milliways_bar | (no subject)

[OOM: time, time, time / make time, give time, take time out / win time, cost time, the time of your life / spend time, sell time, the good times and the bad / kill time, zero time, all the time in the world / time watch, time travel, time to begin / time table, time square, can i fit you in? / time frame, time to go, time that you grew up / but tell me...how do you feel?

John Crichton, astronaut, stumbled in through the door, managing to catch himself on the edge of a table. He barely registers Milliways before he's whirling around to go back out the door...

...instead he hit a wall. "Shit! Frelling don't do this to me!"

Ah yes, the dulcet tones of Mr. Crichton's cursing! How the Bar must have missed that.

He placed a palm against the wood, sighing. She was out there, Aeryn was out there, and he was dead and all of this stuff was happening without him and he didn't have time for this.

(He has all the time in the world, here).

John leaned against the wall and sighed. Damn.

[OPEN FOREVER OMG, TAAAG MEEEE. OPEN TIL THE 28TH. YES. THAT LONG]

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"Only months?" He raised his eyebrows, his gaze focused on the baby because looking at Ianna is easier to deal with. "Felt like longer. And Aeryn's on Moya."

He waggled his fingers at the baby, grinning. "C'mere. Come see Uncle John."

"More than half a standard year, Crichton," says Plourr, and she shoots him an 'oh really?' sort of look at his discussion with Ianna -- but she does pass the princess to him.

Ianna gets a firm grip on the shoulder of his jacket and peers at him with sharp, skeptical interest; says, "Ba?"

"Boop." John replied to Ianna, grinning down at the baby in his arms. Gods, this felt good. Right.

"Half a year? Damn."

"Ages," she says, and it's a touch dry, but Ianna is living evidence that it has been a long time.

"What the hell have you been doing with yourself?"

Ianna curls one hand into fabric; she hesitates a moment -- then goes for Crichton's nose with the other. It's a little uncoordinated for a grab, but for a kid her age, it's not bad.

"Yowch." He said, overly dramatic, his eyes wide and he made a face, hoping to illicit some baby giggles.

He glanced up at Plourr (and his eyes look so haunted for a moment before he blinks). "I'm alive, Plourr. The other John. He's dead."

(Ianna's an easy sell -- she breaks out in appreciative laughter.)

Her mother, meanwhile, is watching Crichton quietly.

"I'm sorry, John," she says (because she knows, blunt as she lets herself be, that 'better him than you' isn't the thing to say). "How'd it happen?"

"Radiation poisoning. Aeryn was with him. She..." He swallowed hard. "She loved him. Won't talk to me now."

She mutters a short string of ugly Huttese; John may not know the language, but the intent is clear enough: Jesus Christ, that's messed up.

To her credit -- she isn't watching him any harder than she was before when she asks, evenly, "You aren't the original Crichton?"