A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

The ducts were not quite high enough to crawl through; they had to lie on their stomachs and pull themselves along on their elbows and knees. It was very dusty and dark – Michael was glad he was hemmed in by Legs and Frances; he wouldn't have wanted to be alone in the close hot gloom – and now and again Legs would hush them, and they would lie still, listening to the faint shouts below them. Then it would die down and they would move on, sliding, pulling, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Michael made a game of it with himself to keep his mind off of what the channeled Voice had said. Instead of thinking about his death, or even his courage, he occupied his thoughts by silently measuring out their progress, keeping in mind the layout of the building as far as he knew it; in his imagination he could see them worming their way from the horrible back room, across that part of the building he didn't know, but approaching the turn to Major-General Fitzpatrick's office; then Legs led them left, that would bring them back to the rear door –

There was a long pause then, when Legs didn't move; then he whispered, "Wait here, mates," and squirmed forward. They heard a hollow clicking, and a shuddering flexing of metal; then there was a scrabbling noise, and Legs was back. To Michael's surprise he appeared to have turned himself around in the narrow duct; he was apparently Very Flexible – handy in a tight spot like this, and – Michael smiled guiltily to himself, glad the dark hid his blush – handy in other sorts of Spots, too, most likely. He'd have to file that naughty little mental indulgence away to be fantasized over later.

"Dead end, mates," Legs whispered. His face was a faint white disc in the thick blackness; if Michael stared really hard he could almost convince himself he could see the silky fall of his pale hair. "Something got pushed up in the way – think it's one of those bloody warehouse doors. Longshanks had too fucking much fun down there."

"Can you move it?" whispered Frances from behind Michael.

"Naw. Bring the whole bloody ceiling down and us with it. We need to turn round."

"Easier said than done," grunted Frances; Michael could hear him trying to double in on himself, with much muttering and cursing. Being slighter, Michael had an easier time of it; at last they were all pointing back to where they'd come from, with Frances in front. "Interesting," thought Michael, panting slightly and smiling to himself. He and Frances were more flexible than he'd thought …

"Where do we go?" Frances whispered, a little out of breath.

There was silence behind them; Michael tried to look over his shoulder, though of course he could see nothing. "Legs?" he said in a hushed voice.

"I'm thinking," said Legs; he sounded hesitant. "Fuck it all. I don't remember."

"You don't REMEMBER?" demanded Frances, sounding irritated. "Dammit, Legolas – "

"I must've left that memory splattered on the wall back there, okay?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake – "

"Where are we going?" interrupted Michael.

"Nowhere, at the moment," said Frances sourly. Behind them Legs made an impatient noise.

"No, I mean, where are we trying to get to? The front door or the back door by the helicopter?"

"Front door," said Legs. "Back door's been taken down. Longshanks again."

"Then we go this way," said Michael, pointing inanely in the dark. "Straight, Frances, and when you get to the T-intersection go left."

The other two men were silent. After a moment he heard Frances' voice say hesitantly, "Um … how can you be so sure, darling?"

"I can see it in my head," said Michael a little impatiently. "I came in that way, and I remember where it is. We're right over a part of the building about a hundred yards east of Major Fitzpatrick's office, and the front door is up a level and about two hundred fifty yards to the north-west, so if we go left at the T-intersection and crawl another twenty yards we'll hit the elevator shaft and we can go up that way."

More silence. Michael swallowed nervously. Had he been wrong to speak? His unerring sense of direction was one of those things he never liked to advertise – mostly because it seemed like such an uncharacteristically useful thing for an Interior Designer to have; he'd rather pretend to be totally helpless and let others do the Heavy Thinking. Maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut and let the other two lead the way; he didn't usually put himself forward, having discovered after a lifetime of belittlement the verse from Proverbs was true about holding your tongue and being deemed wise. What would Frances say? Would he dismiss his suggestion with a "Don't mind him; he doesn't know what he's talking about," or, "Oh, be quiet, Michael; anyone would think you knew what was going on." That was what he was used to, after all. Never so directly from Frances, of course; Frances was far too polite to actually vocalize something that bluntly rude – but Michael knew all too well that his lover regarded him with the same sort of exasperated affection one gives to a silly, superfluous lap dog, like his mother's Pomeranian.

After a long moment Frances' voice, low but thick with humor, said, "I’m letting you drive from now on," and started slithering forward. Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Frances took him seriously after all – at least a little bit. Behind him he could hear Legs chuckling softly, though he made no other sound when he moved. It was kind of creepy – this moving without noise; couple it with his ears, and his channeling, and his unearthly beauty, and in the final equation, thought Michael, you got some Extremely Freaky Shit. Not to mention the can't-be-killed concept; wouldn't that scare anyone? Yet Michael didn't feel scared of Legs so much as intrigued – certainly not so much in a sexual sense any more; he had a feeling that fantasy would never play out anyway – but it would take an idiot to deny that Legs was extremely compelling. Though he still felt jealous, he figured he really couldn't blame Frances one bit. After all, given the opportunity …

They heaved and squirmed and pulled themselves through the dusty ducts, following Michael's unerring directions; they had to stop rather more often than before to let the soldiers beneath them run by, lying quiet and still in the ceiling; Michael thought he knew now how it felt to be an urban rat, though without the sharp teeth and claws – nothing deadly about HIM – at last they reached a vent, a potential Way Out, through which filtered pale stripes of light, and muted voices. Frances edged forward, putting his eye to one of the slats, and looked down; Michael could see his face striated by blue-white fluorescent light, hair mussed, flannel shirt dotted with clots of dust, and felt the familiar wakening thrill in his heart – "It never fails," he thought sourly to himself; "I always desire Frances the most when I can't have him." The muscles in Frances' shoulder bunched as he shifted on his elbows, trying to see past the slats to the room below; at last he looked back at them and pursed his lips, looking frustrated. Behind him Michael heard Legs breathe softly: "Wait." So, just as Michael had done with Frances and Dr. Walker in the woods above the metal building, they lay on their stomachs and waited.

Michael wished he knew what he was waiting for, and wished he knew what was going on in the room below them, that prevented their getting out of the hot dusty dark. Hell, for that matter he wished he knew what was Happening, Period – what the HELL were they doing, crawling around in the ducts of a spurious government facility that seemed to be developing biological weapons? What the HELL did they think they were doing, killing people and blowing up planes and erasing data from computers? And what the HELL was he doing here, he, Michael Morris, never-get-his-hands-dirty, screams-like-a-girl, designer-clothes-wearing Interior Designer Extraordinaire? If there were a designation for Least Likely to be Concerned in an Anti-Government Plot Involving Large-Caliber Weaponry, Michael Anthony Morris would definitely head the list. He didn't even WANT to think about what his high school year book staff would have done, had they been able to peek, augur-like, into his future – instead of him being "Most Likely to Star in a Broadway Production" (which is what they'd pegged him for), he could just see it, printed beneath his self-conscious, blue-tuxedoed smirk: "Michael A. Morris. Most Likely to be Convicted of Treason."

Then again, Legs so far had shown remarkable capability in the James-Bondage theme; it was likely nothing untoward would happen to them after all. He had managed to pull miracle after miracle out of – well, wherever people pulled miracles – considering the nature of Miracles it seemed a little irreverent to say Legs pulled them out of his ass, but he thought perhaps Legs would appreciate that particular brand of humor. No, between Legs and Frances Michael felt fairly confident they would escape unharmed. Always assuming, of course, whatever it was they were waiting for would happen …

Lying in the heat and darkness, Michael was mildly surprised to feel his eyelids droop. He didn't know why this should come as any shock to him – considering what he'd been up to the past four days (had it REALLY been four days? He was starting to lose count … ) he should have been more surprised that he was still awake and functioning. Then again, adrenaline did odd things to people.

He hoped the horrible events of the last few hours didn't come back to Haunt Him. "No more nightmares," he pleaded, feeling vaguely as though he were speaking to the Voice that Legs had channeled. "Please, help me to forget … "

He was so drowsy; it was odd he should feel able to sleep under such circumstances – dirty, sore, hungry, thirsty, in danger – yet all he wanted to do was to let his eyelids slide shut over his hot sandy eyes; it was so soothing to feel the warm liquid caress them, and that comfortable languor about his shoulders, that was Very Nice … he drifted, drowsy, sated, weightless, in the shimmering dark, suspended over the dim dusty floor, floating toward the pale light before him, incurious, lethargic.

It was unnerving though to see Legs standing there before him, tall, slim, clothed in light, his face restored to its familiar perfection; his eyes, glowing blue, were fixed with reverent contemplation upon the Throne. Michael knew instinctively to keep his own eyes from the Throne – the One who sat thereon was kindly, benevolent, but it was not his place to look upon Him. Instead he looked at the Throne's base, thick heavy legs carved of some pale wood, intricately fashioned with whorls and coils and twining stylized vines and leaves and flowers, mannered and graceful, resting upon the smooth shining floor, shining like glass, like sunlight on still water.

"Forget not, but be soothed, Little One," whispered Legs, turning to him with a smile. How strange; he wasn't speaking English; how was it Michael could understand him? But then Legs circled, looking behind them, his eyebrows drawn down in wings over his cerulean eyes; then like a flash of lightning the joy illuminated his face, his eyes alight, his mouth curved into an open smile. Michael turned around, and saw a woman, tall, golden-haired, luminously lovely, silver eyes alight with tenderness –

"Éowyn – "

The woman smiled, gazing upon her husband, shining eyes overflowing with love. Legolas turned to her eagerly, hand outstretched, and she answered the gesture, not touching, but reaching, though her hands with their long thin fingers were dripping with fresh blood.

Michael jerked awake, heart hammering. It was still dark, still musty, still muffled in the duct. What had THAT been? Another Nightmare? Michael remembered his Nightmare and realized it had been a premonition of sorts. What on earth had THIS dream meant?

But then he felt Legs' hand on his back; he turned his head, seeing the stark white bandages over the ivory face; the eye was thoughtful, reading his doubts and apprehensions. Michael blinked back at him, uneasy with the thought Legs might be able to see into his dreams – see his secrets and fantasies and guilty desires, particularly for him, this pale-haired incubus. But Legs only smiled, and removed his hand before Frances could notice.

With an abruptness that made Michael jump and stifle a frightened squeak, there was an explosion of sound beneath them – men shouting, the sound of gunfire – Frances glanced back at Legs, saw some sort of confirmation there, drew back, and with a sharp rap of his fist popped the grate off the end of the duct where they lay. Michael heard it hit the floor just as Frances slithered out of the duct, head-first, pistol drawn. He turned to ask Legs what he should do, then felt the man's hands shove him roughly by the buttocks up to the end of the duct; with a startled yelp Michael fell all the way down to the floor below them.

He pushed himself up on his hands, looking around him wildly. He felt rather than heard Legs land over him, one big booted foot on either side of his torso; he realized with a shock of unexpected pleasure that Legs was still going to protect him. They had not actually ended up in a room at all – they were in the front entrance hall, looking out at the doors, which were open to the growing dawn. Someone dressed in black was standing there, a large ugly pistol in each hand, firing steadily around them; Michael realized with horror that Frances was standing right in the Line of Fire. He staggered to his feet with an incoherent gurgle, felt Legs grasp him unceremoniously by his collar and drag him forward.

He watched with a sort of sick dismay the black-clad figure firing with chilling precision – soldiers fell, one per shot, as it ran forward, dodging whatever bullets were aimed at it – Michael heard Legs shout at him to run, felt Frances grasp him by the hand and pull him right towards the flashing guns. He tried to pull back, tried to tell Frances that it made No Sense to run TOWARDS someone who was shooting at them, but then he felt Legs take him by the other hand and he was half-dragged between them right up to the tall menacing figure.

They were twenty feet away, ten – shot after shot went between them, past them, around them; Michael heard the last lingering cries of the soldiers behind them – the black-clad figure fired three more shots; he could have sworn he felt the bullets whistle by his head – he realized with yet another shock (surely he'd become immune to them eventually) that the figure firing at them was Mrs. Walker. She looked focused, a little angry, her silver eyes glaring over the tops of her handguns past them to the chaos inside – before Michael could even gasp out a hurried "hello" he was jerked past her, pelting out the building into the clear cold night air; he saw out of the corner of his eye Legs stop and turn, likewise aiming his gun – what had Major-General Fitzpatrick called it; a Glock? – at the pursuing soldiers and firing with the same expression of patient concentration on his face. One bullet per soldier – really, he and Mrs. Walker were Very Efficient.

There was a terribly loud thudding noise, and something large and bulky and covered in lights – Frances pelted full-speed toward it, dragging Michael along behind him, stumbling on the dark asphalt – a bullet whistled over their heads; Frances said a Very Bad Word and flung Michael up to the – the – oh, it was the helicopter; Dr. Walker must've successfully stolen it after all – Michael scrabbled on the edge of the door; it was a lot higher up than he'd expected; once again he felt someone grab him, heave him up into the body of the helicopter, where he landed in an untidy heap on the floor, cracking his head in the process on some sharp corner. Frances sprang up beside him, breathing hard; then there was a sickening lurch, and they were in the air. Not very high though – five feet, ten – Michael turned around, looking out the door – he saw Legs sprinting towards them, his white strappings seeming almost to glow in the dimness – he leapt, caught the edge of the door, pulled himself in, and turned, reaching out one hand into the noisy darkness. Michael saw another hand, white and small, grasp it; with an abrupt jerk, Mrs. Walker landed on the floor next to Michael.

"Hold on," shouted Dr. Walker from the cockpit, and with an increase of noise Michael felt his stomach drop – they had just ascended. The sound of gunfire became an insignificant thing; mere pops beneath the cacophony – then it faded altogether.

Michael carefully rolled over and sat up; he had knocked his sore eye again, and it was throbbing. He looked around the helicopter. It was surprisingly small, for the amount of noise it was making; of course it didn't help things that there was a very large motorcycle taking up most of the room. He recognized it as Legs' Harley and wondered if Mrs. Walker had damaged it at all, and if she had, if he would be angry or not. From what they had said he rather thought Not. He turned; Frances had risen and slid into the second seat in the cockpit, picking up a pair of headphones as he buckled himself in. Dr. Walker turned to him calmly.

"Shouldn't you let Legs do that?" he shouted over the noise.

Frances jerked his thumb into the back of the helicopter. "No depth perception. Bad idea."

Dr. Walker turned around, looked back at them, flicking his cool, competent gaze across each one of them. Michael felt him linger over his black eye, Mrs. Walker appraisingly, then land on Legs' head. "What happened?" he yelled.

"Got shot," Legs yelled back.

The corner of Dr. Walker's mouth quirked up. "Again?" he asked, grinned at Legs' unmistakable gesture, and turned back to his controls. Michael stared aghast at Legs. "Again"? That was an unnerving concept.

Then, suddenly, with all the thrilling rush of the realization that it's Christmas morning when you wake up, it came to him – they were Out. They had Escaped. They were Safe. Michael hid his face in his hands and started to shiver. Was he cold? He felt cold. There was wind whistling and whirling all around them, and it was terribly noisy. His limbs felt very stiff and weak all at once, and his heart began to batter even harder than it had been doing before. His breath came short and painful, and his head felt light and empty. He hoped no one would notice him huddled on the floor – how he hated to cause a fuss – but then he felt a warm arm slip round his shoulders and he leaned into it gratefully. He felt soft curves, a giving fleshiness, and realized it was Mrs. Walker. She said something, obviously not to him because it wasn't in English, and then he felt another warm body on his other side – slim, lean, hard – Legolas. He too put his arm around Michael, and between those two he felt safe and his trembling began to subside. Rich, pungent pine to his left; lush sweetness like jasmine to his right; silky hair falling over his hands, strong fingers holding him tight. More lyrical language, like music really, caressing his ears and soothing his hammering heart; no, it really WAS music – they were singing, and though he couldn't understand the words the song comforted him deeply, much more profoundly than any soothing speech in his own tongue. It was trees, and warm loam, and soft moss, and flickering starlight in the welcoming kindly dark. He felt warm and drowsy again – felt himself slide a little to the side, the weight of his body resting on something – a woman's voice, dulcet and benign, whispering unknown solace to him – then peace, and darkness, and a calming torpor, and he allowed the downy dark to enfold him.