Setting: Early Season 4
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
Song To The Siren
Here I am, Here I am, waiting to hold you.
- "Song to the Siren" by This Mortal Coil
He knows she likes to come here to bathe sometimes. The lights are dim, on their lowest setting. There’s really no need for them. The soft glow coming from the pool of amnexis fluid is enough to see by.
At least for him.
He stands and waits just outside the doorway, watching as she dips beneath the water. The movement is smooth, barely sending out a ripple.
She allows her limbs go limp, and he smiles at the random thought of how…cute it is to see the tips of her toes just breaking the surface.
Time passes by unhurriedly, pleasantly, as he watches her.
He feels as if he could do this the rest of his life. If he were to die this instant, he thinks he would neither need nor want any other memory to sustain him.
Finally she brings her legs down and stands, pushing back matted strands of hair. Seemingly ignorant of his presence, she reaches for a cleansing bar.
It’s one of the few remaining that Zhaan made and gave as gifts; symbols of her love.
Mother and heart to them all.
He remembers watching her crush the flowers and herbs into a paste, softly humming and smiling as elegant fingers delicately worked.
He leans his head against the wall, his gaze following the trail of white fluid down her back, almost unnoticeable against her skin. It falls along the dip at her waist then continues along the curve of her backside before finally returning back to the pool.
A piece of him doesn’t know why he’s here exactly, why he punishes himself with imagined plans of a life that reality dictates will never make her completely happy.
Knowing that now, he feels like a fool for even considering asking her to come away with him.
She was raised so differently from he, born into a life filled with coldness and sterility. The scars of that can still be seen, still command her responses even now.
When he has a moment to reflect on what he knows about her life before Moya, he can’t help but mourn who she could have been. But after everything, he is also a realist.
He tries to shake away the hint of any negative thought before it blemishes what he’s witnessing, that she’s allowed him to witness.
Mistakes had been made by both of them, and they have both paid a high price. Neither of them is perfect. And he wouldn’t ask her to be anything but who she truly is inside.
Now he lives for times like these. Peace. A moment to reflect. And wish.
Wish that they could forget all of the harsh words of the past and that he could slip quietly behind her. Take hold of the sponge from her hand and let the fluid drip down, washing away the old tears and hurt.
Run it down her back, along the curve of her waist.
Moisture beads along skin at the hollow of her neck, and even now, he can imagine the simple tart-sweetness there that is as beguiling and full of surprise as she is.
He can see the subtle shift of muscles relaxing under her attention, knows that she’ll be here for at least another quarter arn soaking, allowing the heat to sink further into muscles that used to relax under his fingertips.
Sighing quietly, he realizes he should get back to command.
Shifting his weight reluctantly away from the wall, he steps further back into the darkened hall and leaves the same way he came. He doesn’t see her turn, arms crossing over her chest, small hands wrapping around her upper arms as drops fall from pale-white hair.
She smiles sadly, hopefully, just before dropping back below the surface.