A/N: I invented the part about Sheridan calling her 'Lizzie' once upon a time, but I figure he must have called her something besides 'Captain' at some point, and 'Lizzie' is what Zoe called her, so I picked that. Besides, I think it suits her.

The following evening saw Sheridan inching down the corridor to the captain's quarters like a man headed towards the executioner's block. He would rather have been anywhere else; if there had been a Centauri prison cell with his name on it, he would have caught the next transport out. But the truth was, he hated the distance between them as much as she did. Her words kept ringing through his memory: I miss hearing him call me Lizzie. Seven words told him all he needed to know, and they had more to do with his presence here, now, than any of Delenn's pleas had, although he hadn't let on. Sheridan wore his emotions on his sleeve, not only because it was his nature, but also because it was easy to conceal things under displays of feeling. Too cold, and it was obvious you were hiding something. Lochley was definitely hiding something, and he meant to find out what it was, no matter what.

"Come in." That was odd. He had rung the door chime without even noticing he had arrived at her quarters. He took a deep breath and walked in. "Mr. President." Oh, no, I don't think so, Captain, not today. His task was made more difficult by the fact that she was still in uniform, but at least her hair was down. For some ridiculous reason, it was easier to see her as a woman that way.

"You've been off shift for two hours. What's with the uniform?"

"I sleep in my uniform, sir." Oh, hell, he thought. Defense grid set to kill. Delenn's visit had obviously had the reverse effect of the one she intended, at least where he was concerned. He forced what he hoped was a friendly smile onto his face.

"Well, I didn't come here to talk shop, so will you at least take the jacket off?" She looked at him warily, but she did as he asked. Much better. He didn't feel as much like a jackrabbit approaching a saber-toothed tiger. "Thanks." Oh. She was smiling. Apparently, his relief was on display. Damn, sometimes that showing-all-your-cards thing really backfired.

"Have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks. I was, uh, just passing by and I thought I'd see how you're settling into the station. Seems like it agrees with you." Good, little white lie coupled with easy, non-threatening approach. And she was going for it. So far, so good.

"Yeah, on the whole I think it's going ok. Of course, on Babylon 5, 'ok' means no one has started a war, tried to assassinate me or blown up the station, but it's certainly a change of pace. I find that if it bites you, you bite back, and not much bothers you after that."

"And Mr. Garibaldi? Is he still waiting around for a reason to shoot you?" She actually grinned. He gave himself a mental high-five.

"Well, actually, he and I have landed on neutral territory in our little battle of wills. Uh, maybe I should tell you..." She hesitated. Was she actually nervous? "I told him. About us. It seemed like the only way to convince him that I wasn't a security disaster waiting to happen."

Sheridan nodded. "What did he say?"

"He laughed."

"What? He didn't believe you?"

"Oh, he believed me. But I have to admit, it was funny. There we were in the brig, suspicion flying around like carrion birds, and all of it dissipated after I told him, in one big rush. For once, he didn't know what to say. He told me he'd never have come up with that answer in a million years. I told him that was a reflection on the kind of person he was."

Sheridan spoke carefully. "You don't sound too sure about that." She looked up quickly in surprise. Oops. Too fast. Take it down a notch, Sheridan.

"Well, who would have guessed? Not Delenn, and it seems like she knows every other goddamn thing."

"Delenn is my wife," Sheridan said patiently. "She wasn't likely to let that answer occur to her. But you're right; most of the time, she sees just about everything." He considered this as good an opening as any, but the look of horror on her face quickly convinced him otherwise.

"Oh, God. She sent you, didn't she?"

OH CRAP. This conversation was taking a nosedive off a very tall cliff. For the love of Valen, say something productive. "No, not sent. She did happen to mention that it was slightly odd for your ex-husband to go around treating you like a cross between an alien diplomat and a puppet on a string. I thought about it, and I realized that as usual, she was right. This isn't us, Lizzie; this is some kind of safety zone we've constructed so we don't fly off the handle at each other all the time." He was pacing around the room, so he missed the brief flash of elation that crossed her face at the nickname, and even more at the fact that he obviously hadn't realized he'd said it. "I don't want to watch my step with you, hoping not to trip over a landmine. I want to be able to talk to you, to tell you what I'm thinking instead of calling you into my office to hand down executive decisions. I don't want you to be my administrative instrument. I want you to be my friend." He did look at her then; her eyes were glistening, but she was still. Too still.

"John," she managed painfully, "we've never been friends. I'm not sure how we could be. This"—she held up the jacket she'd thrown over a chair—"is who I am. I've tried other ways, and this is the only one that works for me."

Sheridan came towards her and settled himself next to her on the couch. "Does it?"

"It's enough," she said shortly, almost angrily. But he didn't believe her, and she knew it. "Look. This is a new chance for me. I'm not about to screw it up." Sheridan's eyes widened. He was sure if he'd been a character in one of Garibaldi's cartoons, a light bulb would have blinked on over his head. She takes all of the blame for herself.

"It wasn't your fault, Lizzie." His voice was quiet, sad. She winced. He was only trying to make her feel better. Bastard.

"Look at us, John. Just think about it for a second. You: President of an interstellar alliance. War hero, idol, loyal friend. Loving husband of the most incredible woman I've ever met, and I've met a lot of people. I was probably the biggest mistake you ever made, and you're asking me if you can be my friend. Now me. A soldier. Anything else? I follow orders, I do my job, I serve Earth any way I can. I don't ask questions, I don't judge anything or anybody. I'm good at what I do, but that's all I do. I have a tough, fascinating job among people who do everything they can to convince themselves that I'm ok by them. It doesn't really matter who I am; I fought on the Wrong Side during the war, but President Sheridan says I'm all right, so I must be all right. And if someone has it in for you, they figure I must be one of your evil henchmen. I haven't had a relationship that lasted more than a couple of weeks since we broke up, and I haven't had a friend since I found my last one on the bathroom floor with a bottle of pills in her hand and no pulse. So do you really think it's that much of a stretch to ask that you think twice, or preferably six times, before you try to be my friend?"

"It's too late, Lizzie," he whispered. His face was tight with the strain of steadying his voice. He wanted to hold her, but he forced himself to answer quickly. It was the only way to salvage this discussion. "I already care about you. Might as well try showing you for a change. I don't think it can make things worse."

She swallowed. "It could. For you."

"I'm willing to risk it," he said firmly, and she didn't stop him as he moved closer and put an arm around her shoulders.

"You called me Lizzie," she whispered softly.

"That's who you are."

The End? Opinions?