by not jenny. A Babylon 5 fic. Set in an AU S.3. Written for Mosca's Free Verse Challenge; title from Pushkin, meaning "coldness, boredom, & granite." Quotes intersperced throughout the story from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. Muchos gracias (and muchos nachos) to Leea and Lin, for comments & critisicm.
*
"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"
*
*****
"But
this dream weighed on her like a nightmare, and she woke from it filled with
horror."
*****
"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 ask only one thing: I
ask the right to hope and suffer as I do now; but if even that is impossible,
command me to disappear, and I will do it. You shall not see me if my presence
is painful to you.'
'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.
A man floats by. It is MARCUS, and he is not wearing an EVA
suit.
S2. INT. Station, near an airlock.
A woman smiles. It
is IVANOVA. Her comm. signals.
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.)
*****
"'I think,' replied Anna,
toying with the glove she had pulled off, 'I think… if it is true that there are
as many minds as there are heads, then there are as many kinds of love as there
are hearts.'"
*****
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.
***************
*NOTE(s) on the pronunciation of the
title: the russian 'h' (as in 'holod') is pronounced like the 'ch' in 'l'chaim;'
'i' is pronounced 'ee' as in 'steel' & NOT 'eye.' and 'a' (as in 'granit')
is pronounced like the 'a' in 'father.' just for, you know, those of you who
care about such things. so, with ' signifying stress, it's "skookah' cho'luhd ee
grahneet'" (or something to that effect, phonetic notation being a bit out of my
computer repertoire).
[once more into the
fray]