Work Text:
When he is assigned ambassador to Earth by the emperor, Londo leaves the family manor in the care of Timov – as is her due, being his senior wife. It is her he can trust to keep the place standing, and his House’s honor intact. His residence in the imperial capital, he leaves to Daggair. It should keep her better-behaved and out of trouble, to have her remain surrounded (and observed!) by the high society to which she so clings. As for Mariel, she comes with him to his new post on Earth. She is the youngest, after all, and longs to see more of the galaxy. (If he were to leave her with either of the other two, there would be murder.) Londo congratulates himself on saving himself the bulk of all three ladies’ resentment, in this way.
That Mariel takes to the Narn ambassador, he could not have anticipated. (There is nothing about G’Kar he could have ever anticipated – evidenced by the recognition, even without the weight of years, and the presence of both keen, red eyes – that this is the Narn who ends his life.) Mariel’s type usually has far taller crests and far deeper wallets.
He is quite sure neither G’Kar nor Mariel realize: Londo knows of the affair. In fact, Londo knows the two of them think (and delight in the thought that) they are spiting him, each in their own way.
They think he works too much, drinks too much, concerns himself with pleasing everyone with wild stories and loud laughter – desperately trying to ingratiate himself to the rising star of the great Earth Alliance for the pitiful hope of advancement back home. They think he cannot see his junior wife – all ambition and sly smiles – meeting the burning eyes of the Narn fated to kill him across the grand function rooms they spend their evenings in. They are wrong, of course, but has he the will to dissuade them, if it pleases them so?
He finds, in the small hours of night, seated before his desk in a paltry imitation of his study at home, the thought of Mariel in the Narn’s arms brings feelings other than disgust or humiliation.
As his stylus stutters and stops its scratching against the paper, Londo imagines that broad, scaled back almost entirely hiding the lithe form of Mariel beneath it. Imagines strong, clawed hands on smooth skin. The long, dark tongue inside that self-satisfied smirk.
The Narn must be a truly formidable lover for Mariel to keep him around this long, despite no claim to great riches or status among any people but his own.
He hears the ground transport under the window, hears the door open, and footsteps up the stairs. Two sets – the graceful step of light shoes, and the heavy tread of Narn boots. The light in his study is off, the door is locked. They pass him by; doubtless, they think he is out for the night.
A gasp, a giggle, the low, amused rumble of the Narn’s voice.
Ah, Mariel – wicked, brash girl – she has brought him to their bedroom. And tomorrow night, when he lies down, with her tucked in at his side – he wonders whether he will still feel the heat of G’Kar taking her tonight, and whether it will keep him warm, too.
As the voices of passion in the next room reach a crescendo, he takes a deep drink from the glass he always keeps beside him and thinks of hands closing around his throat.