Summary: Erestor really doesn't like small children.
A/N: Just so you know, this story as definitely inspired by the sheer amazingness that is Erestor and Estel, a fic by Pentangle-linnon. It's in my favorites (aka go read it, it's awesome). Anyway, I liked the cranky Erestor idea and this one-shot was born.
Well, partially. I did have dreams of a series of one-shots about Estel settling in at Imladris and this was supposed to be only one of them, but hello, real life, nice to meet you too.
Erestor set down his pen, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. It was a vain attempt to control his acute frustration—the result of dealing with the Valley's sudden influx of a number of injured and under-supplied Rangers. Erestor hated having to put up with the travelers that Elrond insisted on allowing stay in the Valley, and the fact that these were human only added to his irritation. He took another deep breath and returned to his papers, trying to sort through all of the information that Elrond was going to need whenever he finally got out of surgery. Erestor flipped through the sheets of parchment, flipping through some papers and pausing to summarize others.
A loud thump resounded from right outside his office door. Erestor looked up, his concentration broken. He stared at the door for a moment, but when the sound was not repeated, the edhel returned to his papers.
Another sound came from the door, though this one was soft and tentative, barely perceptible even to Elven hearing. Erestor glanced at the clock and frowned in confusion. It was late, and few people were brave enough to come and talk to Erestor at this time at night; none of those brave few would waste time with knocking.
Thoroughly puzzled, Erestor bid the edhel to come in.
The door swung open, admitting Elrond's foster child into the study. Erestor didn't even try to hide his dismay at the Adan's intrusion. He disliked children (especially human children) even at the best of times—and the wee hours of a chaotic morning were most definitely not the best of times.
"What do you want, boy?" he asked sharply.
The Adan flinched, but didn't respond. Not that that was very surprising, since the boy hadn't spoken a word since his arrival well over a year ago. What was surprising, however, was that instead of retreating from the doorway like Erestor expected, the Adan slowly stepped into the room. Then, with a sudden burst, he shot across the room like a lightning bolt, and dodging around the desk, the boy threw himself onto Erestor's legs.
Utterly shocked, Erestor sat frozen in his chair, far too surprised to react. It took him a moment to realize that the Adan was shaking, and another to realize that there was a growing wet patch on his pant leg where the boy's face was. It was the wetness that jolted Erestor into thinking.
His first thought was dismay: the child was crying and it was ruining his clothing. At least he's not a noisy crier.
His second thought was also one of dismay. Why me? he thought resentfully.
Mentally, Erestor checked off the Edhil the Adan should have to run to for comfort.
And all of them, he realized, were off working with the Rangers, from Elrond who was in surgery to Glorfindel who was hunting down the Orcs who had attacked the Dúnedain in the first place.
Which, Erestor cringed, left him as the last on child's list of familiar Edhil.
Erestor was not so cold hearted nor so prejudiced as to completely ignore a crying child, but he was at an utter loss on how to go about comforting one. He had had very little experience with children in his long life (in fact, he avoided them assiduously even as a child himself), and since the Adan couldn't—or wouldn't—tell him what was wrong, Erestor was stuck.
He was so taken up with trying to solve his dilemma that he almost failed to realize that this problem had already been solved. Partially.
"Westew?"
The voice was tiny, weak, and muffled, but it was a voice. The unflappable, caustic Erestor was stunned. The child who had not said a word in the year and a half he had lived in the House of Elrond was not only talking, but talking to him.
Taking a calming breath in order to keep his voice controlled, he responded, "Yes? What's wrong, boy?"
"I'm scawed," the boy whispered, his face still pressed into the Elf's leg.
With another deep breath, Erestor asked—with the slightest hint of sympathy—"Why are you scared? What happened?"
He bent over and scooped up the shaking child and set the boy on his lap. He grimaced at the state of the boy's tear and snot-stained face and winced when the child buried his face in Erestor's shoulder. Erestor opened the top left hand drawer of his desk and pulled out one of the soft cloths that he kept there to wipe ink off of his hands. He pulled Estel's head away from his chest and gingerly wiped the boy's wet face. The boy curled up on his lap into a tiny ball, his tail bone digging into Erestor's thigh. Erestor shifted, attempting to settle in a more comfortable position on his lap. He only succeeded in making the bone dig deeper.
"Estel?"
There was a long pause.
"I hada bad dweam."
Erestor knew all about bad dreams—they had tormented him for far longer than he was willing to admit. That's why he found himself singing quietly to Estel as the child calmed back down and slowly drifted off to sleep. That's also why he found himself rubbing Estel's back and patting the child's head in what he assumed was a soothing manner. And how Erestor felt his armour crack—slightly!—in the presence of the child's trust and open heart.
And so the very farthest ends of Erestor's lips quirked ever so slightly as he stood up and took his sleeping charge to the boy's room.
After all, Estel had spoken to him first.