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Bard was in a bind. It was the middle of the afternoon on a day when he was supposed to be driving a shipment of fresh fish from the docks to a restaurant on the other side of town. Instead of sitting behind the wheel of a medium-sized refrigerated truck, however, he was sitting behind the wheel of his 17-year-old rust-bucket and heading to the arts district to meet a wedding planner, of all things.
Sigrid and Fíli were finally tying the knot after almost six years of tooth-achingly sweet courtship, and Fíli’s mother, Dís, had suggested they employ a professional to help ensure the perfect day. It made sense. The Durins were those sorts of people, people with old money. And while Dís was kind and charming and generous, a small part of Bard couldn’t help but feel completely out of his depth. Sigrid had already met with this wedding planner guy four times over as many months, and apparently they still had work to do.
Bard thought back wistfully of his own courthouse wedding to Sigrid’s mother. They’d put on their Sunday best on a Tuesday afternoon, said some words in front of a judge, signed some papers, and that was that. No muss, no fuss. He could only imagine the number of guests that would be on the Durin side of the invitation list. Those high-society folks would expect a spectacle, too. Dís was probably right: they did need a professional.
Besides, it didn’t really matter whether he thought she was right or not. The Durins were going to pay for most of the affair anyway. Bard had a hard enough time making sure he picked up enough routes in a week to cover the bills, and Tilda’s karate lessons were getting more expensive every year. He already had an extra shift scheduled overnight on Friday, and he strongly suspected more would be in his future given the kind of neighborhood in which this wedding planner had chosen to place his office.
It was old, near the center of town, pre-dating zoning laws such that businesses intermingled with houses seamlessly. Each block was full of brick and corinthian columns and porch swings, and Bard almost drove right by the building that housed Oropherion Events. It was an unassuming brick two-story building on the corner. The first floor held the offices and the second, presumably, was an apartment for the owner. The brick had been painted over in cream and dark blue, and even from the road Bard could see that all the fixtures were brass.
He found himself a parking spot on the street, checked his hair and teeth in the rear-view mirror, then got out and smoothed his shirt down as well as he could. Hopefully Sigrid and Fíli had beaten him there, otherwise he’d stand out like a daffodil in February. Loitering outside, however, would surely garner him more attention in this kind of neighborhood, so he swallowed his self-consciousness and approached the door. When he read the sign etched into the glass he closed his eyes lest he roll them.
By Appointment Only
Of course they were only open by appointment. Of course this would be the agency that Dís Durin insist her son employ. Every inch of this place smacked of elegance, and Bard had never felt more out of place. He looked down at himself one last time before reaching for the door. Well. It would have to do.
A bell on the door jingled cheerily when he stepped inside. He could hear the sounds of movement coming from a room in the back, but no voices. Sigrid wasn’t here yet. But if he could hear the person in the back room, they certainly could have heard the bell at the door, so rather than call out to them he stuffed his fists in his pockets and had a look around. The front room was large and open, every wall lined with tall, sleek shelves. There were books all about fashion, flowers, and decor; bins stuffed with fabrics; and samples of floral arrangements made with silk flowers. Photographs scattered here and there provided evidence of the firm’s final products. It was a good thing Sigrid was marrying up, he thought ruefully, or there’d be no way he could ever give her anything like this.
“Oh, hello.” Out of the back room came a tall man about Bard’s age with long silver hair tied back in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. He had thick black eyebrows that only made his ice-blue eyes all the more stunning. Each movement he made as he entered the room was deliberate and graceful, and Bard found himself wondering what had brought this man to the wedding planning industry; he looked like he’d fit in just as well in a ballet company.
“I’m Thranduil Oropherion,” he purred. “And you are…?”
“Bard, Bard Bowman,” he stuttered, not completely recovered from his reverie. “I’m the father of Sigrid, of the bride.”
“So lovely to see a father taking interest in wedding planning,” Thranduil said as he began to peruse his bookshelf. “Too often the activity is so unnecessarily gendered.”
He looked to Bard as if seeking a response but it came late. Bard was too busy taking in the sight of long fingers plucking sleek covers from the shelves. The navy blue suit Thranduil wore made his long legs look longer, his silver hair shiny instead of grey, and Bard found himself gaping.
“I, uh. I agree?” He could feel the flush rising under his collar now, and tried coughing a bit to cover it up. What was wrong with him? He was here to help Sigrid plan her wedding. Sure, it turned out Dís had gotten them to hire some sort of otherworldly ethereal god with a voice of pure ambrosia, but Bard had to pull it together. The last thing he needed was for this beautiful, elegant man to think he was some kind of uncultured hick. Even if he sort of was one.
“Of course,” Thranduil said, “it seems you’ve arrived ahead of your lovely daughter.”
“Oh, she’ll be late to her own funeral, that one.”
“Will she?” Thranduil chuckled quietly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I didn’t mean– She’s a good girl,” Bard blurted, wincing. He hadn’t meant to badmouth her.
“I’m sure.” Thranduil handed his stack of books to Bard and turned to the other side of the room to peruse through small bins of fabrics.
“She is!” Bard insisted, trailing after Thranduil rather like a lost duckling. “Gosh, if you knew how much she’s done for me, for our family…” He hefted the books higher in his arms and sighed. “If tardiness is her only flaw I’ll count that as a win, you know?”
Thranduil peered at Bard and arched an eyebrow. “My son isn’t perfect either. No child is, of course. I only meant that I would need to keep Sigrid’s propensity for tardiness in mind when allotting time for each item on her schedule.” Bard’s cheeks flushed hot and Thranduil gave a small, yet not unkind smile. “Sigrid is a delight to work with. You needn’t convince me.”
“I… Oh.” Bard let himself relax a little as he followed Thranduil down the row of bins. “You have a son?”
“I do,” he answered. “He’s grown now too, off on his own. When we last spoke he was starting some sort of arts collective or fellowship or commune or something, with several friends from school.”
The soft yellow light coming from strategically-placed lamps made the space feel more like a home than a business, and Bard felt his professional guard slip away. Thranduil too looked rather soft around the edges; his shoulders had relaxed and his hands smoothed down the front of his pants before clasping together again in front of him.
“You miss him,” Bard murmured through a throat thick with emotion, realizing just how similar their situations were.
“Every day,” Thranduil answered.
They stood there for a moment, Bard unsure of what to say and unwilling to break the silence to say it, until Thranduil broke the spell, rapping his knuckles on the table next to him. “Now,” he said, laying out the chosen fabric swatches in front of them. “These samples are some ideas I had after the first few meetings with Sigrid and Fíli. This would be used for table runners, swags across the head table, maybe bows for chair covers. They’ll add a pop of color against the white tablecloths, tie in the centerpieces, and overall just make everything look very polished.”
Bard shifted the weight of the books over to rest on his hip, then tentatively reached out a hand to flip through the fabrics. They were soft, silky, delicate, and snagged on the callouses on Bard’s palm. He snatched his hand away lest he do any damage. “They’re beautiful.”
“Yes, yes,” Thranduil tutted. “They’re all beautiful. But which ones do you think will capture Sigrid’s eye?”
He looked more closely this time, setting the books down on the corner of the table so he could hold up each swatch and examine it carefully. Now he could tell that some were gauzy, some were heavy, some had glittery thread woven through it. After a moment of careful consideration, he picked out a cornflower blue fabric of medium weight. It was sleek but not glitzy, simple but elegant. Out of the whole pile set before him, that one was Sigrid’s.
He held it out to Thranduil, who looked intensely pleased. “Perfect,” he murmured, and Bard felt himself begin to flush again under the praise. When Thranduil took the swatch from him, their fingers brushed so purposefully that Bard began to wonder if his sudden and surprising crush was actually requited. There were worse ways to meet people, he supposed. He took a halting, shuffling step towards Thranduil but the ringing of the bell on the front door stopped him short.
“Da!” Sigrid exclaimed. “I am so sorry I’m late.”
“Sigrid,” he answered, putting on a smile as he turned to greet her.
“Miss Bowman,” Thranduil said, holding up the fabric swatch Bard had picked out. “What do you think about this one for your accent? Your father and I went out on a limb.”
Sigrid put her purse down on one of the neo-classical chairs set around the table and took the fabric from him. She ran her fingers over it, then peered at the rest of the collection scattered over the table. “Yes, it’s perfect.”
Bard grinned, resisting the urge to pump his fist in victory. When he looked at Thranduil, he found the other man smiling back at him. Warmth blossomed in his chest and he looked down quickly, cleared his throat and said, “Guess I still know you pretty well, eh little dove?”
“Of course you do, Da.” Sigrid rolled her eyes, but her smile could have powered the whole city block.
The three of them worked for the rest of the hour, looking through Thranduil’s books of floral arrangements and sketching out what kinds of flowers would be needed where. No surface was safe: the chuppah would of course be covered in them, as would the end chair of every other row of guest seating. Each table would have a centerpiece, the bar would have tiny bud vases, and even the bathrooms would have small arrangements on the counters by the sinks.
At 3 p.m. sharp Thranduil closed his notebook with a snap. “This looks wonderful,” he said, eyes shining with satisfaction. “I reserved this date for you with my top three florists, so I’ll take our plans over to them and get price quotes and any pictures they might have so you can visualize everything. I will email them to you and Fíli, and we should be able to make a decision by the end of the week then.”
Bard frowned. From everything he’d heard about planning weddings, it was that people like florists usually required deposits. Non-refundable deposits. So who was paying those? When he looked to Sigrid, she hardly looked concerned about wasting money. Far from that, she was beaming. Thranduil looked self-satisfied as well... How dare he just throw someone else’s money around like it was nothing?
“Thank you, Thranduil,” Sigrid sighed. “This is all going so much more smoothly than I could have ever dreamed.”
“That’s the hope, my dear.”
She stood up and collected her things, then bent down to kiss the top of Bard’s head. “Bye, Da. See you at Tilly’s tournament on Saturday, yeah?”
“Yep. Bye, love.”
When the door closed behind her, Bard took his time rising to his feet. “So, Thranduil,” he began, crossing his arms over his chest. “Who’s fronting these undoubtedly non-refundable deposits you’ve been blowing on florists we’re not sure we’ll use? I know the Durins have money, okay, but surely that’s no reason to waste it.”
Thranduil peered at Bard for a moment, then stood up and fastened the top button of his suit coat. “Do not speak about that which you do not understand,” he said coolly. “I make people’s dreams come true for a living, Mr. Bowman. My business is my business. You’d do well to keep to your own.” He turned his back on Bard and began sorting the fabric swatches and silk flowers into their appropriate bins.
Anger flared, and Bard clapped a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder to pull him back around. “Hey, I deserve a straight answer.”
“Hey,” Thranduil replied in a mocking imitation, “no, you do not. This is not your wedding.” He peeled Bard’s hand off of his shoulder and fixed him with a steely gaze. “Your name is not on the contract. I do not owe you anything. If Sigrid has a problem with the way I’m handling her account, then she is free to bring it up with me at any time. Are we clear?”
Bard’s cheeks burned. Dammit but the man had him there. “Yes,” he bit out. “We’re clear.” He turned and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, whipping it around and over his shoulder on his way to the door.
“However,” Thranduil added, stopping Bard in his tracks. “Since I know your question comes from concern for your daughter, and not an express desire to be a nosy little git, I will tell you that I front the extra deposits for accounts like these.”
“What?” Bard turned, his arms dropping to his sides so his jacket trailed on the floor. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Thranduil said with a put-upon sigh, “this is a business that thrives on word-of-mouth, and I ensure that only good words come to the mouths of influential people. After all, how did Sigrid find me?”
“Dís suggested you,” Bard answered warily.
“And how did Dís find me?” Thranduil sounded almost bored, like he was leading a preschooler through the alphabet.
“I dunno, she must’ve went to some other party you planned?”
“Yes, and she asked her brother how he accomplished such a lavish and downright fun event. And he told her that he’d found out about me by going to the Sackville-Baggins wedding, which I planned, and Lobelia found me by going to a baby shower I put together for the Brandybucks.”
Thranduil leaned into Bard’s space, looking him straight in the eye with an aggression Bard frankly hadn’t anticipated. “Do you see now? Thousands a year in lost deposits is nothing if I can get the perfect florist every time, if I can win bidding wars for venues without blowing the budget, if I can get an aesthetician to drop everything and save the day after the bride’s sister’s husband’s cousin fucks up her hair the night before.” He stood back up straight and picked up the stack of books from the table. “I run a very successful business, Bard, and I resent the implication that I accomplished this by cheating people out of their money.”
Bard hadn’t felt this utterly cowed since he was a child. “I… I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology,” Thranduil replied simply. “Don’t let me keep you.” And though it had been phrased as if it were Thranduil imposing on Bard’s time, Bard knew in no uncertain terms that he had been dismissed.
He put his jacket over his arm and left the building without another word. That was awful, and he knew it. Well, what did Oropherion expect, huh? How was Bard supposed to know how to run an event planning business? He was just a truck driver. God forbid he make sure his daughter wasn’t taken advantage of by this silky-voiced asshole. Still, leave it to Bard to jump to the worst possible conclusion. He fell into the driver’s seat of his car with an audible sigh, started the engine, and checked his mirrors. Yeah, he should probably work on that.
The next few times Sigrid asked Bard to come with her to meet Thranduil, he’d begged off. Mostly his excuses were valid: he had to work, he had to take Tilda shopping for wedding shoes, it was his only free day to pick up groceries. A small part of him felt guilty; after all, he’d promised Sigrid and Fíli he would help them. But it did work - Bard successfully avoided Thranduil for months.
Until Sigrid forced his hand, that is, and made an appointment for him to meet with Thranduil so he could learn the father-daughter dance. Eight p.m. on a Wednesday and Bard was feeling like a fool yet again. He had finished a route delivering pigs of all things, picked Tilda up from play practice and dropped her at home, then turned around just in time to swing through the drive-thru of a burger joint on his way to meet Thranduil. His air conditioning was broken, of course, so he smelled like pig shit and man sweat and mustard. Wonderful.
Bard parked his car and wiped his hands and mouth on an already-greasy napkin. Grimacing, he dug around under the seat for a package of wet wipes he’d bought one day when Tilda and Bain had been bested by their ice cream treats. He pulled two out and wiped off his hands and face. Then, checking his mirrors to make sure no one was around to see, he pulled out a couple more and wiped out his armpits, down his arms and up to the back of his neck, any place he could easily reach. Well he might smell like a freshly diapered baby now, but at least it was better than smelling like a freshly babied diaper.
Finally he popped a piece of gum in his mouth and left the safety of his car for the offices of Oropherion Events. Thranduil appeared moments after Bard rang the bell, wearing only trousers and a button-down shirt. His suit coat and tie were gone for the night, apparently, and he looked even better for it, damn him. “Bard, thank you for coming.”
“Sure,” he said, and stepped through the door. He hadn’t been paying attention before, but now Bard could see that the tables and chairs normally spread around the front room were pushed to the side or completely removed. The hardwood floor glistened in its emptiness, and Bard arched an eyebrow. “Impromptu dance floor?”
“This is what you get for coming in after hours.” Thranduil stepped to the center of the room and continued, “No one actually likes watching two people just sway around in a circle for five minutes, so I’ve cut down the song Sigrid chose to just under two.”
“That still sounds like a long time,” Bard said, folding his arms across his chest. What exactly did Thranduil have planned? He was not exactly a big musical number sort of person, and neither was Sigrid, he thought.
“Trust me,” Thranduil shrugged. “It’s better than five.” He turned to a small table in the corner that housed a speaker, turned it on, and checked that his phone was connected properly. “Now tell me what you know about dancing.”
“I’m not completely hopeless,” Bard said, cursing the defensive tone he hadn’t meant to use. “Mara and I used to go out fairly often, before… Well. Before we had kids.”
“So, twenty-six years ago? Wonderful.” Thranduil beckoned Bard to the middle of the room, and positioned them side-to-side. “Now the song Sigrid chose is in four, so we’ll start with a basic step and then just add in a few things here and there. I’m not choreographing a big gaudy number for the two of you to perform. It just isn’t your style or hers, thank God.” He pulled his hair over his shoulder and started stepping in time with the music. “Instead, I’m going to show you both how to do a few things and leave it up to you to string them together in the moment. It will be much less stress for the two of you, and much more enjoyable for the rest of us to watch.”
Bard started to step along with Thranduil, imitating his movements until soon he wasn’t even thinking about it. Without warning Thranduil turned so he was in front of Bard, now stepping opposite so their feet slotted together. Thranduil held his hands up, and Bard tentatively placed one hand on his waist and the other in Thranduil’s. Bard could feel the warmth emanating through his shirt, and while Thranduil wasn’t an overly-muscular man there was a strength there that sent a flush up the back of Bard’s neck. His hand was soft, and Bard felt a pang of embarrassment at the callouses on his palms and the grease still stuck under his fingernails.
Yet Thranduil really didn’t seem to notice. “I see the muscles have retained their memory,” he smirked. “What if I do this?” Instead of continuing in their rote four-step, he let go of Bard’s shoulder and started stepping around him.
Bard smiled despite himself and held onto Thranduil’s hand as he circled around, catching his hip again and stepping back into place. “Twenty-six years isn’t that long,” he chuckled.
“No indeed.”
They continued on like that for a while, moving through song after song. Every time Thranduil would spin out and return to Bard’s arms, their bodies were a little closer together, their hands a little lower on each other’s bodies. The neighborhood around them was quiet, and besides the music only the occasional car passing by could be heard. Without all the natural light coming in from the windows, the few lamps scattered around the outside of the room provided a dim, warm light that kept Bard feeling soft and fuzzy around the edges.
Eventually the music stopped and their movements slowed. Bard looked up into Thranduil’s eyes and saw the same softness he felt reflected there. Could the connection Bard sensed those months ago be real? He let go of Thranduil’s hand, sliding his up into the sleek silver-grey hair that had so caught his attention when they first met. Thranduil blinked, wetting his lips with his tongue when he looked down at Bard’s mouth. The air between them was charged with a simmering energy he had to taste. Before he could think too hard about it Bard leaned in, raising himself up onto the balls of his feet, hoping as his eyes fluttered shut that he’d be met halfway.
When soft lips pressed against his Bard felt a thrill run down his spine. He smiled despite himself, and could feel Thranduil smile too before he kissed again. Their tongues slipped against each other, tasting lips and teeth, languid movements as Bard and Thranduil slowly explored each other in the middle of the dance floor. It was everything Bard had imagined despite himself over the past few months, everything he’d tried to stop himself thinking about and dreaming about whenever he had a quiet moment.
Then, it was over. Thranduil stilled and moved back, and Bard lowered himself onto flat feet again. “I’m sorry,” Bard murmured. “I… uh.”
“It’s all right.”
“And I’m sorry again about what I said the last time we–”
“–That’s already forgotten.” Thranduil smiled softly, but added, “We can’t do any more of this though. It’s quite inappropriate to start a relationship with a client’s father,” he lowered his forehead to Bard’s, “as much as it pains me.”
Bard winced. He was right, it would be ethically dubious at best. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”
“But as soon as the cake is cut, my duties are over,” Thranduil interrupted yet again, though Bard couldn’t bring himself to mind all that much. “So I suppose I’ll see you then?”
He blinked, then nodded emphatically. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Good night Bard,” Thranduil said gently, ushering him to the door.
“Good night.”
~*~
The last month of wedding planning kept Bard a bit too busy to pine, though the day before as he helped string lights and tie bows, the nearness of Thranduil served as a constant distraction. Nevertheless the ceremony went off without a hitch, the pictures were perfect, and the reception kicked off with lots of laughs and only a few happy tears. Thranduil proved his worth, making sure Bard had an extra handkerchief, keeping drinks in hands, ushering photographers to the best possible shots.
Fíli and Sigrid cut the cake and fed each other sweet little bites, and before Bard could blink the band leader called for the married couple’s first dance. It was romantic and precious and over all too soon. Fíli left Sigrid behind, and she stood there in the middle of the dance floor almost shyly, hands clasped under her chin. Music started to play and Bard felt a hand at the small of his back pushing him towards her.
“Hi Da,” Sigrid beamed.
“Hi, little dove,” he murmured, taking her in his arms.
There’s a man who always stood right by me
Tall and proud and good when times were bad.
Bard chuckled as the tune brought a memory to mind of tiny feet standing on his, Mara’s pregnant belly keeping Sigrid in place as they all danced to one of her old records. “You remember that?” he asked, slightly incredulous. She had been so young.
“Of course I do,” she smiled, eyes shining.
This song’s not for you folks,
It’s for my dad.
Sigrid hugged him tightly, then started to dance in earnest. She spun out of his arms as the second verse swelled, having so much fun that Bard couldn’t help but enjoy himself too. Before he knew it their two minutes were over, and the band leader asked for a round of applause as Fíli and Dís replaced them.
“I’m so happy for you, dove,” Bard sniffed, hugging her close one more time.
She accepted the kiss on the top of her head, then fixed him with a look. Now go find Thranduil, Da. I want to be happy for you, too.”
Thranduil was outside the banquet hall, laying into someone on the wait staff that had somehow wronged him. “Now get out of my sight,” he snapped, and the young woman ran back to the kitchen.
“I thought you were off as soon as the cake was cut,” Bard teased.
Thranduil put a hand to his temples and sighed as he turned to face Bard. “Yes, I thought so too. Of course, I assumed that the ‘and served’ was implied there, but no. Silly me.” He shook his head ruefully. “It’s on its way out now.”
“Well then, job well done,” Bard said, putting a hand on his arm. “Now come on, enjoy the party you put together.” He let his hand slide down Thranduil’s arm and tentatively took his hand. When Thranduil didn’t pull away, Bard took a step towards him and smiled. “Or, we could… not go back to the party.”
“No, no, I intend to see this through to the end,” Thranduil replied. “Professional obligation, you see. But before I do…” He leaned in and captured Bard’s lips for the first time in over a month, and it felt just as wonderful as he remembered, soft and assertive and tender, only this time tasting of buttercream. Bard’s days had been busy, sure, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about him every night since their evening dance session. The tiny sample he’d gotten back then had been enough to keep him thinking of what could be, and now that he had it he didn’t want to let go.
When they parted, Bard heard a quiet, excited clapping from behind him. He turned to find Tilda, Bain and Sigrid stacked up on one another, hair and veil cascading behind them as they hung their heads out of the door from the banquet hall. Tilda was the one applauding, of course, despite Sigrid’s exasperated shushing.
“Hooray for you, Da!” she called, giving him a cartoonish wink even as Sigrid and Bain yanked her back into the reception.
He turned back to Thranduil with an apologetic smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about that,” he groaned. “Never a moment’s peace with those three.”
“Oh no, I have to say I agree with Tilda,” Thranduil smirked, lowering his head for another kiss. His lips brushed against Bard’s, gentle and teasing. “Hooray indeed.”