John points at Aeryn and gets close. "Shut up and listen to me. Scorpius is here, looking for the key to what is inside my head. Neural chips, Aurora Chair, threatening Earth. None of it works, because he does not understand me." She begins to weep. "Stop using him as an excuse!" She gets some fingers in her face. "Please! You're the key. My Achilles. You. If he figures that out, the world, and all that's in it, is nothing. He will use you and the baby, and I will not be able to stop him." Plan B doesn't work: "You think he's been using the comms? Look what it's done to you! You're completely paranoid." He stares at her in the silence for a moment, and then: the crackle of static.
Scorpius: "Pilot? Are we having a problem with the comms?" Pilot apologizes. Aeryn's mouth hangs open. She turns to John, flabbergasted, afraid. They have a whole conversation using only their eyeballs, and it is wonderful. "So," she says, well too loudly, "it's over." He looks up, then away: "It's over." She begins to grin. "There's nothing more between us," she says, looking up at his face. He smiles back, lopsided and lovely. "Nothing," he whispers. Figures they'd do even this ass-backward, warding off the evil eye and saying love is nothing.
Aeryn tears up, joyful and relieved. The happiest among us, for the moment. She bites her lip and looks deeply into his face, into his eyes. Naked, finally. Four years and counting, dead lovers piled up between them, fear and resentment and longing and terror and confusion and pride: gone. A symphony of waiting ends. Finally. John laughs to himself, and grins; they kiss. She silently puts her arms around his neck, her forehead to his; they nuzzle noses and grin, too full of joy to do anything but touch. "I love you," she says silently, and he smiles, and they kiss again.