Farscape: Horny, dysfunctional, deliciously original. It’s got puppets. Crichton/Aeryn is my enduring ship. I give my shortest Farscape piece.
Aeryn was struggling with the piping over the rear of the Prowler. Crichton reached over past her shoulder and gripped one angle in place. Aeryn started twisting.
He didn’t lean in. She leaned out.
“You scented your hair again,” he murmured, as if there were anyone to hear. Pilot, probably.
Aeryn kept twisting. “Yes, what of it?”
“It’s just that, since I noticed the first time, we haven’t exactly been on speaking terms.”
She stayed brisk. “I’m speaking. You’re speaking. Who else is supposed to speak? Should we get Rygel in here?”
“I personally don’t want to know what Rygel thinks of your hair.” He shifted his grip and readied a new thought. “You know, by the time you and I end up on the same page it’ll probably be just in time for the apocalypse.”
“What’s an apocalypse?”
“Buy me a helmet and build me a bunker, ‘cause I’ll be there. Front row, waving hello.”
She scoffed. “Another Human ritual.”
“People wait their whole lives for it. There’ve been close calls, but nobody’s seen it yet.”
“Then how do you know it’s real?”
He didn’t quite touch his nose to her hair, and she waited. “I just know.”
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