albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[It does the job of distracting her, at least. She recognizes the mask: picks it up and inspects it looking for a reason as to why it's there.

He'd never have been without it voluntarily.

But there's something about its smooth, polished surface that makes her immediately uncomfortable. Has her abruptly dropping the thing down on the bed beside all his paperwork and scrawlings. Rubs her fingers against her palms as if attempting to scrub away the contact of it, visibly unnerved.]

[The idea of Aeryn being unsettled by something as simple as Stark's mask is almost amusing, but he knows the weight behind it. He knows exactly why it would make her uncomfortable -- should make her uncomfortable without him saying as much.

He doesn't return to it. Stark is part of the equation, but not until the end of it. Some of the voices are already becoming clearer in the silence of the room.

Crichton recognizes that he needs to diffuse the tension a little, so he forces a small smile and moves over to gather some of the papers.]

Hey. You're in a hotel. Relax a little.

I wasn't anywhere near a hotel before, John. [Despite his reassurances, this time it's Aeryn that steps back to give him room. Aeryn that doesn't know how to handle someone else closing in on her space.

She had been following him-- but she hadn't been following him here. And it's that realization that prompts her to move for the door while he's preoccupied, hopefully before he can stop her.]

[It almost works. John has to do a double take, but with a few swift strikes, he's grabbing her wrist and yanking her back away from the door, spinning to put himself in front of it before she can get a decent hold on him. He won't bother trying to hold onto her -- she's stronger than him, so he just holds his hands up in surrender.]

Wait--Aeryn.

[He almost asks where she had been following him but -- maybe that was too much, for right now.]

Where are you gonna go?

I don't know-- anywhere. Anywhere that isn't here. [She doesn't look at him: drops her gaze to look at his chest, his hands-- the doorframe, anything. This isn't right. She has to go.]

[The awkward pause lingers, enough that his hands eventually fall to his hips and his gaze also drops to the ground.]

Do you wanna talk?

[He can't just let her go, no matter how much he wants to.]

[It's a question that prompts a direct, focused stare. Desperate as much as it is expectant.]

Who am I? Not in general, but to you: who am I, Crichton?

[And, predictably, he doesnt look up. Not right away--it wasn't fair of her, to ask him a question like that. She doesn't know who she is talking to, or what is at stake, or what has even happened to make him even consider coming here.]

You are Aeryn Sun.

[He pulls his hands from his hips, shifting the crude star charts in his hands. What he wants to say can't be said to this Aeryn. So instead of answering as his head wishes him to, he lets someone else's words come from him -- words he's never heard before, but still feel right.]

My point of reference. My guide.

[This time, he looks up -- he knows he has to, if she's going to take his words to heart. If this is an unrealized reality, then things need to be as they were before.]

My one constant.

[It isn't fair of him to give her an answer like that.

Aeryn shrinks beneath the weight of it, or seems to, anyway. Shoulderline dropping into something noticeably less aggressive-- practically the opposite of.

She's rarely ever looked so vulnerable before, and regardless of how she opens her mouth a few microts later, nothing at all comes out aside from that constant, fearful stare.]

Its ok.

[John stays where he is -- he doesn't push, he doesn't try to approach. There's a perfect distance between them, leaving it up to her to close. He'll only give her a few microts to do so.

Because while all of that was true, it wouldn't mean anything when he got back to reality. The attachment would only hurt him more, in the end. If she doesn't opt to close the distance, he will widen it by folding his hands over one another, charts still carefully folded between his fingers.]

Just do me a favor and...don't leave.

[She does though. Tentatively. Slow and barely there when she closes the gap to wrap two fingers round the cuff of his sleeve. As if he were heat, or sharp enough to cut - something that would wound her if she wasn't careful about the sort of contact she's currently making.

Pulls on that sleeve like a thread. Like it'll unravel him and some part of her by proxy. All wordless communication in a noisy, sickly city.]

[She's not totally wrong about that -- the pulling of his sleeve unraveling him, at least. He's forced to move with it, fear of what might come afterward if he resists. For what Aeryn would do, if she thought he was being dishonest.

It wasn't dishonest -- not at the core of him. He cares too much to resist her for long. Somewhere, in the back of his head, another voice echoes in encouragement. The pressure of a hand on his shoulder, though he knows there is nothing there.

Its his own, and yet not his own all the same time.]

[She's at his chest. Hands sliding up his sleeve, star charts rustling against the fabric of her flightsuit. Cheek to his jaw just barely edging in on the sensation of what it means to feel him-- solid-- beneath her.]

Are you afraid of me?

Maybe a little.

[Its easier to joke than be honest, and she'll feel the muscles in his jaw stretch to smirk without looking at him. He's not particularly afraid of what she could do to him -- not really. Not physically. But he is afraid of getting hurt in other ways.

This Aeryn can't know that. The line of his shoulders relaxes through force of will.]

Good to know you're finally developing common sense.

[The forced smile is enough; Aeryn's no expert when it comes to emotion, she can't tell the difference between his forced efforts and something genuine. Her chin drops, tucks down in the line of his collarbone, fingers going sharp in the fabric of his coat.]

You need to go back to Moya.

Not yet.

[From her position, she can no doubt feel his heart hammering uncontrollably. For him, its been ages since they've been this close to one another.

Now, more than ever, he needs to talk to himself -- and anyone else with proper perspective who would be willing to listen.]

Soon.

[Aeryn ought to fight him on that front. Ought to shove him out at gunpoint and keep him walking till he's far and away from all of this.

She doesn't.

His heart's pounding; she can't tear away from the sound of it. Or from him.] Do it, then. Whatever it is you came here for.

[He lets her stay there for as long as she likes -- at least until he remembers that he has to get her back to Moya sooner rather than later.

He couldn't risk doing the deed in the same room as her. There was no telling what would happen if the events that hadn't happened yet for her were accidentally given to her by his twin.

If she could even see him.]

I'll be at least an arn. Maybe a little more. Will you stay here?

Fine just-- [She doesn't want to. Feels like she shouldn't; like something is off and threatening to drown the both of them.

But she also knows she can't stop him. ] be quick.

[He leans back so she can see him smile.]

Thank you.

[And then he disappears out the door. He isn't quick -- finding a mystic who is willing to try and communicate with his twin is easy, but finding one actually capable of doing so without him giving up any body parts is another thing entirely. Everyone on this end of the planet seems particularly interested in chopping up a Sebacean.

Eventually, he does find what he needs at a decent price, but he comes out of the encounter no more clear than he had been going in. Typically, the mystic had tried to reel him back in with talks of his mother, of D.K. --

When Crichton eventually does make it back to the room, he's pale and sick but upright. He's not even sure how he managed to make it back to the upper levels without passing out, but he's back.]

[She's there waiting still by the time he does. Arns spent at the edge of his bed, doing more deep, careful thinking about the situation than she'd ever wanted to in a hundred lifetimes.

But she's there, and she catches him-- easily-- the moment he stumbles in.] What happened? --What did you do?

[He tries not to put all of his weight on her, even though he's aware that she is perfectly capable of handling it. The help isn't scorned -- he needs it just to get inside.]

Had a talk...or ten. I'll be fine, just--

[He gestures awkwardly toward the bed.]

Little help?

[Aeryn knows already. Knows he's withered and wilted and it doesn't take either a genius or a doctor to figure out that much.

So she does as he asks: wordlessly helps him to the bed, pulls off his thick coat and forces him to lie back so that he can get much needed rest. Doesn't lock the door. Doesn't really know better, given the place and time.]

[Laying down relaxes the dizziness in his head a bit. It doesn't stop the visions of others at the corners of his eyes, but it keeps him from feeling as if he needs to vomit.

John doesn't think to lock the door either -- he can't think much of anything. He's starting to wonder if the mystic had drugged him, if he was calling the Peacekeepers to pick him up.

Subconsciously, he reaches for his leg, checking to make sure he hadn't accidentally left Winona behind. Of course, he hadn't, which leaves him to look up at Aeryn.]

Anyone stop by?

Just you. [It's gentle. Patient. His hair is matted down across the curve of his brow, and Aeryn moves to brush it back away from his sweat-stained skin.]

Who did this?

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