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comment_fic, which wanted G'Kar/Londo and love. I haven't written Babylon 5 in ages, but I will always love these two, as amazingly painful as they are.
Title: A Good Death
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Babylon 5
Characters/Pairings: G'Kar, Londo Mollari. G'Kar/Londo
Summary: G'Kar and Londo, in the afterlife after all is said and done. It is a mark of who they are, perhaps, that this is the sign of their love
Wordcount: 1539
Warnings/Notes: POST-CANON. Afterlife. Regret and apologies and forgiveness and love.
Disclaimer: Not mine
comment_fic, which wanted G'Kar/Londo and love. I haven't written Babylon 5 in ages, but I will always love these two, as amazingly painful as they are.Title: A Good Death
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Babylon 5
Characters/Pairings: G'Kar, Londo Mollari. G'Kar/Londo
Summary: G'Kar and Londo, in the afterlife after all is said and done. It is a mark of who they are, perhaps, that this is the sign of their love
Wordcount: 1539
Warnings/Notes: POST-CANON. Afterlife. Regret and apologies and forgiveness and love.
Disclaimer: Not mine
A Good Death
"It does not seem fair."
The words were soft. Quiet. They lacked exuberance, nearly emotion as well. A strange thing, from Londo Mollari. G'Kar arched a brow as he turned to look at him. Londo did not return the gesture. His eyes remained fixed on the two bodies lying lifeless on the floor. Entwined, in death as in life. As they had been for so many, many years.
"And what do you know of fairness?" G'Kar asked, though perhaps gently enough. The time for anger was well past. He had no more wish to be cruel. "Death comes to all, Mollari. It is perhaps the one true justice in this universe. Do not spoil it."
Londo shook his head, an odd expression on his face. He drifted forward slightly, knelt down to feather a ghostly hand across the face of one of the corpses. G'Kar shivered a little. He felt the echo on his own cheek. It was not a pleasant sensation.
"I dreamed of this for years," the centauri said quietly. "I think I told you, some time or another. I always knew we would die at one another's hands. I did not ... I did not think it would be like this. I did not think it would be this way."
"Come away from there," G'Kar answered, ignoring the words for the moment. "Leave my corpse alone, Mollari. That battered carcass has been through enough without you poking at it from beyond the grave."
Londo looked at him for that. There was a smile on his face, a crooked, strained thing. It gave G'Kar the shivers, and he moved forward impatiently. He held a hand down to the centauri demandingly and glared at Londo until he accepted it and allowed G'Kar to pull him back to his feet. G'Kar steered him back a few paces, away from the bodies. They had been through enough. There was no point poking at them when it was all already done.
He moved to draw his hand away, once he was sure they were safely clear. Londo did not let it go. He held it fast, despite all G'Kar's glaring. He held it gently.
"It was not fair," Londo said, looking at him. There was something very old and very tired in the depths of his expression. "Years ago it brought me joy. Nothing made me happier than to know I would take my enemy with me upon my death. But now ... It should not have been this way. You should not have had to accompany me, G'Kar. I did not wish it."
It was ... It was an apology, G'Kar realised, or close to one. Londo was apologising for having killed him. It was an apology, and it was deeply and earnestly meant, and G'Kar almost laughed at it. He couldn't help it. Humour bubbled up within him, rich and dark and full of a lifetime's worth of irony, and for a moment there he almost laughed in Londo's face. It would have been fitting, perhaps. It would have been perfectly reminiscent of so much of their acquaintance.
He did not, in the end. He could not. Because it was earnest, because he knew that Londo truly grieved and truly regretted, and because the time for anger and for pain was so long past. He could not wish for them any longer.
He weighed Londo's hand in his. It was not heavy. For all the pain and misery and death that hand had meted out over their years, it was not heavy. It was ... very small, really. Londo always had been. He had made himself seem so large, so terrible, for so many years. It had been a lie, like so many things. Londo had always been small, underneath the veneer. A monster more of mistakes than malice, and always ready to answer for it with his life. They had lived their lives together. As enemies, for most of it, but still ...
There were very few people in G'Kar's life that he knew as intimately as he knew this creature before him. This man, this enemy, this friend, whose life had been entwined with his for so very long, and through such horrors. Londo knew more of him than most of his own people. Londo understood more of him than most of his own people. They had shared ... that much. They had shared all. Even, in the end, their deaths.
He did not regret it, G'Kar realised slowly. He did not regret dying by Londo's hand. It was ... fitting. It was right. Perfectly so. It was right in that black, hilarious fashion that so much of their lives had been right, an irony so exquisite, and it was right in some deeper way as well. It was right because it pleased him. He felt it in his chest. He did not regret it at all.
"... It was fair," he said at last, with a dark, laughing little twist of his mouth. Londo squinted at him, slightly unnerved by it, but curiously his hand did not twitch. The centauri stood in his grasp with calm, weary certainty, and G'Kar knew the rightness almost as a physical thing. He smiled, fierce and contented, and gripped his killer's hand in his own. "Do not regret it, Mollari. I do not. To breathe one's last while freeing a friend from slavery. That is a good death, for a Narn."
Londo did not react for a long moment. He stood very still, almost frozen, and stared hard into G'Kar's expression. G'Kar met it readily. Happily. He bared his teeth into Londo's uncertainty, and knew the rightness of his choice all over again when Londo slowly, wonderingly, smiled back. He saw his own happiness and knowing irony reflected in Londo's eyes, and knew that he could have had no better or more fitting companion in death.
"... To die with honour," Londo said very quietly, to the man who had killed him. "To die with honour at the hands of a friend. That is a good death ... for a Centauri."
A good death. A right death. It was a mark of the life they had led, G'Kar thought, a mark of the life they had shared, that in that phrase he heard the words 'I love you'. They could not be said themselves. They were words, perhaps, that the two of them would never say. Yet they were heard nonetheless. He heard them, and he did not think it false to say that Londo did too. A good death, at the hands of a friend. A death side by side, without malice and without regret. A death prophesied in hatred, and in the end granted, shared, from compassion.
Between the two of them, in the wake of who they were and what they had done, what greater sign of love could there be?
"... Come then," he said at last, tugging his hand free from Londo's and standing back to shake his head at him. "I am not standing beside your rotting carcass for all eternity. There is more to death than this, and I would like to find out what."
Londo chuckled. "Yes," he agreed. "There are many gods I would like to meet. I have many thanks to give, and a few obscenities as well. We should do a tour."
G'Kar rolled his eyes in exasperation. "And when one of your obscenities garners the wrong reaction?" he asked sweetly. "I may have play-acted as your bodyguard in life, Mollari, but you need not expect it in death. I will be standing to one side, laughing soundly at your misfortune."
Londo beamed at him. G'Kar faltered a little at the expression. It made the man look young again. Unwounded, as though all his years of slavery and death and harrowed regret had been peeled away from him. It was ... It was good. Right. He almost hoped, in that second, that he might find an expression like that of his own. There were two corpses behind them, old and wearied and riddled with scars. There was a life of pain bound up in them. Perhaps it had ended with the death they had shared. Perhaps, at least, it might do no harm to hope so.
"I would expect nothing less, my friend," Londo said, recalling him to the present. The centauri's expansive smile had softened, become something smaller and more intimate, and when he held out an arm as though to go sallying forth like a pair of interlinked drunkards once more, G'Kar did not refuse it. He could not. He threaded his arm through Londo's, and turned them both away from the bodies, the lives, that lay behind them.
A good death. A shared death. That was the hope even now. That was the joy. That was, in the end, perhaps all that either of them had ever longed for, when all else was settled and done. To share a death together, and find it good.
So then, he thought, moving forward with Londo beside him. They had better get going, hadn't they? They had better greet that death with pride and open arms.
It was all they had, after all. It would not do to waste it now.
"It does not seem fair."
The words were soft. Quiet. They lacked exuberance, nearly emotion as well. A strange thing, from Londo Mollari. G'Kar arched a brow as he turned to look at him. Londo did not return the gesture. His eyes remained fixed on the two bodies lying lifeless on the floor. Entwined, in death as in life. As they had been for so many, many years.
"And what do you know of fairness?" G'Kar asked, though perhaps gently enough. The time for anger was well past. He had no more wish to be cruel. "Death comes to all, Mollari. It is perhaps the one true justice in this universe. Do not spoil it."
Londo shook his head, an odd expression on his face. He drifted forward slightly, knelt down to feather a ghostly hand across the face of one of the corpses. G'Kar shivered a little. He felt the echo on his own cheek. It was not a pleasant sensation.
"I dreamed of this for years," the centauri said quietly. "I think I told you, some time or another. I always knew we would die at one another's hands. I did not ... I did not think it would be like this. I did not think it would be this way."
"Come away from there," G'Kar answered, ignoring the words for the moment. "Leave my corpse alone, Mollari. That battered carcass has been through enough without you poking at it from beyond the grave."
Londo looked at him for that. There was a smile on his face, a crooked, strained thing. It gave G'Kar the shivers, and he moved forward impatiently. He held a hand down to the centauri demandingly and glared at Londo until he accepted it and allowed G'Kar to pull him back to his feet. G'Kar steered him back a few paces, away from the bodies. They had been through enough. There was no point poking at them when it was all already done.
He moved to draw his hand away, once he was sure they were safely clear. Londo did not let it go. He held it fast, despite all G'Kar's glaring. He held it gently.
"It was not fair," Londo said, looking at him. There was something very old and very tired in the depths of his expression. "Years ago it brought me joy. Nothing made me happier than to know I would take my enemy with me upon my death. But now ... It should not have been this way. You should not have had to accompany me, G'Kar. I did not wish it."
It was ... It was an apology, G'Kar realised, or close to one. Londo was apologising for having killed him. It was an apology, and it was deeply and earnestly meant, and G'Kar almost laughed at it. He couldn't help it. Humour bubbled up within him, rich and dark and full of a lifetime's worth of irony, and for a moment there he almost laughed in Londo's face. It would have been fitting, perhaps. It would have been perfectly reminiscent of so much of their acquaintance.
He did not, in the end. He could not. Because it was earnest, because he knew that Londo truly grieved and truly regretted, and because the time for anger and for pain was so long past. He could not wish for them any longer.
He weighed Londo's hand in his. It was not heavy. For all the pain and misery and death that hand had meted out over their years, it was not heavy. It was ... very small, really. Londo always had been. He had made himself seem so large, so terrible, for so many years. It had been a lie, like so many things. Londo had always been small, underneath the veneer. A monster more of mistakes than malice, and always ready to answer for it with his life. They had lived their lives together. As enemies, for most of it, but still ...
There were very few people in G'Kar's life that he knew as intimately as he knew this creature before him. This man, this enemy, this friend, whose life had been entwined with his for so very long, and through such horrors. Londo knew more of him than most of his own people. Londo understood more of him than most of his own people. They had shared ... that much. They had shared all. Even, in the end, their deaths.
He did not regret it, G'Kar realised slowly. He did not regret dying by Londo's hand. It was ... fitting. It was right. Perfectly so. It was right in that black, hilarious fashion that so much of their lives had been right, an irony so exquisite, and it was right in some deeper way as well. It was right because it pleased him. He felt it in his chest. He did not regret it at all.
"... It was fair," he said at last, with a dark, laughing little twist of his mouth. Londo squinted at him, slightly unnerved by it, but curiously his hand did not twitch. The centauri stood in his grasp with calm, weary certainty, and G'Kar knew the rightness almost as a physical thing. He smiled, fierce and contented, and gripped his killer's hand in his own. "Do not regret it, Mollari. I do not. To breathe one's last while freeing a friend from slavery. That is a good death, for a Narn."
Londo did not react for a long moment. He stood very still, almost frozen, and stared hard into G'Kar's expression. G'Kar met it readily. Happily. He bared his teeth into Londo's uncertainty, and knew the rightness of his choice all over again when Londo slowly, wonderingly, smiled back. He saw his own happiness and knowing irony reflected in Londo's eyes, and knew that he could have had no better or more fitting companion in death.
"... To die with honour," Londo said very quietly, to the man who had killed him. "To die with honour at the hands of a friend. That is a good death ... for a Centauri."
A good death. A right death. It was a mark of the life they had led, G'Kar thought, a mark of the life they had shared, that in that phrase he heard the words 'I love you'. They could not be said themselves. They were words, perhaps, that the two of them would never say. Yet they were heard nonetheless. He heard them, and he did not think it false to say that Londo did too. A good death, at the hands of a friend. A death side by side, without malice and without regret. A death prophesied in hatred, and in the end granted, shared, from compassion.
Between the two of them, in the wake of who they were and what they had done, what greater sign of love could there be?
"... Come then," he said at last, tugging his hand free from Londo's and standing back to shake his head at him. "I am not standing beside your rotting carcass for all eternity. There is more to death than this, and I would like to find out what."
Londo chuckled. "Yes," he agreed. "There are many gods I would like to meet. I have many thanks to give, and a few obscenities as well. We should do a tour."
G'Kar rolled his eyes in exasperation. "And when one of your obscenities garners the wrong reaction?" he asked sweetly. "I may have play-acted as your bodyguard in life, Mollari, but you need not expect it in death. I will be standing to one side, laughing soundly at your misfortune."
Londo beamed at him. G'Kar faltered a little at the expression. It made the man look young again. Unwounded, as though all his years of slavery and death and harrowed regret had been peeled away from him. It was ... It was good. Right. He almost hoped, in that second, that he might find an expression like that of his own. There were two corpses behind them, old and wearied and riddled with scars. There was a life of pain bound up in them. Perhaps it had ended with the death they had shared. Perhaps, at least, it might do no harm to hope so.
"I would expect nothing less, my friend," Londo said, recalling him to the present. The centauri's expansive smile had softened, become something smaller and more intimate, and when he held out an arm as though to go sallying forth like a pair of interlinked drunkards once more, G'Kar did not refuse it. He could not. He threaded his arm through Londo's, and turned them both away from the bodies, the lives, that lay behind them.
A good death. A shared death. That was the hope even now. That was the joy. That was, in the end, perhaps all that either of them had ever longed for, when all else was settled and done. To share a death together, and find it good.
So then, he thought, moving forward with Londo beside him. They had better get going, hadn't they? They had better greet that death with pride and open arms.
It was all they had, after all. It would not do to waste it now.