Alright, so it's pretty plotless. But honestly, isn't that the best sort for being published on Christmas Eve? ;) Happy holidays, and enjoy!
There isn't really a whole lot Susan Ivanova doesn't know about Babylon 5. She knows when the shops open, she knows when the shops close. She knows when shifts start, and when they end. She knows the way to just about everywhere, even the darker, sketchier areas – especially the darker, sketchier areas, actually. She knows her people, and she knows who she can rely on to make the right call at the right moment. There is something, though, that she doesn't know, and it's a source of constant irritation.
That something is Marcus Cole, who is at present being a source of more irritation than usual.
Slamming him into a bulkhead, she discovers, helps. Somewhat.
"What in hell do you think you're doing, Cole?" she demands, face right up in his and damn near spitting mad. He seems a bit stunned by the impact and she seizes the opportunity to continue. "I have one security officer and two maintenance workers in medlab, and from where I'm standing you're the one who put them there. If you have an explanation, I'd love to hear it."
"Technically," he quips, infuriatingly bold for a man pinned to a wall, "you're standing where I'm standing, and from where I'm standing I really do beg to differ—" She drives her knee between his legs, stopping inches from a crippling strike, and he amends his tactics. "Well in all fairness I didn't start it. Truly."
She's pressed against him in a way that's making her almost as uncomfortable as him. This irritating unknown is beyond her comprehension, confusing, and frustrating to no end. He's also obscenely attractive, something entirely unfair and totally unexpected. She'd never admit it to anyone, obviously. But it's still there, and having her leg between his lands her in an awkward and conflictingly welcome-unwelcome situation. Damned if she's fleetingly entertained fantasies about this sort of thing…
She shifts away slightly, if only to lessen the contact before she starts thinking things she shouldn't, and slams her mind back into gear. He didn't start the fight. So he says. "But you sure as hell finished it," she snaps. "What exactly were you thinking?"
"Upon finishing the fight? Or upon jumping into it?" She fixes him with a glare to darken the sun and he gulps. "Something along the lines of 'four against one's no fair'?"
She releases him and takes a step back, shaking her head, her frustration melting away despite her best attempts to hold onto it. "You knocked out three people because you thought it wasn't a fair fight. Did you even know the one you were helping?"
He shrugs. "Seen him around a few times. Though, there were also a few remarks tossed about that I strongly disagreed with."
Susan glances over at the medics tending to a worker's bloodied nose and raises her eyebrows. "I'd say." She sighs slightly and takes Marcus by the shoulder, pulling him into a more secluded alcove. She tries to reach for her anger but comes up with only tiredness. "I'm sure you were doing the right thing," she says, voice low enough that he's the only one who can hear it, "but you put three people into medlab, two of them necessary for repairs on that conduit. Two sectors are out of hot water, and will be for another day, thanks to you. I don't want to lecture you—" she presses a hand to her forehead and sighs again. "Marcus, you're a part of this station. People know you, they respect you, god knows what for. If you start plunging into fights left and right, people are going to follow you. I can't afford that." Hands on her hips, she looks over his face, searching for a sign that he understands.
"I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "I didn't mean to cause you more trouble. Especially…" he pauses, rummaging through his robes briefly and producing a small, brown package, "considering what day it is." He beams at her and holds the present out. "Happy birthday, Susan."
She stares at it for a moment, her brain sluggish to make the connection. With everything that was going on these days, she hasn't expected anyone to remember, let alone him. She hasn't even expected him to know. Slowly, she takes it from him and turns it over in her hands, feeling the utilitarian paper beneath her fingers. "Open it," Marcus prompts.
She picks at the taped edges, still stunned. Her name is written on the front in sharp letters, the kind she'd have expected from him if she'd never seen it before. She feels as if this is the first gift she's received in years, and in a way it is. Of course, John and Michael and Stephen and all the others have tossed little trinkets her way, occasionally something fairly important, but none have ever, ever, given her the feeling that this really means something.
She's almost afraid to open it.
She struggles to stop the shaking in her hands as she pushes back the wrapping, revealing a small, worn book. It's real paper, none of that synth stuff, and beautifully bound. It's obviously been well-read, the printing on its soft leather cover faded and the edges tattered.
"Shakespearean sonnets," Marcus informs her. "I bookmarked the better ones. And if poetry's not your thing, it'll look lovely on your bookshelf, don't you think?"
She has to smile at that and nods in agreement. She's not quite sure what to say. Poetry really isn't her thing, but he's obviously gone to some effort to find the book itself. "Where did you get this?" she asks. "I didn't think they published books like this anymore."
"A Ranger never reveals his sources," he quips, grinning.
She knows she should be angry at him, that he went to so much effort, but he's so happy, so pleased with himself. Her mouth forms the beginning of her reprimand but her lungs refuse to voice it. Before she quite knows it, she's turning her head away to hide the tears gathering in her eyes, wiping at them hastily with her free hand while the other holds the book out to Marcus. "I can't take this," she manages to say, not looking at him. "I can't—"
"And why not?" he replies, bristling a bit. "Poetry's not that bad, you know. Or because you're afraid of it? Afraid of what I might mean by it? I assure you, I don't mean anything by it. It's a gift, Susan. From a friend." He pushes it gently back toward her. "Keep it."
She can't meet his gaze. She stares at some point on his chest as she turns back to him, still holding the book out. "Marcus, please. I can't accept it, not from you. Not from you—"
She's crying. She's actually crying. She's mortified, but for the life of her she can't stop. It's just a goddamn book, she tries to tell herself, get a hold of yourself. But now that she's started she's lost it and all of the last few months is going to come pouring out. At least she's out of sight, and in this light no one will recognize her uniform.
She feels Marcus's hands on her shoulders, hesitant, and lets him pull her slowly to him. She doesn't resist—she probably couldn't if she'd tried. Her mind is disjointed, muddled, and too wrapped up in releasing pent up stress to care about fighting off well-meaning Rangers. She's half-heartedly waging a battle with herself: he's giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wants to. She does want to, she's trying to convince herself, she does, but the rest of her says that's a glaring lie and she knows it. This is what she's been missing; human contact. Friendly or otherwise, it's been too long since anyone touched her with affection.
And why the hell has it been so long? As she wraps her arms around him, holding on tight, she can feel his heartbeat against her cheek. His embrace is solid and strong, she feels safe and sheltered, as if she could just give up all her worries and the world would sort itself out. Logically, she knows it wouldn't, but she doesn't acknowledge the thought. This feels so good, too good, and she's not willing to let it go just yet.
At last, she loosens her grip and he releases her. She steps back a bit, biting her lip self-consciously and then quickly schooling her features back into a calm mask. She offers him a smile and he returns it.
Silence.
She laughs awkwardly and holds up the book. "Keep it?" he asks.
"Keep it," she nods, tucking it under her arm and smiling. "Thanks, Marcus." Then, more seriously, "Thank you."
"Anytime," he returns sincerely.
She hesitates a moment, then steps back to him and kisses him softly. She pulls away immediately, vaguely surprised at her own nerve. He's staring down at her wide-eyed, as if she'd just been revealed to be Valen reborn. She's not sure if it's a good reaction or not, but she knows what she wants and she glances over her shoulder quickly. Turning back to him, she licks her lips a bit nervously and then kisses him again, harder.
It only takes him a moment to respond, and when he does, she finds herself suddenly flush against him, his hands clutching at her face, the back of her neck. His beard is rough under her fingers as she slides her own free hand up into his hair, holding him as close as she can. His mouth is velvet on hers, foreign but welcoming. He tastes strong and dark and very faintly of alcohol. Her lips quirk slightly as she donates a passing thought to just what he'd been doing earlier, and then quirk further as she donates several well-formed thoughts to just what he'll be doing later, if she gets her way. He draws back to regard her questioningly; she just grins and kisses him again.
"Alright, Jonas, just get him out here for now. No, I don't wanna hear if he's tired. Get him."
The chief's voice. Susan breaks away from Marcus, looking furtively over her shoulder. There is a pressing need for secrecy, at least for now, and they both sense it. She pulls away from him, smoothing her uniform and running a hand through her hair. She kisses him goodbye, swiftly but not without feeling, and then leans in close to whisper in his ear. "Dinner."
She steps again for the exit, but he catches her wrist and pulls her back for a final kiss. She laughs silently, beating his chest teasingly but allowing herself to be reeled in. His lips meet hers again, playful, and then she pries herself out of his grip and sweeps away.
He watches her go, the way she tugs hastily at her jacket and then how the mask washes over her as she nods greeting to Mr. Garibaldi. She smiles and he wonders if her new companion will notice the book she's carrying or the redder-than-usual tinge to her lips. He feels giddy bubbles rising up inside him, and as she looks back fleetingly, he can only mouth Happy birthday and wave like an idiot. Dinner.