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TITLE: Networking
AUTHOR: Trianne
ORIGINAL STORY: Net Metaphors by Blackkoda
ORIGINAL STORY: Net Metaphors by Blackkoda
PAIRING Dominic Monaghan/Elijah Wood
SUMMARY: Elijah moves in the world to which he is accustomed and one which is still new to Dominic.
DISCLAIMER: I do not know these people. No money is made nor offence intended. This is a rewritten fic in response to the LOTRIPS Remix Challenge.


Elijah is networking, walking the floor, rubbing shoulders with the money and the people who oil the wheels, keeping it sweet. Or at least he is to a certain extent. Enough to keep his representation happy but not so much that it becomes unbearable. If he reached the point where schmoozing the suits became the bigger part of what he did, he wouldn't do it. But this is just networking and he's good at it, so he shakes hands and smiles and a tiny bit of himself flakes off to go floating into the atmosphere, tiny flecks of Elijah lost forever, but he has plenty more where those came from. And the silver lining to this cloud? He gets to meet his friends and make new ones, and he gets to share it all with Dom.

Dom, when last he looked, had been deep in conversation with a waiter; Elijah had caught a snippet of the conversation and knew the guy was a Brit, though he couldn't place the accent with any certainty as to the exact locality. Elijah, however, liked that he could even make the attempt. It made him feel virtuous and cosmopolitan. But Dom has disappeared, it seems, and Elijah feels the tiniest pang of something that could be either dyspepsia or jealousy. Or maybe it's phantom appendix syndrome; much as an amputee can feel the missing limb…

"How's New York?" he hears and turns around with an off-the-peg smile. He shakes the guy's hand, remembers that the last time he saw those particular hazel eyes he had maybe perhaps been blown by him in the back of a limo a while (a lifetime) back… They talk a little, Elijah avoiding going into the details of why his move to NY hadn't worked out. He finishes off a beer and moves with practised ease to circumvent any physical reconnection with this guy, who seems bent on slipping a card bearing his number into Elijah's jacket pocket. Elijah has no intention of using that number, no desire to see this man again; if he remembers rightly, the sex was shit: the guy might be a fucking fantastic drummer but he has no natural rhythm to speak of. Besides, Elijah has Dom now. Dom. Where the hell is he, anyway?

Elijah makes his apologies to needy drummerguy, who is standing there, open mouthed like a hooked trout, and he heads into the next room where the music is different and the guests are grazing. He isn't hungry. Not for food. He collars a passing waiter and grabs a glass from the tray, not caring what it contains so long as it's alcoholic. As an afterthought, Elijah retrieves the trout's card from his pocket and slides it under a full glass of bubbly, watches it disappear with the waiter to a destiny out of his knowing. He scans the room once and then turns to go. He's had enough of networking and caressing egos and being good. He wants to pull in his net and stop working and go home. With Dom.

Something makes him turn one more time and there he is. Chameleon-like emerging from the crowd, Dom. He's looking straight at Elijah, hands in pockets, eyes bright. Elijah remembers that film, "Westside Story" and the scene where Maria and Tony first see each other and everyone else on the dance floor ceases to exist, reduced to mere static shadows. But this isn't like that, thank God.

Dom has a look in his eye that Elijah has learned. Elijah has tried to fathom out why Dom gets this look, but has failed. It's as if Dom inhabits another universe, a skewed one at that, where a different Elijah moves around: a brighter, sparklier Elijah… Here, in the remixed version of that universe, Elijah feels not so much bright and sparkly as faded and jaded. He's had enough of networking. He's been good. Time to claim his reward.

Dom's suit is made of shiny fabric which slips beneath Elijah's sliding, gliding, fingers. Dom's eyes are made of shiny greyblue particles that seem to be careening all over the place…

"You disappeared," Elijah says, softly, and the swish of the fabric beneath his fingers seems to be sighing. He thinks perhaps maybe there's a chance he's a little pissed, though when he's networking he's usually careful. Dom doesn't seem to mind that his slippyshiny suit is being mauled - it will recover.

"Home," he says, and his voice has that pitch that makes Elijah suddenly twitch.

So, home then.

* * *

"Oh, kinky," Elijah grins. He's on the bed, naked of course. And he is in some ways exactly like a course - the main course of a meal to be savoured, tasted, sampled - devoured. He likes that he's exposed and that his hands are disabled by the cuffs about his wrists. If his hands were free, Elijah might feel constrained to act, to be responsible for what follows; as it is, the responsibility is Dom's alone. It's a relief to give it away, to let someone else take control. No more networking. No more working, period. It can just - be.

He closes his eyes for a moment and lets the rough rasp of Dom's tongue, as it flicks across a nipple, be its own beginning, middle and end. Too much emphasis is placed on analysis, Elijah reflects, ironically; too much time spent working out the whys and wherefores, when all that is needed is Dom's tongue. Dom's Tongue should be cast in bronze and erected in a square somewhere…

Dom's Tongue is everywhere, it seems. Elijah moans a little, twisting against the restraints, lifting up of the bed as if Dom's Tongue is magnetic and Elijah consists of iron filings.

Elijah opens his eyes and sees Dom looking down at him. He feels utter joy, indescribable joy, that he is with this man, Dom of the perfect rhythm, Dom who knows him so well, who cares enough to make love to him as if it's the first time - and it is. The first time. The first time tonight. The latest in a long line of First Times. And the best thing about these First Times is that with each one it gets better, smoother, sweeter, harder, gentler, slower, fuller, better…

Elijah wraps his legs around Dom, pulls him in, reels him in like Dom is a fish on a hook, only Dom is not floundering, not floundering at all. He is encircled by Elijah's strong thighs and he pumps with perfect, natural, enviable rhythm. Elijah rails against the cuffs now, desperate to caress. His fingers flex in nothing but air; above him, below him, inside him, Dom is at work, bringing him pleasure, bringing him to fulfilment, bringing him to life.

Since he was a kid, Elijah has walked the walk. He has done what needed to be done. Networked. Consummate pro, that Wood kid. Well, now the kid is all grown up.

Elijah knows that Dom has climaxed inside him because his face has a strained, mottled flush which accentuates those drizzly bluegrey eyes… Elijah's knees are bent quite painfully upon his chest. He's starting to ache now that Dom's dead weight is fully on him. Fuck. But Dom's senses are returning and Elijah is relieved because he still has a throbbing, glorious, needy, hard-on that requires urgent attention. Dom smiles, kisses him on the mouth, sweetly, then upon Elijah's shaft, hungrily, once, twice, thrice… It's sufficient.

* * *

Elijah is awake. Dom is in his arms. Dawn is breaking in the way that dawn will, rosy and inevitable. Elijah has awoken from a dream in which he was eleven years old and on some movie set. He has good memories of his career, no cobwebs strung across the attic of his childhood to snag him in later life… Yet. He listens to Dom snuffling in his sleep. He tightens his grip upon Dom's waist, kisses the top of Dom's warm head, and he is grateful.

He has Dom.

Or does Dom have him?

He's drifting off again, snug against Dom's body.

He's caught. Netted.

Freedom is overrated…

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