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“RYGEL!! You Hynerian horse’s hiney!! WHERE IS IT??!!”
John Crichton stormed through Moya’s corridors, swearing a blue streak. He had just spent weeks procuring the necessary ingredients for a special treat for Moya’s crew. He had used up nearly all the items he could find to trade for the beans that resembled cocoa pods on one planet and a brown powder that closely resembled sugar on another.
He had dried the pods, roasted and crushed them, managing at last to obtain a golden paste, which he mixed with the sugar substitute. He added a little liquid that reminded him of milk, even if it was yellow in color. The resulting thick syrup was a beautiful light brown color, and smelled very much like chocolate frosting. When he dipped a finger into the warm concoction and touched it to his tongue, he sighed in ecstasy. PERFECT!
He had left his surprise in the galley, intending to share it with his friends after their evening meal. Stopping by to check on the sweet confection, he only saw an empty table where the pot had been.
He heard a familiar sound and dashed out the door just as Dominar Rygel’s throne sled zipped down the corridor. He followed at a run. He had almost caught up with the little thief when he heard a thud and a crash, followed by two very angry voices.
“Frelling bitch! Why don’t you watch where you are going?”
“Me? You were the one who wasn’t watching! I saw you – you were looking back to see if anyone was behind you!”
John rounded the corner and stopped short, staring. “Aeryn!”
Rygel hovered over the Sebacean, who sat on the floor of the corridor, John’s pot of gooey sticky sweet stuff splattered all over her face and upper body, dripping from her hair. She had her pulse pistol pulled and aimed at the Hynerian.
“Whoa, girl, take it easy,” John held his hands up, spreading his arms apart, inching himself carefully between the angry woman and the thieving Hynerian. “Rygel!” he spat. “You stole my stuff. But I’m lettin’ you off the hook this time. My advice - vacate this hall real quick.”
Rygel blessed his gods for the stroke of good luck and vanished down the corridor in the direction of his room.
John turned to face Aeryn. She was getting to her feet, staring at the brown syrup dripping from her vest.
“How am I supposed to get this stuff off?” she complained, holding strands of her hair in her hands for emphasis.
“Well, now that you mention it, there is one way,” his voice trailed off as he stepped close and touched a finger to a streak of sweet stuff on her cheek. With a suggestive glint in his eyes, he stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked it off. He slowly moved closer and bent his head to her ear, capturing it in his mouth, sucking the brown syrup off her delicate lobe.
Shivers ran up and down Aeryn’s spine and she was torn between punching John out – and demanding he remove more of the sweet stuff in the same manner.
As John backed up to see her reaction, she began to smile. Some of the brown paste from her hair had found its way to John’s chin. She licked her lips and leaned closer, lightly swiping his chin with her tongue. More shivers raced through her body. She grinned at John. He returned the look. She picked up the almost-empty container. “What is this stuff?”
“It’s a close facsimile of an earth ambrosia called chocolate.”
“Is this what your people do with chocolate?”
“It’s, um, one thing, uh, that some do…”
“I need to get the rest of this off my face and out of my hair. What do you suggest?”
“I suggest a shower – after we, uh, get most of it off,” he nibbled at a little streak of sweet stuff on her neck, “like this.”
******
The next morning found John puttering in the maintenance bay, whistling a happy tune, enjoying the quiet, fondly recalling the events of the previous night. He had left Aeryn sleeping peacefully, dreaming of chocolate.
Suddenly the silence was shattered by an ear-splitting cry, “JOHN CRICHTON!!”
He cringed. It was Aeryn. Now what?
The ex-peacekeeper stormed into the maintenance bay, bristling with anger, hand hovering dangerously close to her pulse pistol. She came to a halt mere inches from a very puzzled and wary John Crichton.
He took one look at her and his jaw dropped. The tip of her beautiful nose was bright red, slightly swollen, irritated and angry-looking.
“Aeryn! Your nose…?”
“Yes. My. Nose. Crichton, what the frell is wrong with my nose?!”
Crichton swallowed hard as he tried to think of a way to explain pimples to Aeryn.
