Perspective

Disclaimer: I don't own the Legion of Extraordinary Dancers

Summary: Legion of Extraordinary Dancers. Elliot takes a moment to reflect on the effects of drowning on dry land. Sp3cimen helps him pick up the pieces.

Spoilers: Takes place after 'Tails of War'

LxD fanfic

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There was something…oddly surreal about drowning when both feet were on dry land.

When the air was hot and desert-like, the ground firm beneath you, Elliot was surprised by the water pouring into his lungs, squeezing his chest painfully tight.

It wasn't fair, (life wasn't fair and he was educated enough to understand that but that didn't change the fact-) all they had wanted; their only desire had been for a night on the town. And maybe, hey, they would find a few girls of the cute variety that just happened to have a thing for geeky, awkward fellows (descriptions which they all depressingly fell into with great ease). They just wanted to cut back and dance for the sake of dancing as opposed to training for epic, end-of-the-world battles, and what did they get for their trouble?

They got pretty psycho killer ladies who were attracted to them, and by attracted to them Elliot meant they were attracted to their souls, and said females demonstrated this attraction by desperately trying to steal said souls, and have them, and hold them forever and ever and…

Why did the pretty ones always have to be crazy?

That was it, if Elliot survived this he was taking a break from ladies…and possibly all strangers, because cutting loose is not worth dying for.

Eventually they had been rescued, (rescued from the trap they had so pathetically waltzed into) and Sp3cimen and the dude who was their savior pulled them off of the ground, manhandling them back to the East Wing and reporting the sorry news of the transaction to Spex.

Had Elliot felt at ease here, he would no doubt be wallowing in shame for failing so drastically in what he supposed was their first run-in with Ox. Fortunately (or unfortunately, it varied depending on his mood), he was not gifted like Trevor or Copeland or Sp3cimen, his shoes did all the work for him, and it was difficult to assume responsibility when it was an undisputed fact that the footwear possessed the majority of control in their special relationship. Yes…Elliot should have acknowledged there was something suspicious about the fact that four straight up tens were settling for what were clearly sevens at best, but…come on, a guy could hope couldn't he?

Was that still allowed here, or was hope supposed to be left front door, along with the past?

They were quickly dismissed to lick their wounds once they were deemed fit for…living, Elliot guessed, and he made a hasty retreat to the room he and Sp3cimen shared. The towering man followed with his usual smooth, robotic glides, settling down on his bed with quiet grace, observing his surroundings (which mostly involved studying Elliot, something the shoe puppet had eventually become accustomed to).

Though often silent, Sp3cimen (or Spence, as Elliot had come to call him in his mind, Sp3cimen feeling far too…mechanical for his taste; he was all for recognizing the man's skills, but he was still human) was not the worst of company. He seemed to be able to communicate most of his thoughts, feelings, and beliefs through simple eye contact. Elliot, always one for a challenge, had dedicated his spare time to learning how to interpret him. He did most of the talking and gesturing during their conversations, and if Spence ever minded it, he never said so.

When he could discern an emotional response, Elliot would say the man looked amused. The other dancer would glance over the top of whatever he happened to be studying while Elliot reenacted a particularly extravagant stunt his shoes had pulled that day.

They had managed to work out a basic codependent relationship in this place. It was often easy to forget about the outside world with all the training that was going on, and after the sudden changes (Spence didn't even remember his past, but Elliot couldn't stop yearning of his) that had occurred, they…eased the transition, would be the best way to put it, for each other. Spence always had Elliot's back, and in turn, Elliot (whenever the shoes allowed) had Spence's.

Which was why this time, like all the other times that had preceded it, Spence waited for Elliot to start spilling the beans on what had transpired outside the club. Elliot's coping mechanism was talking (well…it was more like babbling, embarrassingly enough), finding the words to describe things always made everything feel so much…lighter, like he was unburdening himself. Spence was there to pick up the slack, unbiased and not judging, just…waiting.

Elliot met those eyes one time before turning back around to face his bed, jerking his head wildly towards their shared bathroom before ducking inside, locking the door behind him.

The lock clicked and then there was silence. No moving, no rustling, no objections just…continued silence. Elliot glared at the door for a moment as though it had committed some great offense and then turned his attention to his shoes, shining unapologetically bright in the low watt room light.

He shouldn't feel embarrassed or ashamed; he had nothing to feel that way for. This wasn't his fault, it could have happened to anybody. Anyone could have decided to go out tonight, it was perfectly reasonable to assume the Ox ladies would have gone after them just as easily as they had gone after Elliot. It was all equal opportunity as far as they were concerned, they just needed death. Prolonged, torturously slow death, taunting their victims as they danced deceptively beautiful maneuvers, flowing, popping, and weaving movements together so finely it should be a crime that they abused it so…

Elliot laughed a little to himself, folding his arms across his chest.

It was a crime, and he had almost paid for it with his incompetence.

He'd deluded himself with thinking he was improving in any kind of way, that he and the shoe's bond was strengthening. Elliot thought he had some semblance of control, that he could make a difference, but he was still as pathetic as he had been before he had gotten here, sporadically flailing and tumbling in ugly uncoordinated movements. When it came down to it, when his life really depended on it, neither he nor the shoes could were strong enough to take action.

It made him wonder what his purpose here was.

Growling, Elliot launched himself at his shoes, beginning to tug them off as quickly as his hands would allow, vowing he would never use them again.

Of course, the mythical footwear was of a differing opinion and somehow sensed his intentions, deciding at that moment to kick back into life, shuffling and twisting just out of his reach. Were there an outside observer, they would probably have decided that it was one of the most bizarre sights ever to be witnessed, a man wrestling with his shoes. Elliot snarled bloody murder, wishing that the footwear would just, for once do what he wanted. He was tired of it taking lead. He just wanted to liberated, free to make his own decision, get some time to just think and-

The floor tipped from under him, the shoes deciding to slide his feet forward so quickly he was unable to balance himself, and in painful slow motion Elliot windmilled backward, flailing until his side crashed painfully against the edge of the bathtub. He rebounded hard onto the floor; his shoes falling still as he rolled onto his back, clutching his chest.

The first thing he realized, when the stars had stopped shooting off behind his eyelids and his vision began to unblur, was that for the second time that day he was no longer capable of breathing.

Panic flooded in after that, causing Elliot to curl up quickly as he opened his mouth in a futile attempt to convince his lungs to work. There was nothing, nothing but pain, and he threw his arm out wildly, trying to reach for something, anything, he wasn't really thinking straight at this point. The only thing he managed to do was to slam his elbow against the toilet, which was about as useful as sniffing super glue at this point.

Before he could do anymore damage (not that he intended to make anymore unmeasured movements from now on) hands firmly gripped the sides of Elliot's arms. He peeked his eyes open, startled to find that they had been closed, to find Spence hovering in front of him, crouched down with a look of concern on his face.

He titled his head forward; eyes locked on Elliot's, and shook him lightly, careful to avoid jarring him.

"Breathe," he whispered, in that calm, steady tone he rarely used. Elliot nodded dumbly, panic dying down enough for him to realize that he had only knocked the wind out of himself. His breath came back gradually, at first shallow and quick, before turning into deeper, more normal breaths.

Spence stayed with him the whole time, arms never leaving his sides, until Elliot recovered and nodded to him, grateful.

With the alarm over Spence resumed his silence and withdrew his hold, leaving Elliot feeling strangely sad. He pushed aside his desire to ponder the why of this and distracted himself with watching Spence. He was studying Elliot's shoes with puzzled fascination, his eyebrows actually furrowed. Before Elliot got the chance to ask what was bothering him Spence reached forward and plucked at the edge of the shoes, pulling them off by their heels, one-by-one.

When the job was done and Elliot was completed liberated, the villain shoes discarded in a corner, so adverse to Spence's usual methodical way of doing things, Elliot could only blink at Sp3cimen slowly, shocked at how easily his roommate had known how to amend the situation.

He didn't get a chance to ask how, because Spence was helping him up and guiding him back into their room, so Elliot just settled for smiling and hoping Spence could read it in his eyes.

Even when he couldn't talk, Spence understood.

And that had to count for something.

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Endnotes:

Hi, all!

I just watched through seasons one and two was inspired to write this little ditty for my favorite character, Elliot.

To be clear, I don't think his dancing is ugly or ridiculously flaily, I think it's perfect just the way it is, it's just what the story came to me with.

…and Sp3cimen, I just couldn't do it guys. Like, it sounds cool, but I think they would come up with a nickname for him or something after awhile, and the '3' for 'e' thing, ugh, makes me cringe.

Spencer was the closest, so I went with that.

This could be considered pre-slash. Maybe…I don't know.

Until next time.