A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

(A/N: Sorry about the dearth – I haven't forgotten about you, honest! First there was a wedding in Virginia, then Christmas, then my ISP was down … but here you are; happy post-holidays, and you may look forward to more frequent updates, assuming Comcast can keep me online. –Le Rouret)

The following morning a boat arrived, but it wasn't the one they were apparently waiting so eagerly for; it was a family of four and a captain, out of Key Largo, looking for some good snorkeling. Despite Legolas' obvious disappointment, everyone welcomed them, plying the adults with Painkillers, showing the two young children around, and ultimately sharing a fresh lobster dinner, provided by the ubiquitous and uncommunicative Nick. The following morning, Arwen, Doris, the mother and the daughter sailed to Road Town on Tortolla to go shopping, and came back with brilliant pareos, umbrellas, bottles of Pusser's Rum, larimar jewelry and, for Michael, who had wanted to go but felt uncomfortable about being seen as One Of The Girls, a consolation gift of a macraméd jute choker set with tiny speckled bonnet shells. Michael and Frances had spent most of that time snorkeling with Aragorn and Gimli, as the father and captain had been treating them with undisguised hostility, and Legolas, after a flickering wink in Michael's direction, had led the two homophobes off to drink themselves senseless in Gandalf's company. Much to Michael's relief, the family left at dawn the next day, and he and Doris stood on the beach together, watching the sail disappear over the horizon. Michael was satisfied, but Doris was very angry.

"I can't believe how RUDE they were," she fumed, glaring at the inoffensive boat as it vanished from sight. "To accept our hospitality and drink our Painkillers and then treat you and Frances like THAT – "

"It's not our island, you know," Michael pointed out equably. He preferred people to be Happy and Content; life seemed to flow more smoothly that way. "It belongs to the British government, so technically we're trespassing anyway."

"I know, I know," Doris grumbled, sitting abruptly and digging her bare toes in the sand. She had painted her toenails bright pink and bought a silver toe ring, which glinted in the early sun, and wore her pink and blue pareo over a brightly patterned maillot. Her short curly hair was frizzy with neglect and stood out over her round head like a strange mousy brown halo. But she had tanned a gorgeous golden brown, even and flawless over every exposed inch of her, whereas poor Michael the Fair-Skinned slathered himself with SPF 50 and still turned shrimp-pink. "Compensations," he said to himself, smiling, and sat down next to her.

"Don't be so upset," he said consolingly, draping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a little squeeze. "I'm used to it, I always get treated like that."

"It's not fair." Doris picked up a stick and started jabbing the sand viciously.

"Well, no. But it's the way things are."

"It sucks." Jab jab jab.

"I'm not arguing with you. I'm just telling you I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be." She jabbed so hard the stick broke.

Michael sighed. "It'd be nice if the world was perfect, but it's not," he said, looking over the turquoise mirror of the early-morning tide and watching for dolphin fins. If he spotted one, he could tell Doris and that would distract her and make her happy. Then she would stop thinking about how unfair homophobes were and how Michael and Frances ought to be treated like everyone else, and they could change the subject to a more agreeable topic. "You know what I've been thinking about?" he said suddenly. "I think perfection is over-rated."

Doris looked at him, eyebrows puckered. "YOU think perfection is over-rated?" she asked in surprise.

Now it was Michael's turn to pucker his eyebrows. "Am I THAT bad?" he asked, hurt.

"Well," said Doris slowly, running her fingers through the sand and staring out over the ocean, "you're a lot more … particular … about your personal appearance than – " She paused, glanced at him, and blushed.

"Than a normal man, you mean?" asked Michael, trying not to feel offended, and to sound as though the conversation didn't bother him. Doris turned to him, still pink, but laughed.

"No!" she said, grinning and nudging him with her round shoulder. "I was going to say, than me."

"Oh!" That made Michael feel better; he had been expecting Doris to say something much worse. "Well, um … " His natural inclination for candor wanted to say, "That's not very difficult," but he wasn't sure how Doris would take it, and definitely didn't want to hurt her feelings, so he decided to go in a different direction. "Most gay men are VERY particular about the way they look, you know. I know I'm a little more picky than most, but – "

"But you've actually raised it to an art form," laughed Doris. At his surprised look she laid her hand on his arm and said, "Honestly, the first time I met you, I was SO intimidated. You looked so perfect, so classy and well-dressed and – and – oh, I don't know," she said with a chuckle, running her sandy fingers through her hair. "I felt so tubby and boring and ordinary next to you. I always wanted to be tall and thin and have blonde hair," she said, smiling wistfully at him. "And here I am, egg-shaped and mousy. What could be worse?"

"Well," said Michael carefully, preening despite himself, "you could be a back-stabbing manipulative selfish bitch. That'd be bad."

"Hm," said Doris, smiling thoughtfully and looking back out over the ocean. "You just described my last boss."

"Really?" Michael giggled. "I worked for someone like that too in college. It was a guy, though." He leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out, wriggling his toes into the sand. "Seriously, honey, don't worry so much about being tall and blonde. Gimli is obviously so hopelessly in love with you he only sees an angel descended to earth anyway, so what does it matter? And you don't have to be Linda Evangelista to be attractive – I've heard she's awfully bitchy anyway – it sounds so cliché," he said, a little irritably, "and I don't know how to put it poetically, but if you're pretty INSIDE then people who know you don't care what you look like OUTSIDE."

"But people who don't know me just think of me as some dumpy, mousy person," argued Doris, though she looked flattered.

"And people who don't know ME just think of me as some pretty-boy faggot," said Michael wistfully. "So there you go." They were silent a moment, and then Michael said, "Besides, I always thought dark-haired women were prettier than blondes."

"Like Arwen," said Doris absently.

"Oh, yes!" Michael gushed, his aesthetic sense galvanized. "I think her looks are just MARVELOUS. That marble skin and that glossy black hair, and she just holds herself like a QUEEN. What a model she would've made." He paused thoughtfully, then added, "But maybe not QUITE tall enough."

Doris snorted. "Wait'll you meet Éowyn," she said. "You want tall? But she's blonde." She shook her head, a wry look on her face. "I was so jealous of her when I first started working with her," she admitted. "Tall, thin, blonde, and beautiful. I wanted to hate her – but I couldn't."

"Oh!" said Michael hopefully. "Is she Nice?" He desperately wanted Legolas' wife to be Nice, so that they could like each other – that would make it SO much easier for him to continue to ogle the blond, so long as she wasn't the Jealous Type.

Doris chuckled. " 'Nice'?" she said, turning to Michael with a sardonic smile. "Not a word I normally associate with her – "

"Not Bitchy, though?" asked Michael anxiously. "I couldn't BEAR it if Legolas was married to a bitchy woman, that would be just AWFUL."

Doris considered this, her head cocked on one side. "Well … not bitchy, really," she conceded. "She's kind of … um … aggressive, though, and, um … earthy."

"Earthy?" Michael thought about that. "She'd kind of have to be, wouldn't she? I mean, with Legolas being the way he is. I can't imagine anyone as classy as Arwen putting up with him."

That made Doris laugh aloud. "You have no idea," she said. "They love each other like brother and sister, but honestly, you should hear them bicker when nothing important's going on. They're on their best behavior because they're so worried about all this."

The sudden shift in topic made them both fall silent a moment, considering their situation thoughtfully. After a couple of minutes Michael said, in a small voice, "Doris, do YOU know what's going on?"

Doris gave him a furtive look, then shook her head and looked back out over the ocean. "Nope," she said in a small voice.

"Do they do this all the time? Are they some sort of commando team doing the Mission Impossible stuff?"

Doris shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "This is the first time I've ever seen them do it, and I've known them all five years now. Well," she said, "I've known Éowyn seven years, but two of those we were working auto insurance, which is about as far from commando team you can get. That was before Legolas came along, of course."

That made Michael feel better, that he wasn't the only one In The Dark. "So you've known Gimli for five years and you never knew he could do all this stuff?" he asked. "And you've known Arwen and Aragorn and Legolas – "

"Yes, and Frances too," said Doris, "but not Gandalf – this is the first time I've met him. And I've never met Merry or Estella or Pippin or Diamond, they live in Europe."

"I haven't even heard of them yet," said Michael in surprise. "There's more of them, then?"

"Yes – Éomer and Lottie live in Colorado, Sam and Rosie live with Éowyn and Legolas, and Frodo shows up from time to time. They're a pretty exclusive bunch, and there are no children – isn't that odd?" asked Doris slowly. "All these young healthy couples, and no kids. Doesn't that seem funny to you?"

"Do YOU want kids?" asked Michael.

"No, not really," admitted Doris. "I'm thirty-nine and kind of past it, unless I want to go the fertility-treatment route, and anyway Grim doesn't like kids all that much – calls them rug-rats. But I've been expecting Éowyn to get pregnant these past five years – ever since she and Legolas got married – but nothing – and when I try to ask about it, it's as though I've said something really dirty." She frowned. "It's like that, you know – you go along, everything's fine, you think everyone's normal – then you ask something, or something happens, and it's like you're an outsider all of a sudden, and they know something you don't, and they won't tell you and don't want you to ask." She paused. "Or do I sound paranoid?" she said anxiously. "They all treat me really well, Grim and Éowyn especially. I don't want to sound ungrateful or bitchy. But it's like that sometimes. You expect them to say one thing and they say something so bizarre you don't even know where it came from. It's like they're from another planet or something."

"Well, Legolas and Arwen are, at any rate," said Michael.

"Do you think so?" asked Doris slowly. "I don't know. I don't think they're aliens necessarily. And really, they're not the oddest of the bunch, and I think aliens would seem more – outlandish – than they do. I'm around Legolas a lot," she said seriously; "Grim and I live with him and Éowyn about six months out of the year. And he's very, very human in a lot of ways. I don't think he could be from outer space – he's too vulgar."

"Do you ever ask Grim about it?" asked Michael carefully. Doris gave a rather bitter laugh.

"Oh, yes," she said, smiling dourly at the sand. "And he tells me not to worry my pretty head about it, and I get mad at him and demand some answers, and he starts getting all teary-eyed and tells me I'm welcome to leave and break his heart, and then I feel all sorry for him and stay … and in the end," she sighed, "my questions go unanswered." She shook her head. "I don't know what the truth is," she said, "but if it's so unpalatable, maybe I don't want to know. Like defecating – there are some things that shouldn't be shared between couples." She paused, then asked, "You ever ask Frances?"

"Goodness, no!" laughed Michael. "I call that sort of thing a Not-Discussed. If he gets all Abrupt and Snippy and Uncommunicative then I know I've said a Not-Discussed, and I shut up."

"You never press him?" asked Doris in surprise.

"I don’t dare," said Michael. "I mean, what if I make him mad and he leaves me? What would I do then? I'd be just DEVASTATED – my life would be OVER." Then he remembered that Ossë, for reasons unknown, wanted his life to be over, and he shivered, feeling a little cold. Doris misunderstood his response, and put a protective arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, giving him a little squeeze. "I didn't know he could be like that."

"He's not so much, any more," Michael defended him peevishly, sorry he'd said anything. "He's ever so much more gentle with me now – really, I don't know WHY, because he's SUCH the perfectionist and likes things to be Just So, and everything's so topsy-turvy … you'd think he'd be all irritable and snippy, but he's not … he seems … almost happy," he said. "So really – to go back to the beginning of the conversation, like a circle, you know – that's why I said I thought perfection was over-rated, because I always tried to be perfect, and make the condo perfect, and make Frances' life perfect, because I thought HE was perfect, and I figured if everything was perfect then we would be happy – but as it turns out, everything is turned upside down and we're happier now than we ever were, but I don't know what's going to happen or where we're going to live or even what to do, and I'm so confused and I wish I knew what was going on!" His voice had risen during this diatribe, so that they didn't hear the footsteps approach, and when Gimli shuffled to a stop behind them and they smelled his pipe smoke they both turned, guiltily startled.

He grinned down at them, teeth clenching the pipe, clad in ratty cut-offs and a loud Hawaiian shirt. He held three sweating mugs in his hands. "Painkillers?" he said, kneeling, and Michael and Doris each took one, glancing a little nervously at each other. Had he heard? Would he be angry? They sipped their sweet, pungent drinks carefully as Grim settled down beside Doris, grunting a little as he sat in the sand, nestled his cup in a little dip in the dune so it wouldn't tip over, and removed his pipe, knocking the ashes out and folding his big, meaty arms over his fur-clad chest complacently. After a few awkward minutes, during which Michael and Doris suffered the throes of agonized anticipation, Gimli said:

"You wanna know what's going on? Well, I'll tell you a little."

Michael stirred hopefully. Were they finally going to get some answers? Gimli took a long, deep draught of his drink, smacked his lips appreciatively, crossed his ankles, and spoke.

"We're pursuing a man named Dr. Ahn Yong, a South Korean geneticist who's developed a deadly virus with the intent of releasing it in North Korea and killing the bulk of the population, so that two interested senators can convince the UN Ambassador to talk the UN forces into intervening and bringing North Korea under US control, provided they get first dibs on the sale of Korean property and the trade agreements. Faramir and I destroyed all the available documentation and data concerning the construction and parameters of the virus, Legolas hosed the computers – and most of the paramilitary group running the servers supporting it – and now we're waiting for the rest of us to show up to give their report on how the senators have been dealt with. After that, we'll sail to New England, find Ahn Yong, take care of HIM, make sure he hasn't left any incriminating evidence behind, and then try to disappear for a little while, until the hoopla dies down." He took another drink in the deafening silence. "About a year, probably," he said, staring out over the ocean with a thoughtful look on his face. "I'd like to sail past the Horn … see Madagascar again … maybe do a tour of Oceania." He looked at Doris, his brown eyes tender, and laid his square, heavy hand on her knee. "Would you like to see the South Pacific?" he asked, smiling. "It's beautiful down there – and we could go to Australia and New Zealand. Would you like that, dear?"

"I don't know," said Doris, her face white, voice trembling a little. "That depends on how you answer my next couple of questions."

Gimli's eyes became a little unfocused, though his mouth continued to smile, as though it had forgotten to stop looking happy. "Well," he said, "you can give me a shot and see what I say."

Doris swallowed. At that moment Michael admired her very much; he saw how much courage it was taking her, and how much she was risking. "Are Legolas and Arwen human?"

Gimli raised his eyebrows. "Nope," he said, paused, and added, "and … um … strictly speaking, now … neither am I."

Doris went pale, and Michael stifled a terrified squeak, expecting Gimli to start sprouting antennas and flippers at any moment. She appeared to struggle with this, her indecision at odds with the uneasy apprehension on Gimli's face. Michael suddenly felt very sorry for Gimli. Gimli loved Doris – Michael knew that, even more surely than he knew he loved Frances – and to confess something like that to her, after denying her information for five years, was putting his relationship with her on the line for the sake of Truth. This was a Big Step for Gimli, he could tell – and then, just as suddenly, he realized he was really Out of Place and wished he could jump up and leave so they could have their Moment, good or bad – but for some reason his legs were glued to the sand, and he couldn't move an inch.

"Okay," said Doris slowly. Michael looked at her knee, where Gimli's hand was still resting, frozen, a little tremulous. To his relief and gratification, Doris placed her hand tentatively over his, and Gimli let out a deep breath, the little curly tendrils of his whiskers blowing out around his lips. "So … what are you?"

Gimli's eyes became shuttered and a little wary. "Does it matter that much to you?" he asked, his harsh voice husky. "I wasn't born of human parents, but I was born here, on Earth. I'm not – like you – but I'm enough like you, aren't I?"

Doris looked doubtful, and unable to help himself, Michael blurted: "It doesn't matter, does it, Doris? I mean, Aragorn and Arwen are mismatched too, and they seem to get along fine."

Doris and Gimli looked at him in surprise, and Michael gulped. "Sorry," he said. "I'll leave now." He made to rise, but Gimli stopped him.

"No," he said. "Legolas said you'd need to hear it too."

Michael made an impatient noise. "And you always do what he tells you to, I suppose," he said irritably. Gimli chuckled.

"Not frequently," he said. "Legolas said I should have this little talk with Doris four years ago, but I didn't because … " he paused, fixed Doris with an intense look "… I was afraid you'd leave me."

Doris tightened her grip on Gimli's hand. "I won't leave you," she whispered earnestly, her voice controlled but urgent. "Why won't you get that through your stupid thick head? I'm not leaving. I don't care what you are or where you were born or what you do for a living. I won't leave you, I can't; where would I go? Back to my old life? I'd die first."

Michael felt his throat tighten, and his eyes blurred with tears. Oh, that was so ROMANTIC …

"Holy shit," muttered Gimli in shock, effectively breaking the Romantic Atmosphere; Michael braced himself for Doris' angry remonstrations, but all she did was lean forward, kiss Gimli on the tip of his pug nose, and say shakily, "That'll be a quarter."

That was Even Better – Michael let the tears run unashamedly down his cheeks, wondering if he'd be as brave as Doris were their positions reversed. That, of course, made him wonder if Frances were as Human as he seemed … that was an awkward thought, and the subsequent worried feeling effectively quashed his Romantic Notions, so that when Gimli cleared his throat and spoke again, Michael was well able to concentrate without any undue quixotic ideas getting in the way. "Well," said Gimli, his voice very rough, "I'm called a Naugrim – and in case you're wondering, I'm the last of my species, so don't go asking about my family."

"Oh … " Doris' response was wistful, apologetic, sympathetic, and Gimli looked away. Michael felt sorrier for him than before. The last of his kind … no family … he tried to imagine what his life would be like if his family were to all die off, tried not to think too enthusiastically how much easier Christmas would be if his Aunt Edna fell off a cliff (no more "Why don't you just try girls and see? You can't like being a freak" uttered every holiday dinner), and then realized why Gimli didn't want kids – who'd want some half-human, half – what had he called himself? Damn, he'd forgotten already – well, that would be even worse than Growing Up Gay, to be only half-human. And it explained the no-kids aspect of Aragorn and Arwen's marriage as well. By the time he'd completed this rather roundabout series of thoughts, Gimli and Doris had had their Tender Moment, gazing into each others' eyes with looks of Heartfelt Adoration, which had the combined effect of 1) Making Michael Happy and 2) Making Michael Uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, wondering if the Question-Asking were over and if Gimli and Doris would like some Time Alone (a precious enough commodity nowadays), but Gimli shook himself out of his fuzzy reverie, glanced at Michael, and smiled.

"All right," he said, softly. "Next question."

Doris stared at him. Somehow his response had annulled her need for answers; she appeared to have everything she needed. After a moment she whispered, "Oceania?"

"Not in that tub, I hope," said Michael, gesturing to their disreputable boat anchored off shore.

Gimli looked over at him, his damp eyes twinkling. "Nope," he said with a shaky grin. "Gonna let Arwen blow that up, too. But first we go to Kennebunkport and pick up Aragorn's ship, the Evening Star."

"We have to sail to Kennebunkport in THAT?" asked Michael in dismay, looking at their boat. He and Frances had christened it The Semi-Impermeable, and complained cheerfully about its inconveniences.

"No, of course not," said Gimli with a laugh, taking both Doris' hands in his own. "Éowyn, Éomer, and Lottie are on their way in Legolas' boat, the White Lady. It's bigger and much nicer than that old piece of shit – I mean, junk – dammit – I mean, darn it!" He gave the gently smiling Doris a wry look. "I know – fifty cents." They gazed into each others' eyes with looks of obdurate adoration for a moment, causing Michael to feel even more perturbed than he had before; then Gimli said softly: "Now, I'm going to ask you a question, Doris."

"All right," whispered Doris, watching him with intense and focused devotion.

"Marry me?"

"All right, I'm going now," said Michael firmly, struggling to his feet; he wasn't quite fast enough to miss Doris' adamant reply – "Yes!" – before escaping to the relative sanity of Gandalf's chaise lounge.