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White Star 3 falls first.

Delenn tries very hard not to see it as a bad omen; fails, when she finds out who was aboard. Marcus, a wrong death for the right reasons.




John locks himself in his office on day four, too exhausted to even feel numb. Garibaldi gone now, too, and no matter how much they'd been fighting, he never wanted this. Somewhere in his own grief, it occurs to him that Delenn and Michael were friends, once upon a time.




Narn, Centauri, Pak'ma'ra. Torn to shreds. Minbari, Gaim, Brakiri. Blown to pieces. Drazi, Abbai, Humans.

Death upon death upon death.

The Vorlons never lift a finger.




Susan, at least, takes two whole Shadow ships with her, riding her White Star with a fury not even God himself ever unleashed.

An hour later, Sheridan shoves Delenn against the wall in his (their) quarters, roughly tearing moans and gasps from her throat as she strains up to meet each desperate thrust.

It is wrong. She never wanted to feel like this.

(But better this than not feeling anything at all.)




It is day seven of the fight, and the universe stands still. Holds its breath. Watches in horror.

As Babylon 5 ceases to exist.




They barely make it out alive, what remains of the once proud White Star in tatters around them, just enough to get them to a remote planet near Alaca 2.

John catalogues the dead, one at a time, an empty glass raised as a salute to each and every one they loved and lost.

Zach. Stephen. Vir. G'Kar.

Delenn finds a bottle, a dead Ranger's souvenir from Narn, with just enough golden liquid left to fill the glass up once. She takes the first sip.


Nothing matters anymore.




Sooner or later, the Shadows will come after them. If the Vorlons don't get there first, or they run out of food or air or will to live.

They don't rebuild. There's nobody left, no one to save, nothing to salvage, and losing themselves in each other only works for so long.




After everything they've been through, it starts with an innocent cough.

Her unique physiology would make treatment difficult on a good day, and they haven't had any of those in months.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he whispers one night, into the brittle tresses of her hair. He barely remembers the last time she was lucid enough to reply. "We were supposed to have twenty years. It was supposed to be me." Not her, never her.




On May 26th, 2261, two years, four months, and seven days after she pulled back the hood obscuring her face from his curious eyes, John watches Delenn die.

(His world ends when her heartbeat stops, but he never leaves her side.)