A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

A/N: Thank you, guys, for your patience! My meds are about halfway straightened out, and I'm much more coherent than I was a couple of weeks ago. Hopefully this trend will continue and I'll be able to move things along. I appreciate your concern and assure you FGOS WILL end eventually, and (I hope) end well. --- Le Rouret

Lottie threw the odd little items in her gift shop bag away, one at a time, in separate trash cans after they got off the bus. One glove at the bus stop, another at the hot dog stand, the empty syringe tube in a little gift shop near the docks at Cavendish. Each time Lottie slipped a betraying article into the darkness of a bin Michael felt a little thrill in his heart – that was the glove he'd worn looking through the wallet – that was the glove Lottie wore while injecting cocaine and air into the bodyguard's arm – and the incriminating evidence dropped out of sight, making the heaviness in his stomach lighten somewhat. By the time they got down to the docks the sun was at her zenith and it was beginning to grow hot. Michael tied his cardigan around his waist, and Lottie put her hair up into a ponytail, sticking it out the back opening of her baseball cap. In deference to any tourists that might have seen them together at Silver Bush they walked hand in hand, and though Lottie's grip was smaller and softer than those clasps to which Michael had grown accustomed, he was comforted nonetheless. Michael was very glad Lottie had become as much a Girlfriend to him as Doris – Arwen and Éowyn were a tad too aloof to truly fall into that category, but Lottie, with her pink clothes and bubbly personality, satisfied a Need for Companionship in Michael's heart that no man, gay or straight, could truly fill.

At the docks they came upon the same sort of crowd they'd seen in Kennebunkport, watching with the same quiet enthusiasm the same gorgeous blonde painting in the same competent and colorful manner. To Michael's amusement there were even the same types of young girls avidly watching Legolas paint, leaning in to whisper to each other behind their hands, eyes roaming from the top of his pale sleek head to the bottoms of his rather battered lug-sole boots. And just like before Lottie and Michael approached him to Receive Orders; unlike Éowyn, however, Lottie disdained subtlety, marched straight up to him and said (to the obvious chagrin of the young ladies in the crowd), "Hi, sweetie!"

Legolas looked up a little absently; in his blue eyes was the unfocused concentration of an artist interrupted in his work. It reminded Michael of the way Frances would look when he was disturbed in the middle of some intense Programming Orgy – flat, uncomprehending, mind obviously Elsewhere. "Oh. Hullo, you two," he said with a distinct Lack of Enthusiasm. He turned back to his canvas and, using a fat wet brush, dabbed a blob of white in the still-glistening painty sky there. Michael stared in envious amazement at the almost unconscious expertise involved in forcing hair on a stick to squish watered-down dye into the perfect form of a cloud. It was Really Unfair that Legolas should have Everything – Looks and Talent and Personality and Money. But then, he thought, Legolas also had to carry the burden of Listening, of having his thoughts and dreams constantly interrupted by the careless caprices of the Angelic Beings that ruled his destiny. Sure, Michael Dreamt on occasion, but at least his thoughts were – mostly – his own. He wasn't sure about that brash, chuckling voice that seemed to become more prevalent – who WAS that, anyway?

"Take care of things?" Legolas asked quietly, rattling the brush in a can of milky water, and shifting a little on his stool. Michael saw he was wearing loose gray pants made from a rough stained material, and his smock was streaked with color; his hair, though pulled back into its workaday ponytail, was mussed, and there was a scrape on his knuckles. He wondered where it had come from.

"Yes, one," said Lottie. "It was the one you wanted – sorry, Legs."

One slim shoulder lifted in a lackadaisical shrug. "Ah, no worries, darlin'." The neon eyes flicked up to Michael, suddenly sharp and aware; it felt as though someone had slipped something very cold into his stomach. "How're you, mate?"

It was unmistakably a concerned inquiry as to Michael's psychological state. How could he assure Legolas of his satisfaction at having aided Lottie in her assassination? Because he was Fine, he really was, and although his stomach still felt a bit fluttery that was to be expected, and there was no use worrying anyone anyway. "I'm very happy about it," he said brightly, giving Legolas a cheerful smile. "I think we did some very good work today."

Legolas' face froze, the porcelain skin gleaming a little in the bright noon sun, the sweet pink lips slightly parted; his eyes glittered a little behind the thick lashes. "Do yer, now," he said slowly. Then he dabbed his brush in a mess of greenish-brown paint on the pallet and turned his attention back to the painting. His columbine lips curved into a frown, and he blinked, slowly, the creamy eyelids shuttering then revealing those iridescent eyes. Michael shivered, though he wasn't sure why. "Bloody marvelous, me pets."

"We're going to get some lunch," said Lottie, glancing sharply at Michael, then looking back to Legolas. "Coming back to the ship?"

"Half a mo," said Legolas. He frowned, his thin brows puckered over his eyes while he worked a tree into his landscape. Michael bent down and looked at it more closely. What on earth was he painting, anyway? They were on a dock looking at some shops, but instead of this picturesque scene Legolas was painting an undulating landscape of trees, stretching back from the clearing in the foreground into a dark forbidding mass of tangled limbs, twisted roots, gnarled trunks. Michael blinked and looked closer, realizing with a shudder that Legolas had painted eyes in the darkness – yellow and green and brown eyes, peering back at the viewer, curious, cautious, slightly menacing, despite the bright sun and blue sky and big puffy white clouds. Legolas paused, looking up at Michael and reading his apprehensive expression; he grinned and scratched his nose, leaving behind a smear of olive-green paint. "You never know who's watchin' yer, mate, do yer?" he said, chucking his brush in the water and standing up. "G'wan with yer, now, I'll catch yer up in two shakes."

"Okay," said Lottie indifferently. "Quahogs okay?"

"Fuckin' perfect, luv," said Legolas with satisfaction, and began to pack up.

Lottie and Michael found a fishmonger's shop and bought eight pounds of quahogs. Then, because he couldn't resist them, Michael bought a big box of chocolate peppermint creams and a package of caramel fudge from the fishmonger's sister, who had a sweets counter in the corner. Lottie laughed at him and finished off their purchases with several filets of cod – "Éomer LOVES fried cod. Do you like fried cod?" – and they headed back to the White Lady. It rocked and gleamed beside the smaller but no less opulent Evenstar, dwarfing the other boats and ships in the harbor with her ostentatious white splendor. Michael gave a relieved sigh when they walked up the gangplank – he was still afraid that someone would stop them, some police officer who had seen them at Silver Bush and figured out that they were Involved. But it appeared his fears were unfounded; everything looked very quiet, and the lone policeman who was patrolling the docks didn't look suspiciously at them at all; he was far too busy admiring Lottie's backside in those tight pink jeans.

When they came aboard they were a little surprised to see Doris there already; she was slumped in a deck chair beneath the biminy, shed of her overalls and clad instead in her bright bathing suit and pareo, her sunglasses perched precariously on the end of her snub nose. She was frowning at the laptop sitting on her knee, her thick eyebrows puckered; while they watched her she reached over to the table beside her, picked up a bottle of beer and took an absent-minded sip. Michael's mouth suddenly watered – if he were not mistaken, Doris was drinking Sam Adams; that would go phenomenally well with steamed clams and fried fish. He hoped she had some more. He would be perfectly willing to trade fudge for beer at this point. Then he remembered their aborted conversation beneath the apple tree at Silver Bush, and felt a little guilty about his gastronomic tastes overwhelming his concern for her. He hoped she felt better, and that his suggestion and sympathy had helped a little.

He ducked under the biminy and stood beside her; she looked up, brown eyes focusing slowly on him; then she gave him a suddenly brilliant smile. Michael smiled back, letting the fist around his heart slacken a bit. That was not the smile of an Unhappy Woman; that was the smile of a Carefree Girlfriend. "Much better," he thought, relieved. "What are you doing, sweetie?" he asked aloud.

"Oh," said Doris, glancing back at the computer. "Googling conversion processes. I need to find a rabbi for Grim." She looked out over the harbor and sighed. "I'm hoping him becoming a B'nei Noach will be enough, but I'm afraid Mom and Dad won't be satisfied without a full Bet Din and a Hatafat Dam Brit." She frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder if they'll insist on a mikveh?"

Michael opened his mouth to tell her that he and Lottie had no idea what she was talking about, but was stunned instead to hear his pink-clad partner say blithely, "Well, it'll depend on whether or not your folks want to follow the orthodox or reformed practices. Did you tell them he was your bashert?"

"Yes," said Doris, with another resigned sigh. "But Mom's still working on finding me a kosher bashert. She even hired a matchmaker from Rent-A-Yenta."

That was too much for Michael; he had to cover his mouth when he laughed to keep from snorting all over Doris' computer. He hoped Doris wouldn't be offended, but really, it WAS a very funny name, despite the fact the conversation was rather serious. But Doris looked up at him patiently and said with a wry smile, "Yes, that's a real organization … they're supposed to be really good, unfortunately."

"Have you talked to Gimli yet?" asked Michael after he had composed himself.

"Yep," said Doris, turning her attention back to the laptop. "He's onshore, ordering a copy of the Talmud." She grinned to herself. "Not bad for a shkutz."

"Be NICE!" chided Lottie, and bounced indignantly to the stairs leading down below. "Come on, Michael, let's get lunch together. I'm STARVING." Grimacing at Doris' sympathetic look, Michael followed her.

It was odd, thought Michael, trailing absent-mindedly behind Lottie into the dimness of the mess, that his off-the-cuff suggestion had engendered such an immediate and enthusiastic response by both partners. Doris, plugging away at finding the right processes and procedures; Grim, investing in her Holy Book and willing to go through the whole thing just so he could be with her. Michael hadn't brought up Conversion THAT long ago. Gimli's capitulation must've been as rapid as Doris' eagerness to accept and propose it. He gave a little melancholy sigh. It must be nice, he thought, to be Loved so obviously. No one who watched those two for more than five minutes could possibly think any different of them. There was no stinting of affection between them; it was as though they were both so overflowingly filled with Love it spurted and gushed out and splashed everyone around them with it. Legolas and Éowyn rather struck him the same way, but in a subtly different setting; there was no doubt they Loved each other, but that was translated into a more sensual venue; for those two there were but two states in which to repose: the Astral Plane, where their Lord and Lady resided, or each other's arms, in which physical union could be perfected. Gimli and Doris were still enviable, but at least, to Michael's mind, more comprehensible. It was a pity Frances was so inexpressive.

He listened half-heartedly to Lottie's cheerful chatter while they cleaned and de-bearded the clams. It seemed to him her conversation was a tad brittle, forced, and he wondered why she was talking if there wasn't anything important to say. To be sure, she usually talked quite a lot, but most of the time she sounded more enthusiastic and light-hearted; Michael got the impression she was trying to distract him from something. He was suddenly desperately aware of Frances' absence and wanted urgently to see him, speak to him, be held by him. Bereft of strenuous physical activity the events of the morning came surging back to him, thick and onerous; the image of the little Hispanic boy fretted at the edge of his consciousness and he struggled to push it back. Yet still he could not help but to feel the petulant disappointment that Frances, cool, competent, logical Frances, while holding and comforting and making love to him, would still not experience the depths of the horror Michael had felt upon seeing that photo. He would be satisfied with the outcome, of course, and pleased that such a man no longer threatened society, but Frances was so collected, so imperturbable and detached – it was that Engineer in him, the mindset that dealt better with the unemotional computer, the cold mathematical logic, the dispassionate world view that worried at the back of Michael's mind. Gone were the images of Frances, laughing aloud at Michael's mistaking Legolas for a former lover; gone was the memory of Frances telling Major-General Fitzpatrick that without Michael he would have nothing to live for; gone was the memory of Frances' undertone murmur about how lucky he was. In its stead was Frances calmly rubbing blood from a lemon-colored shirt, Frances expending his passion on wordless lovemaking, Frances resignedly accepting Michael's impending death. Michael felt the burgeoning peevish dissatisfaction in him and groaned within himself. He knew what THIS meant. It meant nothing Frances could do or say would please him until Michael Got Over It. And THAT meant Frances would perceive Michael's displeasure and respond with coldness, or anger, or (worst of all) hurt. Then there would be the Apology, and the Forgiveness, and the tallying up of yet one more Fault on Michael's part. And in the end, what would change? Nothing, of course – Frances would always be himself, and Michael would continue to annoy him. It was rather amazing Frances put up with him at all.

The next thought came unbidden and hurt Michael more than anything Frances could ever have said or done: Frances would probably be relieved when Michael died. The higher levels of Michael's brain cried out against this, struggling to remind him of the stricken look on Frances' face when he'd discovered Michael's fate, but the low, dark, emotion-laden undercurrent of Michael's mind sullenly and stubbornly persisted. It even tried to bring Logic and Reason into it. "All you ever do is get in his way. All you ever do is bother him. You're not smart enough, you're not ruthless enough, you're not perfect enough. You just tag along behind him and make him worried and upset. It would be better if you weren't here. It will be better when you're gone." The image of Frances with someone else – someone taller, smarter, better-looking, more competent – flashed in front of his eyes, and he gave an involuntary gulping sob.

He had all but forgotten Lottie was there. Her arms were around him in a split second, her hands pressing his face firmly into the warm soft skin of her throat, her voice crooning nonsense, her hair fragrant and silky. Michael's overburdened heart heaved and he began to sob in earnest, wanting desperately to hold her tight but hampered by two large and dripping clams held in each of his hands. So he tried to hug her with his elbows, which wasn't very satisfying, but was better than nothing. He wanted to apologize to her, to tell her he was sorry for interrupting her wonderful and successful morning, for being a letdown, for ruining her good mood, but all he could do was sob against her neck, letting his tears wet the left strap of her pink tank top and drip down her shoulders.

After a moment new arms took him from behind, longer and stronger and more muscular, and he was pulled into a deeper embrace, where he smelled pine and earth. Shining hair fell about his face and shoulders, and in his ear, echoed in his mind, driving the dark doubts away, was a soft and gentle voice. "There is death; there is always death. We cannot fight it. But we can delay it when it is unnecessary, and avenge those who die in pain and fear."

Michael thought again of the little Hispanic boy in the photograph. It seemed to him Legolas could also see it, and instead of the indifferent, hard-hearted response he had been expecting Michael felt the depths of the Alien's sorrow and remorse. And when he closed his eyes he could see Legolas kneeling by the boy, gathering the bloodied, broken body in his white arms, bearing the wounded soul away on wings that shone like the sun. Then he realized it was not Legolas he saw, but someone else, someone Greater, in whose angelic face was mourning and regret, and tenderness as well. "Those Little Ones who go early unto the Halls of Mandos attain comfort and forgetfulness," said the angel, and Michael saw that he was beautiful, and kind, and tender-hearted. Then the light seemed to burst forth from that being's face, and it burned away all his fear and doubt so suddenly he jerked back, almost surprised to find himself in the mess, entangled in Legolas' arms, with Lottie's hands on his shoulders. His back was pressed against Legolas' chest, and he could smell paint and sunshine, and Lottie was standing in front of him, her brown eyes filled with tears, stroking gentle fingers down his wet cheeks. Then she firmly pried the wet clams out of Michael's stiff fingers and set them in the sink. She had a damp patch on her shoulder strap but didn't seem to care. "You okay?" she asked; her voice was slightly tremulous.

"Yes," said Michael, though he really wanted to say, "No!" But he'd caused enough trouble; he didn't want them to make more of a fuss over him. "I'll be fine. I just – just – "

"Reaction," said Legolas' voice in his ear. "Need a right good shag, you do." It was funny to see Lottie's response to this; she looked indignant, but amused as well. And the look she gave Michael after that was clear as day; it was as though he could hear her think, "That's his answer to everything, isn't it?" But then she looked away, past them both toward the door, and her expression became at once guarded and relieved.

"What happened?" Éomer's voice, surprised, concerned. Legolas released him, and Michael turned around. Éomer stood, huge, imposing, hairy, like some Nordic God in Bermuda shorts, his amiable face anxious, and beside him, very much alarmed and not a bit annoyed, was Frances. All Michael's fears about Frances wanting him dead evaporated and he flew into his embrace, reveling in the feeling of the hard collarbone against his forehead, the warm arms around his shoulders, the cheek pressed to the top of his head. Buried in the safety of those encircling arms the lingering horror lessened; he still thought about the little boy and felt his heart break again, but the pain wasn't so sharp when he was with Frances and assured of his affection and concern. There were footsteps coming down the stairs, and then he heard Éowyn's voice, contrite, subdued.

"I'm sorry. I thought it would be a clean kill. I didn't know about the photograph."

"None of us knew," said Frances; his voice echoed in his chest, and was laced with tired regret. "We knew he was a snuffer but we didn't know he was stupid enough to carry evidence around with him."

"At least the fuckin' bastard's dead," said Legolas behind them. "And Lottie's got his mate's addies, so we can have Sam and Rosie mop 'em up. There's an arseload of good done today, pet." Long, strong, nimble fingers ran through his curls; Legolas pressed the palm of his hand against Michael's head. "Yer did a bloody good deed today, Mike. Horrible but good. The picture'll go away after a while."

Michael pulled out of Frances' embrace and looked over his lover's shoulder to where Éowyn stood. Her lovely face was cold and angry, almandine eyes like flint; her lips were pressed so tight together all the red had been bled from them. Michael instantly realized her anger was directed inward; she was angry at herself for exposing him to so awful a thing. For some reason that made him feel better, that she felt culpable for his emotional seizure. "I'm glad I saw it," he said, and she blinked at him, her winged eyebrows darting down over her eyes; Michael saw she thought he was patronizing her. "No, really. That way I knew what kind of man we killed. That made it better."

The icy façade softened, and her grey eyes slid over to her husband's, thawed and gentled. "Well, that's something then," she said, her low voice a little husky. "I didn't want to make you do it in the first place, but my Lady insisted."

"Odd of her," said Lottie doubtfully, and turned back to the sink to scrub at the quahogs. Éowyn shrugged.

"Obviously she had something in mind," she said dismissively. "Not sure what it was, but I sure the hell hope she's satisfied." She looked closely at Michael then, who had settled down in Frances' arms comfortably, tucking his head beneath his lover's chin. She reached out to him, touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers, gentle and questioning. Her eyes were still troubled. "You sure you'll be okay?" she asked.

"I will NOW," said Michael confidently, tugging himself out of Frances' embrace and wrapping himself around Éowyn instead. She was obviously still carrying a load of guilt for exposing him to both the photograph and the hit, but the fact that she'd been ordered to do so, in Michael's mind, completely exonerated her, and he didn't want her to feel bad any more. Stupid emotions, he thought irritably; things would go SO much more smoothly without them! He squeezed her tight, relieved when she put her own arms around him; she smelled of lemons and oranges, a fresh citrussy smell that made him hungry. "Stop worrying about me! I just got a little freaked out, that's all."

"At least you didn't freak out at Silver Bush," said Lottie from behind him. "That was a good idea you had, in the broom closet."

Michael's heart swelled; it HAD been a good idea, hadn't it? "Glad you think so," he said, a little self-consciously, releasing Éowyn and turning back to Lottie with a smile. She was grinning a little impudently, her hands on her hips.

"So, Michael," she said, cocking her head at him, brown eyes twinkling. "How do I rate? On a scale of one to ten, I mean."

Everyone looked at them in bewilderment, but Michael gave a breathy, relieved laugh. "It would be hard to say, sweetie," he said. "I've never kissed a girl before. It's very different from kissing a guy." Behind him he heard Éomer give a strange strangling sound; he turned and said quickly, "But she's a very good kisser, Éomer, honest. I didn't mean for it to sound insulting."

Legolas gave a whoop of laughter, echoed a second later by Éowyn; Lottie started to giggle, but Frances and Éomer merely looked stunned. "There y'are, now, then!" said Legolas, clapping Michael on the shoulder, grinning and flashing his dimples at them. "Made two men jealous in one day. Doin' fuckin' marvelous, you are. Now, out the mess, you lot; we've got to get tea on the table."

Frances followed Michael up the stairs, an indecipherable expression on his face. Michael, his heart pounding a little, went to the side rail and looked out to the sun-drenched bar by the head of the harbor, hoping Frances weren't insulted; it was hard to know sometimes how he was going to react, and Michael had never done anything like THIS before. He held his breath as Frances leaned on the rail beside him, his chiseled brown face creased into a thoughtful frown, black eyebrows creased, overlong black hair hanging down into his eyes. His long dark hands were clasped loosely on the rail, the thin strong fingers still. After a few moments that felt more like a lifetime than the sixty seconds in the gift shop at Silver Bush, Frances looked sideways up at him and said tentatively, "You kissed her?"

Michael gulped. "Um, well, we needed a reason to be in the broom closet," he said deprecatingly. Frances' mouth quirked up into a smile.

"Very clever," he said quietly, and slipped one brown hand into Michael's. Michael let out a relieved breath and closed his eyes. So it HAD been a Good Idea after all … he had rather wondered, since Good Ideas were so foreign to him, but Frances' approbation sealed it. He let the warm comfortable feeling wash over him, let it relax the knotted muscles in his shoulders, let it drain the tension from his forehead; then he heard Frances say, his voice contemplative: "So … is Lottie as good a kisser as I am?"

Michael looked at Frances in surprise; his lover was smiling, his gray eyes dark with the promise of pleasure. Delighting in the sudden hot thrill in his stomach Michael said pertly, "Well, I'll need something to compare it to, now won't I?"

That had DEFINITELY been the right response; with a low chuckle Frances straightened, put his arms around Michael's waist and pulled him close into a deep, satisfying kiss. Michael let out a happy moan, his hands in Frances' hair, and even Doris' indignant "Get a room!" didn't bother him.