It had been the one point on which he would not budge, when they had selected the apartment. It must have a balcony. A view over the morning horizon. Julianna complained that it made finding something within their price range very hard. He patted her on the cheek and praised her ingenuity, knowing it would only make her go out and find something exactly to his specifications.

His hands were steady on the balcony when he heard the news about the war, shrieked from within by three enthusiastic female voices, and her slippered feet danced onto the balcony to tell him what he had already known. That Sheridan had prevailed. That Delenn had done her work well. The human race had made its choice, had spoken through the form of its representative, guided by...

Well. There was no need to advertise that little fact.

And he had, after all, played only a very small role in the whole thing. Only a touch. One day's work in exchange for a lifetime, first of slowly growing awareness and then of endless, exhaustive repentance. It hardly seemed fair on the face of it.

It still hardly seemed fair, but when he sat down in his old leather armchair and watched his student at their work with hers several days later, it seemed more unfair for them than for him. He had the happy ending he did not really deserve, and they were rejected by their protégé race and sent packing.

In the end, of course, wasn't that what it was about? The bird taking wing from the nest, the lion making its own pride. It still seemed an ungrateful way to go about things.

When Nightwatch first began coming around he treated them with respect, dignity, and a complete disregard for any intimations of wrong-doing they were trying to put forth. They were the government of Earth, and he was older than all of them put together. He offered them drinks, smiled and nodded, and sent them packing.

They took in Rowan for sedition, Marco and Li on suspicion of terrorism. They tried to come for Julianna, but by the time they knocked on his door she was gone and he would not let them in. He thought they had arrested her already when she didn't come home one day. No, he didn't know where she was. He would like to file a missing person's report, he would not like to come down and answer some questions, and he would deeply prefer they leave. Now.

Nightwatch left. The President went away. The sun rose and set outside the balcony and after a little while Julianna returned to stand in the doorway, arms folded and pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders.

"It's late," he said, turning and walking back into the room with his head tilted to the floor so that he didn't have to meet her eyes. "I'm tired."

Harsh, and clipped. The same tones he used for almost everyone else, but not for her anymore. Not for Rowan or Marco or Li, if they had ever come home. He doubted they ever would.

"Please," she whispered, but she knew better than that.

"It's not for either of us to say."

Her head bowed. Soft hair fell over her face, catching the sunset with colors of scarlet, white gold, too yellow for truth. After all he had been through, he had earned a rest. Hadn't he? He deserved the ending of his choice. Didn't he?

"Not all of us are blessed to know the day and moment," he told her, sighing as he took her hands in his. Her hands were cold. They had always been cold, but soft. Like the touch of new-fallen snow on his cheek when she laid her hands there.

"I don't want you to go."

"I know."

There were tears. He had always known there would be, if he was likewise blessed enough not to slip away alone. And she had been company, a joy and a relief, even from the moment of their meeting on that long-forgotten station where the Vorlons had left him. She had grown so much since then, and he told her so.

"Thank you," she whispered. Smiled through tears.

He was so tired.

The bed creaked under his weight and the half-weight of her knee balancing her as she tucked him in. Real wood, he had as many real things in his home as he could afford. The new age of plastic and artificial everything had been harder perhaps on him than the Vorlons. It felt out of place, too strange. He would be glad to leave it behind.

She turned down the lights and lit the lamps. Familiar scent of oil burning and the flicker of a flame behind glass. Blankets that were fibers from an animal, from a plant that had known sunlight and earth. His fingers curled around the pillow that was stuffed with real feathers. She smiled a little, knowing what brought that ease to his face.

"You will grieve," he reached out in a gesture that even he hadn't expected, and touched his fingertips to her cheek. "It's to be expected. But not too much, hmm?"

"No." Her fingers curled around his, clinging, as the tears started again. "Not too much."

"That's my girl."

She wept. "I will miss you."

"I know."

He closed his eyes.

"And you'll tell him?"

She nodded, squeezing gently. "I'll tell him."

He smiled.

"Sheridan."

Always Sheridan, he had always been Sheridan. Never rank or title or honorific, but always the name. The person more important than the office he represented. She had never met him, seen his picture in newsfeeds but had never met him. But she felt as though she had known him all her life.

"Yes?" He looked puzzled to see her. He would, she had been told.

"A... person. A friend of mine, I believe you knew him. He passed away early this morning..."

"His name was Sebastian."

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