A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

They sent the silent Nick and the nearly-as-silent Dave (or "Captain Dave," as Lottie called him) to Tortolla in the Semi-Impermeable to pick up the bulk of their supplies – "We'll refill the water tanks in the White Lady tomorrow," Legolas had said, "when we drop Dave off on St. John." So it was just them, without any outsiders – barring Doris and Michael, who at least had Day Passes into this Exclusive Society – sitting round the huge bonfire on the beach, driftwood crackling, lobsters and conch hissing and sizzling, fresh pineapple soaked in white rum flaming up briefly on their long skewers – sometimes not so briefly, when Éomer and Gimli got a little silly, running round the circle of seated people with incinerated fruit on sticks, singing the Olympic Games theme – mango cut fresh from the pit and leaving little stringy things in their teeth, day-old bread wrapped in aluminum foil and warmed by the coals, soaked in butter. And, of course, the Painkillers – pitchers and pitchers of them – cooled and diluted with buckets of ice, sprinkled all over with tangy bitter nutmeg. Michael reflected, as he pulled the jiggling white flesh from a particularly recalcitrant rock lobster tail, that the state of perpetual tipsiness he felt on Norman Island was a combined result of the amount of alcohol he ingested, and the overwhelming number of Beautiful People who circled him. Blondes, brunettes, blue eyes, gray eyes, square jaws, aquiline noses, high cheekbones, full lips, slim hard stomachs, swelling breasts. Except for Doris, Gimli, and himself, anyone would have thought they'd stumbled upon some Retired Scandinavian Super-Model's Convention. Well, if nothing else, he reflected, even if we DON'T figure out what's been happening, at least the scenery is more than acceptable.

At last, when the stars burned bright in the deep blue sky, the surf swished and shuddered on the sand and the glow of the embers deepened to a rich golden orange over the black burnt sticks, Gandalf rose and cleared his throat, and the desultory talk around the campfire died down. Michael looked around, wondering if he and Doris were finally going to be let in on some secrets, and if they'd understand any more about what this odd fraternity was all about. Éomer and Lottie were sitting together, Éomer laughing, Lottie giggling, his hand under her beach towel, groping stealthily; Doris and Gimli were pressed side by side, exchanging looks that were at once hopeful and bewildered; Aragorn and Arwen also sat, arms around each other, Arwen's skin gleaming like moonstone; and Legolas and Éowyn – well, they were nothing more than a deliberate affront to decency, those two; there was an insolent, a blatantly overt sensuality to their dealings with each other that was lost in any other couple, Éomer and Lottie included. You could almost feel the sexual tension that shimmered between them, coming up into sparks like electricity whenever their skin came close to touching – which was nearly always, Michael noted – could see the glowing, restless awareness in their eyes as they glanced at each other, the light contraction of their skin when their arms or legs brushed together, the flicker of recognition at the turn of a phrase, or inflection of a word spoken. Even their two-hour hiatus into the private stateroom at the stern of the White Lady hadn't sated them, and no one seemed to find this strange – "Rabbits, those two," Aragorn had said with a wry laugh as they'd finally come in to shore, flushed and gleaming, hand in hand; Michael had even caught the fading remains of a bite-mark on Legolas' throat. It would have made Michael happy for them, had it not had so obviously an disconcerting effect on Frances.

Michael knew Frances was watching them, knew the pale eyes beneath their hooded lids studied the couple's movements, listened closely to their whispers, warily watched each brush of the fingertip, sidelong glance, twitchy shifting of hips. Michael could even feel him flinch or shudder whenever Legolas touched Éowyn – whenever those long-fingered, white hands, glowing slightly in the starlight, traced a pattern on the golden skin, whenever rose-red lips would teasingly flicker over pink cupid's bows, whenever long dark lashes fluttered down over silvery eyes in response to the aquamarine invitation to dalliance. Michael, sitting curled in the crook of Frances' long warm arm, full of rum and lobster, ought to have been content and comfortable snuggled up against his lover, but he could hear Frances' erratic heartbeat, feel him tense and quiver, and wondered miserably if Frances were jealous of Éowyn. Hard not to be really, he thought; after all, look at Legolas – the firelight flickering off his alabaster skin, columbine-pink lips pouting and curving, the swell of his pectoral muscles over that long lean stomach, the sheet of silvery hair lifting and twining around his head; all that had been Frances' at one point, but due to their Break-Up (for whatever reasons; Michael instinctively knew that would be a Not-Discussed, so he didn't even bother asking) Legolas had run to another's arms – a WOMAN'S arms – a beautiful woman's arms – a woman who made Michael feel Very Strange – he got the feeling Éowyn wouldn't take too kindly to Michael's rather desperate sexual awareness of her husband – and now Legolas and Éowyn were pressed together, lissome limbs entwined, slender fingers wandering, slim torsos shifting and flexing as they lay together, long legs extended and gleaming like polished marble in the firelight. Had Legolas been his once, that sight would have hacked him off, too.

"Legolas," said Gandalf, smiling down at the entangled couple, "I'm sure your wife has something of relative import to divulge to us – would you do us the favor of suspending your groping and letting her sit up and speak? You two can resume your reunion when we're finished."

"Prat," said Legolas languidly, and Éowyn laughed and sat up out of her husband's arms, rising to her feet and brushing the sand off her long golden thighs.

"All right, then," she said, in her resonant, rather deep voice. It was smooth, but rather husky; a Sexy Voice, a Kathleen Turner Voice. Michael decided he would have liked her voice had it belonged to anyone but Éowyn – he felt a little resentful toward her; not that he had any reason to, and didn't even fool himself he had any reason; it was simply the primal hot resentment of an animal thwarted in search of a mate. Recognizing its source and realizing its inappropriateness did nothing to squash it, either; Michael knew he'd just have to Work Through It, and in the meantime, so as not to rock any boats, pretend nothing was wrong. So he looked up at her with an assumed expression of polite interest when she stood, lean golden body washed in the flickering glow, hands on the swell of her hips, hair tumbling in riotous topaz curls around her shoulders. She smiled down at them – there it was, that air of authority – what WAS it with these people? – and began to speak.

"Senator Holman went first," she said, hooking her thumbs in the sequined straps of her bikini bottoms. They stretched a little over her pelvic bone, and Michael wondered if he were going to find out if she were a Natural Blonde or not. "Poor fellow, stepped in front of a speeding car – hit and run. Broken bones, but mainly head injuries – quite a lot of blood. Very gruesome." She gave a tight, pitiless smile. "Shame, eh?"

Her brother laughed, and Arwen rolled her eyes. Doris looked a little shocked, but bit her lip and said nothing. For himself Michael was a little appalled at her cavalier attitude; but then, hadn't that been what she was supposed to do – "deal with" the two rogue senators, who were planning to murder twenty million Koreans? "Witnesses?" asked Gimli gruffly.

"Tons," said Éowyn, shrugging. "Busy intersection in DC, loads of taxis and buses and tourists and shit. Clipped him with the corner of the jeep, and after he fell backed over him for good measure. Then I took off, made sure people got my tag number – the one I stole from that cab company in Arkansas," she said, grinning.

"And I fed misinformation to the police," said Éomer, white teeth flashing in his blond beard. " 'Oh, yes, officers, I saw the whole thing,' " he said in a high assumed voice; " 'I can tell you ALL about it.' " He threw his head back and laughed, striking his thigh with the palm of his hand. "Stupid cops, bought the whole story."

"All right then," said Gandalf, smiling tenderly at the brother and sister. "What about Fischer?"

Éowyn's eyes brightened, and her long red mouth curled into a cruel smile. "Yes, Fischer," she said, and rubbed her long narrow palms together; her voice had deepened, and took on an almost brutal tone. "That greedy piece of work … did you know he had a bad heart?" She smiled, looked around the circle. "You wouldn't think that sonofabitch even HAD a heart, the way he acts. But he does, suffers from a common form of angina. Takes Lanoxin. Careless bastard took a double dose. Died at home in bed."

"Clever," admitted Gandalf, raising his bushy white eyebrows at her as she grinned. "So they're both dead, eh?"

"No," said Éowyn. "Only Fischer is dead. Holman's still alive."

Those bushy eyebrows lowered over the bright black eyes, and he frowned. "But – "

"EEG was a flat-liner," said Lottie brightly, smiling around the circle. "I dressed up as a candy-striper, worked the emergency room. They're talking about pulling the plug, but his wife doesn't want to pay off his debts. Silly, huh?"

"You'd think his insurance policy would cover them," said Arwen disapprovingly.

"If he had insurance, sure," rumbled Gimli with a deep chuckle. "I checked out his private finances – kind of gambled everything on the Sŏndŏk." He grinned over at Frances. "Remember, Faramir? Over two hundred fifty thousand just in credit card debts – that wife of his sure can buy the designer shoes."

Michael shuddered. And here he'd been worried about carrying over a two hundred dollar balance on his Mastercard! Frances was watching Éowyn, his eyes cautious, and when he spoke he sounded almost … impressed. "You managed to poison Fischer with his own medication, and run over Holman in such a way no one could be positive it was deliberate?" he said slowly. When Éowyn grinned and nodded he said reluctantly, "Well … that was very … efficient of you, Éowyn; I'm very impressed."

"And SHE didn't get shot in the process," said Lottie with a giggle, poking Legolas' thigh with one finger. He gave her a dirty look when everyone laughed, but Michael was watching him when Gandalf started speaking again and gathered their attention – Legolas looked up at Éowyn, his eyes full of pride. "I guess an assassin would like to be married to another assassin," thought Michael, "so long as they weren't competing against each other." He watched as Éowyn sat, nestling down into the circle of her husband's arms, smiling smugly at Legolas; he grinned, took her hand in his own, and brought it to his lips; Michael was expecting him to kiss it, and stifled a squeak of surprise when, with slow deliberation, Legolas opened his mouth and bit her middle finger.

"So Holman is bound to die eventually," said Gandalf thoughtfully, stroking his beard with his wrinkled fingers. "Actually that's better, I think, than having both senators die on the same night – it won't stretch the bounds of anyone's imagination to think it coincidence."

"It was Éomer's idea," said Éowyn, withdrawing her finger from Legolas' mouth.

Éomer shrugged. "Éowyn just wanted to plug 'em both and head for the tropics. I thought this'd look more natural."

"All right, then," said Gandalf; his dark eyes were sparkling. "And now we'll hear from Gimli and Doris – Éomer's faction hasn't had that report yet."

Michael sat up a little – what was wrong with him; why hadn't he even thought to ask Doris what they'd been doing in Miami? Stealing a boat, obviously, but before that? What, what had Frances said about Miami, when he had been baiting Major-General Fitzpatrick? Something about a back-up drop? He met Doris' eyes, and she smiled a little, and blushed. Gimli didn't bother standing up – just boomed over the bonfire.

"Yeah, we got into Miami three days after leaving California. Went to the warehouse at Fort Dallas, got in with the fake ID – thanks for that, by the way, Faramir," he added, grinning at Frances, who smiled and inclined his head. "Amazing what top security clearance gets you, real smart of you to get that card and the building diagram. Helped a lot. Got to the mainframes, busted through the safeties and slapped the virus in. Biggest calculators in Miami, now," he added with a big laugh. "Made extra-sure it was hosed and took off before alarms even began to sound." He turned to Doris then, and took her hand. "Even had time for some really good swordfish on Biscayne Boulevard before finding that wreck on Claughton. And this brilliant little lady – " he gave Doris' hand a squeeze " – managed to schmooze her way past the security guards at Fifteenth. Didn't even see me; they were too busy admiring her Harley." Doris blushed again, and Michael started to feel Impressed and Depressed all at once. Even Doris had managed to help out in the endeavors, and what did he do? Get captured and have to get rescued. Pathetic. Michael sighed and stopped listening to the buzz of conversation around him, preferring instead to dwell morosely upon his own uselessness. Some of his father's more creative words – time-wasting, inept, surplus – all aimed at Michael's Chosen Profession, used with derision, contempt; a waste of time – it all came back to him, stinging and burning, and he wondered what good he was to anyone, anyway. But when he heard Legolas, in the midst of describing something they'd done, mention his name, his attention swung back around, and he looked up in surprise. Legolas was grinning at him.

"Got a fuckin' GPS right up here, he has," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Bloody good thing, too – left half me brains down in that room, couldn't remember where the hell I was."

Michael blushed; everyone was looking at him with expressions of approbation on their faces. He felt Frances' arm tighten around him, then Gandalf said: "Yes – and holding his ground when Major-General Fitzpatrick and his sycophants were threatening him in that fashion; well, that takes a good bit of courage. Well done, Michael."

Michael felt his face grow hotter. He wanted to thank Gandalf for thinking him brave – though really, he hadn't felt very brave at the time – he'd felt pretty damn terrified, actually – but he only bit his lip and looked down into his lap, at the floral swim trunks he'd worn since arriving on Norman Island. There was an appreciative murmur around the circle, and Éomer said, his voice impressed, "Takes a lot of strength to keep your mouth shut in circumstances like that, friend."

"We told yer he was a keeper," said Legolas, unwrapping a lollipop.

"Was there ever any question?" asked Frances dryly. Michael felt him squeeze him again, and looked up at him a little diffidently; he wasn't used to hearing Frances say such things in public; he was usually so reserved and private. But here Frances was, half-reclined on a sandy beach, his arm around his boyfriend, Public Display of Affection prominently displayed to the whole group, and not only was Frances not uncomfortable with it, no one else seemed to be, either – accepted it unquestioning, not even any pained looks. He'd sort of expected one from Éomer – could ANYONE be as blatantly straight as he? – but oddly enough Éomer didn't seem to mind his and Frances' sexual orientation in the slightest; once Michael had assured Éomer as to Frances' Good Conduct all residual belligerence seemed to fade. In fact, when Frances had come aboard the White Lady a little while later, he and Éomer had stood at the stern, discussing sport fishing and dirt bikes with some animation, and idly throwing bread to the sea gulls. Michael had watched them in astonishment. Was this FRANCES? Hair unkempt, shabby swim trunks, barefoot, carrying on a comfortable conversation about Outdoorsy Things with Thor, God of Thunder? What had happened to that cold, stilted, uptight computer programmer with whom Michael had been living the past six months? Had that just been an Act? No – not an act; Michael reflected that, since accepting his role in this group, Frances' inhibitions and concerns had been slowly melting away, and the more relaxed he became, the more his friends seemed to relax, as well. It was a circle – no, a spiral, a helix – relax and be accepted and feel more relaxed, over and over, like a progressive mantra.

But what had made Frances so tense and exacting and particular, anyway? Why had he fought so hard against accepting Michael's affections; why had he held himself so aloof, so rigid and edgy for so long? Whatever it had been, Michael was rather glad it had left – he had loved Frances enough as a Type-A-High-Maintenance-White-Collar-Type; this new Frances, the Kindler, Gentler Frances, the Frances who could go on extended hikes and hack into government computer systems and drive a stick shift and sail a boat, was so lovable Michael was surprised at times his heart didn't burst from an overabundance of affection. He felt Frances' fingers lightly stroke the back of his arm, and his heart gave a big ker-flump. "Please let him love me," he prayed, not sure to which Vala he should be directing his requests, but feeling the need to ask anyway; "please let him never leave me!" And he couldn't be certain, but he thought he felt a little glowing tickle in the back of his mind – Legolas' voice – "No worries, mate – " He threw Legolas a startled glance over the crackling flames of the bonfire, and the blond only smiled and gave him a subtle wink through his wife's golden curls. Feeling better, Michael snuggled in closer to Frances, to let his Alpha know he had recognized the little signs and telltale suggestions, and that he was Ready and Willing – MORE than Ready and Willing; he was horny as hell – and hadn't Lottie told him they had a private stateroom, third door on the left? He felt the growing tingling heat in his stomach and gave an anticipatory shiver. Three weeks was WAY too long.

"All right then, chaps," Gandalf was saying, rubbing his dry wrinkled hands together with satisfaction. "Well done, all round. Now all we have left is to run this miscreant to ground. We've had confirmation he's gone with his entourage to Washington, DC, but as his two supporters have suffered unfortunate accidents – " he smiled at Éowyn, who beamed " – he'll be unlikely to find safe haven there. We know he has a home on PEI; we ought to be able to track him down there. As always, he watches the airports – I don't think it's occurred to him yet that we choose other, slower methods of transportation. So it's highly unlikely he'll have any operatives at the docks."

"How many has he got left?" asked Éomer.

"Twelve," said Aragorn. "Two brains and ten brawn. Sam's tracking his transmissions; he hasn't communicated with any outside agents yet. I think he's starting to mistrust the US."

"Good," said Frances; he sounded a little irritated. "The sooner he takes off, the better."

"Well, we don't want him wandering round Asia, either," said Gandalf. "Imagine the devastation that would occur, should he sell the Sŏndŏk to an unstable government. No, we need to stop him, and stop him soon. He's far too dangerous to let go free."

"I'm not disagreeing with you," said Frances equably, settling down beside Michael; their hips were pressed together, and Michael could see the smooth curve of his chest, the scattered dark hair between his nipples, and tiny sparkling grains of sand stuck to his skin. "But I am wondering, who gets to off him?" He looked around the circle, gauged their surprised looks, and continued, "I mean, I'm all for removing him from the gene pool, certainly. Frankly I'm surprised none of you assassinated Heinrich Himmler when you had the chance. But whose job is it to take him down?"

"Are you volunteering for the position?" asked Arwen with a dark smile. Michael shuddered; he wasn't sure he could stand the thought of Frances as an assassin. Knowing Legolas and Éowyn fell into that category was bad enough. To his consternation Frances shrugged.

"If you haven't picked anyone yet, it doesn't really matter," he said dismissively. "I just wasn't sure if Legolas had tagged him yet." He looked over at the blond, who was deliberately biting up the length of Éowyn's arm, and said, "Well, Legolas? Going to be greedy and keep this kill all to yourself?"

Legolas paused, eliciting a disappointed murmur from his wife; he grinned at Frances and said, "Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Naw, mate; Manwë's not told me yet. Keep asking him, he keeps fuckin' tellin' me to be patient."

"I'm sure the Valar will tell us when the time comes," said Gandalf with a smile. "Well, is that all, then? Are we caught up? Gimli and Doris, Éomer, Legolas and Faramir – " he ticked them off on his fingers " – we'll celebrate the engagement when we're finished – " Michael beamed at Doris, who blushed happily " – ah, I think we're all through then." He beamed round the circle at them all, like a skinny disheveled Santa bestowing his benediction upon a group of well-behaved children. Michael smiled contentedly up at him. Really, Gandalf – even as Professor White – was such a kindly, grandfatherly type; with is long white beard and bushy eyebrows, he reminded Michael of his own grandfather, whom he'd loved to distraction. What was it Doris had said he did for a living; taught history at some college in Oxford? It fit him, somehow. Then Gandalf looked around at them, collecting their attention; everyone sat up. "Sleep well, all of you. Tomorrow, we hunt." And his black eyes glittered, completely negating his previous resemblance to Santa Claus; Michael's heart nearly stopped when he realized this kindly, scholarly old man was just as bloodthirsty as the rest of them. He watched Gandalf step over a branch and head into the shadows, and wondered if Gandalf had ever killed anyone, and if so, who it could have been, and whether they'd deserved it or not. Then he remembered Frances' comment about Heinrich Himmler, and with a flash remembered his old history lessons; to his surprise he found himself wishing Gandalf had killed Himmler himself, which proved, he supposed, he was as bloodthirsty as everyone else. "But he would have deserved it," he thought, looking over at Doris Goldberg, dark-haired, hooked-nosed. "He really would have deserved it. Why didn't they kill HIM?" And full of these morose and resentful thoughts he watched the group disperse.