A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

(A/N: I apologize for the long lag in updating – I was obliged to spend an un-fun week in that funnest of places, Orlando. If it's any consolation, I made the pronouncement that Legolas would've HATED Epcot. –Le Rouret)

Michael had never been to Miami before, and found himself wondering why anyone in their right mind would ever want to visit voluntarily. He had to keep reminding himself that they were NOT in the Right Section of Town and he had NO right to prejudge – heaven knew he'd suffered that enough in the past – but still, this was the filthiest, darkest, smelliest, scariest place he'd been to.

Barring the Metal Building, of course.

Odd to think it was half the country away – odd to think the US Army was out looking for them and for the helicopter they'd stolen. Odd to think they'd destroyed a plane and a helicopter and a motorcycle and killed all those men, all for a theoretical twenty million people. Odd to think he'd lost his job, his apartment, his clothes, his watch, his digital camera, contact with his family and friends because of something that was supposed to happen in North Korea. Odd to think he was in company with two Aliens and their friends.

Odd to think Frances was friends with Aliens.

Odder still to think Frances had SLEPT with an Alien.

He watched Legolas stride before them, black against the flickering lights, slim, upright, confident, pale hair swinging from side to side across his shoulders. Did Tab A fit into Slot B? He LOOKED so human, and yet …

He remembered the Voice, and Legolas pleading for his life. That was the oddest part still.

Why should he die? Or for that matter, why not? Why should that iridescent, powerful being sitting upon his Throne care one way or another? And why should Legolas care so definitely in one direction? If he and Frances had parted on such ambivalent terms, why should Legolas care if Frances were heartbroken or not? From what Michael had heard the Breakup was sure to have been Frances' fault – wouldn't Legolas have rather had Revenge?

Well … no. Legolas didn't seem the type. The sort of person who would kill an innocent man to preserve the lives of twenty million strangers wasn't one to worry too much about petty things like love affairs and cheap reprisals. And someone who would risk being blown to pieces, whether he could really Die or not, just to save the life of a mediocre homosexual interior designer, would probably not think it odd to stick his neck out to save someone's life, no matter who it was.

Michael had so many questions … so many things he wanted to ask Frances, but he was so afraid of Frances' refusal. Well, not the Refusal necessarily – he didn't want to upset this shaky armistice they'd reached, not only between the two of them, but between Frances and this – this bunch of weirdo Mission-Impossible types. He'd been so stiff, uncomfortable, angry, scared before. Now they seemed comfortable together – joking, sharing stories, smiling and laughing. A Smiling and Laughing Frances was much more easy to get along with than a Stiff and Unfriendly one. Asking questions, however, still seemed to fall into the Disapproving-Glance-producing, Not-Discussed category. For example.

How did Frances get involved in this group?

How did they come together, anyway? Were they super-heroes bent on saving the world from Bad Guys?

Where did Legolas and Mrs. Walker come from? Aliens didn't just wander around Planet Earth mingling with Humans … did they? That was an awkward thought. Michael thought about it anyway, and found himself theorizing his ninth grade biology teacher might have been an Alien too. All the evidence pointed in that direction, after all. I mean, really. Blue hair and a tattoo of a spatula? No human could possibly be that weird by accident.

Why were they killing all these people and destroying all this stuff? Was it Absolutely Necessary? Twenty million people – but how did they KNOW? Did the Voice on his Throne tell them? And how did HE know?

And how, how, how did Legolas do what he did? How did he escape the fragile trap of his physical form and stand upon the shining abalone floor of that Place, stand before Whoever He Was, garner wisdom, argue ethics, gain instruction?

And how was Michael joining him? Was it somehow part of his nature, or was Legolas drawing him in somehow?

Why him? Why Michael Morris? What was so special about HIM? Why was he even THERE? "To ensure Faramir's participation," Frodo had said. Well, that may have applied at the beginning of all this, but surely Frances would willingly participate NOW. Hadn't Dr. Walker convinced him? Hadn't he proved himself before Major-General Fitzpatrick, bluffing long enough so Legolas could revive and kill the bastard? What, what, what the hell was so special about him that required his presence? Why couldn't he go home NOW?

And who was Ossë, and why did he want to kill him? What was a Vala? If Ossë was anything like the Voice who sat upon the Throne, Michael was pretty sure he was dead no matter what arguments Legolas brought forward. That much power – that much presence … but what had the Voice said; was there another one he could appeal to? Some name that started with Y, what was it again? All these bizarre names – Legolas, Faramir, Frodo, Arwen, Ossë … what was wrong with Bob or Fred? They'd be easier to remember, at least.

Most of all, though, why HIM?

They paused in the grimy shadow of a rusty metal shack on the dock, slimy with evaporated sea water, oil, and mold, and waited in the darkness for Legolas. Michael could just see him walk up to the little knot of prostitutes under the flickering street light, could see the three women straighten up, flip their hair, tug their short lycra skirts down over their ample bottoms. Michael couldn't discern the individual words but he could hear the voices – Legolas, firm, light, clear, incisive; the prostitutes, brassy, giggling, shrill. One of them was smoking. After a few moments' banter she gave a cigarette to Legolas and lit it for him, making a big thing of leaning over so her loose jiggling breasts fell into clear view. Legolas stood, his long pale hair gleaming in the wan light, looking slim and strong and lovely compared to the battered detritus of mankind's pitiless libido. Michael looked closer at the prostitutes and realized with a pang they were all very dirty and bruised and shabbily dressed, and one of them had needle track marks on her pasty arms. Far from being disgusted by them anymore he felt deeply sorry for them. It still puzzled him, though, why Legolas was speaking to them at all. Wouldn't his wife get mad?

No – that was Stupid. That gorgeous golden creature, jealous of these poor leftover sluts? No woman could possibly be that foolish. Besides, just to look at Legolas standing there, smoking, chatting and laughing, you could tell he felt nothing but compassionate interest in them. He listened, smiling, conscientious, responsive; he joked with them, jollied them out of their cheap seductiveness into good humor, so that in laughter their faces were almost pretty. After fifteen minutes, though, Michael's attention began to wander, and he sighed impatiently.

"Shhh," chided Dr. Walker, who was watching attentively around the corner of the metal shack. He glanced back at Michael with a disapproving frown, and Michael, pouting a little, folded his arms over his chest, feeling secure enough in Arwen's influence over her husband that Dr. Walker wouldn't object. Frances smiled at this exchange, and took Michael round the waist, hugging him close.

Michael stretched up to Frances' face, pressed his lips against his lover's ear. This had the added benefit of not only being quiet but titillating as well, and he could tell from the sudden tightening of Frances' grip it had worked acceptably. "Why is he bothering with this?" he asked edgily.

Frances turned Michael in his arms, pressed the smaller man's body up against his own and in turn put his own mouth up to Michael's ear. His breath warmed and tickled, and Michael shivered appreciatively. "Never underestimate the amount of intelligence you can glean from a prostitute," he murmured, soft enough for only Michael to hear. "They hear and see everything – why do you think their poor lives are so pitiably short?"

That surprised Michael – not so much that prostitutes would be good for reconnaissance, but that neat-freak Frances would feel so empathetically inclined to a common hooker. He nestled down in Frances' embrace, thinking about it as hard as his sleep-deprived, low-blood-sugared mind could make it; after a few moments he gave up, thinking A) he as yet had insufficient data with which to make hypotheses, and B) he was too damn tired to care. From lowly programmer to Dr. Steward; from anal-retentive white-collar worker to commando; from cold and disapproving companion to Snuggle-Bunny. This might indeed have been the Worst Week of His Life, but on the positive side (Michael could always see the positive side), Frances was MUCH easier to live with.

After another fifteen minutes Legolas gave money to the three women, who seemed surprised by this; he spoke seriously to them for a moment, then kissed them each on their foreheads; they stared at him as he walked away, hurriedly tucking the money into their shirts, glancing now and then at each other, or behind them, as though they were looking for a Hidden Camera, or a policeman. Dr. Walker gestured Arwen, Frances, and Michael further back into the shadows, and Legolas approached them, gave them a curt motion nod, and they melted quietly into the dark alleys.

They followed him for another twenty minutes, not speaking, walking the hollow-sounding docks with muffled footsteps. The air was heavy and humid, and smelled of rotten fish, and gasoline, and garbage; everything was dirty, and slimy, and rusty, and somewhat ominous in the darkness. They passed men now and then, Hispanics looking with sharp curiosity at them but passing without a word; loud rowdy bunches of men in dirty tank tops and baggy pants, passing round a bottle wrapped in brown paper, that ignored all of them but Arwen, though their crass suggestions dissolved beneath Dr. Walker's stony gaze; a couple of brawling drunks, swearing and making ineffective lunges at one another ("Ten bob on the one with the tattoo," Legolas had laughed); men grunting and sweating, moving boxes and barrels with dollies and handcarts and forklifts, who watched them suspiciously, eyes narrowed. At last they reached a section of the docks that seemed subtly cleaner and brighter; as they walked, ducking under ropes and climbing over gates marked "No Trespassing" the Subversive Elements seemed to fade completely, and Michael began to breathe a little easier. Legolas cut left, climbed over a couple more barriers, and gestured to them to halt. Then he and Mrs. Walker evaporated into the thick heavy darkness, and they waited again, but for only five minutes this time. Then they came back, and Mrs. Walker was laughing, though Legolas looked irritated.

"He didn't mean it like that," she was saying soothingly to him as they approached. Their voices sounded very loud in the stillness, and Michael wanted instinctively to hush them, though there didn't seem now any reason for stealth.

"Bugger that," grumbled Legolas, touching his bound head tentatively. "I don't get shot THAT many fucking times."

"News to me," said Frances, smiling, and Legolas gave him a sour look. "What did he say, Arwen?"

Arwen, still chuckling, put her arms round her husband's waist and hugged him. "Grim asked what Legolas had done to his head, and Legolas said he'd been shot, and Grim gave that spluttery noise he makes and yelled, 'Dammit, AGAIN?' and read him the riot act. Doris charged him three-fifty for it."

"How much is it per curse, now?" asked Frances, frowning thoughtfully.

"A quarter. I told her if she upped it to a buck she could retire in a couple years."

"Grim's been taking lessons from the master," said Dr. Walker, inclining his head toward Legolas. At Legolas' black look he continued, "I don't know where our beautiful Sinda got such a foul mouth. Honestly, his mother would have scrubbed his tongue with lye if she'd ever heard him talk like that."

"Oh, fuck off," muttered Legolas, seeming greatly offended.

Mrs. Walker laughed. "He must've picked it up from his father," she said, her eyes twinkling; at that Legolas' mouth twisted into a reluctant smile.

"Naw," he said. "Me grandmum."

She gave an unfeminine snort. "Figures. No wonder your grandfather was so irritable."

Michael tried to imagine what Legolas' grandparents must have looked like, and gave up in favor of savoring a sudden Pleasant Realization. "Grim and Doris are here?" he asked, his face brightening.

"Yeah," said Legolas. He was unwrapping a lollipop. "Doris bought me lollies. Nice kid, that."

Michael gave a happy sigh. Doris! Four days without someone as scared and confused as he was, almost at an end! Then his stomach rumbled loudly, and clapping his hands over it he looked up at Frances, eyes wide. Frances laughed, and Arwen wriggled out of her husband's embrace to put her arms in turn around Michael, who nestled into her with a satisfied smile. Men were all very well, but sometimes he just needed a girlfriend or two, and Pauline was so far away now … "They have food and water," said Arwen, pulling him close into her fragrant warmth. "It's not much, though."

"Better than beef jerky and Little Debbies, I bet," said Michael happily, squeezing a squeak out of Arwen and giggling. Then Frances said with mock-huffiness, "All right, Arwen, quit trying to steal my boyfriend," and Michael, Arwen, and Aragorn all laughed.

"Come on, you feckers, you," said Legolas impatiently. "Quit faffing about. Got to sail with the tide, you know."

"What did he get?" asked Aragorn, falling into step beside Legolas as he strode to the edge of the docks.

"It's not much either, like the food," said Legolas with a grimace. "Fifty foot sloop, about twenty-five or so years old, berths five. Be a tight trip."

"Provisioned?"

"Marginally. Got enough food and water for ten days, if we're careful. But we can always stop at the Keys or somewhere and re-supply if we run out of petrol. Have to be careful of the sails, though – should've been replaced ten years ago. Seen better days, it has."

"That's astonishing," said Frances, from where he walked behind them, his arm round Michael's waist. Legolas and Aragorn looked over their shoulders at him.

"What?" asked Aragorn.

"Legolas," said Frances; Michael recognized the baiting tone in his voice. "He must've said ten sentences without a single swear word. Amazing."

"Oh, bugger off," said Legolas touchily, then stopped himself and said, "No – changed me mind. You will anyway, won't you?" His eye sparkled with mischief now, and his mouth slid up into a sly grin. Aragorn just rolled his eyes.

Frances answered the grin and gave Michael a little squeeze. "Maybe," he said coyly, glancing down at Michael, who flushed hotly, remembering at the last minute what "buggering" meant. "Depends on the distribution. You said it berthed five?"

Legolas laughed out loud. It sounded bold, daring in the misty murky darkness; he must've felt very secure to make such a noise. "Arwen's claimed the single, haven't you, pet?" he said, winking his eye at Arwen and Aragorn, who like Frances and Michael walked with their arms about each other. "Have to take your chances with Grim and Doris – dunno what Doris thinks, but I can bloody well tell you what Grim'll say."

Everyone laughed, but Michael blushed even more deeply, thinking that Doris would certainly NOT approve of such behavior in Public – and anyway, Exhibitionism was never his Thing. And despite his quivering libido, he wasn't sure he could get it on in a boat anyhow – he couldn't even ride the Coronado Ferry without feeling seasick. Then he remembered what Legolas had said about stopping at the Keys to resupply and started feeling sick before even seeing the boat – a great Time Saver, at that. "How long will we be at sea?" he asked anxiously. He had never told Frances about his predilection to motion sickness; it had never been an issue, and he didn't emphasize his weaknesses to his boyfriend if he could help it – he was already starting with such a deficit; why incite more eye-rolling than necessary?

Frances may not have picked up on his apprehensive tone, but Legolas certainly did. He dropped back, slid his arm around Michael's waist, twining it about Frances' in the process; the three of them marched together like a coordinated drum corps for a moment, approaching the unsteady light at the end of the dock. Frances glanced sideways at Legolas, a questioning look on his face, but said nothing; he seemed to recognize that Legolas read Michael more deeply than he. At last Legolas turned, his one good eye twinkling.

"Many, many weeks," he said, giving Michael's side a warm squeeze. "You'll get used to it after a while. It's like riding a horse, poppet – the rocking, swaying motion becomes second nature, and after a while when you make landfall your legs don't want to walk on solid ground. You'll fuckin' love it, mate – promise."

"Or my money back?" quipped Michael, feeling a little better. After all one couldn't acquire "sea legs" in the short ferry ride to the Ferry Landing Marketplace; it made sense it was something you had to work yourself into.

Legolas laughed again, throwing his head back; the sound rang across the dock, seeming to chime in the thick cloying air. "Every penny, mate," he said, grinning at Michael. Then in the silvery light ahead of them they heard voices, and when Doris ran to them Michael released both of his beautiful men, preferring on that particular occasion the company of a Very Normal Woman.