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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 year

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Tripping

So, @lordoftherazzles, of course, it was my honour and my pleasure to write this for you!

I love you dearly!

Words: 2.6

Characters: Bard x Thranduil

Prompt: City slicker vacationing in small town

“Wait…you’re breaking up,” Thranduil almost screamed into his phone as he stepped off the rickety, old bus that had taken him from the picturesque train station to the main square of the small town he was to spend the week in.

No doubt, his son had meant well when he had decided that his suave, overworked father needed a small break from his gruelling office job.

“Mirkwood Inc. will be fine without you,” Legolas had grinned around a particularly irregular apple. Ever since he had gotten that hairy, uncouth boyfriend, Thranduil barely recognised his youngest child; suddenly, Legolas ate organic food and went mountain-climbing in his free time.

It had apparently also been that infamous Gimli who had impressed upon Legolas that a healthy work-life balance was primordial in order to be happy and thrive rather than die prematurely of a cardiac incident.

Unable to resist the worried gaze of his beloved son, Thranduil had finally been convinced to accept their gift – an all-expenses paid trip to a quaint, scenic little village – and had not even made a huge fuss when they had confiscated his work laptop as well as all his personal electronic devices except his phone.

In the course of the long and uncomfortably slow train ride to his destination though, he had soon started to sincerely regret having been talked into taking the week off; defying his son’s wishes and his own good resolutions, he had thus ended up making a few business-calls on his private phone just to pass the time.

“Sly kid,” he cursed under his breath now as he looked down at his phone in dismay; no wonder that the quality of his call had been deteriorating steadily, there was no cell service in this rotten nest.

With an impatient huff, he strode out onto the square in search of the place Legolas had booked for him…and promptly stepped into a steaming, hot heap of manure.

Loosening a string of expletives, he would never have spoken aloud in polite company, Thranduil shook his prohibitively expensive Italian shoe frantically, hopping on one foot like a madman through the square.

“Oh hey,” a middle-aged man called from across the street and hastened towards the newcomer. “Ah, the people who offer carriage rides on weekends are not always good about cleaning up after themselves.”

He was grinning good-humouredly and extended a broad, calloused hand to Thranduil who promptly shook it fiercely.

“I wanted to relieve you of your bags,” the man said sheepishly, but his smile softened and deepened charmingly. “I am Bard, innkeeper and general dogsbody around here.”

At the sight of the twinkling eyes set like gems in an astoundingly comforting and beautiful face, Thranduil felt a bit of the perpetual tension drain from his defensively drawn-up shoulders; Bard, in his worn flannel shirt and his torn jeans, looked so invitingly cosy and welcoming that even the devastating loss of his best pair of shoes suddenly didn’t strike Thranduil as all that tragic anymore.

“Thranduil,” he then replied in a clipped voice, forcing himself to dig deep into whatever humour he had buried within his soul in favour of relentless productivity, “self-destructive workaholic, if my son and my son-in-law are to be believed, on the solemn mission of finding some peace and relaxation.” His tone made it very clear how little he cared for these things which – ironically – conveyed much more weight and realism to his words than he even knew.

“There’s plenty of that to be had here,” Bard chirped encouragingly and – snatching Thranduil’s fancy leather bag – made his way back to the cosy building he had issued from when he had seen the tall, fair-haired stranger get off the bus, engrossed in his phone conversation and unheedful of the dung he was about to step in.

The obvious distaste on that fair, stern, and exceedingly handsome face made Bard want to defend his town; he understood that, for a city slicker such as the man trudging sullenly behind him, it might not have been exciting or busy enough, but Bard loved his little corner of paradise and would not allow a stranger to disdain and disparage it before having spent a single evening here.

“Thranduil,” he repeated, bent over his bookings – neatly penned into a big, old, leatherbound book – as if he had not been staring at the same name the whole morning in giddy anticipation of his sole customer of the moment. “You’re lucky; you’ll get our best room.”

It was not as if the business was bad – and Bard had enough other things to do besides running the small lodge – but he was nonetheless glad to have a paying guest; ever since his own children had left the town for further schooling abroad, his days had been long and lonely.

“Indeed,” Thranduil commented, one eyebrow cocked haughtily, and looked down miserably at his ruined shoe.

“If you want, you can put your shoes outside of your door,” Bard prompted softly. “I know the cobbler and he will tend to them as soon as possible. I can bring dinner up to your room if this is the only pair of shoes you have brought. Alternatively, I could lend you a pair?”

In the face of so much casual helpfulness, even the usually so careful and impassive Thranduil could not keep up his already wavering scowl.

“I am quite tired,” he admitted, “and I have some phone calls to make. When is dinner?”

“Whenever you want after 7:30,” Bard answered. “It’s just you and me, so we can have dinner in the small smoking parlour if you’d prefer that to eating alone in the dining hall. As you wish.”

His dark eyes flashed as if he instantly regretted this burst of logorrhoea; Thranduil forced his cheeks to relax and his features to soften to express how grateful he was for the warm welcome he had gotten.

Too often, people mistook his efficiency for arrogant impatience and his natural reticence for indifference or disdain; of course, he could be haughty and brusque, but he did not believe himself to be a bad person at heart. He sincerely hoped that he wasn’t and that the years spent in the arduous pursuit of the next success, or another big sale, had not robbed him of his more tender and precious emotions and instincts.

Maybe his son and that accursed Gimli had been right after all and he had really needed a break to find his way back to his true self.

“I shall come down,” he said with as much warmth and kindness as he could muster; he felt indeed quite rusty as it had been many months since he had last had a conversation with a stranger that had no direct purpose or measurable impact. “My son has insisted on choosing, buying, and packing a whole set of garments for me that – hopefully – will magically induce a state of deep relaxation.”

Thranduil made a face; it was well known that he was a smidgen vain, and he was doubtful that garishly patterned, badly cut shirts and cargo shorts would make him feel anything even remotely akin to calm joyfulness, but he was certainly willing to try.

“I cannot wait to see them,” Bard smiled and winked good-humouredly. “Shall we say 7:30 in the parlour? I can serve cocktails if that is to your liking; I am afraid we don’t have a real bar like some of the bigger establishments do.”

“Oh yes,” Thranduil agreed sheepishly and lifted a hand to his cheek without truly noticing as a discreet wave of heat rushed to his face; the idea of having a quiet drink in a cosy parlour at the end of the world with a handsome stranger sounded so ludicrously delicious that he believed himself to have fallen into a Christmas Hallmark movie.

The distance – geographical and metaphorical – lying between his realm of steel and glass and this sleepy, little valley without so much as full network coverage struck him in all its severity and his fingers tightened fitfully around the strap of his bag which he had picked up and was playing with idly.

“It’s just up the stairs,” Bard explained and motioned to the broad stairwell at the end of the foyer, “and to your right. Here is the key. I am looking forward to our dinner.” Something in his voice drove shivers of anticipation and excitement down Thranduil’s elegant, straight spine; if he hadn’t known better – he was a stranger and a man past his prime after all – he could have sworn that the ruggedly handsome part-time innkeeper and full-time hero had been flirting with him.

When he pushed open the door to the chamber allotted to him, a soft sigh escaped his tense lips. The room was charming, dark wood with accents of different shades of green and gold, and so shockingly unlike his own impersonal, functional bedroom that Thranduil once again felt as if he had been transported into another world.

The view out of the high, narrow window was strangely touching to him as well; the sun was going down in an ocean of pink and blue extending along the horizon and the town looked like a postcard cut-out in its stillness.

Rolling his shoulders, Thranduil sat down on the huge four-poster bed – much too big to be occupied by a single, solitary wretch such as he was – and took off his ruined shoes; he did not have much faith that any small-town cobbler would be able to salvage them, but he was by no means disinclined to let them try.

Then he took a deep breath before opening his bag and discovering the unbelievably odd outfit his beloved son had picked out for him.

“Oh Legolas,” he groaned, “do you really think me that old?”

He should never have trusted that imp! The present wave of bitter bile and sour panic rising in his throat could not be laid at his son’s feet though; nobody else could be blamed for his deplorable omission to check his bags before leaving his home.

Truly, Thranduil should have known better and – as he had failed to double-check everything – he deserved to be in this situation; pulling himself up to his full height, he decided that he might as well meet the disaster head-on.

As his alternatives were growing scarce, he consequently only sighed and resignedly donned the dark grey golf trousers made out of soft, flexible fabric and the white polo shirt without further ado; he even extricated the cable-knit sweater and tied it around his shoulders in an ironic adherence to the stereotype of the “dad”.

“Tennis shoes,” he muttered as he pulled out the white sports shoes that had been tucked at the bottom of his bag. “Sneakers,” he then corrected himself and – after putting them on and admitting that they were incredibly comfortable – he turned to the antique mirror in the corner and looked at his reflection with critical attentiveness.

It took exactly 3 seconds before he broke into bellowing laughter; he looked ridiculous!

Only when he wiped a tear of mirth out of the corner of his cool, grey eyes did Thranduil realise that he had not laughed like that in a long time either, and he felt elated and relieved to have found that part of himself in the most unexpected of places.

A glance at the clock told him that he had to hasten if he didn’t want to make his host wait, and so he accepted his ludicrous outfit and squared his shoulders; he had sold worse products with perfect success, he would not falter and fail because of an ugly sweater.

“Oh,” Bard gasped and almost dropped the glass he was holding as soon as Thranduil’s impressive silhouette appeared in the doorframe. "That is quite a change!”

When he had first seen his patron, Bard had been taken slightly aback by the bespoke suit and the Italian shoes, but this preppy fantasy of a suburban father was just as confusing.

“My son…” Thranduil sighed and shrugged. “He’s a fully grown man too so I can’t even pretend that this is the practical joke of an unruly teen. Ah, I guess he thought this was funny nevertheless.”

“Well, you are certainly handsome enough to pull it off,” Bard praised distractedly while letting tiny balls of ice fall into the glass before handing it to Thranduil with a slightly embarrassed smile. “Is it comfortable?”

“Incredibly so,” Thranduil confessed eagerly, “the trousers are fake. They look like formal wear, but they’re actually made out of this soft, stretchy material.” Without thinking, he took Bard’s now free hand and put it on his thigh to underline and prove his words.

Blushing furiously, Bard sputtered and coughed but didn’t retract his hand. “Indeed,” he finally managed to say, “how ingenious. Maybe I should get a pair, so I don’t embarrass my children when I go to visit them. I am afraid that I am the opposite of you in that regard, I tend to look like this.” He motioned at his messy bun and the rough button-down he was wearing over a worn, soft-looking shirt; his jeans were so old that they were white and fraying in strategic spots and his work boots were scuffed in a way some city youngsters paid good money to emulate.

“You look comfortable,” Thranduil opined. “You look exactly right, and I am sure that our kids would find us ‘cringe’ no matter what we do, but we can swap wardrobes. I’d love to surprise Legolas by coming home sporting an outfit like yours.” He could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth; he hated clothes shopping and habitually let his assistant take his measurements to his tailor without him ever darkening the tradesman’s doorstep. And yet, the fresh air, the unexpectedly sweet company, and the laughing fit in his hotel room had shaken Thranduil up so much that he felt energised and eager to find a new adventure and make it his own.

“I see how you’ve become a really successful businessman,” Bard grinned appreciatively. “You’re not easily cowed, huh? Meet every challenge head-on and then vanquish it.”

“That’s right,” Thranduil smiled and took a step closer towards his host who was licking his lips nervously now.

“Food should be ready any minute. Is everything all right with the room?” Bard whispered, staring up at those luminous eyes – molten silver and swirling starlight – helplessly; he had never seen anyone half as sophisticated and unearthly as that stranger who had waltzed in here in a cloud of dismay and electrifying anger.

The relaxed, playful, wicked expression playing across that statuesque face now was just as enthralling and sublime though, and Bard felt his compounded loneliness and all the desires and wishes he had never even dared consider unfurl within his chest like wreaths of fire.

“The bed is too big for me…alone,” Thranduil whispered back, holding Bard’s gaze and cocking his head infinitesimally.

“Oh, oh,” Bard stammered automatically, “after dinner, I shall see what I can do about that.”

“What an excellent service,” Thranduil purred. “I am sure that I’ll be ever so thankful. You are really aiming for that five-star review, huh?”

This exchange of half-spoken invitations and veiled promises was harshly interrupted by the beeping of Bard’s alarm and the worrying smell of smoke mixing into the delightful aromas of homemade food.

“I’ll be right back,” Bard promised and hastened out of the room.

“Don’t worry,” Thranduil called after him, sitting down in a comfortably worn armchair and stretching out his long, slim legs towards the merrily dancing fire, “for once in my life, I have time.”

@fellowshipofthefics here is another one for the sweet sheet :)

Lots of love from me...

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