Space is cold and empty. At least, that's how the cliche goes: space is dark and forbidding, a depressing expanse of nothingness that tugs out poetic introspection from even the most military of souls.
Susan Ivanova thinks that's ridiculous.
Russia is cold and empty. Space feels like home.
Even the red swirl of hyperspace is vaguely comforting, a welcome antidote to the constant background noise on the White Star's bridge. It's not mesmerising - that is yet another cliche Susan refuses to acknowledge - but it's something to distract her from the fact that Marcus is staring at her from his station. Again.
He watches her entirely too much.
It's got to the point that the absence of his gaze is as disconcerting as its presence originally was; she doesn't like the fact that she's growing used to it.
And yet here she is, aware of his presence to the extent that she hears the soft rustle of his clothing as he leaves his station, feels the oh-so-slight warmth of a body near hers as he stops at her side. She doesn't need to take her eyes from the viewscreen to bark out an irritated, "What?".
It's not enough to deter him - she has the sinking, elated feeling that nothing ever will be - and he speaks before she can be bothered to glare at him. "We have eight hours until we reach Babylon 5. Are you planning on leaving your chair at all?"
There's a teasing glint to his eyes, and by god, it annoys her. She simultaneously wants to treasure it and stamp it out; the dichotomy is enough to send her in to an internal rage. "Leave me alone." Even to her own ears, her voice is low, threatening.
He raises his hands in mock surrender and steps back a pace. "Sorry. Obviously you have a great deal to be getting on with..."
And now he's mocking her. Wonderful, just wonderful. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Than keep your spirits up on what would otherwise be a tedious and uneventful journey?" He gives her an endearing smile. "Don't be ridiculous."
You're the one who's being ridiculous, she wants to say. You're the one who won't leave me alone, with your smiles and your good temper and your arrogant, overbearing sense of righteousness. Can't you see that I want to be unhappy?
It's only the flash of something tired and worn beneath his smile that cuts the words from her throat and replaces them with a terse, "Fine.". She can almost see the relief in his eyes.
He jabbers on about this and that, and all she has to do is nod occasionally, barely listening, just staring out at hyperspace and knowing he's there. She really doesn't have the strength for this. If she wanted him she knows - she knows - she could have him: a word, a look, a smile, and he'd come running to her with his mournful eyes and his soul just staring out at her, and there wouldn't be a damn thing she could do about it.
It's not something she asked for, and it sure as hell isn't something she wants.
No, she has a home out here, alone, with the darkness for company and the taste of alcohol to wash away her regrets. She doesn't need him, and he shouldn't want her.
It's as simple as that.
Of course it is.