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“What’s for dinner?” Bain was sat at the kitchen table with his sisters, a pencil in his hand and his forehead screwed up in a frown.
“What would you like for dinner?” Thranduil wasn’t much of a cook, but then, Bard wasn’t either, so he couldn’t imagine his children’s expectations were high.
“Cheesy pasta!” Tilda bounced in her chair. She had dismissed the idea of watching a movie, insisting she work on her homework with her siblings. Though she was only four and had no real assignment to complete, she threw herself into her drawing pad with a very serious expression, one Thranduil recognized as being inherited from her father.
Just a couple of hours, Bard had said. He’d been running late at work and he’d already called the kids’ school and Tilda’s preschool to inform them of the change of plans. To Thranduil, a couple of hours meant a couple of hours. But then he’d called again to say he was stuck behind a huge accident on the freeway and would Thranduil mind getting dinner ready for the kids?
What was Thranduil to do, let them starve?
So if cheesy pasta was what they wanted, cheesy pasta was what they would get. Thranduil had spent enough time around Bard’s apartment to know where to find everything— though the kitchen was a veritable hodgepodge of silverware and art supplies and just generally anything that hadn’t found a home elsewhere.
Thranduil couldn’t say he minded, though. Bard seemed so happy ever since he’d begun sketching again— and he’d even begun to paint when he had more than a couple of hours to himself. There were at least three canvases stuffed into his bedroom (and turned towards the wall to keep the kids from stumbling upon the… questionable content they displayed).
He pulled the saucepan from the oven with a sigh. Honestly, who kept their cookware in the oven? What if he turned it on without remembering it was there? But there was nothing to be done for it now and anyway, Thranduil wasn’t using the oven. The pasta he found in the cupboard next to a pack of cotton swabs and smudge sticks.
Tilda abandoned her art project, deciding it was much more important to stand beside Thranduil as the water came to a boil. “Can I watch?” She stood on her toes to try and get a better view.
Already Thranduil was having horrible visions of hot water splashing from the stovetop and into her eyes. “Not only can you watch, Miss Tilda, but you get to be my special helper.” He lifted her under the arms and plopped her down on the counter, giving her the very important job of holding the packet of cheese.
“Do you live here now, Mister Thran?”
Thanduil smiled. She couldn’t pronounce his name for the life of her, but the nickname was endearing. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re here and my Da’s not.” She shrugged.
“Your Da is stuck in traffic. He asked me to bring you guys here.”
“But you have a key.” Thranduil could feel his face grow hot under her confused stare.
“I do. Your Da gave it to me for emergencies like this one.” Bain snorted quietly from the table. Thranduil ducked his head closer to his and turned his attention back to the stovetop.
“Are you and my Da friends?”
“We are.” He spared her a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. “Is that okay?”
She seemed to think for a moment, swinging her feet out in the air. “I guess so,” she shrugged. Thranduil smiled. Bain and Sigrid had drawn their own conclusions about his friendship with their father, but Tilda was far more concerned with whether or not Thranduil could make decent cheesy pasta.
“Careful of your feet now, this saucepan is hot.” He crossed to the sink and strained the pasta before turning to his helper with a very serious and conspiratorial look. “Now for the special ingredient. Cheese please, Miss Tilda.” She presented it to him proudly and watched as he stirred the pot. “Can I give you another very important job?” She nodded enthusiastically. “Will you help your brother and sister clear off the table while I get bowls?”
Tilda nearly jumped from the counter herself before Thranduil helped her to the floor. She ran across the small kitchen and picked up her drawing pad and crayons before hurrying off to relocate them to the living room. Bain and Sigrid had moved their own assignments from the table as well by the time Thranduil served them dinner, seeming glad for the distraction. It was only Friday; their homework wasn’t strictly necessary, but Thranduil had no idea how to entertain children.
Midway through their meal, Tilda announced this was the best cheesy pasta she’d ever had. “You can come over any time you want to, Mister Thran!” She bounced happily and shovelled another mouthful of supper into her mouth.
“It’s that good, huh?”
“Plus I think you’re really nice. And your hair is pretty.” An idea seemed to occur to her then. Her eyes went wide and she began to bounce in her seat again. “Can you plait my hair after supper? Like yours?”
Thranduil laughed. “Of course, Miss Tilda.”
⦖⦕
After dinner Thranduil put on a movie, sat Tilda in his lap and plaited her hair. And then he sat on the floor in front of the futon and let her plait his hair. Her tiny fingers pulled a little at his scalp and the end result was quite messy, but Thranduil gave her a sincere thank you and let it be.
When the sun set and Bard still hadn’t returned, Thranduil called him. He was still stuck on the freeway, but Thranduil assured him he didn’t mind putting the kids to bed. He handed his mobile first to Bain, who grumbled in response to what Thranduil could only assume had been an ‘I love you.’ Sigrid asked him when he’d be home and said goodnight before handing the mobile to Tilda.
She held it with two hands and frowned when Bard couldn’t hear her properly. Thranduil showed her that she’d held her hand over the microphone and she quickly dove into an animated retelling of how she’d been Mister Thran’s special helper for the cheesy pasta and how they had plaited each other’s hair.
When she was through, Thranduil took his mobile back and sent them all to brush their teeth. “It seems she’s quite taken with you.” Bard said.
“She’s sweet,” a wide smile had spread over his face, though there was no one there to see it. “She asked me if I lived here.” He laughed.
Bard laughed, too. “You do have a key. You know you’re welcome any time.”
“Any time, hm?” Thranduil toyed with the tie at the end of his hair. “Maybe we could have a sleepover tonight?”
“Hold onto that thought,” Bard groaned through the phone. “It shouldn’t be much longer. They’ve got the the wreck cleared up now and I’m not too far away.”
“I’ll be here,” Thranduil promised.
Tilda was yawning outside the bathroom door when Thranduil ended the call. She lifted her arms as Thranduil ducked down to lift her and carry her to bed. “Will you tell me a story?” She asked.
“What kind of story?”
“A scary story!”
“But what if you have nightmares?”
“Okay, maybe not a scary one. How about the one about the princess and the frog?” Thranduil couldn’t remember the fairy tale, but with Tilda’s help he was able to muddle his way through it. Bain and Sigrid laughed from across the room when the princess kissed the toad, only to find it had turned into a large, white swan.
“That’s the wrong story!” Tilda shrieked.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes! The frog is supposed to turn into a prince, not a swan!”
“Oh, yes of course. So the frog burst into a cloud of smoke—“
“What colour was it?”
“Purple.” Thranduil stated. “And when the purple smoke finally cleared, there was the prince. And he kissed the princess and told her he loved her, and they lived happily ever after.”
“I like that story,” Tilda yawned.
“Me too.” Thranduil tucked her blankets up around her shoulders.
“Will you be here in the morning to make us breakfast?” Thranduil paused by the door, his hand on the light switch and his mouth hanging slightly open.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes please!” Tilda exclaimed, though she was yawning again and snuggling closer beneath the covers. “Can we have pancakes? And I can be your helper again?”
A soft smile rose on Thranduil’s face, and he looked to Bain and Sigrid, both returning his smile from their respective bunks. His voice was small and scratchy and tears were tightening his throat. He coughed to clear them. “I’d like that.”
⦖⦕
Bard returned home not long after to find Thranduil sat on his futon, a thoughtful frown on his face and his fingers combing through the tail of his plaited hair.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Bard dropped his keys on the hook by the door and let out a heavy sigh. “I never meant to be gone so long. Next time I’ll have their mother pick them up or— hey. You alright?”
Thranduil stood and crossed the living room, pulling Bard into a kiss before he could say anything more.
“What was that for?” Bard’s hands came to wrap around Thranduil’s neck as he tipped his head to the side.
“Your kids…” they’re lovely and polite and precious and they’re absolutely perfect. “They like me.”
“Course they do!”
“Yes but… Tilda wants me to make her breakfast in the morning,”
“Pancakes?” Thranduil nodded. “Aye, I’m not surprised,” Bard laughed. “Blimey, what has she done to your hair?” He tugged the tail of Thranduil’s plait over his shoulder and began to work at the tie.
“Don’t you dare!” Thranduil smacked at his hands. “What I meant was… she wants me to stay. She asked me to stay, Bard.”
“Look, if this is— I’ll understand if you’re freaked out, if this is all too much too soon or—“
Thranduil didn’t hear the rest— didn’t let him finish. He drew Bard close again and silenced him with a kiss.