DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me; they are the property of the Jim Henson Company, and no copyright infringement is intended by their use here. The story itself is copyright Aiobheann, 1999.

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Glancing up into John's face, Crais could see the hate and arousal warring in his eyes. He leaned down again and flicked out his tongue, barely grazing the sensitive head of John's cock, pulling away as John let out a rasping moan.
He stood up, backing away from the bed and fastidiously straightening the cuffs of his uniform jacket, looking down at the mess on his boots with a moue of distaste.

"I should beat you for that." he said consideringly. "But it's rather pointless to assign blame now, as I had decided to do that no matter what." He strode over to the door, rapping on it, and when it was opened by a guard, requested towels. The guard returned momentarily with a small stack of hand towels and handed them to the Captain, leering at John as he stood in the doorway. At a scowl from Crais, he hastily backed out and slammed the cell door shut with a clang.

Crais strode back over to the cot and sat down at the end, placing the stack of towels next to him. Crichton lay still, eyes tightly closed, trying to resign himself to whatever happened next and hoping that he wouldn't puke again, or scream too much. He vividly remembered Crais promising to pull him apart to see what he was made of, and assumed the towels were there for Crais to clean his blood off his hands with when he was done beating him, killing him...or to wipe the blood off his cock when he was done raping him. He felt a shiver twist through him at that thought and felt disgusted anger and revulsion at the blooming heat that accompanied that image. /No matter what he does to me, he can't make me want it. I won't let him./

"Are you afraid, John Crichton?" Crais asked pleasantly, as if inquiring about the weather.

"No." John grated out. /I'm such a lying fuck. I'm scared shitless./

"I know that you're lying. I expected nothing less. I expect you to be terrified, as I would be, in such a situation. But isn't fear a marvelous thing? I can only assume, not having had the pleasure yet of laying you open on a dissection table, that human and Sebacean physiology is roughly similar. It would be safe to say that the fear you feel is like a drug, racing through your blood, heightening every sense, leaving you breathless and intensely aware of the slightest stimuli. It is a supreme irony that one never feels more alive than when one is walking the knife edge of their own death. Do you agree?"

"Go to hell."

"Ah, John Crichton, wherever that is, I expect that you will be there long before me." He clasped his hands together, rubbing them briskly, the very picture of a man who has a long, complex task ahead of him and is ready to get to it.

"Get up." Crais ordered.

"Fuck you." John replied, eyes still closed, fighting to keep his face impassive and to hide his fear.

Crais stood and moved to the head of the cot, lacing his fingers into John's hair and dragging him from the bed onto the floor at his feet. "I believe you may be gravely mistaken about who will be fucking whom. I said, /get up/."

John spat at him, struggling back up onto his knees and straightening his back. He refused to let this man see how little real defiance he had left in him. /If you don't feel it, fake it/, he thought, hearing his father's voice in his head. He found just enough guts left to smile, and he looked up at Crais, hoping that the smile looked less like a rictus of terror than it felt.

Crais nodded, as if taking his measure and seeing exactly what he had expected. He reached into one of the front pockets of his pants and then pulled his hand out, curling it around something that was hidden in his fist. He drew his hand back across his body and swept his fist into John's cheek. There was a small, unimportant-sounding snap as the cheekbone gave way, and bright, flaring pain burst through John's skull, blanking out the world in a shimmering curtain of white.

He fell back against the hard edge of the cot and everything went away for a while, rushing back in a torrent as the fist came down against his collarbone like a jackhammer. Biting back a howl of agony, he wrenched himself back upright and then swayed on his knees, blinking away the greying spots that kept creeping into his vision. He looked up at Crais, seeing him switch a small but solid metal rod, about three inches long and quite heavy-looking, from one hand to the other.

"What the fuck is that, Crais? The PeaceKeeper version of a roll of quarters?" It hurt his cheek to talk, and his words emerged in a fuzzy sort of growl, but he could not stop the laughter that bubbled up. He weaved back and forth on his knees, the laughter pouring out, interspersed with gasping, hurt noises. "What's next? A rubber hose? A bag of oranges? I was so -- " He broke off, coughing out more ragged laughter. " -- so scared of what you might do, man! I pictured all these high tech torture devices and shit, like a fucking James Bond movie -- but you've got even less imagination than a small-time Mafia knee-breaker!" He shook his head, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks, the broken one already coloring to an angry, livid purple.

"You're gonna have to do better than that, Crais." he said, still laughing painfully. "I got worse than this in junior high because I was still shorter than the other guys." He looked up at Crais, his smile back and feeling more like a silent scream than before. /Don't let him see you beg, Johnny. Make him work for his jollies./ "I'm not impressed."

"Oh, I think you will be, John Crichton. Make no mistake. We've only just begun." Crais answered, smiling back.

END Vengeance, Part 5