Later, colder; the sun is not yet setting but has withdrawn its warmth for the day. Gríma wonders idly whether supper will be the same stew he had earlier, decides that it probably will. Féola will not have had much thought left for cooking on a day like this; the slow, evercooking pot will just be refilled with more meat and vegetables and ale and maybe something more, and quite possibly thyme. Then left to mind itself. It is a good stew, Gríma just hopes he will get his bread served without further scolding.
He is out by the stables, having not wandered off all afternoon but carried water for Féola and her army of maids. They have invaded the great hall with their cleaning rags and sweeping broomsticks and other fearsome weapons to chase away dust and dirt and cobwebs. Tomorrow they will work away at the King's chambers and the council rooms, then maybe the day after they will advance into the rest of the rooms of Meduseld. Perhaps, if he draws enough water, they'll even clean his chamber. But now, the troops have regrouped in the kitchens and scullery and possibly some other hideouts as well to hold council about expected victories of the next day. They will attack again, come dawn. Gríma needs to be present then, but for now has been given leave.
Éomer King is excused from partaking in the cleaning raid because he is King and has other duties, presumably. Or maybe just because he is King. Gríma doesn't know how many duties Éomer has seen to today. It´s been a nice, warm day for not carrying water but instead sitting comfortably at one's favourite alehouse or perhaps riding out at the plains to feel the mild winds of spring and maybe lie in the high grass for a while, looking up at blue skies. Gríma thinks he remembers doing something like this, back when it was normal for him not to take directions from anyone but the King. But normal was a long time ago, and Éomer is not Théoden.
Whatever duties Éomer has or hasn't seen to he must have finished them by now, or else left them for another day since he is approaching the stables, about to ready his horse for the night. Éomer's return is why Gríma is out by the stables, seemingly busy with broom in hand (a soldier of the cleaning army, my lord) but really just wishing for a word, a glance in private before the busy hall claims its King and bestows upon him duties and mead and supper and perhaps candied fruit.
Éomer is alone at the moment though, having said his farewells to whomever were his companions for the day. As he spots Gríma, a slow smirk. Éomer can well guess why the former advisor turned traitor turned redeemed (oh yes, my lord, my King; I work hard at repentance. I'll redeem myself on hands and knees all night if it pleases you) is loitering out here. They do not have the luxury of assuming other roles than King and servant in the public play that is everyday life in Edoras. Perhaps a stray cat can look at a king, but he may not sit in his lap. That must be reserved for a consort, a queen to bear heirs to the throne and it is something they must always keep in mind but perhaps not right at this very moment. This moment can be theirs; stolen, out of sight.
Looking discreetly around, a halfhearted sweep of the broom, then Gríma follows Éomer into the stables. Watches as he removes saddle and bridle. Takes them, like would a stableboy or a page, and goes to put them away. Deliberately not thinking about how there are fewer stableboys around these days. While Éomer grooms his horse, Gríma complains about how he's aching all over; his arms, his back, his legs and how it is shameful that Meduseld has no better mechanism in place for drawing water, how one must be invented soon, preferably before the morrow. Éomer hums and nods, says he wouldn't know how to device such a system but maybe there is counsel to be had somewhere, perhaps the elves would know. Gríma starts about some innovation in Gondor involving pipes of some sort, but has to start anew once its clear that Éomer is picturing something other than he and doesn't quite get it. Or pretends not to get it, for Éomer has fed and watered his horse and wants to concern himself with things other than innovations for leading water.
Catching on, Gríma falls silent and moves swiftly to stand close to the King, leaning in for a kiss, then looking expectantly at Éomer to see him complete the action. Éomer mutters: presumptuous of you, is answered yes, I have no shame, but knows this to be a lie. He does refrain to point this out, however. Old habits die hard and Gríma has been trying to be truthful, at least whenever ordered directly. Instead, Éomer plants a kiss on Gríma's forehead, sees the other man close his eyes and let out a breath he was unaware of holding. Yes, it is still true, you are still allowed this. He tilts his head up to meet Éomer's lips, hungrily kisses him. Éomer answers, tongues meet as lips part and Gríma feels that blessed heat of Éomer's. Heat to still his hunger. There is an old story about a boy competing against fire in a food race, only the boy doesn't know, and the fire consumes everything faster than the boy can. Gríma thinks, this is the other way around. The fire feeding me, burning away my memories. He moans softly as Éomer pulls away to whisper a question: how would you like it? But Gríma, who has had no options in mind, looks confused.
...
Gríma has many words, but they fail him when it comes to talking of needs and wants. Perhaps because he has been taught that he has no right to need, to feel or to wish for anything. Was accustomed of having his needs and wants neglected, or mocked. It was not always so, but when it was so, it was devastating. It was darkness and hunger and pain. Life lessons hard to unlearn. Éomer has said that Gríma needs to learn to communicate. Gríma thinks he is communicating plenty (with looks and nods and undertones). Not well enough, says Éomer. Pleading is fine, but I would like you to be specific. So I can decide whether or not I shall grant your wishes. Gríma rolls his eyes at this, says Éomer is just being nasty. Abusing his power, as it were. What with Gríma here giving him all the signs he could possibly need. Well, I can't read your mind, says Éomer and Gríma snorts slightly, mutters that perhaps Éomer just needs to try harder. Éomer stares at him for a spell. Then pulls him close: you're thinking that you want to go down on me, and then you'd have me fuck you right here on the floor. Gríma shrugs; sure, whatever works. He thinks that what Éomer fails to see here is that he mostly just wants whatever Éomer desires. To just be desired is enough. He doesn't think Éomer has yet realized what a marvel that is: to be desired by Éomer. Éomer himself has always been desired, Gríma assumes. So would have a hard time understanding, unless Gríma tells him. Which Gríma has no plan of doing, because some truths are far too vulnerable to speak aloud. Voicing his weaknesses would leave him with no defenses, and he must have such. Must have walls. Must have secret rooms within walls within fortresses. Anyway, he does not think that Éomer needs to be made aware of this right now, because it has just occurred to him what a predicament they would be in, were they to give in to any kind of desires right here and now, as Éomer suggested. Because it's early evening, and there is large risk of people coming and going and making errands to the stable (though admittedly, not as many as there used to be before the war. No, no no no no no, that thought too must burn). Much too risky. Which Éomer should know. Which Éomer well knows. But which Éomer seems to think thrilling, or worth it, if only just to prove his point to Gríma; you need to tell me what you want. And Gríma, clamping his mouth shut, childishly wants to prove Éomer wrong; I do not have to tell you anything. It will all be well because I read you and I know what you want. Besides, you tell me what you want and I want what you want and I want you and I want you to want me and I – Gríma doesn't say, because he will not display himself as this self-effacing. He is not, not really, he just wants to prove Éomer wrong. He can be quite stubborn. But gods, so can Éomer. So Gríma says instead; if that is what you order, my liege. I'm ever at your mercy. Which, of course, makes Éomer furious.