Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

See you in some other lifetime.

-Garibaldi

2067 — The Earth Colony On Proxima 3

You are eighteen years old and your knuckles ache, skin split from where they'd connected with the guy's teeth. He looks up at you from the ground, blood trickling out of his busted lip and hate in his eyes. Some of that blood is yours. The smudges on his chin and around his mouth like messy red lipstick.

"Come near her again," you say. "And I'll blind you before I push you out of the dome and watch your head pop."

It's only after he scrambles to his feet and darts in the opposite direction that you realize your sister is going to be pissed.

Your knuckles sting as you force your balled fist into your pocket, feet half-shuffling on your way back to the apartment. You don't even live there anymore, you moved out when you graduated, but in some ways it's still home.

It's where your baby sister lives.

She is going to be so fucking mad at you and you hate fighting with her because her big eyes always make you feel like the bully.

But he laid hands on her. He's been tearing her down from the inside for months and you knew you couldn't do anything about it until he escalated beyond the pithy, targeted remarks. No one, not god, not the devil, not some idiot she thinks she's in love with, lays a hand on your baby sister without—

Actually scratch that.

With or without her permission.

You don't give a single Earther shit about what she thinks about her boyfriend laying hands on her. You know he could convince her she deserved it. You know he'll prey on her insecurites to justify it. You know he'll wheedle and lie and twist everything around to make what he does look like love.

And if he gets within range again, you will break his fucking face.

Try again

1970 — San Fransico, California

You're not cut out to be a single father but damn it you've been trying. Long nights and tired days mean you've slipped a little in your paternal duties, but you're trying and this little girl is your whole world.

You look at her and you see your wife before the cancer took her.

You see yourself the way you look in the old photos—bright and hopeful and eager for whatever life gives you next.

Maybe she's not a little girl anymore, but she's your little girl.

Your knuckles rap on the doorframe. "Can I come in?"

Your daughter looks up at you with red rings around her eyes. She looks down and to the side, which isn't a yes but it isn't a no either.

Stepping into the room you look around at the trappings. The beads and posters. The pictures of her friends.

"Something happen at school, honey?"

She shakes her head and takes a shuddering breath. "No, dad, I'm fine."

"You're curled up in the middle of your bed crying," you point out. You move and settle on the edge of the mattress. "Come on, talk to me."

It's that boy again, you just know it. You don't know how to make her confide in you or how to promise it'll be okay. She scoots forward and presses against your side.

"Did you break up again?"

She nods. "It's fine, I didn't like him anyway." The lie and the heartbreak fill her mouth and the words come out mumbled.

"He isn't worth it," you say.

She starts to pull away but you curl your arm around her and pull her back, not quite sure how to actually voice an apology. You tilt your head against hers. "I've got you, honey," you promise instead. "Your old man is here." You give her a small squeeze. "I'm unkillable, so you've got me forever."

The laugh that breaks past her lips is cracked and wet, but it's a laugh.

You can at the very least do everything possible to ensure that at least one man treats her like the treasure she is.

Closer and closer but not quite right

2011— Chicago, Illinois

You are trying, so hard, not to be that guy.

You are trying, so hard, not to fall into the incel bullshit of 'girls only date assholes' because you know it's reductive bupkis but you are also fifteen and you have been in love with her since you were twelve.

The make-up would do a fine job of covering the bruise if you hadn't known her for a decade. If you couldn't see the minor difference in the tone between the pigment and her skin. The foundation is thick and cakey under her eye, her mascara trying to play defense and draw your eyes to hers and not to the atrocity.

"Did he hit you?"

She pushes her hair back behind her ear. "It's fine. I handled it."

"That's not an answer."

She fixes you with a glare. "I don't need you to white knight for me," she snaps.

"So yes, he hit you." Your jaw clenches with a degree of finality. "And that's not even—He tears you down constantly. I swear to fucking god—"

"You lay one hand on him and I swear I'll never speak to you again." Her finger jabs hard into the middle of your chest. "I don't need you to protect me."

"Maybe," you say, staring her down. "Maybe not."

Her nostrils flare and the muscle in her jaw tightens as her jaw clenches.

The fight goes out of your shoulders. "Look I—"

"I know," she interrupts. "I know and that's why you can't." Her hand withdraws and you can see the fear, uncertainty, and doubt crowding her features. "I can't 'owe' you for this," she says. "You can't beat the hell out of my boyfriend because I can't have you—I just can't."

You want to grab her shoulders and promise that she'd never 'owe' you for that sort of thing. You want to promise that this isn't about jealousy or nice guys this is about restoring balance to the universe.

But you don't even know if that's true.

You fold her into your arms and mutter, "yeah, I get it."

What she doesn't know won't hurt her and you don't have to hit him to put the fear of god into him.

We can figure this out.

1880 — London, England

You know it's wrong.

The air outside the house tastes like the smoke from the factories but it's not as harsh as the hate in your lungs.

It's not an uncommon story, but you know it's a bad one. You have spent the last six years watching your father wear her down. Belittle her. Berate her.

You are fourteen now. Nearly a man.

It's a man's job to protect the women in his life. To uphold justice and righteousness. Your thumb brushes the back of the knife and you roll the commandments around in your head, trying to work out the best course of action.

Honor thy father and mother.

Defend the helpless.

Speak out when you see an abuse.

The door opens and your mother calls your name. You drop the knife like a naughty child and turn quickly, hoping she didn't see anything. Her expression is apologetic, but not pitying.

Your father is a monster.

So you'll honor your mother.

The knife is too obvious, and you need to be sure the constable won't pin it on your mother. You are young and you are strong. You can shoulder this burden. You know there's evidence of your father cheating his business partners and you can get it into the hands of the police. You can send him away. You can support her after he's gone. You can keep your family together, the important parts, and someday you'll be a better father than he is and your children will know their grandmother without his shadow beating her down.

She touches your cheek. "You're up to something," she says.

You shake your head, your schemes are your own. "No," you lie. "Just thinking." You smile at her and brighten when she smiles back.

Try it again

Chapter Text

2484 — Minbar

"I don't like it," you say, looking up at the sky. "He doesn't show you the respect you deserve."

She shifts uncomfortably in your periphery. You have been friends all your life. Your familes had been Worker Caste—back when that meant something—and always linked, but your friendship with her has been meaningful on its own.

"It's a good match," she says.

"For him maybe," you retort. Exhaling you shake your head in silent apology. It's not your job to make her decisions for her. It's your job to support her through them. If she stumbles, you'll catch her, just like she's caught you. You drop your chin and then lift it again, looking towards the sun rise. "When are you going to watch him?"

She smooths her hands down the tops of her thighs. "Tonight."

"You seem nervous."

"Perhaps," she says.

"Well, old friend," you say. "I'll be up all night if you need me."

Her smile warms when she looks at you. "No long lecture? An impassioned speech about the importance of putting myself first?" She teases.

"Well, if I thought you would listen…" You feel yourself grin and it ruins any attempt you might have made at feigning severity. "Maybe in another lifetime."

We Minbari believe, as do some humans, that souls travel together. Some groups of souls are drawn, one to the other, in life to relive good relationships from the past and if possible, to make right the bad ones.

-Delenn