It is August 30, and it is Susan Ivanova's birthday. She doesn't notice.
For Fanfic100 at Livejournal, I have to do 100 Marcus/Susan-centric fics based on prompts.
Title: Roundabout
Prompt: 'Birthday'
At 1800 hours, Susan walks back to her quarters after a long shift; she's been up since four and started to feel it about fourteen hours ago. She runs her fingers through her hair, which is loose for once, and slides the keycard through the slot.
As she steps inside, a smooth tenor voice calls after her. "Susan-! Wait a second, if you'd please."
She really wouldn't. However, one must be an example when one is the Commander of something- in this case, a monolithic metal bubble in space that serves as a small planet for trade and diplomacy.
"Marcus," she says, turning to face him. She notes the way his eyes widen when he sees her, and wonders if she really looks as awful as she feels.
"It's your birthday," the Ranger says by way of reply; a merry smile lights his handsome face. He shoves a red packet at her.
Standing in her doorway, Susan feels a jolt of shock race through her; she had completely forgotten. Hell- how old was she now? Thirty? Thirty-one? She stares at him open-mouthed, before realising what she was doing and snapping her mouth shut, forcing on a smile, and taking the packet.
Marcus watches all of this in silence. "You forgot your own birthday," he says in wonder. This amuses him greatly for some reason, and he laughs; he'd never forget his birthday, even though other people might.
"Open it," he gestures at the packet.
Susan tears off the paper and feels her jaw go slack. "Belgian chocolates," she whispers in a lower voice than usual. "You imported a box of Belgian chocolates."
"Yes, well, not too difficult if you know the right people. Collected on some favours, that sort of thing." He waits for her to say something. "I'd be glad to eat them if you don't want them."
Susan clutches the box to her chest compulsively, like they had transformed into her firstborn child. "Mine." The box begins to cave in from the pressure of her arms.
Holding up his hands as a sign of peace, Marcus laughs. "No, you're welcome to them all, if you want them that much." He pauses; she eyes the box hungrily. "There is a second part to your present. I took the liberty of booking us a table at the Fresh Aire for seven o'clock."
Susan, pulled out of her chocolate-laced reverie, stares at him in shock. "You what?"
"Oh, you know. Figured every woman likes an expensive dinner, especially when she's not paying."
"I have work-"
"It's your birthday. Don't you dare try to get out of it that way. Commander," he adds on the end. "I'll be back to escort you there in half an hour."
With that, he leaves the Commander staring after him with a priceless expression on her face.
OOO
Stepping out of her shower, Susan sits on her bed in a bathrobe and sighs. "To borrow your own expression," she says to her wall, "bloody hell."
She had suspected he liked her for a while now- just from little things he'd done, things Stephen had hinted at (with none too little amusement on his part), those roses. But there was always something about his flirting that was just that- flirting- and had never seemed to her to be serious. She had never imagined he would ask her on a date, regardless of his rather heated manner of staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking and his endless string of innuendos.
Perhaps it was because- she admits- she never wanted him to. She'd never wanted him.
A smile creeps to her lips involuntarily. He is always the gentleman. She could refuse to go tonight, but no, she will go and let the gentleman have his way this once, just because it is her birthday.
She dries her hair. She dons a dress. She puts on her makeup, her high heels. The door chimes.
OOO
The buzz and clatter of people fills the Fresh Aire as Susan and Marcus enter. Marcus walks with her to the reception desk, still holding her hand; to the lady behind the desk, he points at Susan. "Susan Ivanova," he says, as if it holds significance; apparently, it does, as the lady gestures behind her.
"Behind me to the left, reservation room," she drawls.
"Reservation room?" Susan's eyebrows shoot sky high. "I thought you said you reserved a table."
"I did," he answers mysteriously, dimples barely showing beneath his dark, sculpted beard. He guides her past the close-set tables, the guests occasionally looking up at the gorgeous woman in red and her escort in black.
As he gets to the door, he drops her arm, even though he only needs one to open the door. She wonders why he let go so suddenly, but his face is hard to read.
"Susan Ivanova," he says in a louder voice than necessary, "may I present to you-" he opens the door-
"SURPRISE!"
A volley of voices hit her at once: Michael, John, Delenn, Lennier, Zach, Stephen, David, even G'Kar. The Commander stares at them, then stares at Marcus; he grins back at her like a fool, entirely too pleased with himself.
Inside the reservation room, a handful of tables heaped with steaming trays are surrounded by her friends, who have started to clap enthusiastically; behind her, she realises the guests outside of the room are clapping, too, and she turns bright red.
"Guys," she says, pulling the door closed behind her. And there is laughter and 'Happy Birthday' and Marcus pulling her seat out for her, and a mountain of food.
"Happy birthday, Susan," John says, reaching over to give her a hug. His boyish dimples light up his face, and to his right sits Delenn, holding his hand and smiling vibrantly.
"Marcus got you!" Garibaldi laughs. "He was the only one we thought we could send who could trick you into thinking you were on a date."
Yes. Susan laughs. Inside, however, something bitter is trickling down her throat, yes, he 'got' her. She remembers the way he let go of her hand right outside the door, as if he were ashamed of holding it, and mentally sighs.
Looking up at him, the Commander sees him sitting still, looking down at his plate.
But Stephen is talking to her, then, and she temporarily forgets, and forgets even more firmly as the wine is passed around, as her friends- her family- laugh at the way Lennier stares at human food, laugh at G'Kar singing a Narn party song. Raucious laughter and food and jokes about Drazi fills the room until past midnight.
It ends with Delenn; leaning in towards John, she whispers something in his ear, and he nods. They stand and raise their glasses.
"It's late, I'm bushed, and I want to end this on a toast before I hit my bed," John says with a smile. "To one of the very best officers I've worked with in my entire career, a woman with ascerbic humour and amazing skill. Happy thirtieth, Commander Susan Ivanova."
"Happy thirtieth," echoes the room. They rise and say last-minute farewells at the door before heading out, and Susan starts to follow.
"Susan, wait," calls Marcus; she hasn't even realised he was still sitting at the table.
He meets her slightly angry look aplogetically. "Susan- when I said I reserved us a table, I did. Lights, dim," he calls out.
Suddenly, waiters appear out of the darkness; the dirty plates are cleared and a clean table is placed by the window. Candles are lit, two glasses are filled- the waiters disappear.
Susan walks to the table slowly. Her discontent at being tricked begins to melt away; he is waiting for her to sit, his back straight.
"That wasn't nice," she says, leaning back in her chair. She fixes him with a serious look.
Marcus sighs. "I know, but they asked me to."
"You didn't think it up?"
"No!" he exclaims, as if the thought makes him sick. In fact, it does, but he can't quite place why.
He remembers the look she had given him when he dropped her hand. He reaches for it, across the table, and the feel of her hand in his is like a shock; shivers cascade down his spine. Quite suddenly he wants to pull her very close to himself, and for a second he almost does. He wrestles with the feeling and stays seated. He holds her hand and she lets him.
In the light of the candles, Susan watches his face, so open; a face of someone who has never been hurt and learned to hide what they feel. She wonders if he realises, when he takes her hand, that he has closed his eyes: something wonderful is in the curve of his lips, and pleasure dances on his eyelids.
Susan sees him, then, in a different light than before; she takes his hand, still in hers, and kisses it. He opens his eyes, startled, and she kisses it again, watching him and smiling. Witnessing her effect on him, a wickedly devious voice in her heart laughs.
But his eyes stall any thoughts of taking advantage: they say, I am in love, and you, if you are just teasing, are playing with a dangerous fire. Where the eyes go, the body follows, and he scoots his chair next to her. She starts to say something, but he kisses it away.
It is the morning after Susan Ivanova's thirtieth birthday, and she hardly even notices.