Slight references to various ep's throughout B5 in this story but nothing too significant, just a couple of loose ends I always wanted to give conclusion to.
Chapter Two:
Susan can't help but be depressed at her wardrobe.
Her lifestyle doesn't exactly lend itself to primping and shopping – acting as a nomad for Earth force, dealing with galaxy changing events on a regular basis and cramming 32 hours of work into a 24 hour day – but this was pathetic.
Beside old uniforms and her Entil'zh robes she possessed three other outfits: two pairs of scrubby jogging pants – and a dress.
Susan gazed ruefully in the mirror after donning the last item: even more proof she had no life. No life outside work at least. Words like fun or entertainment…enjoyment…relaxation just didn't register anymore.
It was laughable. The gown is covered in dust and originally would have been a lustrous black shade: now it's a sort of dirty grey like washing up liquid.
Certainly no amount of washing and ironing would take out the wrinkles which sagged in all the wrong places (yes, all). It also conjured up not-so-pleasant images of the Queen of the Underworld. Susan didn't relish the thought of being referred to as Pluto's wife for most of the evening.
In short it looked like it had been crumpled in a coffin for the last ten years. Not so far from the truth if you counted the bottom of various wardrobes as a graveyard for clothes wear.
Susan sighed with frustration and ripped it off. Her hair got stuck in the zip and she yanked at it, hissing with pain as it finally came away – attached to the roots of her scalp.
She'd returned from her usual walk this morning to find a note in her quarters. It was a simple slip of parchment, old and yellowed, folded in half with her name – Susan – written on the front in old English script.
That alone tipped her off for who it was from. Anyone else who address it Ivanova, Entil'zh or even General if they were from Earth. And of course only Marcus would bother writing on such wasteful paper.
Susan.
I hope you're free tonight because if not I'm going to clear your schedule anyway – by any means possible. If it's a meeting you'd better not value its participant's lives too greatly.
I'll be by at your quarters at 6:15 to pick you up; don't even bother asking what's happening because I'm not going to tell you. Just wear something nice for once. That's not too much to ask.
Marcus
She'd been irritated. Of course she'd been irritated.
It was so like him – he knew she hated surprises and any romantic notions but he persisted in showering her with them. Would he ever learn to just be a normal lover and try to keep her happy rather than making an effort to be a pest?
Well since when had Marcus done anything normally?
She would've ignored her fellow Entil'zh and lover (of course) and interrogated him about the 'surprise' anyway but of course today he chose to vanish. It was unusual not to see him around – they did work together after all – but he was obviously hiding.
Damn him! The relentless cockiness and self assurance that she'd turn up despite everything was just plain aggravating.
Did he really think he could just summon her and she'd come running?
Well the answer was obvious. Yes. Yes he did.
And unfortunately he was right. She hadn't been able suppress the darts of excitement jolting through her blood from the moment the note appeared.
Maybe it was time to call it all off – he knew her too well.
But Susan knew nothing short of the Shadows returning could prevent her from finding out what tonight was about.
Well that or her lack of clothes. Susan sighed and slipped her dressing gown on, crumpling onto her bed in defeat.
She could lead a fleet of any type of alien ship into battle, face opponents out-numbered ten to one with only an old bamboo stick, send a Minbarii warrior's knees knocking, reroute a shuttle power system with a toothpick in pitch black but finding an outfit for a date?
Out of her range.
She was too old for this: dating was something done in your twenties – not fifties. Middle aged women shouldn't be spending time in front of a mirror – it was too depressing.
Her wallowing was interrupted by a chime at the door.
"Who is it?"
Maybe if it was one of the Ranger's she could convince them to tell Marcus she'd fallen ill with some kind of infectious disease…
"It is I; Delenn. May I come in?" A pause. "It's urgent."
"Oh. Um, just a minute!" Susan heaved herself up, tightening the cord around her waist. "Enter!"
Delenn glided in, giving the usual impression of an accidentally earth born angel.
"Good evening Susan." She eyed her critically, placing a box on the table. "You are preparing for something?"
"Um, it's a little complicated..."
"Indeed." Delenn said seriously. "I hear this human tradition of 'dates' as you call them are indeed a complex and stressful matter." Her smile dimpled at the look on Susan's face. "You think I do not know these things?"
"I just thought –"
"I have studied humans you know; it is good to do so when you live among them – or marry them." She placed her hands on Susan's shoulder with a laugh. "Now from your attire I think I can attain that you are struggling to choose an outfit."
"Choose?" Susan gave a snort. "Chance would be a fine thing."
"Well…" Delenn turned and slid open the lid of the box she'd brought in. "Do you think this would suffice?"
The dress was folded in shimmering folds of a deep greeny blue. Sea blue like ocean whirl pools. Susan drew it out, running her fingers along the silky material. It was cool like the ocean too.
On fitting it was simple: reaching down to between her knees and ankles in smooth, unadulterated waves, loose and floating. Above the hips it clung to her curves without being too tight, leaving enough to the imagination – and in her old age Susan knew it was a good thing. There were no sleeves, the neckline a halter style coming up together at the base of her skull.
Delenn produced an airy, silver shawl – like the mist above the waves – and settled it over her bare shoulders.
"There." She stepped back to admire her handiwork, "You are beautiful."
Susan doubted it but turning to gaze in the mirror she admitted it wasn't bad. Maybe a bit more than not bad. Reasonable...
"However...the hair..." Delenn had her hands on her hips. "Sit down. Now."
"I'm not sure –"
"I said now Susan." Her eyebrows pulled into a V. "You do not want to argue with me on this."
Trusting her had got her this far: with a sigh Susan plumped onto the bed, closing her eyes as her mentor-come-torturer undid her plait and drew a brush through the long curls. She combed it in slow, steady strokes. The motion calmed her, sending pleasant tingles through her scalp.
Her mother used to brush her hair like this; every morning and night. Familiar lullaby's of that time drifted through her mind as deft fingers tucked a couple of wayward strands back into the mane and brushed away a rebellious attempt at a fringe.
Susan recalled introducing Delenn to the concept of 'doing your hair' years before. The lesson had been learnt well.
"There." Delenn said softly as she finished. "Leave it loose; he likes it that way. You are ready." She cupped Susan's chin and kissed her on the forehead. "Have a good time." With a gentle, sweeping whisper she floated from the room as quickly as she had come.
Susan was left reeling.
She really was getting too soft for her own good. She stared at her unusual reflection blankly; she normally favoured different shades for dresses – red or black – but the blue was striking, her vibrant chestnut hair a sharp contrast against the cool colour and long arms bare. She leaned forward...
Another chime broke the moment.
"Coming!" Moving with enthusiasm that belied her she grabbed her bag and marched to the door. "Yes?"
Marcus had dressed up as well; Susan realised that how rarely she'd seen him out of Ranger robes.
He scanned her appreciatively. "You look beautiful."
"That better be the compliment for the night. I don't want to spend all evening fending them off."
He laughed. "Some women enjoy them you know." He sobered for a moment. "Then again you never were like other woman." He hesitated, swallowing nervously, "Um..."
This was unlike him. "Yes?"
He stepped towards her, producing a long object from behind his back. Susan's eyes widened. "Twenty years ago someone gave you a rose." He gazed at her. "It wasn't me then."
He laid the flower gently in her palm. "Now it is."
A lump rose to her throat as she gazed at the scarlet petals perfectly curved in sculpted patterns. Twenty years ago it had been a bunch of roses wrapped up in foil, a cluster bound together. Now it was just a single stem, long and slender. But it was real, soft and fragrant; a fragrance that no artificial blooms could fake.
"Susan?"
Her head snapped up, blinking away the sudden tears. "Mmm?"
"You don't like roses?"
"No…no." She cleared her throat firmly, fingers curling carefully. "I love them. Thank you."
He smiled with gentleness and humour she could never understand or deserve. "Good. It was hard enough convincing the Minbarii to grow a rose bush in the garden. Apparently they think they represent bad luck." He offered an arm. "Shall we?"
She slipped her hand through his elbow. "Well after all that trouble I suppose I better had."
X-X
The secret location turns out to be a small niche in the gardens – it's tucked away in the corner; a sheer wall rising up behind and on one side, rows of trees and bushes shielding any other prying eyes. In front of them a breathtaking view stretches out: hilly gardens with singing waterfalls falling into dancing rivers and far beyond a glittering lake which Marcus declares is the exact shade of Susan's dress.
He's set out a table set for two with food he claims he cooked himself, Susan's doubtful and makes a mental note to check with Delenn if she's helped him out recently as well.
Or maybe one of the Rangers offered their assistance. If she finds out there's an unexpected rise in grading somewhere…
But despite her cynicism the food is good whoever the cook and the wine an interesting blend of Earth's finest and some Minbarii concoction: Marcus had to order it in mixed because pure alcohol is forbidden on Minbar. They both remember an incident when some of the Minbarii Ranger's decided to test their drinking limits. One glass and they were running around the place like headless chickens – or Londo after a night out.
The companies even better though and the evening passes quickly, soon the sun is setting and twilight lingers.
Shadows are cast across the two of them and Susan pauses in drinking to gaze over the rim of her glass. The last rays of light fall upon Marcus's face, illuminating his profile; like an artist's portrait. He's laughing, gray eyes sharp against the brown hair, flashing teeth contrasting with dark beard.
The wind sweeps through the garden, causing distant chimes to rustle, gently melding with the whispering leaves.
In that moment Susan never thinks she's loved him more.
"Marcus." She says. Tongue moving without order. "Move in with me."
He drops his fork. "What?"
"Move in with me." Her tone is firmer now and she sets her glass down."
This wasn't her. It wasn't remotely near her. If she exploded this place wouldn't hear the noise for three weeks.
Susan is the logical one, the controlled one. The one who thinks things out a thousand times before considering the vague possibility of suggesting that they might be able to start thinking about the chance of planning to some time attempt something.
The idea is impulsive. And rash. And ill thought out.
"Move in with me. She repeats without hesitation. Because deep in her gut or heart or wherever these feelings come from is a deep and utter certainty that this is right.
They are right.
She's never lost control before, never let herself get too carried away, but now there's a bubbling in her stomach sending darts of steel through her blood. Her heart's beating erratically and her mouth's dry, fingers very cold.
Maybe she's become more like the Minbarii that she thought and the wine's taking effect.
"Susan, are you feeling alright?"
"Never better." And it's true. She stretches across the table and grips his hand. "Marcus; I've never been good at, at – this, at relationships, at commitment. You know all of that but…" She swallows, a rarely used word dropping from her lips. "Please. Move in with me."
He's squeezes back, their close skin very warm but he doesn't say anything and suddenly Susan is worried. Not that she may not be ready for this, but that he may not be ready. It's not something she generally has to worry about with Marcus (the opposite in fact) but she doesn't want to push him too fast, she doesn't want to ruin it.
Saying she 'struggles' with relationships is an understatement. A euphemism for something a lot more graphic. She doesn't want this to turn into another sinking ship like every other damn relationship. Because this time it wouldn't just be a cruiser going down – it would be the whole damn Titanic.
She ignores the curling sensation in her stomach. The bottom seems to have dropped out. "Marcus if you don't want to that's fine, I mean –" She pulls her hand away.
His head snaps up. The intensity in his eyes stops her short. "Yes."
"What?"
"Yes."
"You know you can consider it if you want –"
"No."
Now she's the one nonplussed though her stomach has been sealed again. "I don't want to force you into this; I mean you can think it over –"
"I don't want to think it over."
"But –"
"I said yes Susan."
Well. This is a night of 'Not Susan Ivanova' moments. No one ever cuts off her sentences. Ever. She usually knocks them flat before they have chance. But right now, she's stuttering like some lisping fool and her cheeks are flushing red. She feels like a school girl. And a feeble one at that.
"Ah…right. Very well." The cringing weight is dissolving; well fizzing more accurately. Hopeful bubbles rising to her throat. She stares at her plate.
"So," She jerks up at Marcus's voice. His expression is deceptively sober but there's a familiar twinkling in his eyes. "This is it then."
"It is."
They stare at each other for a long moment. Stone expressions. Susan sure he's just about to crack when he does the unthinkable. Takes a shot way below the belt.
He kisses her.
Susan witnesses it as if in slow motion from her paralysed position. Marcus leans across the table, retaking her frozen hands in his, stroking one motionless cheek, cupping her chin and then –
Well then she's not really observing much more.
They must've kissed a thousand times before by now. Susan would've thought that eventually it would just get…dull, but somehow that point doesn't seem to come.
And she hopes it never does.
Eventually they break away, foreheads still inches apart.
"That was cheating."
He laughs again. "I know."
She forces her mind back to the original issue rather than the trembling running throughout her body. "No one's going to believe I was the one who suggested…it."
"I know that too."
Susan smiles, an old memory suddenly floating back. Her and Marcus aboard the White Star; discussing those ridiculous beds (even after all these years she's never got used to them). Susan remembers her dream then, her vision of being posted somewhere with comfortable quarters and a garden and a view.
She glances briefly to her left; the last rays finally slipping down below the horizon, plunging the rolling landscape into darkness. Well one wish has been granted. But she remembers the other part of the vision; the part involving a large canopied…
"Susan," Marcus's voice doesn't drag her back to reality this time so much as join her in the dream state.
"Yes?"
"I'll order the bed tomorrow."