Disclaimer: All of the usual stuff - all the characters in this piece are owned by J Michael Straczynski, Babylonian Productions™ and Warners™.

Author’s Note: A short Season Two-era fic, sometime after A Race Through Dark Places - more friendship than fluff, but the possibility is always there.

La Vie en Rose

by

Laurie M

'What is it?'

Delenn bent over the case, staring intently through the glass barrier; she frowned.

'That? Uh...' Sheridan read the neatly printed card propped at the back of the exhibit. 'That is a pet rock.'

She straightened up, still frowning, looking at him with an evident belief in his ability to enlighten her. 'A pet rock.' She repeated the words, shook her head. 'I do not understand. I believed that what your people call a pet is an animal, a domestic creature.'

'Well, you got me there. Apparently these were the things to have back in' -he looked again at the card- 'the nineteen-seventies. That's mid- to late-twentieth century. People must have had a lot of time on their hands.'

'Perhaps. Or perhaps they did not have enough - to care for a pet correctly takes time, does it not?'

He raised his eyebrows, considering. 'You might be right. Feeding it wouldn't be a problem. Training would be pretty easy: it's got 'sit' and 'stay' down already; although, you might have some trouble with 'roll over' and 'fetch.'

His tone was casual, matter-of-fact, but there was the betraying spark in his eyes. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly in response, an almost-smile that Sheridan found as beguiling as the true, full smile that would transform her face.

'It would make for a loyal companion,' she said, 'you could take it with you everywhere.'

'And you don't even have to walk it.'

They stood for a moment, facing each other, then Sheridan moved slightly, his hand hovering near her elbow but not quite touching her. They walked on through the small, quiet space that was dedicated to Earth artefacts of long ago. These were not the grand objects, not the works of art or the antiquities that were best and greatest of Earth's cultural past. Rather, here were the oddities, the mundane, the things of everyday people and their lives. Sheridan had always enjoyed wandering through the exhibits but there was an added element now with Delenn. Almost like discovering Humanity again, through her eyes. And Humans, he had to admit, were strange beings. It was something he had always been aware of, vaguely, on an abstract level. The truth of this was increasingly apparent. But he had always enjoyed eccentricities.

Possibly, some may have said, because he had plenty of his own.

It had been his suggestion to come to the small museum: a way of helping her to understand Humans, what their peculiar condition was. Sometimes - often - he wondered if she didn't teach him more than he taught her.

He walked, hands clasped behind his back, and Delenn drifted at his side, regarding everything with her habitual gravity. She wore the same red robes as at Londo's Ascension Day celebration. The colour suited her, he thought, their vibrancy lending colour to her pale cheeks. Her toenails had been painted the same deep shade, he remembered, her feet small and slim beneath the hem of her gown; going barefoot in full dress uniform had felt almost like a sacrilege. He had felt ridiculously self-conscious, even though they had all been- Well, on an equal footing in that respect, so to speak. He had wondered if all Minbari women followed that same ritual of adornment as their Human counterparts, or if it was an expression of her new role.

It didn't matter; it was certainly none of his business; just another curiosity.

He stopped again and Delenn stopped with him, watching with interest as he bent over a large box containing some mechanical object.

'This is my favourite thing here,' he told her.

It was a great gift, she thought as she looked at him, that ability to find so much wonder, such joy, in simple things. She stepped closer, looked down at it. It was not the most attractive object there: a plain wooden container, very worn and scuffed; a metal plate, equally dulled, inlaid with another metal plate, this one circular in shape; some knobs and a long straight appendage.

'It's a record-player. A portable gramophone, to be exact.' He still stared at it; to him, evidently, it was beautiful. Delenn looked harder, tried to see in it what he did. He looked at her. 'It plays records - music. It's ... old. Very old. My granddad used to have one; he got it from his granddad - and it was probably old when he had it. But I used to love playing with it when I was a kid - very carefully, under supervision.'

'Do you have it still?'

Sheridan was quiet for a moment. 'No. It just fell apart in the end; it was a wonder it had lasted that long.'

She rested one finger lightly against the wood. 'And this makes music?' Her tone was doubtful.

'Yes. Well... You have to put a record on it first.'

'I see.'

He looked at her, his head tilted, one corner of his mouth turning up. 'You really don't, do you?'

'I...' Her hands moved helplessly.

The spark in his eyes turned to something else; Sheridan glanced around. They were still alone, the only visitors to the past. He picked up a flat square of paper, carefully sliding out the circle of black vinyl.

There was that smell, he thought suddenly, the old paper and cardboard; there had been hundreds of them all stacked together down in the den. So many Sunday afternoons spent down there. He released a breath and placed the record on the turntable. 'Okay, all we need to do now is wind it up.' He glanced at her, smiled at her again. 'And I'm using that word "we" very freely here.'

He turned the handle, carefully moved the arm across until the needle found the groove on the sleek black surface.

There was an explosive pop - a burst of hiss and static, scratches grating against her ears. Delenn flinched inadvertently. This was not what she had expected. The sound faded, still discernible in the background and then, layered over that, a rising melody. Another sound joined, brassy yet sweet, finding a gentle rhythm.

Sheridan leant his hands against the case. 'Louis Armstrong. My dad loves him.'

His face always changed when he spoke of his father. A great man, Delenn thought; he would have to be to hold the affection of such a son.

'It is lovely.' Her voice was soft.

He turned to her again. 'Yes. People used to dance to songs like this. They still do sometimes, up in Earhearts.' His head tilted. 'Do Minbari dance?'

'Not as you do, no. And this' -her hand moved again. 'I cannot dance.'

'Well, that's okay - I can't dance either. How about we both not dance together?' He held out his hands to her. 'You did want to learn about Humans.'

'And this is part?'

'It is. At some point, everybody dances - even the one's who can't. And a lot of the time, the ones who really shouldn't.'

Her mouth twitched again; she slipped her hands into his. Their steps were awkward: uncertain and fumbling, they performed an ungraceful circuit around the cabinet holding the player. Delenn spent most of it staring down, trying to avoid tripping over both Sheridan's feet and her own. It was not as easy as she thought it should be. She looked up, found his eyes on her face and became far less aware of herself. This, somehow, was easier. Simply feeling, not thinking. Yes, under his gaze that become somehow impenetrable, it was easier.

'What does it mean? This song?'

'La vie en rose...' Sheridan paused for a moment. His hand rested very lightly on her back; the fine silk of her robes carried the warmth of her skin. 'It's a love-song. It means... Well, I guess it means what they usually mean: when two are people are together - the right two people - then the world is rosy, beautiful. That everything is okay.'

'Human songs... They are poetry with music, are they not?'

He smiled lightly. 'Some of them are.'

Footsteps, quick and light, approached on the far side of the gallery.

'Looks like we're busted,' Sheridan said, stopping suddenly, 'come one.'

He still held her hand, pulled her with him towards the nearest exit. She was behind him, a little breathless, when they stopped - a few corridors between them and the scene of their crime. He let go of her.

'I haven't cut and run like that since I was a teenager,' he said ruefully but not wholly repentantly.

'Good. I am glad that you do not frequently indulge in such behaviour.' Her eyes were bright.

'You think we should have faced the music?'

Another frown appeared.

'It's an expression,' Sheridan told her. 'It means facing up to something, taking responsibility.'

'Facing the music... That is a very nice way to express it.'

They were walking again, uncertain in their destination now not their steps.

'Yes, I suppose it is. There's even a song about that, I think... Something...' He shook his head sharply. '"There may be trouble ahead..." Then something I can't remember, "Let's face the music and dance".'

Her head turned; she looked up at him. 'Well, we have danced, you and I, have we not?'

He met her eyes. 'Yes, we have at that.'

Fin

There may be trouble ahead,

but while there's moonlight

and music and love and romance,

let's face the music and dance.