A Babylon 5 story by not jenny
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Happiness does not sound like a siren, or a car's skid, or a mosquito's buzz, but is the quiet squeak of an open door with him against the moonlight - from When We Are Happy by Natalia Zaretsky
WEBSITE: circlegirl.com
*****
"Endings are never as happy as we'd like, vodka and revenge are dishes best
served cold, and romance can only lead to someone jumping in front of a
moving train: these are the three things Russians know better than anyone
else on earth. My name is Commander Susan Andreyevna Ivanova, and I shall be
your tour guide this evening. Please be sure to check any unfounded optimism
at the door."
*
(He watches her. She pretends she does not notice.)
*
Morning. Her wake-up call its normal cheery self. (Morning. Afternoon.
Night. Who can tell, in space?) She is not a morning person, and it is far
too early for philosophy. Things are, or they are not; everything else is
merely exposition.
However, in the spirit of storytelling, the details are as follows: she is
in the shower, and the water is getting cold. Her comm. signals from the
other room.
She shuts off the tap, "respond. Audio only."
"Commander Ivanova-"
She moans. Marcus is too much for her to handle, most mornings, even as an
empty voice over Babcom. Before coffee (or caf or whatever godawful
substitute they've dredged up at the moment), at any rate; before the world
ceases to be half-asleep blurry and faded.
"Marcus, what is it you want at this insanely early hour? And why
can't it wait until after breakfast?"
"Good, you're awake, then." His voice is far too cheery. "Cole out."
"Marcus? Marcus Cole, what in the hell are you up to?"
Silence. She dries off, begins to pace as she dresses. (One, two, three,
underwear.) Contemplates running off to some uninhabited planet in the
middle of nowhere (raz, dva,tri, bra); just her, a lifetime supply of vodka,
and a coffee plant. (One, two, three, blouse.) Yanks her hair into a tight
plait as she begins her preparations for the day ahead.
Which is when the door chimes. ("Predictable," she thinks. "Also irritating
and annoying and most definitely Marcus Cole.")
"Enter." It's not as if she has a choice, not really, in the matter. The
lifetime supply of vodka begins to look particularly appealing.
"Commander Ivanova," he smiles, walking sideways through the door, "I bring
an offering to the Russian Goddess of Kindness and Breakfast Foods." The
smell of eggs and sausage follow him into the room.
"Okay, Cole, what do you want?"
*
Contrary to popular belief, she stopped believing in "happily ever after"
long before her mother's death. Long before Ganya. (Long before Malcolm,
before Talia, before all of this.) Long before she first read Dostoevsky and
Tolstoy and Pushkin; long before she learned the irrefutable fact that true
love is only ever punished, not rewarded.
She was five. He was twelve. It was cold, though not yet winter. There was
frost lining the morning grass. Her mother's voice insistent in her head,
"tell no one." He held her hands above her head; she closed her eyes against
the sun.
They moved the next day. The day after that. She was soon sent abroad.
*
(This is not that story, but forewarned is forearmed, or so they say, and
she is nothing if not the consummate soldier. "For every action, there is an
equal and opposite reaction." Remember: history, if allowed, will always
repeat itself.)
The captain used to offer her orange juice all the time. A true Russian
would have said yes and made screwdrivers; she just thought he was nuts.
Insane. When Marcus begins to pour her a glass, though, she reaches for her
Stolichnaya. No time like the present. And, besides, she is off-duty today;
there is nothing better for her to do.
("Always remember," her professors would say, "nature abhors a vacuum." So
does an Ivanova. An Ivanov. So does she. She drinks her screwdriver and
finishes her eggs.)
She hates free time. Distinctly recalls something about the Devil and idle
hands.
"I have a," Marcus pauses, searching for the right word, "proposition for
you."
Later, she will blame the captain for forcing her to use her accrued time.
For ignoring her protests and arguments and insisting that she take a day
off. At the moment, however, all she can think is, "ah ha! Something for me
to do."
She leans forward, "let's hear it."
*
Marcus is the most persistent suitor she's ever had; this is not, in her
opinion, a compliment. He climbs under her skin, joking and earnest, and
refuses to vacate the premises when she serves him notice of eviction.
He is steadfast, honest, and true; she is constant, honourable, and just.
Theirs should be a match made in heaven; it is, of course, not.
Nothing is ever as simple as it should be.
*****
'I don't want to drive you away.'"
She waits for a punchline that does not come.
He gives her one of his patented "I'm Marcus Cole and aren't I just the
cutest thing" puppy dog looks. She is not amused. Does not smile.
"Marcus, you do realise that this," and here voice hardens,
"proposition of yours sounds suspiciously like a date, don't you?"
He grins. "Well, of course it does. If I'm doing it at all right, that is."
("You idiot," she does not say, "you foolish feebleminded self-centred
ridiculous clown. What in the world ever gave you the misguided idea that I
would ever go out with you?" He would only take it as encouragement.
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he would respond. She bites her
tongue.)
There must be something in her eyes, though, because he immediately begins
to backtrack. "Not that I would ever presume to ask the great Commander
Ivanova on a date, mind you, but that is the appearance we should be
striving to maintain when we have dinner tonight at the Fresh Aire."
"When we have dinner tonight? Feeling pretty sure of ourselves, are we,
Marcus?"
He at least has the decency to look sheepish before answering. "Well, it is
for a good cause, after all, and I've never known you to back down from a
challenge."
("Dare." "No." "Double Dare." "No." "Double Dog Dare." He knows her far too
well.)
("Fine, what time are we meeting?")
*
//SUSAN's DAYDREAM, a (SHORT) FILM:
S1. EXT. Station.
S2. INT. Station, near an airlock.
SHERIDAN (V.O.): Ivanova, I just wanted to let you know that we've just come
into a unlimited supply of coffee and vodka, the war is over, the Drazi have
all committed ritual suicide, and you are always right. Also, you've been
promoted; congratulations, Captain.
THE END. ROLL CREDITS.//
*
He waits a moment. Another. Only when she moves to hit him does he continue.
"You know, this would be far simpler if I'd just thought to bring an
instructional chart. I know how fond you are of diagrams, and it would clear
things up so easily." He stands up, "perhaps I should just jot over to my
quarters for a second and whip one up. It would only take a moment."
She growls.
"Or not. It was just a thought."
The bottle of vodka sits on her counter, beautiful and glistening in the
glow of station lighting. ("Save me," her mind screams, "before I start
composing an ode to my bottle of Stoli, half-empty.")
"Just the facts, Marcus. Let's start with what time we're meeting and move
on from there."
He sits. "Right, then. Our reservations are for 20:30, so I thought I'd pick
you up here around 19:30. That way we could start the evening with a
romantic walk through the Zocalo; you know, holding hands, staring moonily
into each other's eyes, checking for any suspicious persons, the usual first
date things. From there we'd of course move on to the Fresh Aire, have
dinner," here his smile widened, if possible, "maybe get to know one another
a little better, all the while keeping an eye out for any nefarious doings.
After dinner, well, we'll just have to let nature run its course..."
One day, she is going to kill him. It's that simple. (Raz, dva, tri,
breathe.)
"Marcus," she says, her grin feral, "don't push it."
*
"If this were a Russian novel," she sometimes thinks, "I would at least have
a glimpse of happiness before my inevitable demise." This is something she
envies the Anna Kareninas of the universe. Before tragedy strikes, they will
always have their one moment of perfect joy.
She firmly refuses any thought of Marcus when she slips into these moments
of melancholy.
(His hair is positively foppish. He smiles too much. He's ridiculous,
preposterous, and absolutely insane.)
*****
She changes three times. Not because she particularly cares what Marcus
thinks of her appearance, but, rather, because her first three dresses are
woefully inadequate. (Rule # 73: When out for the evening, a woman must
always look her best; not, as in centuries past, to attract the male of the
species, but because she can. This applies especially to women who spend
their professional lives in uniform; i.e. Earthforce personnel, doctors,
nurses, and especially Susan Ivanova.) The fourth dress, a black silk thing
that clings in all the right places, does the job admirably.
She decides to keep her hair tied back. To prove she doesn't care. That this
is just a working dinner, that Marcus Cole is no more than a colleague, that
they are decidedly "Not Out On A Date" (capital letters intentional,
integral, etc.). Five minutes before he's set to arrive, she rips her hair
from its tight plait, running her fingers through the tangles.
(Maybe she cares more than she lets on. Maybe she doesn't. What matters are
the facts: one, she lets her hair down, literally and possibly figuratively;
two, there's a man at her door; three, they are going to dinner, tonight, at
the best restaurant on Babylon 5. The facts can be manipulated in a myriad
of ways, each pointing to a different conclusion. So maybe it is the
interpretation that matters, most, in the end.)
The door chimes. She calls for him to enter, and he sweeps into the room
like a cartoon Don Juan.
"Your chariot awaits, milady." He bows.
She stalks past him, grabbing her bag on the way. "Shut up, Marcus, and
let's get this farce over with already."
He looks at her, smiles at the dress. She pretends she does not notice.
*
She dreams of battles not yet fought; her nights fill with the smoke of wars
not yet lost.
She runs battle simulations during REM sleep; they rarely win, and she
spends her nights watching, helpless and alone, as her friends all die. One
by one by one. Somehow, it is worse that way, with death approaching slowly
and inevitably.
She wakes up in the middle of the night, a scream in the back of her throat.
(It is always, still, dark in space. Even in the predictability of
midnight.)
During the day, they press their fingers to the stars in an effort to hold
up the sky.
*
"Don't think I didn't see that, Marcus."
His contact slips a data crystal under his napkin sometime between salads
and the main course; he tries to surreptitiously slip it into his pocket
while she takes a sip of her wine. She notices, of course, and he pretends
to be chagrined. They eat. The food is quite good.
The conversation is decidedly less so.
"The point is," and here Marcus returns to an argument started while they
were walking through the Zocalo, "that we have the opportunity here to do
some good, no matter how ill-conceived many of our strategem seem at the
time, and that-"
"Marcus?" her voice is surprisingly (especially to her) soft. She did not
mean to sound so interested; it is too late, however, to take it back.
His head snaps toward her, "hmm? I mean, yes?"
"Your food's getting cold."
"Which is, I presume, Ivanova-speak for 'just shut the hell up already'?"
But he grins as he says it, pointedly taking a large bite of his noodles.
"Yum."
She laughs, "just shut the hell up already, Marcus."
*
She wonders if, perhaps, he is somehow meant to be the Delenn to her
Sheridan. If this has all been prophesied; if, lurking from his place in the
distant past, Sinclair (or Valen or whomever he is) has already written down
her future. Then she shakes herself. She does not really believe in any of
this.
Their coffee is ready. She has creme brulee for dessert, mostly because it
gives her an excuse to hit something. (whack, whack, whack) He has a slice
of cheesecake drowning in strawberries.
She finds herself enjoying his company. He makes her laugh; she, in turn,
finds herself opening up to him. Not too much, of course, not enough to risk
losing any more of herself to another person. But, still, she has laughed
more in the last few hours than she has in years.
("Which is not as sad as it sounds," she points out to her brain. "It's
really not. Not with the universe falling to pieces around us, not with the
Shadows and Raiders and..." His finger tracing the back of her hand disrupts
her thought processes. Her synapses short circuit.)
"Come to my quarters tonight," she finds herself declaring, "and we'll have
a nightcap."
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," repeats on an endless loop in her head. "Stupid,
stupid, stupid."
But Marcus only smiles, tracing his finger along her wrist as he stands to
walk away. "See you in a bit."
She resolutely does not smile. Much.
*
Later, sitting together in her quarters, they do not speak. She is drinking
vodka, straight and cold and deadly. He is watching her and sticks to water.
When his arm slips around her, she doesn't think to shrug it off; she is not
drunk, not yet, so it is not the alcohol dictating her behaviour. They do
not talk; it has been a long year, and there is no end in sight.
She is thinking about Tolstoy. About the Psi-Corps. About anything but the
feel of him, next to her.
("This will all end badly," she reminds herself, "everything does. 'And
again hope and despair, alternately chafing the old sores, lacerated the
wounds of her tortured and violently fluttering heart.' Oh, yes, this will
all end very badly.")
She kisses him; his lips are dry. She buries her face in his neck.
Asks, "have you ever read 'Anna Karenina,' Marcus?"
He nods, yes.
"Then you already know how all of this ends."
*finis.
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