Archive of Our Own ^beta

I. Allegro

Stephen doesn't hear Garibaldi sneaking up behind him – the old bastard still has a few tricks left, even if he does claim to be a legitimate businessman these days – but he sees his reflection in the polished chrome over the sink, so he manages to whirl around in time to meet him square on.

Michael doesn't miss a beat, so he manages to miss the wooden spoon that Franklin aims at his head, stepping into Stephen's personal space fast and slick and getting his hands on Stephen's bare abdomen.

"What're you – " Stephen starts to say, before his mouth is stopped by Michael's hot, generous kiss, Michael's still-sleep-warm hands on his skin, Michael's self-satisfied little hummmm that makes Stephen want to wooden spoon him again.

"Morning," Lise calls, walking through the kitchen with a mug of coffee in her hand, just as Michael's hands begin to slide down into Stephen's sweatpants.

"Good morning, Lise," Stephen calls back, cupping Garibaldi's neck when he drops his forehead onto Stephen's shoulder. Lise settles in on the couch in the living room, sipping at her coffee.

"Sorry, Lise, I thought you were asleep." Michael's mouth is muffled by Stephen's collarbone.

"It's not like you don't see worse when Blake visits," Lise answers, unconcerned, her eyes on her newsfeed.

"That's true," Michael says, perking up and looking into Stephen's eyes. He pulls his hand out of Stephen's pants, but doesn't pull away. "Last time Blake was here, I don't even know what it was I caught them doing. I think it involved a chicken."

"I heard that," Lise yells.

"Doesn't make it less true," Michael yells back.

"I don't think you should be making your wife feel ashamed for loving a chicken," Stephen says, frowning. "I support you, Lise," he adds, louder.

"Thanks, buddy," Lise answers absently.

"Since when does everyone get to yell in the house?" Mary asks, walking in the door, yelling herself.

"Since we had you and you started driving us all crazy!" Michael yells back.

Mary rolls her eyes. She's already wearing shorts and a t-shirt, which means she's already been out on the tennis court, practicing. Stephen doesn't remember ever having that kind of energy – but then, he's getting too old to remember ever having been sixteen.

"Is that why Uncle Stephen isn't wearing a shirt?"

Stephen feels a little chagrined, and bizarrely self-conscious. "Sorry, Mare, I didn't know everybody was already up." He glares pointedly at Michael's grinning face. "And your father attacked me in the kitchen while I was trying to clean up."

Mary puts up her hands in surrender. "I'm not getting within ten feet of that one," she mutters, heading off towards her bathroom. "I'm taking a shower."

Michael watches her go, then turns back to Stephen, wrapping his arms around him again, gently, caressingly. "I was attempting to arrest you for indecent exposure," Michael protests quietly, all innocence. "It's the lawman in me."

Stephen smiles; he knows this one, knows it well. "I must be a criminal, then, because I don't have any lawman in me."

Michael's as delighted as he is whenever Stephen gives him a straight line, and Stephen feels tenderness bloom up inside him as Michael waggles his eyebrows and says, "Would you like a little lawman in you?"

"Get a room!" Lise yells from the couch. Stephen leans forward and takes Michael's mouth, hungrily, steadying his head with one hand so that he can slide their lips together, rub their tongues together. Michael's hands tighten against Stephen's sides, just the way he likes, just the way Michael knows that he likes.

"We could," Stephen says, when the kiss ends. He pitches his voice low, like he's telling a secret, or like he really is suggesting some sort of criminal activity. He feels a little dizzy with the idea – they never have sex in the daytime, the house is always too hectic. But Mary's in the shower and Lise has her own things to do, and neither of them has to be anywhere today. "If you want to, we could."

Michael looks hesitant, and Stephen wonders if his knee is bothering him again this morning. The rain on Mars replicates the rain on Earth a little too well.

"I'll go easy on you," Stephen breathes, sliding a hand down to cup Michael through his trousers. "You can be on the bottom, just lie back, I'll do all the work."

Michael shudders a little, gratifyingly. Then he smiles a slow smile. "You just like being on top," he accuses.

"Well, it works out well, doesn't it?" He lets his fingers trace the outline of Michael's cock through the lightweight fabric.

"Yeah," Michael agrees, shrugging. "I'm kind of fundamentally lazy." But as they walk back to the bedroom, he's limping a little. Stephen makes a mental note to write him a scrip for a different anti-inflammatory medication, since the current one obviously isn't working too well.

As the bedroom door shuts behind them, Stephen gets Michael in his hands, runs one palm down the side of his head and works the other up under Michael's t-shirt, against the warm skin of his side.

"I have to leave in a few days," he says, pressing his mouth against Michael's neck, then pressing again and again, a series of fast kisses that taste of the sweat and sleep still on Michael's skin. "We have to make the most of this time." He meant this last to come out as a joke, but it sounds a little too serious, even to his own ears.

"You really," Michael gasps, as they work together at getting his shirt off, kissing fast and messy, "have to stay more than three weeks, sometime. We'd have more time to try – oh," Stephen runs his teeth against the spot on Michael's neck he's been sucking – "new things."

"New things, for old guys like us?" Stephen mutters, struggling with Michael's fly. "You don't think we'd just get bored with each other?"

Michael rubs a vigorous hand against Stephen's side, then slides it further down, pushing his loose sweatpants down and off. As he wraps a hot, hard palm around Stephen's cock, he lifts his head to look Stephen in the eye. "Maybe not," he says, cautiously. He kisses Stephen softly, slowly, close-mouthed. "Maybe not," he says again. Like a dare.

As Stephen takes a breath, Michael's hand slows down, then stops, and Stephen stops too, catching Michael's gaze. He didn't know either of them was still this young.

"Maybe not," he echoes.

Michael smiles then, the soft, sweet one that's only a distant cousin to his usual shit-eating grin. "Excellent," he says, and takes Stephen's mouth again.

II. Largo

During a war, or perhaps just after a war; when Lennier's master breaks the Grey Council or when Vir's master invades Narn; when it was quiet on the station at night, in the early days; or later, when it was louder, and they were older. There are points in space and in time at which matter converges, at which strange coincidences occur, at which the dispersed mercurial nature of the universe becomes dense, condensed. At these moments, at these points, assuming that he was present for them, Lennier might have felt Vir's shoulder against his as they sat together at the bar, might have listened to the easy, informal cadence of Vir's voice as he expressed sympathy and took it in turn.

Lennier is well acquainted with improbability, and so in the absence of his expectation flourishes the presence of his belief; in his knowledge that synergy is passing, fleeting, and illusory comes his surety that such convergence is also foundational, as real and as unapproachable as the Unfolding that began the universe.

Lennier sits on a stool, and leans on the bar, and waits.

-

At precisely ten p.m. station time, Vir puts away the stack of reports he was reading, logs out of his workstation, and tidies his desk. He made a pledge with himself three months ago to never work more than sixteen hours a day for Londo, and although it's hard sometimes, he's managing to mostly stick to it. Londo doesn't seem to have even noticed the change, which makes Vir feel sometimes proud and sometimes depressed, but he presses on anyhow.

He thinks longingly about his bed, the cool soft sheets, about being able to stretch out his legs and unfurl his tentacles – but he imposed these new working hours on himself so that he would do something other than work and sleep, so he shifts his thoughts of rest into thoughts of revelry. He straightens his clothes and strikes out towards the station bar: he is, after all, the master of his own fate.

-

There is an empty seat next to Lennier; there is always an empty seat next to Lennier, although there are times when, suddenly, there isn't. This is one of the latter times: Vir Cotto a warm displacement of air beside him. Lennier smiles at him.

"I am glad that you showed up tonight," Lennier remarks, softly. This is taking place during a war, or perhaps just after one; when they are young and powerless, or perhaps when they are older and voiceless – and so Lennier is lonely, and glad for the company.

"I decided that a break was a good idea. And a drink," Vir adds, pointing at the colourful concoction in front of him.

"A break might be a good idea," Lennier muses, quietly enough that he can't be overheard, that his words are for Vir only. "A break with this place, a break with . . . duty." He would never leave Delenn, of course. Unless he already has.

Vir doesn't speak for a little while, just poking at his drink with his straw, and Lennier thinks he's chosen not to answer. Then, suddenly, he speaks again.

"Did I ever tell you my theory?" he asks. "About fate?"

Lennier shakes his head.

"I think that fate works in – eddies, like a river. Currents, do you see? And there are moments when you have to go with the current, give in to it, and moments when you have to resist it. Currents that you have to resist. And the problem is – "

"You don't know which of the eddies will make you stronger, or which will destroy you, because they all look the same," Lennier finishes.

"Oh, I have told you this before," Vir says, deflating. Is it just Lennier's eye, the light in the bar, or is Vir's hair beginning to gray at the temples?

"No. Maybe."

"Maybe you just know me too well, after all this time," Vir sighs.

"Has it been so long?" Lennier asks. Impulsively, he reaches across Vir's body and picks up his glass, takes a drink of Vir's concoction. It isn't water and it isn't a Shirley Temple, and he should know better than to put it in his system.

Vir doesn't stop him. "Long enough."

-

Vir likes walking into the bar and finding Lennier sitting there, with an empty spot beside him; likes stepping in next to him as if the space is meant for him to take. There's a feeling about Lennier, he thinks, of presence – like he's always been there, sitting just to Vir's left (or his right), like he'll always be there. Vir doesn't know if that's what friendship is supposed to be like, partially because he doesn't think that he and Lennier are really friends, as such. But this night, this Thursday as the clock in the bar approaches eleven-thirty, Vir feels comforted by the solidity of Lennier's shoulders, held straight in their rich red robes.

"Are you heading back to the Ambassadorial suites?" Lennier inquires, politely.

"Where else is there to go on this station?" Vir sighs. "Yes, I'm going back."

"I'll walk with you," Lennier says.

It's not too far to go.

When they get there, they turn to face each other in perfect tandem, as if acting out a script, a show, Vir and Lennier, comedy duo. Vir wants to make a joke to that effect, but isn't sure how to say it so that Lennier would find it funny. He hesitates, words half-forming in his mouth, feeling the moment slipping away. And then, suddenly, Lennier bows his head – and for a moment, Vir thinks that he's enacting one of those strange, formal Minbari gestures, a gesture of respect or friendship or parting or something, the Minbari have plenty of gestures. So unlike the wild Centauri gesticulation popular among politicians and exemplified by Londo.

But it turns out not to be a gesture of friendly parting, not at all, because Lennier is standing close to him when he bows his head, and his lips press quickly and softly against Vir's neck, just where it meets his shoulder. It's over before Vir can even realise what's happening, lost as if it only ever happened in his memory. There is a lingering trace, though, the warmth and wetness of Lennier's mouth where it caressed Vir's skin.

Lennier steps back, but doesn't meet his eyes.

Vir isn't sure what a Minbari would do in this situation, so he goes with what he knows, what he half-remembers from simpler times: he steps forward, taking up Lennier's position in space, and with two fingers tilts his chin up. After a long, slow moment, he puts his mouth gently against Lennier's mouth, kissing him Centauri-style with soft, moving lips.

After, Lennier says, "I took some alcohol, which I should not have done."

Vir tries not to look hurt. Then Lennier strokes his cool, small fingers against Vir's cheek – which he knows is warm with flush, with blood – and adds, "but I am glad to have spent this time with you, my friend."

"I'm always glad of our time together," Vir responds, as earnestly as he knows how, trying to match Lennier's tone. He hesitates, then bends his head, swiftly, to place a kiss on Lennier's neck, just where it meets his shoulder. He feels like he lingers for too long, but the firm, hot feel of Lennier's tendon against his mouth makes it difficult to pull away. Eventually, he raises his head again.

Lennier smiles at him, and this time Vir can anticipate it, knows what's about to happen before it occurs: Lennier presses his mouth to Vir's mouth, kissing him Centauri-style with soft, moving lips. Completing the circuit, the loop, the eddy.

After, Vir says, "Will I see you at the bar next week?"

Lennier says, "Always."

III. Rondo alla Polacca

Every day, at the hour of dawn, Delenn sits on a bench with the ghost of her old lover, Susan's old friend, and watches the sun come up over Minbar.

In the hours before dawn, they lie together in the dark, and Delenn covers Susan's body with her hands: over the still-hard slopes of her shoulders and down her arms, across the curve of her hips to cup firmly at her ass, just nudging the lower slope of her breast to soothe the place where her belly is softening into middle age. Delenn doesn't tease or tickle; her touch is firm and whole, her palms and fingers moving evenly, calmly, as if taking the measure of Susan's body. Even after years of this, Susan still shivers at the deliberateness of Delenn's hands on her. She wonders, sometimes, if all Minbari love like this, with this same steady stillness.

Susan caresses in turn, and if she loves more like an Earther than like a Minbari, Delenn doesn't seem to mind. There are little ridges of bone near Delenn's waist, and Susan likes to touch them, kiss them, likes to imagine what they might have looked like before Delenn's change. There are freckles on Delenn's shoulders and a delicate fan of wrinkles next to each eye, and Susan kisses these and rubs her thumb over these and often, before too long, takes Delenn's mouth with her own, no longer willing to be so far apart, no longer willing to be two bodies. She surprises herself with a voraciousness she hasn't known in years, an urge to be inside Delenn's body, in her and over her and under and around her, encompassing her pale skin and strong arms and the delicate pink of her lips.

In the hours before dawn, they often make love, Delenn's quick clever mouth taking Susan fast and a little rough as she writhes and arches against the sheets, Susan slipping her four fingers into Delenn's body and thumbing over her clit, their thighs opening to each other, their mouths opening too in harsh pants. Susan rests her forehead against Delenn's; Delenn cups Susan's cheek with that same careful, firm touch.

After, Delenn's hair is damp and curled with sweat, her eyes bright and alive. Susan loves her most in those moments, when she lies back and draws one knee up and crosses her arms behind her head, when she lets her eyes linger on Susan's body. There are times when Susan thinks that these are the best moments because they are the moments at which Delenn is about to leave her, at which Delenn is about to get up and dress and go to watch the sunrise. Susan's never really seen much point in lying to herself, so she allows herself to indulge in those moments, to watch Delenn as she rises from the bed, to feel thoroughly the almost unbearable pang of watching her walk out to the hallway.

In the hours after dawn, Susan pulls out her Ranger's cloak and puts it on, watches as Delenn squares her shoulders and assumes her Presidency as if it, too, were a mantle to be carried. They work together surprisingly well, which is something Susan would never have predicted back in the days that they were on Babylon 5 together. We were different people then, Delenn says sometimes, and Susan sometimes answers, No we weren't, and Susan sometimes answers, We just never saw each other then. Delenn, President Delenn, rolls her eyes in exasperation. But when Ivanova, Anla-shok Na Ivanova, runs out of resources or energy or patience, Delenn steps in to broker on her behalf; when the President runs out of resources or energy or patience, the Anla-shok Na steps in like an avenging angel to fix what needs fixing. Ivanova says, We shape the world in our image, and Delenn answers, Yes, and Ivanova thinks that together they are terrible and unstoppable, because thinking this makes her glad to have lived this long.

-

When Susan first came to live on Minbar and to take control of the Rangers, a year or so after Sheridan had left the job vacant, Delenn was there to greet her.

"It is so good to see you, Susan," she said, taking Ivanova's hands in hers and clasping them tight. Her hands were warm.

"You too," Susan answered. "I hope you don't mind me trespassing in your home until I can find another base of operations."

"My home is yours," Delenn said (and Susan should have known even then), "for as long as you like to stay."

Susan found that she had missed the little roll that Delenn put on her Ls, the way she stretched her vowels.

"Thank you," she said, and let Delenn lead her inside.

-

Only a few weeks later, they had developed a routine – tea together in the morning, work all day (and either Ivanova was getting old, or butting heads with Rangers was even more of a pain in the ass than wrangling recalcitrant EarthForce officers), talking together late into the night – how to build peace, how to stop the waves of raiders along this border or that border, how to preserve the structures that they had seen friends die to put in place. Susan slept dreamlessly for the first time in years.

She watched Delenn carefully, watched her watching the sunrise every morning. Delenn had no secrets anymore (she said) so she told Susan the story of John's last days and the origin of her morning ritual.

One morning, just after sunrise and just three months after Ivanova arrived on Minbar, Susan brought Delenn a cup of tea and sat next to her on the bench that faced the window.

"I was thinking that it was about time for me to find a place to live," she said.

Delenn took a slow sip of her tea, then set it on the bench beside her. Without turning to face her, Delenn slid her hand across the bench, placed it over Susan's and laced their fingers together.

"I was beginning to wish that you wouldn't," she said.

Susan blinked in surprise, her gaze still directed at the sun that had just come up.

Delenn turned, finally, forcing Susan to turn too, to meet her gaze square on.

"There is a word in Minbari," Delenn began. Susan waited while she seemed to collect her thoughts. "Nafak-toth. It is a bitter herb that we grow for sicknesses, and," here Delenn broke eye contact, looking down. "It also means second-love."

"Oh," Susan said. It was probably the best pickup line she had ever heard, but damned if she knew how to answer it.

"I was beginning to wish that you would stay," Delenn said. She drew one knuckle along the line of Susan's jaw.

Susan Ivanova had led soldiers to their deaths and killed with her own hands, suffered through plagues and civil wars and she had witnessed her own love die more times than she cared to remember, so she did not hesitate, but leaned forward and brushed her lips against Delenn's mouth, softly, like an introduction, or a question.

"Nafak-toth," Susan said, haltingly.

Delenn, whose cheeks had pinked just a little, nodded.

"I like it," Susan decided. "Very Russian."

Then Delenn leaned forward and brought their mouths together again, and Susan remembered all her life the feel of Delenn's hand at that moment, cupping the nape of her neck, bittersweet and strong.