safetyinnumbers

Gradually, they became aware again. There was a warm, leathered arm crooked around his waist; there was an aristocrat-soft hand comfortably trapped under his back. So one red eye cracked open, and two brown eyes followed suit. For awhile, they said nothing, waiting for a shriek of terror and realisation, or at least a groan and a feigned hangover followed by convenient confusion.

G'Kar craned his neck and focussed. "So," he echoed.

Their faces pulled the right muscles and manoeuvred themselves into smiles.

"You concede the point," Londo said.

"I concede the point," G'Kar echoed.

"And are you not happy?"

"Very." Pause. "And you?"

"I think," he said, hiking the grin up a degree, "that I can honestly say I am."

Londo said and G'Kar echoed, and they exchanged the customary gestures of candour and affection-touching the other's cheek, for example, or giving an exhalation that was really a polite, self-deprecating laugh.

"What was that you said to me earlier?"

"I said a lot of things."

"Yes," said Londo with an indulgent chuckle. "Yes, you did. But this one was in Narn."

"Ah. That." Pause. "It was a term of endearment. It means-well. It means..."

"'My hero,'" G'Kar muttered. "But it's just a platitude."

Londo's lungs worked on a second laugh, disbelieving. "Hero! I find that somewhat out of character. Hero?"

"Rest assured, Mollari, it was the heat of the moment. Don't flatter yourself by giving it a second thought."

"Hero. Great Maker. You, my friend, are slipping."

Then they lay back, each smiling and content, each silently cursing themselves and each other for being such unforgivably good diplomats.

The truth was, G'Kar had been more than a little tipsy at the time.

The truth was, he had acted out of sheer pity.

The truth was, he faked it. For all Londo's embarrassing efforts, he felt nothing but uncomfortable.

The truth was none of the above.

G'Kar was slipping, but not, as Londo suspected, into love and admiration. He was slipping into the past, which was so far in the other direction he had to squint to catch a glimpse of an anxious Londo, who was waving at him from the present. And as G'Kar slid further and further down, he recognised less and less; he didn't see so much his sometime friend as a Centauri-shaped hole in the horizon.

And therein lay the problem.

His father had been a houseboy-and his mother, similarly, a serving maid. She would take him with her when she cleaned the house, giving him the polish bottles to hold while she worked on her hands and knees. Sometimes the master would call her away, and she would tell little Kar to carry on without her while she attended to some grown-up business. By the time he was old enough to understand what that really meant, he was also big and angry enough to sit her down and make her answer every single one of his questions. At last, exhausted, both of them in furious tears, he had demanded, You were a warrior! How can you do it? How can you do it?

She, in typical fashion, had latched on to the details. How? She stood up then, still taller than he, still standing straighter. And she told him, while he tried to retreat and yank back his question. She spat that she ignored everything she could, and when she couldn't, she threw words in his face, the strongest few she knew made stronger by their secret hate, and when the master had the breath to ask afterwards, lied through her teeth: my hero.

All Centauri love that one, she bit.

Londo deserved better than that.

But G'Kar had already started to slip when the Centauri eased, unselfconscious, from between the buttons G'Kar had opened himself. Fighting an irrational shock, he stuffed his objections down, and for awhile those objections stayed there. If Londo had been clumsy or as ignorant as he should have been, G'Kar might not have noticed his own echoes of the word ignore. But, tickled as he was at the other's adeptness, he had made the mistake of beginning Mollari, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you've done this before.

Surprised suspicion, remembrance, and a rush of guilt-soaked gratification had choked off the words.

Now, pulled by gravity into Londo's arms, he was dragging himself back up to a calmer present.

He scrambled for truths like a stumbling mountaineer; just one shadow of a revelation could haul him back over the edge, but it was the lies that seemed safe and secure-until he put his finger on one and it loosed a rockslide of memory.

The truth was, he had no idea who Londo really was.

No, that wasn't it. He had stalked through the corners of Londo's mind, tearing open memories labelled Do Not Touch; he had learned the three or four deceptively simple equations that built the man up, and could fill in their variables to bring any trait down to emotional math-an ability which, he suspected, bothered Londo more than he let on. Through the years, he learned enough to hate him, then to form a wise opinion of him, and now, beyond wisdom (to something greater or lesser, he couldn't say), to love him.

The truth was, he was asking the wrong question.

The interruption scattered his thoughts. "Yes?"

"You are crushing my hand."

"Oh." He arched his back appropriately, then returned to staring at the ceiling. He felt a wobble as Londo got out of the bed, and let his footsteps patter across his consciousness.

"Shall I pour you one, ah?"

"No." Then, in an attempt to salvage their agreed-upon mood, he added, "Disgusting substance."

That made him sit up, watching Londo, trying to look at his face instead of that coiled chest. "Strange that you should say that." He forced the words out, one by one: "I don't think I've ever seen you as... as alien, Mollari. Not really. Not before tonight."

Londo shrugged and topped off his glass. "And why should this trouble G'Kar, xenophiliac and pangalactic rake extraordinaire?"

"Hmm? Oh, it doesn't."After all, where would telling the truth get him? Hurt and puzzled looks at the most, feigned understanding at least. He smiled, assuming serenity like a silk robe.

"Hero!" Londo said again, and laughed into his drink. "You surprise me, G'Kar..."

"...you really do." He downed the rest of it.

G'Kar would find it ironic, he thought, that there was too much Londo to go around. After all, he was supposed to be stunted inside, yes? A little lost child wandering in a wasteland of ceremony and pretension? Bah.

Well, this settled it once and for all: little was decidedly a Narn quality. He gave a light snicker-in part, maybe, to shine away a murky truth. Nonsense; what truth? He hoped the alcohol would get to it, soothing his nerve endings and washing out the physical frustration which, although delightful as a reminder that Certain Poor Species just can't measure up, was also quite annoying to experience for any real length of time.

"A toast," he exclaimed cheerily, jiggling the goblet.

G'Kar gave a heavy sigh. "To what?" he asked, a little irritated with the game.

To Londo Mollari: still better than you!

To Londo Mollari: the once and future emperor of that sorry excuse for a body!

"To Londo Mollari and Citizen G'Kar," he proposed. "To us."

"Yes," he echoed, faint. "To us."

His hastily struck pomposity was burning out like a short-handled match. It was a trick that didn't seem to be working very long these days. He drank the toast; time to switch to another kind of glowglobe. "How about another one, ah?" He filled it again. "What should this one be for, G'Kar?"

The Narn must have been thinking about it long and hard, trying to puzzle out a right answer. Londo made it easier for him.

"To love, which makes us do stupid things," he suggested. He felt hopeless. Then again, the toast would help solve that problem, too. Grateful, he drank to love.

Taken by surprise, he set the cup on the bedside table without having to ask. What was possessing him?

Amused by the sudden bossiness, he made as straight he could for the spot G'Kar was patting. It was a mistake to glance into the Narn's face; the expression lurking there snuffed all of Londo's defensive lights at once.

It was fierce and unsure, a powerful mixture of half-hostile affections. Londo wondered if his brivarian salute had been heard by a god or two, after all: the face had a love in it he had only ever seen before in his dreams. "Some day," he whispered, hoarse, "you will kill me."

G'Kar wasn't listening. He had a mission, Londo thought; he had worked up the nerve to do something, and he was going to see it through. "You are not your species," he said.

He opened his mouth, but then it twigged. It was best, he realised, to speak when spoken to.

"And I will not be threatened." He curled his fingers in the middle of Londo's chest, sparking a startled jump.

Hardly wanting to undergo a repeat performance, or rather lack thereof, he began, "G'Kar, please. I do not wish-"

"I've grown wise enough to see that life can be broken down into microcosms, each as important as the universe itself." He leaned in. "And now, I will grow wise enough to look past them."

"What do you-mmph." His eyes, prudently, shut themselves. This was a different story. And when that small voice of rationality, taken aback by the Narn's skill, began G'Kar, if I did not know you better..., he had the good sense to shut it up.

"So if you've disappointed me to my core," came the hiss in his ear, "If you've proved again and again to be more typical than you can know, perhaps it's because I set the course out for you, laid all the right traps. I'm not looking for that answer any more, Londo. I want the truth."

He didn't understand, and didn't particularly care to. In his veins, the brivari coursed deeper. In his head, the flames burned brighter.



	Safety in Numbers 1. One Gradually, they became aware again. There was a warm, leathered arm crooked around his waist; there was an aristocrat-soft hand comfortably trapped under his back. So one red eye cracked open, and two brown eyes followed suit. For awhile, they said nothing, waiting for a shriek of terror and realisation, or at least a groan and a feigned hangover followed by convenient confusion. "So," Londo said. G'Kar craned his neck and focussed. "So," he echoed. Their faces pulled the right muscles and manoeuvred themselves into smiles. "You concede the point," Londo said. "I concede the point," G'Kar echoed. "And are you not happy?" "Very." Pause. "And you?" "I think," he said, hiking the grin up a degree, "that I can honestly say I am." Londo said and G'Kar echoed, and they exchanged the customary gestures of candour and affection-touching the other's cheek, for example, or giving an exhalation that was really a polite, self-deprecating laugh. "What was that you said to me earlier?" "I said a lot of things." "Yes," said Londo with an indulgent chuckle. "Yes, you did. But this one was in Narn." "Ah. That." Pause. "It was a term of endearment. It means-well. It means..." "Yes?" "'My hero,'" G'Kar muttered. "But it's just a platitude." Londo's lungs worked on a second laugh, disbelieving. "Hero! I find that somewhat out of character. Hero?" "Rest assured, Mollari, it was the heat of the moment. Don't flatter yourself by giving it a second thought." "Hero. Great Maker. You, my friend, are slipping." Then they lay back, each smiling and content, each silently cursing themselves and each other for being such unforgivably good diplomats. 2. Six The truth was, G'Kar had been more than a little tipsy at the time. The truth was, he had acted out of sheer pity. The truth was, he faked it. For all Londo's embarrassing efforts, he felt nothing but uncomfortable. The truth was none of the above. G'Kar was slipping, but not, as Londo suspected, into love and admiration. He was slipping into the past, which was so far in the other direction he had to squint to catch a glimpse of an anxious Londo, who was waving at him from the present. And as G'Kar slid further and further down, he recognised less and less; he didn't see so much his sometime friend as a Centauri-shaped hole in the horizon. And therein lay the problem. So, the past. His father had been a houseboy-and his mother, similarly, a serving maid. She would take him with her when she cleaned the house, giving him the polish bottles to hold while she worked on her hands and knees. Sometimes the master would call her away, and she would tell little Kar to carry on without her while she attended to some grown-up business. By the time he was old enough to understand what that really meant, he was also big and angry enough to sit her down and make her answer every single one of his questions. At last, exhausted, both of them in furious tears, he had demanded, You were a warrior! How can you do it? How can you do it? She, in typical fashion, had latched on to the details. How? She stood up then, still taller than he, still standing straighter. And she told him, while he tried to retreat and yank back his question. She spat that she ignored everything she could, and when she couldn't, she threw words in his face, the strongest few she knew made stronger by their secret hate, and when the master had the breath to ask afterwards, lied through her teeth: my hero. All Centauri love that one, she bit. Londo deserved better than that. But G'Kar had already started to slip when the Centauri eased, unselfconscious, from between the buttons G'Kar had opened himself. Fighting an irrational shock, he stuffed his objections down, and for awhile those objections stayed there. If Londo had been clumsy or as ignorant as he should have been, G'Kar might not have noticed his own echoes of the word ignore. But, tickled as he was at the other's adeptness, he had made the mistake of beginning Mollari, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you've done this before. Surprised suspicion, remembrance, and a rush of guilt-soaked gratification had choked off the words. Now, pulled by gravity into Londo's arms, he was dragging himself back up to a calmer present. He scrambled for truths like a stumbling mountaineer; just one shadow of a revelation could haul him back over the edge, but it was the lies that seemed safe and secure-until he put his finger on one and it loosed a rockslide of memory. The truth was, he had no idea who Londo really was. No, that wasn't it. He had stalked through the corners of Londo's mind, tearing open memories labelled Do Not Touch; he had learned the three or four deceptively simple equations that built the man up, and could fill in their variables to bring any trait down to emotional math-an ability which, he suspected, bothered Londo more than he let on. Through the years, he learned enough to hate him, then to form a wise opinion of him, and now, beyond wisdom (to something greater or lesser, he couldn't say), to love him. The truth was, he was asking the wrong question. "G'Kar?" The interruption scattered his thoughts. "Yes?" "You are crushing my hand." "Oh." He arched his back appropriately, then returned to staring at the ceiling. He felt a wobble as Londo got out of the bed, and let his footsteps patter across his consciousness. "Shall I pour you one, ah?" "No." Then, in an attempt to salvage their agreed-upon mood, he added, "Disgusting substance." "Barbarian." That made him sit up, watching Londo, trying to look at his face instead of that coiled chest. "Strange that you should say that." He forced the words out, one by one: "I don't think I've ever seen you as... as alien, Mollari. Not really. Not before tonight." Londo shrugged and topped off his glass. "And why should this trouble G'Kar, xenophiliac and pangalactic rake extraordinaire?" "Hmm? Oh, it doesn't."After all, where would telling the truth get him? Hurt and puzzled looks at the most, feigned understanding at least. He smiled, assuming serenity like a silk robe. "Hero!" Londo said again, and laughed into his drink. "You surprise me, G'Kar..." 3. Half "...you really do." He downed the rest of it. G'Kar would find it ironic, he thought, that there was too much Londo to go around. After all, he was supposed to be stunted inside, yes? A little lost child wandering in a wasteland of ceremony and pretension? Bah. Well, this settled it once and for all: little was decidedly a Narn quality. He gave a light snicker-in part, maybe, to shine away a murky truth. Nonsense; what truth? He hoped the alcohol would get to it, soothing his nerve endings and washing out the physical frustration which, although delightful as a reminder that Certain Poor Species just can't measure up, was also quite annoying to experience for any real length of time. "A toast," he exclaimed cheerily, jiggling the goblet. G'Kar gave a heavy sigh. "To what?" he asked, a little irritated with the game. To Londo Mollari: still better than you! To Londo Mollari: the once and future emperor of that sorry excuse for a body! "To Londo Mollari and Citizen G'Kar," he proposed. "To us." "Yes," he echoed, faint. "To us." His hastily struck pomposity was burning out like a short-handled match. It was a trick that didn't seem to be working very long these days. He drank the toast; time to switch to another kind of glowglobe. "How about another one, ah?" He filled it again. "What should this one be for, G'Kar?" The Narn must have been thinking about it long and hard, trying to puzzle out a right answer. Londo made it easier for him. "To love, which makes us do stupid things," he suggested. He felt hopeless. Then again, the toast would help solve that problem, too. Grateful, he drank to love. "Put it down." Taken by surprise, he set the cup on the bedside table without having to ask. What was possessing him? "Sit by me." Amused by the sudden bossiness, he made as straight he could for the spot G'Kar was patting. It was a mistake to glance into the Narn's face; the expression lurking there snuffed all of Londo's defensive lights at once. It was fierce and unsure, a powerful mixture of half-hostile affections. Londo wondered if his brivarian salute had been heard by a god or two, after all: the face had a love in it he had only ever seen before in his dreams. "Some day," he whispered, hoarse, "you will kill me." G'Kar wasn't listening. He had a mission, Londo thought; he had worked up the nerve to do something, and he was going to see it through. "You are not your species," he said. He opened his mouth, but then it twigged. It was best, he realised, to speak when spoken to. "And I will not be threatened." He curled his fingers in the middle of Londo's chest, sparking a startled jump. Hardly wanting to undergo a repeat performance, or rather lack thereof, he began, "G'Kar, please. I do not wish-" "I've grown wise enough to see that life can be broken down into microcosms, each as important as the universe itself." He leaned in. "And now, I will grow wise enough to look past them." "What do you-mmph." His eyes, prudently, shut themselves. This was a different story. And when that small voice of rationality, taken aback by the Narn's skill, began G'Kar, if I did not know you better..., he had the good sense to shut it up. "So if you've disappointed me to my core," came the hiss in his ear, "If you've proved again and again to be more typical than you can know, perhaps it's because I set the course out for you, laid all the right traps. I'm not looking for that answer any more, Londo. I want the truth." He didn't understand, and didn't particularly care to. In his veins, the brivari coursed deeper. In his head, the flames burned brighter.