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Chapter Text

"...and because you are all seniors here and I would like you to do some independent research work for this course, we will start each seminar with a presentation prepared by a small group of students." Professor Kosh adjusted his glasses and closed the PowerPoint. "Please refer back to the syllabus for each week's discussion topic and let me know which one you would like to work on until our next meeting. You can come to me after class or, if you haven't decided yet or haven't had a chance to print the syllabus, you can email me or come to my office hours some time later this week."

John Sheridan, son of luckily not that widely known diplomat David Sheridan and International Relations student at Babylon University, finally found the Modern Conflicts syllabus among the chaos of his downloaded files. Glancing over the topics, he shook his head in amusement. Military Interventions in International Politics - The Case of Minbar. That one should be easy. It had been the subject of many a family discussion at the dinner table when he had been in middle school, and ultimately led to his father climbing the career ladder as he had rightly prophesized that the government's approach would fail and backfire.

Satisfied, John drummed his fingers on the table and waited for the professor to end his lecture. It was not his first lecture with Professor Kosh, but it was the first time he'd have to hold a presentation in front of the programme's Dean, so he did not want to risk his reputation - even though sitting still when administrative details were discussed was really not his strong suit.

He looked around the small lecture hall to pass the time. Most of the other students he was at least somewhat familiar with - no surprise after several years of running into each other. But there was one woman, sitting in the front of the classroom, whom he was fairly certain he'd never seen before. Her clothes would have stuck in his memory; they did not match those of most other students at all, and so John guessed that she was either new or someone who had decided to massively change their style over summer.

Lost in thought, he nearly missed Professor Kosh logging out of the desktop and everywhere around him laptops and notebooks being slid back into backpacks. Quickly he packed up his own stuff and approached the big desk in the front, where the new student already seemed to be talking to the professor. Keeping a few feet distance to give them privacy, John observed her. The way her hair was weaved around some form of ornament sitting on her head like a thin crown. The long, flowing dress whose style seemed vaguely familiar... After a minute, he was almost certain he'd never seen her before. He was also fairly intrigued by her style.

"Mr. Sheridan?"

John abruptly raised his head, hoping that he wasn't turning red. "Yes, Professor?"

"Were you here to claim a presentation topic?"

"Yes, Sir." He swallowed. "If it's not already taken by too many other students, I'd like to work on the Minbari case?"

Professor Kosh nodded, and noted something down with an old-fashioned fountain pen. "That would be fine. In fact, it would work out perfectly. Ms. Mir here has just asked to work on the same topic, so you already have an opportunity to get to know each other and coordinate your project."

The woman turned her head towards John, and he forgot to breathe for half a second. The bad part was that he could not say whether that was because God, she's beautiful or because he felt his eyes being actively pierced by hers.

John reached out a hand, trying not to mess up. "Nice to meet you. I'm John."

She did not take his hand. "Delenn."

"Hey. Uh.. Nice to meet you, Delenn?" That name sounded unfamiliar too, and he just hoped he wasn't botching the pronunciation too much.

"Well, success with your project, and have a nice day!" Professor Kosh, leather briefcase in hand, made his way past them and into the corridor. John and Delenn were left alone in the room.

The silence became overwhelmingly loud, and John forced himself to somehow restart the conversation. "Maybe we can exchange e-mails for a start? So we can find a time to meet up and start on our presentation? We have a few weeks, so I don't think we have to rush."

Delenn nodded, though she did not step closer or make any move to pull out a pen. John lowered his backpack to the ground and rummaged for his ballpen. Then he tore out a corner of a page from his notebook and scribbled down his e-mail.

She took it, without touching his hand, and slightly bowed her head. "I will send an email later on the day." Her accent vaguely reminded John of something, but he had trouble placing it. At least one puzzle piece was starting to fall into place, though: unfamiliar clothing style, phrases that weren't quite the English he'd learned in high school... She had to be an exchange student. That was why he had never seen her before.

"Good. ... Good." John ran a hand through his hair. What was he even saying? "I already know a little about the Minbari situation, so if we want to meet soon I can bring a few sources that we can start off of. News articles, maybe some expert perspectives on the operation while it was going on." She didn't have to know that some of those experts were his father's colleagues, people he had sat at dinner tables with. "Were you keeping an eye on the news at the time?"

Steel eyes locked onto his. "Yes. Your operation, as you name it, maybe was only the news here. For others, it was the start of a totally new time. A catastrophe from that my country never came back whole."

John stood, ballpen still in hand, watching her march off. He could almost physically hear the gears in his mind cranking into place, and coming to the solution that he'd messed up this one big time.

She's Minbari?

Chapter Text

John clutched his bag of chips and package of crackers and looked at his watch once again. Would Delenn find him here? They would be too loud for the library, so he had suggested that they meet in the open study space on the upper floors of the Social Sciences building. In the few e-mails they had sent back and forth she had been cool, but polite, and so he hoped that today they could get off on a better foot. His peace offering of snacks felt a little silly, but he was not about to call his dad and ask him for advice - at best he'd get too many questions that he didn't feel like answering, at worst he would approach a group project like a diplomatic summit and that would absolutely end in disaster.

Lost in thought, he had stopped paying attention to his surroundings, and only noticed Delenn's colourful dress when she was just a few feet away from him. She wore a tote bag over one shoulder, carried a cup from the university's merch store in the other, and gave him a nervous smile.

"John, is it? Good afternoon."

"Uh- yes, it's John. Hey. Dellenn, right? Did I say that correctly?"

"It was... Good?"

"No, please - correct me. I want to get it right." John tightened his grip around the snack bags. There were few things as awkward as standing in the middle of a hallway trying to pronounce a name right, but this was his chance of showing her respect and he would not accept messing it up again.

"Oh." She averted his eyes. "It is De-lenn, not Dellenn. More..." Now her gaze darted around the room, as if she could find the word she was obviously looking for written somewhere. "More emphasis on the first part. And it is longer."

"So... closer to Delenn?"

Her face lit up. "Very good! You almost sound Minbari."

John swallowed. "Thanks." He couldn't place why, but that compliment - and it had been a compliment, that much he was sure of - had felt strange. It wasn't like he had never made international friends before. Hell, he was good friends with Susan now, and he'd never forget his father's reaction when he'd first told him about her: You know, son, when I was in college I couldn't have been friends with a Russian. I'm glad you can be today. Could he become friends with a Minbari too? He wasn't sure yet, and much less if Delenn would want to. But he wanted to try. And there was more to that wish than stretching his diplomatic muscles.

While he'd been lost in thought, Delenn was apparently eager to go back to business. "You said that we can find a table here to work?"

"Yeah." If she didn't bring up his behaviour in class on Tuesday, then he wouldn't either. A little voice inside had been piping up urging him to apologize, but he honestly had no idea how to do so - and what precisely for. What he had said had been wrong, that much he knew, and it must have hurt her. He hadn't meant to do that, though. He simply hadn't known that Minbar was personal to her, and hadn't stopped to consider that.

John led Delenn over to an area filled with round tables and comfortable armchairs - much better than the library stools. The large windows let in the September sun, and while some of the tables were occupied the space was empty enough to let them work in peace. He gestured towards the corner. "Where do you want to sit?"

She pointed towards a corner table right next to the window. "There looks pretty." Her mouth drew a gentle smile, and for a moment she stared through the glass into the distance. Her gaze travelled up to the sky, searching the sun, then she closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was back inside the room.

"So." Delenn pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Her macbook found a place next to her coffee cup while John pulled his laptop, a notebook, and a ballpen from his backpack. "Time to start?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Time to start." He took a deep breath before continuing. "You know, I've never been to Minbar. What's it like?"

Her eyes lit up like two tiny new-born suns. "I- I don't think I was asked this. Never."

John smiled, but stopped himself from answering. Give her space.

Delenn tilted her head, as if she was looking for a place to start somewhere outside the window. Then she faced John directly. "Minbar is... Ancient. That is the differentest from here. Everything has a history. You can stand in a temple made from crystals, and you know that who built it lived a thousand years ago. I have touched..." Her eyes darted around the room. Then, with a sigh, she flipped open her macbook. "I'm sorry, I do not know the word. I need to look."

"No worries."

"Swords! I have touched swords that were used thousand years ago. Our culture has been there so long. No matter where you go, you are in the middle of history. When I came here I first felt so lost. How can you walk in a street and not wonder what was there before it? All your streets are so new. When you call a building old, it is from my grandfather's time. On Minbar, he would call that new."

"Well, you know what they say about the States versus the UK?" John's comment earned him a confused shake of Delenn's head. "That the difference between the two is that 200 miles is a long distance in the UK, and 200 years is a long time in the states."

Delenn shrugged. "Maybe. It is still a little strange to me. You people sometimes are... Totally inhabited by the past, but there is so short of it. But at once you also speak about future so much. I think that is what I should learn here. On Minbar, sometimes everything is past."

John had expected more of a travel guide summary and less of an anthropological analysis, so he simply nodded. "It sounds like you like it a lot."

"I do." Delenn was fidgeting with the shoulder straps of her bag and did not look him in the eye. "It is not a crime, you know? I know some people here think that it is. But you love this country too."

"Yeah. I'm not as crazy about it as some other people, but of course I do." Hell, my dad literally works for the government. His family had always been quietly patriotic - not in the big showy way that some of the farmers who lived near his grandparents were, with huge flags and morning runs of the national anthem. To his father, actions and values had always been more important than symbols, and John remembered spending veterans' days volunteering to clean monuments. "I don't find it strange that you love your home too."

"Good." She lifted her head to look at him with fire gleaming behind the steel of her eyes. "To share is to understand. And to understand is to get along." Pause. "You did not understand on Tuesday. I hope you do now."

John swallowed. So it was coming up after all. "I will try. I do want to understand. Understand you. I just didn't think. And for that, I'm sorry."

Delenn gave him a small nod. "Then now, we can both learn from another."

He nodded more forcefully. "We will."

Three weeks later, they stood on opposite sides of their seminar room's whiteboard, both next to a flipchart. John's was written in his neat, intentional handwriting that his mother had always joked would have been fit for an elementary school teacher, if his usual style of handwriting had not been a scribbly mess. Delenn's flipchart was adorned with large, round, careful letters that looked like a perfect crossover between John's teacher-handwriting and the Arial font.

In secret, John wondered if this would remain her handwriting throughout, or if it was merely her beginner's style and would change once she got more used to forming the English letters. He hadn't been able to hide his surprise when she had admitted that she didn't know how to write the Latin alphabet - but quickly had to concede that he had never even attempted learning a foreign one.

"I can read the letters," she had explained, "I can find them on a computer keyboard, but when I try to write them - I do not know how to. Where to start the lines."

"I don't even think about how I write letters anymore," John had pondered, "not since elementary school." Absentmindedly he'd drawn a few letters on his notepad, then repeated the motion while watching his pen move. "You know, if you want - I could try to teach you." Delenn had perked up her head at that comment. "I'm not a good teacher or anything," John had added quickly, "but..."

She had interrupted him. "I think I want."

He had grinned broadly. "Great!"

She had learned quickly, and now her handwriting far surpassed John's in beauty - even though she took at least three times as long to write. But seeing her carefully calligraphed flipcharts, especially compared to his own, brought a smile on his face every time.

John cleared his throat and, with a click on the desktop's space key, started their slideshow.

"Welcome everyone. I'm sure most of you are to a degree familiar with the United States' intervention on the island nation of Minbar, five years ago." Heads nodded among their audience. John flipped the first page of his flipchart, while Delenn clicked their slideshow to the next slide, presenting a photo of a collage of newspaper headlines.

SUSPECTED TERRORIST KILLED ON MINBAR

WAR ON TERROR: PACIFIC THEATRE OPENS IN YEDOR, MINBAR

ISLAND HARBORING RELIGIOUS EXTREMIST UNDER FIRE

U.S. TROOPS EN ROUTE TO ISLAND STATE OF MINBAR

"But what all of you are familiar with," Delenn continued with her gentle accented voice, "is only one side of the story."

John took over seamlessly as pictures from Minbar - Delenn's authentic photos, not Internet search results - replaced the headlines. "And today, we want to show you both sides. Because no conflict is ever seen the same by all who are involved." He paused. "In fact, it often isn't even called the same. Delenn, what do your people call what we call an 'intervention' here in the US? The day that US soldiers arrived on Minbari shores?"

He saw her swallow as she closed her eyes for a moment. As she opened them, revealing a gaze of steel, she explained: "Z'Ha'Dum. The death of the future."

Chapter Text

It was raining.

Normally that was not a big deal at all, but right now John had enough things to deal with and just the fact that, on top of everything else, it was raining nearly sent him over the edge. Grimly he stared through the lobby window out towards the streets. The water was turning yesterday's snow into mud, and by the time it took to reach his car he'd be soaked. As if he wasn't already cold, sick, and miserable.

With a sigh he slid down the window until he sat on the dirty college floor, his back pressed against the cold glass. He stifled a cough and attempted to clear his throat instead, but didn't manage to free the frog inside, so he fumbled for his thermos flask. Of course, it was empty. No more soothing, hot tea that he could down whenever he felt like his throat must surely rip apart from how tender and raw it had become... which was about every ten minutes. Even his water bottle was empty.

He closed his eyes. Professor Kosh had sent him home in no unclear terms, and if there was one thing the Dean wasn't known for it was speaking in clear terms. John had to grudgingly admit his point, though. He'd been totally unable to focus on any suggestions he was receiving on his thesis outline - he had been too occupied trying to ignore the pain every time he spoke, suppressing coughs so he could actually hear the Professor, and not looking like he felt like shit. Which, of course, he did. After only one lecture and his thirty-minute appointment, he was exhausted. If he hadn't felt so terrible he might have fallen asleep right then and there, on the vinyl floor of the social sciences building.

"I think I no longer need to look up what Susan meant by 'death warmed over'."

A gentle voice raised John from his near-slumber, and when he lifted his head he stared right into Delenn's wide-open eyes. She was perched in front of him, perhaps at an arm's length distance, and examined him. John's mouth turned into a weak smile. He hadn't seen her in a few days, and her presence alone was enough to lift his mood now.

"Hey." His voice sounded brittle to his own ears. Clearing his throat again, he added: "You know Susan?"

Delenn nodded enthusiastically. "Of course! She works at the International Student Centre, we've met there a few times. I was just picking up some documents when she told me to go find you."

John huffed. "Why?" Susan had been a sophomore when they had met during orientation week last year, and as she was following the same major they had stayed in touch and quickly become friends. Now they were actually taking one class together, and she'd probably seen him struggle to stay awake in this morning's lecture on glasnost and perestroika. Didn't give her the right to send Delenn spying after him, though.

"Because, in her words, you looked like 'death warmed over'." Delenn sat down cross-legged, gesturing towards him. "And I agree. You should be in bed."

With a sigh that quickly turned into a cough, John motioned towards the rain. "Gonna get - soaked," he squeezed out between fits, all the while he felt Delenn's gaze resting on him with growing concern. After what might have been a full minute, if not more, she pulled his water bottle out of his backpack's side pocket and shook it. Then she opened it, took out her own water bottle, poured the contents into his and handed it to him.

"Drink."

John gratefully accepted the bottle and forced himself to stop coughing long enough for the blissfully cool liquid to run down his parched throat. When he'd finished, he took a slow and measured breath. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice now fully gone. A shiver ran through his upper body, and he hung his throbbing head. He really felt like shit.

Without him noticing, Delenn had moved closer and lifted a hand towards his face. "Can I?"

Not totally sure what she meant, John simply nodded. She felt his cheek, then his forehead, then looked at him with big round eyes. "You are baking. You need rest."

He nearly started laughing about her odd choice of vocabulary, but stopped when he realized it would only make him cough again. So he just nodded once more.

"Then come on." She stood up and reached out a hand. "Let's get you home."

John was about to protest the rain again when she pulled out an umbrella and dangled it in front of him. So he took her hand, scrambled to a stand - not without leaning on the wall for support - and bundled up tighter in his coat.

They walked to his car in silence, mostly because John had to expend all of his energy on the walking part. When they reached it, he was panting. Waves of heat rolled over him, a strange sensation after the shivering, and he held the door handle tight for balance.

He was about to force out a thank you to Delenn when she demanded the keys.

Confused, he tried to pierce together what he might have misunderstood. After a few seconds, he gave up and simply repeated: "Keys?"

Delenn nodded. "You are in no condition to drive." There was something in her eyes that he couldn't quite place - courage? Fear? Defiance? "I can bring you home, if you know the way."

"You have a license?" Imagining Delenn in the driver's seat would have been hard for him any day, even when his brain wasn't trapped in a fever haze. She hated traffic. But now, she nodded and blushed.

"I got it last month. While everyone was on winter break and I had nothing to do. I'm not a very good driver yet - but I can do it. If you give me the keys."

And so, John surrendered and dug in his coat pocket for the car keys.

It took Delenn a few tries to get the car to open, and then a few more to adjust the seat so that she could see over the steering wheel. If John hadn't felt so awful, he would probably have found it adorable to watch her. She reminded him of a time traveller, or an extra-terrestrial visitor, figuring out something so ordinary that he didn't have to actively think about how to use it anymore. Did they have cars on Minbar? They probably did, but if John had ever asked Delenn then he didn't remember the answer.

The start was rocky. Delenn killed the engine when trying to start the car, then again when she tried to veer out of the parking lot into the street. She drove carefully, much more so than the rain or the slushy snow leftovers merited, always at least 5mph under the speed limit. If a light turned yellow, she immediately stepped on the brakes, and every turn took on a slightly hectic nature. But, despite John's wonky navigation, they made it to his apartment building without incident. When Delenn pulled into the parking lot, now looking almost convinced that the steering wheel would not turn around and bite her if she loosened her hands just slightly, they both exhaled in relief. Though John supposed that Delenn did so because no parallel parking was required.

"Thank you." John looked at her, hoping that his eyes would convey everything else he didn't feel able to put into raspy words right now.

She rested her hand on his arm. "Any time." Then, she opened the door, immediately rounded the car, pulled his door open from the outside and offered her hand.

Slightly confused, John took it and let Delenn pull him onto his feet. The cold, wet air outside rushed into his lungs as he inhaled, and John coughed again. He held his breath and silently counted to three, one hand braced against his car, until it stopped. By that time Delenn had locked the car and stood next to him, his backpack in her hand.

"Alright. Which way?"

"You want to take me inside?"

Delenn's eyes were wide when she nearly interrupted him. "Of course! You are sick. I am not leaving you alone until you are in your home, and safe."

Despite the cold, warmth prickled over John's spine, and his mouth pulled into a grin. "Of course."

He led the way to the correct door, slowly placing one foot in front of the other, his shoulders hunched against the still falling rain. Delenn hovered besides him, her arm stretched out almost as if she expected to have to support him. But he'd be okay. It was just a few feet over to the house, he would-

Damn. He had forgotten about the stairs.

After unlocking the door, John was faced with the insurmountable-seeming wall of steps that were currently the only way to the third floor. They did technically have an elevator, but he had not seen it in any other state than broken since he'd moved in several years ago.

Delenn gently touched his elbow. She must have noticed his hesitation. "Is there another way?"

He shook his head, and gripped the handrail with his left hand. "It's fine."

It was not. A few steps in, John already felt his pulse drumming hard in his skull. On the first landing, black spots began dancing into the edge of his vision. By the second floor he was struggling for breath.

"You should rest," Delenn urged, but he clenched his teeth. He would not stop a few feet from his warm and comfortable bed to rest on the stairs.

Not much later, he choked and doubled over. His eyes started to water as he was shaken by hollow coughs, much fiercer than earlier in the day, and tried to gasp for air in between. When he choked on his own breath, too, panic began to flurry in his chest. Was he swaying or just dizzy? And did that wheezing sound mean his airways were blocked? What if he couldn't-

Hands pulled him down onto the floor until he sat on the stairs. Delenn. She tilted his upper body forward so that he could brace against his knees and began thumping his back rhythmically. For a moment John's panic increased, but then he let himself relax as much as he could. The coughs became deeper, slower, more regular. A low rattle replaced the high-pitched wheeze. Finally, he caught a shallow breath, then another, and then a deep inhale. He felt more than he saw another arm touch his, another body slide closer to his. A hand started rubbing gentle circles on his back.

John pressed his left palm against his racing heart. God, his chest hurt. His pulse reverberated through his entire body, and sweat ran down his neck. But he was breathing and conscious, and the spots and misty patches in his vision receded bit by bit.

"Thank you," he croaked, his hoarse voice reduced to a whisper. "Without you-"

"Shh. Don't talk. Just rest." Delenn spoke quietly, gently, as if he was a scared animal. And maybe he was. He obliged, and rested his heavy head in his hands.

They sat like that for a few more minutes, John waiting for his breathing to normalize, Delenn providing quiet support. No I told you so, no you're a stubborn idiot. Just presence, comfort, and compassion.

When he'd finally recovered enough and dragged himself up the rest of the stairs with Delenn's help, John was ready to collapse into his bed immediately. But he had not anticipated his impromptu nurse's sternness.

"Out of the wet clothes," she commandeered when he was letting his apartment door fall shut behind them. "Or you will catch yourself a lung infection."

Any other day John would have reacted to her basically asking him to undress with a crooked grin, a raised eyebrow, and if he was feeling adventurous a flirty comment. Today he just nodded and sat down cross-legged in front of the closet, trying to pick something that would keep him comfortable when the fever waves hit and warm through the chills. Meanwhile, Delenn had taken to exploring his one-and-a-half-room flat on her own. When he disappeared into the bathroom he heard water running, and by the time he returned the kettle was whistling.

He slugged into the kitchen, where Delenn turned around and mustered him - dressed in sweatpants and a slightly too small hoodie under which a baseball shirt's seam peaked out, and with the thickest scarf that he owned wrapped around his neck.

"Where is your thermometer?"

His mom would have been proud of Delenn, John thought with slight amusement as he turned and shuffled into the bathroom. He did in fact own a thermometer, if he could find it, but a few minutes of searching did not turn up anything. He headed for the kitchenette next. Hadn't he seen it somewhere a few weeks ago?

Eventually, he lucked out in the spices drawer. The thermometer was half covered in reddish powder, evidently stemming from a spilled package of paprika powder, but at least it still worked. John ran it under the tab for a moment, then wiped it off with a dish towel. Steak, he remembered. He'd been trying to make an actually good steak and his dad had told him he needed to check its temperature.

Delenn looked slightly amused from having watched his search, but her impression immediately returned to serious when John waved the instrument at her. "Here it is." Pre-empting another instruction from Delenn, he put the tip in his mouth and sat down on his bed. For a few seconds he felt his heart pumping and the effort of standing for a few minutes catch up with him. Then he noticed the silence. The possibly most awkward silence he had ever endured, and he couldn't even break it. He felt Delenn's gaze rest on him even as he looked down to study the pattern on his bedsheets. When had he changed them again? And how did he now suddenly have the energy to worry about the state of his apartment when he had barely made it up the stairs?

The beeping of the thermometer ended his derailing train of thoughts. With a relieved exhale, John took it and checked the number. 103.7. Wordlessly, he handed it over to Delenn, who shook her head.

"I need a pen." She stood up, hurried over to his desk, tried out two broken ball pens before she found a working neon green highlighter, then started scribbling something on a post-it note. Then she scratched something out, scribbled some more, finally walked over to him with her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes big and round. "John, you need a doctor. Now. Maybe a hospital."

He didn't compute. "Hm? No, it's fine. Or, well. Not fine, but I'll be okay. Dad always said under 105 you don't need a doctor." He had to cough once, then again. Speaking really wasn't doing him any good.

"This is nearly 41 degrees in Celsius, John. Anything over 40 you visit a doctor. Please." There was actual fear in Delenn's voice, which unsettled him. Were the Minbari that much more cautious with fever? But that didn't make any sense. Not that he knew how much 40 degrees Celsius were - the last time he'd been able to calculate the conversion himself was in middle school. He pressed the switch unit button on the thermometer.

"39.8 according to the thermometer." Delenn now stared at him. Then she nodded, very slowly.

"I didn't know it could show Celsius." She looked at her post-it and chewed lightly on her lower lip while her eyes moved from her notes to the thermometer's tiny readout screen. "I'm sorry. I think I made a mistake in the calculation."

John smiled. "Don't apologize. I could never convert scales." He coughed. And it's kind of nice to have someone care for you enough to worry.

Delenn nodded. "I still think you should see a doctor. Even if the fever is not dangerous yet, you... You don't look good, John. And that makes me concerned." There was something in her eyes that warmed him up inside. "If you call your doctor now, maybe you can go tomorrow."

John sighed. "No doctor. Aged out of my parents' insurance last year and TAs don't get any." He just needed sleep. Oh, how he needed sleep. And painkillers. "I'll be okay with some fever reducers - think I still have some tylenol somewhere..."

Even as he stumbled to his closet to find the pills - stowed away between a shampoo bottle and some sneakers he'd forgotten he owned - he felt Delenn's gaze on him. "I do not wonder that your people care little for those who are sick. But one would think, with this... Obsession with productivity, that they would give the doctors more - more - room to work."

"Hm?" His meagre stock of walmart-quality medicine in hand, John shuffled back towards the bed and slumped down on the mattress.

"Do you remember that picture in Professor Kosh's office?"

He shook his head without inquiring any further. Bad idea. Not speaking had spared his throat, but the thumping in his head had flared up at the movement.

Delenn waved towards the kitchenette. "The one that shows the things needed for success, in circles that overlap. When you have time, talent, effort and support, you can succeed easily, and very well. If you have three of the... ingredients, you will succeed. If you have two, you can, but it will be hard. If you only have one, you will fail."

"What-" His voice broke, and he coughed before picking up his sentence again. "What does that have to do with doctors?"

"To heal is to succeed, in a way." Even though she spoke from the other side of the room, John had no trouble understanding Delenn. When had he gotten so used to her accent, her voice? "Time is rest. Talent is... your basic health, what your body can give you. Effort is care, and support is medicine. If you cannot have rest, and it seems like no one here ever can, you need at least health, care and medicine. But no one can pay for the medicine, no one has time and space to care for each other, and many have no health to return to anyways."

John knew that tone in her voice. It was the same she used when she spoke of Minbar's history, of religion, of learning from the past. Thinking hurt too much to understand or even remember what she had said right now, but when he was better, he wanted to know. Just hearing her speak to him was soothing, and he'd gladly listen to her reading him a phone book, but there was something special about sharing in her views.

"Explain that to me again when the room has stopped spinning?"

"Of course." She appeared next to him with a smile and a steaming cup which she set down on his nightstand. "Tea," she added with a gesture towards the drink, but John had already guessed as much. "It's not much, but there's not much more that I know here."

"Hm?"

"I learnt to care for others in the temple in Tuzanor. Many of us did. Doctors can be far, and in the mountains you cannot always get medicine fast."

John picked up the cup of tea and tested its temperature. A little hot, but almost drinkable. Feeling like crap was a little more bearable with a soothing drink and Delenn telling stories from home.

"But we still healed. Because we always could rest. And when you were not well, you were cared for. It probably took a little longer than it does for you, but no one got angry if we needed that time. We got medicine when we needed it, but that was when care was not enough. Not simply because there was no one to care."

Finishing his first sip from his tea, John looked up at Delenn. Her eyes were fixated on him, and when he met them, she didn't turn away or lower her eyelids as she often did. An unspoken reply to an unspoken question: I am here. I care.

The eye contact shot a spark through John, and he dropped his gaze immediately. To hide the embarrassment, he cleared his raw throat, wincing at how painful that had become over the course of the day. He was keenly aware that Delenn was still looking at him.

"One day I will visit Minbar. See it all for myself." John cursed the fact that his voice was leaving him hanging. His whispering sounded like a feeble child, not to mention that it hurt. He took another sip from the teacup.

But Delenn had turned away. "Maybe one day," she evaded. "Now is not a good time."

John opened his mouth to dig deeper, but was cut off by a coughing fit before he could say anything. He pushed his teacup onto the nightstand as his whole body jerked with the spasms and motioned at Delenn to stay back. It felt like his lungs tried breaking through a metal band around his chest, but at least he could still breathe in between coughs. A marginal improvement.

Delenn, who had slipped into the kitchenette, returned with a dish towel. He threw her a confused glance while he tried to get his breath back under control. "Put this over your head," she instructed. John felt reminded of a simple ghost costume he'd once tried to fabricate for Halloween, but still went along. She was evidently better at this than he was.

His teacup appeared under the towel, and Delenn's voice reached him, slightly dampened through the cloth over his head. "Breathe in the steam. Normally you use more water, and a bigger pot, but this should work."

The whole thing felt a little ridiculous to John, but considering how much Delenn was doing for him right now, he could not not do it. So he brought the teacup up to his face and took a deep breath. The warmth of the air immediately comforted his lungs, like a coat of honey compared to the spikes of the cold outside, and he inhaled even deeper the next time. A good minute of breathing later, his chest had finally calmed down, and he peeked out from under the towel.

"Thank you." Even his voice sounded a little less brittle. "I don't really know what I'd have done without you today."

"I will let Susan know that she was right." A smile sparkled on Delenn's face. "I believe she would say, 'I told you so'?"

"Probably, yeah." John chuckled. "But really. I'm glad you are here."

"We all have times that we need each other. Of course I'm here."

I'd do the same for you, he quietly promised. Even though I'd not be half as good as you.

Her words didn't leave John's memory for a long time. They stayed especially present for the next week, as she stopped by his place every day. One day she brought over a pot of soup and spices for tea. The next she filled him in on his classes. She even pressured Stephen into checking him out with a stethoscope, who - after a lot of "Remember I'm a student, not a doctor!" disclaimers - attested that while his lungs sounded like crap, his heart seemed fine, so he should probably be okay with plenty of rest. And when he finally felt up to venturing out of his room, she insisted on accompanying him on a walk around the block before she returned his car keys to him.

Mostly though, John got so used to waking up to a good morning text from Delenn that when he was back to school, and to his regular wake-up time, he texted her good morning first.

Chapter Text

On Sunday, John and Delenn sat together in the park, still wrapped up in their winter coats but enjoying the first rays of the spring sun. He tried to quiz her on important dates in the history of the United Nations. She was absent-minded and yet tense as a spring, jumping up like a frightful bird at every sound. He knew she hadn't slept well in at least a week. Partly because she'd had way too much coffee, which her body wasn't used to, but above all because she was scared, and glued to the news. The park, far from the university's wi-fi connection, had been his suggestion - a way for her to relax a little, away from the hypotheticals and what-ifs and will-they, won't-they news coming from her home. At least that was what she had told him. American news outlets seemed distinctly uninterested in the tensions brewing far away, on a tiny and to them so insignificant island in the Pacific.

Delenn looked at him, confused, and John repeated his question. "Which year did the Alma-Ata conference take place?"

She sighed, one hand wrapping into her hair, the fingers of the other tapping on her knee. "I don't remember. I'm sorry." Her gaze appeared to zoom out until she looked far into the distance, beyond the trees across the lake they were looking at. "There's a town on Minbar called Aladror. Did I ever tell you about it? They have a wonderful lake there, with crystal clear water. My father used to take me there as a child. It is where I learned to swim." She stopped talking, but her eyes still clearly lingered on that lake on Minbar.

John laid his hand on top of hers. "How about we take a little walk instead?"

She nodded, and soon after they strolled through the park, sharing her earphones. She played him Minbari pop music, something he hadn't even been aware existed, and talked about a concert she wanted to go see in summer. Her voice turned steely as she did so, as if the very act of planning for the future was an act of defiance. But for John, the thought of her leaving in just a few months was hard in its own right.

On a rainy Monday morning, John found Delenn in the library with a Spanish grammar book. She had decided to learn Spanish, she explained. He was confused. Hadn't she already started learning French?

A few hours later she was busy solving sudoku. After lunch, while knitting almost an entire scarf, she asked his advice about whether she should start doing yoga or pilates, even though John didn't know much about either. In the evening, while he sat on her rug with a book about Lincoln, she rummaged around the kitchen, spending what felt like hours cooking up a Lebanese stew.

She didn't check her computer or mention the news all day. Perhaps that was the point.

On Tuesday, John turned on his TV first thing in the morning, as he had done for the past three weeks or so. Usually they didn't bring any news on Minbar. That day, they did, after the basketball results.

"On the small island state of Minbar, where American forces intervened as part of the War on Terror a few years ago, tensions between the religious leadership and paramilitary forces have escalated into street violence and attacks on government buildings last night. Pacific correspondent Paul Hudson is reporting from Indonesia. Thank you for staying up for us Paul - can you put these escalations into context for American viewers?"

"Thank you Kate. So, as you mentioned Minbar has experienced American intervention in the early 2000s, with the capture and killing of an alleged terrorist on Minbari soil. The religious government, which my sources say has been in power for at least a hundred years - we have been unable to verify that - was quite upset by that and threatened fighting back against US troops, but ultimately were satisfied once our forces withdrew. However, it seems that paramilitary groups still hold a grudge against them. Whether tensions have been going on for the past six years or whether they just re-incited over some other issue is unclear to me at this time, but frictions between religious and military Minbari seem to be at the core of this outbreak of violence. As far as we know at this point, no American citizens have been involved or harmed in any way in the current events, but the travel warnings for Minbar have just been updated and all foreigners have been advised to leave immediately."

"Thanks, Paul. We're hoping you'll keep us updated. In other news, the US government has just announced a new bill-"

John turned the TV off. His heart raced, and he grabbed his phone to speed-dial Delenn. But she didn't answer.

An hour later, he weaved through the hallways of their faculty, his eyes scanning the students filing into their classroom. None of them seemed particularly disturbed by the news. He realized that a year ago he wouldn't have been either.

It took a bit of searching, but eventually he found Delenn sitting in the cafeteria. An untouched cup of coffee sat before her, no longer steaming. She stared out of the window into the tree tops swaying from the strong wind, their shadows dancing across the sun-specked meadow.

"Hey," John greeted her gently and slowly let his backpack slide to the ground. She didn't turn to look at him. "How are you holding up?"

She shrugged. John studied her face. She didn't look like she had been crying. She just looked paralysed.

"Can I hold you?"

She nodded, but still didn't say a word. John wrapped his arms around her. Delenn leaned her head against his shoulder, but her back remained stiff.

They spent most of the day just sitting next to each other in silence. John didn't care about skipping his classes. He wasn't even sure if Delenn knew what day it was. She alternated between frantically texting, scrolling through news sites that he could not read, and staring out of the window. John tried to work on an essay and gave up after half an hour. He searched for any news in English and found little. He read half a chapter of his Lincoln book, five pages from a textbook, and started taking notes for a presentation, but didn't finish anything. Eventually he ended up playing games on his cell phone while listening to Bowie through one earphone.

Around lunchtime he nudged Delenn into eating something. She managed half a cream cheese bagel before shaking her head with her lips pressed tightly together. Over the course of the who knew how many hours that they sat there, John ate the other half of the bagel, a chicken breast sandwich, a Caesar salad, a chocolate brownie, and drank Delenn's cold coffee, a coke and a double cappuccino. The crowds of students passing by to eat, chat, discuss their homework or just waste their time idly floated by without either of them truly taking notice. By 10 p.m. they got chased out of the cafeteria.

John drove Delenn home in silence. Mechanically she unlocked the door, let her bag slide down her shoulder into the corner, and stripped off her shoes. John lingered in the door, unsure what to do.

"Do you want to stay a while?," Delenn eventually whispered, tiredness oozing out of her hushed voice and slugged movements.

"Would you like me to?"

She answered with a small nod. John slid out of his worn-out sneakers, placing them next to her much smaller ankle boots, sat his backpack on the floor and followed into her room. She lit the candles on the windowsill, then some form of incense whose smell he could not place. The flickering light made the patterned tapestries on the walls appear to move. A shiver ran through John, and it had nothing to do with the comfortable temperature in the room.

"What are you doing?" He still stood in the middle of the room, watching Delenn place a candleholder on her rug and settling down cross-legged in front of it.

"Meditating, and praying," she explained.

"Can I stay? I mean, is it okay if I watch?"

"If you are silent."

John nodded, and sat down cross-legged opposite her. To him, it looked as if she was staring through the candle into something that his eyes were not privy to. She didn't move and made no sound, but he knew that her thoughts were busy with something.

For a few minutes he just watched her. Tried to figure out what she might be feeling right then. Wondered if there was anything that he could do.

Eventually, he folded his hands, lowered his gaze, and silently began praying too. He wasn't anywhere near a true believer, and the last time he had been to a church on a day that wasn't Christmas or Easter must have been almost a decade ago, but at that moment he didn't really have a better idea than to awkwardly address words to a higher power that might or might not be somewhere. So he prayed for peace, for people he had never met in a place he had never been.

On Wednesday morning, the sun peeking through the window woke John. He had fallen asleep on Delenn's comfortable armchair, his feet on her desk, still in his jeans and sweater from class yesterday, and since he hadn't brought a toothbrush his mouth tasted like old carpet. With a grunt, he stretched his arms behind his back, then pulled his legs down to the ground and shook them out. Once they stopped prickling, he tested getting up.

A glance at the wall revealed that it was already past 9. He had evidently slept through the start of his first class. But that thought sparked neither remorse nor guilt - he could not bring himself to care about class right now. Still blinking away sleep, he looked around for his laptop. He had to check the news.

Before he could find it, the door opened and Delenn entered, carrying several heavy-looking tote bags. "You are awake," she greeted.

John nodded. "Yeah." Where have you been?, he wanted to ask, but didn't want to sound like he was policing her, so he didn't. If shopping helped her right now who was he to judge?

Delenn dropped her bags next to the desk. "I bought some... Drawing things." Answering John's unasked question, she began pulling out craft paper, markers, and even some coloured fabric.

"What do you need that for?"

"The - what do you call it when you put pieces of clothes together? With a tiny sword thing?"

Delenn would be the person to know the word sword in English, but not the word needle.

"You mean sewing? With a needle?"

"One of these." Delenn pulled out a mini sewing kit from another tote bag and presented him with a needle.

"Yeah, sewing."

"Sew-wing," she repeated slowly, tasting the unfamiliar word. "Almost like sowing?"

"I have never seen anyone else know so many rare English words and so few common words," John laughed. "We had native English speakers in my high school who didn't know the word sowing until they made us read the parable of the sower!"

Delenn smiled sheepishly. "I guess common and rare is 'in the eye of the beholder'." For a brief moment she beamed at him, and John could feel the pride radiating from her. He reflected the warm smile. You're doing so great. I'm proud of you too.

But it took only a second for her smile to drop again. "They have no flags here," she explained with a gesture towards the bags, "so I need to do it myself."

John matched her renewed serious expression. "What are you up to?"

She began to empty the bags fully onto her desk. Dark blue and purple colours. Glitter glue. Empty posters. A few long wooden sticks. Heavy duty cardboard. And a megaphone. John lifted an eyebrow, and Delenn stared at him with those eyes of steel that he'd known since their first encounter.

"Protest."

If this hadn't been Delenn, John would probably have burst out laughing. Perhaps even with Delenn, if the situation hadn't been so frightening. Wasn't this his friend who had commented, when they'd discussed the French revolution in class, that on Minbar demonstrations did not exist? She must have picked up something in America.

"Why?"

John could see the tears looming behind that determined gaze as she answered, quietly, "Because I no longer recognize home."

Before he could say anything else, Delenn straightened her shoulders, and the glimmer in her eyes disappeared. "I need something to do. I can't just sit here and watch the news. So, I looked up how to protest on the internet."

John wanted to hug her so much at that moment.

Instead, he listened to her stitched-together summary of the Wikipedia article on Vietnam war protests. He glued posters onto cardboard and drew large, bold letters on them while she cut out pieces of fabric and began weaving a needle through them. He let her explain the elements of the Minbari flag as she worked, and praised the finished product even though he had no idea what the flag was supposed to look like.

At 3 p.m., they were in front of the city hall with a small group of other people. John looked around uncomfortably. He seemed to be the only local around, judging by the clothes everyone else was wearing, and it did not remind him at all of the single demonstration he'd been to thus far - an on-campus protest against an increase in tuition fees. The mood was totally different.

Everywhere he looked, faces were stern and somber. None of the slightly giddy, excited faces of the many first-years who had been angry, but also perceived their standing up against the university as a cool, rebellious adventure. The people here were older too. Delenn, though she was older than him, was among the youngest, save for two wide-eyed kids, a teenage boy with grimly clenched teeth, and a baby sleeping in a carrier.

It was also the first time John heard Delenn speak Adronato - or was this Minbari? He didn't know how different the two actually were - with anyone else. She had taught him a word or two here and there, but this was the first time he saw her talk. And he could have watched it for hours. There was a melody to the language that fit her way of speaking so perfectly, and he knew from the way the words flowed that not once did she have to stop to ponder what to say. Her signature gesture of moving her hand in circles when searching for an English word was totally absent.

John, in contrast, understood nothing of what was said. He couldn't recall that ever being the case before. Sure, he'd stood in line behind a group of Chinese students at the cafeteria once and had wondered what they were chatting about. They'd watched Eichmann in Jerusalem in class, and before their professor had managed to turn on the subtitles he'd been somewhat irritated at the incomprehensible German coming from the loudspeakers. And the staff at the Mexican restaurant that his grandparents always took him to spoke Spanish amongst themselves. But this was the first time that English seemed totally absent from the environment. How does she do it? Living in a language that is not her own?

He stuck close to Delenn, feeling like the monkey who had followed the fish into the water. This little bubble of Minbar that had sprung up on the square felt more foreign to him than the Europe road trip his parents had taken him on when he'd been 16, or backpacking through Australia and even Thailand after graduating high school.

He wondered what his father would be thinking if he could see him now. Despite much of his career being based upon his views on US-Minbar relations, David Sheridan had not once been to the country, and his interactions with Minbari probably didn't go beyond diplomatic dinners. And now John was standing here, amongst them, protesting. Without even fully knowing what for or against. For peace. Against violence. But it was not that simple, was it? It could not be. It never was. Or maybe it was, and somehow, people just insisted on making it more complicated than it had to be.

On late Thursday afternoon, John set a careful foot over the doorstep of the International Student Office for the first time in his life. It felt a little silly, really, that he'd never been here. But it had always felt like intruding on a safe space not meant for him, like invading the only place on campus not dominated by an American flag. He'd seen the room during his first year campus tour, hell, he'd shown some incoming first-years around himself this time. But they'd only briefly peeked inside.

Now he stood in the middle of the room, turning around like a clumsy ballet dancer, the epitome of a tourist. He could only make out about half the flags that were scattered around in various forms - actual fabric flags, hand-drawn paper cut-outs, buttons and pins. There were some coats of arms he thought he'd seen before somewhere, and a huge world map on one side of the room littered with holes from pins used to mark students' origins. Some of the lines on the map looked a little wobbly, as if added by hand later on.

Susan and Delenn were sitting next to each other on a once dark blue sofa, a bag of potato chips - barbecue style - next to Susan, a cup of tea in front of Delenn, and a laptop on each of their laps. Susan waved him over as soon as she noticed him.

"Stop staring like that, or we're gonna start taking entrance fees."

John lifted an eyebrow even as a weigh got lifted off his chest. If Susan was in this good a mood, then Delenn couldn't be doing too badly.

"I'll buy a ticket if it comes with a tour around." He gestured towards an overflowing bookshelf. "How many different languages have you got there?"

"Seventeen, I think. No wait, twenty-one.... Twenty-two, actually. If you count Mandarin and Cantonese separately."

John had no idea what precisely the difference was, but sure, he would let them both count.

"So - you said I could help out?"

"Yes." That was Delenn.

"Yep. With the printers, you know, the big poster ones? How do you actually get to access them?"

"TA privileges." He shrugged. "But sure, I can get you to the printers. What do you need to print, a presentation poster?" He chuckled. "Who's still doing posters, anyways? I thought everyone had jumped on the PowerPoint train."

"....Not quite." Susan had actually turned down her eyes. That was rare.

"We made posters explaining what is going on on Minbar. A little bit, at least." Delenn, in contrast, now looked him squarely in the eye, that steel shining through again, towering over him in charisma despite her much shorter size.

"Most people barely know my - country exists, John. People cannot form an opinion on that which they do not know of. They cannot understand the consequences of actions if they are not aware of them. How should they decide better the next time, without understanding what has gone wrong before?"

He would immediately have said yes even without her giving that speech. He still loved to see that passion in her, and hated the coldness of that strength, a coldness born of the necessity of staying immovable to stay standing.

John dropped his backpack on the floor and began rummaging for the keys to the printer room. Triumphantly, he pulled out a small set of silver keys with a half-paled baseball keychain.

"Well, I guess TA privileges can be stretched out a little."

On Friday, John woke to a text from Delenn asking him to meet her on campus, in one of the rooms reserved as group study spaces or for smaller lectures. I would meet you in a dark back alley or the woods at night, if you asked me to, he thought. See you there in half an hour!, he replied, before getting up and searching for a clean pan to scramble some eggs in.

By the time he swung in with a coffee to go, forty minutes later, the study room looked like Delenn's private office space. She had turned on the PC on the front desk, normally intended for a professor or TA, as well as plugged in her Mac right next to it. A no longer steaming cup of tea stood further towards the table's edge, and Delenn herself sat in the desk chair, one hand on the PC's mouse, the other writing something down in a small notebook - with an actual fountain pen no less. She held her cell phone squeezed between her right shoulder and ear, while an earphone cord dangled out from her left ear.

"You look busy," John greeted her once she had removed the phone and returned it to the desk. He opened his own laptop and dragged out a notepad. Somewhere in the depths of his backpack he managed to also find an only almost-empty ballpoint pen with the logo of some insurance company that must have had a stand at their introduction week's club fair.

"I am." There was something resembling hope in Delenn's steady voice, and John could feel himself melt with pride and relief. She was clearly finding her footing after Tuesday's events.

"So…?," John poked, curious what exactly it was she was doing here. Planning her own demonstration? Writing pamphlets? Preparing a speech to congress? By this point nothing she did surprised him too much anymore.

"Yes? So?"

Her question was completely serious, and John had to remind himself that sometimes his possibly-more-American-than-he-had-thought shorthand phrases neatly passed her by. In the months they had spent largely together now, she had become more and more comfortable in English, asking fewer questions, searching for words less often, using more idioms, sailing through the pronunciation of complex words… and yet, sometimes, she'd be completely befuddled by phrases John found not the least unusual. It was endearing, really. The way he talked was just one of many things Delenn had made him see in a whole new light.

"So, what are you busy with?"

Delenn made a wide gesture at the monitors, like a weather announcer on TV, and began to explain. "There's… a few things, actually. I'm translating some of the Minbari news into English to share them online. And trying to contact people back home. Asking them how they are doing, if they are safe."

She scrolled down a little on her Mac, pointing to a photo of a newspaper, written in the elegantly curved script of the Minbari language. Languages? Do they even use the same alphabet? John wasn't sure about that, just that all three Minbari languages were more or less mutually intelligible. "This is from a forum that's popular on Minbar - in my generation, at least. People are sharing what the different castes are saying. It seems like they don't even talk to each other on the streets anymore, John. As if we are no longer one people." She sighed, quietly adding: "Some are talking about moving away."

"You can't exactly blame them," John commented. "If there has been violence… if people are scared, they do what they have to to stay safe. Sometimes, maybe that means going away."

"Of course." She had lost the air of business, instead now staring blankly through her screens into some faraway place where John could not follow. "It's just… I feel like I should be there, back home, right now. How can they think of going away when I wish like never before that I was by their side? I cannot just leave my country alone, not even when it is struggling. Especially not then."

Her words reminded John of one of their first meetings, how she had spoken about love for her country and how it was no crime. They were both patriots, he mused, and though their countries were once enemies they could now share in that love even if it was for different places.

"But you're not leaving them alone," he argued. "Look at everything you are doing now. Everything you've done all week." There were the posters now displayed on campus and throughout town. The protest. Letters to the university administration, and their senator - though John very much doubted those would lead anywhere. "No one could say you haven't done as much as you can."

Delenn smiled sadly at him, briefly touching his hand. "Thank you," she whispered. Then she cleared her throat, took a large gulp from the most likely cold tea, exhaled deeply, and picked up the mouse.

"Now, for what you can help with… What do you know about the US visa process?"

On Saturday, John was torn from his sleep by the sound of his cell phone. He waved his hand across the nightstand until he found the damn thing and picked up.

"John?" Delenn's voice was trembling even through the phone, and a small sob followed her greeting. John felt his blood freeze as he pressed the light button on his alarm clock and saw that it was not even 5 a.m. No time you called without good reason.

"Delenn? I'm here. What happened?"

Delenn swallowed audibly, her voice reduced to a whisper when she continued. "They set Yedor on fire." A strangled cry. "My city, John... It's in flames."

"My god." Something inside him broke at the misery in her voice. "I'm coming over, alright? You shouldn't be alone today."

"Thank you." She sounded so small, so weary. The past few days, when she had busied herself with doing all she could to help, Delenn had seemed so strong. Now she was crumbling.

"We all have times that we need each other. Of course I'm coming."

John gathered a few things, tossed them in his backpack alongside the school supplies - though he doubted he would use them today - and drove straight to Delenn's place. When he rang the bell, she opened immediately. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears welling up inside them, her hair was all over the place and yet looked just tired, and she was apparently still in a nightgown.

"John?"

He hummed in agreement. Gently, as if she was a spooked horse. "I'm here."

"Hold me?"

He nodded and spread out his arms. Delenn crashed into them, burying her face in his chest, suddenly shaking with sobs. John rubbed circles on her back and whispered meaningless things, letting her deflate as the tension of the past days and weeks no longer held her upright. It was the first time he'd seen her cry.

"Civil war." They still stood on the doorstep when Delenn lifted her head after a few minutes to look at him, her face spotty and her eyes swollen from crying. "How did this happen?"

John sighed. "I don't know." With what limited things he had parsed together over the last few days, Minbar had essentially experienced a military coup. A civil war following from that was probably not unlikely, but...

All of a sudden he remembered his advanced statistics class, a year ago. They had practiced using statistical software for political science analysis, and one of the models they ran for their final projects was on predictors of civil war. He should have paid more attention to the odds associated with coups. But the numbers didn't hurt so much.

"Should we go inside?," he prompted, and Delenn looked around as if she only now noticed that they were still halfway in the hallway. She nodded, and invited him in with a hand gesture.

John was unsurprised by the amount of candles burning, and the smell of incense in the air. He beelined for the rug, his usual sitting spot in her apartment, and dropped into a cross-legged sit at a little distance from the candleholders. There was a reason he didn't trust himself with candles in his own room.

Delenn sat down heavily next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. John wrapped an arm around her, feeling slight shivers run through her as more silent tears trailed down her cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shrugged her shoulders and sighed. Then, speaking as if from very far away, she began.

"Minbar has been ruled by the Grey Council for generations. Three from each caste. Worker, warrior, religious." Her fingers curled into her hair. "A moon cycle ago, one of the Religious council members was expelled. And a Warrior was posted in her stead. The Council was unbalanced, for the first time in a thousand years."

That last part sounded more like myth or legend to John than actual historical fact, or maybe it was a figure of speech. But regardless of the truth in her details, Delenn's narration finally gave him a chance to understand what was going on.

"Why was she expelled from the council?"

"For wanting reconciliation." Delenn drew in a shaky breath. "It was the Religious caste that stopped us from going to war when Dukhat was killed. The Warrior caste has never forgiven them this. You know, Minbar may not have had what you here consider a military, with scores of planes and warships. But Minbar has always had formidable fighters, and they could easily have killed every single American that set foot on our land at Z'Ha'Dum."

John laid a hand on her thigh. "I remember you telling me about Dukhat, all the way back in September."

The way the American news at the time had put it - 'the Minbari head of state' - did not nearly capture how large Dukhat's figure had loomed. He was perhaps more revered and remembered than JFK, Lincoln, and Washington combined. Kind of like the Queen of England. Yet John had never heard more than his name and 'suspected of aiding terrorists by sheltering them on Minbar' until Delenn had told him their side of the story when they worked on their presentation.

She nodded.

"Last Monday, the Warrior caste members dissolved the Grey Council and created a new Warriors' Council. That began the fighting in the streets. Minbari are a quiet people, not one to protest fast. But the Grey Council has been the... Cornerstone? Of who we are, for centuries. Without the Council, we are not Minbari. And now the castes have turned on each other, in the streets, in the homes, and even in the sacred temples of the Council."

As Delenn wound her hand into her hair, staring distantly into the darkness outside her window, John leaned against her. She returned the motion, curling into his side with a shiver. For a short while they sat in silence, before Delenn swallowed audibly and began to speak again.

"It all seemed so bad already, can you imagine that? Seeing the council out of balance… Imagine that your government had suddenly broken its most vital, most basic identity. That is what it was, to us."

John rather didn't want to imagine what the equivalent for the US would be. But he was certain he wouldn't like it.

"But in hindsight, it was nothing," Delenn continued, her voice breaking. "First they started fighting in the streets. We are a peaceful people, John - believe that, please, even if you here might think different. But we haven't always been peaceful. We used to fight amongst ourselves. And now it seems we are doing it again. Only now, there are other means than spears and torches."

Now a shiver was running down John's spine. Minbar had heavily increased its army's technological power after the US invasion. When did I stop thinking of it as an intervention, and start calling it an invasion in my head? If the government was now turning these weapons on its own people…

"No," he whispered. "You mean, the army is attacking civilians?"

"Not… exactly," she corrected. "But the Anla'Shok - a traditional group of religious fighters - have been unhappy ever since the Grey Council lost its balance. They said, when it was broken and the new Warriors' Council occupied its temple, that they would not take orders from a warrior council… and so, the army tried to make them."

John began mentally classifying the conflict almost instantly, then felt hot shame flush his cheeks. Delenn's home country was quite literally burning, and his first question was whether this Anla'Shok was more akin to a paramilitary force, a religious terrorist group, or a political opposition? Way to bring his degree into his personal life.

"And they refused?," he simply asked, holding back from trying to analyse whatever the hell was going on here. This was Delenn's prerogative. If ever, God forbid, his own country turned on itself, it would be his turn to interpret it.

"Of course. They fought with their skills and weapons, out in the streets. At first, Anla'Shok were fighting warriors - it was violent, and it was horrible, and people were killed. But they each chose to take part in the fighting. They weren't forced to. But then, the Warrior Council decided that all religious caste members who opposed them were a danger to their rule. The first who were killed were mistaken for Anla'Shok, hiding amongst the common people. But a death of one who was never meant to fight isn't easily forgiven. And so, they retaliated. Anla'Shok killed warriors. Warriors killed religious caste. And suddenly, everyone who wasn't your caste was your enemy."

Delenn took a deep breath before continuing. "Things would never be alright after that, but - they got so much worse than I thought they would, John. So much worse." A small sob escaped her, and John gently rubbed her back. Tears were beginning to well up in Delenn's eyes again, and he knew whatever came now was tonight's news.

"Shakiri and his Warrior Council bombed the capital," she whispered. "The temples. The houses where people live. This is not how our wars were fought, John. They never involved bombs. They were fought Minbari against Minbari, with denn'boks and swords and bare hands, in the hills and forests of our home. No children have been directly harmed in a war on Minbar before this one. No one has been killed in their sleep in a war. No one could simply wipe out an entire family with the press of a button-"

Her voice had grown louder, faster, more desperate with each word until she was gasping for air between rage and tears. Lost for words, John wrapped his arms around her and held her steadfast as she hitched with sobs, crying out her pain and anger and perhaps fear, her tears soaking his shirt until there was nothing left but whimpers and John's own tears had joined Delenn's.

They sat together in the dark, and as black turned to grey outside the window they watched thick raindrops and shards of hail fall from low-hanging clouds, as if the universe was joining them in weeping for Minbar's future.