nearamir | for reignfall

for reignfall | modern au

Faramir has established himself pretty thoroughly, without entirely meaning to, as a regular here. It's the kind of place, after all, where a man like him can easily spend hours, either browsing the second-hand bookshelves or just sipping at a hot drink and watching the world go by. It's good, he's decided, to have places like that. Peaceful places, where people know you, and nobody asks anything of you besides good manners and a decent tip - both of which he is more than happy to provide.

Over the past few months, he's got into the habit of spending his Saturday afternoons at the coffee shop, settled into the nook by the window with a latte and a notebook, where he can either read whatever catches his eye, or scribble down poetry of his own. His therapist encourages this, but that isn't why he does it; he does it because he always has, because it puts his mind at ease, and because when his time is his own, he may as well indulge in softer interests.

And because nobody remains to push him towards manlier occupations. There's that, too. He has nothing to prove, because with his father gone, he has nobody to prove it to; and sometimes he doubts whether that's a good enough reason, but it isn't as though he can go back to the Army. The shrapnel lodged under his rib has seen to that. So he's free to grow out his hair, which is now well past his shoulders and a far cry from the regulation cut he had a couple of years ago; he's free to shift his focus from strategy to literature; and he's free to sit in coffee shops with a notebook of poetry and a fairtrade latte, if that's what he wants to do.

He has, however, been away for a couple of weeks. There's something rather gratifying in finding that his absence has been noticed - the barista exclaims when he comes in, says they were starting to worry; and his table is, thankfully, free. He settles back into his usual place, smiling a little, and reaches into his tote for his notebook and pen. It's nice to belong somewhere, after all.

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She is very beautiful, when she smiles that way. She is beautiful in any case, of course, but there is something in that smile, in the way it softens the jade-green of her eyes, that makes her look less like a stranger in a café, and more like his childhood imaginings of storybook maidens and goddesses. Which is, of course, unreasonable; and yet, what harm in indulging a moment's over-poetic imaginings?

She is not, in fact, far wrong in her assessment. He is not asked on dates every day, but nor is it entirely novel: many women do keep their distance, intimidated (not that he is aware of this) by the melancholy and distant air that hangs about him at times, but many others have not. Some women, some men. He has answered very few of either with more than a polite, gentle, but firm reassurance that he is not in a place for dating. A few times, in the year or two since his discharge from the service, he has accepted a date, and it has gone nowhere, and that has been all right, too.

But none of them had read his poetry, or seen him make sketches of them; and none of them had been quite as blunt in the question itself, after so long of him missing the cues.

He clears his throat again, and nods, setting the sodden napkin aside on the saucer and reaching for his pen. For a moment, he casts around for something to write on, then tears a small strip from the edge of a notebook page, conscientiously folding it first so that the tear is neat and straight. He scribbles down his number and name - Faramir Stewart, and then, as an afterthought (from Books'n'Beans) - and then holds it out. "In case you don't have your phone on you."

Cersei always has her phone on her – it would be potentially harmful to her social media presence if she did not, even though most of her posts are prepared in advance and queued as she requires them. Better safe than sorry, though, and there is no harm in being a touch candid here and there, even if a solid strategy bests casual postings. But paper is something she has come to associate with him for the most obvious reason, and it is... oddly pleasant, to hold that tangible slip of it with his number on it.

Even if there is a twinkle in her eye that speaks of barely suppressed laughter when she reads the note by his name. She smoothes her fingers against the paper, and then she cannot seem to contain that moment's teasing. "Do you reckon I would not know who you are, had you not specified where we met?"

He is, after all, terminally difficult to forget – or so she has found. She does pull out her phone, and she does type in his number, saving it at once in case the piece of paper is lost, and the text she sends him so he, too, can have her number. simply says Cersei Lannister, because she cannot presume he would not know.

The piece of paper, however, is carefully folded and slipped into her phone case. Just... for safekeeping.

Judging by the lack of any ringtone, he either does not have his phone on him, or he has it on silent. Still, he watches her with a little half-smile, and he is confident that when he returns home to where his own phone is charging in the living room, he will see what she has to say for herself then.

"I was always taught that it was best not to assume." It could almost be a joke - there is a hint of dry humour in his tone, although it is so subdued that it might equally be an illusion. "Although I admit, it isn't exactly a common name." An old family one, rather, a throwback to centuries past. For a man so opposed to history and poetry, Denethor Stewart nonetheless cleaved close to tradition.

He tucks his pen back into the spine of the notebook, reaching for his coffee again. "I'll look forwards to hearing from you, then."

Her eyebrow darts up, as though he has all but said that he considers her the sort to date with abandon, unable to keep track of the numbers she receives or the names she hears. It does confirm also that his name is no coincidence, that she is speaking to one of the the Stewarts, and there is something almost amusing about the fact that the man she has felt some sort of draw toward would be a lovely match indeed, by her father's standards, if there were not plans with the Baratheons in place.

"I'll look forward to our dinner. It has been a string of business obligations and classwork for me lately, it will be nice to go out and do something just for the pleasure of it." And that she uses the word pleasure is no coincidence. She brings her own cup to her mouth, and takes a warming sip of her coffee –

And if the way she licks that touch of cream from her lips may be a tad suggestive, she is ready to blame his imagination there. "Do you make the time often?"

Judging by the slight darkening of that lingering colour on his cheeks, it is not entirely lost on him. He can be blind to some things, certainly; but even so, he is not entirely oblivious. Certainly not now that he has finally cottoned on to her interest. He clears his throat, and looks down at his own coffee, biting the inside of his cheek.

Question. She asked him a question. Easier, then, to focus on that, and not on his embarrassment.

"I find I have very little but time, since I moved here." Since my father's passing, he almost says, but that feels inappropriate to the moment. "But if you mean, do I often go out for meals with beautiful young women from coffee shops? No. I do not." There is, perhaps, a hint of that same dry humour in his smile, although if so, it is certainly aimed at himself rather than anyone else. "I live a very boring life, I'm afraid."

There it is again, that self-depreciation which makes it so difficult to casually enjoy the darkening of his cheeks. It even overshadows the compliment he pays her, for how could he be truly indulging in her light-like beauty if he remains compelled to direct a dry sort of jest at himself in the moment?

"That might lie in the eye of the beholder." She looks at the notebook, now safely back with him, and takes another sip of her coffee as she ponders a response that does not seem too attached, or too eager to attach him to her, at any rate. "I know quite a few men," and she will not name Robert Baratheon, but this is just about the only context she can ever picture herself thinking of him, "who consider themselves so deeply interesting, while never making it an inch beneath the surface."

That brings a quirk of a smile to his face, a slightly rueful look. "I, too," he confides, "have known such men." In abundance, it must be said. He has disliked them, for the most part, immensely: the most valuable things to Faramir are honesty and nobility, and such men have neither.

It does occur to him that the woman in front of him also seems to consider herself quite interesting. On the other hand, he is not convinced in the slightest that she is wrong.

He follows her eyes down to the notebook, and his smile steadies a little. "Then I will let you be the judge of it," he decides - after all, what else is there to do, under the circumstances? "I meant only that I am not a very sociable kind of man. My brother used to tell me that I was too much buried in the lives and words of others to open my eyes to what my own life was doing. At times, I suspect he was right."

Used to, was. Words that make her fingers itch to reach for her phone, so that she can text, if not call, her own brother, her living, breathing brother, who need not be spoken of in the past tense. If she had to name one fear, and if she were forced at gunpoint to be honest about it, this would be it: to be torn neatly in half by death itself. That she has another brother, one whom she would not mourn much if she was paid to do so, and one she would gladly trade for the other if the option presented itself – she doesn't consider that.

Her smile, at least, reflects that she understood the loss implied, though for all her intrusion, this seems to be a line she is yet unwilling to cross into without permission. "I thought you were more mindful of my studying than unwilling to socialise. Or yes, perhaps absorbed in your writing." Another sip of coffee, more pensive this time. "I like that. I did not feel as if I needed to entertain you for the sake of your company."

"I should hope that I do not demand that of anyone." He smiles a little, more softly, and wraps both hands around his mug so that the heat of it almost scalds his fingers.

It is still a strange thing, to think of Boromir in the past tense; it is a strange and tugging sorrow to have it so clearly recognised when he does. Grief is an odd beast, that hides itself away only to come out at the most inopportune moments. Knowing that Boromir died well, and as he would have wished, does not take the ache from his absence - and yet, it is not as sharp as it was a year ago, and there is a different kind of ache in that, in realising that his brother fades ever more readily into someone that was and did and is no longer.

Her smile is, perhaps, the most genuinely sympathetic he has seen from her, and there is something strange in that, too. There is an understanding there, and a fear which he hopes is never realised for her; not knowing anything about her, still he can guess what it signifies: that she has a sibling of her own to put, in her mind's eye, into Boromir's place. There is, despite the immense differences between them, a strange solidarity in that.

But she does not pry, and he is grateful for that; and so he does not pry, either, but considers her over the top of his cup, running one thumb idly against the rim. "Do many people demand such entertainment from you?"

Is it a compliment, that he expects no more of her than of any other woman he speaks to – or an insult? She demands special treatment, praise, acknowledgement for her skill, her beauty, and a genius. Yet that he does not treat her with a difference implies, also, that he has no ulterior motive towards her, that he does not seek to wrap her around his little thing – excuse her, finger – that he seeks to know her, in truth. The tip of her finger trails the curve of the mug's handle. What is it about him (save for the obvious, the handsomeness, the intelligent voice he gives to his thoughts) that draws her to think about such things at all?

He lets the topic of his brother rest, and she is unsure, too, of the strange urge to ask of his pain. Cersei is rarely one to invest in another to such extend, her twin being an exception on her better days, and that is because he does not qualify as another. Yet this might not be the setting to pry, the gods know she would not wish to be asked here.

Before she can come to a conclusive decision, it is him who moves them past the grave, and the cock of her head is half-bemused, half musing onto its own. "It comes with the family name, the station, the money, and the expectations. My father had a son to carry on the bloodline and a daughter to smile, play the piano, and laugh at the perverted jokes of old men." Not that she is bitter. "There are worse things, but if that was my Friday night, I distinctly prefer my Saturdays."

The with you goes unspoken. She has some dignity left.

He can hear the bitterness in her voice, but in fairness, he can understand it, too. Who would not be bitter, to feel so restricted in their purpose? Has he not, in his heart, been just as bitter towards his own father, who never failed to make his preference known? At least what was expected of him, what he was for, was not so far different from his brother.

Though he is not sure that made it better. Worse, in some ways, for there was always a measure for all that he was not; there was always a better man, who he could not exceed, and whom he did not wish to exceed, for Boromir's victories were as dear to him as any of his own. Still, though, he can sympathise with that sense of being the second, the set-dressing - and the station, and the money, and the expectations. They have more in common, perhaps, than he had thought.

"There are worse things," he says at last, with a sympathetic sort of half-smile, "but there are many better. I am sorry that you must be so assailed." He settles his coffee down, resting his elbows on the table. "...Who is he? Your father?" He is realising, belatedly, that he still does not know her full name.

She, too, is realising the self-same thing: oh, he has received a text to a phone that does not seem to be present anywhere near his table, featuring her full name and number (and a choice emoji), but not once had she given him more than her first name. Frankly, that tends to be enough in most situations, her reputation precedes her, and it haunts her, and it lets the world know what it must deal with it. Rarely is she a blank page for someone else, and now that the truth of it has struck her, she halfway wishes she could lie.

Too late for that now, at least not if she could live with the truth being revealed in the next few hours.

"Tywin Lannister." The Tywin Lannister, who had all but overtaken his company out from under his own father's behind. While Tytos was breeding lions in his private zoo and entertaining one mistress after the other, his son kept the business running and thriving. Until that episode with the Reynes and Tarbecks, and those persistent rumours that the fire to the Castamere manor might have been an intentional thing ––

Ah well.

"If you are one of the Stewarts, it is half a miracle we met voluntarily." Well, she had certainly volunteered his unoccupied chairs. "And I am glad for it."

His eyebrows raise a little, in restrained surprise. Half a miracle, indeed: he has not often thought on such company, and it had not occurred to him to make the connection between a girl in his favourite coffee shop and the distant idea of Tywin Lannister's daughter.

What he thinks, but does not say, is that the thought is a somewhat unpleasant one; Lannister is not a name much esteemed in his experience, since for all his flaws, Denethor Stewart was always a man who respected at least the appearance of honourable dealings. Dealing with the Lannisters was a matter of polite necessity, and of moving in some of the same circles; being well-mannered when necessity called for it did not prevent the worst gossip from finding its way back to the Stewart home. Including, now that he thinks of it, some that may have been about Cersei herself - and he is, in this moment, very glad that he did not listen too closely to it.

"Only half a miracle," he decides at last, with a little half-smile, "for one of the things that Father and I agreed most upon was that it was better that I leave to Boromir the kinds of engagements where we might have met. As I said, I am not so very sociable."

The brother who had passed away now suddenly had a name, and with the name, he had a face, too. She recalls him distinctly now, more so from when she was younger, when he had known to command a room with his jovial nature and strong bearing. Jaime had admired him somewhat, she is half-certain that crooked idea of entering the military had at least in part to do with becoming a man of comparable strength. He liked the idea of honour, of doing the right thing, defending others - mostly her. In her memory, Boromir is less off-puttingly gregarious than Robert, and distinctly less handsome than Faramir – still, to know that it is him who has died leaves her feeling.

Simply... feeling.

It doesn't occur to her that even a single rumour about her family could have reached Faramir, and if it did, she pretends it cannot matter. Siblings were meant to be close, and what jealous tongues have to theorise there is nothing a man with a mind like his would concern himself with. Granted, self-defence was an odd thing to plead when Aerys Targaryen had been stabbed in the back, but her brother was ultimately acquitted, even if his military dreams had come to an equally swift end. The Lannisters paid their debts and honoured their promises, however bloody, and she takes pride in the reputation –– even in the sort that brands her a truly heinous bitch.

Tyrion's words, not hers.

"My brother admired him a great deal. He would not say it like that, but I know it for a truth." What prompts her to tell such a truth, she does not know, but she distinctly loathes the idea that it has to do with the way she cannot tear her eyes from his. It is like following some forest path –

Good gods, what is happening to her?

"It is strange. I find you very sociable."

The lump in his throat is another thing that has become familiar. It came upon him often in these past few days, when the ceremony he attended once more brought him into contact with those who had known his brother; the grief is less raw, but the sense of injustice is not. He has never said it so bluntly as his father did, but in his heart he knows, too, that Boromir's loss was a grave and sorry one for all; in his heart, he knows that it should have been he who fell.

"Your brother was not alone in that." His eyes fall from hers first, turning downwards to his hands where they wrap around his coffee cup. "Boromir was a man much admired, and perhaps I am biased, but I would say that it was well-deserved." The smile that touches his lips is a melancholy one, but fond, too. He was one of those who admired Boromir, after all - an admiration not tempered, but rather heightened, by the knowledge of his elder brother's flaws and foibles. Now that his name is in the air, Faramir cannot help but think again of how Boromir might take this meeting: with what teasing and fond delight he might answer the news of his little brother's flirtations, and how he would laugh, and say that it had come later than anyone should have guessed.

He closes his eyes, and clears his throat, settling himself before he looks back up at Cersei. There is something almost apologetic in his smile. "Sociable may not be the word I meant. This is a different kind of thing, speaking to you this way. But parties and such affairs have always been more of a trial than a pleasure. Hence my lack of enthusiasm about this last weekend."

"I am sorry. I know those platitude do little to help with the loss. When I was little, I kicked a septon in the shin for the umpteenth assurance of how terrible it all was." She takes a careful sip of her coffee, and she realises quick enough that she might need to get herself another cup at this rate. Would it be too bold too quick, too open about any further intentions, if she ordered each of them one of those cinnamon rolls?

His smile is so apologetic that she wishes to wipe it away with something sweet.

She loves those parties, and she hates them, and she loves to hate them. She likes the admiring stares she catches, and the jealous ones, but she hates the conversations, the vast emptiness of the crowded rooms. That feeling seems directly related to the way she had enjoyed his company here, and how grave his absence had felt, even if they had never spoken much before this day. "You don't like the expectations of them? I always know that if someone is particularly thrilled to show up at one of them, I won't like a single word from his mouth. There is something so self-aggrandising about it at times." And she is only person worthy of such admiration, anyway. It is not aggrandising when she does it. "What did you do last week?"

He can likely tell that she is on the verge of counting two and two together, her mind picking through scrambles of news that she had heard rumours about in passing.

The mention of kicking septons does, for a moment, bring a less apologetic, more amused smile to his face. It is not, of course, something he would ever have done, or even considered - least of all as a child, when he did not have the courage or the certainty that adulthood has brought in certain matters - but it is oddly charming to think of, and he cannot help but sympathise. She is right: platitudes do little. When he was little, they only grieved him more. Now he is a man, he can see how they are meant, and be touched by them, but still, they do not bring back what is lost.

"There was a ceremony I had to attend." He is not embarrassed by it, precisely. It is only that it seems... unimportant, in the light of everything. He did not ask for a medal or a commendation, and it will no more bring back what has been lost than platitudes will, for it is only another form of the same. It had been in some ways pleasant, to see old comrades; in other ways, it had been a painful reminder of those who were not there. And it had felt, above all, too late. It might have had value, if his father had been there. If his father were not ashes scattered in the wind, a thousand miles away. "Military honours. A commendation in my name, and my lieutenant's promotion to my old post." He does smile at that, sipping his coffee. "I will say that he very much deserved it."

Truth be told, her methods these days would be different, too, and perhaps she has learned to nod at empty words and take them for what they are while swallowing her fury. Yet then, she had been a child, and there had been little else where she could have directed her confused, grief-fuelled rage, and the septon might not have been the first to offer hollow, comforting words, and gods be damned, he was not the last – but he was there in that wrong moment.

"Then you must have deserved yours too." He must be the most humble person she has ever met, and in some ways, it absolutely overwhelms her. She can cope just well with men who believe they have accomplished feats of world-wide relevance when they turned on their computers in the mid-morning to make some vaguely ill-informed investment choice. She does not know how to cope with a man who wins military honours and acts as if his friend's promotion was the weightier deal.

The war, for her, has been something that happened to other people, far away. It had only breathed coldly down her neck once, when her brother had decided to join the military, but there had been no more than basic training before the Incident that saw him discharged, and then she didn't have to fear that distant war again. Some of the men who fell were men she vaguely knew, more in passing than anything else – Boromir, for one. The old Stark and his eldest son. Rhaegar Targaryen, of course, but knowing had been quite the relative term there, too. And now there is Faramir, who returned whole enough, and commended. "I am glad you came back."

Perhaps she does simply mean the café.

He almost answers; almost tells her what is on his mind: that it does not matter whether he deserved it or not, because the thing itself does not matter. He wants to explain that it isn't a matter of deserving, that he knows what he did, and that both the cost and the reward of it are a year in the past. He wants to say aloud that it is more important to have seen Beregond promoted, to have seen Beregond live to be promoted, than any commendation pinned to a uniform that he no longer wears. He has never sought glory for its own sake, and what is the value of a medal and words in a book, against the respect of good men?

But he says none of that, because experience tells him that it only opens the way for a longer conversation and deeper misunderstanding; because she seems to have decided that it is modesty that drives him to brush it aside, and because he does not need to convince her. He does not want to sit overlong, either, with the question of who deserves what. Deserve is a Pandora's box that, once opened, cannot be closed.

He just smiles faintly, and meets her eyes again for a moment. "As am I. There is a great deal I would have missed out on, if I had not come back."

And, at least for the moment, he does mean the café.

"Demanding your attention today was a good choice." There is a hint of pride in her voice, as if she succeeded in something she had dwelled on for quite some time, and even she might have to admit – if only to herself – that this was the case. That she had wanted his attention, and had not received it in the way she normally might, which had only made her want it more.

And now that she has it, she is unwilling to let it go.

The coffee-concoction she has chosen is sweet on her tongue, though she supposed it would be sweeter if he kissed her in some darkened corner. That she must wait at least until after their date to show him to her bedroom seems almost torturous. "Truth be told, I spent a good few months wondering if you had a partner of sorts."

He cannot help but laugh at that, a low chuckle that seems to dispel some of the tension in him. It is a lighter topic, and a more comfortable one, than that of deserving and weighty commendation.

"I would not have been offended, you know, if you had asked." Surprised, perhaps. He still is a little surprised - for while he is aware that he is not ugly or particularly loathsome to women, he rarely gives much thought to them being interested in him, and she is young and beautiful and no doubt has better options available - but that is not at all an unpleasant thing. He does not think he would have minded, if she had approached him earlier.

But he might not have been so inclined to answer her, if she had. There is something about the fact that she noticed his absence and commented on it, something in how this conversation has gone, that casts her in a slightly different light.

"For what it's worth, the answer would have been no, whenever you asked. It has been a year or more since I went on a date."

"Then I had better make it a good one." Her smile is soft and enticing, but in her mind, there is a neon sign that flashes and screams Has This Man Not Had Sex In Over A Year. This is not the sort of thing that happens in her world, she is greedy for the little pleasures, no matter how badly she takes them, or how ill-advised they are. There are politics attached to her dates, usually, which is why they rarely lead to anything, much less something fun, and in some ways, now that she knows who he is, this should feel the same.

It does not.

Which is strange.

"I really thought I missed my chance."

Her smile is a gentle one, he thinks: warm and inviting, and with an intensity in her eyes that is at once appealing and a little startling. He smiles in answer, shaking his head. It is a strange thought, that she would have been worried in the slightest about missing her chance - a strange thought that anyone could think that of him. And yet, why would it be strange for her to think it? She knows little enough about him, sees him rarely enough, that there is no reason she would know the kind of man he is; nor to know the kind of man that, despite his father's aspirations, he is not.

"You have missed nothing," he reassures her, in lieu of anything better to say. "Though I am glad that the chance was taken. I would not have dared ask." Not when she is so much younger than he is, and so much untouched by the things that haunt him; not when she is so casual an acquaintance, and one he knows so little about.

"I just saw the sort of words you write with your own hands. I missed a great deal." Or rather, she could only guess at it, but her wishful guessing had been terribly close to reality.

Her cup is near finished, and she wonders now if she should do as he did and order another, or rather, if she ought to wait until he, too, is done, so that she might twist their talk into further steps. The gods know she would go on something as ordinary and, usually, boring as a walk to spend just a tad more time with him.

This is not brought on by some ridiculous and sappy feeling, of course: she just believes that more time spent is what she needs to see an opening to grab him by the collar to kiss him. "There's an exhibition at the art gallery," and she could not tell by which artist it is, or what is being displayed, not even if her life depended on it. "If you're not too busy after this?"

"You missed nothing that cannot be recovered, then," he corrects himself, and there is in his voice a hint of laughter. He is not a man much touched by flattery, and yet he does feel its effect - does find himself strangely charmed by her flirtations, and by the impulse behind them. It has a lightness to it which he is unaccustomed to, and which, in truth, he has sorely needed; and she has in her approach a confidence that is more winning than anything she could actually say or do with it.

He reaches for his notebook - he will not, after all, be writing any more - and draws it towards him, shaking his head with a smile.

"I am not busy at all." That is the truth: there is a reason he comes here on Saturdays, and it is that he has no other commitments between now and the morning. "And, with that in mind, how could I refuse so kind an invitation?"

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