REAL LIFE

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Babylon 5, and I never will. JMS, Warner Bros and a few other people do. Go bother them for money; I'm poor.

RATING: PG-13.

SUMMARY: Suffering from post-natal depression, Delenn makes a drastic choice. What will this mean for her marriage to John - and for her newborn son? John/Delenn.

"I'm leaving."

It was that simple. She stood in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a tidy ponytail that jarred with the rest of her appearance. There were dark circles smudged under her eyes; her mouth was paler and tighter than it had ever been in that uncompromising frown. All that he could ignore. All that he had become used to in the long months of her pregnancy, because he knew that it would cease in a few months. He'd have his wife back - his happy, smiling wife. He could ignore her thin - too, too thin - frame, overburdened as it was with the peculiar distension of her postnatal state. It just meant that she was no longer crying out because of the pain in her back.

Everything dark and angry about her, he could ignore - he had ignored. Because, soon, he'd have his wife back.

Now, he knew himself for the idiot he truly was.

She stood in the doorway, her eyes dark, her mouth in that tight, tight frown. Her voice was so steady as she simply looked at him and said, "I'm leaving."

At her breast, an infant struggled to awake and scream. Their son was always screaming; she was always awake to make him stop. It was the way things were: he needed his sleep, he was an important man and needed to be fresh and impressive at work. She, on the other hand, was rarely seen after news of her pregnancy had become public. Surely she wouldn't risk the media attention her leaving would cause? The ISN crew would eat her alive...

Then again, she looked like she could deal with them. Her eyes flashed fire whenever anyone came near her son. She rarely allow his picture to be taken. She was, he thought, as fierce a mother as a tigress protecting her cub. Their son would be safe.

"I'm leaving you. And I don't think that I'll be coming back."

It was ironic, he thought, that after all they had been through, everything they had braved, it would have been this natural disaster that ripped them apart. And even that sounded dramatic. Trust her to downplay everything. She'd been wonderful with the media men - ISN had not been able to get anything on them, anything at all. Wherever they went - his office, their home, even to conferences - somehow, they ended up with nothing. Because she fixed on them hard and tired eyes, and they went away.

They went away and never came back and now those hard eyes were on him, and her voice was as thin and as broken as when she spoke to the plethora of doctors that had insisted on following her around for most of the year before. It wasn't his wife that was standing there, and that wasn't her voice. His wife's voice was low, melodious. Beautiful as she was.

In no way could you call this woman beautiful, and that was the real tragedy here.

The infant in her arms struggled again, a foot breaking free to kick at her angrily, an instant before a high-pitched wail split the air with all the venom a child could muster. That wasn't his son, either. Why did he think his son would be obedient? Why did he think his son would be calm and composed like his wife? Look at the woman standing there, with the bags under her eyes and the lines in her face. She'd aged decades in a few short months.

"I'm sorry."

But she wasn't. If she was, she'd take pity on him and stay. If she was, she'd give up this ridiculous existence and go back to the way she was - to the loving, composed and calm woman he had fallen in love with. Who was this stranger that had stolen his wife's form and dirtied it so?

She looked at him for another long moment, hand reaching up to grab the baby's foot and push it back in the swaddling clothes. She didn't let their son - her son - wander around unsupervised. You could never tell, with children. He could actually walk, maybe... he could, he could, he could. He could make it all the way to the stairs. Even crawling was dangerous. He could fall and his neck would snap into little little pieces, and there'd be no more screaming infant to protect.

Her back was to him now, and he still couldn't say anything. Her clothes made that peculiar 'swish swish' as she walked still; at least her grace was still there. Then her hand lashed out and shoved the door open, keeping it open with a foot as she paused in the doorway. They'd decided against the automatic doors, because their son - her son - might be injured by a door opening when it shouldn't. So, they had old fashioned doors for her to shove open and keep open with one dainty foot, and the baby still struggling to scream in her embrace.

Even her walk had changed. Each movement was sharper, more focused. It had a goal in mind. He'd been told this is what happened with pregnant women for a while, sometimes - they'd become more focused, especially as the pregnancy progressed, because of the upcoming pain. Because childbirth had a purpose, and that made the pain all right. What did that mean for the rest, though? It paled into insignificance?

Why take the baby if she hated it so much?

So, no, he didn't protest. And no, he didn't think on it overmuch. There was time enough for tears and for trying to win her back. There was time enough to miss his son.

But for the moment, John Sheridan watched his wife stride out, head held high, his son screaming in her iron grip, and he was silent. Then he turned his back and went back to bed, closing his eyes to the blissful quiet that assailed him.

Time enough... eighteen years. More than time enough. You could do so much...

Couldn't you?

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fin