Elijah looks like an angel.
That’s everyone’s first impression of him, and you were no exception. The porcelain skin, the cherubic lips, those oh-so-fucking-blue eyes. Looking back, you should have looked for the Surgeon General’s warning: May Be Bad For Your Heterosexuality.
Even his physical quirks seem angelic.
The fact that his nails are bitten down to the bone makes him seem vulnerable somehow; you just want to say, “here, bite my nails instead.” His hair sticks out in every direction, even when it’s not from bedhead, and you think that he could quite possibly be more adorable than humanly possible, maybe even more so than your daughter.
But Elijah isn’t an angel.
He smokes like a chimney, and loves to drink until he hiccups, even though he’s just turned eighteen. When he trips over his hobbit feet, words fly from his mouth that would make Madonna blush. Sometimes even Orli thinks Elijah can be over-the-top with the flirting and the innuendo.
So you became his guardian angel.
At first, you convinced yourself it was for the good of the film. Sam looks after his Mr. Frodo, so you should look after Elijah, right? At parties, you’d water down his drinks a bit, and at clubs, you’d keep him from doing the bump and grind with every single person in sight. You constantly hid his cigarettes and made sure he ate three meals a day.
You smoothed over messes with angelic grace.
At first it would be when he locked his keys in his apartment day after day, but then it got more complicated. When Elijah pissed off Pete by showing up with an obvious hangover to shoot the cave troll battle, you convinced the irate director that it was just a migraine. When he offered a local girl money to spend the night, you quickly intervened, claiming it was a dare that shouldn’t be taken seriously. When he gave a lapdance to Bean at a birthday party, you apologized for allowing him to drink, even though there was no alcohol on his breath. He just grinned unrepentantly, bragging to you about the fact that he had managed to fluster Bean.
You didn’t feel angelic when you wished you had been Bean.
In fact, you felt less and less like an angel with each passing day. So one night, when he looked at you and said how much he wished you weren’t married, the crossroads had arrived. He asked for one kiss, just one. Even though you knew you were being manipulated right into it, you agreed. One kiss turned into two, then three, then seventeen, and now you lie on the couch, clothes strewn around the room. Two of his slender fingers stroke the shoulder blade on your bare back. Right where your wings used to be.
You are now a fallen angel.
