Categories > TV > Power Rangers

Paradise on Earth

by JesusKetchum31 1 review

SPD. Aisynia reflects on a year back home with Doggie. Rated for sexuality. Thanks to my friend Art for the beta!

Category: Power Rangers - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst, Romance - Characters: Other - Warnings: [!!!] - Published: 2006-11-07 - Updated: 2006-11-08 - 1209 words - Complete

The worst is over. Our long trial is over, and finally we are reunited. The world we live in is not our own, but it is an idyllic little paradise, quiet and peaceful, rustic. The natives don't think so, of course, but they haven't seen the galaxy like we have.

And this world is paradise. He is well-paid here, and in addition to his quarters at his work we have a little flat on the quiet side of town. It was garish and bare when I got here, but so much better than what I was used to. For a few months, just seeing his crude attempts at decoration was a relief compared to the emptiness of my cell... although recently I've forced him to move some of it into the study. He's picked up the human aesthetic in the God-knows-how-many years he's lived here. All those colors, together...

Each morning he goes to work, and I rise and care for the house, amusing myself. At first he wouldn't let me do any work, saying he was just happy to have me back... but then he realized that I wanted that normalcy. So now I do my laundry while watching human television. We used to get some of it back home, and it used to be that he was the one who would watch with interest... But now he has no time for TV and I watch it while passing the time for him to get back. I can't understand my love of war shows-of the children's shows about the fate of the world, of the silly human attempt at approximating space travel. I suppose I seek what's familiar in this paradise. War and suffering gone, replaced with the things I've dreamed of for years.

And in the evening I prepare a meal, and he comes home. It often gets cold before he arrives; he's late a lot. And we eat, and talk about our days. Well... he talks, I listen. Back home, I talked and he listened... how strange it is that things have reversed themselves like this. But we talk, and we eat, and usually we have a glass of wine. It tastes strange, nothing like the stuff we had at home; grapes are strange little fruits.

If there's time we will watch TV together, but his tastes have become bizarre-my warrior enjoys shows about doctors, lovers, anything but war. I suppose he's been more engaged in it than I, tired of it. But the show he enjoys best is an old one, over twenty years old. It is the one about the crime scene investigators, the scientists who analyze evidence at the scene of a crime. I suppose it fits his career, since he supervises some such people. He doesn't notice when I talk during commercials at first. He makes a face when I ask to change the channel, even if it's to something else he likes, but he always says it's fine if I do it.

And then to bed; we make love, but not near as much as we did when first I returned. After a brief spike of interest, suddenly he's always too tired, plagued by indefinable headaches, just not feeling it.

And then we rise in the morning, and I make him breakfast before he goes to work.

A few times I have gone in with him, to observe. His subordinates are nice; sweet children with passion and integrity. The boy who always wears gloves is talkative and surprisingly wise, and the red ranger is always extremely kind to me, as if he identifies with me somehow. The fair-haired girl always asks me about the clothes on my home planet; the dark-haired one, the music. Even the technician boy shows me undue kindness. The dark-skinned boy, the one who almost looks like one of us with his coarse hair and large, dark eyes, is always fun to talk to when he and I both visit at once. We even had him over for dinner once, but it was awkward and strange. There is something between him and my husband, a deep anger neither will acknowledge.

Perhaps that is why we get along.

The only person at my spouse's work with whom I cannot get along is the head technician. She is always kind, of course, always courteous and considerate. We have had her over for dinner often. She has never been anything less than sweet to me. That is the problem. In those stunning, slit green eyes I see a hate and contempt almost to rival that I saw on the General's face when he first took me.

Sometimes I see it on my husband's face too, when we make love.

He was never one to let go; he mourned the loss of his best friend to the latter's anger for over a year, and that was a loss that he, at least partly, initiated. He paid the daily respects for his parents for years after they died, when most sons stop at one. And when we lost the baby, all those years ago? I suspect that's why he works with teenagers now.

So he couldn't let go of me. That I could see in his eyes when I first came back. But now he can't let go of this other, this woman he must have been with when I was gone. I can't blame him; I would have taken other lovers if those monsters had held anyone other than me.

But... he's all that I have left, and now I don't even have him. All I have is the TV, and the mental image of him and his subordinate pressed against a wall together, an image I've never seen with my eyes but still somehow haunts my mind.

I want to go home, to my own planet. I want my husband back, my life back, all the people we left behind. I want to go back home, to my little cell, where I always had the hope that Doggie would save me, not knowing how long I'd been trapped.

I could leave him, but then what? Where would I go? What would I do? I have no friends, no family, nothing here. All I have is him and this little apartment. Paradise. No one to share with, no one to confide in. I'm no less a prisoner than I was only an Earth-year ago.

I almost wish I were back in that prison, going insane, waiting for Doggie to find me. It hurt terribly, yes, but part of it was that whenever I wanted, I could close my eyes and see him coming to rescue me. I could smell him, see him, hear him telling me it would be alright. And in the end, that's nearly what happened. He hadn't moved on as I thought he would have, and hoped he hadn't. But now, I wish he did.

And now, as I chop these colorful things the humans consider vegetables, I hope that when he walks in, he'll be the old Doggie again, that he'll care, that he'll want to be with me. But this hope is harder to hold onto. This is paradise... How could I ask for anything more?
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