for reignfall | modern au

[nearamir]

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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[nearamir]

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.

[reignfall]

"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?"

[nearamir]

"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?"

[reignfall]

"I don't much believe in waiting, I have found." So much of a woman's life seems to be tied to waiting for the right moment, to reach some imaginary goal, or to please another with her patience. It is not for her. It nearly cost her this little taste of freedom once, she will not repeat the same mistake.

That isn't to say she isn't prone to repeating mistakes over and over again in different ways. She did, in fact, have plans after this, for one – but nothing that she would mind being a no-show on, though she might try and sneak in a call to excuse herself. If she remembers.

"Then it's decided."

beep boop timeskip time

[nearamir]

"Is it?" There is a hint of bemusement in his smile, and of amusement too: truthful enough to say she doesn't believe in waiting. It does not seem to him an unpleasant thing. It reminds him more than anything of Boromir, if he is honest - of how he would barrel through doubt and over-weighty thought and cut direct to what he wanted - and that makes her forthrightness oddly, comfortingly familiar. Just because he may at times be more a dreamer than a man of action, it does not mean he fails to appreciate bold and decisive certainty in others. In fact, he realises, it is quite attractive in itself, aside from her beauty.

There is a great deal that is attractive in her, now that he allows himself to look.

So he will gladly walk with her to the gallery, and while the exhibit itself turns out to be one which does not hold all that much interest for him, still it is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. He had not expected any such thing, and it is a nice surprise to return home that night with the sense of something beginning, in a life that for so many years has seemed to hold only endings. Truthfully, little of import has happened - company over coffee, a stroll through a gallery - and yet he finds that he is smiling, that he hums as he makes himself dinner, and that when he does retrieve his phone to find her text waiting for him, there is a strange excitement that it sparks in him. He takes a few minutes to text her back - thanking her for a lovely afternoon, and letting her know that he looks forwards to their dinner - and then adds her to a contacts list that still holds the numbers of too many dead men. There is, in all of this, an unfamiliar joy that bubbles beneath the surface; he cannot quite shake the sense that this is the best thing to happen to him in some time.

When the evening they have arranged does come, he meets it with enthusiasm. A suit seems like overkill, but he does arrive at the restaurant looking a good deal sharper than he did at the café, in a freshly pressed shirt and waistcoat, with his hair combed back into a much neater bun. He even brings flowers, a small bouquet of wildflowers picked in the woods, carefully wrapped so that she can put them into her bag if she wants. He is early, of course; it has been so long since he did anything like this that he is not entirely sure what to do with himself, but he does disguise that fact well, and as the date continues on, so he begins to relax, to smile and to be more readily himself. And it is... nice. It is so very, very nice.

<3!!!

[reignfall]

Her dates have ended in lavish gifts and in rides in luxury cars, in bars ordinary people do not even know exist and restaurants that serve gold-dappled cakes to their gold-dappled guests. Exceptions were found in hours with her brother, where the word date alone is treated like poison by her, and eyes may never be on them at all. And yet between all this, she finds herself in an art gallery with a man she wishes to know, and while the art does not touch her, she finds herself smiling an honest, genuine smile more often than on plenty of those other dates combined.

Afterwards, she drops by the gathering she meant to neglect, an appearance for appearance' sake, has a glass of wine and no patience for others, and when she gets home, his text has arrived. She reads it in her chaise longue, and then reads it twice more with her heart pattering like a trapped bird. Her own reply is succinct, but honest: she, too, had a lovely time, and she, too, cannot wait to see him for dinner.

It isn't silence, after that, she seems to make a habit of texting him, albeit those messages tend to be inquisitive, if inconsequential. Is he well, she asks on one day. She has a complaint to be raised over a pile of documents her lessons require on another. To agree on dates and times for their next rendezvous, she calls him with little warning, preferring his voice to his, she is loathe to admit it, slow typing.

For the first time in her romantic life, she is almost not late. For the occasion, she has chosen a dress that is neither casual, nor too formal to be beyond any point of comfort, in a deep green that is meant to bring out her eyes – something about him strikes her as a man who prefers the shades of the forest to those of blood. The wildflowers imply she might have been right, but there isn't immediate room for so calculating a thought when she receives them with a kiss to his cheek. She is tender with them where she would normally neglect to pay any attentions to the bouquets she receives.

"It has been a long time since I enjoyed a date this much," she tells him, shocked by her own honesty and drunk – not on the glass of wine she has been nursing, paired perfectly with her food – on his company. Her eyes wander to her flowers. "Say, do you know how to press flowers?"

[nearamir]

She is beautiful, in the greens and golds of a woodland summer, and he is struck anew by the strangeness of the situation, that fluttering newness that rises in his chest. He has enjoyed talking to her on the phone, when she calls him, but it is not at all the same thing as meeting in person - and there is something fundamentally different in this meeting, a change in who they are to one another. She seems to appreciate his small gift, and that is a relief, because he had worried that she might not. She seems like a woman more used to receiving jewellery and expensive trinkets than the flowers of the forest; but he will not be less than himself in this, and he will not lead her astray when it comes to who he is.

He smiles at her question, and all the more so at her comment; a smile wide enough that, for a moment, it almost drives the grave and sorrowing shadow from his eyes.

"I do," he answers, with a little nod. "If you have a heavy book and some kitchen roll, it's really quite easy." His eyes follow hers to the flowers, then drift back to her face, the candlelight gleaming in emerald eyes and catching its reflections in golden hair. His smile softens, and there, again, is something that is close to shyness. "I would be happy to show you."

[reignfall]

Kitchen roll, she thinks, do I even own kitchen roll? The contents of her kitchen are not as much a mystery as they could be: she does, on occasion, have groceries delivered, after all. She prepares her own coffee and the occasional cup of tea, she can prepare a passable breakfast. Yet the majority of what she eats is delivered or picked up, dinners out are more common for her than a meal she prepared herself.

Before she can dwell on whether or not basic everyday items for cleaning purposes are not perpetually her maid's business, or if she will need to make do with tissues, he suggests that he might show her. She decided in this very moment that, for all intends and purposes, she does have kitchen roll at home. By the time he could discover that she doesn't, he is hopefully otherwise occupied.

Her eyes meet his again, and she is almost convinced he, too, must feel that jolt between them, that spark, and her smile is warm, inviting, and lazed with another sort of appetite altogether. Dating has never been difficult for her – it is easy to be asked out, to wade through the dull conversation, to take the gifts. This is easy, too, but it does not feel like her usual rendezvous: she wants to be here, and while one day, the novelty of forest-grown flowers, handpicked just for her, will likely wear off, and while she loves gold too much to be denied these kinds of gifts... For now, the way her heart beats just a tad harder is real, and she wants it to last. She wants it to lead somewhere further than her sheets. "I would love for you to join me tonight."

[nearamir]

He is not blind to the heat that lies behind that smile, although he would not swear to its intent: regardless, it does stir in him an answering warmth, one that makes him wonder whether this might not lead, in time, to more than goodnight kisses and the brush of knees beneath the table (which is, truthfully, hard to avoid at times, with legs as long as his). There is, in her look, a certain promise of future pleasures, of dates in some more intimate venue, and kisses that come with more than their share of passion. He would be lying if he claimed that the thought was an unpleasant one.

It is not, then, entirely a surprise when she invites him to join her after dinner; it is not a surprise, but it is a cause for hesitation. He would not want, after all, to overstep; he does not want to let her eagerness get the better of her common sense. There is certainly a part of him that whispers that going home with her on the first date might be taken amiss, that she might mistake him for someone who wants nothing more than a feverish fumble and a hasty exit. He is not such a man, and never has been: the thought unsettles him.

And yet, he did offer to show her how to press his flowers, and flimsy though it might be, it is excuse enough to allow for what he cannot deny is a pleasant suggestion. Perhaps he is a little curious, too, to know her better: to see where she lives, and who she is when she is not around him. He sips his wine, and smiles across the table at her, nodding.

"I would be honoured."

[reignfall]

She likes to accuse people of intent, and it is the same in this moment. His knee brushes against hers, bared from the way she sits. It must be a calculated seeking of closeness, it cannot be purely incidental. Is he, just as she is, wondering what it will be like to share a kiss? To be pressed skin to skin, or, less sweetly put: does he already imagine himself in her bed, has he pictured, in detail, what it would be like to get her out of this dress and under him for their mutual pleasure?

She crosses her legs, and has her foot brush against his shin, slow and teasing, and, if he wishes to imagine it this way, purely there by chance.

That he is honoured draws a breath of laughter from her, light and brief, but honest all the same. There is no doubt in her mind that they will end in her bed tonight – if they make it quite this far, and do not end up giving in to one another about halfway there. That he might wish to take it slow for his own sake, or that he had the consideration for her, has not occurred to her yet. The way he phrases what she deems to be excitement – nervous excitement, perhaps, but excitement all the same – only impresses on her how well thought-out her own choice is. He will show an interest in her finding pleasure in turn; that is more than she is naturally inclined to expect of anyone who is not... a bit too close for most people's comfort. She watches him from beneath her lashes. "I will give you the grand tour. It's a clear night, we could have a glass of wine on the balcony."

After they've fucked, of course, and assuming his interest remains so steadfast. It is hard to imagine him fleeing, though, yet she does not know what else to picture. Indifference would be business-like, even if sometimes feigned. Enthusiasm is usually a sign that she is the one doing a great deal of manipulating. That he might meet her as an equal, just as he does now, even after – it is an odd thing to even imagine.

[nearamir]

There is a weight in that look, in the lowered lids and the gleam of green eyes through the shadows of long lashes, that is undeniable; and there is, perhaps, a slight darkening of his own eyes in answer, a shift in focus. But it is slight, and it is under control; the trace of her foot against his leg is sweetly promising, but he has never been one to take promises unspoken. He does not dwell on the parting of her lips, the breathy sound of her laughter; he does not let himself linger on what other breathy sounds might be drawn from those lips. He does not think, because he will not be so crude as to think, how those sharp green eyes might look misted and upturned, or how her touch might trail just as slowly as that brush of her foot, which he is not blind enough to mistake now for chance.

He does not think on any of that, because that path leads, at best, to embarrassment when he stands up, and at worst, to actual harm. But he does think, when she watches him across the table, of how her mouth might feel against his, whether the wine might not be sweeter from her lips. He does not think she would object - a thing that is, in itself, still a kind of wonder. She has invited him in. There is an excitement that is almost fear that goes along with that: a sense of a rubicon, a step towards something more serious than a casual talk in a coffee shop, or a walk through an art gallery.

He had not realised, until their conversation, how much he has craved that. How lonely, despite all his acquaintances and all the people he sees day by day, he has been.

"I cannot imagine anything lovelier," he replies, smiling, and in the moment, means it.

[reignfall]

There is no comment that might hint at what he might wish to do to her later that night, nor does he seem inclined to touch her in some unbidden way to illustrate his interest. Of course, no every single man she has been on a date with has been forward, much less forward to the point of boundary crossing – but by the time she has invited them to her home, some natural banter in the direction usually followed. Not that she she hasn't been known to change her mind at the last minute, if the pay-off did not seem quite as sweet as she had initially hoped.

And yet she is not thinking much of a pay-off in this moment. She wants him, and it has to be him, it has to be him on her balcony with the wine, and it has to be him in her bed later that night, if she can quite make it happen. It is certainly him she is thinking of kissing, wondering if he would come to be so at ease that she could let down his hair and tangle her fingers in it. There is no business reason to this, no clear advancement that she would think him inclined toward granting –– and that makes it quite confusing to want him this much, for nothing but the sake of his company.

"This is the most pleasant date I have had in a long time," she admits, perhaps partly drawn by that smile of his, and she would like to curse herself in the next moment, as she is prone to doing for any personal revelation.

[nearamir]

He does not doubt, in his heart of hearts, that she says this to many men - and yet, seeing the small changes in her expression, the way she looks almost as though she regrets saying it, he does not doubt that she means it, either. That thought brings a warm kind of comfort, a bright glow of feeling that he may have been the cause of her happiness.

Perhaps that he may yet cause her other happinesses, if she allows it. That, too, is a pleasing thought. For too much of his life has pleasure been a distant and irrelevant aim; what he has offered of himself has been for honour and for safety and for the simple practicality of survival, but not for joy. Even since his discharge, not for joy. He has felt, at times, that he is out of the way of recognising joy when it comes, far less giving it to others.

Yet this is joy that he feels, and it has not come at any cost to her or anyone else, and there is that blossoming of hope again, of something beginning. His eyes drop from hers, almost shyly, and he takes another sip of wine.

"Then I am glad, because I should hate to think that I was the only one enjoying myself."

[reignfall]

There it is again, that genuine interest in her and her comforts. It is not in a man's nature, or so she has been taught and learned, to think much of her enjoyment – in fact, the less aware they are, the better. And yet, he makes it sound like an earnest anxiety, her boredom or her disinterest.

Finally, she lifts her fork to the little cake she chose for a dessert, and there is a hint of excitement as she punctures its side, releasing the soft, warm chocolate within. Without thinking, she offers him a taste from her own bit of cutlery. "You should try it while it's still hot."

[nearamir]

It is the very thoughtlessness of it that makes him accept the offer with a smile, leaning across the table to take the morsel from her fork. It does not feel to him like a conscious and calculated flirtation on her part, and so it is easier to let himself forget that it may be an inappropriate one to accept.

The cake is sweet and hot against his tongue, thick chocolate warming his mouth as he settles back into his seat, still smiling and only a little pink-faced. "It's very good," he says, when he has swallowed, and reaches for his napkin to dab the traces of chocolate off the corner of his mouth. His eyes do not leave hers, and that, too, is unconsidered. "Very sweet." Then, clearing his throat and looking away: "Thank you for sharing."

[reignfall]

She may yet be the one to have broken eye contact first, though not for reasons of a bashful nature. Her gaze had fallen to his lips, where she can just picture the faintest taste of chocolate, and they only dart up again when he brings forth the napkin, as if she is suddenly reminded that it might not do to stare. This is unusual, in its way: she does not usually offer to share, and is either mortally offended were a date to extend his fork onto her plate – or bear it out of habit, for her brother often helps himself to bites and tastes as he pleases.

She isn't even quite sure how this strange urge just gripped her, or where it came from, but she rather enjoys the flush it brought back to his cheeks, so it is more than worth it.

She takes a small forkful of her own, indulging in the sweetness. "You strike me as the sort of person who may out of habit deny himself such pleasures."

[nearamir]

He looks a little startled at that comment, but only for a moment; then he smiles, a little bashfully. "Perhaps I am," he admits, in the tone of one who has not given it much thought until this moment, but cannot now find an argument against it. It seems to him that if it is a habit, then it is one so well-engrained that he cannot imagine a time when he did not have it - but habit it may be, and little more. "Perhaps I have too often occupied myself with heavier things, and left too little time for sweetness."

By the look he gives her, the small smile that continues to linger at the edges of his lips, it is not only the cake that he is musing upon.

[reignfall]

"Then I am glad you took the time for sweetness tonight." It's certainly in his smile, which leaves her feeling the same sort of comfortable warmth a sip of mulled wine might grant her, only that tonight, she has hardly drank a thing at all. Overindulgence in this is why she spends so many of her days studying in that café, and how often she does not stop at merely one cup of coffee while there.

"Though I would like this to make a more regular habit." Come to think of it, as if she has not be dwelling on it for a while now.

[nearamir]

He looks down at his wine for a moment, smiling as he neatly folds his napkin and sets it to the side. "I would like that too," he says, and turns his eyes back up to hers, meeting her gaze. For a moment, he looks as though he may be about to say something else; at last, he shakes his head almost ruefully, emptying his glass. "I have not," he confesses, "felt so light in some time. I would be glad to make it habit - though let us not forget that the night is far from over."

Which feels almost too forward; and yet, he hardly thinks she will mind. Not by her behaviour up to this point, and not by the way she is looking at him now.

[reignfall]

They do, she thinks, deal with the heaviness of life in different manners entirely. It seems to weigh on him, an anchor made of grief or whichever other one of the seven hells has wrought its pain upon him. Yet own father has told her that weeping and prayer are equally useless all the way back when her mother had died, and now, she prefers to lean to anger when hurt. Not little pricks of it, but a sort of vengeful fury that leaves little room for objection and it does, in her eyes, help.

She feels no fury now, in fact, she nods silent agreement to his feeling light.

Those words are more forward than she has come to expect of him, but the flashing of her smile is entirely genuine, and not at all one of those manufactured things she turns even earnest laughter into at times. "I intend to keep you up well into the morning, in fact."

[nearamir]

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.

[reignfall]

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.

[nearamir]

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."

[reignfall]

"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.

[nearamir]

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?"