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He really wants to like Dr. Sheridan. She’s nice, he supposes, and clearly has an intimate understanding of archeology, which is rather refreshing. He wants to like her. He truly, truly does want to like her.

 

He tries out liking her as if trying out a new, exotic dish. He studies her in the darkness when she walks into his quarters, and then he studies her in the light. He tries on the taste of Dr. Sheridan, and discovers that she isn’t for him; they live in different worlds, they walk different paths. Too different for his liking.

 

And she’s married.

 

Her husband — her husband — is Earthforce as well, and he can tell by the way she intonates her words when asking him about his role there that she doesn’t care for it much. He’s very adept at reading other people; this is his greatest skill, his finest accomplishment, the way he’s tuned the instrument of himself entirely away from himself. The entire point of his existence now is to be clandestine, to be rough; it was this way before, in the medieval ages, when his family was still alive, but he had additional purposes back then.

 

He was a husband, he was a father. It was almost normal, almost picturesque, but never quite reaching the holy, nuclear status. Regret hits him with the force of a tsunami: he’d spend too long at work, too much time away. Sarah’s excitement when he came home was rooted in missing him, in mourning his absence. Almost ironic.

 

It doesn’t matter. Now he is this: a weapon, once feared, now discarded and left to gather dust between the walls of Station Prime. He wielded himself carelessly, without intention, overtaken by his own grief, towards the ISN reporters.

 

He should’ve never been forced into that spotlight in the first place—it was their fault. They deserved it; they would’ve deserved worse if he hadn’t been stopped.

 

So, no. He doesn’t like Dr. Sheridan. He thinks she has ulterior motives by approaching him here, in his territory, but another aspect of him knows that this shouldn’t factor in; everyone here has ulterior motives.

 

He agrees to go out to dinner with her anyway.

 

---

 

She does like Dr. Morden. 

 

She tries not to pity him. They’re both adults, of course, they both know how to conduct themselves, and he is clearly experienced in his work. Let’s rephrase: she feels his ache. She cannot even imagine it—-the survivor’s guilt, the life he had being unraveled into void within moments, the ultimate change. The ghosts of the taken-too-soon haunting him at all times, always in the backdrop, always breathing without breathing. 

 

It has to be torturous. She prays that she never understands this pain.

 

But everyone, she thinks, can be healed, even if it is only a minimal healing. The callus can be calmed, can be tamed into submission, can be unformed and reformed into something softer.

 

….

 

His hands, though. That’s the unsettling part: they’re too smooth. Her hands are rough from the work she’s done; his competence at archeology is blatant, but his hands aren’t callused, his hands don’t give off the same impression. It feels like he, too, is ghosting—through archeology, passing through each object without impact.

 

Their hands brush against one another as they dine. Most of the time, he avoids eye contact, but they’re not sitting in silence; the restaurant around them is cacophonous with noise, and Dr. Morden is rattling on and on about the equipment they’ve been given again. The Icarus mission is certainly unprecedented, and they both know it.

 

Whatever is on this planet, the findings will be greatly desired. When they make it back, she won’t know what to expect.

 

She puts her fork down. “Sorry for changing the subject, but why do you think Ms. Donne doesn’t trust you?”

 

He shrugs. His reply is droned out: “I’m not sure. I don’t mean to be crass, but as I said, I don’t trust her. I don’t get a good feeling about the Psi Corps involvement in this mission. I assume she’s doing it to raise tension, to get everyone to distrust each other.”

 

“Why would she do that?”

 

“I overheard your conversation earlier. She told you already - she’s not on our team. Why does Psi Corps do anything they do?”

 

Their conversation took place a somewhat-significant amount of distance away from the rest of the briefing, Anna thinks. How….

 

“Good point.”

 

She pauses for a moment to study him. He still won’t make eye contact.

 

“So,” she continues. “Not to change the subject again, but this is your first mission in a while, isn’t it? How are you feeling about getting back out there?”

 

That careful smile envelops him again, his expression twisting back into the artificial. He looks up at her. “I’m excited,” he replies. “It’s a wonderful opportunity. The things I’ve been told…” He finishes his plate, rests his utensils on top of it. “And it will be a nice change of pace, a way to keep my mind off other things, hopefully.”

 

It escapes her too fast; she can’t think before speaking around him, for some reason. “And by other things, you still mean…?”

 

A sigh, “Yes,” he responds. “You know exactly what I mean, I’m sure.”

 

Dr. Morden pays for both of their meals, and then turns to her, his gaze fixed downward, this time permanently. “Thank you for the company, Sheridan.”

 

“You as well. Hopefully we’ll get a better chance to talk on the mission.”

 

His smile falters a bit, just for a moment, until he sews it back into place. “Hopefully.”

 

---

 

He watches as the Icarus pulls away from Station Prime, and thinks about the rim of known space.

 

They’ll be there for quite a while. It’s almost enticing, almost seductive. He could disappear -- into his work, into himself, into the mystery of the Rim. No one would notice, no one would be left to care.

 

Sheridan might.

 

He’s warming up to her. She has charisma — unsteady charisma, and an odd fixation on his past, but it’s more human contact than he’s had in quite a while. Her presence could be considered comforting if he was a different person, living a different life, different. 

 

Ms. Donne comes to collect him, as well as Dr. Chang and Churlstein, about Anna, and he moves a bit too quickly towards the room. She’s holding a fragment of the artifact, and seems engulfed by its nature, stuck in a trance the object seems to have induced in her. His expression slips out of his grasp, and when he shakes her, he does it with a surprising mixture of careful touch and firm movement. She’ll snap out of this; he’ll make sure of it.

 

“ Sheridan. ”

 

She blinks now, shakes herself into the present, and his hand lingers for a moment. “What is it?”

 

“We were just… getting concerned.”

 

Donne cuts off her next words, which is annoying. All of this is just so incredibly annoying.

 

---

 

The first time she hears Dr. Morden tell an actual joke, something in her switches on.

 

  “Someone must’ve slipped her a happy pill,” he says about Ms. Donne, and she can’t help but erupt in laughter. It’s a nice contrast to his usual state; he’s charismatic when he’s like this. She’s seeing him open up, more and more now. It’s nice. It really is.

 

(She thinks about his hand on her shoulder, the expression on his face—-)

 

When he shares his translations with the group, she watches him unfold himself even further; he’s animated, engaged in sharing his work with the rest of them. He doesn’t seem very confident in most of it, which surprises her. His thoughts are evident on his face now as he focuses and moves, his hands almost too quick, fluttering through notes like the wings of a little hummingbird.

 

What is desired. Or: All that is desired.

 

She thinks about John almost immediately, because he’s her husband and it’s the natural place for her mind to land. She desires him , wants to see him again, to spend real time with him for the first time in… a year, almost. To hold him close, to kiss him, to be with him, to be with him, to be with him. 

 

Love abides no borders, of course. But he’s not here.

 

Her scientific mind could never pass up this opportunity, so here she is on the Icarus, away from what she desires.

 

The translation sounds like a promise, like an offer. She tries not to think about it: how her belief in promises is starting to chip away at itself.

 

---

 

Maybe this is a bad idea, but she’s already in his quarters, she’s already about to make her move, and when Anna Sheridan starts a mission she never quits. 

 

She doesn’t know where he is, but when she rang, he didn’t answer. The Icarus apparently allows you to just walk into someone else’s quarters, which should probably be concerning, but again: she’s on a mission. 

 

She locates the love stone, closes her hand around it, and does not think about John, even if it’s the natural place for her mind to land again. Instead: she thinks about Dr. Morden, prays that this gesture does not upset him.

 

The stone was intended to be worn around the neck; she’s just trying to bring it closer to its original purpose. Liz had given her a necklace long ago; she’ll strip the pendant off of that, drill a small hole with their equipment, and give it to him on the chain for the new year. She will make a difference, even in the small, shadow-covered areas that surround both of them.

 

She can’t quite decipher her reasoning for this. She still doesn’t pity him; he wouldn’t want her to. Some little life buried within her exhales as she leaves Dr. Morden’s quarters, and she forgets to turn the lights off as she goes.

 

He does not take the gift very well.