Note: This is not a "fan fiction" in the usual sense of the word. It's not set in Middle Earth as Tolkien ever invisioned it, but Middle Earth - and the books Tolkien wrote - play an infinitely important role. Give it some time and maybe this author's note will make sense. Feedback would be fabulous.
The restaurant had no name; it was one of those twenty-four-hour affairs that served better coffee than it did food, and its namelessness was done up and advertised in gaudy neon which could be seen for half a mile driving up the highway from either direction.
Aragorn had been coming there for a month now, sitting in a back booth in the smoking section (he was aiming for cancer but figured that merely subtracting seven minutes from his life every time he breathed couldn't hurt, or rather, would hurt just as badly). The longest he had ever stayed was fourteen hours; the shortest, thirty minutes. He tended to order Coke after Coke, which he drank through a straw, and he would sit in his booth, quietly being ignored by the waitress while he quietly read fantasy novels. It was not an exciting life by any means but he was relatively content with it, his prediliction for non-suicide suicide notwithstanding.
The day that would change everything started out normally enough. Aragorn walked along the highway from his house, a few crumpled dollar bills in his pocket, a copy of the Lord of the Rings tucked under his arm (the entire book collected in one volume - it was heavy and expensive and one of his most prized possessions.) Yes, he'd decided to return to his roots that day. But re-readings of the The Lord of the Rings weren't terribly uncommon for Aragorn. He felt obligated.
The waitress was the usual waitress. She smiled at him sadly when the door chimed above his head. "Sweetie, there's someone in your booth," she said. "I'm terribly sorry. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone else sitting there, but there's not much else I can do about it."
Now this was strange. Aragorn's booth was his booth, simply stated, and now this - he peered forward and saw the head of a pretty girl smoking a ciggarrete - cheerleader had come along stolen it out from under him.
"That's alright," he lied. "I'll sit in the one in front of it. Can I get a Coke please?"
The waitress smiled pleasantly. "Sure thing, sweetie. Sorry I can't ask her to move. I do realize the importance of your booth."
Aragorn shuffled forward, his entired day stretching out before him in obvious and inevitable ruin, all thanks to the cheerleader.
She glanced up when Aragorn slid in the booth across from her, sitting in such a way that he could glower and pretend to read for the duration of his stay at the name less restaurant. She took a drag off her cigarrete quietly and her eyes twinkled and then she glanced back down. Aragorn realized she was reading.
Aragorn realized she was reading The Two Towers.
He took a deep breath and tried to steady his thoughts. He still despised her; this was a fact and simply could not be changed. But he also resolved to stop referring to her as "the cheerleader" in his inner monologue.
She glanced up again and smiled. Aragorn choked on his silent invectives and smiled back, very lightly. Then he pulled out his book and stared very intently at the Library of Congress number, pretending to read.
"Oh my God!" she said, shouting practically, across the booths. "Is that The Lord of the Rings?"
Aragorn leant forward and tried very very hard to ignore her.
"That's a beautiful copy." She knelt on the booth cushion so that she could lay her sweater-encased torso across the table and stretch her arms out to Aragorn so that her fingers grazed the molecules clinging to his book. He quickly snatched it away. The girl blinked at him.
"Oh, I guess you wouldn't want to get it dirty." A vicious pause. "I guess, I mean, why else would you bring it to a restaurant?" The girl slithered back into her universe. The laser beams of her eyes burned straight through the pages and incapicated poor Aragorn, who still had not turned the page. The Library of Congress number was awfully fascinating.
Aragorn suddenly felt bad.
He set his book aside and stared at the girl, who was trying very hard to ignore him. She had a strange, old-fashioned haircut, banged and flipped out at the ends, which was currently encased by a cloud of milk-colored smoke.
"You stole my booth," he began. "I come here practically every day and there's never anyone here, at least not in that space which you currently inhabit."
She set her book down and sucked on her cigarette. "What are you talking about?"
"Booths! Most specifically, my booth, which you are currently sitting in!"
"Do you own this booth? Like, did you donate it, or did you simply give the owner the necessary amount of money to purchase it? I mean, if you had the money to do that, or even if you had some restaurant booth sitting around, why bring it here, to a public establishment, if you're going to be such a goddamn Nazi about who sits where?" The ciggarette had transformed into a mere filter at this point. The girl looked fierce - she looked at him fiercely.
Aragorn blinked. "Nazi?"
"Yeah!" THe girl said, stabbing the cigarette into the ashtray. "And we're supposed to stick together, bitch!"
"Who's WE?"
"Us, you and me, people who read Tolkien at diners. I'll bet you've read the Silmarillion here." Aragorn knew his face gave him away. "You have, haven't you?"
"You know, you seem a bit... um... crazy."
The girl glowered. "What's your name?"
"My name?" Aragorn knew perfectly well he couldn't tell this psycho his name. She'd probably flip out and start yelling or something. Yelling more than she already was.
"Yeah." The girl took a deep breath. "You're an ass. But we could be friends, I think, given the fact that we find ourselves fighting only because we are doing the exact same thing at the exact same time."
Aragorn considered this. She was pretty.
"What's your name?" he said, carefully.
"Irony. Irony Phillips."
"Irony?"
"Yes. Now tell me yours so we can share this booth and ignore each other."
"Aragorn. My name is Aragorn."
The restaurant had no name; it was one of those twenty-four-hour affairs that served better coffee than it did food, and its namelessness was done up and advertised in gaudy neon which could be seen for half a mile driving up the highway from either direction.
Aragorn had been coming there for a month now, sitting in a back booth in the smoking section (he was aiming for cancer but figured that merely subtracting seven minutes from his life every time he breathed couldn't hurt, or rather, would hurt just as badly). The longest he had ever stayed was fourteen hours; the shortest, thirty minutes. He tended to order Coke after Coke, which he drank through a straw, and he would sit in his booth, quietly being ignored by the waitress while he quietly read fantasy novels. It was not an exciting life by any means but he was relatively content with it, his prediliction for non-suicide suicide notwithstanding.
The day that would change everything started out normally enough. Aragorn walked along the highway from his house, a few crumpled dollar bills in his pocket, a copy of the Lord of the Rings tucked under his arm (the entire book collected in one volume - it was heavy and expensive and one of his most prized possessions.) Yes, he'd decided to return to his roots that day. But re-readings of the The Lord of the Rings weren't terribly uncommon for Aragorn. He felt obligated.
The waitress was the usual waitress. She smiled at him sadly when the door chimed above his head. "Sweetie, there's someone in your booth," she said. "I'm terribly sorry. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone else sitting there, but there's not much else I can do about it."
Now this was strange. Aragorn's booth was his booth, simply stated, and now this - he peered forward and saw the head of a pretty girl smoking a ciggarrete - cheerleader had come along stolen it out from under him.
"That's alright," he lied. "I'll sit in the one in front of it. Can I get a Coke please?"
The waitress smiled pleasantly. "Sure thing, sweetie. Sorry I can't ask her to move. I do realize the importance of your booth."
Aragorn shuffled forward, his entired day stretching out before him in obvious and inevitable ruin, all thanks to the cheerleader.
She glanced up when Aragorn slid in the booth across from her, sitting in such a way that he could glower and pretend to read for the duration of his stay at the name less restaurant. She took a drag off her cigarrete quietly and her eyes twinkled and then she glanced back down. Aragorn realized she was reading.
Aragorn realized she was reading The Two Towers.
He took a deep breath and tried to steady his thoughts. He still despised her; this was a fact and simply could not be changed. But he also resolved to stop referring to her as "the cheerleader" in his inner monologue.
She glanced up again and smiled. Aragorn choked on his silent invectives and smiled back, very lightly. Then he pulled out his book and stared very intently at the Library of Congress number, pretending to read.
"Oh my God!" she said, shouting practically, across the booths. "Is that The Lord of the Rings?"
Aragorn leant forward and tried very very hard to ignore her.
"That's a beautiful copy." She knelt on the booth cushion so that she could lay her sweater-encased torso across the table and stretch her arms out to Aragorn so that her fingers grazed the molecules clinging to his book. He quickly snatched it away. The girl blinked at him.
"Oh, I guess you wouldn't want to get it dirty." A vicious pause. "I guess, I mean, why else would you bring it to a restaurant?" The girl slithered back into her universe. The laser beams of her eyes burned straight through the pages and incapicated poor Aragorn, who still had not turned the page. The Library of Congress number was awfully fascinating.
Aragorn suddenly felt bad.
He set his book aside and stared at the girl, who was trying very hard to ignore him. She had a strange, old-fashioned haircut, banged and flipped out at the ends, which was currently encased by a cloud of milk-colored smoke.
"You stole my booth," he began. "I come here practically every day and there's never anyone here, at least not in that space which you currently inhabit."
She set her book down and sucked on her cigarette. "What are you talking about?"
"Booths! Most specifically, my booth, which you are currently sitting in!"
"Do you own this booth? Like, did you donate it, or did you simply give the owner the necessary amount of money to purchase it? I mean, if you had the money to do that, or even if you had some restaurant booth sitting around, why bring it here, to a public establishment, if you're going to be such a goddamn Nazi about who sits where?" The ciggarette had transformed into a mere filter at this point. The girl looked fierce - she looked at him fiercely.
Aragorn blinked. "Nazi?"
"Yeah!" THe girl said, stabbing the cigarette into the ashtray. "And we're supposed to stick together, bitch!"
"Who's WE?"
"Us, you and me, people who read Tolkien at diners. I'll bet you've read the Silmarillion here." Aragorn knew his face gave him away. "You have, haven't you?"
"You know, you seem a bit... um... crazy."
The girl glowered. "What's your name?"
"My name?" Aragorn knew perfectly well he couldn't tell this psycho his name. She'd probably flip out and start yelling or something. Yelling more than she already was.
"Yeah." The girl took a deep breath. "You're an ass. But we could be friends, I think, given the fact that we find ourselves fighting only because we are doing the exact same thing at the exact same time."
Aragorn considered this. She was pretty.
"What's your name?" he said, carefully.
"Irony. Irony Phillips."
"Irony?"
"Yes. Now tell me yours so we can share this booth and ignore each other."
"Aragorn. My name is Aragorn."