PROMPT: We were pretending to be lovers but I'm not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way. + This wasn't meant to be a date, but we've had such a good time and now it's 2 A.M. and I should really go home…
The first time it happens, it's because Lothiriel can feel the waves of discomfort rolling off of him. After two months on tour, she likes to think she knows Eomer Eomundson pretty well, or at least well enough to know that the three women that currently have him cornered against a nearby speaker are making him distinctly uncomfortable.
(Honestly, though, what did he expect? The Marshals were the biggest up-and-coming band in rock-country, or whatever genre it was the label had stuck them with, and none of its members were remotely bad looking.)
"Hey, honey," she finds herself saying, slipping around one of the girls to bump her hip against his. "I hate to interrupt, but they need you to run through another warm-up on vocals."
To his credit, Eomer only looks mildly alarmed for approximately three seconds before he realizes her interference for what it is: a life preserver to save him from over-eager groupie-wannabes.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, dropping an arm around her shoulders for a quick squeeze. "Ladies, if you'll excuse us."
Lothiriel can feel the daggers the other women are staring at her as they walk away, and is weirdly glad for the sense of safety Eomer's arm gives her. "You know, you couldn't have picked a worse industry to get into if you don't like talking to pretty women."
Eomer snorts. "Those weren't women, those were sharks."
"All hungry for Grade A Rohirric beefcake?"
"You swore you wouldn't repeat that," he groans. "You promised, Lothiriel-"
"Where's the fun in that?" She retorts. "I could go on about how the article talked about your rippling pectorals and brooding good-looks-"
The brusque ruffle of her hair is decidedly uncouple-like, but luckily they're out of sight of the ladies by then.
The second time it happens, it's him coming to her rescue, much to her chagrin. She and Faramir's tiny singer-songwriter duo isn't anywhere near as popular as The Marshals, but since their label had stuck them together for this tour, they were beginning to gain a little more traction in terms of fans and recognition.
Which was great, except for the fact that amongst all of the sweet, hopeful teenage songwriters and the starry-eyed middle age women who were "warm for Faramir's form" (something Lothiriel desperately wishes she could unhear), there were also a few loons who had declared her their dream girl. Most of them were harmless, sending weird-but-strangely-flattering letters or asking her to sign their biceps, but a few...well. They pushed the limit.
One such guy had found her at the bar they'd all gone to after a particularly successful show-Faramir is usually around to fend them off, but Eowyn's taking up the majority of his attention nowadays. (Lothiriel's not complaining; they're tooth-rottingly sweet, and there's nothing so amusing to the rest of them as the idea of soft, poetic Faramir with guitar-goddess supreme Eowyn.)
Still. She wishes they weren't so wrapped up in each other when the guy boxes her in against the bar. Theodred and Eothain are off playing pool, she thinks, and Merry and Pippin, their tech duo, appear to be dancing on a table-thus taking four more potential outs out of the running. Perfect.
"Listen, beautiful, let me just get you one drink," Skeezy is saying, "all that time singing, you must need something to wet your whistle-"
"She has already has a drink, thanks," comes Eomer's voice to her left, followed by said drink being placed into her hand. "Sorry it took so long, sweetheart."
"That's alright," she answers, torn between annoyance and sheer unadulterated relief when Skeezy backs off, leaving her with Eomer, the drink, and a wobbly barstool. "I could have handled that myself, you know."
"I owed you one," he says, clinking his glass against hers. "Drink up, Swann, I paid good money for that."
It's a Dark and Stormy, with exactly the right amount of rum. Her favorite. Huh.
After that, well, it becomes a pattern.
Eomer's worried uncle calls, concerned that he needs a calming influence in his life? Lothiriel finds herself suddenly elevated to girlfriend status, at least as long as the Skype call lasts.
The record label wants her to bring a date to some award ceremony, and Faramir's already asked Eowyn? Eomer has a tux.
And so on and so forth.
One night, still in the same city as last night's show but with nothing else to do, she drags him out to the local boardwalk. It's got carnival games, rickety old rides-Eomer tries to refuse to go on the "death-traps", as he puts it, but she can be persuasive when she wants to be, and wheedles him into going with promises of beer and fried food after.
When the roller coaster fails to kill them, they find a hole-in-the-wall bar that claims to have the coldest beer and best chicken tenders in town.
"Thank you," he says, abruptly, after the fifth-maybe sixth? She's lost count-beer.
"For what?" Lothiriel asks, leaning her chin on her hand. She's suddenly hyper-aware that their legs are tangled together under the table, and that she's failed to give him his jacket back after she'd started shivering on the last go-round on the roller coaster.
Date date date date echoes in her head, but instead of feeling panicked, or weirded-out it just feels...well, normal.
"For this," Eomer answers, as if it's obvious. "I don't think I've taken a night off in weeks."
"Can't have you working yourself into the ground, Eomundson," she fires back, hoping the sudden revelation that she wouldn't-mind-maybe-dating her fake boyfriend isn't obvious on her face, "who else would protect me from stalkers and halfway-rotting carnival rides?"
Eomer smiles, something fond and, well, hot in his expression. "Someone else could. But not as well as me, sweetheart."
"Whatever you say, honey," Lothiriel says.
(They stay out until 2 A.M., and if Lothiriel almost tells him to just stay in her room instead of his that's less than 10 feet away-well, that's her business, isn't it?)
It comes to a head on the last night of the tour. The Marshals have been nominated for a Grammy, of all things, and Faramir and Lothiriel-recently dubbed Archer and Swan, with a brand-new five year contract-well, to say everyone's in high spirits is an understatement.
After the show, both bands gather to celebrate each other, the tour, Faramir and Eowyn's recent engagement, the general good will of the world.
Eomer has his arm slung around her shoulders, hers is around his waist, and Valar she's going to miss this.
He must read some of the sadness in her expression, because suddenly he's pressing his lips against her temple. It's a sweet gesture, one of comfort, but she shivers all the same, because now she can't stop imagining what those lips would feel like pressed to less innocent places-
"Hey, there's no paps around, Eomer," says Eothain, smirking as he twirls a glass of champagne around with nimble fingers, "no need to fake for our lowly eyes."
Eomer stiffens. Lothiriel finds herself suddenly overwhelmed with-with-well, anger, irritation, because it's not a joke, it stopped being a joke so long ago-
"Who's faking?" She hears herself asking, as if from far away. And then Lothiriel turns, reaching up to wind her arms around his neck, and pulls him down to her height so she can press her mouth to his.
She's vaguely aware of the deafening silence of the bus around them, but Eomer proves much more than a little distraction-he's somehow lifted her off her feet, and is kissing her back with such fervor that her heart aches, just a little, when it's not trying to beat its way out of her chest in happiness.
They eventually break apart, Eomer's arms around her waist and her feet dangling helplessly as they grin at each other like the apparent idiots they've become-
"Told you!" Crows Pippin, breaking the silence. "Pay up, pay up-"
Lothiriel hides her smile against Eomer's neck.