elliejane | (no subject) (Reply)

Hey there, Farscape Holiday Drabble Exchange fic to follow! I was writing for Shunda (sugargroupie), and the prompt was "Aeryn, (big) D'Argo, stocking."

I had two or three ideas for this, and in the end couldn't choose, so I wrote them all. Plus a little bit of a longer one which is like a prequel to one of the drabbles. Oh, and another one which busted through the word limit.

(Also, apologies. I may have mucked up the formatting on this post.)

Title: What He Wants For Christmas
Setting/Spoilers: Early years (probably Season One)/No spoilers
Rating: All welcome Disclaimer : Theirs, not mine.

"He wants what?" Aeryn eyes the two long, skinny pieces of material suspiciously.

D'Argo gives Chiana's flimsy under-garments a belligerent shake.

"He wants stockings. I don't know why he wants stockings." He growls his frustration. "Apparently, there's some frelling ritual his homeworld goes through every cycle involving women's underwear. Insane species."

Aeryn frowns. "Is this the festival with the rabbit?"

"No, I think this one is different."

"Huh. Well..." Aeryn pulls a sock off her foot and slaps it into D'Argo's hand. "This is all I have. Tell him to wash it after he's done." She sniffs disdainfully. "Depraved human."

fin

Title: Naughty or Nice – The Prequel
Setting/Spoilers: Season Two...maybe?? Shrugs helplessly./No spoilers
Rating: All welcome
Disclaimer : Theirs, not mine.

"You want my clothing?" D'Argo eyes Aeryn suspiciously.

" D'Argo." Aeryn is speaking through clenched teeth. "I need something that isn’t…black.

D'Argo smirks, baiting just a little. "Peacekeepers." He puffs out his chest with pride, because his people dress in colours as hot as their tempers. Something to befit a warrior race.

Aeryn raises a brow. "Perhaps I should ask Rygel. I'm sure I could make an adequate trade for a purple robe.

D'Argo huffs. The old cloak gives her is red and thick.

Aeryn has a clumsy hand for the work, but makes up for it with dogged determination. She has a knife to cut with, and a makeshift sewing needle. She ends up with a couple of roughly L shaped…things.

"Frelling human," she repeats to herself.

She reluctantly shows them to D'Argo.

He tilts his head, asks doubtfully, "Are they supposed to look like that?"

It's a bit much for Aeryn. She throws her hands up in exasperation. "How am I supposed to know? He rambles on about traditions and pudding and trees. And stockings. All we have are food cubes and Zhaan is the closest we have to a tree. Doesn't leave a lot of options."

"Huh."

"Well?" She looks a little bit murderous, at this point.

D'Argo looks again. Braves the wrath. "I know he calls them stockings. But are you really supposed to wear them on your feet?"

fin

Title: Naughty or Nice (the actual drabble)
Setting/Spoilers: Season Two...maybe?? Shrugs helplessly./No spoilers
Rating: All welcome
Disclaimer : Theirs, not mine.

When John comes in that night to find Aeryn dressed in, essentially, a pair of overlarge red bootees with a fur trim and nothing else, it occurs to his stunned brain that he should ask both, "Huh?" and "Wha?"

He opens his mouth, but thankfully his brain cuts out at the last second. He's not one to look a gift horse in the…foot. He hadn't actually written a Christmas list with "Aeryn dressed in red stockings" at the top (or if he had, he hadn't meant quite like this) but what the frell.

He's been a good boy this year.

fin

Title: The Holly and the Ivy (don't grow out here).
Setting/Spoilers: Season One...maybe?? Shrugs helplessly again/No spoilers.
Rating: All welcome
Disclaimer: Theirs, not mine.

John Crichton wakes early on the day he has designated Christmas. He didn't work it out with any elaborate calculations, just picked a day at random and made it so. He feels homesick and hopeless and this won’t help, but he does it any way. It's a day he doesn't expect anyone to celebrate except him. This isn't their holiday, after all, and his enthusiasm is rarely catching. He greets the day with a feeling of melancholy.

He still sleeps too soundly for safety in this part of the universe, and the proof comes in the guise of a surprising intrusion. There is a strange curly stemmed species of fauna in the corner of his quarters with bright copper wire strung from green leaves. A shiny piece of metal has been stapled to the uppermost twirling twig. A single package wrapped roughly in cloth sits below it, and a platter of food cubes (red and green ones) lies to the side. He pads barefoot over to it, lets one twisty leaf curve around his finger.

Then he notices that pinned to the cell door lattice with a nail, is a black lumpy object. He steps closer, intending to poke it to see if it bites, when he sees it’s a sock. Black, ribbed, serviceable. Aeryn's, he thinks. Not big enough for D'Argo. It's utterly misshapen because the lumpiness comes from the object shoved inside it.

He pulls the sock gingerly away from the nail and tugs down the material. It's a familiar shape, one he recognises from its angles through the woollen fabric.

It's a pulse pistol. Clean, buffed, newly filled with chakken oil.

The package under the "tree" is a worn looking holster and strap. He holds them uncertainly in his hands, running his fingers over the leather. He makes a decision. He pulls on his cleanest tee, pants and boots (not quite Sunday best, but still). Buckles on the holster with a fumbling hand, and slides the pulse pistol home. It's a solid unfamiliar feeling against his leg.

It's not he best present he's ever had. But it is, he acknowledges, the most useful. The one that will do him the most good out here. It isn't a tie, or gloves. And he suspects Aeryn will want the sock back.

He bites cleanly into a red Christmas food cube and carries the rest of the platter out with him. He thinks he'll offer them around to the others. After all, he hasn't got them anything. But then again, as his Mom always used to say, it's the thought that counts.

fin