TITLE: "A Slip of the Tongue"
AUTHOR: Aiobheann
RATING: R for language, implied m/m relationship
SUMMARY: Crichton goes out on the town with D'Argo. Drinks happen, some drunkenness happens, some puking happens, Crichton rediscovers his Southern roots, and says something he might not have said sober. Yes, this one's a downer, but I promise I'll make up for it next time. Part 5 of the "Brothers" series.
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me, they belong to Henson, all hail TPTB, yadda yadda yadda. I just like to let the boys cut loose every once in a while. No copyright infringement is intended. 1999, Aiobheann.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please. slashdiva@yahoo.com
"Crichton? What are you doing?" D'Argo asked.
"Nothing." Crichton hastily balled up the scrap of paper he'd been scribbling on and stuck it in his pocket. He shoved his chair back and got up from the table, walking over to what D'Argo had come to think of as the "fridge", since that's what Crichton always called it, and pulling out a drink.
"It did not look like nothing." D'Argo said, glancing over his shoulder quickly at the door of the center chamber and then coming up behind Crichton and putting his arms around him. It was second nature now to look to see if they were being observed by the others before touching or showing affection -- it was not done out of shame, but from a sense that some secrets deserved holding tightly to, as if the telling dulled their shine. Crichton relaxed a little, leaning back into him, but jerked away when he felt D'Argo's hand stealing into his pocket.
He pulled away and turned to face D'Argo, who was puzzling over the written figures on the paper he had fished from Crichton's pocket. "Nosy, aren't you?" he remarked as he made a grab for the paper. D'Argo held it up out of his reach and smiled.
"Not 'nosy.' Possessive."
"It's nothing. I was just figuring out the date."
D'Argo looked at him questioningly. "The date it would be back on earth. That's all." Crichton sighed and rolled his eyes, gave up on trying to get D'Argo's prize away from him. He went back to the table and sat down heavily, taking a sip of his drink. D'Argo glanced at the scrap of paper again, then back at Crichton.
He sat down next to him, smoothing out the crumpled paper and setting it between them. "Whatever this 'nothing' of yours is, it is bothering you. Talk."
"Is that an order?" Crichton said with a small smile. D'Argo grunted assent and then sat back with his arms folded across his chest, waiting. Crichton glanced up at him and saw that Look. The one that said "You are being difficult, and I will outlast you, or die trying", the one that was made up of a cocked head and a pursed mouth that was at once tolerant, irritated, and amused.
Crichton sighed. "Tomorrow is my birthday."
"And this occasion is greeted on earth with dourness?" D'Argo asked.
"Not always. It's just...I'm gonna be thirty-two years -- cycles -- old tomorrow, and..."
"And?" D'Argo prompted.
"I don't know. I guess I just expected that I would be doing something different with my life by now. I'm stuck out here, for who knows how long..." He trailed off, thinking. "Did I tell you I found my first gray hair the other day? I'm getting old out here, D'Argo, and I can't do anything about it."
"Getting old." D'Argo looked startled for a moment, doing some thinking of his own. "How long do humans live?"
"I don't know...eighty, ninety cycles, if they're in good health. You know, not being chased by crazy PeaceKeepers, stuff like that. Why are you asking?"
"From the doom in your voice, I thought perhaps your kind did not live very long." Crichton heard the undertone in D'Argo's voice, and understood.
"I'm gonna be around as long as you let me, big guy."
D'Argo nodded, and they sat in companionable silence for a while. Then D'Argo said, "What do humans do on their birth days? Is there a ritual your people observe?"
Crichton laughed. "Darlin', just about the only ritual I ever observed on my birthday was getting shitfaced and spending the next day with a hangover. Well, no -- when I was with Alex, she usually wanted to take me out to dinner and buy me some present that was supposed to be all meaningful and shit." He sat and thought for a moment. "Generally, the getting shitfaced was more fun."
D'Argo had looked momentarily perplexed by being called "Darlin", but realized it was another one of those expressions of Crichton's that never exactly translated well. He was sure that it had some other meaning attached to it, from the way Crichton had said it, but the microbes had translated it simply as "darling one." Now that he thought about that, he was secretly pleased, and chose not to mention it.
"Is that what you wish to do to observe the day? Get...'shitfaced'?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"I do not kid." D'Argo said threateningly, and Crichton took one look at his face and burst out laughing.
"Sure, OK. This ought to be interesting, if nothing else."
_____________________________________________________At first glance, Crichton thought, this could be any bar back home. Smoky, loud, filled with people -- well, most of them looked like people. He had a feeling he might want to get a few drinks in him before he looked around too closely. All this place needs are some pool tables and slutty-looking waitresses. He and D'Argo had convinced the others that this was an important human ritual that must be observed -- a males-only kind of thing -- and Aeryn had grudgingly allowed them to take the transport down without her. Zhaan had been perfectly content to stay on board Moya, and when Aeryn had asked if Rygel was coming along, seeing as he was male, too, Crichton had been vastly relieved to hear the little toad haughtily refuse, on the grounds that he was above consorting with the common rabble.
So here they were, in some dive bar. "A wretched hive of villainy and e-vil," Crichton mumbled, giggling.
"What?" D'Argo asked.
"Nothing." Crichton said, smothering his giggles. "What is this stuff again?" He held his glass up to the light, swirling around the foul-looking, dark green liquid in it.
"Dukal." D'Argo answered, taking a swig from his own glass.
"Hmm. Looks like Nyquil --" Crichton took a swallow, grimacing as it went down, slashing and burning a path to his stomach. "-- tastes like Nyquil --" He grimaced again and shook his head, putting the glass down with a thump. "-- but it fucking feels like tequila."
"What is tequila?"
"Bad stuff. Make you wake up in the middle of the street with somebody else's drawers on." Crichton tossed back another swallow of dukal and looked around. "Man, what I wouldn't give for a jukebox full of Steppenwolf and a pool table right now."
"Drawers?" D'Argo asked, not sure if he wanted to know.
"You know, britches, skivvies, underwear." Crichton swallowed down the rest of his drink and upended the glass, slamming it down on the table. " I got to get some of that stuff to take home."
D'Argo simply shook his head, determined not to ask any more questions...although the mental image of Crichton lying passed out in his underwear had popped into his mind unbidden. He smiled, deciding he liked the effect this little evening was having on Crichton. He had been altogether too serious lately. He supposed that it had been hard on him, coming to grips with the realization that he was passing his birthday -- living his life -- here, far away from his home and family. It will do him good to relax a little, D'Argo thought, and settled back into his seat to watch his sword brother order another drink and get a little more relaxed.
_____________________________________________________________"Crichton, if you do not start helping me a little, I will leave you right here." D'Argo fumed, grappling to catch Crichton under the armpits as he began a slow slide down the wall he had stumbled into, and apparently had taken such a liking to that he could not be separated from it. Did I say I wanted him to relax? D'Argo asked himself. This was a bad idea.
"You wouldn't leave me." Crichton mumbled. "I just gotta sit down for a minute, OK?"
"No, you are not sitting down. We are going back to the transport pod. Right --" He broke off as Crichton slithered bonelessly from his grasp and sat down on the pavement. " --now. Get up!"
"Damn. Don't yell at me. I can hear you just fine down here. I just gotta sit down, all right?"
D'Argo squatted in front of him, beginning to be alarmed at the slurred voice and bloodshot eyes. "You're drunk, Crichton."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"I am assuming this is what you meant by 'shitfaced.'"
"Umm-hmm. Yep, I am shitfaced." Crichton said, nodding gravely, and then giggled.
D'Argo shook his head. "We are going back to the transport, and then we are going back to Moya, and then you --" He hooked his hands under Crichton's arms and wrestled him to his feet. " -- are going to bed."
Weaving, Crichton slung his arms around D'Argo's neck, both to hold himself upright, and to bring himself close enough to bury his face in the side of the Luxan's neck. "Not alone, right?"
"Crichton..." D'Argo said warningly, trying to push him away. He did not really want to -- Crichton's lips were warm against his throat, and his soft hair brushed against D'Argo's face, filling his senses with John's smell...equal parts soap and skin and the musk of his desire, mixed with the sharp tang of the alcohol and the smoke from the bar. Crichton mumbled against his throat, a vague negative at the feel of D'Argo trying to move him away. Sighing, D'Argo hauled him up against his hip and began walking him down the street toward the hangers.
"So this is how you choose to spend your birth day?"
"Uh-huh. I used to do this a lot more when I was younger. I was so drunk at my graduation I threw up right after I got my -- " Crichton broke off suddenly, eyes widening.
"Crichton?" He didn't like the look of this at all.
Crichton stumbled away and leaned over, hand braced against the wall, D'Argo following him with another weary sigh, determined to hold him up so that he didn't fall in the mess he was making. "Frell."
When Crichton was finished, D'Argo simply pulled him up into his arms and carried him, making for the transport pod so that Crichton could at least throw up in peace if he did it again.
"I feel like Scarlett O'Hara." Crichton said weakly.
"Shut up."
"It's very romantic. Except for the puking part."
"Do not even think about doing that again."
"Geez, some fun date you are." Crichton snuggled closer in D'Argo's arms, rubbing his face against his chest. "I like this. This feels good."
"Shut up. We're almost there." Reaching the pod, he cycled open the hatch and turned sideways to carry in his armload, dropping Crichton into one seat and settling himself in the other. By the time he had made it out of the hanger, Crichton was asleep, looking more peaceful than he had any right to be. With a last glance at the sleeping form beside him, he sighed, turning his attention to getting them back to Moya.
_____________________________________________________Crichton did not even stir when D'Argo shook him. Resigned to apparently carrying Crichton all over the frelling ship, he slung him up into his arms again and stepped out of the pod. Aeryn was waiting for him. Of course, D'Argo thought. I will never hear the end of this from her.
"What's the matter with Crichton?" Aeryn snapped accusingly.
"I'm shitfaced, babe." Crichton's voice, though muffled, emerged from his resting place in D'Argo's arms. He had his face turned against D'Argo's chest, and D'Argo was constantly aware of his warm breath on his skin, even through the fabric of his tunic.
"Shitfaced?" Aeryn said incredulously. "He's drunk!"
"Dang. Can y'all not talk so loud? It's hurtin' my ears."
"What's the matter with his voice? He sounds strange." Aeryn said, beginning to look concerned.
"I do not know. He began to sound like this after three drinks or so."
"Four." A shaky hand unwound from around D'Argo's neck and held up four fingers.
"What, John?" D'Argo said soothingly, missing Aeryn's speculative look.
"Four drinks. That's when my accent came back." He wrapped his arm around D'Argo's neck again. "Can we, like, get back to my quarters? I think I'm fixing to puke again."
D'Argo got moving, not eager to end up wearing what Crichton had been drinking earlier on. "Can you ask Zhaan to prepare something to sober him up?" he called over his shoulder to Aeryn.
"Not frelling likely! You got him that way -- you deal with him." Aeryn called back, and as he hurried toward the crew quarters, he could hear her laughing. Frelling PeaceKeeper.
______________________________________________"Crichton, just go to sleep." D'Argo said for the fifth time. He had been counting, actually. Anything to take his mind away from where it was determined to stray to. Getting Crichton cleaned up and undressed had been a trial -- between stubbornly insisting to himself that Crichton was in no shape to be doing anything but sleeping, and Crichton's own fumbling attempts to pull him into the bed with him, he was rock hard and frustrated.
"I don't wanna go to sleep. I want you." Crichton struggled up onto his elbows, the dim light casting shadows on his torso and shoulders, picking out the lines of muscle and sinew in sharp relief. D'Argo groaned under his breath and bent over the bed, putting his hands on Crichton's shoulders and pushing him back down to the mattress. Crichton went bonelessly, without the strength to hold himself up, and D'Argo could not bring himself to remove his hands -- so he allowed them to stay where they were, stroking and soothing, feeling the warm skin under his hands.
"John, you need to sleep, all right?" he said, trying to keep his voice even. Crichton blinked up at him, a sweet, drowsy smile on his face, settling back under the touch of D'Argo's hands.
"Will you at least lay down with me, babe?" Crichton said, his voice at once familiar in its affectionate quality and yet unfamiliar with the strange accent, the casual endearments that seemed to end every sentence. Despite the disaster the rest of this evening had turned into, he found himself liking that voice, the way it turned Crichton's words into something smooth and slippery, like velvet, and the sweet, strange way he had of calling D'Argo babe and sugar and sweetheart. Things he would normally have laughed at, or been offended by. But not now. Crichton had called him 'darlin' earlier, but that had been different -- somehow sarcastic, self-mocking. There was no hidden meaning here. Just sweet words that short-circuited the anger he wanted to feel at John's drunken stupidity and turned it into protectiveness. And love.
Giving up, D'Argo climbed into the bed beside Crichton, finding himself immediately wrapped in Crichton's arms, his face pressed against D'Argo's chest. He put his arms around Crichton's back and held him, feeling Crichton immediately settle down and relax.
He had known for quite a while now just how deep his feelings for Crichton ran, but pushed it away. Crichton seemed to regard this as a friendly relationship above all else -- "Although I don't normally find myself waking up naked next to my guy friends, you know?" he had said once. So he had accepted it. He understood that this was not the way of Crichton's upbringing, and he did not want to force the issue. He waited. He found himself growing more and more fond of Crichton every day, found himself feeling something for him that was closer to what he had felt for Lo'laan than he sometimes was comfortable with.
He sighed, telling himself to just enjoy what he had now. And, he thought with a smile, what he had now was an armful of warm, nearly naked Crichton pressed against him. Shifting around slowly, he rolled over onto his back, Crichton grumbling softly and tightening his hold on D'Argo, as if he was afraid D'Argo would leave him. "I'll be around as long as you let me, John." he murmured into Crichton's hair, and that seemed to calm him. Crichton burrowed in closer, his head pillowed on D'Argo's shoulder.
"Love you." Crichton said softly.
"What?" D'Argo asked, shocked and sure that he had heard wrong.
"Love you, babe." A little louder this time, then trailing off into deep, even breathing. Crichton was asleep.
"Love you, too." D'Argo said softly, knowing that Crichton couldn't hear him now, but feeling the need to say it. Smiling up into the shadows of the room, he was soon asleep too.
___________________________________________________"Oh. My. God. What the hell was that stuff?" Crichton sat on the edge of the bed, hands plastered over his face to block out the searing light. His stomach rumbled and rolled, his head pounded, his eyes felt like someone had removed them while he slept and rolled them in ground glass before putting them back in his head. His bones felt like they were strung together with bob wire. Rusty bob wire. Moving gingerly, deciding that he was unlikely to puke again since he had already barfed up everything he'd ever eaten since birth, he cautiously lay back down on the bed.
He pulled one hand away from his watering eyes to peer up at D'Argo. "You certainly seem chipper. Asshole. Don't you have a hangover too?"
"No. I chose not to drink myself into stupidity. Besides, I was having too much fun watching you."
The other hand came away from his eyes, so that he could glare, albeit weakly, at D'Argo. "What did I do?" he asked suspiciously.
"You do not remember?"
Crichton frowned, concentrating on bringing last evening's festivities into focus. "We went to a bar. I started drinking this nasty-ass shit. It was green, I remember that. Dukakis, something like that?"
"Dukal." D'Argo answered, struggling to keep a straight face.
"Yeah, that shit. I know I got drunk, and I remember puking in an alley...um. I remember Aeryn yelling about something. I puked some more. I was in bed, and..." Crichton trailed off as his brain came into sharper focus and offered him a memory of lying curled up in D'Argo's arms, of saying something that sounded a lot like "I love you" -- and of not hearing anything else after that. His face burned with shame. Dammit, he had been so stupid! Gotten drunk, gotten sloppy...said something he hadn't meant to say...and now he knew that D'Argo didn't even care enough to say it back. "That's all I remember." he finished sullenly.
"Nothing else?" D'Argo prodded. "No. Look, I'm gonna sleep this headache off, OK?" Crichton rolled over, hearing D'Argo shift around for a moment, still standing there by the bed, and then walking away. Cursing himself, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Better to just forget the whole thing.
D'Argo stood watching Crichton for a moment, then turned and left. Crichton did not remember. He was not surprised, but he was disappointed. He stalked down the corridor, heading for Command. Halfway there, a new thought occurred to him -- maybe Crichton had remembered, and been ashamed of it once he was sober. Sighing, he continued down the hallway, shoulders slumped. Better to just forget the whole thing, he told himself.