Truth, Belief, and Second Chances
The woman from maintenance paused, cloth in hand, and glared at him as he entered the ICU. When the light fell the right way, he could see why. Fingerprints, handprints, a forehead or two, remnants of a dozen visitors not allowed any further than this glass partition. He jammed his hands a little deeper into his pockets as a pledge of good behavior and shifted his gaze as she set back to work.
"Doc?"
Franklin looked up with a scowl. "He's trying to pretend he's back to normal, but the labs say different. He's already had a visit from Vir. You can see him, but I'm timing you in nanoseconds."
Garibaldi nodded his understanding, and turned into the cubicle. Mollari lay back, a pillow wedged beneath his head, dark hair splayed across the cushion. Machines murmured and monitors beeped, above him, beside him, behind him. The Centauri's eyelids fluttered, then jerked open, as he struggled out of a dream. He shivered a moment, and it seemed to Garibaldi that the monitor chimed a little louder.
"You know," Garibaldi began gently, "I've spent some time in this establishment and I can tell you the accommodations are overrated."
Londo tried for a smile that morphed into a sneer. "That is certain." His voice was hoarse and tired. "It is good to see you, Mr. Gari…" The sound, and his energy, ran out before he could finish, but he pressed an elbow into the mattress to try to raise himself.
Garibaldi jumped forward, his hands stretched out to restrain the action. "No, no, no!" He realized he was afraid to touch the Centauri, fearful of disturbing tubes and wires. "You lie back," he said gently. "I just came to check in on you. Stephen will be throwing me out in a heartbeat." Bad choices of words, but too late to take it back.
"This place…," Londo croaked.
"Medlab?" Garibaldi asked. Londo scowled and rocked his head side to side. "The station?"
"Yes, yes, Babylon 5," Mollari agreed. "It seems to want us dead."
"You're going to be OK, Londo. You need time to heal but…"
"No, n…" A cough swallowed the words. Mollari worked to catch his breath before he continued. "Look around, Mr. Garibaldi, think back. Ambassador Kosh poisoned the day he arrived. Commander Sinclair nearly blown up shortly after. Yourself shot in the back. Young Lennier blown up in my place. Delenn kidnapped and threatened with death. The doctor stabbed and left for dead. Last week, an attempt on Sheridan's life -- not the first. And now, here I am!"
"But you are here, Londo. We're still here," Garibaldi countered, "at least most of us." He wondered for a moment if he would ever stop missing Jeff. "Besides, Doc tells us this wasn't an attack on you. This was your heart."
"An attack from without, an attack from within, what does it matter?" Londo snorted. He closed his eyes and rolled his head away from Garibaldi.
Michael measured the situation, opting for boldness. "At least when we're our own enemy, we have a little bit of power." He watched for a reaction, watched for a long time.
Londo did not open his eyes when he finally spoke. "Power is a dangerous thing, my friend."
"Yeah, but I can tell you firsthand: it beats the alternative." He pushed back the images of black-suited telepaths that flooded his mind. He could not attend to his anger now.
Hospitality was not the first concern of the ICU, but Garibaldi unearthed a stool from beneath a machine, pulled it up near the bed, and sat, his head level with Mollari's.
"Londo," he whispered, his voice urging the Centauri to acknowledge him. "Londo!"
Mollari opened his eyes, and though he attempted an expression of contempt, Garibaldi saw the fire of fear that crackled in their depths.
"Londo, look," Garibaldi urged. "These moments, when we get close enough to look over the edge but don't fall, these moments are a second chance. A chance to admit that the life we've been living is unmanageable. A chance to try to put things right."
"You have had one of these second chances? When you were recovering?"
"Londo, I lost count of how many second chances I've had in my life. Yeah, getting shot in the back by someone you trusted will make you take another look at your life, but I nearly blew that one. I could give you a list of times I came within a breath of throwing away everything that was good in my life. For some insane reason, the universe gives us that kick in the head just at the last second. We've got to salvage something from it besides a headache."
"And what would you have me do, Mr. Garibaldi, eh? Meditate in the garden? Scatter flower petals throughout Down Below?"
"No." He stretched the syllable cynically. "You'd probably get mugged and I'd get stuck with the aggravation of investigating."
Londo was seized by a spasm of coughing, although for just a moment, Garibaldi thought it might have started as a laugh. Franklin appeared in the doorway just as Londo caught his breath again. The Centauri fell back on the pillow, and both he and Garibaldi met Franklin's scowl with sheepish glances. The doctor tapped his wrist, a signal to Michael that the visit had gone on long enough.
Garibaldi turned back to Mollari. "Londo, it's your heart; it's your life. It's not about what I want you to do, or what anyone else wants you to do."
Anger fired Londo's eyes, a blaze so bold Garibaldi jumped back. "Do not ask me what I want, Mr. Garibaldi," Londo warned. "Do not ever ask that question." He watched Garibaldi's trepidation for a silent moment, until a long breath relaxed his features. "It is easy for you to dismiss the demands of others, Mr. Garibaldi," Mollari continued, petulance hardening his voice, "but you are not about to become Emperor. My whole life has been about responsibilities. Duty. Honor. Family."
Garibaldi cut him off. "Londo, when I met you, you were a burnt out diplomat from a run down empire, hanging on to tales of glory weighted down with the dust of centuries. You schemed and connived and lied and cheated your way into power, into favor, and into the throne. Don't pretend you don't want it, not with me anyway."
Mollari grimaced and huffed but said nothing.
"Londo, we do what we need to do to get by in the world. Most of the time, we don't even notice the choices. Hell, most of the time, we think we have no choice. But at these moments, it's all about choice. Yes, Londo, you're about to become emperor, and a great many people are counting on you, looking to you, for leadership, for inspiration. So what are you going to choose?"
Mollari's head lolled back on the pillow and his gaze drifted from Garibaldi's eyes to a distant spot over his shoulder, a point receding in both time and place. Memory danced across his eyes, fluttered over his eyelids, and kissed them closed. Worry had taken hold of Garibaldi by the time Londo spoke again.
"I have had four wives, two lovers, and very few friends in my life, Mr. Garibaldi. I have put myself ahead of most of them. But there has always been one passion, one devotion, one love, if a ….What did you call me? A burnt out diplomat? …if a burnt out diplomat may dare to use a word like love.
"Always, I have cherished the Republic. Yes, yes, Mr. Garibaldi, perhaps the days of our greatest glory are behind us, even far behind us. Perhaps we have, at times, lost sight of the source of our greatness to wallow in its trappings. But I believe, Mr. Garibaldi." He looked at Michael now. "I believe we are a great people, can be a great people once again, and for all my selfishness, my friend, I would do anything to protect my people."
Garibaldi's tone was gentle. "And just maybe that do anything attitude is what gets you into trouble."
Mollari scowled. "What are you saying, you annoying creature?"
"Just that sometimes, Londo, we have to be careful that devotion doesn't become obsession, that belief doesn't become blindness."
Londo nodded but said nothing.
"So care for your people, Londo. Save them. But listen closely. The same heart that gives you that devotion will warn you of the dangers."
Londo's glance strayed to the glass partition. Its memories lingered although its smudges had been erased. "And I suppose you would have me make amends to a veritable panoply of poor souls on whom I have trampled, eh?"
"I was always skeptical of that whole make amends idea, but then, hell, I'm skeptical of pretty much everything. We can't change the past, Londo. We can only make the future possible. If you've got bridges to the future that need some repair, you know it. Deal."
He stood up and pushed the stool back to its home.
"You are a most irritating man, Mr. Garibaldi."
"Why, thank you!" he teased. "The way I see it, a friend has two jobs. One of them, which clearly I've executed successfully, is telling you the truth when you least want to hear it."
"Pray tell, Mr. Garibaldi," Londo halted him. "What is it you consider the second responsibility of a friend?"
"To believe in you when you no longer believe in yourself." He smiled at the memory that prompted the words and at the hodge-podge of emotions they provoked in the Centauri and in himself. "Rest well, Londo. Good night, old friend."
Michael Garibaldi made his way silently out of Medlab, listening for echoes of Jeff Sinclair's voice in the empty halls.