There are certain things that, even on Moya, are untenable to change.
Among the many off the top of her head that the food is mostly only ever passable, Rygel is never to be trusted with anything even half the size of himself, and John Crichton is almost never right. About people and situations, maybe, at times. But not about any of the races, planets, technology, history, anything around him.
It's the reason why, even before she ever saw one of his wormholes, it was almost believable that he was telling the truth. Or that he was a frellwitz who'd been hit in the head too many times. But that theory had, annoyingly, worn off. But that part about him never being right about every species and planet they ran into? It never had.
So the fact John is smiling wide and bright, all teeth and crinkles at the edges of his mouth and eyes, making something around her sternum tighten, warm and sharp, is all wrong. It makes the muscles down her spine want to tighten harder than her fingers against her gun, when the uniformed man -- black and red, shiny beads on the left collar side, and odd shaped comm badge on chest right -- is using all three of the words John just threw at her.
Leaving her unerringly unbalanced and unpleased, shooting a hard look between them. "How did you do that?"
And not to leave the man flatfooted and out of the line of fire, she follows hard on it's heels with, "Why are we here? Why have you taken us from our ship?"
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Among the many off the top of her head that the food is mostly only ever passable, Rygel is never to be trusted with anything even half the size of himself, and John Crichton is almost never right. About people and situations, maybe, at times. But not about any of the races, planets, technology, history, anything around him.
It's the reason why, even before she ever saw one of his wormholes, it was almost believable that he was telling the truth.
Or that he was a frellwitz who'd been hit in the head too many times. But that theory had, annoyingly, worn off.
But that part about him never being right about every species and planet they ran into? It never had.
So the fact John is smiling wide and bright, all teeth and crinkles at the edges of his mouth and eyes, making something around her sternum tighten, warm and sharp, is all wrong. It makes the muscles down her spine want to tighten harder than her fingers against her gun, when the uniformed man -- black and red, shiny beads on the left collar side, and odd shaped comm badge on chest right -- is using all three of the words John just threw at her.
Leaving her unerringly unbalanced and unpleased, shooting a hard look between them. "How did you do that?"
And not to leave the man flatfooted and out of the line of fire, she follows hard on it's heels with, "Why are we here? Why have you taken us from our ship?"