Dirty

"Nay, Aragorn, let me bathe first, I beg of you."

Aragorn pressed more closely to the battle-smirched Elf. He ran his hand tenderly over the wildly-tangled hair; he ignored smears of Orc blood as he loosed the laces on the usually pristine tunic; he laid his cheek with a sigh against the fair, dirt-smudged skin of neck and shoulder.

"It is not seemly," persisted Legolas, pulling Aragorn convulsively closer as if in denial of his own words.

Aragorn drew back and shook his head, still too stirred by the adrenaline of battle to bother trying to find pretty words; too shaken, as he was every time, by the nearness of death to have patience with Elvish sensibilities. He pulled Legolas' tunic carefully off, and pressed his lips to the nasty gash on Legolas' upper arm, still bleeding slightly. Yes it would heal, quickly and without scar - but he was vulnerable.

"Let me make myself fit for you," Legolas tried again, pressing his own lips to the Man's bent head.

"Fit for me?" Aragorn growled softly, seizing Legolas' face. "Learn this, my scruffy Elf. You have never been more beautiful."

And then Aragorn taught him just how beautiful he was.

finis