Author's Note: Just a feels-ridden little idea that came to me one night! I obviously own nothing. Just want to borrow it for a bit.

She hadn't expected his reaction.

Written all over his face was the surprise, the anger, and – most of all – the guilt.

They had been in his quarters – now theirs for all intents and purposes. Aeryn was still weak. But she had been in this frelling smock too long. It smelled of blood and sweat. It was flecked with evidence of what the Scarrans had done to her. And Aeryn would not wear it one microt longer. It was riddled with memories she wanted to banish in anyway she could. They were hazy and vague from the effect of drugs and torture, but what she remembered was seared into her mind forever. She silently reminded herself that she was free of them. She was back on Moya. She had John by her side. Their child was safe. And her own clothes would complete her return to self – at least for now.

Aeryn grunted as she stretched her stiff muscles, tugging the greasy sleeves off her body. If she'd had the energy, she would have taken the frelling thing down to Moya's waste incinerator and watched it burn. But for now, she settled for kicking it across the floor where it lay in heap in the corner, hidden in shadows.

She stood slowly, every bit of her body protesting against the movement. But she could feel John's worried gaze on her and she was determined to put on a good show. He had risked so much for her. She hadn't doubted him, but she couldn't help but feel guilty, knowing the anguish it had brought him. But that was what they did, after all. Hurt each other, made it better, and stepped into another mess all over again. Still, she felt the need to assure him she was fine. Or would be fine.

"John, stop it," she said firmly, but not without affection in her voice. She reached for the familiar black clothes folded neatly on the side of the bed. "I'm fine. I'm not going to break in half simply because –"

But when she looked up at him, the words died in her throat.

John wasn't looking at her face. Instead, his eyes were fixed on her torso. His expression said everything. She didn't need to wonder what it was that drew his attention. She knew. It was the wounds. The physical proof of what had been done to her – stark, red and angry against her pale skin. Where the skin hadn't been broken, her body was covered in ugly bruises, their sickening colors saying all that needed to be said about the sorts of blows that had caused them. And John was looking at them in horror. Etched across his face was pure, unfiltered anger – at the Scarrans, yes, but mostly at himself. She knew John Crichton's look of guilt when she saw it. And this was it. He believed it was his fault. She was carrying his child and they wanted it. He believed he could have stopped them if he had gotten to her sooner.

And in that moment, she wanted to hit him. There were many times over the cycles that she'd accused him of being a mental deficient and if she wasn't so frelling exhausted, she would have told him again. Aeryn loved this ridiculous, wonderful human more than she had ever thought she was capable of. But one thing she could never accept was his need to take everything upon himself. He didn't control all the dren that happened in the universe – to her, to D'Argo, to Chiana, to any of them – and yet he wore the burdens as if he did. It was one of the most frustrating things about him. And one of the things she loved best. She had suffered, yes. But she would not allow him to suffer as well.

Restraining the urge to pummel sense into him, she instead moved slowly towards where he sat, still and consumed in raw emotions. She rested a hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb gently against the skin. John jumped at the touch, as if he'd been so far away he hadn't even noticed her approaching him. He finally met her eyes then. And the look he gave her made her breath catch.

"Aeryn…"

It was one syllable. His voice sounded raw, like he'd shouted himself hoarse. The emotion was glinting in the corner of his eyes.

But she would have none of it. They had wasted too many cycles to let anything more stand between them - not Scarrans, not Scorpius, not wormholes. And not some frelling bruises that would soon fade. She refused to let him wallow in guilt he had no right to feel. It was her resistance that had made the torture worse. Her refusal to name him until the last possible microt. And she would do it all again if it had meant one solar day – one microt – more of safety for John and for the child.

Aeryn took his hands roughly in hers and set them firmly on her hips. She kept her gaze locked with his, slowly moving his hands upwards until he was touching the ragged wounds on her torso. It stung and Aeryn's instinct was to wince. But she remained steady. He needed this. She needed it.

She could feel his reluctance. He wanted to pull his hands away, caress her more gently than her rough touch would allow. But she kept his hands tightly against her.

"Don't you dare," she said, voice low. "Don't you dare look at me like I'm so fragile."

Aeryn knelt down in front of him so their eyes were level. John's hands slid from her ribs to her hips and back, not willing to break contact. She leaned her forehead against his, bringing his hands to his face and stroking gently.

"I survived, John," she went on emphatically. "I survived because of you. Whatever they did, I knew I had to fight it. And I knew I could. " She paused and her fingers went to his hair. After a long moment, she lifted her forehead to meet his eyes again. "I am alive because of you," she said firmly. "Because of this child. I am alive because I refuse to give you up." Her face crumpled into a weak smile. "And the sooner you understand that, the better."

John didn't say anything for a microt. Under different circumstances, Aeryn would have smirked and noted that the universe must be collapsing – Crichton was silent! But now she said nothing, keeping her eyes locked with his, willing him to understand.

"Yeah," he finally said, nodding a bit numbly. "Yeah, I know. I just –" He broke off, letting one finger trace gently along a nasty wound on her ribcage. "I thought I wasn't ever gonna see you again." She could hear how tight his voice was – how close he was to losing it.

They shared a look for a long moment, neither quite willing to break it. But finally, John's mouth quirked into a smile – it was weak and not at it's usual brightness. But the sight warmed Aeryn's aching insides anyway. That was better. That was him. That was John.

"Besides," he said finally, straightening up a little and settling his hands on her hips. "You're gonna need help bandaging the hard to reach places. And I'm a Grade A, professional bandager! I can get you some references if you want…"

Aeryn smiled. She knew it was deliberate. He was still agonizing over what had happened to her. And he wasn't alone. It would be sometime before she would be able to close her eyes without smelling the harsh, septic operating room. But he was making an effort because he knew she needed him to. They both needed him to. Silently, she thanked him.

Her eyebrows quirked up and the ghost of a smirk appeared on her lips. "Is that so? Hmmm. I'm afraid I can't let such claims go untested." The grin broadened. "I suppose I can be convinced to let you help…" With that, Aeryn made to move away from him, back to her clothes and the healing ointment and bandages Noranti had provided.

But he grabbed her hand. She turned back, her brows furrowed slightly in confusion.

"I love you." He said it simply, eyes meeting hers – all humor gone. Her own expression softened and she nodded mutely.

"Yes," she breathed. "I love you too."