Author's Note:Written for the SACoC (Society Against Clothing on Crichton).
Disclaimer:Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
They felt tight as he stood and pulled the jacket around his shoulders. He felt the difference almost immediately...A coldness that set deep inside. Before was different, they were discarded, not wanted. This time, he was wearing the clothes of a dead man, one that he had killed. Not by his own hand, but by his own action and words.
Standing at the door of his room, he tried to prepare himself for the gamut he was about to face with his father's words, I have a job to do and I am unafraid. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door and thought immediately, 'Like hell I'm not!'