John unbuttoned the stifling shirt as he hurried to the bathroom, only hesitating to grab a comfortable t-shirt to change into. "They've got to have the seasons reversed down here. Damn it's hot," John complained. Still thinking about the event he'd just guested at on behalf of the IASA, John went on to complain, "If half the people who came by that booth would actually call to support space research, we'd have a Federation by next year to protect this old rock. Well, an Enterprise, it's the only one that actually saves Earth."
Only once he was in the bathroom did he notice the humidity and saw Chiana in the bathtub in a shallow foot of water, scrubbing at her hip with a bar of soap, looking bored and even more irked. Her thin black brows and eyelashes, together with the cut and hang of the hair of her mod black wig, with its straight sideburns curving so slightly to a jagged cut to frame her face, enhanced her stiletto irk. The cuteness of her face and pouty, protruding upper lip counterbalanced the effect to create an adorable petulance.
John quickly backed up and looked away, a lingering notice being of a massive ring of tan makeup staining the tub.
"Whoa sorry," John apologized and went to leave.
"Sorry?" Chiana shot back, sounding a bit hurt.
"Yeah, didn't mean to barge in on you," John quickly tried to explain.
Chiana sat up a bit and looked around, abashed. "Mm-ah, n-no come in. Doesn't bother me if you wanna change a shirt," she smirked, recovering. John began walking back in, making a point of trying not to look at her. "Good idea," said Chiana, "Were smelling more like the, those white round things on cheezebugahs."
"Saying I smell like an onion, fabric softener girl?" he retorted, going for the washcloth now instead of the t-shirt. He wiped under his arm then stopped when he saw it left a tan streak on him. "Ack! I'm getting tanned. Pip," he turned around showing her the used washcloth. She avoided looking at him. Then he noticed all the other washcloths were used and left laying around the bathroom. "Oh. Can't get down to the old gray matter?"
"Frelling stuff won't come off," Chiana slapped the cloth in her hand on her hip a couple of times.
"Ow. Didn't....Annie gave you stuff to take it off with right?" John asked, finally taking a peek at the very lean, still tan painted body in the tub with its upper back side facing him.
"Well....yeah, mbut, stuff frelling stinks!" Chiana picked up a bottle next to the bath and held it up at him.
"Hm," he wondered, completely distracted with noticing the fluffy white down between her legs was also spray painted tan. When he took a whiff from the bottle, his brow shot up and his face puckered. "Whew. That's the makeup remover? That could knock a buzzard off a shitwagon," he agreed.
"Yeah. So I don't want to smell like that!" Chiana objected.
John nodded and agreed, "We'd have to break up. And you don't want to stay painted tan all the time either."
"It's not that I care," Chiana hyper-actively clarified, "but I've got to repaint it now to look right, and if I want to change it, or, or, or make it look different, I've gotta paint over it, and too many layers isn't going to work. Only sticks with one or two." Chiana dropped back into the tub on her side facing away from him and pouted, "Frelling little faerie friend of yours frelled me up."
"Hmmm, um hm, um hm," John nodded in thought, picking up a washcloth and starting to wipe her hip with it. "Can't shake the Bob revolution huh? Well Annie was just being nice. Very nice."
"I know," she quietly replied. "Frell." Chiana closed her eyes as John slid the washcloth around the contours of her very lean hips, a small smile coming to her lips as he scrubbed ever closer to the down at her sex. Just when he reached it, and she flexed, hoping he would start caressing her with the washcloth, he put the washcloth down on her hip and stood up.
"Wait," he snapped his fingers. "I wonder....it's something I heard once from this effects guy at a party. I wonder if it'll work....hang on," he hurried out, leaving Chiana to groan, slip down to the water level, and then burble and groan.
John finally came back in with a container to find Chiana on her stomach with one arm off to the side, tapping the tub in her impatience. "Let's try this," he suggested.
"Oh?" she replied, sarcastically.
"Aren't we a little brittle today," John got down on the side of the tub, got a washcloth ready and started scrubbing the small of her back. The firmness of her slight but tight rear made his brow raise. After a moment of scrubbing hard at her buttocks, he snapped the washcloth on her rear.
"Weah!" Chiana arched her head up and shot wide glaring eyes back at him. He gestured to her rear. She looked, finding a mostly gray rear looking back. "Whoa," she bent back even more, looking closer at it.
"Well you greasy dish, you," said John, "you'll be happy to know the advice I got from an old effects guy is right on the money for this stuff." He held up the bottle of dish soap and punned, "It just Dawned on me. And soon, it'll Dawn on you."
Chiana reached for the bottle of dish soap and in doing so, grabbed a fistful of his sweat pants and underwear and pulled hard. She got the bottle in one hand and with her other hand, slapped him on the bare backside as he bent over to pull his pants and underwear back up. He shot back up reflexively. "Pretty clever," she complimented, glancing back to look at him.
"Isn't she," he said to himself. John then froze and looked down as she tilted the container enough over his manhood to pour some of the soap over it. He winced while his member swiftly erected to attention on its own. To finish her devious work, she slid the small tip of the container onto, around and finally into the tip of his now fully erect member, squeezing out a little more soap the whole time. "Hey!" he objected when she suddenly lifted the container and squeezed it hard.
"What?" she asked with teasing innocence. "Just helping you clean," she claimed and looked up at him. Meanwhile she kept squeezing until the liquid soap came squirting back out around the tip. After wiggling the container for good measure, she took it out and slid from the tub to a crouch in front of him, busying her talented mouth and tongue with a teasing scrub. It took only a minute to get results, and she giggled as he groaned.
Raising her head and licking his stomach, her soap covered tongue making soap suds on his hair, she leaned into him, coaxing the spent but still game human into the tub. He fell in under her less than gracefully, and immediately tried sliding his soap-slick shaft into her slick sex. She kept evading it and giggling, turning on the shower to hose him off some as he busied himself gnawing at her neck. Suddenly he bit her collarbone and she laughed. With her distracted, he slid in easily, again surprised at how she could be such a super-tight fit and so incredibly muscular inside, yet be so easy to slide into. She choked and bucked immediately, more than ready.
Despite her responses, she managed to speak up in a choked voice. "You're geee-eet-ting taaan o-o-o! Ohn yeeou!" she raised to a screech when he rocked her with deep, gut tensioning thrusts.
"Then you better soap me up," he replied through clenched teeth into her partly wet, fresh scented hair. She started trying while he snickered in his attempts to keep them too preoccupied.
"Dude, I don't know, I'm not a friggin alien with E.S.P.," Doug complained back to Jack as he walked to the nearest bathroom and opened the door.
Doug's mouth hung open to discover an overheated, steam choked bathroom, washcloths strewn all over the place, mountains of soap suds overflowed from the tub all over the place and too many puddles on the floor to think of walking through. "What the...."
"What's the matter, Doug?" Jack walked over.
"Whoa hey man, uh, would you check the car for my laptop?" Doug suddenly asked, closing the bathroom door behind himself.
"What? Sure," Jack agreed. "You're not getting as forgetful as my son, right?"
"Dude, he's not forgetful, just obsessive," Doug said and handed Jack the keys. As soon as he heard Jack going back out, Doug hurried to follow the water drips he now noticed on the carpet. They led him through the flat to the sliding door to the deck. "No waaay," he said to himself, parting the venetian blinds on the sliding glass door to peek out.
Doug had seen plenty in his life, but he still stared in amazement to see Bob, half covered in soap and half revealed to be totally nude, actively working John, who was on his back on a reclined deck chair, covered in soap and Bob.
"Hooooly....Jack is gonna have a hernia, yikes," Doug turned, picked up his laptop and hurried for the door.
Jack walked in just then. "Oh you found it?"
"Yeah, shoot man, I guess I am getting like him. Sort of. Wish I was. I mean, they're not back yet. I need to go get a battery for this thing, will you come with me? They should be back by then."
"What?" Jack asked. "Sure, I guess." He stopped when there was a crash of the reclining chair breaking, followed by two yelps and giggles. "What was that?"
"Oh," Doug pointed up, "having a party on the deck upstairs again."
"Again? Those guys are party animals," Jack shook his head and started out.
"Yeah, they certainly go at it," Doug remarked, following him out and closing the door.
"Don't worry, son," Jack assured John. The familial pair walked alongside a radiantly confident Bob toward General Morrison's office in IASA Australia's Central Administration building, passing the many people in or near the hallways and resisting the urge to flee. "It'll die down," Jack assured himself.
Still making regular waves back to co-workers with a clenched smile, John glared to Jack for a moment. "Yeah, dad. With half the base placing bets on Payne getting my girl? They're all just dying to start the watercooler gossip chains to find out whose arm my girl's on now."
"Weren't you concerned about getting all that P. R. publicity out there while they were forgetting you around here?" Jack chided his son. "So she's putting you on the lips of everyone around here. Only bad publicity is no publicity, they claim."
"Hey Bill, how's the papers?" John called back to another spectating co-worker.
"Charon is still not a planet, John," Bill replied, evidently some in-joke.
"But what's a planet?" John laughed then glanced back to Jack. "You want bad publicity, dad?" he pointedly asked. "Well how's putting Payne Adams on the tongue of everyone here too?"
"You got me there," Jack admitted. "But it's the end of the shift and most people are getting off work, so not everyone's here just to see their local celebrity and his retro Goth girl fiancéee. Just most of them."
"Thanks dad, my cares are eased," John sarcastically replied. The oncoming traffic thickened, then suddenly produced General Morrison.
"Well if it isn't our family dynasty of astronauts and our favorite guest," the General said in blatantly overdoing the damage control. "Listen kids, I have to see to a few things in Navigation before they close, but why don't you let Sergeant Tibbs here see you to my office and I'll be with you soon as I can."
"We're sorry we didn't make it earlier, Jim," Jack began his well-rehearsed apology. "We don't mean to keep you late."
"Nonsense, nonsense," the General bellowed, moving from pumping John's arm to patting both men on the shoulders. "I'll be the one apologizing for keeping you by the time I get out of Navigation. You know how they are. Well, good luck on the journey to my office, don't get lost."
John, Jack and Doug all laughed with the General, not quite sure why. By the time they stopped and the General had gone, they noticed Bob was far ahead of them, just rounding a corner on the arm of a tall dark and handsome Sergeant Tibbs.
Doug's lips neared John's ear to ask, "Would the name of Sergeant Tibbs on the lips of everyone around watercoolers be bad or good publicity?"
John set his jaw and set a rueful look toward Jack. But Jack laughed and said, "They say young women are attracted to men in uniform...."
"Can it, oh buddies, oh pals," John grumbled. "Okay fine," John sighed, "I'll get out my uniform and start wearing it, think I'll get the girls?"
"But dude. You got 'em," Doug replied.
"All but the one you want, when you want her," John muttered to himself, and set himself to pretending not to be irked during the long meet-and-greet to the office.
"What are you doing?" John asked thickly, approaching Chiana for the first time since they came into the General's office. He folded his arms.
"I'm not doing anything," Chiana innocently remarked while looking around the shelves of the office. "Plenty of males, no action, aren't you lucky?"
"Not what I mean, Pip. I mean what are you doing with the Enterprise?" he asked and pointed to her little hand held purse. She looked at him innocently. "The one in your purse," he repeated and pointed again.
Hearing the couple's conversation, Jack walked over from gazing out the window to ask, "What's this?"
"Sticky fingers here," John said and folded his arms again. "First she gets sticky fingers on Sergeant Tibbs, then she gets them on Jim's Enterprise model."
"Bob," Jack lectured, "put the model back."
"What?" she asked. John went to take her purse. Chiana screeched and whipped her purse away. John reached around to take it. Jack reached out to separate the couple. The noisy, squirming tangle that resulted stopped as the door opened and General Morrison strode in.
"General," John announced and turned his movements into a handshake with the General. "Bob, Jack," he gestured to the two in turn, his eyes catching on the model Enterprise sitting on the shelf right where it should be. He blinked and tried not to come to the conclusion that he was just a little crazy.
"Well young lady," the General said, taking Bob's gloved hand, "are you ready for a proper tour of our little place here?"
"Show the way," she said with a little nod. Bob played demure long enough for the General to turn and open the door again, before walking past John with a bold smirk as Jack approached John's ear.
"It was right there, John," Jack scolded his evidently errant son. "What's the big idea of causing a scene like that? You've got to keep your suspicions in check. You're as bad as she is," he grumbled.
John stared at the model for another moment before joining the group leaving the room.
"The regular examination rooms are over there," the General said as he continued pointing areas out to Bob, "but in case we do anything intensive here, there are clean rooms as well, over behind the Plexiglas."
"So here's where they decided Johnny's grade A beef mm?" Bob asked, proud to use some of her colloquial observations and finally break out some of the thoughts she'd been stifling for the past tedious frelling arn of proper behavior. She was getting beyond caring if the General would be bothered or not. The only thing that kept her from breaking out and doing flips or playing with something was the fact that they were finally nearing the medical records room.
The General, fortunately, laughed. "They say the same thing about me, so that goes to show you how observant they are," he said and laughed heartily.
"Or maybe they are observant," Bob said and flirted, feeling his arm. The General blushed and laughed, charming her. She smiled broadly. "Oh is that a bathroom?" she asked, finally seeing the bathroom adjoining the records room up ahead. "Hate to leave you but I've got to use one," she explained.
"Oh sure, sure, I'll be right here, Ms. Chevalier," he said, before noticing a worker coming out of one of the labs toward him. "Or nearby," he nearly grumbled. "Damn they've got me."
Chiana walked into the bathroom and checked if it was empty. To her relief, it was, and the door to the records room was unlocked and ajar. A long exhale sighed from Chiana's slack lips as she steadied herself. On an inner cue, she opened the bathroom door leading into the record storage room. The lights had been turned out and no one was inside. Swallowing the lump that had been building in her throat, Chiana quickly moved to the hallway door and set it nearly closed.
Chiana's eyes flitted along the long bookcases of records on either side of the room. Tabs stood out to her attention. Soon she had the filing system figured out. Unfortunately, the system didn't file by name, and this was only part of the records store.
Fortunately, there was a book of forms at the entrance to the room, where everyone had to register their records, whether taking some out or bringing them in. The log recorded the initials of the person using the file, most of which she couldn't read worth a frell, the number of the file, and the room the file was being used in if being checked out. Jerking to a few quirks from stressed nerves, Chiana was relieved to discover that the records she needed still might be in this room, since it seemed to contain only projects in progress or being accessed regularly by these particular medical areas.
Fighting the urge to scream, hang off the side of the bookcase and shake it down, Chiana kept thumbing through the tedious and infuriatingly obtuse log, speeding up on every page. Finally, a solution occurred to her and she slapped her hands across the log in astonishment. Payne had shown her the lab where such results were usually worked on. She remembered the number by the door. Searching recent entries, she found entries for that room number and one initial that she decided might be Amelia Parker's.
Scrambling over to the corresponding tabs, Chiana quickly found the records and pulled them out. Although she couldn't understand the symbols and other gibberish, she immediately recognized the images as being Crichton's head. Damage from the neural implant and from the translation microbes were pointed out with notation tabs. Small optical computer media was also in the binder, containing the actual test results and a backup. Chiana scurried with the records into a stall in the bathroom.
Using the small, clumsy tools in her makeup kit, a bottle of clear nail polish, a container of white-out liquid, pen and pencil from her small purse, and a bit of toilet paper and water from the toilet, she went to work. First she removed the small optical discs containing the original data and backup. Using a nail clipper, she destroyed them and let the pieces fall into the toilet. Then she started to work on all the areas of the papers identifying the subject as John Crichton.
For some, she barely traced a smudge to make it look like there had been something rubbed out or covered underneath current print. By copying some writing with a pen onto a paper towel placed over the forms, she made it appear as if other writing had existed, and by using an eraser made it appear as if the other writing had been erased. For the identifying parts of some pages she very slightly smeared ink with a damp bit of toilet paper so that it didn't quite match the rest of the printout. For others, she added underlying lines and tried covering them up, which turned out imperfectly, exactly as desired. For still others she cut out the identifying sections and carefully fixed the cut pieces back in place with scant use of clear nail polish, which also turned out perfectly imperfect.
Just as she came to the transparencies, she heard voices enter the records room. One voice belonged to a woman, and of course, the woman walked into the bathroom. Chiana's heart hammered, but she quickly sat down on the toilet and tried to keep absolutely quiet and still.
Chiana was doing fine, when suddenly the other woman left a ferocious, echoing flatulence, the sheer power of which she hadn't witnessed since Rygel. It was all Chiana could do to keep quiet, but the struggle had her turning shades of blue. Then a stench just as impressive as the noise wafted over and settled on Chiana. Fanning herself desperately with the folder of test results, Chiana stifled tiny choking noises and hung in there until the woman flushed the toilet. Chiana gasped and gagged as quietly as possible as the loud toilet worked, feeling very sorry for any form of unsuspecting life that might be downstream.
Forcing her attention back to the transparencies, she noticed the identifying name and numbers were part of the exposure. She decided not to cut them, but her mind raced over what to do that wasn't too obvious. Holding them and her head every which way, she considered what she would look for if she suspected this might be forged. It occurred to her that it didn't need to be foolproof, since even if Amelia proved an attempt to forge these were made, there was too much to explain with the others and the original data would be gone. The other woman left Chiana to recover, apparently without taking notice that anyone was in the adjoining stalls.
Precisely but quickly, Chiana used mascara to trace the outline of every number and letter in the identification area on both sides of the transparency. As soon as the people had left the storage room, she then flushed the toilet and carefully used the air hand dryer in the bathroom to dry the mascara and nail polish. She rushed the records back onto the shelf with everything just as close to the way they were as possible.
Chiana emerged from the bathroom's hallway door, applying the nail polish to one of her finger nails. She seemed to pay little attention to anything but her nails as she wondered over to where General Morrison and company were. The General brusquely cut the chat short when he saw Bob's approach and met her with a hand held out. She gave him her gloved hand and blew on the nail of her other hand. "Sorry," she explained. "Caught in the glove. We're almost back to the entry I came in at aren't we?"
"Yes," he confirmed, looking pleased she'd remembered the place that well. "John," the General shot at the bleary and slightly incredulous John waiting nearby, "I do believe your fiancéee would become more familiar around here than you are. And a much more welcome sight," he teased.
John laughed with everyone else. "When I'm back down here, we might have to have her conduct tour guides of the facility, Gen.," John joked, poking Bob in the rump with some object and quickly putting it back. Bob held back a yelp, then glared back at him but with a rueful smirk. John broke into snickers.
John, Jack and Doug fell silent as soon as they made it out into the parking lot. John walked around in Bob's way, unable to stand the suspense. "Pip," he said, holding his hands out to stop her. "Tell me."
"Well you're not the worst I've had," she teasingly admitted.
"Agh! Pip!" John clasped his hands together and implored her, "Come on...."
"You don't want Jack watching?" she asked with mock incredulity.
"Aaagh," John groaned and went onto one knee. "I'm going nuts here."
Chiana gaped a moment. "I'm not even going to comment, there," she said and looked to one side with a lop sided smirk.
"Agh ungh ungh," John groaned, ran his hands down his face and did a wobbly walk on his knees away from her in a circle.
"The tests," Jack spoke up. "Did you get them fixed?"
Chiana looked back at Jack. "Well yeah. Piece of take."
"Cake," Doug corrected. "Cool!"
"Ooh, I hope so," Jack looked up and sighed.
John knelt on a curb, covered his face and blew out a breath in relief.
"When he recovers, you two go celebrate or something," Chiana gestured Jack to John with her head. "I've gotta get Doug here to take me back to the ah, penthouse, so I can get ready for a date with ah, someone," she said with a teasing raise of her brow and started off toward Doug's car. Doug hurried after her.
"Ungh," John let out a heavier groan. After a moment, John stood up. "I've got a better idea," he told Jack. "This date needs some chaperone-ing. Come on, Dad."
Disclaimer:
Everything Farscape is property of © The Jim Henson Company.