(This short piece takes place during Aeryn's stabbing, and during the commercial break between the death of Larraq and the scene with Aeryn and Crichton after her recovery.)

He stabbed her.

He stabbed her.

The same thought raced through John Crichton's mind over and over. It was a never ending loop of terror and hopelessness that spun round and round before his eyes until his whole world seemed to come apart from the strain. He tried to run, he tried to scream, he tried to think. Everything jumbled and tumbled and rumbled together in his thoughts as he watched the first spots of blood pool on Aeryn's belly as her fall began to tear loose the blade. He tried to get out everything he had wanted to say to her, try and say some word that could stop what he was seeing. All he could get out was a single, strangled cry.

"Aeryn!"

He heard his own voice echo in his head, blotting out all the sounds around him as Aeryn began to tumble to the floor. He was only dimly aware of D'Argo screaming in his ear, and of Larraq racing off toward the hangar at a casual jog.

Crichton stumbled forward, catching Aeryn in mid-tumble, feeling the sticky warmth that was spreading across her abdomen at a sickening rate. Without looking, he knew it was bad. He mumbled in fear and disbelief, absolutely unsure as to what to do. He looked into Aeryn's eyes, struggling for some sign of hope, but her face was a mask of terror and shock. She looked into his eyes for a strangled moment and tried to speak, but the only sound she made was a rattling gasp. His hands were covered in her blood, and her hands were shaking uncontrollably. He touched her face for an instant, trying to clear away the hair that had fallen into her eyes. His nerveless fingers caressed her eyes in pure panic, trying desperately to keep them open, but as her eyes began to roll away from his and toward the ceiling, his whole world began to unravel.

"God," he croaked. "Oh, God, God, God..."

>From light-years away, he heard D'Argo screaming at him.

"You go!" D'Argo thundered. "Go after him! The virus can't re-infect you!"

He heard Aeryn gasp in agony, and a part of him demanded that he remain, but he knew that D'Argo was right, and there was nothing he could do here for Aeryn. He shook off the rage and fear and panic and scrambled away from her. Her only hope now was that Zhaan could find a way to repair the damage.

Besides, it would give him a chance to kill Larraq for what he had done.

"Go!" D'Argo screamed again, stronger this time. "GO!!"

He stumbled around blindly, scooping up Larraq's fallen pistol from the floor, and tore off down the passageway. The last thing he heard was D'Argo frantically calling for Zhaan's help. He half-turned down the corridor and caught a glance at D'Argo and Aeryn, certain he would never see her again.

The Virus was pleased.

He only thought of himself as Virus all these cycles. It was what he had been called in ages past, and it was the only name he ever knew. He had never thought to give himself a name of his own. For so long he had merely been one, the only one of his kind. The thought that he would have necessity to acquire a name to distinguish himself from others of his kind had never occurred to him. For cycle upon cycle through nearly the whole of his memory, he had been the only one.

Once, long ago, before most in this part of the galaxy had acquired sufficient knowledge to put their thoughts into language, his kind had ruled. Granted, they had existed in the shells of primitive animals, but they thrived. Their prolific reproduction stimulated their evolution, and before long they had the run of an entire world. When others came, in ships which traveled among the stars, his kind had seen their chance for greatness, and had spread throughout the galaxy. From a single explorer ship, to mastery of the Universe in a single cycle. They were it's heart, they were it's soul, they were it's masters.

Then, they had been beaten back into near extinction. Another race had discovered his kind while they were being carefully overcome. In a matter of cycles, the whole of his kind had been boiled down to a single entity, and he had lain in wait for millions of cycles, waiting..

Now, though, the whole of the Universe lay before him once again, and the body of Larraq smiled. Soon, he thought. Yes, soon.

His plan was already in motion.

Crichton tore through the corridor, racing headlong at breakneck speed toward his destination. Despite the desperation in his movements, his mind was pure, focused calm. He had but one thought on his mind at that moment: kill Larraq.

As he rounded the corridor near the junction to the transport hangar, he heard the sounds of a struggle. He spun around the next access way, pistol in hand, and saw Chiana, half-conscious on the ground. As he moved to help her, he heard the marauder's engines cycling up to speed, and the slow grinding roar of the transport doors.

"The transport hangar," Chiana gasped. Crichton immediately leapt over her to try and get a shot through the doors, but realized it was too late. His heart sank as he realized that Larraq had beaten him to the marauder, where he was safe from anything they had to throw at him.

"Pilot," Chiana coughed from the floor. "Seal the outer transport doors."

Crichton's mind spun as he considered ways to get at Larraq. He was halfway to tearing the ship apart with his bare hands when an alternative struck him.

"No!" he yelled, the frustration subsiding as a plan formed in his mind.

"Pilot, is that ship still leaking cesium fuel?"

"Yes," Pilot replied calmly.

"Let him go."

The marauder screamed out of the transport hangar at full burn, narrowly missing the outer transport doors by the narrowest margin. The Virus checked the controls idly, accessing that part of his host's brain that contained the information he required. The amount of fuel loss was considerable, but sufficient to reach his destination so long as he was careful.

And he was very, very careful.

With the Peacekeeper base only arns away, he settled himself back on his heels with satisfaction. He decided that the time was right to give himself a name. He decided to ponder that along the way.

As the tiny vessel ripped itself from the belly of the leviathan and into the safety of deep space, the body of Larraq smiled.

The Virus had won.

Crichton raced through the corridors at a dead run, knowing that his plan required the most perfect timing if it was to succeed.

"Pilot, stand by for Starburst!" he yelled as the corridor walls tore past his eyes.

"Moya is in no condition to Starburst!" Pilot replied in frustration.

"Not full Starburst, just the first stage!" Crichton rumbled as he strode onto the command deck. "And I want this ship to turn on her tail, one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. Right now!"

Pilot complied without question, as he had been designed to do, but his confidence in the Human's plan was faltering. How was travelling in Starburst in the opposite direction from their quarry going to help?

Moya responded quickly to Pilot's command, rotating on her ventral axis until her tail pointed where her head had been only moments before. Pilot checked Moya's sensory information, and noted that the area was saturated with cesium fuel.

At last, Pilot mused. The Human is making sense to me.

Crichton stared out the main viewer, fixed on the fleeing Peacekeeper vessel, a luminescent stream of cobalt blue floating and fluxing in the blackness. Crichton's heart skipped a beat as he noticed that the fuel stream was dissipating more rapidly than he had thought. He knew this would be close.

As Moya's tail end began to dip into the leading edge of the cesium plume, Crichton felt rattlers coiling up in his stomach.

"On my command," he told the waiting Pilot.

As Moya's tail fell into the plume, he looked up at the fleeing backside of the marauder, and a part of him smiled.

"Now."

Moya rumbled as energies thrummed and churned within her. Arcs of blue fire raced forth and back as her tendrils parted, opening the gateway to Starburst. The blue fire touched a small pocket of the cesium, almost casually, and a flare of orange flame cascaded along the trail of blue mist...

...straight toward the marauder.

Crichton grunted once in satisfaction as he watched the arrow of orange flame race toward it's target. He inhaled deeply, feeling some small measure of gratitude that the Virus-Larraq would be made to pay. For everything.

As the flames drew close to the marauder, Crichton spat out a single, hate-filled word.

"Boom!"

The Virus had sensed the change in his surroundings, using sensory capabilities only his kind were even aware of. However, his knowledge of the events did little to enhance his ability to affect them, and a small part of him died at the realization that this part of his plan had come to an end. As the flames raced up the plume and into the marauder, the rest of him died as well, as the tiny ship erupted into a billowing cloud of glittering fragments and fire.

The Virus' second-to-last thought was a curse, one which only his kind could truly appreciate.

His final thought was one of satisfaction, for he knew that there would be another day, and his kind would rise to meet it. That part was certain.

For he had been very, very careful.

Crichton relaxed suddenly as he realized that The Virus was finally destroyed. He dimly heard his hands slide down the console with a slippery squeak. He looked down at his palms with a start, and noticed they were saturated with half-dried blood. Red blood.

Aeryn.

"Pilot, where's Aeryn?"

Pilot hesitated for the barest moment as he considered the commander's state of mind.

"I have been monitoring her condition, and..."

"Where is she!" Crichton thundered. Pilot was momentarily taken aback at the Human's ferocity. He continued calmly, choosing each word carefully.

"She is in Zhaan's quarter's," he began sadly. "I'm sorry," he continued. "She is not expected to survive."

D'Argo refused Crichton entry to Zhaan's quarters for some time, as Zhaan continued work on her ruined torso. It was both frustrating and terrifying to see Aeryn this way, her blood saturating her clothing, the bed...Zhaan. Still, D'Argo refused him admission, and admonished him for his refusal to comply. Any interruption could be fatal for Aeryn, he explained. He told him to let Zhaan do her work.

It was a long time before Zhaan emerged from her chamber. Gratefully, Crichton noted that she had changed her gown, discarding her blood-soaked garment before facing Crichton. She had sewn Aeryn's belly with what little she had, and had done so with very little in the way of proper medical equipment. Zhaan's apothecary was good for only so much, but she had poured as much as she thought could help into Aeryn as she had. The rest was up to her.

Still unconscious, Aeryn was moved into an adjoining chamber as gently as D'Argo and Crichton could manage. She was kept warm, and watched carefully. Either way, it was only a matter of time.

Crichton made his way throughout the ship, aimlessly, meandering from room to room. He found where Aeryn had fallen, he found where they first met, he found where they...

He found Hassan.

In all the confusion, they had forgotten the body of the dead Peacekeeper female - the Peacekeeper he had killed. Well, not him exactly, "Him-but-not-him". The taste was still bitter in his mouth, though. More bitter than the acidic bile that the virus had left behind after he was through with him...through USING him. But this bile tasted of more than death, it was another Sebacean whose life he had ruined. Just like Aeryn. It was like a recurring nightmare from which he would NEVER awaken.

Her body was still curled up on the floor where he...where the Virus-Him had left it. He covered it with a nearby sheet and tried to think of something to say. He could not. He tried to choke out something, a half-remembered prayer he had heard at his grandmother's funeral...but there was nothing.

Then his eyes fell upon a metal bar that lay on the floor a short distance away.

He knew, somehow...he knew this was the tool he had used to kill Hassan.

He reached out and touched the bar, caressing it, as if that would bring the memory back. There was a spark of remembrance, something about stroking her hair...he couldn't remember. All that was left of the memory was her corpse. The thought occurred to him that this was probably a posthumous punishment issued by the Virus...punishment from beyond grave. He thought this, and he thought about it again, and his whole world went black.

He snatched the bar from the floor with a grunt and paced around the room like a mad thing, shattering vials, vases, anything that would shatter or crack. The sheer physical pleasure of breaking something was all he had left, so he took to it with unabashed rage.

Crack. That was for Aeryn.

Crack. That was for Hassan.

Crack. That was for everybody else.

Crack. Smash. Crack.

That was for me.

Glass and shattered wood sprinkled the floor like rain, but still he kept going. He kept going until there was nothing left to feel, but he ran out of things to break first. He slumped heavily to the floor, exhausted and spent. He breathed with labored, wracking heaves, glaring at the ceiling with as much anger and rage and grief that he could muster, but it was gone. It was all gone. All that was left was a dull ache. It was his fault, his fault.

All of it.

Somehow, much later, he made his way back to where Aeryn lay, still and quiet. He checked her forehead, which was still warm, and her pulse, which was thready and weak. He planted himself on a cot on the opposite side of the room, as far from her as was comfortable. He was still so wracked with guilt and grief and hurt...it was painful to be near her.

And yet, he had almost lost her today. He'd never told her how he felt. There had always been the physical attraction, that was certain, but he had never known if she felt anything more, or even if he did. His thoughts were often so confused. She did that to him.

But now...it could have been too late. "I wish I could have said I was sorry," he said to her as she slept. "I wish...things could have been different." She had been so different with these Peacekeepers, so aggressive, attentive...alive. These were her people, and he had taken them away from her. Crais, in his madness...Crais, who blamed him for the death of his brother, had seen to that. It was Crichton who was the focus of Crais' rage and hate...Crichton who he wanted dead. Crais killed her with his words so many months ago, he had nearly killed her with his plan. If only he hadn't tried to force the issue, if only they had gone with a different plan. If only he had never come her, and never collided with Crais' brother's ship. If only Aeryn hadn't stood up for him when she did. If only...

He banished those thoughts from his mind, but they kept coming to him, unbidden. He tried again and again, until he could not find the strength to push them away any longer. So, he wallowed in these memories, let them wash over his heart until they overwhelmed him. He tried to fight it down, but failed. The pain welled up inside him, and he cracked. He felt the first stings of warm tears on his face when he thought he heard Aeryn stir.

The shock of her presence shook him from his grief, and he reclaimed his composure. He glanced up, but noticed no change in her condition. Still asleep, he thought to himself. She's still asleep. He wiped his eyes suddenly, like a child, trying to strip the pain from his face. He sniffed once, and coughed to clear the lump in his throat. He looked at her again, and thought to himself that she would have thought him to be a very poor Peacekeeper, grieving over the near-death of a friend in battle, but he didn't care about that. He just wanted her to wake up.

He forced aside the hopelessness and instead focused on what he could do. He stood to leave, but noticed the metal bar still lying on the floor where he had left it when he entered the room. He picked it up, and sat roughly on the bed. He cradled the bar in his hands, trying to find some sense in it, something to hold on to. Instead, he gripped it roughly, using it to hold all the hurt he felt inside. He banished those feelings into that single, metal bar. He did this for her. He needed to be strong for Aeryn.

He heard Aeryn moan once, and glanced up at her. She inhaled deeply, and her eyes fluttered open. She looked around the room sharply, unsure where she was. She was halfway to getting up before Crichton thought to intervene.

"Welcome back," he said quietly. She turned to him with a start, not aware he had been there. She looked at him strangely for a moment, as if she did not recognize him. Then, the memories of the last day flooded over her, and she relaxed into the cot.

"You know, for a while there, Zhaan wasn't sure you were going to make it."

She grimaced in pain as she shifted her weight suddenly. "What's happened to the virus?" she wondered aloud. Crichton wasn't sure how much she wanted to hear, but he continued anyway.

"It's dead," he began. She relaxed visibly at this, and gazed up at the ceiling as if trying to remember something.

"So is Larraq," he finished. He had been worried about her reaction to this, but thought that it was important that she know.

Her brow wrinkled slightly, as a memory flashed into her mind. "He stabbed me, didn't he."

He hesitated only slightly as he re-ran the memory of her stabbing in his mind. He brushed the thought away suddenly, filed it into the "Must Remember Later" file in his memory, and continued hesitantly.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "You got lucky, he missed your heart."

Her face fell slightly, and Crichton wondered what she must have been thinking at that moment. His heart sank as he thought she might have felt more for the Peacekeeper Captain than simple friendship, but he felt that that was a discussion best left for another time. She mumbled something he didn't quite catch, caught herself, and moved on.

"So, um...Peacekeeper base?" she asked quietly.

"We're getting as far away from it as we can," he explained. "It's still out there, we don't know why."

She looked at him softly for a moment, then her eyes wrinkled suddenly as a thought struck her.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

Crichton's stomach lurched into his throat as he realized he had not thought up a convenient explanation for his presence at her bedside. A thousand different thoughts spun randomly in his mind as he tried to think of a plausible explanation. These thoughts stumbled around, met, shook hands, and introduced themselves. They were halfway to the Hors d'ouvres and cocktails when he realized he had not actually thought of anything to say.

"I..I...I..." he began promisingly. "Just wanted to...uh..." he stumbled around in his mind, trying to fish for an idea, but his guests had already finished their dinner and dancing and were halfway home. "Be...there..."

"Thank you."

Her words had been so soft and gentle that he nearly didn't recognize them as hers. He looked at her then, seeing a different light in her eyes than he had seen before. She smiled slightly, and he sighed, relieved.

"Don't mention it," he said easily.

She looked at him for a moment, letting the moment fade and collect her thoughts.

"Why would I ever mention it?" she replied just as easily. He looked at her with suspicion, and her grin confirmed his worst suspicions. She knew why he had come, she knew. She also knew that he couldn't bring himself to say it, not in her presence. He had nearly worked up the courage to say something more when she turned her head away, a small smile playing across her lips.

If that's the way you want to play it, he thought.

He fingered the bar as she fell asleep, knowing without asking that he would still be there as she slept. He resolved himself to remain at her side throughout, until she was able to move about on her own.

After all, it was the least he could do.

END