[Farscape] 1812 Says: Lakka Is For Losers 1812 Says: Lakka Is For Losers by cozzybob
Pair: John, 1812, lil Pilot, Moya, refs to angsty J/A.
Warning: sap? almost-fluffiness? rampant DRDs being adorable. aww-factor. some minor angst, but that's just a given.
Note: Takes place somewhere during s4, Goddess only knows when.
Summary: 1812 is on a mission to make John happy.
1812 rammed into John's head where he lay stoned out on the terrace, a paintbrush in one extended claw, a small cup of black paint held in the other. John groaned and rubbed his head, staring at the little droid with fuzzy eyes because he had no idea what the DRD wanted and why he was bothering John at this ungodly hour. 1812 chirped the beginning notes to his namesake and rammed into John's head again and again until the human finally sat up and took the brush.
"1812, buddy, pal, partner... you gotta learn some manners."
The droid grunted something that sounded supiciously like a flippant "whatever" and swerved around to John's side, setting the cup of paint on the floor. John stared at the mishappen bristles of his brush stupidly, and then quietly dug into his pocket for another shot of lakka. 1812 made a rude noise, clearly disapproving, and John lived a brow at him. Okay. This was gonna be one of Those Days.
He obediantly removed his hand from the lakka and waved the brush in front of the DRD's eyestalks, scowling in irritation. "I'm not going to paint," he said. "I'm going to sit here, be high, and not think about--" Aeryn. "--anything."
The DRD chirped as if he knew perfectly well, but gently rammed into John's knee, making it known that he would not let the human change the subject--whatever that happened to be. John still had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, but he dipped the brush into the paint anyway to amuse his psychotic little partner.
He carefully slid the loaded brush on the edge of the cup to clean off the excess paint, and held it up at the DRD, lifting a brow. "'Kay. Now what am I s'pose to do?"
1812 squealed happily and danced around in a circle. He kept spinning and spinning and spinning until John started getting a headache and groped out a hand to stop the little droid in his tracks. He was about to ask when he spotted one of Moya's DRDs lingering at the entrance to the terrace, nervously watching the spectacle and unsure how to proceed.
John got an idea and tapped his comm. "Hey, Pilot?"
The great navigator's voice was calm and pleasant. "Yes, Commander Crichton?"
"Could you do me a favor?"
"Of course, Commander."
"Could you ask 1812 what the frell he wants with me in DRD speak and then relay the message?"
There was an irritated sigh, not aimed at John, but at Elak's ancient DRD. Apparently, 1812 and Pilot did not get along very well, which was understandable since the DRD tended to ignore all commands except those given by John himself. Even then, the DRD seemed to have a mind of it's own. Pilot said that it was very odd behavior, but John had gained personality out of some of the DRDs on Moya as well, and he was under the suspicion that they all had a little AI if encouraged let it grow. 1812 was just one of the more extreme cases... but he had met 1812 in one of the more extreme portions of his life, so see monkey, do monkey, play monkey...
After an extended moment of silence, Pilot muttered something over the comms. 1812 stilled at the same time, and then gave another loud, rude beep. A strange, musical language flooded from Pilot, and John knew that he was swearing. Moya's walls groaned with disapproval.
"It says," Pilot miffed, "...that you have been upset for the last several days, Commander, and it believes that painting will make you feel better." Another moment of silence. "Something... about equations." Pilot's voice sobered with that, and John pictured him shaking his mammoth head over the console tiredly. "I believe you know what I refer to, Commander."
"Indeedy."
No doubt Scorpy was listening to every frelling word that had been said and his ugly little ears--wait. Did Scorpy even have ears? Well, whatever they were, they were ringing like a dying cell phone.
"Thank you, Pilot. That's all."
There was a grunt, and the comm clicked back to privacy.
John looked around the room in a paranoid fashion and then leaned down eye to eyestalk with his little droid. "Y'know, even for you, this is weird."
Beep!
"No! No wormho--no WH's. There are other ways to make me happy."
Beep?
Yeah. Good point. Aeryn, wormholes--not much left, was there? John sighed and collasped back on the floor again, his hand making scooping motions in the air as if to draw in the better days. "I ever teach to play poker?"
Beep-Beep.
"You interested?"
The DRD swivelled around in another circle, squawking excitedly.
"Okay then! Now go fetch me some... paper. Cards. Something like that." John eyed the paint next to him. "And a pen, if you can find one."
1812 diligently rolled away to do his duty, and Moya's spying DRD scooted to the side to give him a wide berth. When John frowned at it, the DRD backed away very slowly, as if caught doing something it shouldn't have been doing. He rolled his eyes and whistled.
"Hey. You." The DRD stopped and stood frozen in place, a deer caught before John's headlights. "Yeah, you. C'mere."
A very reluctant, Beep? As in, "Who, moi?"
"Yeah, that's right. You."
Agonizingly slowly, it crawled out of its corner. John tried to look as harmless as possible as the DRD stopped about ten feet away, its black eyestalks quivering nervously.
John whistled again, crooking his finger. Another foot, and the DRD wouldn't come any closer. Most of Moya's DRDs were intelligent--they remembered Crichton from the gammak base, the despository, the Ice Planet, the command carrier, that wormhole that had swallowed Jool, D'argo and the entire ship just a few monens ago... Moya still hadn't seemed to forgive him for that one, particularly because her son had just died and the last thing she'd needed was another traumatic experience all somehow on the fault of one lost Human. Sometimes, with the way Pilot spoke to him lately, it was like just being around him was gonna make another one pop up out of nowhere, and Scorpy was going to have an orgasm on sight.
Thus, the trepidation. He had bad reputations on his own ship, for crying out loud.
Oh-so-tenderly, he said, "I know you're in there, Moya. Wanna play?" Ninety percent of the women in his life might be the death of his sanity these days, but that didn't mean he couldn't make it up to the one woman who really mattered. Moya was his current air supply; piss off that chick, bad things happened. He knew better than most.
The little lights blinked once.
So she remembered the system. He grinned.
"I knew you did, doll. C'mon and get cozy. You'll like this one..."
By the time 1812 came back with the proper supplies, John had temporarily forgotten about everything that mattered. He didn't notice Aeryn lurking near the entrance of the terrace with a strange glint in her eye, nor see the slight little smile that Pilot wore back behind the great console of his den. The leviathan hummed something sweet and comforting even in her reluctant amusement over one particular passenger, and John didn't even feel the tension seeping out of his shoulders in response.
Sometimes, things weren't nearly as bad as he made them out to be.
Because yes, in another arn, it might come back again. But bad rep or not, 1812 and Moya would be still there to pick up the pieces, as they'd done a thousand times before.