PROMPT: "okay i get that there are no seats left in this cafe but like i am trying to read here no you cannot have this chair my feet are using it thank you very much please get out of my face now" au
Lothiriel can only blink in horror at the sight that greets her.
The usually quiet cafe is jam packed. Every table is full. Every chair occupied.
And there's not a familiar face in sight.
Though, to be fair, she's fairly short, which makes craning over the press of bodies nigh impossible. She thinks she might spot Sam's riotously curling hair somewhere near the back, but she also thinks she sees Rosie Cotton's equally curly head beside him, and she wouldn't interrupt that for all the world.
Finally, after dodging a few elbows and nearly ending up sitting on a table surrounded by what appears to be an entire rugby team, she spots an empty seat.
And a familiar face.
Glad that the stuffiness of the cafe has already put some color in her cheeks, Lothiriel manages to wind her way over to where Eomer is sitting. Normally, she can barely string two coherent sentences in front of Eowyn's obscenely attractive brother, but desperation to sit and start studying for her final makes her usual tongue-tiedness seem ridiculous.
(Alright, it's ridiculous all the time. If only he weren't so good-looking. Or nice, underneath his gruff exterior. And so good to Eowyn, only mildly terrorizing to Faramir, and able to manage all three of her brothers. There's good reason why she's had a crush on him for the better part of two years.)
"Eomer," she says, willing herself not to flush when his eyes flick up to meet hers. "Can I sit?"
Lothiriel nods at the chair where he currently has his feet propped up; it's rather inconsiderate, come to think of it, when the shop is so crowded, but she knows how much he values his privacy.
He stares at her for a moment, unmoving. "There's nowhere else?"
Crush or not, there's no reason for him to be so rude! "Does it look like there's anywhere else?" She asks, a little more snark than she usually displays around him seeping into her tone.
Eomer blinks at her, as if he's never seen her before. "I'm comfortable."
"Oh, for Valar's sake," she groans, because she needs to do well on this final and she's tired of sitting in her flat while Eowyn and Faramir coo at each other, "just shift your feet over a bit."
He does, albeit grudgingly, giving her a tiny amount of space to squeeze herself into. The upside? His feet have made the chair warm. The downside? He's obscenely tall on top of being criminally good-looking, which means her feet are nowhere close to reaching the chair he's currently watching her warily out of.
"I'm not going to bother you," she finally grumbles, after she's successfully extracted her book from her bag and gotten settled. "I just need to study and I couldn't stay in the flat anymore."
(Honestly, she's a bit hurt by his reaction. They've known each other for years, and while she'd be hard-pressed to call them friends, she certainly doesn't think she's ever done something to make him dislike her.)
He nods, turning his attention back to his own book.
And Lothiriel buries her nose in her textbook, willing herself to understand the material she feels as if she could recite from memory. She doesn't mean to slump lower in the chair, doesn't mean to be lulled into a daze by the low murmur of the other cafe-goers' conversations, or the warmth of the nearby fire-she's just so tired, and surely no one would mind if she shut her eyes for just a few minutes..
Eomer looks up to find Lothiriel asleep in the chair across from him, head slumped over onto its arm and her book dangling precariously from her fingers.
He feels an absurd rush of fondness before irritation follows after. Lothiriel's been a puzzle since the moment he'd met her. Eowyn had had nothing but good things to say about Faramir's youngest cousin: how sweet she was, how funny, how genuine. But the girl he's seen the past few years has been anything but, when it comes to him. Bema, it's as if she's scared of him. Always the first to ease out of a conversation he joins, rarely speaking directly to him if she does get roped into staying...none of it makes sense.
He's seen her with her brothers, with Eowyn, with Faramir. Helle, even Eothain knows a more outgoing Lothiriel than he does.
To say he'd been surprised that she'd spoken to him, let alone all but demanded the chair, would be an understatement. There'd been nothing of her usual silence, her wariness when she'd dropped herself into the chair, ignoring his feet, as if this were a normal event.
It doesn't follow.
"Well, well," comes a familiar voice, "isn't this cozy."
Eomer turns his head to glare at his best friend.
Eothain grins back at him.
"She didn't give me much choice," Eomer grumbles. He considers getting up, to move away to stave off whatever inane-and completely inappropriate comments-Eothain is bound to make, but there's no way to do so without jostling Lothiriel out of her sleep. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, she needs it.
Eothain snorts. "I'd imagine not. Lothiriel must have been truly desperate to sit by your feet, Eomer."
He can't help but bristle at at that; even Eothain seems to know the reason she's so reserved around him. "She could have gone anywhere else."
The other man looks bemused at his suddenly harsh tone. "I only meant it must have taken her quite a bit of courage-"
"Courage?" Eomer spits. "Because I'm such a frightening, crass, uncivilized Northman?"
Eothain's expression morphs from confusion to exasperation. "Bema's balls, Eomer. Is that why you think she's so shy around you?"
It is, of course it is, though deep down he knows enough about Lothiriel to know she'd never think such a thing. Eowyn is her best friend and flatmate, and she and Eothain are as thick as thieves. She has as much problem with them being from Rohan as she does with Legolas' archery competitions, or Gimli being a jeweler, which is to say, none at all.
"You really can be thick headed sometimes," Eothain is saying, running a hand through his unruly red hair. "She can scarcely get two words out around you because she fancies you, you great tit."
Eomer can feel his mouth fall open into a gawk. Lothiriel, fancy him? In his experience, that would require actually getting to know and spend time with the person one was interested in, rather than running for the hills any time they so much as looked at you. "Right," he says.
Eothain rolls his eyes. "I am right, thank you very much. She's liked you for years, to listen to Wilfled tell it, but has herself so convinced of your general indifference that she wouldn't dare say a word about it. Not to Eowyn, and certainly not to you."
"You've lost it," he mutters, but the more he thinks about it...oh, Bema, it does make sense. It has been shyness, not dislike, that had made her so reluctant to speak, and all of those blushes hadn't been born from aggravation, but embarrassment…
"You like her, too," Eothain informs him, as if Eomer needs anything else to digest at the moment. "Else it wouldn't have bothered you so much to think she was afraid of you, or some shit-"
Lothiriel's book slips from her lip fingers at the most inopportune moment, falling to the floor with a loud smack. She jumps, head shooting up and eyes opening in an almost comically quick motion.
Her eyes dart to his, then to his feet-where one of her arms has been wrapped around for the better part of twenty minutes-then to Eothain, who Eomer can just make out offering her a jaunty wave. The blush that floods her face is a familiar sight, by now, but there'd be no reason for it to be out of irritation, or disquiet. It's sheer, unadulterated embarrassment that has her stuttering out an apology and starting to shove her book back into her bag.
"Lothiriel," he says, willing his voice to be as gentle as possible. "It's fine. I should be the one apologizing."
Her eyes-wide and dark and impossibly pretty-flick back up to his. "For what?"
"For not giving you the chair in the first place," he says. "And for acting like an utter arse."
Eomer ignores Eothain's gleeful snort.
"I-it's alright," she says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't really give you much choice on whether you wanted to share the chair or not-"
"Oh, don't let him out of this one, Lothiriel," Eothain interrupts. "Man owes you a coffee, at least, for not moving his giant feet out of your way."
A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. It's an utterly endearing expression that he's too distracted by to say anything, until he flinches at the the sudden dig of Eothain's elbow into his side, accompanied by a loudly hissed, "Dinner, ask her to dinner, you great idiot."
Lothiriel blushes anew, shooting a glare in Eothain's direction. "Coffee is just fine."
Eothain grins, unapologetic. "I'd say both. Milk it for all it's worth."
"Eothain," they both groan at him, and he holds his hands up in a placating gesture. He ambles off not long after, leaving them smiling somewhat helplessly at each other.
"So," he finally says, "start with the coffee?"
She nods, still blushing, but there's no mistaking the pleased surprise on her face. Bema, he's been such an idiot.
(Eothain, unsurprisingly, gives an absolutely mortifying toast at their wedding.
"You thought I was afraid of you?" Lothiriel asks, incredulous.
"It seemed like a possibility at the time," he grumbles, shifting a little so she can balance more comfortably in his lap.
She rolls her eyes, leaning down to kiss him. "You really are an idiot."
"You married me anyways."
"True," and at this, she grins, "and the only one who should be afraid of you is Eothain."
"Clearly not enough," he grumbles.)