About A Boat

Author: Red
Email: spooky@wdsection.com
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: FARSCAPE and all related characters and elements are trademarks of The Jim 
Henson Company. I do not own it and I am not making any money off of it.
Spoilers: This is a Terra Firma episode addition

***

"I think you should get the blue one," D'Argo said, his voice thoughtful.

"I like the white one," John mused.

"Blue is a nice color, though," the Luxan persisted.

"Yeah, but it should be white," John said with the finality of a decision made.

D'Argo rumbled and shuffled about, kicking his toe against a rack of poles. "Why are you 
getting a boat, again?"

"Why not?"

"Because you live on a ship in space?" D'Argo suggested.

John looked up at his friend, a small frown on his face. "And there have been times, when 
I've been dirtside and I've thought to myself 'damn, what I wouldn't give for a fishing 
boat.'"

"And if you'd had this boat then, during how many of those dirtside times would you have 
had access to it?" D'Argo asked patiently.

John's frown turned into a glower and he returned to his contemplation of the boats. 
"Definitely the white one."

D'Argo sighed and crossed his arms. "Which white one? Except for the blue one, they're 
all white. Are you sure you don't want blue?"

"Hmm, how about that one?" John pointed to a particular boat.

D'Argo sniffed. "That looks like your module."

"No it doesn't," John muttered, squinting dubiously at the craft.

"Sure it does. Hey, maybe that's why you want a white boat," D'Argo exclaimed, as if 
he'd just discovered some great insight into his odd, human friend.

"Um. No," John scoffed. "Boats should be white."

"Oh, wait! Over there, that one is green and sort of silver. I like that one. It's nice."

"Do you have something against the color white?"

"Well, no," D'Argo shrugged, "it's just kind of boring. Not really much of a color, is it?"

"Boats should be white," John said again, firmly. D'Argo rolled his eyes and John 
bristled. "Boats I own, should be white," he clarified.

D'Argo shrugged again. "Whatever. Your planet, your customs, your boat."

"Thank you."

"Mm-hm."

"How about that one?" John asked, pointing again.

"That's a very nice one, John," D'Argo said, now clearly bored by the great boat debate.

"Now you're just humoring me, man," John growled. "Don't humor me."

"For frell's sake Crichton, I don't give a hezmana about your boat. Just pick one."

"I'll remember you said that when you realize you need to use the boat."

D'Argo let out a small roar and grabbed his friend's arm, dragging him over to a boat. 
"How about this one? It's white. And look, little benches, and these rowing things, and 
little circles for the rowing things even. It's a very nice boat, John. I think you should get 
this one. Yes, this one looks good. I bet I could fit in it, even. Excellent. Yes, this one." 
He let go of John and stepped back. "There, you have my opinion. Now you choose. Very 
simple. I'm going to go over there and ... and look at the fish. Let me know when you're 
done."

"A little while ago you liked the blue one, now you like a white one? You're still humoring 
me," John called after him. "Knock it the frell off."

D'Argo stomped away just a little bit harder, shaking racks of equipment as he stomped. 
Salespeople scattered and then moved together in clumps, staring at the back of the irritated 
alien who was staring at a tank of tropical fish. It was a moment that would be passed 
down through generations of the humans' families.

D'Argo had just about managed to forge what he felt would be a long-lasting emotional 
bond with the dark blue fish with the long fins, when John tapped him on the shoulder.

"You're never going to win a staring contest with a fish, D'Argo," John pointed out.

"We were bonding," he explained.

"Uh-huh. Well, if you're done, I'm done. I could give you and the fish some more time, if 
you want, though."

D'Argo straightened and shook out his tentacles. "No, I'm done as well. Do your people 
eat these?" He asked, jerking his thumb at his new fishy friend.

"They're kinda small. I think most of us would rather look at them."

"That's good. They're very soothing."

John grinned. "Aw, does D'Argo want a goldfish?"

Frowning, D'Argo wasn't sure he got the joke, but he refused to act like he didn't get the 
joke. "What D'Argo wants is to not look at any more boats."

"Well, you're in luck. Let's go."

"Lunch?"

"Sure."

Stepping outside, D'Argo ignored the armed guards dressed in their black suits, he ignored 
the flashing lights from the vehicles stopped at either end of the street, he ignored the 
gawking masses and instead he was thinking happy thoughts of lunch. Human food beat to 
frell that dren they usually called edible on Moya.

John on the other hand didn't and couldn't ignore the armed guards, flashing lights, and 
gawking masses. He hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into the pockets of his 
jeans, glad for the dark shades hiding away his eyes.

D'Argo chose a restaurant and the staff rushed to clear a corner for them. Other customers 
were pushed away, tables moved, and a buffer of black clad enforcers placed between the 
more alien than alien pair and anything that might threaten them. Though, stunned, slightly 
annoyed businessmen and tourists armed with nothing more than cameras, didn't seem a 
terribly dire threat.

John sat quietly, pushing a packet of sugar around the table, trying to ignore the world 
around him. D'Argo toyed with his glass of water, stirring the ice cubes with his finger.

"What is this?"

John looked up from his fascinating perusal of the sugar packet's manufacturing 
information. "It's a lemon slice."

"Why is it in my water?"

"To make it taste lemony."

"Do I want my water to taste lemony?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

D'Argo poked at the yellow fruit, picked up his glass, sniffed carefully and then took an 
almost dainty sip. John smothered a laugh and stared back down at the sugar. "It's a little 
sour," the Luxan commented after a microt.

"Yep."

D'Argo smacked his lips and tried another sip. "But, not bad. I do indeed want my water to 
taste lemony," he decided.

"Glad to hear it," John murmured absently.

D'Argo sighed and put down his water glass. "John, why are--"

"Are--are you ready to order?" The waitress interrupted, gulping nervously.

Sighing again, D'Argo picked up his menu and staring down at the unfamiliar symbols. 
"John? What do I want?"

"I don't know. You want fish? Or meaty something? Or chicken? Chicken tastes like 
everything."

"I do not want something that tastes like everything. And I don't believe I'm in the mood 
for fish."

"Try the prime rib. Better than keedva."

"Prime rib," D'Argo said slowly, tasting the alien words. "Very well." He turned to the 
waitress hovering at his elbow. "Prime rib and a double espresso and a coke."

"You're a bona fide caffeine fiend, D." John let out a soft laugh. "I'll have the meatloaf and 
coffee. Black."

The waitress snatched up their menus and scuttled off as quickly as she could. She so had 
to call her sister.

"Why did the waitress look at me like that?" D'Argo asked curiously. "I thought I ordered 
in English. Did I not do it right?"

"Nah, it was good. I'm impressed."

"It was the alien thing, wasn't it? Did she hate me? I couldn't tell if she hated me," he 
muttered.

"That wasn't hate, D'Argo," John said wearily. "Not everybody hates you guys. Look, 
she's gonna tell anybody who'll listen about her brush with the hyper-caffeinated super 
alien for the rest of her life. You made her day."

"Okay." D'Argo sat back in his chair and fiddled with the eating utensils. "We're leaving 
day after tomorrow?"

John shifted uneasily in his chair and stared even harder at the packet. "That's the plan."

"Hm," D'Argo rumbled softly. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yeah. Bag's packed," the human said flatly, unwilling to elaborate on the subject.

"Boat ordered?" D'Argo pressed lightly.

John couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "Boat ordered."

"You got a white one, didn't you?" D'Argo groaned in mock disappointment.

"Natural wood trim, just for you, D."

"Ah, well, that's good to know." D'Argo glanced around their surroundings. "So, if we're 
leaving Earth so soon, why are you spending the day with me? Shouldn't you be with your 
sister? Your father?"

"D'Argo, don't do that. Just don't," John protested weakly.

"He-here you are." The waitress again materialized at just the wrong moment. Did the 
woman have any idea how long it was taking D'Argo to get around to bringing up a 
difficult subject with Crichton? If she did, she would stop interrupting at the exactly wrong 
moments.

D'Argo sighed again and looked down at the small plate in front of him. "What is this?"

"Salad," John murmured.

"Do I want to eat it?"

"D'Argo ... just," John let out a long breath and waved a hand in D'Argo's direction, 
"whatever. Vegetables. Not entirely unfamiliar in the Uncharted Territories. I can't believe 
you've been down here all this time and you haven't had salad yet."

"I had something vaguely like this the other night. There wasn't all this ... stuff, on top of 
it, though." D'Argo shrugged his shoulders and stabbed at the salad with his fork.

"Ranch dressing."

"What?" D'Argo asked through a mouthful of salad.

"The stuff on top of it, it's ranch dressing," John clarified.

"S'good."

"Good."

D'Argo finished his salad in three large bites, and then watched as John listlessly moved 
vegetable bits around with his fork. A light flashed nearby; a tourist, D'Argo watched the 
elderly woman out of the corner of his eye as she talked excitedly to a younger man. They 
were quickly moved away by one of the black clad guardians. D'Argo turned back to John 
and saw that the other man's eyes were squeezed shut, he looked almost in pain.

D'Argo scratched at his cheek, contemplating his friend for a long moment, and then leaned 
forward on the table. "Crichton," he said quietly.

"What, D'Argo?" John responded equally quietly.

"Now that we have a boat, we'll have to go fishing sometime, won't we?"

The lines of tension on John's face smoothed somewhat and he opened his eyes to look at 
the Luxan. "Yeah, but human fishing. Not Qualta blade fishing."

"My way is more efficient."

"Yeah, but the point isn't really to catch fish. At least, not always."

"What is the point?" D'Argo asked affably.

John smiled and looked away. "The point is ... it's a zen thing. Like, I don't know, 
meditation. Just you and the water and the sun. It's relaxing."

"Like the fish at the boat shop."

"Yeah."

"We will have to have Moya keep a watch for watery planets we might fish on."

John's smile faded and his eyes darted down to his forgotten salad. He picked up his fork, 
and jabbed at it again. "Right."

D'Argo closed his eyes and counted silently to three, then he opened his eyes, regarded his 
friend closely at sat back in his chair. "Of course, knowing our luck, the fish will try to 
catch us."

John didn't look up but managed a reluctant grin. "Then it's time to Qualta blade fish."

"Frelling right it is," the luxan exclaimed with a soft thump on the table.

Shoulders shaking and head bobbing with a small laugh, John finally looked up again. "I 
know what you're doing," he told D'Argo with a sad smile.

"And?"

"Thanks. I just ... " John stopped and shrugged again, slightly embarrassed. "So, aside 
from the boat thing, not a bad day on planet Earth, huh?" He said, changing the subject.

"No," D'Argo agreed. "Very nice. Waffles, then sports, then boats, fish, lemons and 
eventually, if our server ever frelling returns, prime rib. So far all very good Earth things."

"Anything on your schedule for this afternoon?"

"Not really."

"Movie?"

"Excellent," D'Argo said with a great deal of relish.

"Only, no more romantic comedies," John told him quickly, a small grimace on his face. "I 
can't take anymore."

D'Argo harrumphed in irritation. "Fine, you pick then."

"Fine, I will."

"Fine."

"He-here you are," their server materialized again and set down their plates with a clatter. 
"Is that ... is that ... is that all?" She stammered.

"Yeah, thanks," John told her and she quickly scurried away again.

"She's cute," D'Argo observed while watching the waitresses retreating backside.

John smirked and took a bite of his meal, "Down boy."

D'Argo snorted softly and turned back to his plate. His eyes grew wide as he admired the 
large meaty chunk. Taking in a deep breath, inhaling the exquisite aroma of roasted and yet 
still slightly bloody meat, he picked up his knife and made a stab. "I am already regretting 
the inevitable day when our fresh food stores run low and we're forced to consume food 
cubes."

"Oh great," John groaned. "Way to be depressing. Thanks, D'Argo."

"It's a lesson to you to enjoy what you have now. Savor your meaty loaf, John."

John rolled his eyes and scooped up some mashed potatoes. "Okay, Mr. Rogers."

"I mean it, John," D'Argo said, suddenly serious.

"I know you do," John replied, just as serious.

"You should be with your family today."

"I am," John said evasively.

"I mean your human family. And you know that's what I mean," D'Argo admonished 
lightly.

"Yeah, well, tomorrow is going to be here quick enough." John put down his fork and 
braced his arms on the table. Grabbing at his coffee cup, he spun it in place a few times and 
then picked it up for a sip. "You know, we just haven't had a chance to hang out since we 
got here. Not really. There was stuff I wanted to show you." He put down his mug and 
pushed his plate away. "I always seem to be running out of time, though."

D'Argo took another bite of the spectacularly excellent prime rib and chewed slowly, 
thinking as he chewed. "I think we both have more than enough regrets, we don't need to 
start regretting things we can't change," he said finally.

John gave him a wry, cynical grin and crossed his arms over his chest. "Too late. My life 
is one big thing I can't change."

"Do not make me tongue you, John," D'Argo told him, vexed. "You cannot seriously tell 
me you regret your whole and entire life."

John just smirked and leaned back in his chair. "I could, but you just threatened to tongue 
me."

"You're very amusing. Really." D'Argo leveled a withering glare at him. "Well, I don't 
regret being down here. I have seen a vast number of things. Things you've talked about 
for cycles. Now, the rest of us might have a chance at understanding you. At least part of 
the time."

John sat forward and picked up his coffee again. "I'm glad this hasn't totally sucked for 
you. I know the humans didn't give you the best reception."

"Yes, well, personally I was less than impressed with their reception of _you_," he 
growled. "I don't give a frell about how they treated me."

"Bullshit," John laughed bitterly.

"Not bullsheet," D'Argo said, jabbing an angry finger down, making the small vase of 
flowers on the table wobble drunkenly. Two of the guards jumped and spun around, 
looking for some imminent attack. D'Argo cleared his throat and gave them a contrite 
smile. "Sorry."

They stared at him for a moment and then turned back to their watch.

"Don't scare the security detachment, D'Argo," John chuckled softly. "Those boys are 
stressed enough."

D'Argo let out a luxan sized sigh, blowing out his mustaches, and turned back to his plate. 
"What is this?"

"It's a baked potato. Plenty of butter, sour cream, and other crap not good for you, but 
damn it tastes good," John told him, still smiling.

D'Argo made a noncommittal rumble and tried the potato. "We all wanted your 
homecoming to be a good one. Not the mess it's turned into. I am very sorry."

"What was that about not regretting things we can't change?"

"Yes, well, it's not so much about regret as about wanting to crack skulls." D'Argo gave 
him a toothy grin.

John let out a long, loud laugh. "Ah, man, I love hanging with you." When the laugh 
subsided, he shook his head and looked down at his plate again. "This is what I needed 
today. Just to ... you know, get out for a while. Hang with somebody who knows me; 
knows who I am now. I just ..." he faltered and glanced up and out the window to the still 
gawking masses. God, was it really that fascinating to watch somebody eat meatloaf?

"Needed a boat?" D'Argo asked with a knowing smile, pulling back the human's attention.

"Maybe," John acknowledged with a small nod. "Fishing's sort of a get-away-from-it-all 
thing. Maybe that's what I needed. The idea that someday, sometime, for just a little while, 
I can get away from it all."

"That's an important thing to have, John," D'Argo said solemnly.

"Yeah," John said softly, not sounding terribly convinced and more than a little wistful. 
"Sorry, it's not blue."

"We have paint," D'Argo observed blandly.

John snickered and drained his coffee cup. "Paint my boat, D'Argo, and I'll give Lo'la 
pink polka dots."

"I think that would end very badly for you, John," he warned.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't regret it," he told his friend with a sly smile.

Another camera flashed, John rolled his eyes, and D'Argo contemplated dessert.

"You ready to leave?"

"No dessert?" D'Argo asked with a pout.

"I'll buy you something someplace else. I feel like that fish in the tank." John waved over 
the nervously fidgeting waitress, fished some bills out of his pocket, and stood up, 
waiving her away again. "Or, if you want a little excitement, we could try to snurch dessert 
from Rygel."

"Heh," D'Argo grinned evilly. "That could be just a little bit of fun."

"It could be."

The two men grinned devilishly at each other and stepped out of the restaurant and back 
into the real world.

"Rygel will make us pay," D'Argo observed brightly.

"Can't frelling wait."