Fic: Easy As Breathing
Author: Robyn the Snowshoe Hare
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Early 4th Season. End of "The Summoning"
Disclaimer: All rights belong to JMS.
Note: Okay, Sam, so it turned out to be a quick character piece that was first. One for Garibaldi, though.
******
It was when Ivanova hugged Sheridan that I felt a sudden twinge of hatred.
John Sheridan, the Second Coming. The savior.
We both disappeared at the same time, but the difference was that he went traipsing off to Z'ha'dum with his wife while I was out putting my ass between the station and a dozen pissed-off Shadows.
We came back at almost the same time, too. The difference there was that I was saved by a crew of our own boys while Sheridan was personally chauffeured back home by an alien of unknown origins. An alien who proceeded to follow Sheridan everywhere, and give little fucking nods of approval whenever Sheridan made a decision.
You don't have to be overly observant to see the disparities here, but no one could spare even a glance for this 'Lorien' character, oh no. Too busy running over to grovel at Sheridan's feet, to thank him for deigning to come back and grace us with his presence. Pay no attention to the possible puppeteer in the corner. No, nothing out of the ordinary here. But wherever I went, there were whispers behind concealing hands. Speculating gazes out of the corners of suspicious eyes. 'How are you, chief?' 'Where were you?' 'What happened?'
I was here for three years before Sheridan arrived, but apparently it's just too much to ask for even a slice of the unquestioning trust that he gets. Apparently there isn't enough omnipotence to go around.
But, like I said, it wasn't until Ivanova hugged him that I realized that there was a kernel of hatred being watered in my soul.
She came to see me in Medlab during her first available free shift. I was just sitting up, and I was really touched when she lightly squeezed my shoulder. Ivanova probably personally authored the book on professionalism in some past life, so having her squeeze my shoulder really meant something.
Sure, of course it did. Five years of working with her, putting my life on the line right alongside hers, defying Earthgov, and even an ongoing line of practical jokes meant that I rated a fucking pat on the shoulder. Good little puppy, thanks for wandering home. Try not be gone so long next time, you can't imagine all the paperwork that piled up. Fuck that.
I get a shoulder squeezing. Sheridan comes home with a story so suspicious that even the monks in Down Below would normally have kicked him out and is welcomed with a grin that could outshine most suns and a hugely unprofessional hug. She could've cared less who saw, or what anyone would say, all she cared about was that her friend was back.
No questions, no suspicions, no speculations. Just, 'welcome back, John, fuck, but it's good to see you.'
Unstinting loyalty, friendship, and relief from perhaps the most emotionally withdrawn and reserved person ever recruited by the military.
In that one moment, hating John Sheridan seemed as easy as breathing.
Author: Robyn the Snowshoe Hare
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Early 4th Season. End of "The Summoning"
Disclaimer: All rights belong to JMS.
Note: Okay, Sam, so it turned out to be a quick character piece that was first. One for Garibaldi, though.
******
It was when Ivanova hugged Sheridan that I felt a sudden twinge of hatred.
John Sheridan, the Second Coming. The savior.
We both disappeared at the same time, but the difference was that he went traipsing off to Z'ha'dum with his wife while I was out putting my ass between the station and a dozen pissed-off Shadows.
We came back at almost the same time, too. The difference there was that I was saved by a crew of our own boys while Sheridan was personally chauffeured back home by an alien of unknown origins. An alien who proceeded to follow Sheridan everywhere, and give little fucking nods of approval whenever Sheridan made a decision.
You don't have to be overly observant to see the disparities here, but no one could spare even a glance for this 'Lorien' character, oh no. Too busy running over to grovel at Sheridan's feet, to thank him for deigning to come back and grace us with his presence. Pay no attention to the possible puppeteer in the corner. No, nothing out of the ordinary here. But wherever I went, there were whispers behind concealing hands. Speculating gazes out of the corners of suspicious eyes. 'How are you, chief?' 'Where were you?' 'What happened?'
I was here for three years before Sheridan arrived, but apparently it's just too much to ask for even a slice of the unquestioning trust that he gets. Apparently there isn't enough omnipotence to go around.
But, like I said, it wasn't until Ivanova hugged him that I realized that there was a kernel of hatred being watered in my soul.
She came to see me in Medlab during her first available free shift. I was just sitting up, and I was really touched when she lightly squeezed my shoulder. Ivanova probably personally authored the book on professionalism in some past life, so having her squeeze my shoulder really meant something.
Sure, of course it did. Five years of working with her, putting my life on the line right alongside hers, defying Earthgov, and even an ongoing line of practical jokes meant that I rated a fucking pat on the shoulder. Good little puppy, thanks for wandering home. Try not be gone so long next time, you can't imagine all the paperwork that piled up. Fuck that.
I get a shoulder squeezing. Sheridan comes home with a story so suspicious that even the monks in Down Below would normally have kicked him out and is welcomed with a grin that could outshine most suns and a hugely unprofessional hug. She could've cared less who saw, or what anyone would say, all she cared about was that her friend was back.
No questions, no suspicions, no speculations. Just, 'welcome back, John, fuck, but it's good to see you.'
Unstinting loyalty, friendship, and relief from perhaps the most emotionally withdrawn and reserved person ever recruited by the military.
In that one moment, hating John Sheridan seemed as easy as breathing.