Okay. First off, this chapter is long. I couldn't really size it down at all . . . sorry. Secondly, I'm so sorry if it seems like Swiss Cheese at points. I had a reason for setting it up like this, and I tried hard to get it to flow anyway. . . . It should be understandable. If not—please tell me.
Notes of Importance: Keep in mind that the 'past' spans quite a while. It's not all condensed or anything. Also I've taken several liberties with certain points—though I hope it's all right.
Here it is, a chapter without Mu in it. (Which isn't really true . . . he actually comes up one or twice . . .) But this really is the first GS/D chapter I've written where Mu isn't either "the subject" or an occurring character. . . . I really need to write some other characters.
Chapter Seven — John
"Murrue!" He called, grinning her name, as he ran down the otherwise empty hallway. She quickly spun around, but to his gaining speed, she seemed slow. "Murrue, Murrue!" He laughed, finally bounding close enough. Within moments she was up in the air, being swung around, John's strong arms keeping her up by the waist as her feet kicked in the air, begging for solid ground.
The surprise was obvious in her features—as well as the deep red.
"John! Put me down!" She hissed, grateful for the isolated setting.
"No!" He grinned, but dropped her anyway, catching her in his arms wedding-style. Murrue's nails dug into his uniformed arm—utterly shaken by the sudden feeling of falling.
If he hadn't caught her . . .
"Murrue, guess what?" John beamed, his childish excitement a bit off-setting with his age.
"W-what?" She managed out—still a bit frazzled from the drop. She hadn't yet noticed how he still held her up off the floor.
If anyone saw them . . .
"I was promoted! I'm a lieutenant now!—Well, 'Lieutenant, Junior Grade', but it's still a promotion, right?"
His words finally brought Murrue to focus. She looked up into his delighted face and found herself smiling back—the sight of him being so happy could only warm her heart and soul.
"Congratulations, John."
"I know!" He laughed. "'Lieutenant John Anthony' . . . No—'Lieutenant John R. Anthony'. . . It even sounds perfect, doesn't it, Murrue? Like there's a roll to it?"
"Yes, maybe," Murrue muttered in return, eyebrow raising as she finally noticed he still held her up, wedding-style. She reached out to swat at the arm gripping her legs. "But, John . . ."
"'But'?" His face gently screwed as he set her straight again. Feet stably grounded, she worked on straightening her uniform, but his hands never left her waist, making it difficult as he held her close. Murrue looked up, face softly serious, while her eyes brimmed with happiness even so.
"But . . . Don't you think you're being a bit too excited?" She cautioned.
"What do you mean . . . ?—This means I'm one step closer to where I need to be! This is great!" He pulled her into a tight embrace, hug lasting only a few moments.
Once he left her, his hands found hers, and in his excitement he swung them both back and forth. "And I'm officially a higher rank than you are, Murrue!" He grinned—then faltered, leaning forward peering into her eyes. "You don't . . . mind, do you?"
"No," she laughed, "I'm happy for you."
"Good," he nodded forcefully. "Because, you know, you'll probably never get any higher than Lieutenant, or Lieutenant Commander, with your disposition, right? . . . but me, I can go places! You're going to be looking up to me a lot more in the future, Murrue."
". . . Yes, yes, I suppose so," she softly smiled, running her hand lightly along his collar. It was at times like this when you just had to agree with him. . . . That self-orientation of his would never seem to change. . . .
"But, really, thank you."
Murrue blinked, looking up, eyes wide.
"'Thank you'? What did I do?"
"For being there," John murmured quietly, awkwardly. "I . . . still have a long way to go after this.—'Lieutenant, Junior Grade' isn't high at all—And I know you'll be there with me through out all of it, just like you've been there with me so far. . . ." Murrue looked off to the side, down the hallway with all of its doors. John smiled, swooping forward to leave her a small peck on the cheek. "Thank you."
Murrue instantly flushed red, hand coming up to where he'd kissed her. John laughed.
"You're still not used to it?" He wondered slyly, shuffling forward—sending Murrue shuffling back. With the greatest ease, he moved in, kissing her again, coaxing the lips.
One of the doors in the hall-strip creaked open, Murrue instantly pushing John away to wipe at her mouth. Out stepped the Captain, suited to the best degree, of whom they both saluted.
"Sir!"
The older man looked at the pair, eyes flicking between John's solemn face and Murrue's solemn face—slightly pinked. He finally waved his hand in dismissal, walking away down the hall.
"Carry on," he sighed, fixing his cap.
When the Captain had left, John laughed. He turned to see Murrue, but she wasn't there. . . .
"Hm? Murrue?"
He was alone in the hallway.
"Murrue? Where'd-ja go?"
----------
PRESENT:
John pushed himself up, out of bed, sighing with the fond memories. Fixing himself a glass of water, he sat back down again, this time facing the tiny TV in the tiny room. He flicked it on, making the final pass into boredom. He kept switching around until he came upon an early morning news program.—That made him smile.
John took a tiny sip as he eyed the screen and the top news items—though nothing came of real interest. The folder still sat upon his desk, and since coming to Orb, he hadn't really done any of the work asked of him.
But it's Murrue . . . He whined to himself, standing up to get the manila package of duty.
He was rustling around the stack of papers when a young voice came from the television, gasping in delight
"Oh, look! It's snowing!" John perked his ears, stepping back to see the screen. "It's beautiful!" A young couple stood together on a busy street, both bundled up in the imagined cold as tiny fake flakes started coming down around them.
"Maybe," the man shrugged. "But I can think of something even more beautiful."
"Oh, stop it!" She blushed at the over-used line. She tried to push him away, playfully, but her hand landed on his and she paused. Unearthing his hand, the man showed the woman a small white box.
"Isn't it true?" He muttered, popping it open. The woman gasped, smiling uncontrollably at the contents.
It flicked to the next scene, the couple is kissing fiercely in the Square as it snows—all attention focused on the sparkling diamond now resting on the third finger of her left hand.
As the couple and the snow and the street faded away, a smooth voice whispered the commercial's slogan: "Life starts here. 'With Love'."
John immediately turned it off, flat scowl to his face. Staring into the blackness of the screen, he could feel his heart tear its way down into his stomach, and the acids of his stomach then mash at his heart.
Why hadn't he realized it before? That first day . . .
"Why would you go out of your way to help me?" — Mu raised an eyebrow and paused, thinking the answer himself. His eyes flashed down to his coat pocket, where his fingers were fumbling around. He took the box out, flicked it open, then snapped it shut in a matter of movements. Looking back up to the man before him, Mu grinned. ". . . I'm in a good mood today." Even though it were only for a moment, John saw the small flash of the box and the diamond inside. He grinned back, knowing exactly what made this stranger so bouncy.
"Name's John Anthony," he smiled, extending his hand friendlily—which Mu shook, quite forcibly, in return.
John attempted to breathe, finding it all the more difficult in his tiny little room. Reality beating down just as the dawn's rays beat through the petite window, he swallowed, painfully.
"He has . . . a ring?" John murmured aloud, voice shaking ever so slightly. "Does that mean . . . ? . . . It's that serious?—No, no, he believes it's that serious.—But . . . then again . . . there's got to be a reason to why he believes that, right? Right?"
John blinked at the folder of work still resting on the desk.
"But, that would mean . . . Murrue . . ."
----------
PAST:
The 'locker room' of the ship could deafen, the noises made up of the mass of soldiers, their excited chatter and the loud rustle of clothes being changed.
"Look at all of them," he mumbled, waving his hand at the rest of the pilots. The young, ragged man sighed, leaning back onto his closed locker. "It always amazes me how over-manned our ship is. I mean, aren't there rules about that?"
John laughed in agreement as he busied himself by checking his helmet.
"You're right. Even Murrue's got two jobs. Since she can work in the Bridge and also in the Hangar, they make her. Says it 'keeps the strength of her skills up.' The truth is they just don't want to waste her talents.—Or have too much free time."
"Ha, yep. I'll believe that. . . . Ensign Ramius can sure pull her weight, can't she?"
John paused, turning towards the other man, eyes fixed in a glare.
"There's something about the way you said that. . . ."
Sorette grinned back, nudging a suited arm into John's gut.
"Don't worry, don't worry.—Say . . . She switches chairs with that young, sweet one, right?"
John coughed, forgetting his helmet and staring at Sorette, one eyebrow arched laughingly. "Oh? You mean the rookie crewman?—Nessa Defauq?" He laughed. "Oh, come on, Sorette. You only know her because she puts an extra cube of sugar in your coffee everyday.—And it's because you ask her to."
"And I wouldn't have it any other way. . . ." The raggy lieutenant sighed, happily sinking farther into his locker. John could only laugh some more as he went back to adjusting his flight suit. "Say—You're close to that girl, aren't you? Why don't you—"
"No," John cut in, forcibly ticked. "She's probably the most innocent one on board this ship as of now. And I don't want you changing that, Sorette."
"Aww . . . but the innocent ones are so fun. . . ."
"Too bad she's also absolutely oblivious, hm?" He taunted, seeing his friend slide down the wall at the comment.
The pilot dressing beside them finished his work and left, slamming his locker door shut behind him. Sorette eyed the soldier who had walked out. Even though many pilots were still changing, none of them were standing as close to them anymore.
"Anthony, Anthony!" Sorette whispered, excitement flashing in his eyes as he tugged on John's arm.
"What?"
"I overheard the Captain talking about this battle.—If we're able to break through their flagship today, all the pilots who assisted will be up for medals!" That small spark lit a larger fire within John's ambered eyes.
"Really?" He growled impatiently. "Which medals?"
"I don't know.—Some Star . . . I think. . . ." Sorette sighed, leaning back against the lockers again. His voice took on the wistful tone of his sadly playing eyes. "It comes times like these when I really hate you, John Anthony."
John chuckled again, closing his own locker, sliding his helmet in the crook of his arm. "Why?"
"With a name like yours, you're going to get it first. . . . I wish my last name started with an 'A' . . . Instead it has to be 'Sorette' . . . Really. What kind of name is that?" Sorette grumbled, stroking at the stubble of his chin.
"But, when it's all over, you're still going to have one on your chest," John reasoned back.
"Which is exactly why it's not bothering me too much.—But, believe me when I say, Anthony, one of these days I'm going to get a decoration before you do, and on that day—"
"You'll be dreaming, right?"
"Hey . . ."
"Hey!" A harsh voice shouted. "We're all waiting out here for you two, you know!" John and Sorette spun around. An older man, face gruff yet kind, stood in the doorway. Sorette looked wildly about the changing room.
"Whoa—When did we become the only ones in here?"
John, on the other hand, had fixed his gaze brightly on the newcomer—noticing instantly that he also wore the shared pilot's suit.
"Sir! . . . You're coming out with us too, Sir?"
The man grinned at the two pilots, half smile slipping onto his thin lips.
"Of course. If I'm going to get one of those medals you two were just talking about, I want to actually do something today.—Now come on. Lieutenant Anthony . . . Sorette. You're holding us up."
With quick apologies, the three pilots quickly scampered from the locker area and into the Hangar. Then the three men finally parted, each going on their separate ways.
As John pushed himself off the floor to float up to his machine, his eyes caught upon a lovely little face he knew all too well hiding within the crowd of workers. Murrue. He winked at her before fastening his helmet up over his head. In his cockpit, however, John shifted in slight queasiness at the sight. Murrue's working in the Hangar today? I surprised they didn't make her sit CIC for this battle. . . . Nessa's okay and all, but she's still a rookie, isn't she? Will she even be able to handle it? This is a big battle, I thought. Err—Murrue would be better suited for that job at the moment, Captain. . . .
John growled to himself, yet his mumbles took no audience as he took off into the vast, starry battlefield.
---
Murrue stretched as she walked down the ship's corridor. As soon as the battle was over, she slipped from the Hangar. She needed to change into a regular uniform before going up to the Bridge. Her shift would be beginning soon.
The brunette stretched once more, a few bones cracking into relaxation.
"Ah! Ensign Ramius!" A mechanic she knew sprinted towards her, calling her name over again, fear and joy in his voice. "You're here, thank goodness. It's Lieutenant Anthony, Ma'am. We . . . We need your help."
"What?" Murrue paled. "What happened?"
"He came back alright, but . . . We lost some Armors today. . . .—He's gone too far with it. We all thought you could help before the Captain gets involved. You know his stance on soldiers who can't keep themselves in control.—If he has to get personally involved . . ."
Murrue could feel the struggle for color within her cheeks. They wanted to flush in relief.—Nothing may have happened so far, but it was what was going to happen that scared her white.
"But—But me? Why?"
"Well, Lieutenant Anthony listens to you, doesn't he?" the man smiled, eyes flashing knowingly. "You can calm him down."
With that, he led her back down the hallway that opened up to the hangar. As soon as the electronic doors had opened, Murrue knew.
"What are you, an idiot?" The voice roared. "You must be, seeing as how nobody sane could ever say that!—We lost three pilots out there today! Weren't you paying any attention at all?"
"John . . ." Her fingers shaking-ly curled around her mouth as her eyes washed over the scene. Murrue made her way over to the commotion: John, already back in full uniform, was towering over a crewmember, harsh voice cracking the air.
"Three of them! How do you even have the gall to say that everything's fine now?!"
John was shaking by then—whether from anger or something else, it was hard to say—as he counted the casualties on his fingers.
"—The Captain, a first-time flier, even Sorette was about to be promoted!—"
"Lieutenant?" Murrue cut in quietly from behind him. However, he couldn't hear her. He only kept on yelling.
"How would you like to be the one writing to their families?!
"Lieutenant Anthony?"
His hand flew to the side in rage, his elbow narrowly missing her face.
"Hm? Tell me, I'd like to know. Would you say, 'I'm sorry your son or husband died, but don't worry, everything's fine now'? Well, would you?"
"John Anthony," she urged from behind, trying to hold down her tone without patience as he continued to not hear her.
"Come on, answer me!"
"John!" Murrue finally snapped, voice harsh as it escalated in the echoing Hangar.
"What?" He spat back, spinning around. But the moment his eyes landed upon her, he let out a gasp of recognition, arms instantly dropping to his side. "M—Ensign Ramius . . . ?"
Silence instantly deafened the Hangar, Murrue aware of every pair of eyes that were close enough to watch her. She bit at her lip, working hard on a calm, leveled voice fit for her place.
"I'm sorry, Sir . . . but . . . is that sort of response truly necessary?"
The breath caught in his throat as he swallowed down any and all retort. He stood his ground, glaring back in return. Everyone could see his eyes tilt angrily at her, yet . . . only she could see how the amber within them wavered weakly.
He turned in a huff and walked away, a sense of darkness following him, hanging as if perched upon his shoulder.
As everybody quickly dispersed, nothing left to see, Murrue caught a small smile from the mechanic from earlier before she, too, quickly ran from the Hangar—off to follow John.
She later found him hulled off in a small alcove, one worked into a crossroads of corridors. His back was turned to her, almost as if he didn't realize she'd followed him. He said not a word as his eyes stared blankly at a tiny dent in the wall. The dent, she knew for a fact, wasn't there before.
Her body went suddenly weak at the sight of him, yet she fought to bring up the strength that she needed to say the words she knew needed to be said.
"John. . . .What happened back there?" Her tone was not the calm coax one would expect. "In the Hangar . . . you lost total control, didn't you? That shouldn't happen—no matter the reason."
Murrue's voice wavered, emotion seeping its way into her voice. It pained him, even more, to hear her that way.
"You're a full-blown Lieutenant now, aren't you? 'Two ranks higher than me.'—It's embarrassing for you when I tell you off. Isn't it? . . . You have got to check that temper," Murrue warned. "I'm surprised it hasn't gotten you into any real trouble by now."
"Oh, Murrue," he sighed, voice suddenly weak. "Can we not talk about my temper? Just once?"
She blinked, voice suddenly lost by the change. He turned around to face her, those eyes of his still shaking. "Didn't you get the results of this last battle?"
Silence.
"We lost the Captain. . . ."
"Hm? Cap . . .—Oh!" Murrue covered her mouth in surprise—Eyes instantly turning down to mourn.
"The Captain" . . . John spoke about the man constantly. Though Captain only in rank, he was considered more along the lines of a 'Vice Captain' for the entire, over-manned ship. He was such a big man on-board, but Murrue knew him by face only. She barely ever spoke with the higher officer—seeing him only in the hallways, or during certain meetings. She could never have had the close relationship he and John shared. She only knew from the way John spoke all the time. Murrue could only imagine what was going through John's head as he stared back at her in the corridor.
John had wanted to mention Sorette as well, but the name never came to his direct thoughts—'The Captain' seeming to override them for the moment. John was able to calm himself to a level tone, yet with each passing word she could see the anger of before rise up once more.
"The Captain was out there piloting an Armor and got shot down. But, Murrue . . ." he growled, "What was he doing out there in the first place, hm? We have more than enough pilots on this ship—most of them still blue with inexperience. If we had to lose three, couldn't we have lost some of them? That's what the term is, right?—'Rookie casualties'?"
Even through his anger in the hall, it wasn't hard to hear the high-pitched squeak come up from behind the pair. Murrue turned around, to find the young, familiar soldier standing there. The blonde was panting slightly, her usually perfect hair in shambles. She must have run straight from the Bridge as soon as the battle ended, looking for them. . . . looking for him.
With pale eyes, she stared at John, utterly fixated on his face. Her slight body was frozen in place, hands shaking as they daintily covered her mouth in 'surprise'.
The instant that John saw her, he turned his head away, suddenly quiet.
"Sorry."
Murrue turned from the man to the girl:
"Oh, is your shift over already?" She asked gently, with genuine interest. The girl pinked at the question, focus instantly shifting between the officers.
"N-no, Ma'am. Sorry!—Um . . . Sir."
And, with that . . . she was gone, running back up to her post on the Bridge, utterly embarrassed. Murrue watched her run off as long as she could. And when they were finally alone, she turned.
"How could you say that?"
"I didn't know she was there."
"It doesn't matter if she was there or not, John.—How could you say that? No one deserves to hear that." Murrue fought a little to keep her voice from moving—his words striking a chord within her. She took a breath, glaring steadily into his wrenched amber eyes. "No one."
"I . . . I wasn't thinking straight," he mumbled.
"Of course you weren't." Smile. "That's not how you think. Nothing could be farther from it, right? It's just that temper of yours, John . . ."
"It's not that, Murrue!" John shot back, somehow dark. "—It was the Captain, don't you see?" He pleaded. "It makes no sense! He was the best. He was the most skilled—the most rational with experience . . . ! He should have been the last one to die! Logically . . . !" John took a blinking breath.". . . Logically . . ." Slowing down, John deflated into the steel wall of the corridor. ". . . He should have been the last one to die. . . ."
He bit back a laugh, turning his eyes into her face. "Listen to me. I'm bawling like a brat, right . . . ? I'm a full-blown Lieutenant now—So, that can't be. Is that what you want to say? Murrue?"
No answer.
"But . . . That man . . .—Back when I was a bit more naïve, I thought he was somehow immortal—invincible. He was always the one pilot who always came back without a scratch on him. And if he ever did, he would never let me see. He was always out there, even when he didn't need to be—being the back up for those . . . rookies of his—and everyone else, too.
"The Captain . . . He practically gave me my wings, Murrue. Who out there has the right to take away his?"
"No one," she murmured, forcing the sound out from between her lips. Murrue could think of so much more to say, and yet none of it came to any use in the end.
In the silence, John picked at his thin hair before his attention turned to the small gathering of fuzz on his jacket. With fingers only he could tell were trembling, he brushed at his woven signs of rank.—There'd been that challenge, hadn't there?
"Really, Sir, listen to me!"—"Here. I'll listen to you when I'm forced to listen to you, Lieutenant. Understand?" The man winked, John lighting up in newfound fervor.—"Ah, so you'll be listening to me soon enough then, Sir?"
"One of these days, Anthony, one of these days I'm gonna be getting a decoration before you do. Mark my words, Anthony."
Then came the memory most fresh in his mind: a space-deafened explosion, sporting all the colors of life. . . .
John narrowed his eyes. "I wish this war would just end," he spat beneath his breath.
Murrue blinked, suddenly off-set by his dark muttering. "What?"
He cracked into a grin—a hateful, wry smile. He rolled his eyes, running his hand through his short hair.
"Or . . . I wish I could say that . . . but I know I can't.—It's not possible, Murrue. We can't end this war.—Not now, not yet. It's too early, isn't it? We haven't gotten to where we need to be yet. Understand?" He waited for her answer, his open eyes unable to hide that simple, excited shine.
When she nodded her answer, that shine dulled somewhat, tearing at her insides as it did so. John was a man lucky enough to still become lost within his joys, yet . . . even that saving grace seemed to fail him then.
He sighed, body shifting down even more as a slight pathetic smile tuned to his lips.
"You know what, Murrue? There are these 'experts' out there who say . . . that by the end of all this, there wont be a single person left alive who hasn't lost someone close due to this war. . . . It's scary thinking, don't you think?"
"John . . . ?"
He 'laughed.'
"But . . . if it is true . . . should I then be glad?—I lost my 'someone close' early on. . . . My 'irreplaceable'. . . . Does that make me happy since, statistically, I've more than crossed that line? . . . The Captain . . . Sorette . . .—They're close, aren't they?—Irreplaceable?"
Murrue locked in her gasp at the name. 'Sorette'? That rough and raggy pilot? Him too?
"Statistically, I'm not going to lose anybody irreplaceable anymore." He choked on a laugh. "To tell you the truth, Murrue, I think . . . I think that if I somehow lost—Um, I mean, I think that there are several people who, if I was to lose them . . . I don't know what I would do. . . . what would be left . . ."
He looked up into her shimmering eyes, allowing her to gaze into every layer of his own. His eyes were still wretched with pain—and a spring of guilt—but . . . glazed over it all was that sweet spark that Murrue had found to melt her inside on several occasions.
He reached down, gathering one of her thin hands in his. He brought it up to his lips, laying a soft kiss to her knuckles. He held her there, Murrue not daring to move her hand away.
His closed eyes flinched in pain before her finally let her go. But, before either had a chance to even look at the other, John wrenched Murrue into a tight embrace, long arms holding her against him, their grip to never let go, it seemed.
At that moment, Murrue no longer cared about the hallway's sense of privacy. Though anybody could walk by at any moment, it didn't matter anymore . . . as they clung tight to one another.
"He's gone, Murrue," John muttered—quietly . . . painfully—into her ear, and in that one moment, his strong form turned instantly fragile, and all he could do was hold her, his forehead resting heavily on her shoulder.
Murrue returned the caring embrace, rubbing her fingers unnoticeably into his uniformed back as he stood with her. She thought back onto everything, trying to piece together any sort of response, but none were open to her. Even a soft 'I know' seemed out of the question. She didn't know. So, Murrue comforted with silence.
And, in that comforting silence, Murrue's mind thought back over everything that had happened in only the past few minutes . . . everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.
John didn't notice how she stiffened in his arms at one point—how her grip on him became slightly tighter. Murrue struggled to work on her shift in breathing, the sudden thought restricting her chest somewhat.
Who have I lost?—No. . . . Who am I going to lose?
----------
PRESENT:
Murrue stretched, unsheathing her body, pushing away the covers, as she stood up to greet the new day.
But her head ached from the most recent memory. . . .
With a sigh she rubbed at her face, feeling—quite easily—the feel of sweaty grime beneath her fingertips. When during the night did I sweat? She wondered, numb. When during the night did I even fall asleep? It seemed odd, now. When did Mu leave?
Without ever leaving her room for her pre-waking coffee, Murrue locked herself in the bathroom. From there, she slipped right into the shower—the hot, cascading water feeling too perfect on her skin.
She sighed happily, unable to hold back the pleasure the warm sensation brought.
Then the doorbell rang. It's loud sound echoed through the small house. Murrue paused in her washings.
It was John at the door. She knew it. It was probably nine o'clock sharp, as well, knowing him. She could have gotten the door. It wouldn't have been difficult—not in the least.
And yet . . .
Murrue never moved.
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and went back to lathering her body with aromatic soaps.
It wasn't exactly clear when, but she had already promised herself a day to herself. The past two had been so . . . hard? She wanted to be alone today. No, she needed to be alone today.
-----
Three long knocks to the door, followed by a ringing of the bell. They resounded hollowly in her small house. And then he waited. As every second passed, John numbly felt the faint constriction of his chest.
"Hm. Guess she's busy today," he voiced aloud—to no one in particular. He couldn't hide that small tremble of his voice.
Reaching inside of his coat, John pulled out a thin pad of paper and a pen and just started to write. His chiseled hand looped across the page, gracefully scratching out words.
Idiot, he spat at himself. Why am I reacting this way? She's just not home at the moment. She'll be right back. No use getting weak over it.
He finished his writing—glancing at his watch to catch the time. He jotted it down in the top right hand corner of the note for referance. With a quick once over, John folded the paper in half and slid it as far into Murrue's door frame as he could manage.
Then he left—left before he could possibly rethink what he had written.
John strode down the sidewalk towards the end of the street. Even with his strong, outward gait, he could begin to feel that uneasy quease come back to the pit of him.
Come on! Get a grip. This is nothing like then.—Don't be stupid. So what if the door didn't open when I knocked. This isn't then. Everything is different. Everything is fine. John shot hotly at himself.
The bus came and stopped, opening its doors to let only John on. With a quick glance to the driver he sulked his way to the rear seats, immediately sinking down into one of them.
The anger within his face was gone—replaced by a deeply shallow realization.
But . . . maybe . . . I never, really, got over that feeling. . . . .
"Dammit," he growled quietly—shifting in his seat.
The emptiness of an unanswered door . . . It's still too familiar for me?
How I never want to feel that way again.
John closed his eyes as the bus rattled its way across town. His stop was the last one, meaning it would take a while.
In the darkness behind his eyes, John could easily see every detail of that day which pounded at him. It was after that battle, and it was when he was finally returning Home after repairs had been completed.
He could remember every single detail.
The stars were quite beautiful.
----------
PAST:
As the ship opened up to welcome him, John sighed into his helmet. He was home.
With an almost lazy ease, he brought the small Armor to rest on the hangar floor.
As he climbed out, John was surprised by the crowd gathered to meet him . . . and the four soldiers holding him at gunpoint at the front. Military procedure of course—they needed to make sure he was who he said he was. Grinning, he pulled off his restrictive helmet, showing all his handsome face.
Seeing the previous Commander, the gunmen faltered, the rest stood shocked . . . until she pushed through all their ranks.
"John!" She cried, running up then jumping into his arms, threatening to topple him over. "You're alive!" she sobbed happily into his shoulder, crushing herself into him.
He couldn't hold back that warm smile as his fingers brushed down her soft, blonde hair.
"Nessa, Nessa," he coaxed, ". . . Since when did you become such a crybaby?"
He grinned. Sure she was young, and one of the newest to being a soldier, but . . . he'd always known the sweet Bridge girl to be . . . stubbornly stronger than that. In all the time she'd hung around him, he'd never seen her anything other than oddly happy. The change was different—and oddly heart-stirring.
The crew that hadn't already left the scene kept watching them—faces oddly solemn.
But Nessa couldn't help it—her tears soaking into his flight suit as she buried her face there with all her strength.
"John . . . you're really . . . here," she choked. ". . . I . . ."
"It's okay," he laughed, gently holding her in return.
"No! You don't understand!" She shot back, staring up into his eyes—pale gray glittering painfully as she shook at him. "John, when you didn't come back . . . we all thought—!" She bit her lip, unable to say it. Her tears still spilled. "—Murrue thought . . ."
"Murrue," John repeated numbly, realizing at that moment which face it was he hadn't seen.
Nessa gripped his shoulders so tightly he could feel the ridges of her nails through the thick material. She stared up, face pale, eyes wide. She whispered:
"She doesn't know. . . ."
John cocked his head, dark eyes muddy with sudden confusion. He looked at the girl for answers.
"What? What do you mean 'she doesn't know'? What doesn't she know, Nessa?" He was somehow smiling, still half-oblivious.
"The Lieutenant doesn't know . . . that you're alive. She left before we found out . . . ! She's gone.—She still thinks that y—!"
He pulled the girl from him, hands squaring on her thin shoulders as he looked straight into her tear-streaked face. His earlier smile had been darkly replaced.
"'Gone' . . . ? What do you mean by 'gone'?"
She painfully answered, obedient, but breathless.
". . . Gone, John. During the battle we . . . we took in some Admiral or General or something, and when he left . . . he took her.—And Ensign Brian. They left yesterday. Murrue still thinks you're—"
His hands loosened their grip on her, but he didn't notice.
". . . 'Gone'. . . ?" It rolled unnaturally off his tongue. That one word resounded within him, chilling with each passing echo.
Eyes not able to see the beautiful soldier clinging to him, John pushed her away without another thought . . . She was only an obstacle in his path, after all.
Still in full gear, not thinking of the time it took to change, John, brusque as ever, took from the Hangar. With every slow step down the hallway . . . his pace quickened, until finally, he found himself at a full-run.
Nessa stood alone in the Hangar, stunned from being so easily cast-aside. She couldn't stop the blank tears from falling . . . except now, she couldn't tell whether they fell from joy or pain.
The rest of the crew who'd stayed to watch had quietly dispersed then, seeing all they'd needed to see, some shaking their heads.
Suddenly truly alone, she cried into her hands.
---
John panted as he rushed through the ship's hallways. His heart had begun to beat so fast, it made his head ache, the sound heard so loud in his brain. He dimly remembered passing some crewmembers on his way, but he paid them little thought as they gawked at him go past.
He had reached it, though—the splitting pain in his knee nothing as he gasped for air. He punched in the numbers that opened the door, and, somehow in his frenzy, he got them all right.
The metal door slid open. He rushed into the room.
"Murrue!" He called out, oddly frantic.
He froze, though, when the sight he saw connected in his mind.
It was empty. Completely, utterly empty.
He spun around.
Bed stripped . . . Dust cleaned . . . Cabinet bare. Nothing.
It couldn't be.—He must've gone into the wrong quarters by accident. There was no way. That place he'd spent so much of his time in, this couldn't have been it. That place . . . it had this warmth that never left because it had always been graced by her. But here, all that was left of that comfort was . . . Nothing.
He slunk down onto the bed, mind buzzing-ly numb, defeated and weak.
What was his problem?
It wasn't like she was dead or anything. It wasn't anything permanent. He could easily see her again. He could easily get her transferred back. . . . But he could easily not.
And that scared him.
----------
PRESENT:
Dragging himself off the old bus, John shook at his head, trying desperately to clear it but failing. He looked up at the small hotel of his and sighed, pushing his way on through, all the way up to his rented room.
He yawned, amazed at how tired his body felt. Before, he'd been so full of energy. What had changed? Now, he didn't feel up to doing anything. . . .
John collapsed back into the bed, but couldn't sleep. It was lunchtime, yet he didn't feel like eating. It was easy to do some of his simple work, yet he didn't even feel like moving in the end. He could only look up at the ceiling instead, the old memory haunting his headache.
"But . . . What's the use in thinking about any of that now?" He wondered aloud—shifting over on his bed.
-----
Murrue slid across her tiny house, gracefully drifting from room to room. Her thin fingers checked the state of her robe as she walked. A bit too long and a bit too big for her, the surrounding fluffy comfort almost buried her within its folds—yet, she still wore it. Wet hair done up to keep away from her face, Murrue looked in the large mirror for answers.
With everything like it was, bath-robe and all . . . she looked oddly presentable . . . and even more different.
The mail must have come by then—for she had taken so long in the shower—and for her to open the front door to get it . . . who knows who could be outside.
Shaking the thought from her mind, Murrue went to open the door.
But she glanced back, eyes, landing on the telephone.
He still hadn't called, had he . . . ?
She quickly pushed that thought from her mind, wrenching the door open instead. And, as she pulled it open, a thin paper floated down, dancing in the air until it landed upon the stoop.
Murrue stared at it—breath automatically catching in her chest. How long had it been? How long had it been since she saw that thin, loopy calligraphy? It was such an improvement on Mu's messy scrawl, she even found herself laughing gently at the idea as she bent to pick it up.
Fingers flicking the folded note open, her eyes dashed across the page. With its words her hands shook with the slightest movements. When she had reached the end, the note closed, gripped tightly in her hand.
Even though no one was physically there, Murrue lost her day 'of peace' alone.
"John . . ."
----------
PAST?
It was dark in the closed quarters. John lay in his bed, thinking back lightly on all the noise and commotion probably happening at that moment, right beyond his door. In all the time he'd been on the ship, he'd never known it to be calm in any way.
But here, now, this moment . . . he had his peace. Eyes dashing about in the night, all he could see was Murrue's soft form curled up beside his, her lush hair tickling his nose. She never moved in his arms, but he knew she was asleep—the steady rise and fall of her breathing told him so.
Murrue . . . he sighed, shifting closer in the still dark. He whispered to her ear, quiet, knowing she wouldn't hear. But, at his words, the sound of her breathing stopped for the moment. John blinked, oddly amused. So, she wasn't asleep after all. . . .
His breathless mutter, a lone warmth in the dark:
"I love you."
Too simple to not be beautiful.
A/N: Get through it all okay? Maybe, and this is a real maybe, I might find out a way to smooth this all out later. Maybe if I read this chapter a month or two from now, it'll all click together? Hm?
Gah, John is hard to write at times, this chapter being no exception. (And I'm not saying that he's based off anyone in particular, but I keep seeing certain traits of his coming out in some people I know.) But, I still had fun with this, I guess, this 'background.' I loved writing the scene where he comes back and "Nessa" is crying so much . . . I had to draw it, actually. (Weird?) And, oddly, through all my thoughts on the subject, I've come to love the bitter "relationship" between John and Nessa.—too bad I can't write it more. . . .
Ah! Since you finally got through a chapter with 'no' Mu in it. . . I'll give you a hint to what's happening in the next chapter. "Mu." Yep, you guessed it. No John in it at all. (grin)--Ah, but dont think that's the end of it. Nope! I'm surprised that I have so much left of this to go . . .