Hand in Glove 2/4
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She brought all her attention to the kettle in 
her hand, carefully pouring the hot liquid into 
the rotund ceramic server, watching the swirl of 
bronze as the infusion developed. After a time, 
she covered the pot and, leaving it to steep, 
turned her attention to other things.

Conscious again of the chill in the room, she 
adjusted the environmental controls. The tea 
would warm her, she reminded herself, but she 
sought other comforts. Dropping to her knees, she 
drew a storage box from beneath the bed and 
extracted a soft seafoam comforter. Embracing it, 
she rose and with a snap, extended it over the 
bed. As she smoothed the coverlet, she realized 
she wanted a change of clothes, maybe a shower. 
The tea would keep, but there were things in her 
suitcase she would need. With a sigh, she 
accepted that she should unpack.

The parka slumped over the chair reminded her of 
her earlier intentions, and she weighed the idea 
of going out to eat. She hated to eat alone in a 
restaurant. If she looked at other dinners, they 
worried that she was scanning them; if she 
didn’t, there was little to entertain herself 
with except some psychic eavesdropping. So it 
would be carry-out yet again.

She left the jacket where it lay, recognizing 
that whatever chill she might feel, such heavy 
clothing was not needed for the Zocalo. She 
looked for her bag, half-hidden since she had 
pushed it out of Zack’s way. As she scooped up 
the handles, two dark shadows swirled across the 
doorway and down to the floor.

She recognized them, her ever-present 
companions. The packing bag in her hand sailed 
toward the bed, thumping solidly into a corner 
and tumbling to the floor. One by one, she 
retrieved the gloves, folding them carefully into 
alignment, fingering the soft leather. Her hand 
closed around the pair, twisted them into a ebony 
rope. She did not see exactly where she threw 
them, too many were the tears clouding her eyes, 
but they came to rest on the low table in front 
of the loveseat. She wiped her eyes and focused 
on her hunger.

Pleasure and anger danced in her when the door 
chime sounded: pleasure at the thought that he’d 
come back to make up; anger that he thought she’d 
be that easy.

"Open." It was an expletive.

The shock was apparent in her face when she 
turned. How could she have not noticed, not 
sensed the difference? Instead of the black 
uniformed security officer, there stood a tired 
looking man in a brown suit.

"Hi, Lyta," was all Michael Garibaldi said.

She moved past her surprise and invited him in. 
He seemed tentative, uncharacteristically timid. 
The man who wisecracked when she held his life in 
her hands suddenly had nothing to say. She 
reached for the edges of his mind as she greeted 
him, then, remembering his aversion, pulled back.

He mumbled a reply, and for a few minutes, they 
made small talk.

"I didn’t expect to see you here on Babylon 5," 
she said at last.

He tried to be casual. "Yeah, well, I’m working 
security for the Alliance, and the inauguration’s 
gonna be held here, so I needed to check it out."

He had made peace with Sheridan then. He had 
worked for Sheridan’s forces in those last days 
on Mars, just as she had. Sheridan was not one to 
waste an opportunity or an advantage, and 
Garibaldi was too talented an intelligence agent 
for Sheridan to overlook. He’d be used, just as 
she’d been used, whether Sheridan had forgiven 
him or not.

But this – working security for the Alliance, as 
he put it – this was an appointment to a position 
of trust. Sheridan wouldn't do that unless the 
two had worked things out.

The gnawing in her belly interrupted the 
thought. "Michael, I was just about to get 
something to eat. "

He flushed and started. "I’m sorry. I should 
have called ahead or something, instead of just 
barging in."

" Could we talk over dinner?" she asked.

He cringed, reluctance obvious in his face. "I 
really kind of wanted to talk to you in private." 
His back stiffened, and he inspected the coffee 
table. "I’ll catch you another time." He glanced 
at her, then checked that he had a clear path to 
the door.

"No, Michael, it’s all right." Her jaw tightened 
on the words. "Please stay." She watched relief 
unknot his brow and body. "Would you like a cup 
of tea?"

He brightened, and in the psychic ambience she 
heard a wisecrack, but he only thanked her. She 
added more water to the pot, another cup to the 
tray, and carried it to the couch.