Note: The dates at the top of each section aren't meant to refer to particular events in canon; they merely indicate the passage of time.
I. May 26th, 2259
When he wakes up next to Susan Ivanova for the third morning in a row, Michael Garibaldi realizes that they have a thing.
He's been pulled from sleep by her alarm. The computer has just finished stating the time and date, and is starting in on Susan's schedule. Susan, he notices as he sits up, has buried her head in her pillow, but she can be heard loud and clear as she yells at the alarm to shut up. "No one should be that perky this early in the morning," he hears her grumble as the computer pauses in mid-sentence.
Grinning, he touches her bare shoulder. She flips over reflexively, then opens one eye to glare at him. "Morning, sunshine," he says, ready to duck out of the way of the punch she tries to inflict on his arm. Lucky for him, her aim isn't so good before her first cup of coffee. That's something he knows because they have a thing. He's been on the receiving end of her just-woken-up morning grouchiness for...well, more times than he has fingers to count them on, anyway.
While she is blinking her other eye open, scrunching her face up against the half-illumination the computer provided when the alarm went off, he gets out of the bed and walks around to her side. He takes her hands and gently pulls her upright; a bit of tugging encourages her to slip out from under the covers and put her feet on the floor. "Attagirl," he says. She gives him a sour look which he responds to with another grin. Winding her up in the mornings has been a favorite pastime of his almost since she arrived on the station. Even the swift and merciless revenge she tends to enact doesn't dissuade him. Besides, now that they have this thing, she's been spending enough time in his quarters that reprogramming his shower settings leaves her at almost as much risk of a cold surprise as it does him. Speaking of which... "You go get a shower. I'll make coffee." He kisses her quickly and heads for the kitchen.
She still doesn't look pleased to be awake, but the prospect of coffee does get her to stand up and start shuffling toward the shower, looking like a very sleepy zombie on a bad hair day. He stifles a laugh at the thought, knowing he's in for a world of pain if he ever voices it. As she disappears into the bathroom, he homes in on the little unmarked canister at the back of her cabinet that holds grounds from the coffee plant he pretends not to notice she's cultivating in the gardens. The location of this secret coffee stash is something else he knows because of this thing they have.
Once the coffee is brewing, he calls for full illumination and begins hunting down his clothes from last night. He'll have to go back to his quarters and change into a uniform before heading on duty, but his shift starts a bit later than Susan's, so that's okay. He has time to stay for breakfast. He contemplates joining her in the shower, but regretfully puts the idea aside; he has time, but not that much time.
Clothed, he returns to the kitchen and absently notes that the water has stopped running in the bathroom. He peers into the little refrigerator under her counter, searching for something to go with the coffee. Susan, he knows, doesn't cook much, so he has a feeling the carton of yogurt and couple of bananas sitting on the top shelf is it in the way of breakfast food. He makes a face. They should spend the night in his quarters more often. He has no idea how she actually manages to like this rabbit food.
While he was busy investigating the fridge and pouring the coffee, Susan has dressed, and as he takes their meal to the table, he sees her putting her hair back in a braid as she walks toward him. This isn't the first time he's seen her braid her hair, but he's still amazed at how quickly she can do it, and the deftness with which her fingers flick through strands of hair she can't even see. It always ends up hanging perfectly straight, too, which he finds incredible.
She notices him staring, and raises an eyebrow as she ties off the end with a leather thong. "What?"
"How do you do that so fast?"
A smug look appears on her face. They're always one-upping each other in marksmanship, piloting skills, and hand-to-hand combat, but this is one area where he will never have supremacy, and she knows it. "Years of practice," she says, sitting next to him at the table and taking the cup of coffee he offers. "When I was young, my mother..." She doesn't finish, but stares into the black liquid in the cup, suddenly looking lost.
Guilt smacks him in the gut. "Hey," he says, touching her arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't--"
"It's okay," she says, glancing back up at him. The lost look is gone from her eyes. "It's a good memory. Sometimes I forget I still have them." She sips her coffee, then tells him how she learned to braid her own hair by practicing on her mother's, and how, despite their ridiculousness, Sofie Ivanova would wear her daughter's inexperienced plaits for the whole rest of the day.
All too soon, they both have to go, or they'll be late for the start of their shifts. Before he leaves, though, Michael catches Susan's hand in his own and says, "Come over for dinner tonight."
The corners of her lips turn up. "Are you planning on making too much pasta again?"
That's one of the ways they've skirted acknowledgement of this thing they have. He'll make too much pasta, she'll need him to sign off on some bit of station business, they'll both want to commiserate over dealing with Londo...they have a lot of perfectly good excuses for wanting to be around each other.
"No," he says. "I would just like to have dinner with you."
Her eyebrows shoot up, and he wonders if he should've just agreed that he was going to make too much food. Maybe she hasn't recognized they have a thing--a relationship, a liaison, a whatever it is they have that means he knows where she keeps her coffee and what a mess her hair is in the morning--or, worse, doesn't want there to be a thing at all. He realizes he's holding his breath.
"Okay," she finally says, sounding either amused or intrigued. "What time?"
With that, he can breathe again. "1900?"
She nods, more solemn now. "I'll be there." Then, swiftly, she leans up and kisses him--and if the kiss is anything to go by, he shouldn't have worried about whether she wanted there to be a thing between them or not.
"We're both going to be late," she says when they part. They're standing by the door already, and a shift of her weight is enough to activate the motion detector. "I'll see you tonight," she says once they're in the corridor, about to start off in separate directions.
He's pretty sure he's beaming right now, but he doesn't care. Despite his agnosticism, as he begins walking toward his own quarters he says a little prayer to any god that'll listen, even if it's one of Londo's gambling gods, that no station crises come up this evening.
II. June 18th, 2259
It is some ungodly hour of the morning, and her comm unit is telling her she has an incoming message. Her comm unit is damn lucky she doesn't keep a PPG by her bedside. "All right, all right," she says. "Who's calling?"
"Captain Sheridan," the computer replies.
Susan sighs. John had better have a damn good reason for this. Knowing the crises that tend to arise on Babylon 5, he probably does. "Put it through. Audio only," she tells the computer.
"Susan, I'm sorry to wake you, but we have a situation up here," Sheridan says, his voice a bit tinny after its journey through the comm system.
She is already slipping out of bed. "Do I have time to get dressed?"
"Barely," he replies. She expects him to sign off, but he adds, "By the way, you wouldn't happen to know where Garibaldi is, would you? He's not answering calls to his quarters."
Busy with the buttons on her shirt, she answers without thinking. "He's with me."
There is a short silence before Sheridan responds. "At four in the morning?"
Oh. Damn.
It's not that they've been keeping it secret, exactly. They just...haven't felt the need to tell anyone about it--this thing they have--explicitly. Then again, perhaps it would've been better had her good friend John Sheridan not found out about it because he happened to be looking for Michael in the middle of the night and discovered him in her quarters.
There just isn't a good answer to Sheridan's question, so she settles for "Yes."
She's pretty sure she can hear John's eyebrows raising through the comm system, but he just says, "I need both of you here on the double. Sheridan out."
Her shoulders drooping, she shakes her head and calls for the lights to come on. Looking at the bed, she finds Michael already awake and watching her. "We've been summoned," she says.
He nods and says, "Yeah, I heard." He gets out of bed a bit ruefully.
Susan sighs, turning back to the process of putting on her uniform. "This is going to be awkward." If Sheridan was in C&C when he'd called her quarters--and he undoubtedly was--then she's effectively announced this still-new and fragile relationship to the entire station, given the way the rumor mill works. The idea makes her a bit queasy.
There's a presence at her side, and then Michael puts a finger under her chin, softly bringing her head up to meet his gaze. "Hey," he says. "We'll get through it." He moves his hand, caressing her cheek until she finally nods.
"Of course we will." It's crazy how much she believes him right at this moment. She can still imagine all too vividly the knowing looks they'll receive on walking into C&C, and the relentless ribbing John will subject her to, but Michael is right; something else will capture the gossips' attention soon enough, and then they will all get on with their lives. Hell, maybe the next big piece of scuttlebutt will involve whatever's brewing between John and Ambassador Delenn.
She ties her hair back out of her face while Michael scrambles into his uniform, and they leave together for C&C.
III. October 5th, 2259
The best part of a day off, Susan decides as she slowly opens her eyes, is not waking up to an alarm. She feels ready for whatever the day might hold, and not like she wants to murder something, then go back to bed. Even her mouth doesn't taste as much like old carpet as it usually does in the mornings.
When she sits up, she finds that Michael is still asleep next to her, his mouth open and one arm over his head. This is highly unusual; she can't actually remember a time when she's woken up before he did, and since they've given up any pretense of living in separate quarters, she's seen plenty of mornings with him. She's pretty sure God or the universe or someone was laughing at her when she fell in love with a morning person, especially one who likes to torment her with his cheerfulness given the slightest opportunity.
Well, two can play at that game. The sheet has slipped down his body during the night, leaving his chest tantalizingly uncovered. She reaches out and begins tracing patterns on the bare skin, watching closely to see when her touch starts to draw him back from the land of nod. As soon as his eyelids begin to flutter, she switches tactics and begins tickling him mercilessly.
Now he's awake, and writhing under her fingers as he tries and fails to contain his laughter.
When she finally decides that justice has been served, she lets up on his ribs, and smiles beatifically in response to the mock-glare he gives her. "Good morning," she says.
He raises an eyebrow. "I have never seen you this chipper so early in the day," he says. Then he cracks, "Who are you and what have you done with the real Susan Ivanova?"
She laughs, then replies, "Sometimes I almost understand what you see in mornings. I must have slept well last night." She slides back down onto her side, facing him, and settles in for a lazy start to the day.
He takes a lock of her hair and begins twisting it in his fingers. "Really? I don't recall much sleeping going on..."
She pretends to have trouble recalling the events he's referring to. "Hmmm. Maybe you should remind me what we were doing last night."
His eyes light up. "Gladly." He leans in to kiss her, and Susan realizes she's going to have to revise her earlier conclusion about the best part of a day off.