PROMPT: I wish you would write a fic where modern!Eomer fosters a bunch of kittens with his tiny wife, Lothiriel
"Pippin," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the migraine he feel swiftly approaching, "explain to me again, why there are five kittens in my house."
Pippin offers him what Eomer supposes is supposed to be a winning smile, but all it serves is to make his head throb in response. "Well, me and Merry's place doesn't allow cats, Arwen is allergic so she and Aragorn are out, Gimli and Legolas are off galavanting around the country again, Sam and Rosie have the baby-there's nowhere else for them to go! The closest shelter is nearly full, and isn't no-kill- "
"And Lothiriel said they'd be welcome," Merry pipes in, unhelpfully.
I love my wife, Eomer reminds himself. I love my wife, I love my wife, I love my wife-
"Lothiriel isn't here, now," he reminds them. "And I am much, much less fond of cats than she is-"
"Oh, come on, Eomer," Merry wheedles. "She'll be back from Faramir and Eowyn's in a day or two-what's the worst that can happen?"
The 'worst that can happen', as it turns out, is one leg of their vintage leather couch being scratched to smithereens, two of the kittens outright refusing to use the litter box-they prefer the floor of Eomer's closet, instead-and Eomer nearly having a heart attack upon waking up to find all five kittens perched on his chest, watching him sleep.
"I love my wife," he mutters, cleaning up yet another bowl of spilled milk, "I love my wife, I love my wife-"
"Your wife is glad to hear it," comes Lothiriel's voice, startling him out of his scrubbing. She must have come in while he was busy cursing the cats in Rohirric, and now she stands in front of him, grinning widely. "What have I done to deserve such adoration?"
"Given Merry and Pippin the idea that we're running some kind of cat sanctuary out of our house," he grumbles, but still rises to his knees to accept her kiss in greeting.
"What?" She asks, clearly confused.
As if on cue, a round of high pitched meowing starts in the other room. Lothiriel's face splits into an enormous smile and she all but knocks him over in her hurry to move into the living room. He groans at the sound of her happy squeal, followed directly after by cooing at the demons that happen to be conveniently kitten-shaped. "Eomer, come here! I need to know what we're calling them!"
Grumbling, he hefts himself to his feet. The sight that greets him is, admittedly, adorable: his tiny, beautiful wife, all but covered in kittens, happily stroking her hands over each one in turn. Or, it would be adorable, had the kittens not made themselves the bane of his existence over the course of the previous 48 hours.
"I haven't named them," he admits, begrudgingly settling down beside her on the floor, his back pressed against the ruined couch-leg.
"Oh, bad form, husband mine," she chides, scratching the solitary orange cat between its ears, "no wonder they've done a number on you. They don't feel welcome!"
"They're cats, Lothiriel," Eomer grouses.
"Kittens," she corrects, bumping his shoulder with hers. "And they need names."
The orange cat is quickly named 'Tigger', his three grey sisters deemed 'Smoke', 'Cinderella', and 'Twilight', until only the last, tawny colored kitten remains. He's been a particular thorn in Eomer's side, responsible for both the couch leg and the majority of the accidents in his closet.
"Trouble," he suggests.
Lothiriel smiles, crooking a finger under the kitten's chin. "What do you say to that, little one?"
The answering purr decides it.
("Lothiriel," he murmurs, the following night when he finds her curled up in bed, the kittens arranged in the space where she's curved herself around them, "we're not keeping them."
She shoots him a look that he knows all too well-it's one of the first things he'd ever fallen in love with about her, that look. "We'll see about that.")
As it turns out, they don't keep all of the kittens. Eothain and his wife could use a mouse-hunter for their stables, and Cinderella has been training by pouncing on Eomer's feet for the better part of two months. Elphir wants a calm, gentle first pet for his little daughter, and Smoke, with her wide-green eyes and sweet disposition, is the perfect fit. Tigger and Twilight are adopted by Gimli and Legolas, not only for their personalities but also for the high likelihood of their presence in the men's apartment to guarantee the absence of irritating in-laws-on both sides.
Trouble, however, stays. Much to Eomer's chagrin, the cat has been Lothiriel's special darling from the very first, curling himself around her feet at every opportunity, being pampered with tuna packs and chin scratches.
He also has the particularly annoying habit of hissing at Eomer any time he shows Lothiriel the barest semblance of physical affection. Takes her hand while watching a movie? Hissing. Dare to kiss her temple while they're making dinner? More hissing. And Bema forbid he attempt to coax his wife into the bedroom with the damned cat watching-Eomer's got three, claw-shaped scars on his ankle for daring to want to make love to his wife.
"He's just protective," Lothiriel reasons, plastered pleasantly to his side, lips swollen from kissing and her hair a rumpled mess from his hands. Trouble is yowling his displeasure from outside the door, but thankfully, Eomer is proving to be a better distraction to his softly smiling wife.
"He's a damned nuisance," Eomer grumbles, but he kisses her responding frown away before she can truly get upset. "But he has his uses."
"Such as?" She asks, with an arched eyebrow.
"Well, for starters, he helps keep those ice-blocks you call feet warm-"
Eomer receives a pillow to the face for his comment, but a kiss follows quickly after, before he can bemoan abuse.
The day he decides Trouble is worth, well, the trouble, is when he comes home to find all of the lights turned off. It's a dreary day, anyways, with rain pattering against the windows, but something feels...off.
"Lothiriel?" He calls.
There's no response. The kitchen is empty, as is the living room, the dining room...Concern mounting, he opens the door to their bedroom. Lothiriel is there, curled beneath the covers, with Trouble perched by her head. The cat offers him a steady look, for once not on the verge of attack at his appearance.
"Lothiriel," Eomer says again, worry turning swiftly to panic when her response is a slightly muffled sob. He kicks off his shoes, gingerly settling onto the bed behind her. Usually, if he gets this close, Trouble is waiting with his teeth bared and claws at the ready, but instead the cat has scooted closer to the object of their shared concern, his tail twitching nervously as she continues to cry.
Eomer tucks himself behind her, relaxing slightly when one of her hands drifts up to pull his arm around her. "Sweetheart, please," he says, trying to keep his voice even, "talk to me."
It takes a few more minutes for her to calm down to where she's not shaking in his arms anymore, and even then, it's not until Trouble gently nudges his face against her own before she speaks, saying in a tiny voice, "I'm not pregnant."
Oh, Bema, he thinks, even as he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to the back of her head. They've been married nearly three years now, and they hadn't been in any particular hurry to have children. But with Aragorn and Arwen pregnant with their second, and Elboron born a few months back, it's understandable that Lothiriel has had babies on the brain, and apparently, in her heart. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
She sniffles, but threads her fingers through his all the same. "It's so stupid-I was only a week late, but I thought-I hoped-" He can hear her swallow, and sees Trouble nuzzle her again. "What if something is wrong with me?" Lothiriel asks, voice as small as he's ever heard it.
"Then we'll go to a doctor," he says, firmly, "it could easily be on my end, Loth, and it isn't if we've really been trying."
"I know, I know," she says. "It's stupid."
"Not stupid," he assures her, giving her a gentle tug until she's rolled over in his arms, facing him, "never stupid. And if something is wrong, well...we've got Trouble, haven't we?"
That startles a watery laugh out of her and she tucks her head under his chin. "You don't even like Trouble."
"No, but you do," Eomer concedes. "I will insist we draw the line at calling him our 'fur-baby', or anything else nausea inducing-"
She pinches him. They're both quiet for a moment, Eomer absent-mindedly running a hand through her hair. Her murmured, "I love you", is almost lost under the sound of Trouble's purring, but Eomer hears it all the same.
(A year later, when Elfwine is born, Eomer can only laugh at Faramir's disgruntled expression when he's preventing from holding his nephew by a hissing ten-pound ball of yellow fur.
"I see why he's earned his name," Eowyn laughs, balancing Elboron on her hip. "What I can't fathom is how you've put up with him for two years, Eomer."
"We've reached an understanding," Eomer says, attempting to sound regal.
"Or they both realized how much it upset me that they didn't get along," Lothiriel adds with a grin. "Neither man nor cat enjoys being made to sleep on the couch.")