See Prologue for Disclaimer and Author's Notes

Chapter 7 - Shadow Dancing

Sheridan paused in the bar before descending into the Shadows' lair. Garibaldi was behind the counter, looking at him expectantly. It had been a long time since he'd stopped for a drink, too long, and he knew the bald-headed man was wondering why.

Carefully, he sat down on a barstool. The whiskey was in front of him before he had time to ask for it. "I was beginning to wonder what happened to you."

Sheridan gave a casual shrug. "Less need for alcohol once I discovered the wonderful world of… other indulgences," he said as nonchalantly as he could. With a sly smile, he added, "That Delenn… she's real pretty."

"That's her all right. Pretty little cocksucking whore."

Sheridan blanched, covering it with a sip from his drink. "Where'd she come from, anyway?"

Garibaldi studied him skeptically. "That's the second time I've heard you ask about her past. Why do you care?"

"Just curious, that's all."

"Well take my advice and knock it off." He offered no more but continued to stare at his comrade on the stool.

Sheridan's blood ran cold. He was under Garibaldi's suspicious microscope, being studied because he'd said something or done something he absolutely shouldn't have. Unintentionally, he'd crossed a dangerous line. Casually he added, "Sometimes I like to know a little bit about what I'm sticking my dick in."

"Look. Take this for what it's worth: You won't get better than Delenn. She'll do what you want, when you want it, as long as Morden gives the OK. Don't ask questions. Just enjoy her for what she is. Like your whiskey or your cocaine. You don't worry where they came from, do you?"

"Guess not."

"Well, there you go."

Sheridan emptied the glass quickly and stood from his stool. "Thanks man."

Garibaldi didn't respond. His eyes were narrowed at Sheridan's departing back, mind mulling over their conversation.

Something was not right.

Delenn was smart.

She was very smart, and once she knew the truth about John Sheridan, she was smart enough to keep it to herself. Even the other girls, the nameless ones who came and went and sometimes slept in her room couldn't know. He had said he could get her out, but she had to wait. She had to wait until the time was right. And so she waited, and she watched, and she remembered everything she did and everything she saw.

In fact, once she knew the truth, she made it a point to be on her best behavior. It wasn't pleasant, but it kept her mind clear. When she behaved, when she did what they wanted, they didn't do things like beat her senseless. They didn't do things like withhold food or drug her. They just let her be, because as long as she was what they perceived her to be, they didn't need anything else.

So she behaved, and she kept her eyes and ears open. She knew that yesterday, Wade had shot the owner of a local drug store for failure to pay street tax – money paid to the Shadows for "protection" – which mostly meant that if he paid them, he got to keep his life and his store. She knew that tomorrow, the Board would meet to plan their big confrontation with the Vorlons, and that Mr. Morden and Mr. Garibaldi and the others didn't care what happened to any innocent people who got in the way when it went down. And she knew that Commander Ivanova was not really dead.

This secret especially she stored away in a deep, dark corner of her mind. She had never met Susan Ivanova. But she knew what these men were like after a kill, and this would have been a big kill, the biggest they'd had in awhile. John Sheridan had not come to her room that night riding the high of a warlord who'd just taken down the commander of the Babylon PD. He didn't even come to her as a man who'd just taken down a Vorlon lookout. He simply came to her as a man; a kind man, with warm hazel eyes and a gentle smile that said he didn't want anything from her – that as soon as he could, he would give her all the things she'd wanted for five long years. He was her last, best hope for freedom, for peace… for love.

He'd felt natural, curled around her in Morden's bed that night. He was warm and comforting, and she found herself thinking of Anna, thinking that Anna had been absolutely right; he was a great refuge when the world went mad. He was a safe harbor in a terrible storm – which was good, because that's what they had here in Hell – a dark and terrible storm.

He could get her out, he'd said. He wanted to get her out. And she wanted so badly to believe him, wanted so badly to help him, but she'd been here long enough to know – no one who came to Z'ha'dum left here the same as they had been when they arrived, if they managed to leave at all. It changed everyone who walked through its doors. Including her. Including him.

Maybe, hopefully, it had changed him… for the better.

She was pondering this thought as footsteps approached, and then the curtain that served as her door was pushed aside. She froze; she was facing away from the door. Maybe if they thought she was sleeping, they'd go away. It never happened that way… but she always hoped.

"Sheridan is asking for your company." And she tried very, very hard to stifle the sigh of relief at Mr. Morden's words. "I told him he could have you when we were finished." And then he was sitting beside her on the bed; then he was pulling aside the sheet that covered her, and she could not stop the few tears that escaped at these words, even knowing how dearly they would cost her.

John's heart plummeted as Morden pushed Delenn into the room and pulled the door closed. "Dear… God…" On instinct, he came forward and put his arms around her.

She flinched away from him.

"I'm so sorry." He stepped back to give her space, and took another step for the purpose of being far enough away to get a good look at her. She had a fresh black eye, and bruises at the base of her throat. He could make out fingerprints here and there on her skin. "Did he…"

"I cried," she admitted, and now the tears welled up, and a second later they began to fall silently, freely. "He said… you asked for me and I thought… I'd be free tonight, and then he said…" Now she stifled a sob, and John tried again to come forward and take her in his arms. This time, she didn't stop him.

He stood there, eyes focused on the closed door as though he could use his willpower to keep anyone from entering their sanctuary, just holding her for a very long time. Not for the first time, he reflected on how fragile she felt in his arms, like if he held her too tightly, she might break. Her tears were soaking his shirt, and they fell silently, with very few hiccups, very few sobs and he realized – this was a woman who had perfected the art of the silent cry. Anna, he remembered, had never been very good at that. He'd always known when she was upset. Delenn survived in part because she knew to keep certain things buttoned up tight. He stroked her hair in a comforting gesture, wondering when the last time was that anyone had shown her this kindness without an agenda. He kissed her temple. He cried, too.

It was then, as the first of his tears landed on her bare shoulder, that Delenn took a tentative step back from him. Her eyes glistened; still, through the tears and the puffy eyes and the red face and the bruises, she was beautiful. "I will do anything I can to help you," she whispered. "But you must get me out of here."

"I…" He shook his head. "It's not…"

"No one survives Z'ha'dum, John." He listened to her use his first name, and it felt natural, like she'd always done it. The way she said it, even in such a hopeless sentence as this one, was like a breath of fresh air.

"You're wrong," he said, and didn't realize until he hit it with the back of his legs that they'd been walking slowly to the bed. He smoothed her hair again, tucked a stray lock gently behind her ears, brushed away her tears with the back of his hand. "You've survived."

She shook her head. "This body… is only a shell of the person I used to be."

"No. Listen to me." There was such conviction behind these words that Delenn tensed, afraid the others would hear. But the door to the room remained closed. "I've seen you. You're smarter than you let them believe. You're stronger than they know. You… have been my eyes and ears down here for five years, and I can't begin to thank you. You're the strongest woman I've ever known. Also the most mysterious." He lifted tentative fingers to her face, let them gently brush over her features as he studied her eyes, her nose… her lips. His roaming touch came to rest on her lower lip as he breathed, "Who… are you?"

"I am Delenn."

"But… who are you? Who were you?" A ghost of a caress with his thumb to her cheek, and he could feel it now – his lips were only an inch from hers. I won't do it, not now. Not tonight, not unless she…

"Do not ask that question here," she breathed. "We are all Shadows of ourselves in this place. Even me. Even you." She was touching him now, freely, her fingers mapping his cheeks, his lips, his hair, his beard, the nape of his neck. In spite of himself, John felt a slow fire begin to build in his belly.

"I… I don't think…"

"Do you know how long it has been since I last knew the gentle touch of a kind man?" Her forehead came to rest against his, eyes drifted shut.

"Delenn…" He tried to pull back, but her hand came up to the back of his head, holding him in place.

"I believe you when you say you will take me away from this place."

"At the cost of my own life."

"It is my sincere hope…" He could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. Still he refused to close the gap. "That it will not come to that."

"Mine too." Silence, and it was as if the universe were standing still, waiting for their next move.

"Remind me what it feels like… to be cared for," she requested, and then her lips were pressed against his, warm and soft and everything he'd never wanted to find in Hell. He gave in at that, still not entirely convinced this was a good idea – but it didn't matter. Right now it wasn't about what he wanted; it was about what she needed. And what she needed was to be assured of her safety, to be reminded that there was yet still gentleness in the world. What she needed was warmth and comfort and closeness and an act that she could control. And so he resolved to let her take from him any and all of that, to take control of a dance that he suspected she may never have led.

Michael Garibaldi was not sleeping. He seldom slept well at all, having never quite worked out the work-drink-sex-high cycle in a way that would have him knocked out cold at the end of a long day, but tonight he was not sleeping for an entirely different reason. He was lying awake, alone in his bed, stone-cold clean and sober as his mind clicked slowly over John Sheridan.

He didn't trust the man.

It was a cardinal rule that no one trusted anyone here, but when it came down to it, they were all on the same side. And he wasn't entirely convinced that Sheridan was on that same side, too.

He'd taken out Ivanova. There was certainly that. He'd seen Sheridan execute that hit with his own eyes. It couldn't have been faked.

Could it?

He sat up slightly in the darkness and replayed the scene in his mind.

Sheridan walks up to Ivanova's door and rings the bell.

There is a considerable pause, during which I consider the alternatives to killing her.

Ivanova answers.

Sheridan pulls his weapon, fires three precise shots at close range.

There is a shout.

Ivanova falls to the ground.

Sheridan walks away like a man on a mission, continuing his brisk pace all the way back to the lair.

I follow.

He sat up further, focusing intently on the middle of the scene.

Sheridan pulls his weapon, fires three precise shots at close range.

There is a shout.

Close range.

Three shots.

Garibaldi swung his legs over the side of his bed, pace quick and purposeful as he turned toward Morden's quarters, his mind grasping the last piece of the puzzle.

"Get up!" He hollered as he stormed into Morden's room and flicked on the light. He took a minor note of a nameless woman's presence as he seethed on this missing detail.

"Get OUT," Morden corrected. "Whatever it is, it can wait until morning."

"No, it can't. Get up." Garibaldi threw Morden's pants at him.

"Get out."

"Commander Ivanova is not dead. He faked it. I don't know how he managed to do it without being able to contact her but –"

"Garibaldi, I swear –" Now Morden was standing, fastening his pants and seething from his own rage. A hint of a high was shining in his dark eyes as Garibaldi dropped the dagger.

"Three shots fired at close range." Garibaldi took another step toward his leader, bringing them within an inch of each other, his tone dangerously low. "But his clothes were clean as a whistle when he got back here. Three shots, you fuck. Three shots at close range, all to the chest – and there wasn't even a hint of blood splatter."

Morden's eyes went wide in the darkness. He paused only for a split second for consideration before grabbing his baby glock from the top drawer of his bureau and stalking out of the room.