Fear of Fire, Chapter Eleven: Diversion
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: A day of welcome distractions relaxes Faramir enough to realize where this is headed.
A/N: Author's promise: last chapter without slash in it. :)

Faramir had not quite finished his breakfast the next morning when a knock came at the door to their chambers. Eowyn got up to see what it was; a moment later, she came back into the rotunda where they were eating breakfast, frowning slightly, and held out a small piece of parchment to him. It had only one thing written on it: Come see me as soon as you can. It was unsigned, but it didn't matter. Faramir recognized the handwriting, as the sender had known he would.

He finished his breakfast quickly and went to the king's study. Aragorn was waiting for him inside, staring blankly at a sheet of parchment in his hands with unmoving eyes.

"Good morning," Faramir said cautiously.

Aragorn glanced up, blinking - it seemed to take him a minute to register who was there. Then he smiled broadly. "Faramir." He gestured Faramir into the seat across from him, tossing the parchment down on the desk. "Good morning." He continued smiling at Faramir for a minute, starting to unnerve the younger man. "What are you doing today, Faramir?"

Faramir thought for a minute. The council was set to convene tomorrow at noon - he had been planning on spending the day grilling the various under-stewards and generally making a terror of himself if he had to to make sure everything would go as planned. It was important to him that Aragorn's first council be a success.

"Reviewing arrangements for the council tomorrow."

"Someone else can attend to that, though, can they not?" Aragorn asked, waving his hand dismissively.

"I suppose," Faramir said with great misgivings. "What do you wish of me?"

"I want you not to work," Aragorn declared.

Faramir was amused. "And what should I do instead?"

"Go on a picnic," Aragorn replied, unperturbed.

Faramir blinked. "A... picnic?"

"Yes, Aragorn replied calmly.

Faramir started at him a moment. "Very well...but...isn't this a little sudden?" Sudden suspicion made him narrow his eyes. "Why do you want me out of the city?"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Oh, Faramir, it's not like that. I'm coming too."

"You're...what?"

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A few hours later, a slightly less mystified Faramir found himself lounging on a grassy hill some miles south of Minas Tirith, arguing with Aragorn over who was entitled to the last lemon tart and watching their wives splash each other in a nearby stream. The only conclusion his food-muddled mind could come to was this: when the king wanted to take a holiday, he really took a holiday.

Any lingering tension from their argument of the day before had melted away as Aragorn jovially herded the three of them into a carriage, going so far as to threaten Eowyn with Anduril when she dutifully protested. Then he had instructed the driver to take them out of the city and not to stop until they were at least a league away from Minas Tirith, not even if he heard death cries from within the cab.

When escape was rendered impossible, Faramir gave up and started to relax. It didn't take him long to realize Aragorn had been right; they needed a day off to recuperate before the Council convened. Then he wound up feeling guilty for having fought with Aragorn the day before. He was still convinced that Aragorn had done wrong, but there had been no reason for him to go and make a scene over it.

Fortunately, Aragorn seemed willing to forget about the whole thing. Neither he nor Faramir had gone anywhere near the subject - in fact, they were talking about everything but work. Friends, family, their childhoods, their pet peeves and causes, the women they were married to. Faramir could not remember the last time he'd had a conversation that flowed so well or engrossed him so much. Before he knew it the food had disappeared and they were holding laughable contests over dessert items. Faramir won the lemon tart by proving himself more flexible; Aragorn earned the bit of fudge they had by writing more ledgibly with his left hand, but soon had to surrender it to Arwen. Now a raspberry tart was in contention and they were engaged in a hysterical, but nonetheless fierce, battle to prove whose ancestors had suffered more in the service of Gondor.

Not very far away, the women were wading in a stream and being amused that the sight of their skirts tucked up nearly to their waists did nothing to distract the menfolk. "After all, it's not that they're completely immune to our charms," Arwen pouted playfully. "We do manage to get them into our beds."

"I don't know about your bed, Arwen, but mine requires a certain amount of compassion and a great deal of pretending," Eowyn replied frankly. She had long since lost any inhibitions about speaking freely in front of this exhalted Elven lady; Arwen made it her mission to make others comfortable around her. Eowyn did of course sometimes find herself attracted to Arwen; it was impossible not to occasionally yearn for such a beauty. But she had accepted that Arwen could not be hers that way and had contented herself with friendship.

"Mmm. I don't know anything about what Aragorn thinks about while we make love," Arwen confessed. "I've never asked. I don't know that my ego could handle knowing," she added with a smile.

"Oh, I know exactly what Faramir thinks about..." Eowyn started mischievously.

"Stop!" Arwen cried, laughing and deliberately splashing water on Eowyn. "I don't want to know." Eowyn grinned, but kept her silence.

Arwen grabbed Eowyn's hand for balance as they continued down the river, trying not to slip on the mossy stones. "Tell me something," she said after a moment. "How does Faramir feel about Aragorn?"

Eowyn looked at her, perplexed. "In what manner?"

Arwen shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and not quite managing it. "Is he still angry?"

Eowyn considered. "I don't think so. He was yesterday, but he certainly doesn't look angry now."

"No, he doesn't," Arwen agreed in an amused tone, watching the men laughing and shoving each other, oblivious to their observation. "Do you think," she said in a casual tone, "that Faramir could ever be attracted to Aragorn romantically?"

Eowyn cocked her head to the side, examining the men. "Now, there's a thought. Yes...yes, he could, I'm certain of it." She paused. "Why?"

"Because, confidentially, my husband's got himself tied up in knots over Faramir. I've never seen him like this." Eowyn smiled. "Confidentially, you understand."

"Oh, I understand. I wouldn't tell Faramir anyway." Eowyn's grin slowly broadened as she observed the two men. "They would make an... interesting couple."

A smile played with the corners of Arwen's lips. "Maybe you could, ah, nudge your husband in the right direction?"

Eowyn's grin became positively feral. "I'll see what I can do."

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Faramir felt more confident, facing the fire that night, than he ever had before. He was calm, stuffed to the gills with good food, and for once nothing stressful or untoward had happened during the day. He stood at ease beside Aragorn, lightly holding his hand for support, and stared into the small fire they had built, and nothing happened. No memories, no blacking out, no sinister feelings of any kind assailed him. He almost felt at peace.

Until a strange tingle ran through his palm and up his arm, and he looked up at Aragorn. And found he couldn't look away.

Aragorn's face glowed with firelight, the contours of his jaw and cheeks framed softly and his eyes dancing with it. His hair captured the light and held it gently, weaving through it like strands of gold. Faramir's mouth suddenly went dry.

Aragorn continued gazing into the fire, completely unaware of the scrutiny he was now under. His face was both old and young at the same time, and weathered with cares; yet tonight it was peaceful. His grey eyes captured Faramir's blue ones without even realizing or trying to. Faramir was entranced; he could not look away.

After the longest of possible moments, the eyes that were so absorbing Faramir flicked up to meet his gaze. Molten fire swept through Faramir's insides, along with a sudden overwhelming realization. Oh...I....

Panic. Faramir stumbled backwards, his suddenly sweaty palm slipping out of Aragorn's grasp. The gentle face focused on him, concerned. For him.

"I..." Faramir could not get a complete sentence out. He was having trouble breathing; he remembered vividly how Aragorn had once kissed him here. "I'm sorry, I...can't."

Faramir fled the garden.