From Zero To Hero by ceilidh
A/N: Hello, and welcome to my first B5 fanfic. I'm pretty new to this series, but it's already made quite an impression on me - especially the events in season four that lead to Garibaldi's betrayal of Sheridan, and the fallout from it.
I can't help but wonder, though, how they repaired their friendship. There's certainly quite a jump between John's reaction towards Michael in Between The Darkness And The Light and his reaction to Michael's little... um... welcome home surprise in The Deconstruction Of Falling Stars. So I've written this series of short stories to address that.
It starts as a missing scene from Between The Darkness And The Light, and goes through until John's inauguration as President in No Compromises. I hope you enjoy, please let me know if you do - and special thanks to Sue for all your encouragement :o)
From Zero To Hero
Chapter One - The Enemy Within
As pursuing gunfire behind him faded away, Stephen Franklin allowed himself a trace of a smile. Having a P12 telepath on your side had its plus points, especially when you were running for your life, with blasts of plamsa sizzling alongside. All Lyta had to do was let their pursuers come into sight, place the suggestion of crippling pain into their minds, and they went down like groaning ninepins.
Thanks to her, they'd now reached Felicia, and some extra guards that Number One had sent in after them, without any serious problems. At least that gave them some breathing space, a better chance to pull off the seemingly impossible.
But their problems weren't over yet. A rush of adrenalin had given John Sheridan the strength to stagger out of his cell, into the safe hands of his rescuers. But as Stephen had worriedly noted, he was relying on the Resistance guard beside him to keep him upright - Garibaldi's offer of help shoved away with a glare that could have melted lead.
Garibaldi's reaction was equally predictable. And, for Stephen, even more worrying. He saw frustration on his friend's haggard face. Exhaustion in an indefatigable body. And, most worryingly of all, he saw defeat in Michael's eyes. Realization, as he backed shakily away from his furious captain, that everything he'd just done to save John Sheridan's life had counted for nothing. The forgiveness he needed so badly just wasn't going to come.
Death, though, at his captain's hands, a thought once so thinkable, was still frighteningly likely. Fuelled by pure hatred, John Sheridan had blasted that guard into the next dimension. As the fury on his face had revealed, he wouldn't hesitate in doing the same to a once trusted friend, and now hated enemy.
Little wonder, then, that Michael Garibaldi now retreated to the back of the group, refusing to meet the one pair of sympathetic eyes that followed him. And when John Sheridan's strength finally ran out and he slumped to the ground, he didn't dare step forward to help.
Then again, he wasn't in great shape either. His own exhaustion was overwhelming him now. And not for the first time, no doubt not for the last, Stephen Franklin wished he had six pairs of hands.
Two patients – no, two friends – badly needed his help. Now he had to decide who to help first. But then wasn't it typical of Garibaldi, the real Garibaldi, to quietly save him the trouble?
"I'm – I'm fine, doc," he insisted, although the way he was swaying sideways suggested otherwise – exhaustion, pain, and God knew what else, all too evident in a voice that lacked all its usual strength.
"John first, he – he needs you more than I do-"
With no time to argue, in truth still stunned by the day's rollercoastering events, Stephen just nodded – years of practice enabling him to treat one patient while keeping a subtle eye on another.
Garibaldi was no stranger to injury, of course. Hell, he landed himself in Medlab so often, he had his own bed! But this. No, Medlab's most regular customer had never gone through anything as bad as this.
Beneath all those sickening bruises, his face was much too pale, shining under a veil of sweat. And that blankness in his eyes, the greyness around them, was not a good sign. It wasn't good at all.
His first thought, naturally, was dread that Bester still had control over his friend's brutalised mind. But then the blank eyes cleared a little. A flash of that famous spirit made a welcome reappearance. And no amount of brutal torture could falsify the concern in Garibaldi's next, inevitable question.
"How – How is he?"
"He'll be fine, Michael. Like you, he just needs rest," Stephen assured him, patting his shoulder – concern returning as he felt feverish heat radiating from it, even through the thick layers of his friend's uniform.
Turning him around, with a worrying lack of resistance, Stephen cursed in realization. In the rush to rescue Sheridan, there'd been no time for fancy stitchwork on that stab wound. That knife had been big, too, piercing deeply into Garibaldi's back, and… damn, damn, damn!
Running through these tunnels hadn't just re-opened those sutures, it had exposed the wound beneath. And if blood could pour out of it, as freely as it now did through his fingers, then bacteria from these filthy tunnels could just as easily leach in – the infection they'd cause as potentially lethal as more blood lost from an already weakened body.
Cursing, though, wasn't going to do any good now. For Michael Garibaldi, it was no good at all.
A body that was already on the brink of collapse was no match for the germs that had invaded it – their infection overcoming it now, forcing it to surrender as Garibaldi's strength finally deserted him.
Dropping deadweight to the ground, it took all of Stephen's reflexes to catch and carry him down – an appalled yell for help bringing their Resistance escorts running to his side, their guns drawn, aiming straight for Michael Garibaldi's head.
They'd assumed the obvious, of course, just as he'd done. Assumed that Garibaldi had 'turned' again. He couldn't blame them. He knew, all too well, that Bester's 'powers of persuasion' held no limits. He'd stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The loss of innocent lives was merely a 'consequence'.
But as that sticky wetness between his fingers told him, their lives weren't the ones under threat now. Michael Garibaldi was badly hurt, bleeding out through his hands. He needed help, and quickly.
To Stephen's horror, though, those bloodied hands, and the body they cradled, counted for nothing. Even as Garibaldi lay helpless and bleeding in front of them, the help he needed so badly didn't come. Despite all they'd seen, even their own leader's endorsement of what he'd been through, Michael Garibaldi was still a traitor – its unfairness, and rising frustration, finally causing Stephen Franklin's patience to snap.
"Damn it, he's risked his life to save yours!" he yelled, glaring around a circle of impassive faces. "Your own leader's seen what he's been through, and… hey, you want his blood too? Still?Well, you've had enough of it already, but yeah… help yourselves, there's still some of it left to go around-"
Stung either by the doctor's fury, or their own consciences, two of them finally came forward to help him lift Garibaldi's deadweight body behind some sheltering trash-cans. And when directed, still in quiet fury, to turn him onto his side, neither of them dared to argue. Instead they moved, wisely quickly, out of Stephen Franklin's path as he set to urgent work.
He had a life to save. A very important life. Michael Garibaldi's life. As experience had painfully taught him, it was going to be one hell of a fight.