The Dream of Her

By Felicity

Disclaimer:  They’re not mine.  If they were mine, do
you think this would be happening? Absolutely not!
Author’s Notes:  Set after "Die Me Dichotomy"...This
was inspired by the Vertical Horizon song "Give You
Back." It's angst-fluff. Enjoy.

"Could that be true?  We're somewhere near earth?"
-John Cricthon, "Die Me Dichotomy&qquot;

*

---

< It was the smell; sweet, overwhelming, tickling his
nose, demanding attention.

"What’s that smell?" he asked softly, the heady mix of
fragrance and woman assaulting his senses.

"What?" she asked, tensing slightly.  She knew.  Oh,
she knew.  Probably knew what it was doing to him too,
the slowly building heat, the way his arms ached to
tighten around her body, so close, every crook fitting
against him perfectly.

"It’s your hair," he said, "it smells."

"Zhaan gave me something," she said, nonchalant, as if
she always scented her hair.  There had been a day she
never would have thought of something so feminine, so
innately sensual.  Boy, was he glad that was gone…

"Alright, smells good," he murmured, "I like it."

"Well it’s not for you to like," she replied
acerbically.

"Then what’s it for?"

"It’s for me to like."  She’s turned to look at him,
one of her shoulders driving into his chest.  Her face
was inches away, he could feel her breath, her words. 
The smell was driving him crazy.

"You don’t like that I like it?" he asked, a smile
playing over his lips.  He was never going to
understand her…Maybe it was just cause she was a
woman.  Maybe it was because she was...her.  What was
her name again?

"Personal indulgences can fracture a small crew," she
breathed, her mouth closer yet, so close…so sweet and
enticing...like her hair, the scent of her was just as
alluring.

"I would never tell them that you scented your hair,"
he promised, and she decimated the remaining distance
between them.  Lost, he was lost in her mouth, in that
scent... >

"John.  Come on Papa Bear...open those pretty blue
eyes..."  John moaned and obediently opened his eyes,
staring up at the plain white ceiling of the hospital
room.  It had become far too familiar of late.  He
breathed in deeply, expecting stale hospital air, but
got only the smell of that woman’s hair; it lingered,
as if transported out of his dream, clinging to his
nose, his mouth.

"DK."

"I’m here to bust you out.  Got a clean bill of
health.  Your dad’s finishing up the paperwork, so
hurry up and get dressed and we can get you out of
this hellhole.  Go have a beer, huh?"

"DK, it’s..."  John glanced at the clock beside the
bed, "...nine-thirty in the morning."

"John, you haven’t had a beer in two years.  I don’t
think it’s going to kill you," DK replied with a
laugh.  John arched his eyebrows.  "Fine, fine, you’re
right.  We’re just taking you home so your sisters can
fall all over each other trying to make you
comfortable.  Some guys get all the luck..."

"Go away DK.  I don’t need your help to get dressed."

"And you wouldn’t get my help if you did."  John sat
up and ran a hand through the stubble that passed for
his hair, stopping to rub it over his eyes.  DK took
the opportunity to leave the room and John disengaged
himself from the few machines left.  When he’d first
arrived…well, the first time he could remember waking
up in the hospital, he hadn’t been able to move
without pulling out a wire.  Not that he’d been able
to move anyway.  DK paused in the doorway, looking
back at him.  "You feeling up to this John?"

"I’m fine," John replied firmly, his hand pausing over
his barely visible scar.  "I’m fine."  DK still didn’t
look entirely convinced, but he left.  John lay back
in bed and tried to ignore the smell of flowers and
the feeling he should remember something.

*

"Tell me about these friends of yours," his father
commanded later, uncertainty lurking in his eyes. 
John grinned to hide the regret, the unsaid goodbyes. 
He didn’t remember much after his operation; flashes
of Zhaan and D’Argo, arguments, pitying
murmurs...Goodbyes, only he couldn’t find the strength
to return them, and he’d had no idea why he should...

The one day he woke up, lucid for the first time
in…who knew how long…in a military hospital, with his
father sleeping in a chair beside the bed.  He’d been
found on a beach, in a…well, it was like a coma. 
Severe trauma, the doctors said.  He was all right
though; his speech was back, his memories were fine
(though how would he really know otherwise?) and he
was home.  Next to him they’d found a recording
device.  No one besides John knew how to work it, and
when he woke up his father rescued it from whatever
lab had it.  It was D’Argo,Zhaan, Stark and Chiana. 
Saying goodbye.  Scorpius hadn’t really killed the
surgeon, and he’d managed to save John and his verbal
abilities.  John was sick, and Moya still
weak...they’d been looking for an inhabited planet,
when they came up this solar system, and realized
they’d found Earth.

"We know the past few weekens have been very painful
for you John," Zhaan said.  "I am so sorry.  I only
hope that you realize it’s not your fault.  There is
nothing you could have done.  And I hope…I hope you
find peace and comfort in your home, and a long, happy
life.  We shall miss you John Crichton."

That was it.  He showed his father, and DK, and then
destroyed it so the government wouldn’t feel the need
to question him about it.  The people that mattered
knew what had happened, they believed.  That was the
important thing.

"Tell me about your friends," his father said, and so
he did.  Or he tried to anyway.  In the middle of a
sentence he would suddenly lose track of what he was
saying, or there’d be this black hole where there
should have been a memory, a word, a look...

He tried, but something was gone and he had the most
frightening feeling he knew what it was.

*

< Their bodies were pressed together, every inch
touching, their faces close, so close.  They were
going to die, and here he was, and all he could think
of was…

"Comfortable?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.  "Can I
get you a pillow?"

Somewhere in his gut delight bloomed, laughter and
admiration for this woman who was so many things, none
of them classifiable. >

"Frell," John muttered, turning over and burying his
face in the pillow.  The image didn’t go away, the
lingering feeling…  "Frell, frell, frell."

The fact that he was using an alien curse word sunk
into his muzzy brain, causing him to swear more.  Six
months back on Earth, and his mind was still in the
atmosphere.  The dreams were not helping.

He dreamt about her almost every night—vivid dreams,
sweet and sad and laughing dreams.  He never
remembered her name, or her face, just impressions of
dark eyes, a slow grin, a glare to match any of his. 
He was tempted to dismiss her as a figment of his
imagination, some conjured fantasy to relieve months
of frustrated bed rest.  Only he wasn’t on bed rest
anymore.  He was living the closest thing to a normal
life possible for an IASA astronaut that had
dissapeared into space two years before and then shown
up on a beach a good deal worse for wear.

He was home, the place he’d spent two years dreaming
of—and now all he could dream about was some woman,
some woman that wasn’t here, wasn’t real,
wasn’t...wasn’t anything...

He was in therapy, though it was a little tricky since
he had to lie to the doctor all the time.  His
therapist was intelligent, competent—and obviously
perplexed.  She made a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic
Stress Disorder...but he wasn’t disturbed.  He just
couldn’t shake these dreams, couldn’t shake the
feeling that he was missing something, something
important...He couldn’t shake the feeling he had other
places he was supposed to be.

Just one night, that’s all he wanted.  One night where
he could sleep peacefully, be glad to be home.  One
morning where he could wake up rested, happy, not
longing for some unsubstantial figure that faded away
with the dawn.

There was one thing he knew: the dreams were
wonderful.  It was the waking that hurt, that drove
him crazy.  In the dreams, he was always happy, or
enchanted, or marvelously confused.  In the dreams,
she was always beautiful, and warm, and everything
he’d ever needed.

When he woke up in the morning, she was gone.  Not
even a memory, not even a dream; the wisp of a
feeling, leaving him aching for more, unsatisfied,
angry.  As the dreams became more frequent, they’d
begun to effect his life, his personality.  He
couldn’t just get out of bed, shrug it off...he spent
his time wondering why he dreamt these things, why he
could never remember more than a smell, a touch, a
glance...

He began to wonder if it was more than a dream, if she
was more than a dream.

*

< Her skin begged to be touched, to be kissed all
over, a thousand kisses...God, he was so confused,
scared, alone on his own planet, and she made it all
better.  Just to touch her, was worth all the
alienation...worth any risk...

His lips brushed her shoulder, sweet, comforting, but
they didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.  Her lips enticed
him, the damp curls around her face begged to be
touched.  Damp…damp with rain.  Real rain.  Earth
rain.  And in the moment he took her lips, he didn’t
care if he never felt rain again. >

"Uuugh," John moaned, not ready to wake up from that
one.  Not ready at *all*.

"Mmm, what’s the matter?" a soft voice asked and he
winced, remembering where he was.  The feel of soft
skin still pressed against his lips, the damp
warmth...He really needed to do something about this.

"I didn’t mean to wake you up," John muttered. 
"Sorry."  The woman next to him-petite, blond,
gorgeous-smiled lazily.

"Not a problem.  In fact, now that we’re both awake…" 
She reached for him and he barely stopped himself from
scrambling away.  It almost seemed...wrong.  Like he
was...what?  Betraying some woman that did not and
never had existed?

But what if she had?  Frell, this was too complicated.
 He wanted to move on.  Wanted to get his life back on
track.  Wanted to wake up next to a beautiful woman
without comparing her to a dream he couldn’t even
remember.

"I’m sorry," he sighed, shaking his head.  "I have to
go.  Work stuff...I..."

"Right," she said, sitting up and hooking her arms
around her knees.  "Hey, don’t sweat it."

"I’ll call you," he promised.  She waggled her fingers
at him as he hopped around the room with one leg of
his jeans on.  He gave her his best goofy grin.  She
sighed.

*

"I can’t do this," John raged.  "I can’t frelling do
this!"  Dr. Richards tapped her pen against her
notepad gently, watching him pace the room.

"Frell?  What does that mean?" she asked.  He shook
his head, waving away the question.  "I realize you’re
upset John.  The best I can do is prescribe some
sleeping pills.  And we can keep up the therapy."

"It’s not helping!" John shouted, then stopped and
clutched at his head.  "It’s not helping."

"There are things here I don’t understand," Dr.
Richards said.  "I think you’re not being entirely
honest with me."

John began to laugh.  And went home early.  It really
wasn’t helping.

"Are you okay?" DK asked when he got to work.

"Absolutely not," John replied flippantly.  DK didn’t
look amused.

"What’s going on?" DK demanded.  John put a hand on
his best friend’s shoulder and replied in a very
serious tone.

"Mama Bear, I’m being haunted."

*

< "I would be lost without you," he said.  No, he
didn’t say that.  The...the other thing did, but he
was there, he knew, he heard.  He agreed
wholeheartedly.

"Then you’ll never be lost," she promised, and he felt
this welling up of something strange and wonderful
inside, indescribable.  He couldn’t answer, but he
could feel, and whatever was controlling his body
could draw on that, was drawing on that to frame its
answers; his answers.

"No matter what happens, you have worked your way into
my heart."

"You’ve shown me that I have one," she said softly and
John nearly cried at the thought.  If he’d had eyes to
cry from.  He’d waited so long for this moment, and he
wasn’t even in control...he couldn’t say all the
things he wanted to say, needed to say…

Scorpius said them for him.  "I love you."  Know it,
his mind whispered.  No matter what happens, know that
it’s true, I mean, me, me, I mean, I love you, I love
you, I love you...

"I love you," she told him and even as his soul
rejoiced he could feel his hands moving, reaching, and
she was gone, gone, and he was going... >

For the first time, John didn’t wake up swearing.  He
woke up crying; tears pouring down his cheeks,
slipping between his lips, bittersweet echoes of a
kiss that never came.

Never came, because she wasn’t real.  She was never
real.  Or maybe she was, and everything around him was
false, maybe this was another trick, another false
Earth, and something...something was happening.  They
were screwing with his mind again.  Maybe that was it.
 Maybe his friends were somewhere, trapped, being
butchered except for...except for one, one he saved
and she...and she...

There was nothing there.  No memory.  Just black. 
Black, like her hair, and her eyes, and his heart as
he told her he loved her and then knocked her out, as
he killed her...killed her...killed her...killed
her...

Black like her eyes, but oh god, the memory of them
burned, where there was no memory at all.

*

He learned to get used to the dreams after a while. 
Were they real?  Had she been a person, with a name,
with a life, a story?  He learned not to ask, not to
dwell on the dark gaps of his memory.  When he woke
up, he got better at banishing the feelings from his
mind.  He started living again, little by little.

The dreams were a comfort; a terror.  He wanted to
give them back to wherever they’d come from.  If she
was a figment of his imagination, he needed to get
himself a tune-up.  If she was real, and he’d lost his
memories of her...well, they should have done a better
job.

She was his dream woman.  And he never managed to find
anyone else beside whom waking from a dream was not a
dissapointment.

He wanted to give her back; he wanted his life to go
on; and some part of him wanted to keep those dreams
as close as possible to his heart, so that he could go
on, every day, with at least the dream of her.

*

"Paper," John muttered to himself.  "Newspaper.  News.
 Real things that are really happening."  He padded
out to his front door, opening the door and standing
in his doorway.  For just a moment, he paused to
breath in the fresh air.  Earth air.  The sky was
blue; it usually was in Florida.  Bright blue, and
sunny, and not a cloud in the sky.  The street was
perfect, the picket fences and the pretty houses. 
Earth.  Home.

A cab pulled up to the curb as John stood there.  He
watched it with narrow eyes, and didn’t understand,
not even when it stopped in front of his house.  Not
even when a boot descended from the back seat, and
then another, and then a leather-clad leg.  A body,
achingly familiar in that he had no recollection of
it.  And a face.

She straightened, paid the driver, turned and saw him.
 Stopped.  He watched her, watched the emotions
playing across her face.  She hitched a bag up on her
shoulder, began walking towards him, slowly, each step
firm and sure.  He bent and picked up his paper,
straightened and began hitting it against one hand
idly.  She was beautiful; leggy, loose dark hair
flowing across her shoulders.

"John Crichton?" she inquired, stopping a few feet
away.

"That’s me."

"Aeryn Sun," she introduced herself, holding out a
hand.  John hesitated for a moment, caught in a
feeling too deep to express.  He stepped forward and
took the offered hand, shaking it firmly.  The touch
was like electricity.  He didn’t let go.

"Nice to meet you."

"Zhaan told me you’d lost your memories.  They weren’t
sure how many...the surgeon didn’t know how severe the
damages were."

"Pretty severe," John commented, not releasing her
hand.  She nodded, a piece of hair falling forward,
glinting in the sunlight.

"You don’t remember me at all," she said in a careless
tone, lightly, just stating a fact.  John dropped the
newspaper.  Screw reality.  He tugged gently, and a
moment later she was in his arms, his face during in
her hair.  That smell...the same smell...Sweet and
delicious and Aeryn...Aeryn...Aeryn...

"Baby, I could never forget you."

The End