chill from the cooler air circulating through the alcove, or it might have been an invisible burden
falling away from his shoulders, an easing of a moral weight that had been threatening to beat him down. After
several microts had passed without any further attempt to kiss her, Aeryn cautiously crossed the short distance
separating them, stopped with her fingertips resting lightly on his hips, and raised her lips toward his, inviting
another, more vigorous contact.
Normally, kissing John was a full-body endeavor. It didn’t matter if they were standing, propped up against one
of Moya’s bulkheads, sitting, or lying down, and it didn’t matter whether they were moving or standing still. The
touch of their lips was always the beginning of an intense physical effort, summoning a reaction from every
muscle in her body all the way down to her toes. She often thought that it was a lesser form of love making,
one that drew tide-like surges of excitement from the pit of her stomach until her entire body begged to move in
time with the smaller motions of lips and tongues.
Their third kiss lacked that aggressive physicality. As with the second, it felt as much as though he was
reassuring himself that he could be gentle as an affirmation that he loved her. All hints of desperation and
hunger were missing entirely. There was no eager escalation of tongues, no panting breaths, no sense of
need or insecurity. There was only the light touch of his lips against hers, a gentle adjustment for a better
marriage of surfaces, and then a heavier but still hesitant pressure, gradually involving more desire.
It was enough. It was sufficient to convince Aeryn that the evening’s argument, the thrown objects, the yelling,
and the almost uncontainable fear that her approach wasn’t the correct way to handle John’s depression had
been worth the effort. When his arm snaked around her shoulders and pulled her more firmly against his
chest, the last of her worries dissolved so thoroughly they might never have existed. It left behind a pleasantly
empty spot in the pit of her stomach, a vacuous intestinal cavern that floated peacefully in the center of her
being, waiting to be filled up with something far more pleasant than grief and concern and the type of pain that
could only come from love. It was a sphere of longing that began to take on a life and an interest all its own,
paying rapt attention to their kiss, waiting impatiently for the warmth of physical proximity and sexual excitement
to goad it into an inferno of desire.
Aeryn took in a breath, pressed against John a little harder, trying to coax him into a more sensuous effort, and
felt the first uncoiling of the internal fullness that would eventually, given enough provocation, lead to orgasm.
An isolated tendril of mist drifting on a breath of wind would have had more substance than the warm sensation
that began snaking its way upward inside her body, moving from belly to chest to the back of her neck and
eventually to the inside of her head. It was more phantom than fact; a mere suggestion of what might lie ahead
rather than a true hint of arousal, a promise of ecstasy yet to come.
There was a lingering problem however, that could not be ignored no matter how great her desire to move
beyond standing quietly and kissing him. It was a barricade standing between her and where she wanted to
wind up by the end of the night, which meant it had to be resolved … soon.
“You need to finish washing,” she said into his lips.
John tightened his embrace. “I’m busy. Stop nagging me.”
“If you don’t pick up a washball and start scrubbing in the next ten microts, you are going to be standing here
with no one but the DRD’s to keep you company.”
As one, they looked down at where two of the little robots were gathering up the last of the loose hair littering
the floor. Two pairs of eyestalks gazed up at them for several microts, contemplating the eyes staring
downward, and then swiveled back to their task, perhaps silently suggesting that the two biological creatures
standing above them should do the same.
Aeryn grabbed one of the squashy washballs off a shelf and thrust it into John’s hands. “Get to work.”
“Only if you finish undressing,” he said. “If you get to wear a bathing suit, then I want one too.”
“I’m not the one who is covered in dirt. Get in there.” Aeryn gave him a gentle two-handed shove, grabbed a
second washball and a tub of cleanser, and followed him into the warm torrents and billows of steam.
The thick layers of dirt and the caked-on deposits of purplish sludge disappeared all too fast with the two of
them working together. After the lengthy battle to remove his clothing, the painstaking inspection for the
potentially fatal rash, and the leisurely process of shaving and cutting his hair, it didn’t seem fair that this
particular stage of the process should progress so rapidly. She wanted to linger over every square dench of
his skin, taking her time, acquainting herself with the alterations that hunger had wrought on him. There were
ribs and shoulders begging to be touched, the bumpy ladder of his spine flexing with each of his movements,
and the small of his back waiting to be scrubbed clean and explored. There was the new leanness through his
waist that she liked, and clearly defined thigh muscles that tempted her fingers with each small shift of his
weight. There were humps and ridges, gaunt hollows, tightly strung cords of tendons and knobs of bone -- all
crying out to be caressed and discovered anew.
It seemed only fair that she should have the time to step back, a dripping washball sitting idle in her hands, and
be mesmerized by the water and bubbles flooding over his skin. The patterns, like the body, had changed in
subtle ways. She wanted to guide John to the spot where the heaviest portion of the shower pummeled the
back of his neck, and then watch how the snaking waterfalls gathered between jutting shoulder blades, dropped
along his spine to his buttocks, and then clung as if by magic to the back of his legs until they hit the floor.
When he braced himself against one wall and propped an ankle on one knee in order to scrub his foot, she
wanted him to linger long after it was clean. She wished there was time to watch the water cascade over the
almost hairless skull so she could pay more attention to the way identical streams ran behind his ears, coursed
along the hollows at the side of his neck, and then rejoined at the base of John’s throat before continuing the
downward plunge. If John had been more relaxed, less focused on what he was doing, she might have washed
his feet for him, hoping for the physical reaction that normally occurred whenever she scrubbed behind his
toes.
None of that happened. John straightened up from washing his feet, looked at Aeryn, and tossed his washball
to one side. “Time to get rid of the bathing suit,” he said. “Why in heaven’s name are you still dressed?”
Aeryn gestured toward the front of her body. “You were filthy. I didn’t feel like brushing up against all that
dirt.”
“And now?” he asked, stepping closer.
“And now you’re almost clean.”
John ran his fingers under the band of her top, gave it an expert stretch to free her breasts, and lifted it, waiting
for her to raise her arms so it would slide easily over her head. It was a simple, familiar movement, one
consisting of nothing more than the brief touch of his fingers against her ribs and the care John took to make
sure the sodden garment didn’t become tangled in her wet hair, and yet it ignited a comforting glow deep within
her belly. The ball of warmth continued to expand, egged on by the brush of the warm, moisture-laden air
across her bare breasts, the streaming caresses of hot water, and the way John knelt down in front of her in
order to lower her briefs to her ankles. He could have just as easily remained standing and let her water-
logged trunks drop away under their own weight, the same way his shorts had slopped to the floor earlier.
Instead, he knelt, waited while she stepped out of her last bit of clothing, and then looked up at her from that
vantage point.
Aeryn gazed down at him, ran her hand lightly down his cheek, and thought about how close she had come to
losing him and what it had taken to get him back. The near loss begged for slow, languorous exploration of his
body and an endless supply of warm water. She wanted to back John up against the wall and have him stand
with his arms raised, just as she had been poised several microts earlier. She wanted him to stay that way,
muscles and skin pulled taut, while she ran her hands and the sudsy washball across his stomach and chest
and tried to imagine what it felt like to be him, what it felt like to have his muscles and bones touched in that
manner without the extra padding of the lost weight, to have her hands closer to the center of his being,
whether the sensations would be more intense for being stripped down to the most basic essence of his
physical self.
She could only imagine what it would be like to turn him around so she was standing behind him, wrap her arms
around his chest, and measure him with her body, discovering the necessary adjustments to allow for a
comfortable marriage of breast to shoulders, arms to ribs, pelvis to buttocks. They could stand like that for half
an arn or more, warm and secluded, pretending for a short time that they were the last two people living aboard
Moya.
Aeryn was brought back to the less rapturous reality of her surroundings by the touch of warm fingers exploring
her midsection. While she had been dreaming of what they could do with enough soap and no interruptions,
John had changed positions. He was kneeling alongside her left hip instead of in front of her, fingers beginning
a cautious exploration of her midsection.
“Other side,” she said. “Right side.”
John made the adjustment. One hand stroked her belly several times, pressing harder than a simple caress
would require, and then he worked his way gradually around to her back. With the exception of a brief stretch
to one side in order to turn off the water, Aeryn stood without moving, letting him massage and prod, allowing
him to investigate the focal point that had set off so much suffering for both of them.
“Here?” he asked. He was alternating between brushing his fingers across her skin and probing more deeply,
seeking some hint as to where she had been shot.
“A little higher.” Twisting, she guided his hand to where the worst of the heat and agony had burrowed into her
back while she was mid-stride. “There.” The actual impact point still had no feeling. Nerves took more time to
recover than bone and muscle. The medicians on board the Command Carrier had assured her that the
recovery would be complete. Assuming that their diagnosis was correct, some day she would once again feel
the drifting migration of John’s kisses up her side and back, and the way her lower back fit neatly into his hands
whenever he supported her weight during their lovemaking. But for now his fingertips arrived at a spot close to
her hip, disappeared for the length of time it took them to transition across the center of the damaged area,
and then made their way slowly up her side.
“Peacekeepers,” John said. The single word asked how and why she had gotten help from the regime that had
been their enemy for so many cycles.
“Rygel, with full support from the Eidelon Council of Priests.” She let John work it out from there.
“Blackmail,” he concluded immediately.
“From the ruler of the Hynerian Empire,” she said, agreeing.
“There’s no scar.” A firmer touch, more insistent, tested the healed flesh.
“Rygel threatened to declare war against the Peacekeepers if the medical personnel didn’t assign their best
specialists to take care of me. Feel here.” She took his right hand in both of hers and pressed hard,
encouraging him to dig deep in order to find bone. “There.”
The strong grasp lingered, two fingers pressing cautiously at first and then with more assurance when she
didn’t flinch or pull away, finding and then exploring the ridged seam within her body. John caught on as quickly
as he understood most things in the universe. “A bone graft,” he said. The fingers walked up her side, finding
each repair in quick succession. “Several bone grafts.”
“Four.”
“It’s my fault,” came a depressed-sounding whisper. “It was my crummy plan.”
“These are better than the originals. Stronger. It’s an improvement.” She knelt down so she could look at him
face to face. “You did not kill me.”
The guilt-ridden Crichton made a brief reappearance, mostly in his eyes. John shook his head and refused to
meet her stare.
“This was not your fault,” she said. “We made the decision together.”
His eyes flickered toward hers several times, finally coming to rest somewhere half way between the floor and
Aeryn’s face. Several microts passed. The only sounds in the small enclosure were the hollow echoing gurgle
that Moya’s drains sometimes made, and the slow pattering drip coming from one of the sodden washballs. A
puddle shivered, shifted to one side, and dissolved into snaking rivers that hurried toward the drains: an
everyday phenomenon that meant Moya had just changed course or velocity. John ran his hand over the top
of his head, scratched lightly at a spot near the base of his skull, and then nodded. “Got it,” he said finally.
“Time to move on.”
“Good.” Aeryn straightened up, expecting him to come with her.
John stayed where he was, kneeling in front of her. He wrapped his arms around her hips and waist, and
hugged her like that, eyes closed, his head turned to the side so one ear was pressed against her stomach.
After several microts of peaceful silence, he whispered, “What about inside?”
“Do you mean can I have more children?” she said.
John nodded. It was an odd sensation: the warm smooth skin of his cheek rubbing gently up and down against
her stomach, as though he were performing an odd kind of massage with his face. It wasn’t unpleasant -- only
peculiar. She was accustomed to having him put his head on her chest or stomach when they were lying
together. It was one of John’s many idiosyncrasies. He loved listening to her heart or even her stomach, as
though the sounds provided critical proof that she was alive and lying beside him. This was not the same
thing. This involved the warmth and moisture of recently washed skin, the soft brush of the very short hair
rocking out a slow tempo against a ticklish spot just beneath her ribs, and the occasional bump of his nose
against her midriff.
Aeryn let her fingers drift across the top of his head, spending the microts immersed in the delicate touch of
hair drifting against her fingertips. It wasn’t bristly the way his beard got when it was the same length. There
was a lie to it -- stiffer when she brushed it in one direction, softer when she reversed direction -- but it was an
enticingly soft resistance, like a winter animal’s fur that had been trimmed very short. It felt nice.
“Can we have more children?” John asked again.
“Only if I feel like it,” Aeryn told him. “I’m still not certain about this ‘three’ thing you keep talking about.”
He didn’t move except to hug her tighter, clutching her more firmly around the middle of her body while
managing to relax at the same time. The overall effect being transmitted through their contact was one of
profound relief.
She ran both hands over the top of his head several more times, finishing off by rubbing both thumbs along the
front of his hairline while using the rest of her fingers to scratch lightly at his temples. “I think I like it this way.
Were you planning on keeping it this short?”
John’s right hand performed a hesitant, uncertain exploration of his head. The wandering investigation lasted
for as long as it took to get to his feet. “Don’t count on it. I forgot one thing about not having any hair.”
“What’s that?”
He grinned. “It’s drafty. My noggin’s naked.”
“That is not all that is naked.”
“You’re naked,” he said, moving closer.
“So are you, and you are also not quite clean.” Aeryn caught him before he could complete the kiss he was
aiming for, turned him around, and pushed him back into the center of the shower enclosure. “Finish bathing
and then we can talk some more about what is naked.”
“I’ll finish bathing and then I want to see the squirt,” he said, mimicking her intonation and cadence.
“That can wait until tomorrow.”
John turned to face her. “Aeryn, I want to see my son.” The demand was delivered in a slow, quietly emphatic
voice. For no reason she could explain, the lack of forcefulness managed to strengthen his insistence rather
than detract from it.
“You have seen him several times over the past few days. You can wait until tomorrow.” Aeryn clapped a wet
hand over his mouth, preventing a response. “He is sleeping. Do not wake a sleeping infant. Do you
understand?” She waited for a nod.
“Mie ken geh ihnenould mifoud magking mihm,” John said into the palm of her hand.
She took her hand away. “What?”
“I said I can get in and out without waking him,” he repeated. “I just want to see him.”
“No. He’ll wake up. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
“He might already be awake,” John tried.
“If he was awake, Rygel would have brought him down here by now and demanded that I take care of our
screaming brat. D’Argo is sleeping. I’m not going to give you permission to wake him up in the middle of the
night. He’ll never go back to sleep.”
“Aeryn,” he began, still arguing.
“We arrive at Hyneria the day after tomorrow,” said Aeryn. “After that, there will be no time for us. I want
tonight. Tonight is for you and me.”
Guilt reappeared. It was a less intense form of what she had been seeing over the past several days,
generated by a different type of remorse. “I haven’t been paying a whole lot of attention to you lately,” John
said.
Aeryn stepped close, looking into his eyes. She wrapped her arms around his midsection, letting her fingers
rest at the small of his back for a brief moment, then slid her hands down to his buttocks and pulled his hips
firmly against her pelvis. “This is your chance to make up for that. Tonight.”
The lingering guilt shifted, softening several degrees into willing compliance. This time he was the one who
cupped her face in both hands while he lowered his head the short distance necessary to kiss her. The John
Crichton she knew and loved was suddenly there, with all his expertise at kindling physical desire. Gone was
the fumbling uncertainty, the ineptitude, the awkward pressure of lips that didn’t know what they were supposed
to be doing. This caress was every bit the passionate, demanding exercise that Aeryn had come to expect and
crave from him.
Her arms shifted from his waist to his shoulders, clutching him tightly, seeking even more contact. He
responded in kind. One of John’s hands pressed against the lower portion of her buttocks, urging her upwards,
encouraging Aeryn to insinuate herself even more closely against his body, the first step in transforming two
entities into one. It took a small hop, as always, and then she was where she had wanted to be from the first
moment she walked into their cell over an arn earlier: legs wrapped around his waist, the slimmer hips requiring
an adjustment of thigh and knees to keep from slipping down his body, safe and enfolded within his embrace.
One of John’s arms left her shoulders. She could see the flash of pale skin groping to one side out of the
corner of her eye, and for a moment she thought her weight was too much for him, that he was reaching for the
wall to steady himself. Before she could suggest that he put her down, his hand fastened on the shower
control, gave it a sharp twist, and he walked them back together into the spray.
There were few things in life Aeryn enjoyed as much as being in the shower with John. At times she almost
preferred it to the actual act of recreating. She had never devoted a great deal of thought to why she liked it so
much; all that mattered to her was that the combination of the hot water flooding over their intertwined bodies,
coupled with John’s presence, had the power to transport her to a physical state that resembled the first stages
of an orgasm, where physical pleasure became so intense it took on some of the traits of discomfort.
It might have been the all over warm massage of the water, or the way the lighter splashes and trickles
increased her awareness of John’s firmer touch against legs or arms or her breasts; or it might have been the
moisture itself, although she didn’t understand why that would make a difference in how her body responded. It
might have been the steady, relaxing drumming on her scalp, or the marriage of heat and the simultaneous
envelopment of arm, legs, and liquid downfall. It might have been a combination of all those factors. But in the
end, all she cared about was that John Crichton was hugging, stroking, and kissing her, cherishing her body
with all the reverence he had ever shown in the past.
“We haven’t finished,” he said with his lips brushing the underside of her throat.
She lipped a kiss against the corner of his eyebrow, drawing away a tiny tide of fresh-tasting water. “I thought
we were just getting started.”
His laugh was a rumbling resonation transmitted through the shared contact between their bodies, touch rather
than sound conveying his humor. “Smart ass.”
“That’s not the part of my body I use for thinking, John.”
“Unlike me.”
“You don’t use that part either.”
“Something close to it,” he said.
There was no opportunity for a comeback. They were on the move again, drifting farther into the shower
enclosure until her back fetched up against the wall with a damp slap. Aeryn didn’t question the adjustment;
she knew the reason. It was easier on John this way, less tiring if he didn’t have to support her weight and
make sure she didn’t tip over backwards at the same time. He was standing beneath the center of the
downpour now, droplets bursting into a misty spray against his face, clear rivulets streaking down his cheeks
and upper chest. Aeryn grasped him along either side of his head beneath the ears and kissed him hard,
intent on the full barrage of sensations, seeking the explosion of excitement that lips and tongues could
achieve.
It worked at first. She could feel his desire in the way his body reacted, in the tensing and relaxing of muscles,
the small surges of his body pressing against hers, in the increasingly demanding touch of hands and lips.
Then came a fleeting break in the progression. It was nothing so pronounced as John drawing away; he merely
relaxed for less than a microt before resuming the previous level of effort. It was over almost before she was
certain it was there. The passionate straining against her resumed, followed by another small hiccup in his
enthusiasm, and then another. Each interruption lasted longer than the one before.
Aeryn pulled away slowly, waiting to see if he would object. What greeted her was an expression she would
have termed ‘furtive embarrassment’. If she had caught a junior cadet looking like that while she was still a
Peacekeeper officer, she would have subjected the youngster to a brief on-the-spot interrogation, expecting to
turn up a minor infraction or a small bit of foolishness that violated regulations. Coming from John, the evasive
look encompassed an inner turmoil nowhere near as innocuous as a cadet’s futile attempts to safeguard a
harmless secret. Aeryn was certain that asking him about it would only make things worse. Whatever was
bothering him now, it undoubtedly had something to do with his physical reaction to her proximity, which meant
that he would be loathe to talk about it even at the best of times.
She eased out of his embrace, reaching for the floor with one foot. He released her without putting up a fight,
another signal that he wasn’t behaving normally. “Finish washing,” she said once she was standing on her
own, “before Moya runs out of water.”
All that was left was the final thick-lathered scrubbing; two people working in tandem to search out, locate and
remove the few remaining shadows of ground-in dirt. Their progress was interrupted frequently by extended
slippery hugs, by John’s attempts to kiss her, and by what he claimed were efforts to clean errant streaks of dirt
off her body. It was exactly the sort of combative, playful wrestling she had been hoping for all evening.
There was one thing that did not occur however, and that was arousal. John was cheerful, loving, and content
to go on kissing and hugging for arns as far as she could tell. But the usual outcome of this sort of bubbly body
contact hadn’t made itself apparent. She couldn’t remember ever being in the shower with him without it
happening. John in the shower seemed to be the definition of the word ‘aroused’. Under normal
circumstances, preventing him from getting physically excited was the challenge, not the other way around.
The moment came when he was as clean as a single evening’s worth of scouring could get him, there was no
sign that any additional water-assisted fondling was going to accomplish what her attempts had not achieved
thus far, and she could think of no reason to go one splashing about in the shower. Aeryn ran her head and
shoulders beneath the shower one last time, face upturned so all her hair was swept into one thick drenched
mass hanging down her shoulders, and then she turned the water off.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *