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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There is, it seems to him, a whole world in that smile; of mischief, and joy, and a promise so intense as to be almost a threat. It touches her eyes like summer sunlight on fresh leaves, and changes something in her face, makes her beauty intense beyond measure. It is not even her words, then, that bring the colour to his cheeks: that smile alone might be more than enough.

"Then," he finds himself saying, "may morning take its time in coming. For I am in no hurry to see this night end." And he finds, too, that his hand has reached out of its own volition, covering hers; that his grey eyes will not be dissuaded from meeting the sparkling emerald of her gaze; and that he, too, is smiling, almost without knowing it. The thought comes to him that this is strange, that it is like some enchantment has fallen upon him; behind that thought, his father's voice, strident in scorn at such silliness and boyish romanticism.

His father is dead. It grieves him to know it, but it must be remembered, too. His father is dead, and if there was ever a time when enchantment may be allowable, surely it must be now.

His gaze holds a private promise of a joy more delectable than anything they have shared between them in this restaurant. It is with a force that she must remind herself that it will not be as she pictures it now. Of course it is easy to think she'll take him to her bed and find mutual pleasure, or that his gentleness and tender interest will hold after she has given him what he wants. It could be an act that she is falling for. There is pang deep in her chest when even she must admit to herself that a part of her sincerely yearns to believe him, and to follow him down this doomed path with no concerns and no ulterior motives of her own.

"Then let us get out of here." They are very near finished, and there is nothing to be found at this table that cannot, in some capacity, be ordered to her own home. Most of all, she is tired of her own thinking, and eager to free her mind of this burden by proving herself right. They will have sex; after this, she will no longer be so enthralled with him. It takes a lot to add any conviction to this idea when there is his hand on her own, when the grey of his eyes is neither storm nor callous sea, but something mountainous and sturdy. When has she begun to crave someone so reliable, or turned daft enough to believe such steadiness can be found at all?

Her eager suggestion to leave means she must reach for her purse, and she does so with her left hand, for her right must hold onto his. It is warm, his hand, as warm as that look in his eyes, a thought that cannot be finished until she dwells on the idea of his kiss.

There, again, is that forwardness, confidence that verges on the strident: it is at once foreign to his experience, and oddly attractive. He is a follower, perhaps, but he has also spent much of his life in leading, in taking responsibility for the wellbeing of others; there is a strange thrill in the thought that he might choose to let her lead, instead. She seems to know what she wants, where he is often foundering. The fact that what she seems to want is him... that is an intoxication, too, well beyond the wine he now drains and sets aside as she reaches for her purse. He is not entirely unused to being wanted, but he is unused to giving himself the permission to let it happen.

He, too, finds himself unwilling to loose her hand, and it is a little clumsily that he reaches left-handed into his jacket to find his wallet, fumbling out enough money to cover the bill and a good-sized tip, and tucking it under his empty glass. There is a haste in the movement, an eagerness in how he stands and readies himself to go, that is unlike him; it seems to him that she has robbed him of his caution, and it seems to him, too, that he cannot mourn its passing. Her enthusiasm is catching, and it sweeps aside any doubt that might linger if he allowed himself to dwell on the situation.

"If you wait here," he suggests, "I can go and find our coats."

"I'll call us a cab." Which is an interesting way to say that Tywin Lannister has staff for this sort of thing, and she has never, in fact, taken a car driven by a complete stranger. Her own would need to be picked up the next day, come to think of it – while she is by no means drunk, she has already discovered that the police does tend to be quite touchy about their testing. Either way, neither seems ideal in this moment: she does not want to suggest risking a DUI, since he seems opposed to that sort of thing, and something about the way he doesn't have someone bring their coats to them suggests he would find the employing of a driver a bit... much.

She watches him leave for their coats, and her eyes do linger on all that she means to claim on this night, so it is with a content, cat-like smile that she finishes her own wine. Upon his return, she stands, still smiling her slightly predatory smile. "If I could trouble you for your aid?"

Not that she could not put on her coat by herself again, or that she would not normally prefer to do so – but she is looking for any excuse to be touched by him at this point.

There is something in that smile, as there is in her whole attitude, which speaks of something quite foreign to him: of something bordering on the dangerous, or at least the scandalous, and yet something enticing in its wildness. He has always preferred wild things.

He does not need encouragement to touch her, if he is honest, only permission; permission which she grants in her request, and he is more than happy to comply, tucking his own coat over his arm so that he can help her into hers. And if, perhaps, he lingers in the task - if it is not strictly necessary that he sweep her hair back to free it from the coat's collar, his fingertips brushing the side of her neck, or that he stand quite so close to her, catching the scent of expensive perfume - then it is no more than he can justify with politeness, and it is not unchaste.

When he steps back, it is with a smile, and he proffers his hand. "Shall we?"

A shiver of a promising pleasure runs down her spine at his touch, and there is just the slightest hint of her breath catching at the feeling of his fingertips against the bare, sensitive skin of her neck. He steps back, and she is quite glad to be offered his hand, for she does not seem to have much of an interest in any sort of distance between them.

"The car should be here any minute. Unless you fancy a moonlit walk." They are not terribly far from her home, and while she prefers the indulgence of a driver, and believes to have left all notions of love behind in some childhood diary. Except it is difficult not to picture a kiss with the river for a backdrop, and she finds it difficult to judge how skilled he would be at ignoring the presence of a driver, all things considered.

The suggestion is underlined by a playful smile, and a reach for a lock of his own hair, which has freed itself only long enough so she can tuck it behind his ear.

He is, for a moment, struck by indecision - which is not much alleviated by that gentle brush of her fingers against his ear, the startling intimacy of the gesture and the warmth of her skin against his. And that is the word that strikes him: intimacy. It feels somehow more intimate to walk than to take a car, even if they are going to the same (undoubtedly intimate) place; it feels at once inappropriate and tempting.

He thinks, then, of what she said only a few minutes before: You strike me as the sort of person who may out of habit deny himself such pleasures. Her hand is warm in his, and her smile is sweet, and there is a question hiding in the shadows of his mind. Is it, after all, only habit?

"I am rarely averse to a moonlit walk," he admits, and smiles back, resisting the absurd urge to reach up and touch where her hand so briefly lingered. "Least of all so when the company is so pleasant. But I would not wish to inconvenience you, either."

"There is something I should at least mention, before I bring you home. And the night is mild in spite of the season – why waste it in some boring car?"

There is, in fact, more than one thing she should mention. There is Robert Baratheon, for one, ever looming, massive as her loathing for him. There are her father's expectations, there are her own wants for her future, and her duties, and the ways she has strayed and stayed true at once. None of this she wants to think of in his presence, when she is tasting the rich taste of happiness.

She leads the way by taking his hand, and guiding him along the river's promenade. Much as she misses the sea, the vastness of these waters please her just the same, and it is a sight like this, with a distant boat or two glittering past, and the city's light rivalling that of the stars and moon above. "My grandfather used to keep lions. Illegal now, of course, so I settled for something smaller. You are not allergic to cats, are you?"

It does occur to him to wonder whether, if she has already called a cab, they ought not to wait and not waste the driver's time; and in the same moment, the thought is gone, lost to the soft touch of her hand and the light on the water. He cannot bring himself to hesitate, even for good reason; he follows her readily, and feels once again that he is almost enchanted, caught in the web of this sweet and intoxicating evening.

"I confess I have not spent enough time around them to be entirely sure," he answers, once her question has had a moment to sink through the poetry of the night, "but I do not think I am. I suppose we will find out, one way or the other." And he cannot bring himself, either, to mind the outcome. It seems to him that nothing so mundane as allergies can touch how he feels in this moment, or sully what is proving to be a better date than he could have imagined. The fact that he is going home with her at all, so soon and with so few qualms, feels almost like a proof that this is some dream, which cannot be touched by earthly practicalities.

"You will see little enough of him. He mislikes strangers, so he'll hiss and hide and that is that." Yet she seems happier now, as if she is earnestly relieved that, while perhaps not an open worshipper of cats of all shapes and sizes, he does not jump to immediate loathing. What on earth was in that wine, when she had but a glass of it and already feels as though she is walking on air by his side?

Midway, she seems to stop him, to point out a looming building that all but shouts of some rich man's investment. "There it is. The view of the river is lovely, almost as if I am back by the sea." Just without her father's persistent supervision, or the heaps and heaps of rock that gave her ancestral home its name. She turns to him, and if he is so willing as to face her, then there can be little doubt of her next intention. The promenade is quiet at this hour, what with the cool winter's air chasing others back into their warm homes, and so she sees little wrong with allowing one of her hands to sink into his hair, and all of her to lift to the tips of her toes, so that she can place a soft, almost asking kiss to his lips.

The building, if he is honest, strikes him mostly with its ugliness: the ostentation of its size and its architecture, the way it looms into the starlit sky as though to blot out the moon. And yet, it seems to him that there is a loveliness to it even so, lent to it solely by her presence; that fact makes the crass monument to wealth beckon to him despite it all, for where she lives must surely have some beauty to it.

Which does not mean he is less than happy to turn away from the building and towards her; nor that he lingers on its presence for good or for ill once he sees how the moonlight catches on the green of her eyes, once he feels her hand come up to his hair. There is no space then for any thought at all but the instinctive joy that rises in him, and he leans in to meet her as she rises to her toes, his mouth settling against hers as though it has always been made to fit there. Her lips are as soft as he had imagined, and her breath is heavy with the lingering scent of wine and chocolate, and it feels as though in that moment all the world slows around them; that they are here caught in a moment that belongs in a storybook, with his free hand sliding onto the gentle curve of her side and his eyes slipping closed as he pulls her just a little closer.

Kissing does not serve much of a point in what she tends to use her body for. A kiss can be a decent enough promise, no doubt about that, but her idea is efficiency, sex as a weapon, and kissing reminds her of romance, of a genuine bond. There has, for instance, of yet been neither a reason to sleep with Robert Baratheon, but he has kissed her during their engagement dinner, and she had found the whole thing revolting. There have been hundreds of kisses she'd liked – but that was with someone else, someone who meant the world.

And now here she is, kissing Faramir, and it felt, for lack of a moment's self control, magical. They were testing the waters, so to speak, and he was forward enough to have her feel wanted, without barrelling down on her. And she could let her fingers sink further into his hair, taste wine and taste him, and sigh, softly, against his lips when they come apart again. For a moment after, she is almost comically out of words, blinking at him as though her brain was on the verge of rebooting. "I think I know what I want to do for the rest of the night."

Her fingers press lightly against his scalp, twining into his hair, which is beginning as a result to fall down from its neatly-pinned bun; her breath ghosts warm against his lips as they come apart, and he wonders at how that parting can feel in itself like a promise. His hand rises to her cheek, tracing the corner of her lip with his thumb, as though to reassure himself that she is still there.

And she, it strikes him, does not know what to say. There is something very strange in that, when she has been so forthright in all things to this point; there is something that is almost wonderous in the thought that he has been responsible for it.

When she does speak, he laughs, low and warm and without mockery, in mild surprise and in joy that is not at all mild. "You will not find me complaining," he assures her, with a smile, "but shall we at least get back indoors, first?"

For a moment, she seems to earnestly consider the potential nearby shrubbery would have for concealment, before she recalls all manners of creatures that could be lurking inside – never mind the odds of nettles touching parts of her she would not want nettles to touch. No, he is entirely in the right.

Yet he also touches her with an unexpected tenderness, and it baffles her less that he does so now, and more that she does not wish to reject it immediately. In fact, she finds herself almost curious to know how long he will be able to rein himself to gentleness, before he gives in to other wants – because surely, this cannot be an honest desire he has, to be soft and tender with her, as though the affection that seems to grow like a weed between them is something he longs for just as she does.

She does not step back by much, though she does take his hand again. "That might be for the best."

They are not a long ways away, and while she does not quite rush him, the walking pace has gone from lazily ambling to distinctly goal-oriented. Ever toward her home, where the doorman on nightshift recognises her at once, and seems interested in seeing some form of identification from Faramir until she shuts the matter down. If he asks, he will discover that out of five floors, the top two belong to her, though she only actively uses the topmost one – information that is presented to him as if she does not often encounter people who do not deem this to be the norm.

For all the forcibly modern aesthetic of the building itself, when she unlocks the door and lets him into her home proper, it does seem as though she leans less toward compulsive minimalism and more toward the heavy sort of wooden furniture that must have cost her a small fortune to have restored, if there had been a need. "Make yourself at home –" She brushes another promising kiss against the corner of his mouth, and points him toward the direction of her living room. "I will fetch us something to drink."

Unarguable centre of her living area is a Lannister-red sofa, with a lion's golden claws for feet, and right in the middle of it lies something that looks, for lack of a kinder description, like an uncooked chicken. Whether he deems it a particularly ugly, flesh-coloured pillow among a series of red-and-gold embroidered ones, or something else entirely, he will quickly enough notice that it seems to be most alive and breathing if he approaches, until he is close enough to see the cat unfold, stretching out long legs and yawning, bald ears pointed backward.

The night air, crisp and cool as it is, does nothing to clear his head; he feels as much outside himself when they arrive at the building as he did when her lips found his. Giddy enough that he does not, when he asks, even linger on the luxury of her living arrangement - and, to be fair, he has known plenty of other people in his father's circles who consider this level of extravagance unremarkable. It is still very much an extravagance, but that seems... less important than it might. So does the request for identification, although that may have as much to do with his military background than with the magic of the night: it does not occur to him until she protests that there could be any issue with offering identification, and by then he is already reaching for his wallet. He has, after all, nothing to hide.

The inside of her apartment comes as a surprise, he will admit. It is nothing like the sleek modernism of the rest of the building, any more than it is like his own simple, rustic furnishings at home; if anything, it reminds him most of his father's house, where all the furniture is family heirlooms, dark and foreboding. But any thoughts about interior design are short-lived (which may be a relief) as she leans up again to kiss him, bringing him back sharply to the situation at hand - and, belatedly, his own awkwardness around it.

He clears his throat, smiling, and murmurs a soft thank-you; hesitates a moment, despite everything, before taking off his coat. His shoes, too, out of habit; and he settles them neatly beside the door, although there doesn't seem to be any evidence that she expects her guests to do so. It just seems like good manners.

Into the living room, then; and he reaches up to unpin his hair as he goes, since it is already past the point of neatness and one or two of the pins are starting to dig into his scalp. He smiles at the cat as it uncurls to greet him, its claws flexing. "Hello," he greets it, as he nears the sofa, and holds out a hand for it to sniff, the way he might to a horse or a wild animal. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Apparently not; by the time Cersei returns, Faramir is sitting on the far end of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, hair loose around his shoulders now as he pets the hairless cat behind its ears.

Somewhere between the hallway, kitchen, and living room, Cersei has abandoned her heels for someone else to pick up after her, and she pads along now in her stockings, a glass of wine in each hand. Tybolt, she reckons, has hidden atop his towering cat tree, or retreated to his cave in her office, where he can warm himself beneath a heating lamp, should he feel a tad cold. He could be underneath her bed, or hiding even under her sheets, ready to hiss at a strange man who wishes to intrude on them.

It is the second time on this day, then, that he has managed to stun her speechless. "He doesn't usually let anyone pet him," those are the words that find her when she places the glasses down on the coffee table, and joins them on her sofa. Tybolt shows no such contempt to Faramir, of course: he is purring loudly, only increasing in volume when she runs her fingers down his peach-fuzz back. His whole head is still gently shoved, again and again, into Faramir's palm. "He is fine with me, but he has bitten my brother at least three or four times."

She has to admit, the sight is... oddly sweet. Her cat is perfectly relaxed, gently kneading at him with his paws (so there might be the lightest prick of claws), and it touches her somewhere in the region of her heart.

"If I had known, I might have been more careful of my fingers." But he is smiling as he says it, genuinely touched by the thought. There is, after all, no denying that the cat is happy enough to be petted right now; Faramir may not be the best-acquainted with cats, but the purring is undeniable, claws or no, and there is no misinterpreting the insistence with which the animal seeks his hand. The idea that this might be a rarity had not even occurred to him, and in truth, he struggles to credit it even now, so at ease does the animal seem.

He looks down at the purring cat, and there is a warmth that settles in his chest at the sight; it is true that the animal is not what he would consider handsome, and there is something strange in the arrangement of those bony, hairless limbs, as though seeing something that was not meant to be so readily visible; but the cat is happy, and peaceful, and there is a beauty in that. Faramir's eyes dart back up to his host as he strokes the cat's thin, leaf-like ears. "What is his name?"

"Tybolt. Like most cats, he does not usually deign to answer to it, but he knows it around breakfast- and dinnertime, and he certainly knows when he is doing something he should not." She scritches him at the root of his tail, prompting him to stretch his tail high into the air, and curling his back impressively. "Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised. You do leave quite the impression."

She does not point out that plenty of the people who have met Tybolt were not overly interested in petting the hairless cat to begin with, which she cannot understand. She would claim there is a grave dignity to him, whether he flops around on the floor where there's sunlight or scales the towering, castle-like cat-tree in the corner with all the grace of a mountaineer. "And here you said you were not so sure of cats."

He has found himself smiling unaccountably much this evening. He finds himself smiling again now, softly amused at his own expense. It is true: he did say it, and it does seem ridiculous to have said it now, with the purring cat so cheerfully seeking his hand.

"I said I was not sure whether I had allergies," he corrects her, after a moment's thought to be sure he has remembered rightly. "That, I would stand by; although I cannot imagine he presents too many problems in that regard." He is no expert, but he seems to recall that hairless cats are unlikely to trigger allergies. It would make sense, in any case - and it is not the foremost thought in his mind, either, and he will not linger for very long on it. His eyes slide sidelong to hers, and there is something in his look that speaks of both shyness and something akin to mischief. "What impression do I leave quite so much of?"

What is her impression? It is difficult enough to admit to herself that she is drawn to him, and likely worse to say it out loud. Acting on it, meanwhile, has been shockingly easy, as though this is a well-practiced dance between them and she is merely falling into step with him when she is not the one drawing him along to begin with. It is not only that he is attractive, but that it is easy to spend time with him as well, enjoyable even. It is that she feels herself become greedy for him, for this time before she has even known a thing of his body. It is, in a way, a little concerning how intensely she feels herself pulled toward him.

"You have this sense of security about you," comes her answer, and if she had hoped to say something less earnest, her most recent sip of wine has lowered that hurdle. Rapidly, she tries to twist it, in retrospect, into something that does not sound so trusting and naive. Best, she reckons, to distract him.

His bun has been so temptingly undone, and she sits up a little straighter, tucking her feet underneath her, and reaches up to run a hand through the dark mass of his hair.

Security. It is not, perhaps, what he would expect to hear - but then, he is not sure what he would expect to hear, and it is a welcome answer, either way. What could he wish for, after all, more than to be a safe haven? His smile is softer than it was, and thoughtful; he glances down again at the cat nuzzling against his hand, up at the woman who brought him into her home on so short an acquaintance, and he is filled with a sudden wonder to think that all of this has come about at all.

Her hand is in his hair, all of a sudden. It is a tender touch, intimate in a way he is not entirely used to; and in unconscious mirroring of the cat between them, he leans a little into her hand. His hair has not always been long, and it occurs to him that this may be the first time anyone but himself has run their fingers through it at its current length. A strange thought to have, maybe.

"I will gladly take secure." He looks up at her, smiling, and reaches over in turn to brush a stray curl back from her cheek. "Thank you."

"I have a few more in mind, though you were asking for one that applied to both Tybolt and I." And this must be quite what her cat is sensing, this distinct idea that he is no threat and means no harm, which makes it so easy to even admit such a thing to him.

Tybolt makes dismayed noise when she leans closer, but his hand so close to her cheek is all but an invitation to draw him into a kiss, and the cat will adjust. He does: he makes himself at home on Faramir's lap, evidently unwilling to let this whole scenario move even remotely toward the bedroom.

"I –" Her hand had fallen to his thigh, touching not the fabric of his trousers as expected, but the bare back of her cat, and suitably distracting her. "Should have raised him better." She means to lift him up, and he does not complain too soundly when he is placed upon the floor, and he wanders off with his tail held high – largely, and unbeknownst to her, so that he may consider a new angle of attack. "I also find you exceedingly, almost rudely attractive," she goes on with the previous thought.

Faramir laughs, even as Tybolt's claws dig briefly, stingingly, against his thigh. How can he not laugh? Though he is not sure, on reflection, whether he is laughing for amusement or for joy. There is something undeniably charming in the cat's affection, and equally, in Cersei's surprise and distraction at finding him there. There is also, of course, a readier charm still in the fact that she wanted to put her hand there in the first place.

Still chuckling, he leans in, bringing his other hand to her cheek as well, to answer her first kiss with a second, chaste but lingering, his fingertips tracing against the edges of her hairline.

"If it counts for anything," he says, when at last he pulls away, "the feeling is entirely mutual."

"Politeness suggests I ought to let you at least try the wine." It waits for them, if not wholly forgotten, atop her coffee table. She has taken care in choosing a bottle of a wine she genuinely likes and would have enjoyed sharing, but truth be told, it does not hold the same enchantment over her as Faramir does. What is says of her and the way she is drawn all that much worse to him amidst him winning her cat's heart – well, she does not want to dwell on something that feels as though it might have an earnest consequence.

Her hand now does move to his thigh, properly de-catted as it is, and she strokes him there with enough suggestiveness to make a lasting point. His kiss is met with another, and another, this time deeper, her tongue an inquisitive thing set on getting drunk on him and nothing else that night.

"Let me show you the bedroom." Is she usually in so much a rush? With Robert she certainly would be, she would want it over with quick. This is different, though. This feels a bit as if she simply does not have enough time, or as if he might come to his senses if she does not strike lighting fast.

There is, even for the most stubbornly noble, no mistaking her intentions; there is also no mistaking the way his body answers to her touch, to the probing promise of her tongue. Something deep inside him tightens and coils, animal in its intensity, poetic in its joy. He smiles against her when she kisses him, his lips parting willingly, his own tongue darting against the heat of her mouth; and when she pulls away long enough to speak, he finds himself once again breathless and flushed, his heart stuttering against his ribs.

And still, there is hesitation; there is doubt; there is the creeping fear that this is ignoble, that all her enthusiasm and all his desire do not justify moving so fast, when they barely know one another. They do, he must remember, barely know one another.

He nods dazedly, his eyes drifting between her startlingly green eyes and her kiss- and wine-darkened lips, and his hand comes up without thinking to trace the backs of his fingers lightly against her cheek. He is drunk, he thinks. He must be drunk, to feel so entirely beyond himself; but whether he is drunk on wine or on her company, he could not begin to guess. "Politeness," he says, after a moment's consideration, "suggests I ought to demur. But I would like little more."

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