ooc: I've never written anything for Lennier before - not even fic - so apologies if I don't get the voice right or screw up with canon somewhere :)
It hadn't been difficult, in the chaos of celebration, to borrow a flier and slip away virtually undetected - undetected, at least, by those who might be interested to know where Lennier had gone - the very people, in fact, that he was trying to avoid. Nestled in the close-fitting cockpit, Lennier stared through the viewer at the approaching station. He really should return now, join the others in celebrating the end of the war, the forging of the alliance, the union of its president with the woman who had actually conceived of and worked for the idea. Typical that Sheridan would enjoy all the accolades, as president, while Delenn worked tirelessly in his shadow. And Lennier himself in hers, of course - but that was as it ought to be.
Perhaps he wasn't ready to return, after all. Sheridan would probably be bursting with bonhomie, wanting to share the joy of his triumph with those he thought of as his friends - and Lennier wasn't quite ready to deal with that yet. He was willing to lie to save someone's honour, even to spare their feelings, but such deception required mental resources he didn't feel capable of at the moment. If he stayed away long enough he might be able to avoid the worst of it it...avoid them all, until his thoughts settled and he was ready to slip back into his old role.
But was his old role even there anymore? Anyone could act as Delenn's assistant. Anyone could pledge themselves to her, say the words, perform the proper rituals. But nobody would ever mean it the way Lennier had, with heart and body and soul. Except, supposedly, John Sheridan. And therein lay the rub, as Lennier had heard Mr. Garibaldi say once, presumably quoting one of those entertainment shows he liked so much, the ones with the yellow-beaked creatures Vir said were called cats. Sheridan, who had achieved victory over two ancient, powerful races, forged the interstellar alliance, and come back from the dead. As Londo Mollari might have said, there was no playing against a hand like that. Best all round just to fold and cut one's losses.
Is that what I'm doing now? he wondered. Folding?
A light began to flash on his instrument panel. It was accompanied by an insistent, irritating beeping sound. Lennier realised abruptly how odd it was that nobody appeared to have noticed his solitary flier joyriding aimlessly in ever-increasing circles around Babylon 5. Turning again to face the station, he froze in surprise. Certainly there was a space station in front of him...but it wasn't the right one. He checked the instruments; they confirmed it. He was in a completely unfamiliar part of space. Which, unless he'd passed through a jumpgate without noticing, was impossible. Or rather, highly improbable. Nonetheless, it had happened.
“Ship...” he began, intending to hail the mysterious station which had appeared from nowhere, but before he could say anything, the flier's onboard computer informed him politely that they were commencing docking procedures, and the matter was out of his hands. The flier seemed to be operating on autopilot, ignoring his instructions entirely. In a matter of minutes it had come to a stop inside the station, and Lennier was sliding cautiously out of the cockpit before the ship decided to switch off his oxygen, or worse. He stood on the cool metal deck, hands folded in front of him, an expression of polite expectation on his face. He supposed that eventually somebody would come along and tell him where he was.