John and Aeryn stare at each other in the elevator. "Give me your hand. Put it on my shoulder." He puts a hand on her waist: "Come here." She smiles, her hands in his. "All right, now stand on my feet." She laughs and groans, looking down at their feet together. "Comfortable?" he asks, and she smiles. He nods at her, and begins to waltz. "Hold tight." Aeryn laughs, looking up at him in wonder, and puts her head down on his shoulder, smiling quietly, as they dance in the silence.
Rygel smokes from the hookah with the Charrids, who are still doubting that, Kalish or not, the Scarrans would ever drop their partnership with the Charrids. Rygel draws on the pipe, then coughs and laughs; D'Argo asks what partnership. "You aren't their partners. You're nothing more than ill-paid, ill-treated," Rygel pauses and sniffs, "ill-smelling servants." One of the Charrids growls and pulls a knife on him; D'Argo quickly urges a rethink on that one, grabbing him.
Aeryn's head is still safe on John's shoulder as the elevator door finally opens. "Is this our floor?" he asks, leaning against the door and looking out. "Don't know," she replies. "Have to get out and have a look around." He follows her. In every scene where the Fat Man matters, where bluster matters -- in every scene that is a lie -- Aeryn follows John, a step or two behind. Every scene that matters, every time they're alone, every time they're actually getting shit done that doesn't involve appearing some crazy way, Aeryn's in front. There's one perfect image in The Peacekeeper Wars, where two people in love, with their arms around each other, each aim their guns forward: protecting the six and knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that the other one's got things covered. They use it in Mr. & Mrs. Smith too, actually, that symbol. It's so neat. To see these kids who strive so hard and keep getting the hell beat out of them, suddenly -- after giving away everything that means anything, after sacrificing even unto what makes them who they are -- suddenly working in a balletic synchronicity, an abrupt click into place that is as beautiful, and graceful, as it is simple, and full of grace. It starts here, on Katratzi; it's just Plato, telling you to fall in love and mean it. Facing forward, facing back; leading or following. My side, your side: love gives you all the sides and every angle. Katratzi never stood a chance.