Part 19

Breakfast is a relatively happy affair involving pancakes and lots of syrup and, in the twins' case, strawberry jam. Elrond chooses not to mention Thranduil's early wake-up call until they're half-way through the meal, at which Legolas at once starts apologizing profusely, but the older Elf just waves him off. Had he been less polite, Gimli thinks, Elrond might have called Thranduil an ass outright, but now he just mentions it in a very subtle roundabout way and Lindir chooses not to voice any opinion in the matter at all. The cellist – because apparently that's what he is – instead insists on them all eating seconds and makes certain that they're given as much syrup as possible.

(Arwen vividly informs the Dwarf of how their dad and Lindir met some thirty-odd years ago during a concert in Lindon when apparently Lindir was soloist. At the mention, the older Elf sort-of-blushes and waves a hand and says that really, he's not that good, honestly; but Arwen just shakes her head and Elrond looks rather fondly at Lindir and, yeah, Gimli is pretty sure they're shagging.)

Then the doorbell rings, and it keeps ringing incessantly (accompanied oddly enough by a muffled voice, screaming) all until Elrond goes to open the door. And had the Elf been a little less dignified then he might have slammed it right shut again.

"… I SAID OPEN, YOU F- Ah. Good morning."

"I said," Elrond says without preamble, not bothering to greet him; "I would drive them home, and that you should have stayed in bed and slept off your hangover."

Thranduil doesn't look ashamed at all, though he is paler than usual and has dark rings under his eyes and his hair hasn't seen a comb in the last fourteen hours.

"At last! That took you forever! Honestly, how old are you really, Elrond?" the blonde says without batting an eyelid, and glares past Elrond into the hall, where a few curious heads are peeking out from the kitchen. Gimli doesn't cower and neither does Legolas but Elladan lets out a little squeak as he spots the blonde on their doorstep, who is looking rather furious. Even his tie is on backwards and Gimli doubts that the Elf has even noticed. "Now where in the name of Mandos is my son? And why, by Eru, are you wearing those abominable slippers?"

"Don't you start," Elrond cuts him off sharply. "They're a gift from Galadriel!"

Thranduil honest-to-Mahal sneers. Sneers! Gimli hadn't thought the Elf could get more frightening (not that he'd ever admit such a thing out loud) but with that kind of expression on his face, Thranduil looks ready to commit murder. Actual cold-blooded murder. Possibly by luring innocent folks to his big grand mansion first and tempt them with, dunno, his hair, which probably has been insured just like his five-hundred Armani suits and his eight different cars. (Legolas' hair is nicer though.) Anyone should be scared by that. But Elrond doesn't even blink.

Bah. Elves.

"Never mind. Legolas! Come here."

"But I haven't finished my pancakes!"

"I don't care about some –"

Elrond sends the Elf another glare. This pissing match could, if escalating, possibly rival that one between his Uncle Óin and Balin four years ago, Gimli thinks. That would be … bad. (Oh, if only Fíli and Kíli were here to witness this! They'd laugh their asses off.)

"Let them finish their pancakes," Elrond says sternly and Thranduil mutters something on his breath that sounds like the Sindarin equivalent of 'damn fucking shit I hate everything and everybody' encompassed in a single word, but relents, eventually. "And take a breath before you pop a vein. Arwen, could you be a dear and fetch Thranduil a glass of water?"

"Sure, Ada." She sounds relieved to be getting away from the scene. (Honestly, what are the neighbours going to think? The door is still wide open.)

Elrond surveys the blonde critically. "And maybe a couple of ibuprofen from the medicine cupboard, as well, for the headache."

There's a visible wince. "I don't have any fucking headache. Would you stop coddling -"

"Yes, you do. And I am not coddling you. I have a medical degree, something which you certainly lack, Thranduil. Be glad I'm not calling anyone on you for driving here! Now. Sit. Down."

For the following twenty minutes, Elrond doesn't let Thranduil out of his sight for a single second. Darn impressive, if Gimli might say so himself. That Elf has got a glare that could easily compete with that of Dwalin.

The drive back to Legolas' place turns out to be one of the most awkward half hours in Gimli's life. And that's saying something.

For the first eighteen minutes no one says a word, Thranduil is wheezing rather than breathing proper and Legolas doesn't seem to be breathing at all. Estel is hiding under the blonde's jacket in the Elf's lap, and Legolas is stroking the cat's back soothingly, but it doesn't seem to work going by the aggravated yowls that keep escaping from the ball of fur.

Gimli spends all that time in the backseat (as far away from Legolas as possible; he's pretty certain that Thranduil would've preferred to leave him behind, or at least lock him in the trunk, if not for Legolas' and Lindir's combined intervening), fiddling with a braid clasp in his beard and avoiding looking at either Elf. Thranduil is staring at the road without blinking. His eyes must be terribly dry.

After twenty-one minutes, Legolas clears his throat. His father flinches but says nothing. His knuckles have become utterly white, his grip of the steering wheel so tight the thing might break soon.

After twenty-four minutes, Legolas clears his throat again. They're approaching another juncture in the road. Last time they did so, the blonde didn't say anything, but maybe they did a wrong turn because Legolas says: "Adar. Left here. Not right."

Oh dear, Gimli thinks. Should have let Elrond drive them back. (How will he explain to his Da if he finds out they're caught by police and Thranduil ends up with his driving licence revoked for hangover driving and they're dumped in a ditch somewhere and Gimli has to explain to said police that nobody's being kidnapped and all this is an honest misunderstanding?)

Thranduil turns left.

"… Adar," Legolas tries again, apparently finding it fit to talk now that his father is – sort of – listening. "I'm. I'm sorry."

The radio's lulling in the background, a gravelly voice eagerly explaining: "…and new discoveries have been made taking us ever closer to the lost island of Númenor. Experts now think it may actually have been sunk during a massive volcanic eruption between thirteen and fifteen thousand years ago. Recent research shows…"

Gimli blinks as Thranduil grabs the radio, glares at it, and tugs hard. Very hard. There's a fizzle and the noise dies abruptly, the voice in mid-word. Then, without a word and without swerving from the road, the Elf lowers the window on his side and chucks the whole radio kit out of it.

Did he just…?

He did.

He can sort of see, now, where Legolas has gotten his wide range of emotion from. Albeit where Legolas can be easily moved both to laughter and to tears and be overfilled with joy and act generally giddy, Thranduil seems to be more of a drama queen. One with a very short fuse.

(That Elf is also a lot stronger than he looks like. Hadn't Legolas said once he had a black belt or something? Maybe his father does, too? Aw, crap.)

"Adar," Legolas says, surprisingly gently and calmly. Like this is the typical way to act for a Mahal-knows-how-old Elf who should be a creature of dignity and … something. "You didn't have to do that. You know what it costs to install a new one, and we bought that one just eight weeks ago."

"I -" Thranduil starts, then pauses. Takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. Gimli doesn't dare speaking up for the moment; he bites his tongue as he nearly agrees with his boyfriend that, yeah, that was a fucking ridiculous thing to do.

"Never mind," the Elf says sharply. "You've had breakfast, yes? This morning. Are you hungry? Maybe we should – eat. Yes. Food's good. We should eat. Once we're back and off this thrice-damned fucking bumpy road -"

The road is not bumpy.

Great, Gimli thinks. Should he call somebody? His Da? Say his final goodbyes? Oh, his Da would worry but Aunt Dís would find it hilarious. Or call Kíli and Fíli and tell them to never ever interact with too many Elves because they're trouble – most of them anyway, and the brothers don't need more of that do they? Or at least for their mother's sake. Yeah. Then call Dwalin to – wait, no; that would just give the Dwarrow the unjust pleasure of stating 'I told you so'. Which he does not deserve, ever.

Legolas clears his throat again. "Adar." There's a mutter in Sindarin. It sounds suspiciously like a reprimand.

"We'll eat. Lunch. And then we'll …" Thranduil's face twists into a grimace. Very un-Elflike. "… talk."

Legolas looks bewildered, like his father has just added a new word to his vocabulary. Which he might actually have. "Talk," he repeats, flatly.

"Yes. Elrond … thought it to be best."

At least that's one sensible Elf. And that Lindir chap didn't seem too bad, either, from what little Gimli's seen of him. He's become very certain that they're shagging. Elrond and Lindir, that is – Thranduil has nothing to do with it, and Gimli doesn't want to think about it either way. That's just – ugh, yeah, no thanks.

"One condition," Legolas says to his father, who tightens his white-knuckled grip of the wheel. He probably doesn't think his son is in any position to make demands right now. "No wine. At all. Seriously, Ada, this is becoming embarrassing. What would Daerada have said?"

Make that two sensible Elves - Mahal bless him.

It is such a relief to get out of the car eight minutes later and stumble out on the gravel patio. Honestly, for a bit there, Gimli was chilled down to his bones with fear. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud, of course. But somebody might have died. And the road to Thranduil's mansion is in the middle of nowhere, and it'd be far too easy to dump a body -

Suddenly Legolas whips around to stare at him with wide eyes. "Gimli, are you all right?"

What? Oh, he might have said that last part out loud. Oops.

His boyfriend bites his lip, offering a hand, pointedly ignoring his father's sudden stumble on the steps up to the door as he grabs his Dwarf. "Come on. Nobody's going to die, promise."

"But this is how it would end if it were a movie. Unless this is a romantic comedy, which it's not," Gimli stresses, and Legolas laughs - laughs! It's pretty soothing, actually, and Gimli finds himself relaxing a little.

"Oh, c'mon," the blonde stage-whispers. "You're a Dwarf. Surely you're not scared of some puny Elf?"

"He's your Da."

"Hey, did you see me quaking when I met yours?"

"Well," Gimli admits, "no. But he didn't get drunk and throw radios out of cars!"

"He's got a bit of a temper, that's all. We promised we'd talk, so we'll talk. Look, he's a bit grumpy, but he's over a hundred years old - sooner or later he'll realize he's acting a bit like a brat," Legolas says, then pauses. "Hopefully."

Well ... "At least he promised food."