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TITLE: "Human Nature"  "It's time, John. We can't run any longer. You still want to go home, and I...want to be wherever you are." D'Argo squeezed his hand, and then turned to enter the small, non-descript building. John watched him go in, and then turned to lean against the wall, looking up and down the deserted, ill-lit street. If everything went well, this was one of the last planets in the Uncharted Territories they would be visiting. No more hiding from the PeaceKeepers, no more living on the edge of exhaustion. It was harder to feel safe since it was just the two of them now, since the crew had all split up when Crais got too close. /Human nature, Johnny-boy/, he thought. /Safety in numbers, with the pack, the tribe./ Well, now his tribe had shrunk to just two, he and D'Argo. The last few cycles of running had done so much to push them together -- there was no one he trusted more, or relied on more. Even if they hadn't been bondmates, John had long ago decided they would have still been this close. He knew without asking what D'Argo was thinking, feeling, needed. And even though he had protested against this insane idea, he knew that D'Argo was determined to do it. He had yelled, screamed, threatened. With a twinge of shame, he had brought out the one thing he had known would stop D'Argo from continuing with this madness -- Jothee. "If you do this, you will never be able to see Jothee again, you know that! Do you just want to give up looking for him? Do you want your son to grow up without you?" "He already has, John. It's been too long. He wouldn't know me now, even if I didn't do this. I love my son, John. But I have to let him live his life. His mother and I loved each other enough to have him, and now I have to love him enough to let him go." "It's too dangerous, D'Argo. Who knows what could happen? You might die, for Christ's sake! I won't be a part of this." He had stood his ground, stubbornly. D'Argo had only looked at him and smiled. "You can't do this without me, and I won't do it." "Yes, you will, John. It's the only way." And dear God, he had caved in, and let him have whatever he needed to do this, continue this insanity. He squatted next to the building, wondering what was going on in there, how long it would take. Whether his bondmate would survive it. Beyond that, it was impossible to think clearly. John had given up on going home so long ago that even trying to imagine what he might find, what might happen to them, was so strange and bizarre that he shied away from the thought. /Just get through this part of it/, he told himself. /If this doesn't work, then none of it even matters./ If he lost D'Argo, there would be no going home. His home was wherever that big, dumb Luxan was, and without him, he might as well put a gun to his head, because no place else would ever be home without him there. The arns passed, somehow, and John paced outside, worried because he was not allowed to be with D'Argo, not allowed to see for himself what was happening to him. The suns of the planet had just begun to rise when the door to the building opened, and the creature he had entrusted his bondmate's life to beckoned him inside. He thought briefly of Namtaar, and shuddered. /Please let this have worked -- don't let me find something I don't want to see./ Aeryn and her claw hand, twisted face and body bled into his vision, and he shoved that thought away. /No./ The creature ushered him into a room at the back and then left, shutting the door behind him. A curtain was pulled around the stretcher at the far wall, and he could hear movement. He forced himself to move forward, feeling the weight of the backpack he carried, feeling like he was walking for miles before he reached out and grasped the edge of the curtain and pulled it back. He stood with his eyes closed for a moment, listening to the deep even breaths that he would know anywhere, knew so well from hearing them at his side every microt of the day and night for the last five cycles. "John?" D'Argo's voice cut through his fear, and he opened his eyes. He was sitting up on the stretcher, the sheet falling around his waist. The first thing John noticed, feeling an absurd sense of relief, was that his tattoos where still there, twining down from throat to belly, overlaid on skin that had lost its golden sheen and was now pale and softer-looking. He raised his eyes, seeing the scars in the collarbones where the rings had been removed, and that was where the changes became more evident. No braided mustaches hung down, just a smooth, ivory throat, and a feathering of dark-blond hair. That startled him, and he dragged his eyes up to D'Argo's face, staring in wonder. He had begged D'Argo not to do this, not to make him be a part of it. His DNA, stripped of the markers that made up John Crichton and reduced to only the things that created a human, had been grafted onto D'Argo's DNA, which had been stripped of the Luxan markers in its turn. It was called genetic surgery, according to the creature they had paid an exorbitant amount of credits for this. It would make D'Argo genetically human. He looked into D'Argo's face, searching out all the new features, looking desperately for something familiar to hold on to. There was a broad, slightly flat nose, a wide, square jaw. Blond hair, of all frelling things -- John couldn't get past that, for some reason. Every time he tried to look at something else, his eyes would be drawn back to that hair. Deep set eyes. But the eyes...they were D'Argo. Brown and deep and still him. "Am I that ugly?" D'Argo asked, and his voice was another shock...not as deep and gravelly, but still resonant, a rich baritone filtered through human vocal cords. "No. It's just...different." He stepped closer, put out a hand and touched one smooth cheek. "I know you're still you, but it's gonna take some getting used to. You sound like Barry White." John said, laughing a little, giddy with relief that maybe it was going to be all right. D'Argo pursed his lips and cocked his head, looking at him quizzically, and John added that to the list of things that still seemed the same. "I will never --" D'Argo began. " -- understand you, John Crichton." John finished for him, grinning. He shrugged the back pack off his shoulder and dropped it onto the stretcher. Opening it, he dug down into it and pulled out clothing similar to his own -- T-shirt, fatigue pants, combat boots. "Let's get you ready for the ball, Cinderella." He handed the pants to D'Argo and stepped back, but not before D'Argo had grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him forward for a brief kiss. Strange, not to feel D'Argo's mustache and beard rubbing against his cheeks when they kissed -- but the kiss still held all the love and affection and wonder of what they were to each other, and that was enough. D'Argo released him and stood, a little shakily, and grumpily took the pants from him. /That's my D'Argo/, John thought. /Less concerned over swapping DNA than he is about having to give up his usual fashion statement./ "Idiot human," D'Argo rumbled affectionately. "Takes one to know one." John answered easily, and when D'Argo smiled at him, that same, loving, tolerant smile, he /knew/ it was going to be all right. Bright, splintered light flooded the dirty, smeared window, filling the room with white for a moment. John smiled, shouldering the backpack and watching D'Argo tie the laces of his boots. "Come on, babe. I don't know how long these flares are gonna last...and we have a flight home to catch." END "Human Nature" Background courtesy of Jezebel... A site for sore eyes. |