I stare at him. Not because of what he said - if I had been given a credit everytime Crichton had asked one of us to teach him something, we would never go hungry again. No, I stared because of the look in his eyes.
"I cannot teach you, John."
I didn't think it was possible, but his eyes darkened further.
"Damn it, Aeryn. After all I've do-"
I held up a hand. "I will train you. I'll spar with you, and I will show you how the weapons work. But I can't teach you."
He was confused, and frustration made him angry. "I don't understand."
My eyes caught his again, and I felt the increasingly familiar urge to cry. Softly, I whispered to him, my voice breaking, "I can't teach you what you've already learned."