In any case, here's mine, inspired by Parliament of Dreams and a recent review of andrastewhite's, but actually taking place in 2278 in the last hours of Londo's life with vague references to the Legions of Fire novels. *boggle* andrastewhite and anyone else who's seen War Without End: this is safe for you to read.
How strange- and how cruel- it was that a man who once looked for freedom and unity at the bottom of a bottle should ultimately find it there.
Vir didn’t know why that insight had just occurred to him then, or why his thoughts then began to linger on a decades old memory of Londo drinking himself to a blissful unconsciousness during a demonstration of Centauri religious tradition. Perhaps it was the smell of alcohol that hung in the air around him- a smell that intermingled with the smell of smoke and burning flesh whenever a breeze picked up and fluttered through the draperies.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that a flushed Vir, his ears still ringing with Mr. Garibaldi’s more inventive curses, had stood at the entryway of Londo’s bedchamber watching the rise and fall of Londo’s chest in silence. Londo was sprawled out on his bed where the security chief had deposited him, snoring softly, his shirt rumpled and his laces partially undone. With the heady rush of that day’s events, Vir had found he couldn’t help but grin at the sight of it.
“What is it?”
Londo’s sudden question brought Vir back to the throne room and the bottle-strewn table where they sat, two men- because yes, Vir had seen his graying hair and careworn face in the mirror and knew that descriptor applied to him- reflecting on the vagaries of history. Judging from Londo’s reaction, Vir’s reverie had apparently brought a ghost of smile to his face. Feeling guilty for his lapse of attention, Vir immediately sobered and said, “I’m sorry. I was just… remembering something.”
“Ah. Well,” Londo said, his words slow and deliberate, “we are presently discussing matters of memory, yes? It...” He drew in a labored breath and began to cough, the sound rattling low in his chest. Vir unconsciously reached a dust-streaked arm across the table to steady his friend, his fingers digging into Londo’s shoulder.
When Londo’s fit had at last diminished to a wheeze, he stretched his own hand across the span and touched Vir’s arm. And then suddenly, Vir’s hand was locked in place on Londo’s shoulder and he was squeezing it as hard as he possibly could and he knew- he knew- that this was probably the last time he would ever get to touch his friend.
He knew that this was probably the last time he would ever see his friend alive.
Flooded by the sorrow of that truth, Vir closed his eyes and tried to call forth the memory of Londo, raucously drunk and filling the universe with his laughter.