A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Frances was in One Of Those Moods when they returned to San Diego, and nothing Michael did – not even offering a long soak in the tub in sandalwood-scented water the following Saturday morning, complete with candles and the promise of a back-loofa – could drag him up out of it. Michael was wise enough to not push it, and besides he could still feel that slight frisson of misgiving when he remembered the afternoon and evening – the bright chatter, erudite conversation, delicious food, overlaid with a sort of horror that made his skin come out all gooseflesh. And his dreams that weekend were infused with the voice and face and piercing eyes of the angelic incubus that hovered on the extremities of his consciousness, whispering, coaxing, beckoning; Michael awoke several times with the words "Yes, I'm coming!" nearly out of his mouth, but as soon as his eyes opened to the dimness of their bedroom and his limbs brushed against Frances' warm body, the voice died in his throat and he lay back, heart hammering.

Monday was his day off, so he slept in, only vaguely aware of Frances moving quietly around their room, showering, shaving, getting dressed. Only when the scent of Frances' cologne finally faded did he allow himself to sleep deeply again, but this time the dream that came to him wasn't so much disturbing as hair-raising.

He felt rough hands on himself, heard men's voices jeering. He was horribly afraid, he knew what they were going to do to him, and it was going to hurt. He could feel fingers tearing at the front of his pants, grappling with the zipper, and he struggled, screaming, "No! Please! Don't!" Then there was a flash of light followed by a wrenching explosion, and a hot thick liquid splattered over his face.

Michael sat up so fast his head spun, breathing hard. He blinked the cobwebs away, gripping the soft cotton sheets in tight fists, reassuring himself it was only a dream. "A very very Bad Dream," he thought, trying to quiet his whirling thoughts; the terror clung to him though, and he got up and headed to the shower to try to wash it away.

He fe lit litbettbetter after he got dressed. The aftershocks of the fear he'd felt were fading, although he still felt a shiver up his spine when he remembered the raucous laughter of the men about to rape him. Where had THAT come from? Nothing like that had ever happened to him – knock on wood – he rapped on the dresser, then jumped in surprise when triptriple rat-a-tat-tat was echoed on the front door.

He looked at the clock. Nine thirty. Who could that be? Not Frances, surely – he stayed at the office until lunch-time, and never came home without telling Michael first. The landlady? Could Frances have forgotten to pay the rent? A possibility, he supposed, though considering his lover's almost maniacal adherence to the routine it was very unlikely. His heart starting to slow again, he went into the living room and peeked out the eye hole.

A fish-eyed face peered back at him, nose enlarged and eyes receding back in the circle. Despite the distortion Michael knew exactly who it was. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, then biting his lip he opened the door.

"Hoy, mate," grinned Legs, unwrapping a butterscotch disc. "All serene here?"

Michael swallowed. Without Frances' reassuring presence, or even Dr. and Mrs. Walker's solid personalities to balance the blonde'srwherwhelming aura, Michael felt very short, very slight, and very insignificant. Any assumptions of his own personal beauty went out the window when he looked up into that adorable, sweet face with its delectable mouth and gleaming eyes, and with a sweep of his satiny hair he dashed any notion that Michael's hair could be called blond, too. He lowered his eyes in proper submission and stepped aside to let Legs in, but the taller man didn't move.

"Naw, mate," he said, hiice ice casual. "C'mon out, got somethin' to show yer."

Michael hesitated, looked up into the other man's eyes. Legs smiled down at him, rolling the candy around in his mouth, his blue eyes gentle yet compelling. There it was – the urge to follow, to obey. And why shouldn't he? Well, Frances HAD told him to stay away from Legs – but he'd ALSO told him to do whatever Legs told him …haelhael tried to think of a reason to not go out with Legs but any objections seemed to pale when he met the man's eyes. It was with a feeling of relief he said, "Okay."

Legs grinned at him and led him down the stairs to the street. There was a motorcycle parked on the curb, its chrome gleaming, its orange and green paintjob fresh and iridescent, tires and long seat glossy black. Legs walked up to the motorcycle and picked up a helmet that had been slung over the backrest. He held it out to Michael, but a quiver of fear shook him, and he hesitated.

Legs didn't say anything; he didn't have to. The compulsion was so strong Michael nearly stumbled as he hurried up to the motorcycle. Legs lowered the helmet over Michael's head and gently fastened the straps, his touch tender, his face open and friendly. Hesitantly Michael smiled up at him. Legs flashed a brilliant grin at him and gave the top of the helmet a couple sharp raps, which sounded muffled and hollow to Michael's ears.

"Right then?" said Legs.

Michael turned to the motorcycle. He had never ridden one before and was a little afraid of them. But when he hesitated he met Legs' eyes, and without another word he gingerly mounted onto the back of the seat, and with the ease born of long use Legs swung up in front of him. With a kick and a twist the motorcycle roared to life; Michael yelped and wrapped his arms convulsively about Legs' waist. It was slim, hard, muscular; Michael could feel his diaphragm jiggling as he laughed, could feel the ripple of muscle beneath the soft tee shirt.

"Hold on," he shouted, and Michael's stomach gave another tremendous lurch as the motorcycle peeled away from the curb and into the heavy morning traffic.

Michael was terrified. He hated how the motorcycle leaned over every time they turned; he was positive he was going to fall off and Die, or at least be Horribly Mutilated. And screaming through the traffic, weaving in and out around the cars trying their damndest to cut them off and run them down, only added to his terror; he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched Legs' torso like it was his hope of heaven.

At last they slowed, then stopped. Michael opened his eyes. Legs turned off the motorcycle and extended one long denim-clad leg to hold it up until he pushed the kick-stand down, then unwound Michael's stiff arms from round his body and dismounted, holding out a hand to Michael to help him. Michael was shaking violently and very unsteady on his feet; he allowed Legs to unfasten the chinstrap of the helmet and pull it off, too rattled to even care what his hair looked like. He stared up at Legs, eyes dilated and lower lip trembling. Legs frowned, though it seemed self-directed; he put a warm palm on Michael's cheek.

"All right, mate?" he asked, thin brows puckered with concern.

Michael shook his head wildly. With a little tut-tutting sound Legolas gently put his long arms round Michael and pulled him up close, holding him and stroking his hair until his tremors subsided. Michael was numb, frozen in shock over the whole situation, and could only stand, hands limp by his side, face pressed into the fragrant piney hair, listening to a strong, steady heart beat. After a moment Michael started to wonder what the passers-by were thinking of all of this, and pulled out of Legs' embrace, blushing; he tentatively touched his hair, and Legs grinned again.

" 'S'not so bloody bad, once yer get used to it," he assured Michael, touching his cheek again, his fingers warm and gentle. "C'mon. In here."

Michael blinked and looked around. They were standing in the front drop-off of The Lido, one of the priciest hotels in town. Just the sight of the huge awning with its ornate scrollwork and the buttoned-down livery on the bellhops gave Michael a delicious little thrill, and he felt his terror fading. "What are we doing here?" he asked curiously.

"I'm stayin' here, that's what," said Legs. He threw his keys to a valet and led Michael up to the big swinging doors, nodding politely to the bellhops; his long-legged stride made him a little difficult to keep up with, but Michael trotted along behind him, eyes wide, taking in the sight.

The lobby was gorgeous – all gilt and crystal chandeliers and plush settees and discrete 'hops and concierges; there was a lush opulence to it that Michael had only seen in movies. To his surprise Legs strode purposefully up to the main desk, and the concierge smiled.

"Yes, Mr. Greenleaf, how can I help you?" he asked.

"Can yer tell yer fellas to keep an eye out fer a bloke comin' in later?" asked Legs. " 'Bout so high – " he held his palm about two inches lower than the top of his own head " – black hair slicked back, posh dresser, walks kinda nancy. Oughter be comin' in 'round sixish."

"We'll keep you informed," promised the concierge. He saw Michael and gave him a polite smile. "A friend of yours, sir?"

"Yeah. Have room service send up the Usual, will yer? Oi, any messages?"

"Only one," said the concierge, handing Legs a folded sheet of paper. He glanced at it, smiled, slipped it into his pocket and said, "Thanks, mate."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Greenleaf."

Michael trailed after Legs as he loped away, fully aware of the concierge's piercing, speculative stare after them, and wondering how many other young men Legs brought up to his hotel room. The though both thrilled and horrified him – he couldn't cheat on Frances – it would be So Wrong – but – his eyes wandered down Legs' back to his ass. Tight, firm, round – was there any part of this man that WASN'T perfect? But when Legs faced him in the glass elevator Michael's heart turned to lead. Those shivery blue eyes, the air of inflexible resolve – no, this was one man, no matter how beautiful, no matter how Alpha, that Michael did not want to have relations with. And when Legs opened his suite door and gave Michael a casual shove beneath the lintel, shutting and bolting it behind them, his fear resurfaced and he began to tremble.

The suite was huge, and ornately furnished; the carpet felt like crushed velvet beneath Michael's sneakers and there was the faintest smell of pine. It was all decorated in muted taupes and olives with black ironwork; prints of Tuscan scenes hung on the walls, and the furniture was plush and opulent. On every surface – the side tables with their tortoiseshell lamps, the glass dinette surrounded by heavy cast aluminum chairs, the top of the oak entertainment unit – were vase upon vase of plants and flowers: thick ferns dotted with bright orchids, lush sprays of hydrangea in blue and lavender and pink, drooping variegated petunias spreading their striped blossoms over the surfaces of the furniture, a twisted-trunk ficus that seemed to be trying to take over its corner. One of the windows was open, and the morning breeze stirred the draperies – pale gauzy streams of shimmery fabric dotted all over with faint gold fleurs-de-lis. Despite his apprehension he drank it in – the balance of color and tone, the scent of green growing things, the luxuriant muted luxury, the European flavor –

"Well?" Michael jumped and turned. Legs was standing by one of the tables, smiling at him, eyes knowing. "Do yer approve?"

"Yes!" said Michael, a tad more enthusiastically than he'd intended. "It's perfect – just Wonderful. It satisfies me right HERE – " He put a hand on his breast and sighed. "Poorly decorated rooms just HURT me. This one is SO perfect."

"Fuckin' marvelous," said Legs with a grunt. He walked over to the entertainment unit, where a big-screen TV was set up, and started fiddling with the remote. Michael stood still, wondering what was going to happen next, and if his rape dream were about to come true. The thought dropped a cold rock in the pit of his stomach and the tremors renewed. He watched Legs pout out one deliciounk lnk lip, glaring contemplatively at the TV; finally he found a program of which he could approve (something off the History Channel, Michael thought) and threw himself on the couch, stretching his long legs in their big boots out in front of him to rest on the coffee table. He looked over at Michael.

"Well, siddown already," he said.

Michael swallowed. He wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door, run to the elevator, tear through the lobby outside and catch a cab home – but – there was the slightest flicker, a beckoning within him, and he found himself walking towards Legs on hesitant, stumbling feet.

"That's right," said Legs soothingly. He patted the seat cushion of the easy chair beside him. "Put yer fuckin' feet up. Goin' to watch a telly special on inland China. Know anythin' about iodine?" He pronounced it eye-oh-deen, so it took Michael a moment to figure out what he meant.

"You mean the yellow stuff nurses put on your skin before they draw your blood?" He lowered himself cautiously down into the plush cushy chair. It enveloped and embraced him, inviting him to snuggle into its depths. He gave in and snuggled, though it was as yet only a little snuggle. He thought that maybe later, if he wasn't as scared, he'd snuggle a little more deeply; it was That Kind Of Chair.

"A bit. More the chemical in seafood. If a pregnant woman doesn't get enough of it the child is born retarded, and usually with severe birth defects. It'll even cause goiters in the adults. The poor folk in inland China don't get seafood, or even iodized salt, so it's a problem in some of the remoter villages. Almost a forty per cent idiocy rate."

Michael stared at him. He was watching the TV intently, eyes unfocused but intense, lost in some inner drama. The G-dropping, foul-mouthed, slangy lingo seemed to have fallen away and what was left was this sober sweet-lipped angel, compassion and concern softening the lines of his beautiful face, eyes sad and reflective. This sudden switch alarmed Michael even more than the motorcycle had, and he stiffened, but Legs, seeming to feel his fear, turned to him with a comforting smile.

"Not to worry, mate," he said soothingly, patting Michael on the knee. "Yer safe here."

"Was I not safe before?" demanded Michael. He was still afraid but he felt he deserved to ask that. Legs chuckled.

"Were yer?" He returned his gaze to the television and smiled wryly. "Maybe so. Maybe not. Hard to fuckin' say sometimes. Don't know bleedin' everything, after all. What d'yer take me for, a bloody prophet?" And for some reason he seemed to find this very humorous, chuckling about it long after Michael started watching the program on iodine deficiency.


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

Room Service brought up a tray of cheese and bread and fresh strawberries, and some light lager, which Legs and Michael devoured with relish; the cheese was tangy and crumbly and sharp, and the bread soft and white. They washed it down with a couple bottles of the lager and Michael began to relax a little. When the special on iodine was over Legs flipped channels until he found a soccer game, which he called "footie," and watched it with such violent enthusiasm Michael found himself laughing. Then they ordered lunch from Room Service – coconut soup, basil rolls, pad thai with shrimp and chicken, unbearably spicy green tofu curry that made Michael's eyes water, but was so delicious he couldn't stop eating – and watched an old Myrna Loy movie and drank strong white wine.

Hours passed, and Michael found himself, much to his own surprise, splayed across the floor on his stomach, pillows and blankets rolled and bunched around them, with Legs beside him, dealing the cards for another game of cribbage. Not finding anything else of interest on the television they'd switched to the stereo, debating the merits of swing over jazz and discussing Nat King Cole and Gene Krupa and Glen Miller and Al Di Meola. The longer Michael stayed with Legs the less uncomfortable he became – never achieving a state of comfort, certainly, for how could one be comfortable with someone like Legs? It'd be easier, Michael decided, to relax around a hungry komodo dragon, or a swarm of angry hornets. If you stayed very very still and didn't do anything to rock the boat you were probably fine – but you never Really Knew, and it was best not to try anything. Still, Legs was an intelligent and interesting conversationalist, obviously much better educated than Michael had originally thought – and mortifyingly enough far better educated than Michael himself – well-traveled, well-read, incisive and shrewd, overlaid with a veneer of disreputable arrogance that was almost a pastiche of itself. But now and again, just to shake things up a bit, there would come a flicker of something – a light, an understanding, a hesitant turn of the head – that made Michael think Legs wasn't quite paying one hundred percent attention to him, that he was listening to someone else, someone Michael couldn't hear.

Afternoon faded into evening, and cribbage was abandoned for the nightly news. Room service was called up again, this time delivering a tray of sushi, sashimi, and rolls that were almost too artistic to eat; Legs opened the bottle of warm saki and poured out a generous tumblerful for each of them.

"Cheers, mate," he said with a wink, clinking his porcelain cup against Michael's.

They were only dismantling their second knot of wasabi when the phone rang, making Michael jump a little; Legs unwound his long limbs and rose smoothly to his feet, walked over to the phone and picked it up.

"Yeah?" he said. He paused, listening, his mouth curving into an almost unpleasant smile. "Yeah?" he said again, unable to disguise a note of satisfaction. "Good. Thanks, mate." He hung up the phone and walked back to Michael, his smile sliding into a grin. He knelt back down and started clearing off a space to his right, setting up an extra plate and pair of chopsticks.

"Is someone coming?" asked Michael. He felt he ought to be more curious, but the light alcohol-induced haze had rubbed the edge off his caution.

"Yeah, about fuckin' time," said Legs, and dipped a piece of ebi in his wasabi-thickened soy sauce. He looked thoughtfully at Michael as he chewed. "All right then, mate?"

"Of course," said Michael in surprise. Why would he ask NOW? "Would I be sitting here eating sushi with you if I wasn't?"

"Dunno," grinned Legs, draining his saki. "If it was good enough you might."

Michael thought about this, then giggled. "You're right," he admitted, "I just might." He sat back and studied Legs, feeling sated and softened and almost comfortable. Legs sat cross-legged at the coffee table, long white fingers holding long white chopsticks. His profile was even, smooth, perfect; the fall of white-blonde hair settled in a smooth sleek wave over his shoulders. "Why am I here?" he blurted, hoping Legs wouldn't get angry.

But Legs was still grinning, though he had his head cocked to one side as though he were listening to something else. "Would yer believe it if I told yer I was tryin' to get to know yer better?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

Michael cocked his head, putting on his Cute Look. "I might," he said archly, fluttering his eyes. "But then I'd have to ask you WHY you wanted to get to know me better." The saki was burning in his blood and he felt suddenly bold.

Legs shook his head ruefully. "I'm not yer type, mate," he said, almost apologetically, and Michael giggled again.

"Why not?" he asked. "You're an Alpha Male. I like Alphas."

"Like Frances?"

Michael had almost forgotten Frances, and his heart sank. "Yes," he said. "Like Frances."

"Strong, domineering, bossy turkey-cocks."

Michael thought about it. Despite the crude terminology it was very applicable. "Yes," he said. He hesitated, thinking over some of the things he'd heard and seen yesterday at lunch. He speculated whether Legs and Frances had been lovers at some point, then decided if they had it was no wonder it hadn't worked out – two Alphas, trying to make it together? They'd do nothing but fight and struggle for control. Besides, there was no denying that Frances didn't like Legs one bit. Part of that might have been echoes of a fractured romance, but most likely it had to do with two Alphas with diametrically opposed personalities, butting heads over how to live their lives. Frances, controlled, cool, proper Frances, and this wild, potty-mouthed biker? Hard to imagine – yet why else would Legs have made such a thing about twitting Frances about the name of his wife? "What IS your wife's name, Legs?" he asked.

Legs' eyebrows climbed into his forehead. "Why d'yer wanna know?" he asked, pouring himself more saki. "Curious about two domineerin' people tryin' to work out how to shag each other and not commit fuckin' murder?"

Well, that clinched it. Forcing down the stab of jealousy Michael said, "Maybe."

Legs chuckled. "Ask Frances then," he said carelessly, selecting a slice of roll. Michael watched him dip it in the thick mealy soy sauce and put it in his mouth. He started to wonder whether he was ally lly going to be allowed out of the hotel room. What did Legs want with him, anyway?

"When will I see Frances again?" he asked.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Now," said Legs, getting up and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

How did he know? Michael thought perhaps he had left a note or something for Frances, or that when Frances came home from work and found Michael gone he'd automatically assume Mel wel was with Legs. The though made him a little nervous. Why would Frances assume that? What did he know about Legs that Michael did not?

Besides the topography of that long lean body, of course. And the taste of his mouth. Though Michael could probably guess what his mouth tasted like at that moment – soy sauce, horseradish, fish and rice. He sat up. Did he look okay? Frances always looked so perfect – even when he was rumpled and mussed from sleep, there was a chiseled flawlessness about him – Michael tried to straighten his hair and felt his heart sink. Legs was beautiful. How could he compete with that, wife or no wife?

Legs opened the door and stepped aside with a mocking bow. Frances stalked in, his face dark with fury. Michael could tell he was controlling himself only through sheer pig-headed effort, and felt his heart rate increase – Frances was frightening when he lost his temper; he hoped Legs and not he would be the receptacle of the Explosion when it came. "When," certainly not "if," because Frances was obviously far gone in rage already, though there was something else – fear? – lying behind those pale eyes.

He glared at Legs, who shut the door and leaned against it, smiling wickedly through his lashes at him. Frances spoke, but it was in a language Michael didn't recognize; he knew it wasn't Spanish or French – it sounded melodic and sibilant – one of the oriental languages perhaps? – and Legs answered him, lips curved up impishly. Frances sounded angry, but indignant too; Legs' voice was mocking and playful. They argued back and forth, but it was obvious to Michael even though he couldn't understand them that Frances was losing the dispute, and after a few minutes he dropped his eyes and was silent. Legs watched him carefully, lips twitching; then Frances said sullenly: "All right – where is he?"

"Right over there, fuckwit," said Legs, pointing at Michael. Michael realized he'd been obscured by the sofa and Frances hadn't even noticim dim during the argument. He got up on his knees and said hesitantly, "Hello, Frances."

He was mortally afraid Frances would be angry with him, would glare and shout and bang on the furniture with his fist like he did when he lost his temper, so he got to his feet anyway and stood, eyes fixed on the carpet, his hands folded behind his back; maybe his submissive posture would appease him. But Frances walked quickly over to him and embraced him roughly, pressing faceface into Michael's neck. Michael was surprised to find that Frances was trembling. He put his arms around Frances' neck and held him tightly, not sure what to say. He was aware of Legs moving back into the living area on soft catlike feet, silent and a little sinister.

"You scared me, darling," whispered Frances into Michael's ear before releasing him from his embrace. Michael blinked up at him; Frances' hands were on his shoulders, his fingers gripping him tightly, and the look on his face was one of profound relief. "I didn't know where you'd gone. I was afraid for you."

"Why?" asked Michael in surprise. "What did you think had happened? I might've been at the store or something."

Frances just shook his head, eyes shut tight. Whatever it was he had feared, he obviously wasn't going to share his thoughts with Michael. That was just as well, he thought; he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know what it was Frances was afraid could happen. After that odd strained afternoon in L.A. it could have been anything. Then with a lurch Michael remembered something.

"I didn't leave you a note," he said contritely. "I didn't even call and leave a message on the answering machine. I'm so sorry, Frances, I didn’t mean to scare you."

"You didn't have to leave a note. I knew where you'd gone." Frances released him and turned back to Legs, who was standing watching them, a sly smile on his pretty face. "Well?" he said a little defensively. "May I take him back now? Are you quite finished?"

"Naw, mate," smiled Legs. "He stays here."

Michael swallowed hard and looked at Frances, expecting him to argue. To his surprise Frances went pale and looked scared.

"Until when?" he asked.

"Until you're finished," said Legs evenly.

Frances' expression hardened. "I told Gimli and I'm telling you. I won't do it."

"Yes, you will." Legs walked easily back to the coffee table and knelt down, picked up his chopsticks and selected a piece of tuna. He dipped it in the sauce and put it in his mouth. Frances watched him chewing, his face growing a little desperate. Michael looked from one to the other, positive now which one was the more dominant of the two. Alpha or not, Frances had to submit. Michael could almost feel the pressure, the force emanating from the kneeling figure before them, the pale smooth face half-obscured by a sheet of fine gold hair. Legs flicked out a pink tongue to pick up a stray drop of soy sauce on his lip and Michael shuddered. He glanced at Frances, who was doing a passable imitation of a man in a Desperate Quandary.

"I can't," said Frances at last. His voice sounded very small, very unlike his usual incisive tone. Legs didn't look at him but smiled.

"You're the only one who can," he said simply.

"It's treason."

Then Legs looked up at him, blue eyes glinting dangerously. Michael could see his jaw clench, making the little dimple in his cheek disappear. All signs of beauty and serenity and sweetness vanished; he would have sworn he could hear Legs growl, and the room seemed to grow dark.

"I don't give a flying fuck if you think you're a fuckin' Yank or not. I've given you yer fuckin' marchin' orders, mate. Quit faffing about and do as I fuckin' say."

Frances flinched back, looking frightened. He retreated a few steps as Legs rose to his feet and approached him, all evidence of good humor erased. The backs of Frances' legs hit the armchair and he stopped, still trying to lean back away from Legs' resolute advance; the taller man went right up against Frances' body, leaning that long slim frame against him, arms rigid, face adamant. Frances closed his eyes and turned his face away, biting his lip. Michael wanted to jump between them, protect Frances, but he couldn't; it was as though his feet were nailed to the floor. He watched in horror as Legs lifted one white hand, grabbed Frances roughly by the jaw and forced his face back towards his own.

"Open yer eyes. Look at me."

Frances opened his eyes. They were glazed with tears, and Frances seemed to be struggling against something, struggling against Legs, even though he wasn't moving. Legs' neon-blue eyes seemed almost to glow with an intense light, and a feeling of heavy pressure settled on Michael's shoulders, making him want to sink to his knees and cover his head; there was a sound like a thick throbbing in his ears.

After a long horrible moment Frances whispered: "All right. I'll do it."

The feeling of pressure lifted, and the lights seemed to brighten; Michael took a deep breath, surprised to find he'd been holding it. Legs smiled, and his face softened; the fingers gripping Frances' face gentled, stroking his cheek soothingly, though Frances flinched back from his touch.

"Good boy," he whispered, and reaching his face up he kissed Frances tenderly on the forehead.