Farscape Fic: Missing
May. 19th, 2007 03:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladycallieTitle: Missing
Rating: PG
Word count: 235
Setting: Season Four, Bringing Home The Beacon
Rating: PG
Word count: 235
Setting: Season Four, Bringing Home The Beacon
Beta: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyricalviolet
Part of my John and Aeryn 50lyricsfanfic table
Archived at AO3
I'll be just fine, pretending I'm not;
I'm far from lonely, and it's all that I've got
"All That I've Got", The Used
He remained on the gold marbled floor, legs sprawled, her jacket a dark puddle of fabric beside him. It reminded him of blood. He looked away.
He felt sick. His insides ached, as if he had thrown up repeatedly and the muscles were bruised and sore; stomach empty, deflated, tired and yet still seizing, desperate to purify him. He breathed deeply through his nose. The air was cool, but offered no comfort, no hint of the woodsy spice she scented her hair with. Only the smell of chakan oil and fire and death, a combination he knew too well, lingered on the air currents.
His stomach clenched again and bitter bile filled his mouth and nose, burning his sinuses. He raise a hand to brush away a stinging tear and realized that he must have reached out and grabbed her coat at some point; his knuckles were pale against the black leather clench tight in his fist. Exhaling, he shook out the great coat, and held it up in front of him. It was empty; the shoulders sagged towards the floor without her slim frame to support it. The polish she was always so careful to maintain seemed dull now, unlike the glow it had when she wore it, the dark color brought out a red rarely seen in her equally dark hair. The jacket was lifeless, a shell with out her.
Just like him.
-fin
lyricalviolet Part of my John and Aeryn 50lyricsfanfic table
Archived at AO3
I'll be just fine, pretending I'm not;
I'm far from lonely, and it's all that I've got
"All That I've Got", The Used
He remained on the gold marbled floor, legs sprawled, her jacket a dark puddle of fabric beside him. It reminded him of blood. He looked away.
He felt sick. His insides ached, as if he had thrown up repeatedly and the muscles were bruised and sore; stomach empty, deflated, tired and yet still seizing, desperate to purify him. He breathed deeply through his nose. The air was cool, but offered no comfort, no hint of the woodsy spice she scented her hair with. Only the smell of chakan oil and fire and death, a combination he knew too well, lingered on the air currents.
His stomach clenched again and bitter bile filled his mouth and nose, burning his sinuses. He raise a hand to brush away a stinging tear and realized that he must have reached out and grabbed her coat at some point; his knuckles were pale against the black leather clench tight in his fist. Exhaling, he shook out the great coat, and held it up in front of him. It was empty; the shoulders sagged towards the floor without her slim frame to support it. The polish she was always so careful to maintain seemed dull now, unlike the glow it had when she wore it, the dark color brought out a red rarely seen in her equally dark hair. The jacket was lifeless, a shell with out her.
Just like him.
-fin
