Disclaimer: Henson owns them. Send Brian loving mail. Rating: Rish.

SPOILERS: Bad Timing. Season Four. If you haven't seen the finale, don't read this.

Dedication: To Drea. For commentary on the drive back from Cedarburg.

Predicated Disaster
by Ana Lyssie Cotton

It was their perfect moment. Of course it went to hell. John Crichton eyed the approaching ship and turned to the woman he loved. "My timing..."

"Yes." She half-smiled and stepped towards him.

"I love you."

They were kissing as the rocket hit, the energy crystalising around them and then scattering their very molecules into tiny glass beads. The craft kind, which can be used to make friendship beads. Teenagers and middle-schoolers used to put them on their high tops (or Keds. It could have been Keds).

Away from the rowboat, something rose from the water. The figure stood for a moment, dusting the droplets from his rather dapper white and cream suit. He then proceeded to walk across the water.

Reaching the boat, he knelt down and picked up a handful of the beads. "John, John, when will you never learn?"

He sighed and lit a cigar, the smoke curling around under his cream and grey panama hat.

And time reversed itself, the beads cascading upwards, forming two bodies, one male, one female. They separated from their kiss and Aeryn sat back down, an odd smile playing around her lips.

"WHAT have I *told* you about smoking in my head?!" John reached over and grabbed the cigar, tossing it into the water. "Bad Harvey!"

"Come now, John, you know smoke is much cleaner than your mind. This is a service!"

"How so?"

"Think about the way you think of, well, her, for instance." Harvey gave a growl, and the scene changed.

Aeryn above John, sweat droplets shining on her pearly skin as she reached fulfillment. He groaned. "Get out of my fantasies!"

"But they're *so* nice." Another growl. "Of course, this latest one is so sadly simplistic. Really, John, a rowboat?"

"No. No. That's it!" Grabbing Harvey by the ear (and knocking off the panama), John dragged him through another scene-change. This time it was a dark alley, a grey dumpster in front of them. As they approached, the top slid upwards. "Now. Get BACK in your dumpster!"

"Oh, but, John--"

"NO!" Tossing the neural clone into the metal box, John slammed the lid. "No more."

Jerking awake, John Crichton stared down at the dark hair covering the pillow next to his. Snuggling closer, he sighed. The rowboat was *definitely* out.