Work Text:
Deception and perfection are wonderful traits,
One will breed love, the other, hate.
- Homewrecker by Marina and the Diamonds
Summer rain floods the sidewalks of SoHo, turning city trash into paper boats racing towards the gutters. Halbrand sits at the window seat of the bar, nursing an over-priced scotch, listening to the relentless rumbling of the storm. The air inside is a touch too cool; the windows are fogged with condensation. He regards the people outside as they rush by like shadow puppets.
He is just about to check his watch again (an hour still to go until he’s supposed to meet-up with Míriel; she’s already told him twice she can’t clock-out until 9 o’clock) when the door opens. A gust of muggy air spills into the restaurant, and with it, her. Golden-haired and waterlogged, black dress plastered to her body like second skin.
Through the mirrored wall behind the bar, Halbrand watches the woman skitter into the restaurant, smiling apologetically at Míriel behind the hostess stand as her umbrella drips a small lake onto the parquet floor. Míriel smiles — magnanimous as ever — and takes it from the woman, gesturing back towards the bar. Míriel catches Halbrand’s eyes briefly in the reflection, but before he can read her expression, she’s turned around to welcome in more half-drowned diners.
The blonde slides into the barstool to his right, leaving an empty space in the middle, and reaches over the bar to grab a handful of napkins. Halbrand follows her movements with piqued interest. She’s small, has to stand on the footrest to reach over the bar, causing the damp skirt of her black dress to rise up provocatively.
“If you’re going to keep leering at my ass like that, they least you can do is buy me a drink,” the woman grouses as she plops back down in her seat. Fixing Halbrand in her steely-blue gaze, chin jutting forward in a challenge, she haphazardly swipes at her wet arms with the napkins, dabbing at her face, swiping at the mascara smudged beneath her eyes.
Nodding his head in contrition, Halbrand checks his watch once more (fifty-four minutes to go, he really should have timed this better) and goes back to staring out at the rain.
He hears her huff, amused, before flagging down a passing bartender. “My usual,” she orders. “You can put it on his tab.” It takes Halbrand a moment to realize she is referring to his.
He turns to regard her once more. The woman has an air of bravado about her that brings to mind the toy poodle his ex had; a vicious white demon called Silmaril who was forever barking above his weight-class, determined to be the biggest bully of the pack, despite being the smallest. “In my defense,” Halbrand says, “your ass entered my leering space. You can’t blame a man for simply admiring.”
With a raised brow, she says, “Oh no? I find you can always blame a man for one thing or another — they’re all usually guilty of something.”
“Ah, I see.” Halbrand flags the bartender, signaling a refill for his scotch. “You’re a man-hater.”
“I prefer ‘equal opportunity nihilist.’”
“Is that the new code for batting for the other team?”
She laughs. “Like I said, I’m an equal opportunist.”
“Glad to hear it.”
They’re quiet as the bartender delivers their drinks — her ‘usual’ turns out to be a martini in a frosted glass with two olives — and offer each other a half-hearted toast, more of a reflexive ritual than an acknowledgment of any shared camaraderie. Halbrand watches the woman over the rim of his tumbler, cataloguing the grip with which she clutches her glass, the small shudder that wracks her frame at the first sip, the distasteful crinkling of her nose as she goes back for another, draining half the glass in one go.
She catches him staring and frowns. “You’re leering again.”
“Am not,” he says, affronted. “Just trying to understand what manner of woman you are who would so readily insult a man and still make him pay for your drink without even telling him your name.”
The woman rolls her eyes. Plopping down her drink, she thrusts her hand forward, businesslike, and says, “Galadriel Noldor. And, you are…?”
Ah, so that’s the reason behind Míriel’s cryptic look. She’s a little ahead of schedule, but Halbrand is nothing if not adaptable. He schools his face into a look he hopes comes across as genuine surprise. “Noldor? You wouldn’t happen to be the niece of the Fëanor Noldor, the senator, would you?”
It is the wrong thing to say. Galadriel is instantly on guard, pulling her hand back and eyeing him suspiciously. “Who’s asking?”
Halbrand’s smile is a beautiful, practiced thing; the sharpest weapon in his arsenal. He reaches for it now, holding up his hands in mock defense. “Whoa, no need to bite my head off, ma’am. You don’t have to worry, I’m not some crazed political junkie. Just your Average Joe who still likes to keep up with his news the old-fashioned way.”
Ducking to grab the briefcase at his feet, Halbrand pauses for only a moment, makes a snap decision, then fishes out the transit paper he had grabbed on his commute from work. He sets it on the bar between them, the headline facing out.
SENATOR NOLDOR ANNOUNCES BID FOR PRESIDENCY.
A pinched furrow appears between Galadriel’s brows as she skims the front page. “Don’t call me ma’am,” she grumbles, “it makes me sound old.” Then, quietly, “I really wish they hadn’t used that picture.”
Halbrand spares her a moment of pity. There’s a historic gravitas to the image that even the grainy reprinting can’t obscure. Even he can tell that this is the type of photo that will live on in infamy long after its subjects are gone, American history made with the single flash of a camera.
In the photo, balloons are cascading down onto the stage where Senator Fëanor Noldor has just announced his candidacy, a crowd of lively supporters in the foreground and his brood of sons respectfully off to the side. And strategically positioned upstage center is Galadriel, placed there as though she’s the candidate being sold to the voters instead of her uncle. Alone in the middle of the spectacle, there’s nothing to obscure the glare she’s leveling at Fëanor’s back, or the look of pure disgust twisting her pretty features.
“My uncle loves to trot me out like a show pony for shit like this,” she mutters, eyes fixed on the paper. “Boost his favorability numbers by reminding everyone how much they loved my father. It’s pathetic.”
Twelve years ago, no one had ever heard of Fëanor Noldor, and the country had been better for it. But then, tragedy struck; the campaign bus carrying Eärwen and Finarfin Noldor, the candidate favored to win the Senate seat, crashed. In the wake of his brother’s death, Fëanor had humbly stepped up to fill his shoes, inheriting both the winning campaign and his niece.
“He seems like … a difficult man,” Halbrand offers, politely.
Galadriel snorts. “He’s a snake oil salesman taking midnight swims in champagne pools on a beer budget. Think Scrooge McDuck without the charm.”
“And without the top hat, surely.”
“You’d be surprised.” Abruptly, Galadriel snatches the paper and asks, “Mind if I take this?”
She doesn’t wait for his answer before she crumples the paper into a ball with sharp, vicious movements. Standing on her footrest, she shoots it over the bar and it lands in an empty liquor case with unerring accuracy.
Halbrand laughs, genuinely impressed. “That was quite a shot, Noldor. Ever think of going pro?”
“Sure, as soon as the growth spurt kicks in.” Gulping down the rest of her drink, Galadriel waves the empty glass in the bartender’s direction, the universal sign for can I have another? But when she looks back to find Halbrand staring at her ass again, her good mood disappears; she turns her nose up at him and tchs in disdain.
Halbrand offers her a wry smile and shrugs; he’s not so easily deterred by a frown. “You know, it’s actually kind of surprising that you’re out drinking at some random bar tonight. I’d have thought the whole Noldor clan would be on lockdown now that the campaign’s begun.”
“We are.” Galadriel grimaces. “But the security detail doesn’t know our house like I do. For instance, I know we have three spare keys, not two. And I know where that mysterious third key is stashed.”
“Well, look at you,” Halbrand chuckles. “Two days in and you’ve already flown the coop. You’re going to be miserable by November.”
“I’m miserable now.” Drumming her fingers impatiently, Galadriel scans the growing crowd for the bartender with her drink, and says, “Anyways, I don’t really want to discuss it, if it’s all the same.”
“Fine by me. What do you want to discuss?”
Galadriel turns and studies him, cocking her head to the side in a way that makes something inconveniently tender squeeze in his chest. There’s still water threaded through her long hair and dripping down her face; instinctively, she licks at a droplet perched at the edge of her lips and the sight of her pink tongue makes Halbrand’s skin suddenly feel too tight and too hot.
Realizing what she’s done, Galadriel’s eyes widen ever so slightly, but she is saved by the bartender. Accepting her new drink, she swirls the olives around and plops one into her mouth. “You know,” she muses, casually, “I come here pretty often, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”
“You make it sound like you’ve been looking.”
Sliding the second olive into her drink, Galadriel bites down on the end of her toothpick and smiles, a wicked glimmer in her eye. “Well, I am always keeping my eyes peeled for guilty men.”
Leaning in close, Halbrand drops his voice. “Maybe I’m just honest.”
“Maybe you’re just.” She points the toothpick at him accusingly. “Maybe you’re incapable of lying, and that’s why you’ve avoided telling me anything about yourself — you don’t want me to know the truth.”
“Me? Avoiding?” Halbrand chuckles. “No, that can’t be true.”
“Please.” Galadriel rolls her eyes. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Oh, is that all you wanted?” He has an alias all prepared for this moment, a few dozen cards in his briefcase with S. Annatar embossed on cream card stock. But he finds himself instead offering her the truth as he extends his hand. “Halbrand Maia, a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Galadriel’s hand is very small in his, soft and free of callouses. Halbrand is suddenly struck with the desire to keep holding onto her. To examine every whorl on the tip of each finger, explore the breadth and depth of the lifelines on her palm. He resists the urge with some effort.
“So.” She drops his hand and goes to smooth down her skirt, a nervous compulsion if he’s ever seen one, but grimaces as her hands come away damp. Fumbling with the napkins, she asks, “Of all the gin joints in all the world, what brings you in tonight?”
Caught off guard, Halbrand snorts and liquor burns up his nose. But he laughs through his coughing fit, even as he thumps his chest to dislodge the scotch from his lungs.
Though trying to appear concerned, Galadriel loses the battle against the smile she’s biting back. “What’s wrong? Oh dear, you haven’t heard that line before, have you?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” Halbrand coughs, laughter subsiding. “But only ever in the movies, never in real life.”
“Well, pleased to have popped your pick-up line cherry. I guess that means I’m sort of like your first.”
“I guess it does.”
With a serious tone meant to mock, Galadriel says, “This sounds like a really special moment for you. Should I order us some champagne? Toast your momentous milestone?”
“Oh, fuck off, Noldor,” says Halbrand, grinning widely. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m told that at least once a day,” she sniffs, primly. “And twice on Sundays.”
“Only twice?”
Without either of them noticing, the bar has grown crowded and they are interrupted momentarily by someone asking about the empty seat between them. Galadriel offers her own instead, sliding next to Halbrand and apologizing to the newcomer about the dampness she’s left behind.
This night keeps getting better and better — whoever said the wicked will not prosper? The empty space between Halbrand and Galadriel had allowed her the false security of personal space. Without it, she is suddenly forced to contend with the physicality of him with no room to retreat. Halbrand is a big man, long in the legs and wide in the shoulders, but as she slides into the seat, he makes himself seem larger still. Looming above her head, he crowds further into her space until they are pressed together thigh to thigh and hip to hip.
This close, Halbrand can count the soft freckles painting Galadriel’s nose, watch her bravado falter and the color rise in her cheeks. Her teeth press into her lower lip, the hesitancy clear on her face, and the sight goes right to Halbrand’s stomach.
After a stunned moment, Galadriel seems to come back to herself. “You never answered my question.”
Halbrand clears his throat, drawing his gaze up from her mouth. “About the gin joints?”
“Yeah.”
He lies easily. “Wanted a break from my usual place.”
“And where,” she swallows, tries again, “where is your usual place?”
He smirks and dips his head so that his mouth barely grazes her ear. “My apartment.”
“Oh.” There go her teeth again, her lip growing pinker with each nip.
Halbrand doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s staring, doesn’t hide the hunger that pitches his voice into a growl. “Either you let go of that lip, Noldor, or I’m not going to be able to stop myself from biting it for you.”
Galadriel’s mouth drops open in an absolutely too-tempting O, and he watches her pupils dilate, eyes darkening with interest. “And you assume I’d let you?”
“You assume I’d ask for permission.”
She huffs and Halbrand feels her breath skate across his lips. “What did I tell you?” Galadriel breathes. “Always guilty of something.”
“And you’re so innocent.”
“Hardly.”
“At last, a little honesty.”
“I’ve never been anything but.”
An errant raindrop slips from Galadriel’s hair onto Halbrand’s hand, and she brushes it off almost without thinking. Her touch leaves behind a tingling sensation on his skin.
“For instance,” she murmurs, “I could lie and say I need to go home and get out of this wet dress, but the truth is, I’m hoping you’ll invite me over and do it yourself.”
It’s all Halbrand can do to stop himself from crowing in victory. “It would be my honor.”
Throwing a handful of bills down for their drinks, Halbrand helps Galadriel down from the barstool like the gentleman he’s not, and walks behind her at a polite distance. But, while she searches for her umbrella amid the soggy discard pile at the hostess stand, Halbrand surreptitiously untucks the gun from his waistband and passes it to Míriel, along with the pill he’d planned to slip into her drink. With an apologetic grin for his co-conspirator, Halbrand opens the door as Galadriel sweeps by him and follows her out into the rain.
It’s just after 8:45 pm; Míriel is going to be pissed he’s deviated so wildly from the plan and kicked it off without her. But Galadriel isn’t the sheltered, spoiled young thing they’d thought she’d be. No, their mark requires a more personal touch — one Halbrand is all too willing to provide.
Besides, Míriel will be able to get her hands dirty soon enough. After all, Halbrand has always known that getting Galadriel into his rented apartment would be the easy part. Holding her there long enough to receive the payment they’d been promised from Fëanor? That’s when the real fun will begin.
Halbrand knows that if he plays his cards right, he may even be able to spin this one job into two. Turnabout is fair play in the world of political extortion and graft, after all. And, once the money’s cleared, if Galadriel has any interest in turning the gun back around on her uncle, well then, Halbrand is more than happy to offer her his services — on the house.