Chapter Text
I’m at a payphone, trying to phone home, all of my change I spent on you.
It wasn’t a known fact that Thranduil liked Maroon 5. Actually, nothing about Thranduil was a known fact to anybody, even his son. The man was secretive, reclusive, and he was careful to exchange up-to-but-not-exceeding ten words with anybody (as said by one Bilbo Baggins during their very brief conversation when Mr. Baggins stopped by last week).
Thranduil despised social interaction, plain and simple, which was really quite unfortunate because he owned a coffee shop.
It was a Tuesday. Thranduil stirred under his comforter, and blearily opened one eye, groping for his phone to shut off the alarm as Adam Levine’s voice drifted from the tiny speakers. The music abruptly stopped as he swiped his finger across the screen, and Thranduil pushed himself up, blond hair slipping past his shoulders. Glancing out the window, he grimaced at the wet drops dotting the glass pane and reluctantly pushed his covers aside, heading to the bathroom to begin the morning rituals.
Shower. Brush teeth. First cup of coffee. Dress. Turn on the news. Second cup. Read another chapter, or five, from his latest book.
By the third cup, Legolas was up and padding sleepily into the kitchen, a murmured ‘good morning’ in his wake as he made his way over to the fridge, emerging with an orange in hand. Thranduil was absorbed in his book at this time, and barely noticed his son’s presence in the room until he heard the chair scrape back across the polished floor.
“Oh.” He looked up from the page, taking a moment to focus on Legolas’s face. “Good morning.” The boy only nodded, dutifully peeling the orange in silence. Thranduil marked his place with his finger, closing the book but unsure if he should pick up conversation. He cleared his throat. “Are you staying after school again today?”
Legolas nodded again, although he replied as well this time. “Archery season started last week.” After it was clear that he wasn’t about to say anything past that, Thranduil gave an acknowledging nod. “Notify me if anything happens,” he said, even though nothing ever happened, and Legolas never notified him if anything did. Thranduil opened his book again, and Legolas shoved an orange slice in his mouth.
Thranduil opened his shop at precisely eight am, flipping the small wooden sign to open before retreating behind the counter. His shop was popular enough to garner its own group of regulars coming in and out every day, and so by the time lunch rolled around the café was buzzing with quiet conversation and the on and off whirr of the coffee machine.
“Ah, Thranduil. How good to see you again.”
Thranduil looked up from the latte he was pouring cream over and set the little cup down. “Gandalf,” he replied shortly. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Gandalf, really, but the old publisher had an unfortunate habit of sticking his nose into affairs that didn’t pertain to him and –in Thranduil’s opinion– making them worse. “How may I help you?”
Gandalf looked just as Thranduil remembered him when they first met, many years ago, which fueled his theory that the man was some type of supernatural being and not human at all. Once, when Legolas was younger, the boy had asked him if “Mr. Grey was a vampire.” He was tall, although not as tall as Thranduil, his frame covered by a dark peacoat that was dotted with drops of water. Thranduil peered past him for a moment to the window, noting the rain. It had been unrelenting all day.
“Ah, the rain,” The elder remarked, following his gaze. “Dreadful, isn’t it?” His tone did not match his words at all. “To think that it was so sunny yesterday, too.”
“Now, for my order…” he continued. “…I shall have whatever you want to give me,” he finished after a long pause, during which Thranduil stepped to the side to deliver the latte to the customer waiting. He nodded at the request, already moving to start the drink. Peppermint mocha. It was all reflexive at this point, years of making drinks of all types ingrained in his mind. “Child’s play,” his father used to say when Thranduil was younger. “After a while, you just don’t think about it anymore.”
“How have you been?” Gandalf asked after setting the money by the register. “Business appears to be well, from the looks of all these people.” Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgment, not looking up from his hands. “The same as always,” he stated, carefully pouring the coffee into a mug. He was determined to keep to his “ten words and under” rule, but Gandalf seemed equally determined to make him break it. “How about your son? It’s been a while since I’ve seen him,” the publisher commented, refusing whipped cream. “He’s in high school now?”
Thranduil set the mug on the elevated counter. “He’s fine,” he responded, ignoring the second question and fully expecting (hoping) the other to take the drink and leave. But Gandalf only turned the mug so the handle was facing him, and stayed stubbornly rooted to the spot, eyeing Thranduil with piercing blue eyes. Thranduil hated talking to Gandalf because of this very reason – Gandalf always seemed to look right through him, through his short responses and white lies, with those eyes, and it unnerved Thranduil.
“How many years has it been?” The publisher asked, quieter this time. So quiet that Thranduil thought for a moment he imagined the question. He clenched his fists, hidden behind the counter. “…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A lie. Thranduil knew exactly what Gandalf was referring to, and Gandalf knew that he knew.
“You cannot continue your life like this, Thranduil.” His expression was stern, but Thranduil could see the pity hidden in the wrinkles. He hated the pity. It was one of the reasons why he stopped talking to other people voluntarily.
“I can,” he countered. “And I will. The fortunes of the world may rise and fall, but here in this family, we will endure.” He reached up to scoot the mug closer to Gandalf. “Your coffee is getting cold. It would be a pity to waste it.” Still the other man did not take it. Goddammit, Gandalf. The publisher shook his head lightly. “Not forever. I think you shall find that out in the future, whether you want it or not.”
Thranduil remained resolute and did not deign his statement with a reply. “Your coffee.” He said with a note of finality. This time Gandalf took it with a nod of thanks and retreated to a table by the window. “Give Legolas my regards.” Were his parting words, and Thranduil breathed a silent sigh of relief when he was gone. Somewhere deep within his consciousness he knew that Gandalf was right – he couldn’t keep living a lifestyle where breaking his ten word rule made him want to hurl himself out the nearest window, where taking a trip to the grocery store was so strenuous that he had to hire someone to do it for him. It wasn’t fair to Legolas, at least, and Thranduil knew that. He was reminded of it every time he tried to communicate with his son, and failed. It’s twelve years too late, he reminded himself, cleaning the coffee machine mindlessly. You had your chance when he needed you most, and you failed.
His hand twitched, and water splashed from the cup in his grip to the smooth wooden floor. Thranduil sighed, and checked that he wasn’t needed in the café before fetching a rag and crouching down behind the counter. The bell on the door jingled a few seconds later, and footsteps approached the counter moments after that, signaling that there was a new customer. Thranduil glanced at the clock, noting that it was two pm now. Haldir usually came in around this time, and Thranduil guessed that it was his old friend, throwing the rag into the bucket in the back before straightening up.
It was most certainly not Haldir.
“Nice throw,” the customer remarked. At that moment, Thranduil was grateful for his silent reputation, because any words he would’ve said in reply died at the back of his throat. The man standing before him could’ve been the poster boy for the phrase, Tall, dark, and handsome. He was almost eye level with Thranduil, with dark hair swept back and curled at the ends. His face was pleasant, the laughter lines around his mouth showing how much he smiled. The man was even smiling now, although he looked a little more confused when the silence between them dragged on. He was dressed in a fitting wool overcoat, a dark knitted scarf would around a pale neck. He had a trimmed moustache, which made Thranduil’s lips quirk up slightly. He considered moustaches a hit or miss, and while most of the time they were a miss, this man was most definitely a hit.
“Hello?”
Thranduil stopped staring at the way water was dripping off the ends of the man’s hair. “Yes, may I help you?” As if he hadn’t spent the last minute ogling him. Wait, what?
“Could I order a coffee? It was kind of cold and wet out there. Sorry – I’m dripping all over your floor right now, I forgot my umbrella.” The man smiled apologetically, and Thranduil was tempted to reassure him that it was totally fine, I’ll clean it up in a moment, order anything it’s on the house, do you want to borrow my umbrella? But none of these words escaped his lips, only, “What would you like?”
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome glanced behind Thranduil at the menu. “A cappuccino, please. For here,” he added after a moment of contemplation, and ran a hand through wet locks. Thranduil swallowed and rang him up, noting that their hands didn’t brush when exchanging the money. He started the drink, told himself not to glance up, and was successful for the most part. That is, until the man started talking to him.
“This place yours?”
The voice startled Thranduil out of his coffee-making trance, and he had to quickly put the milk down to avoid splashing it on his hand. “Sorry,” the man apologized again. Thranduil shook his head, then remembered that he wasn’t a regular, and therefore wouldn’t know Thranduil’s cues. “It’s fine,” he stated, picking the milk up and bringing it to the frother. “Yes, I own this shop,” he replied to the man’s earlier question, having to speak up over the loud screeching of the machine.
“You work by yourself?”
Thranduil gave a short nod and released the frother spout, pouring the milk onto the coffee. When he looked up the man had a surprised expression on his face. “What?”
“I just…I’ve heard much about your café, so I had assumed that it would be a bigger team than one single person behind it’s popularity,” the man chuckled, scratching a scruffy cheek sheepishly. Thranduil found the gesture rather adorable, then squashed the thought as quickly as it had come. “How do you handle it?” Tall, Dark, and Handsome added curiously. “It must get busy in here frequently.”
“I manage,” Thranduil replied shortly, and lifted the wide-rimmed cup to the counter, complete with its own saucer and spoon. “Books are free to read at your choosing,” he stated, referring to the copious amounts of books in shelves lining the café walls. “Enjoy.” With that, he started clearing the machine, fully expecting the man to walk away.
He didn’t.
Thranduil briefly wondered what god he must have offended to curse him with two customers that refused to leave him alone (although to be honest he wasn’t really objecting to the latter). “Hold on,” the man said, fingering the cup. “Before I go, what’s your name?”
Thranduil frowned. “It’s polite to introduce yourself before asking others for their names,” he remarked before he could stop himself. The man paused in surprise, then laughed. “Aye, that’s true. Forgive me.” Thranduil noted the slight slip in his accent and tried to guess what it was. Irish? Scottish? “The name’s Bard. Pleased to meet you, Mr…?”
“Thranduil,” the blond replied quietly, lifting his hand to meet Bard’s. He had a firm handshake, and Thranduil tried not to think about how warm it was, or the last time he had held another person’s hand. Many months ago. Perhaps even a year.
Their hands lingered just a second longer than what someone would deem normal, and Thranduil reluctantly pulled his away when Bard did the same. “Thranduil,” Bard repeated, as if trying it out, and Thranduil found that he rather liked the way Bard said his name with that slight accent of his. “Wonderful.”
Thranduil only nodded, could only nod silently, and Bard finally picked up his cup and saucer. “Thank you,” he smiled, turning to find a table. Thranduil did not give him a reply, and escaped to the back room, heart in his throat. He leaned his head against the wall and breathed in and out deeply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw spots. Exhaling one last time, he straightened up and decided to take stock, telling himself that it had to be done eventually and he was most definitely not hiding from Bard. He repeated this to himself as he picked up the clipboard sitting on the cabinet.
When he returned to the storefront in response to the bell on the counter, Bard had already gone. There was a white piece of paper stuffed in the tip jar, and Thranduil cautiously fished it out, like he expected it to bite him or something. Scrawled on it in slightly messy handwriting was:
The coffee was delicious. It was a pleasure to meet you.
Bard
Thranduil didn’t know whether to smile or grimace at it.
Wonderful, indeed.