Timeline: Set during Revenging Angel, but before the tag.
Disclaimer: Not Mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
Her walls were dark, their amber hue muted. Reflecting her pain and state of mind so easily, even without Pilot’s interpretation.
Head bowed, he touched a rib, barely grazing it with a palm. Ten cycles aboard her, listening to the rhythmic hum, and he’d almost destroyed her along with his friend.
Unable to sleep, he hadn't even bothered to change from of his sleeping attire and walked through her tiers leading from his quarters to the hangar and back, adding each repair needed to the list in the back of his mind. The list was too long. It wouldn’t surprise him if she or Pilot ordered him to leave.
As he continued his solitary journey, he found himself outside of Crichton’s room, looking through the latticework at the sleeping figure bundled up beneath a warm bedcover.
He and Chiana had gathered him up from the foot of the ramp and brought him back to the med bay. They’d stood silently watching as Jool fretted and complained for half an arn before declaring that the human would live.
Crichton was his ally, and his friend. The one person who knew just how much it hurt when Chiana had betrayed him. The man was confusing, completely infuriating at times, and he’d been willing to sacrifice himself out of friendship. Stubborn to a fault, almost as bad as a Luxan.
He should have trusted Crichton when he’d said he hadn’t touched the ship, but his own level of trust recently had been almost non-existent. He couldn’t even trust himself now, anger always lying just below the surface and ready to strike out at anyone.
Leaving the other man’s doorway and making his way back to his own, he hesitated for a moment when he realized something was out of place.
His Qualta Blade was lying on its side. Earlier he had propped it up beside his bed after removing the foul smelling bat dren. He picked it up and noticed a DRD sitting silently on the wall; it’s eyestalks dancing back and forth in his direction.
Hesitating, he grabbed the blade, unsure of how to go about apologizing to both Moya and Pilot. Some things were harder than others to do in life, and this was the hardest of them all.
Leaving the room behind, he planed step by step how he’d go about it, but once in front of the door to the den, he couldn’t think of a single thing.
Upon entering, he crossed the walkway and fumbled with how to begin.
“How is Crichton doing?”
He felt stupid the microt the words were out of his mouth.
“He is doing well from what I can gather, but I thought you’d only just left his quarters a short time ago. Was there something else you needed, D’Argo?” Pilot asked, eyes drawn to the sword hanging in his hand.
“Oh, uh… Yes. There was a DRD in my quarters, I think it knocked over my Qualta Blade.”
Pilot’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You came down here merely to ask this question? You could have commed for this information.”
If he didn’t know better, he’d think that was a smirk on the symbiot’s lips.
“Well, I could not sleep anyway, and I thought the walk would help.”
“Hmm. To answer your question, the DRD did knock over your Qualta Blade while trying to clean it of the remaining effluvia.”
“But I cleaned it only a few arns ago.”
“You - missed some spots.”
Holding it up to the light, D’Argo looked at it carefully to see if there was any difference between the way he’d left it, and now. He couldn’t find any.
“Moya detected them within the crevices on several areas, including the trigger mechanism. To keep it from becoming damaged, she sent the DRD to finish for you. She hopes that you don’t mind.”
All he could do was shake his head and mutter his humble thanks.
He leaned against the console, staring out across the chamber, uncertain of how to begin. Words were never where his strength lay.
“Pilot, I want…”
He tried again. “Could you…,” his voice trailed off, his hand tightening around the hilt of the forgotten blade in nervousness.
A glance upward, and he could see sadness in the large eyes.
“I never wanted to…”
A clawed hand fell on his shoulder. “D’Argo, she understands.” A subtle shift of the large carapace, and Pilot continued, almost in a whisper, “At least to a degree.”
He felt inadequate in the face of Pilot’s words, in the face of what he’d done. As if he were a child.
“I almost killed her and Crichton because I didn’t, couldn’t, control myself.”
“You know your limits now, and - you will learn.”
Pilot fell back into silence and the hand was taken away a moment later. Turning back, D’Argo tried to understand how someone could forgive so easily. It had taken him too many cycles to reach a place where even the word was a part of his life, and both of these beings were a result of that.
“Moya has a question…”
He turned and faced him, in a way both of them, and looked from Pilot to the DRDs sitting around the surface. “Of course.”
The many arms paused in their work as he asked, “Does the ache and worry over a child get any easier?”
Of all the things she could have relayed through Pilot, this one was still the most devastating to him, even though he knew it was not asked with malice. Her pain and regret were just as tangible as his.
“No, it never does.”