Two days later, with the Shadows, Vorlons, and all the other older races on their way out of the galaxy, they are still alive.
She hadn't really planned on that.
When they call B5 to deliver the good news, Michael, standing in C&C with a cluster of gaping junior officers around him, doesn't seem able to believe it. "They just left?" he repeats.
When they finally convince him that the war is over and they are coming home, she sees genuine relief spread across his face. Grinning, he claims the outcome is anticlimactic.
Sheridan, cheerfully rolling his eyes at his security chief's relentless cynicism, says, "Maybe you had to be there."
"Maybe so. See you tomorrow. Garibaldi out."
* * *
The station has never seen such a celebration as what greets them at their arrival. She can barely pick Michael out of the mob that's there to meet them at customs.
He apparently has no trouble finding her, though, because when the crowd sees the returning heroes coming through the gate and surges forward, he's right in front of her. A second later, he crushes her against his chest, and she gladly leans against him, the combination of relief, joy, and exhaustion she feels suddenly leaving her lightheaded. With one hand pressed against the soft fuzz of hair on the back of his head and the other clutching a fistful of his uniform jacket, she lets the cacophonous, undulating mass of people fade away, lost for the moment in a little world made of just the two of them.
The crowd ebbs, following Sheridan, who is walking further into the station. Michael grabs her hand as they finally part and keeps hold of it as they start following the celebrants away from the gate. They make it about three steps before a gaggle of reporters start shoving microphones in their faces.
"How does it feel--"
"What really happened--"
"-- Captain Sheridan --"
"--at Corianna 6--"
"--a statement--"
She raises her voice. "I'm sure there will be a press conference very soon, and all of your questions will be answered there. Now, if you don't mind?" Dragging Michael along behind her, she strides through the collection of journalists, who part like the Red Sea in the face of her determination to escape and obvious willingness to forcibly remove them from her path if they don't move first.
Michael chuckles behind her.
"Not a word," she threatens, not turning around.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, smirking so hard she can hear it.
She heads for the nearest transport tube. She is still holding his hand.
* * *
Untold hours later, they stumble to her quarters, glad to be away from the noise, the crowds, and the endless badgering by reporters. The party, it seems, is going to go on for the rest of the night, perhaps the rest of the week.
Susan sighs, closing her eyes and leaning against the door. "Tomorrow I am sleeping in." She opens her eyes and smiles at him. "You know, I think tomorrow is the first day both of us will have off in months." The gravity of it suddenly strikes her. "We're done with this campaign."
"Yeah." He seems troubled, frowning as he stares at the carpet. "Of course, we still have all the problems back home to deal with."
She has to admit, where she sees the glass half empty, Michael sees it half empty and with a crack in the bottom through which all the remaining liquid is dribbling out. It almost disturbs her how easily he can see the downside to everything.
But tonight, at least, she's willing to admit the possibility of full glasses—preferably full of something bubbly and alcoholic—and she's determined to see that he does the same.
"Michael. The Shadows are gone. The war is over! Can't we just...celebrate for a little while before we go borrowing trouble?"
He raises an eyebrow. "That depends," he says, coming closer and trailing his fingers down her waist, resting them on her hip. "What kind of celebration did you have in mind?"
She grins in a way that could only described as "sly," and in response, she begins to kiss him.
* * *
The next morning, she gets up before he does and fishes in the pockets of his discarded uniform, finally seizing upon his keycard. She touches several pressure-sensitive spots on it in quick succession, presses her fingertip where indicated, and then silently slides it back into his pocket. Grabbing her bathrobe, she heads for the shower.
When she gets out, dressed in civilian clothing, she finds both breakfast and her own altered keycard waiting for her on the table. She slips the card into her pocket and sits down. The only thing they talk about is their plans for the day.
* * *
At the first command staff meeting held since the war ended, Michael drops a bombshell on them that is bigger than anything the Shadows or Vorlons ever came up with. He waltzes into Sheridan's office and announces that he's resigning as head of security, effective immediately.
It feels like the structural integrity of the floor just imploded under her feet. They are all struck dumb, trying to process Michael's revelation
He'd said nothing about quitting this morning. They'd quietly gone through what has become a morning routine, and he'd left to shower and change in his quarters. And now, here he is broadsiding her--all of them--with this news.
She feels like whatever they are to each other should at least have warranted a mention of it.
"You can't just resign like this!" she exclaims as soon as she collects her jaw from the floor. She doesn't know if she's more upset that he's resigning, period, or that he didn't tell her first so she could talk him out of it.
He looks unnaturally innocent. "Who says?" He talks about how they're free agents now, and he doesn't want to keep fighting wars he doesn't understand, and then says he's going to go into business for himself, searching out the lost things people are willing to put a price on--do a little good, as he puts it. She hears almost none of it, too caught up in feeling like she's been betrayed.
"Well," he finally says, slowing the torrent of words that have been falling from his mouth. "I think that about covers it. Everything will be on your desk within the hour, sir." He nods to them all, his gaze not lingering on anyone in particular, and leaves the room before the captain can respond.
It is highly unprofessional, but at this moment, she doesn't give a damn. "Excuse me, sir," she says over her shoulder to Sheridan, and then runs after Michael.
She catches up with him a few feet down the hall, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. "What was that? And why the hell didn't you tell me? You can't have decided to quit in the last half hour!"
He looks at her steadily, something in his eyes seeming almost amused at her outrage, which only makes her madder. "That was exactly what it sounded like," he says, beginning to tick points off on his fingers. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd try to talk me out of it. And as far as when I started thinking about it..." He looks uncertain now, and she wonders what that means. "Before the war ended."
"But we still need you," she blurts, despite intuiting that that fact will make no difference to him. He gives every sign of being very sure of himself.
"Zack'll do you proud. And I'll still be here. Just not working for Sheridan anymore."
"Is that what this is about? John?" She knows there's been some tension between them lately, but she had thought it was just the stress of the war getting to them both. Maybe she should've paid more attention, asked him to talk about it.
He presses his lips together. "This is about me wanting a different kind of life than the one I've been leading. That's all."
I'm part of the life you've been leading, she thinks.
"I have to go," he says. "And as I recall," he looks back toward Sheridan's office, "so do you. I'll see you later."
That night, they each sleep in their own quarters.
* * *
They adapt to his change in employment with less trouble than she expected. She still doesn't understand his reasons, nor why he was so quick to resign, but he seems happy enough with his new job. Every time she sees him, he has a new story about something or someone he's helped a customer retrieve.
She still misses him when she calls security on her link and gets Zack, or when his face is not among those around the table in a staff meeting. She hates that he isn't there to share a joke in C&C or a bitch session about dealing with ambassadors.
On an otherwise nondescript evening in late March, she pauses in the living area of her quarters and looks around. From where she stands, she can see a half-empty bag of tortilla chips and a box of uncooked spaghetti noodles on her kitchen counter, and one of Michael's jackets laying on the arm of the couch. In her bathroom is a toothbrush that belongs to him, and a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt in one of her dresser drawers.
She wonders when their lives became so intertwined. If it has anything to do with not working together anymore. If she had to choose, which she would pick.
Her door opens, and Michael walks in, whistling.
She raises an inquiring eyebrow at him. "You're in a good mood."
He walks over to where she's standing and kisses her lightly. "I found a man's cat for him today. He was very appreciative."
"His cat?"
He shrugs. "As I said, he was very appreciative. Some people, their pets are like their kids." His eyes light up as he describes his customer's reunion with the lost feline. She can't help but smile at his animated depiction.
It's not the same at all, but maybe he had a point--they were fighting to take charge of their own destinies, and if this is what he wants, she guesses she can live with that.
* * *
Incidentally, he was right about the problems that remain with Earth. And when Bester comes aboard offering help--for a price--she knows they must be worse than she'd imagined.
Like all true cowards, Clark is going to try to win this war with propaganda. That means they'll have to stay one step ahead of the lies, and keep their noses clean. The command staff is in agreement: the slightest misstep could turn public opinion irrevocably against them. If that happens, their chances of overthrowing Clark plummet through the proverbial basement.
Which of course explains Michael's comments to the ISN reporter.
The moment the words "God complex" leave his mouth on the screen, she sees red. She can hope his diatribe against Sheridan is taken out of context, twisted into something entirely opposite of the truth like everything else in this so-called news report, but as it is, it's pretty damning.
As soon as it's over, she storms out of Sheridan's office, unable to face him, Delenn, or her meal any longer. She would like to find Michael and force an explanation from him, but he's off the station for the next week. He had to know when this report would air; the convenience of his absence only makes it seem more likely that his remarks to the reporter were exactly what they sounded like.
She goes to her quarters, and spends a few minutes therapeutically slamming cupboards. When the initial rush of anger is gone, she pauses in the middle of the kitchen area. Sighing, she puts her hands in her pockets and slouches against the counter, hating that Michael could screw them over like this.
The fingers of her right hand brush against something hard and metallic, and she remembers what she's been carrying with her for the past four months. She pulls the bell out of her pocket and looks at it gleam in her palm.
He told her that day to come back in one piece. She wonders now if, when he returned from the Shadows, he left part of himself behind.
* * *
Sheridan gets to him before she does. The news of their confrontation in the Zocalo hits the station's rumor mill within minutes, and she hears of it not long after.
That evening, she lets herself into his quarters, hoping to and succeeding in finding him there. She asks him what the hell he thinks he's doing.
The calculating look he gives her makes her blood freeze in her veins. "You're his friend. You've bought into it just as much as everyone else."
"Dammit, Michael, this is not about John! This is about you helping to ruin any chance we have of being taken seriously on Earth!" She is so angry she's trembling, and only a thin layer of self-control keeps her from hauling off and punching him.
"You want to talk about ruining your credibility? Look at your fearless leader." He crosses his arms over his chest. "He's your problem. Not me."
This can't be Michael, she wants to think. The man she knew would never undermine them like this. But he is in front of her, manifestly doing just that.
"I don't think I know you anymore," she says.
His gaze is steady. "Maybe you never did."
* * *
In bed that night, alone in a room that is littered with evidence of his presence, she revisits their fight. She's still half-convinced that before his capture by the Shadows, the Michael she knew would never have acted this way. He had been just as invested in their campaign against Clark as she was, and whatever problems he had personally with Sheridan wouldn't make him turn his back on it.
Then again, there are plenty of things she hasn't told him about herself. Maybe there is just as much she doesn't know about him.
Ironic, she thinks, that only now does she realize how badly she wanted to find out all the things about him she never knew.
