A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Frances proved himself to be even more reticent than usual on the ride home; Michael tried to sound casual when he asked his probing questions about Professor White and Frances' title of Doctor, but the curt replies and narrowed sidelong glances informed him that this was one of those things that was Not Discussed. There were only two kinds of subjects when it came to conversation with Frances; those that were Discussed and those that were Not Discussed; apparently Professor White was one of those that fell into the latter category. Michael knew better enough after six months with Frances to try to press him; he had never heard his boyfriend raise his voice, but there was an intensely controlled fury in him that terrified Michael, and he did all he could to avoid invoking it. To be sure it surfaced rarely, and only when Michael failed to recognize the Not Discussed topics; he was getting better at it though, and fell into reflective silence, his hands absently tracing the familiar patterns in the leather seats of Frances' Lexus. After ten minutes of stony silence Michael tried a different subject.

"The concert was wonderful anyway," he said. He tried to say it cheerfully, but his chagrin at Frances' sudden emotional retreat colored his voice and it sounded more wistful and apologetic. With an inarticulate sound Frances abruptly pulled over onto the shoulder, scattering dust and gravel, the tires squealing; he threw the car into park and embraced Michael roughly, pressing the young man's body into his own so that they both strained against the restricting seat belts. Someone honked as they passed, and Michael, torn between relief and fear, put his arms around Frances' neck.

"I'm so sorry, Michael. I'm a pig." Frances' voice was rough, and Michael could feel his lips moving against his neck, above the stiff suit collar.

Michael's heart melted. "You're not a pig," he said, stroking his lover's hair soothingly. "You're just a little tired, you know; you work so hard – "

"Stop making excuses for me." Frances pulled away, his hands on either side of Michael's face, tipping it up towards his own. He looked down at Michael, his pale eyes searching, agitated and broken; Michael's heartbeats quickened – Frances was so beautiful – so intense and broody and male – he could drown in those gray eyes. "I'm a pig to treat you like this. I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

"It's okay, Frances," said Michael, his eyes filling with tears; Frances was so earnest, so ponatonate! Would he ever get tired of this man? More to the point, would this man ever tire of him? Oh please no no no, Michael begged the sky; please keep me perfect so Frances will never leave me … it was too much to ask the heavens to make Frances love him; Michael had a feeling that would never happen. But so long as Michael was perfect Frances would be there to take care of him and order his life for him and they could continue on in their perfection together. "You're allowed to get upset. I get upset and you never seem to mind ME. Why should I mind it in you?" Michael reached up one hand and lightly touched Frances' face; he could feel his lover's fingers start to tremble. "It's just a part of learning how to live with each other," he whispered, leaning forward against the protests of his seat belt; Frances leaned forward too, and they kissed, slowly, ardently, Frances' hands ssinssing Michael's facechaechael's fingers in Frances' hair. Another car went by honking its horn derisively, and Frances pulled away, his eyes soft and reluctant.

"Let's go home," he said, smiling and putting his hands back on the steering wheel; he glanced sideways at Michael, and there was a look in his eyes that was starting to become deliciously familiar. Michael smiled and leaned back against the seat, his whole body tingling with anticipation and flushed with happiness.

************************

Two bottles of wine and some rather athletic lovemaking later, the two fell deeply asleep, limbs entwined; after a while the liquids he'd ingested started nudging against Michael's consciousness, asking to be let out. He dragged himself back up to the surface, blinking sluggishly; he was so comfortable lying with his arm and leg draped over Frances' body, hearing him breathe slow and sonorous against the pillow. Michael turned his head. The streetlamp outside threw four rectangles of white light across their big plush bed; one of those rectangles fell over Frances' sleeping face. Michael watched him adoringly, watched the black thick lashes brushing his cheekbones, watched the noble aquiline nose, the curving brows, the high forehead, the tousled glossy black hair. At last Michael's bladder won the argument with his ardor and he crawled out of bed to the bathroom.

He was careful afterwards to lower the seat before he flushed, and to straighten the hand towels after he washed and dried his hands – Frances didn't complain, but Michael knew he liked things to be Just So, and indulged him happily, even though his only reward was a lack of Disapproving Glance. He walked softly back into the darkness of the bedroom, flinching a little at the cold tile beneath his bare feet and happily anticipating the soft cushy warmth of the bed; he was halfway beneath the covers when out of the corner of his eye he saw something large and unfamiliar and white; he turned, and his heart froze.

There was someoittiitting on the dresser. Michael couldn't see his face clearly but he could see the definite outline of a man, tall and thin, with long white hair, swinging booted feet over the edge of the Danish Modern chest of drawers Michael had ordered for Frances early in their relationship. And though the man's face was occluded by the darkness Michael could see the glint of a pair of eyes, watching him.

His fear paralyzed him, seized up his throat. He wanted to scream, to wake Frances, to warn him before this man pulled out a knife or a gun orethiething and killed them both. But the glittering eyes held him in thrall, like a snake paralyzes a bird; Michael could only stare, dumbfounded, terrified, positive his short beautiful life was at an end; he couldn't even tremble he was so afraid. After what seemed like a couple of hours, but in reality was only a few seconds, the man stirred, and Michael could see the long pale hair slide smoothly, like a sheet of silk, over one shoulder.

"Wotcher, mate," said the man softly. "All comfy then?"

He sounded English too, but not so much like Masterpiece Theater as Monty Python. Michael's chest was starting to hurt. He took a deep, slow breath, not wanting to move for fear of inciting this burglar to violence.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"Call me Legs," the man answered, and hopped off the dresser. Michael saw him standing there but hadn't heard his feet when they'd touched the floor; he wondered why, because he KNEW the man was wearing boots and there was nothing but tile – why hadn't he heard anything?

"Legs?" he asked, swallowing hard. Please wake up, Frances, he begged silently; please wake up and save me! I don't WANT to die in a Home Invasion, it would be SO Unfair!

"Yeah." The dark figure rustledund und a bit in his pocket, and Michael's heart nearly leapt out of his throat – he was going to pull out a gun and KILL THEM BOTH!!!! But whatever Legs withdrew from his pocket didn't seem too lethal; there was a crinkling of cellophane and a white disc disappeared into the man's mouth. Michael could smell the faint scent of peppermint. When the man spoke again something was clattering against his teeth, and suddenly Michael realized what the man had done. "Redid the décor, didn't yer? Very posh."

"Um." Michael was still terrified but wasn't sure what to do next. He felt vaguely he should scream but it seemed a little anticlimactic now. Then to his relief and horror Frances stirred, he lay still for a moment, then sat up abruptly, staring at the man in the bedroom, his eyes wary.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice tight.

There was a snort from the man. "Oh, that's bloody nice. No 'Hello, how are you, won't you siddown for a fuckin' cuppa,' just want me to skive off, eh? Oofy little fucker." There was a dark antagonistic humor in his voice that sent chills up Michael's spine; he expected at any moment to see the flash of metal in the man's hands.

Frances' eyebrow went up. "Well, you did startle me," he said dryly.

Michael goggled at him. He didn't seem to be frightened much at all, just kind of guarded and braced; much like he had been with Professor White. Michael had a sudden irrational flash of inspiration that Professor White and Legs knew each other. He looked back at Legs, the face still hidden in shadow; he seemed very tall, taller than Frances because the top of his head was a lot closer to the finial on the bed post; there was a smooth grace to his movements when he approached the bed, and the long hair swung glistening down, reflecting back the street lamp's light. He dug in his pocket again, and pulled out a square of stiff paper, tossing it onto the rumpled bedclothes.

"Here," he said. Frances didn't move, just stared at the paper. Michael glanced at it; it seemed to be an envelope embossed with gold writing. "There's two in there, mate. Bring yer little Mary-Ann if yer like." He turned and walked over to the window, stepped up onto the divnd pnd put his hand on the sill. Then he turned back, his face illuminated; Michael caught his breath: this man, Legs, was beautiful – even more beautiful than Frances. He could see in that one brief glance the high cheekbones, smooth jaw, full curving lips and large slanted eyes; the sheet of pale hair fell down the sides of his face like a shimmering waterfall. "Wear yer monkey suits," he said, then almost faster than Michael could watch him he launched himself through the window and disappeared.

Michael gave a squeak of surprise; suddenly galvanized he leapt off the bed and ran to the window. He stood up on his toes on the divan, looking out; he could see the patio two stories below, and the empty street below that, but no other movement in the harshly illuminated darkness. He turned back to Frances, bewildered.

"Where did he go?" he asked wildly.

Frances had picked up the envelope, opened it, and was reading the card inside calmly. "He's very fast," he said, his voice a little absentminded. Michael stared at him in amazement.

"How can you be so CALM?" he demanded, leaping onto the bed and curling himself up into a ballA stA strange man just showed up in bedrbedroom and swore at us and gave us a mysterious letter and jumped out our window and you're acting as if it's all NORMAL!"

"It is normal, for Legs," said Frances. He looked up at Michael and smiled, then put his arm around his lover. "It's all right," he said soothingly. "Legs is a little … unusual, that's all."

"But what did it MEAN?" asked Michael, leaning into the comforting warmth of Frances' body. He looked down at the c the the angle Frances was holding it tilted it into darkness, and he couldn't read it. "What is that? What did he give you?"

"Two VIP passes to his one-man show in L.A. next Friday," said Frances. He put the envelope on the side table, frowning thoughtfully. "You don't have a tuxedo. We'll have to get you fitted for one. Are you working in the morning?"

"What?" asked Michael. "Why do I need a tuxedo?"

"Legs said we needed to wear them."

The light dawned. "Is that what he meant by 'monkey suits'?"

"Yes," said Frances patiently. "You'll get used to the way he speaks eventually. He's a little rough around the edges but he's very – " Frances paused; his tongue flicked out to touch his lips, and his voice changed, becoming a little rougher. " – effective."

A horrible suspicion flared up in Michael's heart. Had they been lovers? Frances was so into the Arts, and the phrase "one-man show" implied an artist – he couldn’t ask, tho he he wasn't sure he even wanted to know. "He's a friend of yours?"

Frances looked sharply at him, and Michael realized it was another thing to Not Discuss. "I've known him a long time," he said shortly. "We're not friends – but – we – know a lot of the – same people."

"Like Professor White?" blurted Michael unthinkingly; when he realized he'd brought up a Not Discussed he clapped his hand over his mouth. But Frances laughed a little ruefully.

"Yes – Professor White is one of them."

Michael hesitated. He didn't dare try to probe some more; that seemed to be a definite sore spot. But his heart was still doing a jig in his chest from his fright and he wanted reassurance. "So he's not dangerous?"

Frances looked abruptly over at him, his face darkening like a thundercloud. "I should say he's dangerous," he said harshly, and Michael saw his hands had been balled into fists. "Were you afraid of him, Michael? Were you?" When Michael hesitantly nodded Frances said grimly: "Stay afraid of him. Don’t cross him, don't make him mad. Do whatever he says. Keep away from him if you can. Promise me, Michael."

Michael swallowed. He realized part of his heart had yearned toward the angelic face of the intruder, and Frances' interdiction was a little unwelcome. But Frances looked so earnest, so grave, so intense that Michael dropped his eyes obediently. Besides Frances' warning had sounded more than a little frightening, and if he knew Legs he'd know that Michael was no match for him, and anyway he was only trying to protect him. "I promise," he said meekly, and pulled his legs in closer to himself, trying to get warm. Frances gave another one of those incoherent noises in his throat and then Michael was in his arms, being caressed and kissed and nuzzled, the attendant warmth chasing his fears away. But he was a little resentful of Frances' casual attitude; after all it HAD been scary. "I don't know how you can be so calm, Frances," he said petulantly. "After all I was scared to DEATH."

"You poor thing," mumbled Frances against his collarbone, and Michael quivered when he felt his lover's teeth nip him lightly. "I was only thinking – it would be such a shame – we're awake anyway – "

"Oh – " the teeth were making their way down his torso, and now Michael's heart was getting its second workout of the hour. He reflected through the sudden haze that clouded his brain that no doubt Frances was just trying to distract him, but then he felt warm knowing hands part his thighs, and he decided surrendering to this particular distraction was quite a good idea.