Author's Note: Happy Valentine's Day, friends!
PROMPT: "Damn auto-correct!"
Not for the first time, Lothiriel curses her friends, vodka, and Friday nights all together.
"I think my head is going to split open," comes Merry''s voice, from somewhere in the vicinity of her couch.
"Mine's already cracked," says Pippin, who Lothiriel can just make out sprawled across the sleeping bag left over from her one attempt at camping. "Remind me to never challenge Legolas to a drinking contest again."
Lothiriel manages a snort, despite the pack of wargs currently pounding behind her temples. "Gimli could have told you that, Pip."
There's a knock at the door and they all groan. Eowyn's amused face appears, with Faramir not far behind. "Good morning."
"The light, the light!" Cries Pippin dramatically. "Turn it off!"
"That 'light' is the sun," Faramir says. "It lacks a switch, I'm afraid."
Eowyn comes to sit beside Lothiriel and gives her hair a stroke. "On a scale of 1-10?"
"Oh, a 15 easy," Lothiriel says. "Thanks for coming to pick us up."
A sudden stillness falls over the room.
Something like panic creeps up Lothiriel spine. The headache suddenly seems minor, unimportant. "What?"
Wordlessly, her phone appears in view, presented by a clearly-struggling-with-laughter Faramir.
"What," Lothiriel repeats again, "did I do?"
She looks at her phone, feeling on the verge of vomiting-and not from the hangover.
"Oh," she says. "Oh, no."
In her phone, Eowyn's name (which is accompanied by a horse, heart, and sword emoji) is directly next to Eomer's name (which is accompanied by the much less flattering grouchy-faced emoji).
"Damn auto-correct!" She cries and then winces as her head throbs in response.
"It might have been better that you did call Eomer instead, Lothiriel," Merry offers tentatively. "After all, I don't think Eowyn could have carried you out of the bar after that last shot."
Lothiriel groans, burying her face in the pillow. "Oh, Valar."
"And I don't think you would have been waxing poetic about Eowyn's biceps, either," Pippin says. "No offense, of course, 'Wyn, but I think your brother has you beat."
"None taken."
"Kill me," Lothiriel whines, grasping Faramir's hand in desperation. "Please, if you love me at all, you'll take this pillow and smother me with it."
"I'm afraid he can't," Eowyn says, sounding horribly, awfully cheerful. "Because you have a date in approximately twenty minutes."
Lothiriel shoots up, nearly knocking her forehead against Faramir's. "I have a what."
"With Eomer. At the coffeeshop on the corner. In twenty minutes," Eowyn says. Her eyes narrow in a way that Lothiriel has long since learned tends to indicate a hidden death threat. "And since he was kind enough to bring you and these two drunken hooligans-"
"Hey!" Protests Pippin. "We prefer the term 'wastrels', thank you!"
"-home last night, I suggest you go. And explain yourself."
She's out of the door in under 15 minutes, the hangover still pounding dully behind her temples, but it's less nauseating than the guilt and panic swirling under her breastbone. Of all the people to call-Eomer! Damn auto-correct! She must have been much, much drunker than she thought-she'd done so well up until now, to not let him (or anyone else, especially Eowyn) know about her very small, hardly-there-at-all crush on one Eomer Eomundson.
Every nerve in her body is on-edge when she opens the door to the coffee shop. His arched eyebrow is as familiar-and attractive-as ever and she makes one last attempt to smooth down her likely horrible looking hair before settling into the seat across from him.
"So," she says, "I'm...sorry?"
"For which part?" He asks. "Calling me at 2 in the morning? Singing with your head out the window of my car? Calling me a 'grade A Rohirric beefcake' in front of my sister and her fiance?"
Oh, Elbereth. "All of it?"
Eomer snorts. He fixes her with a look then, and this one's. Oh. It's...different, somehow, with a hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes. "What about the part where you tried to kiss me?"
Lothiriel's stomach drops to somewhere near to the depths of Moria. Or lower, maybe. "I. Um. Yes?"
That vulnerability shutters away, and Valar, she knows this look-irritation, anger, and yes, a little bit of hurt, too. She's said entirely the wrong thing.
"Of course," he says, bitterness in every tone, "of course you regret that-"
"Eomer," she interrupts, drawing courage from Elbereth knows where to reach across the table and take one of his hands-warm and calloused and attractive, something must truly be wrong with her, to be so entranced by his hands-"I only regret that I was falling-down drunk when I... When I tried to kiss you. That's not something I think would have been pleasant for either of us."
His hand is stock still in hers for a moment and she cringes, tries to pull hers back-maybe she can tell him that she's still drunk, or that this has been some kind of weird fever-dream-but then his fingers are laced through hers and he's. Oh. He's smiling. A real, honest-to-goodness Eomer Eomundson smile, complete with crinkled eyes and that one dimple she's-never-noticed-not-once.
"Another time, then," he says, voice pitched low, and Valar, if she doesn't want to launch herself across the table to test the truth of his words. But this is a public place, and her head still hurts, and part of her isn't entirely sure she hasn't dreamt the entirety of the last hour up.
"Maybe breakfast first?" She asks.
Eomer nods, his hand still warm around hers.
"What do you like here?" She asks, suddenly curious.
The spark of mischief in his eyes is utterly, utterly terrifying. "I don't know. I hear they have great grade A Rohirric-"
She flings her napkin at him and he laughs.