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When she touches you, it is still ungainly, still clumsy and sweaty-palmed and hot. It feels like Ivanova has forgotten how to touch, like she's gone mad, gone ancient, every ghost of vulnerability in her past now safely out of reach in the light. Susan still isn't sure yet, still doesn't know how to love you in a way that does not reflect his absence onto the bedroom walls. You have been hoping, for several months now, that one day Susan's eyes will open and her mind will ascend into energy and she will finally be able to exhale in your arms, open to take. It is an endearing fantasy.
For now, her wrinkled fingers curl and entwine with yours, the way John's had, long ago, the same kind of familiar warmth. Her love is different from John's; she loves hardened, with hesitation and tests and fables, and John's love was the antithesis of hardened. They both carry the exact same beauty. They both keep you calm.
John isn't here.
In her arms, you evaporate. Beyond the Rim, he evaporates into little bursts of energy, and gives you his blessing, as if you needed it. She's the best choice you can make. Keep her safe, Delenn. She's good for you.
You choose Susan. You choose her, wrap her in laurels and ceremonies and kisses, and you never stop choosing her. She slots into you just right—on Earth, long ago, male anglerfish would become absorbed by the females until a sole, symbiotic being was formed out of their separate bodies, the resulting soul stronger and calmer and eternal. Underneath the blankets of your bed, your souls merge into something that glitters, a sole unified being guiding the universe into a greater age.