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This is a mistake.
The thought had entered Thranduil’s mind when he boarded the train to Cardiff, had repeated itself when changing trains to Merthyr and had coursed through his brain during the whole one-and-a-half-hour bus drive to Builth Wells.
Now he had to walk the last twenty minutes and with every step, the words hammered into his head: This is a mistake.
But it was too late. He had already made the long trip and would not turn back now all because of a notion .
He resolutely hoisted the suit bag again that kept slipping off his shoulder, threatening to drop into the mud track and render this whole operation a waste of time. Thranduil didn’t even want to imagine the embarrassment he would feel if he turned up at Bard’s farm with the borrowed suit he had had cleaned only to stain it anew.
He actually didn’t dare to imagine their meeting at all. It deviated from the rules they had set, agreeing that it would be best to only maintain business relations after their little slip-up last time. It was the sensible way, Thranduil knew that, and he feared that Bard would be wary when he turned up on his farm out of nowhere now, but he just couldn’t help it - he needed to see him again.
It was unlike Thranduil to act on such a rash and ill-considered idea but he had persuaded himself that this was the result of having spent all his life in his father’s shadow, abiding by his rule, that he now wanted to break free of that and follow his own choices, no matter how reckless.
And the idea had been insistent. Every day after their meeting in London he had tried dutifully to get Bard out of his mind but nothing had worked. What really hadn’t helped either was that his assistant Feren had somehow learned how much Thranduil had enjoyed the fresh apple juice that had been served during the meeting in London and as an ordinarily nice gesture had arranged for it to be served not only in the Elvenstar hotels but also in Thranduil’s private rooms and the offices.
So every morning Thranduil had been more or less forced (because refusing it would be rude) to drink what had been intended as a delicious refreshment but had turned into daily torture. It wasn’t Feren’s fault of course. How was he supposed to know that the very apples that made this juice came from the farm of the man who had a death grip on Thranduil’s limbic system?
Bard had become an inescapable thought settling ever deeper into Thranduil’s head and he had known he had to do something about it. The idea had been sparked by his son Legolas who had had a part of a song stuck in his head for days on end until he finally listened to it as a whole and was cured. Thranduil was convinced (or rather desperate enough to try anything) that this had to work the same way for his fixation on Bard. He would only need to see him once to get over the illustrious memory of him that was certainly an exaggeration of his mind anyway.
Which had brought him here, slogging along the field road a nice old man in town had pointed him to, the farmhouses already visible at close range, dragging along the borrowed suit as a flimsy excuse for the visit.
His determined steps had slowed during the walk but now they threatened to cease completely. Thranduil scorned himself for this clear sign of nerves that should be foreign to him as the owner of one of the biggest hotel chains in the UK. It was a luxury he could not afford - not in meetings and not now.
His pace quickened again and he soon stood in front of the open gate with a huge sign above that bore the familiar ‘Tatws a Selsig’ logo. While Thranduil still pondered whether it was allowed to enter or whether he would get chased away by a guard dog when he tried, a man about his age but with a moustache in his weatherbeaten face and wearing a raddled ‘Tatws a Selsig’-t-shirt showcasing his wiry arms approached him from the side. Thranduil must have missed him working on the field next to the road, too transfixed on reaching his destination to notice anything else.
“Can I help you?” The man looked suspicious; people in (now muddy) dress shoes and fancy suits with matching clothes bags over their shoulders probably didn’t stray into the Welsh countryside all too often.
Thranduil slapped on his brightest smile. “Hello, I’m Thranduil Doriathion from Elvenstar Hotels. I am here to see Bard Bowman.” Saying his name out loud felt like a slip of the tongue. Thranduil hadn’t even allowed himself to think it for the last two weeks - not that that had worked. But soon now he would come face to face with the man himself (or at least hopefully if his surly employee let him in) and it made his knees go weak.
“You have an appointment?” the man asked languidly. Thranduil wasn’t sure if he just - not unlike Bard himself at first - didn’t know who he was or if he did and decided not to turn a hair about being confronted with the head of Elvenstar.
“No,” he admitted slowly, starting to sweat. There was no way he would be fobbed off like this after the long journey and the even longer inner turmoil about setting out on it. But what if Bard didn’t want to see him? Would he refuse to meet? Thranduil was still his superior in a way and he couldn’t imagine that Bard would risk the future of his business like that. He returned to his smile again and fired up the charm: “But I am certain he can make some time.”
The man seemed immune to batting lashes and conspiratorial smirks but turned towards the gate anyway, not without a twist of his mouth. “I’ll ask. Wait here.”
Thranduil made a face at his departing back. What he had told Bard in London was true: He didn’t want people to bring out the red carpet for him, simply to be treated normally, but a certain degree of courtesy could not be too much to ask for, could it? Thranduil huffed indignantly and decided to pay no heed to the man’s instruction, following him carefully across the gravelled driveway.
It opened up into a courtyard with an open barn to the left and beautiful, antique-looking brick farmhouses to the right. Thranduil saw that one of them was overgrown with climbing roses in a dusky pink and smiled. Then he heard a voice from behind the wooden door the man had disappeared behind and froze.
“ Ti’n iawn , John?”
He didn’t understand the words but he immediately recognised the voice as the one that had been haunting him since the first hello: Bard. Thranduil crept closer.
“ Shwmae boss. There’s someone at the gate to see you. I can’t remember the name, it was something outlandish.” Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Said he’s from Elvenstar.”
There was an audible gasp from Bard. “Thranduil?”
It was difficult to tell from just his voice (and that through an ajar door) if he was happy about that or horrified. At least he hadn’t forgotten about him completely, although Thranduil would have deemed their last meeting a bit too incising for that anyway.
“You know him?”
“We met,” Bard replied faintly.
“Seemed like a busybody if you ask me, “John sneered.
“Well, I’d say as the owner of Elvenstar he’s fully entitled to that,” Bard said sternly and Thranduil appreciated him defending his honour very much.
“ Sori , boss,” John mumbled contritely, “So will you see him?”
“I suppose,” Bard sighed. He didn’t sound too happy about it and since he had distinctly too much power over him, Thranduil actually considered turning on his heel, sprinting down the field road and jumping back onto the bus to Merthyr for a second. But it was too late. The door opened before Thranduil could even get back to where he was supposed to wait at the gate and Bard and John both stared at him like a rather odd emergence in their yard. The latter grimaced when he saw him but didn’t dare to say anything in front of his boss.
“Thranduil,” Bard breathed. A part of his hair was pulled back into a loose bun, the rest fell to his shoulders, and what had only been a five o’clock shadow when they had last met had turned into a full-grown (and very attractive) beard.
Thranduil cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure. “Excuse my intrusion.” Luckily his voice was steady. “I couldn’t help stealing a glance at your infamous roses.” Bard’s eyes wandered to his house before quickly snapping back to Thranduil. He then turned to the other man who still scrutinised Thranduil with a sour expression. “That will be all, John, diolch .”
After he left, there was an uneasy silence between them before Thranduil broke it: “I brought your suit.” He held the clothes bag up in front of himself as proof. “Thank you again for lending it to me; it was a lifesaver.”
Bard slowly took the bag from him. “You could have just sent it.”
Thranduil laughed to mask his growing anxiety. “Send it? By post? Not a nice suit like that! It would… crease.” He finished lamely. This finally raised a smile from Bard.
“Well, thank you,” he said, “Still, you could have sent someone or brought it to the next meeting.”
The unvoiced question that resonated in his words was ‘What are you doing here?’, but of course, Thranduil had prepared a response to that.
“I am currently on my Grand Tour one might say, visiting all of the suppliers for Elvenstar for a better insight.” A blatant lie. The only other supplier with whom he had had the dubious pleasure was a whiskey distillery up north and the only reason for that had been persistent errors in their invoices.
“You would think that there were announcements for that and appointments made,” Bard pointed out with a raised eyebrow.
“But you said I could come by any time,” Thranduil reminded him, although unsure if this almost flirty approach was the way to go here.
“I didn’t think you’d take me up on that.”
“Me neither,” Thranduil admitted quietly.
“So, what did it take for you to change your mind?” Bard asked tentatively, careful not to let his hope get the best of him.
“Only one glass of apple juice every morning,” Thranduil shrugged nonchalantly.
“Then I might as well show you the orchard first,” Bard smirked. And with that, the ice was broken.
After Bard had hung up his suit in what Thranduil assumed was his office, they strolled past the open barn towards a delicate-looking, ornate gate before a grassy path. Bard opened the gate and led him along. There were fences on both sides of the path and to Thranduil’s left the head of a cow appeared, curiously eyeing the intruder.
“This is Bessy,” Bard laughed and patted her on the broad blaze, “She’s very affectionate - would follow me around like a dog if I let her.”
Thranduil remembered the walks through the English countryside that had been rare before his mother died and ceased completely afterwards, and pulled out some grass to hold out to the cow. While Bard watched him with an entirely unconscious affectionate expression, Bessy didn’t seem very interested in the offered grass but licked his hand instead. Startled, Thranduil dropped the grass and took a step back for good measure, out of range of the surprisingly long tongue.
“Sorry about that.” Bard offered him a tissue with a grin. “There’s enough grass on her side of the fence but she rarely gets to taste CEOs.”
“Well, she better not get used to it,” Thranduil stated, but he was grinning, too.
“And you better not get too close to the other fence either.” Bard pointed at the trio of goats craning their necks to look at them. “Tilda insisted we needed goats here as well after she came with me to visit our farm up in Snowdonia and fell in love with them. She had a whole presentation prepared to plead her case, so I really couldn’t say no.”
“There is a rapidly growing market for goat’s cheese on the gourmet market,” Thranduil threw in approvingly.
“That was one of her arguments actually! So now we have goats who are even a bit overfriendly for me. Their field backs right onto our garden and sometimes the little pranksters break out, eat their way through the hedges and infiltrate the living room only to butt their horns against my knee. The children of course find that very enjoyable.”
“I’m afraid so would I,” Thranduil admitted with a smirk.
“If that is so I’ll set them on you next time.”
Thranduil couldn’t stop smiling. He was so glad that they were back to their carefree banter that he pushed the after to the very back of his mind. He would simply deal with that when it happened. For now, he only tried to enjoy it while also keeping up his feeble excuse of getting to know all of Elvenstar’s suppliers.
“So you have more farms than just this one?” he inquired while they walked on, Bessy trotting along on her side of the fence.
Bard shot him a sideglance. “If you don’t even bother to make appointments for your Grand Tour ” - he made air quotes around the word - “shouldn’t you at least do some research on the businesses beforehand?”
Thranduil went bright red. Bard was right of course; if this really were a business trip he would come across as incredibly unprofessional. But the cheerful gleam underneath Bard’s raised eyebrows told him he had seen through his lie anyway. If this made Thranduil seem more professional or even less so, he wasn’t sure. He certainly wouldn’t let other business partners speak to him like that - he was the head of this after all - but Bard made him compromise more than a few of his principles.
“I’m just messing with you,” Bard said kindly when it was clear there would be no response from Thranduil, “Most people get bored when I tell them about the business, but if you wanna know…?”
Thranduil nodded eagerly. “Please.” It was such a cliché again, but he would listen to Bard doing a dramatic reading of the Yellow Pages if only it meant he would get to hear his voice.
“Okay, here goes: It all started out with this farm. It has been in my family for as long as we could trace it back. When my da died my ma took it over, but I always helped her, even at a young age. When I was about 15 I already wanted to work on the farm full-time. I would have dropped out of school, but my Ma insisted I’d graduate. She was also the one who pushed me to do the study courses in Cardiff after school, even though she was already sick then.” Bard smiled sadly. “She didn’t tell me of course. She knew I’d have stayed but she wanted me to have options and not feel like I had to stick with the farm only because it’s a family business and I’m the only heir to it.”
“Your mother sounds like an impressive person.”
“She was amazing,” Bard agreed with a gulp. Thranduil wished he could hug him. “When I came back home with my Master’s degree she was bedridden. By then I knew she was sick but not just how bad it was; every time I had visited on semester breaks she seemed… groggy. But she always made it seem like all was well. It must have been exhausting.”
Thranduil couldn’t help the sting of jealousy although this truly wasn’t a happy story. But the way Bard’s mother (and probably his father as well) had cared for him and always kept his best in mind was beautiful and something he himself had never been fortunate enough to experience.
“She died not long after I had come back.”
“I’m sorry,” Thranduil said earnestly, “That must have been hard.”
“It was,” Bard admitted, “But I just threw myself into the business. I had always wanted to take over the farm anyway and now I had the knowledge to make it big.” Bard nodded towards the field behind Bessy where a tractor puttered along on the horizon. “John was one of the first people I hired and I have not come to regret it; he’s as passionate about the farm as I am.”
“He’s not very passionate about me,” Thranduil grumbled and wanted to take it back the moment the words had left his mouth. What a childish, nitpicky thing to get stuck on!
Luckily, Bard laughed it away. “Don’t take it personally, he’s really not a people person,” he grinned, “He’d prefer Bessy’s tongue to a handshake any day.”
“He wasn’t like that with you, though,” Thranduil pointed out.
“Well, he’s known me for ages,” Bard shrugged, “You on the other hand are a handsome stranger who - and please don’t take this the wrong way - can be the tiniest bit intimidating at times.”
Thranduil didn’t take this the wrong way, nor any way at all. In fact, he had stopped listening after ‘handsome’.
“I suppose,” was all he got out.
“Here at this farm, it’s still mostly us two with a few seasonal helpers and of course the kids chipping in,” Bard continued, either skipping over Thranduil’s inner turmoil or not aware of it, “It’s quite a chunk of work, but I don’t mind. It’s still the smallest of my farms, although we have expanded as far as we can without building on other people’s grounds.”
Thranduil had pulled himself together again enough to ask a follow-up question: “Where are the other farms?”
“There are two more in Wales and two in England, but I’m considering giving those up and moving them over to this side of the border as well.”
“How come?”
Bard grimaced. “The tax declarations are a pain.”
Thranduil had never done taxes in his life. He only nodded, hoping it looked understanding and not patronising.
“But moving them over would be a huge effort, so I’m considering just getting a tax advisor.” Bard grinned.
“A fair point,” Thranduil agreed with a smile, “Are the farms specialised or do they just all have a little bit of everything?”
“This one sure does,” Bard replied, “Especially with that herd of goats now. But the others all have one main focus as it simplifies the production and logistics. The one in Snowdonia for example has vast fields and a rather rugged landscape, so it’s perfect for sheep, cows and goats. Then there’s one near Carmarthen where there are a lot of natural water resources which is nice for growing vegetables. Stuff like that.”
“As an avid juice drinker” - Bard snorted at that - “Can you tell me where the biggest orchard is?”
He took a moment to consider this. “I think it might actually be here… or at least this is where the most apples come from, but that might just be because the trees are oldest and most fruitful.”
It made Thranduil disproportionately happy to hear that, to know that the apples whose juice he enjoyed most likely came from this very farm, the heart of Bard’s business, where he himself (or John, but he tried to ignore that thought) picked them.
“And here it is!”
Thranduil had been so taken up in listening to Bard that he had missed the fences to their sides ending and the path opening up into a broad field of grasses, wildflowers and of course knobby old apple trees. It looked truly idyllic, like in an old children’s book.
“You might be wondering why the trees are scattered and not in meticulous rows and on vines like in most orchards these days.”
Now that the first fascination had worn off, Thranduil mostly wondered about the danger of tick bites in this tall grass. But when Bard went in he followed bravely.
“As I said this farm, including the orchard, has been around for quite some time and fruit trees are like wine - the older the better,” Bard explained, “So you see how it would be a crime to root them out. Plus the roots probably go on for miles. Trees are almost like icebergs in terms of growth, meaning the parts we don’t see are even bigger than the ones we do. Trees this size need about 200 square metres of root penetration each to fully develop.”
“That’s incredible!” Thranduil eyclaimed. He had never imagined that learning about trees could be so entertaining.
“Another good reason to keep them further apart is that it lowers the risk of bacterial spread and infestations. I don’t know if you have heard about fire blight or codling moths, but both of them could easily infect and wipe out an entire orchard.”
Thranduil had not heard about either of those, but he was getting more and more impressed by Bard’s knowledge. He shouldn’t be surprised - his father wouldn’t have made a deal with an amateur business - but it was an entirely different thing to experience it oneself. If this really were a Grand Tour of Suppliers Bard would come out grand !
“Do you do anything else to prevent plant diseases?” he asked.
“We don’t use any pesticides if that’s what you’re asking, it’s all ecologically sustainable,” Bard assured, “The farm near Carmarthen where we do a big part of the vegetable growing? We rotate the fields to achieve permaculture, meaning that there will be something different growing on each field every year. With an orchard, this doesn’t work for obvious reasons, making it more vulnerable to infections. We, however, have taken precautions. Come look at this!”
Bard walks into the middle of the orchard, not minding the odd mud puddle, and Thranduil realises his sturdy boots are a lot better suited for this than his own choice of clothing. He tiptoed around the puddles in his water-permeable, polished Italian leather dress shoes and heaved a relieved sigh when he was back on dry grass. Bard had crouched down next to what looked to Thranduil like a stack of old wood.
“This is a stack of old wood.”
Huh.
“But it’s not here by accident,” Bard grinned, catching Thranduil’s thought, “It’s a deadwood pile, home to a ton of creatures: bugs, ants, spiders, lizards, ladybirds, wild bees, mice… and some birds build their nests in the hollows.” He carefully lifted an outer branch to show Thranduil the underside, which was indeed crawling with tiny insects. Were he not so amazed, Thranduil’s skin would be crawling as well.
“And the hedges we have planted all the way around the orchard are natural habitats, too,” Bard went on as he put the branch back, visibly proud of all of this, “We basically have our own little zoo here! And they all help with the pest control.”
“How?”
“They eat them,” Bard grinned, “And some of them also help with the pollination, which is one of the reasons for the many wildflowers here. Others conserve moisture and keep weeds down; it’s really convenient.”
To Thranduil, Bard was glowing with his passion. He knew how dangerous this thought could be, but he found him more beautiful than ever, literally rendering him speechless and staring.
“Sorry, I got a bit carried away.” Bard rubbed his neck awkwardly. “You probably didn’t want to hear all that.”
“No, no!” Thranduil almost tripped over his tongue in his haste to contradict this. “It’s really, really interesting. I’m just a bit… overwhelmed.”
“So you’re not yet regretting your visit?” Bard asked almost timidly.
“Are you kidding?” Thranduil huffed a laugh. “I’m in the most beautiful nature and with the best guide I could ask for.” Which was still underestimating his feelings towards Bard.
“You should come back in spring, it’s even more beautiful when all the trees are in bloom,” Bard noted cheekily.
“Maybe I will,” Thranduil grinned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him that this was not going at all how he had planned it, but he shut it up quickly. Everything went perfectly.
Neither of them had noticed the sky clouding up until now, as the first drops of rain fell and quickly increased.
“Was this your plan all along? To bring me to the edge of your farm with no shelter in sight to get soaked again?” Thranduil deadpanned.
“A groundless accusation, Sir,” Bard countered with a grin, “I didn’t even know you were coming.” He was moving towards the cow pasture and beckoning Thranduil (who didn’t even care about the mud puddles anymore) to follow him. He hopped the fence in one smooth motion and went on. “Come on, this is a shortcut!”
“Do these look like yoga pants to you?” Thranduil called after him, indignantly gesticulating at his trousers, already having to blink rainwater out of his eyes, “Because I’ll have you know they’re really not that flexible.”
Bard started giggling uncontrollably and Thranduil blamed it entirely on his tense nerves that he joined in.
“God, this is ridiculous!” He barely got the words out, holding his sides with laughter.
Bard came back to the fence, still chuckling, hair plastered to his face, and held a hand out generously. “Let me help you. You can use the lower picket as a step and I’ll pull you over.”
Thranduil eyed him suspiciously while the contagious laughter from before still pulled at his diaphragm. “You won’t drop me in the mud, will you?”
“I would never.” Bard put a hand to his heart. “Not intentionally.”
“Great,” Thranduil sighed and carefully stepped onto the lower picket, “This is just great.”
The wood was slippery and his dress shoes had no tread whatsoever, so he had to apply all his core strength to not immediately slide off again. He clutched at Bard's hand without much thought and held onto it for dear life.
By the time he had safely crossed to the other side, it was raining cats and dogs. Bard didn't waste any time but started running towards the farmyard, dragging Thranduil with him by the hand. Somehow his skin against Thranduil’s felt more real than the rain.
“At least this time we're both wet,” Bard called over his shoulder with a laugh, not nearly as breathless as Thranduil who felt weirdly offended by that. He'd have to put in a few extra pilates sessions once he was back home and found the time for it.
They sprinted past the startled Bessy and the rest of her herd before Bard came to a slippery halt and Thranduil all but crashed into him. He stumbled and supported himself on Bard’s chest, noticing the impressive muscle underneath his shirt despite the situation. Bard held him by the shoulders and looked down at his half-slumped form with a roguish smirk. “You alright?”
Thranduil cleared his throat awkwardly and straightened up. “Perfectly fine.”
He was glad to see that they had reached the gate and would not have to climb any fences again. Bard led him past the barn and back into the farmyard, heading for the house overgrown with roses that Thranduil had already recognised as his home earlier. But before they could enter, still standing in the pouring rain, Bard turned to Thranduil with an indecipherable expression. “I suppose this means you’re going to meet my kids.”
And before Thranduil could even begin to panic about this, Bard opened the door and pulled him inside.
It was the most homely house Thranduil had ever seen: the hallway with its packed coat rack and an armada of shoes underneath, including a pair of Frozen wellies opened into a spacious living room, supported by rustic wooden beams, that hosted a corner sofa that looked so soft one might become absorbed when sitting down. The big windows with warm yellow curtains faced the cottage garden which was probably usually a lovely sight but the rain at the moment only made the inside feel even cosier. There was a wooden gallery above a now-empty fireplace and a big oak table in the centre of the room. Two children sat at it and the young girl immediately jumped up when she saw Bard entering.
“Da!” she exclaimed excitedly and dashed over on fluffy wool socks to hug her father. That had to be Tilda.
“Hey there, little bird,” Bard greeted her tenderly, “Careful, you’ll get wet.”
“Hi, Da,” the boy at the table - Bain, Thranduil remembered - said, without looking up from what seemed to be his homework. Bard slipped out of his boots, walked over to him and ruffled his hair. “Hey, buddy. Where’s your older sister?”
Another girl, Sigrid, emerged from a side door, a kitchen towel flung over her shoulder and arms akimbo. “She’s in the kitchen, making dinner all by herself because no one else bothered to help.” She shot Bain a disgruntled look before giving Bard a short hug. “Hi, da.”
“Um, I have to do my homework?” Bard argued testily.
“Um, you can finish that tomorrow?” Sigrid mimicked his tone.
“Da always says school work comes first, so-”
“Who are you?” Tilda asked into the looming sibling crisis and eyed Thranduil who still stood in the hallway, dripping all over the floor tiles, all dressed up and nowhere to go.
“This is Thranduil,” Bard introduced him, “He owns Elvenstar Hotels and came by to see the farm.”
“Hello,” Thranduil said, obviously uncomfortable with three pairs of children’s eyes on him, “Thank you for granting me asylum in this weather.”
“I like your hair,” Tilda said with the disarming candour only eight-year-olds possess, “Will you eat with us?”
Thranduil’s mouth opened into a small ‘oh’ and his eyes flickered to Bard uncertainly. “I don’t know. Please don’t trouble yourselves on my account. As soon as the rain stops I’ll leave for the station and return to Birmingham.”
“Birmingham?” Bain huffed, his eyes still set on the binomial formulas in his exercise book, “Good luck with that.”
“The last bus from the village leaves at five,” Sigrid explained helpfully and pointed to the wall clock that showed 5:15.
“If I had known you relied on public transport again I wouldn’t have held you up for so long.” Bard grimaced apologetically.
“Do not fret. It was my own responsibility; I should have checked the times beforehand,” Thranduil reassured him, his head racing to come up with a solution. His decision to come here had been so rash that he never even gave a thought about how to get back. He would probably be able to get a taxi, even in a small village like Builth Wells. He only hoped that the trains from Merthyr and Cardiff were still an option, otherwise this would be a long and not to mention expensive trip. Not that money was really a concern to him, but still…
“The sofa is a pull-out.” Sigrid mentioned it casually, but Thranduil’s eyes immediately widened. “I- I do not mean to impose…” he stuttered, eyes darting over to Bard again, who looked thoughtful.
“That is actually not the worst idea,” he said to Sigrid before turning to Thranduil: “You could sleep on the sofa and then take the bus in the morning. It isn’t exactly king-size but you should fit. And it’s comfier than it looks.” Thranduil was about to argue that it already looked plenty comfy to him, but that was a bit beside the point.
Bard seemed to take his silence as disapproval and quickly added “But it’s up to you of course. We wouldn’t want to keep you hostage against your will.” with a chuckle so strained, it even had Bain looking up at his father with a frown.
“No, I would gladly take you up on it if it is not too big of an inconvenience,” Thranduil replied, at which Sigrid who had followed the conversation with narrowed eyes now rolled them instead and walked back into the kitchen, apparently annoyed by the exaggerated politeness.
“Not at all,” Bard smiled, “Then it’s settled. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll see if there’s enough food for all of us.”
Thranduil felt foolish for it, but he was about to beg Bard not to leave him alone with his kids. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like them (in all honesty he couldn’t yet tell) or kids in general, but it had been so long since he had been around an eight-year-old that he was properly out of his depth. Bain was even worse because he reminded him of Legolas whom he had no idea how to deal with either at the moment.
Luckily Tilda already had plans for him. She skidded over to him on her socks and reached for a coat hanger, just about tall enough to grab one.
“You can put your jacket on this and I’ll hang it for you,” she said eagerly, “And your shoes go there.” She pointed next to the Frozen wellies.
“Are these yours?” Thranduil asked while he undid his shoelaces and neatly placed them next to the wellies.
“Yes, I love Frozen! My favourite is Anna… or maybe Olaf.” Thranduil had no idea who she was talking about. “Do you like it, too?”
With her big eyes staring up at him Thranduil almost didn’t have the heart to tell her, but honesty always came first, so he admitted: “I’m afraid I haven’t seen it.”
Tilda’s jaw dropped in horror at this capital offence. “You haven’t seen it?”
Thranduil shook his head sorrowfully. Tilda still held the coat hanger and he didn’t want to explain to her that his suit coat was actually part of the outfit and not a jacket one took off, so he just did. The rain must have gotten through because the light blue shirt he wore underneath was just as soaked. He could only hope it wasn’t see-through. Bard could probably lend him some clothes again, but Thranduil really didn’t want to bother him with that as well.
His train of thought was derailed when Tilda grabbed his hand and pulled him into the living room and towards the sofa. “I have the DVD! We can watch it right now.”
Thranduil was most relieved as Bard came back out of the kitchen and obstructed his daughter’s way with his arms crossed.
“No TV now, Til. We’re about to eat.”
When she grumblingly shuffled off, he turned to Thranduil tauntingly. “You had to ask about the wellies, didn’t you.”
He shrugged helplessly. There was no way he could have turned down Tilda’s offer - or rather order.
“I know; she can be a force of nature,” Bard sighed fondly, “Just like the rest of them apparently. I hope this arrangement is really alright with you and you didn’t just agree because my kids pressured you into it?”
“No, I honestly think it is the best solution,” Thranduil assured him, “Thank you again.”
“No worries at all.” Bard smiled. “I hope you like broccoli? Sigrid has made three casseroles of pasta bake.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Do you want to shower beforehand maybe?” Bard offered, “And I could give you a sweater; I can’t imagine that wet shirt’s comfortable.”
“It is not,” Thranduil confessed, “So, I’d gladly take you up on that sweater. Even if it means I will be in your debt once more, clothes-wise.”
“Hey, anything, as long as that means you’ll visit again to return them!”
Bard’s grin made Thranduil’s heart flutter.
Sigrid’s pasta bake was delicious. For utterly unselfish reasons Thranduil thought she should meet Tauriel and Legolas sometime.
While they were eating even Tilda held her peace and without her constantly bombarding him with questions Thranduil allowed himself to relax. The hot shower had revived his spirits and when he had come out of the bathroom Bard had already laid out some clothes for him. He was now in soft, grey tracks, that were just a tad too short, and a dark blue sweater in the waffle-weave pattern that Bard could not have known he loved - a lucky hit. His senses were slightly overwhelmed though: Everything smelled like Bard. His clothes of course - warm pine wafting all around him - but also Thranduil himself, having used Bard’s shampoo. And being in his house didn’t help. Every inch of it gave Thranduil another puzzle piece to add to his picture of Bard as it became more and more beautiful.
The idea of coming here to forget about Bard and erase him from Thranduil’s (personal) life had turned out to be idiotic, so he had decided not to think about it any more but instead enjoy this without holding back. For a start, he deliberately let his hair air-dry this time even though there had been a hairdryer in the bathroom, but he remembered that Brad had liked the wavy texture back when it had been like this in London. He knew this was dangerous territory but it had been all the more worth it when Bard had had to do a double take when he had come to the table.
After dinner, Sigrid ordered an annoyed Bain to do the washing up since he hadn’t helped before and Bard got a drowsy Tilda into bed. No more Frozen after all. When he came back he carried a pillow and a woollen blanket and dumped it onto the sofa.
“Would you give me a hand with pulling it out?”
When they had turned the sofa into a perfectly acceptable spare bed Thranduil already felt his eyes go heavy. But Bain still had to finish his Maths homework and Sigrid and Bard apparently had this ritual of solving a crossword every night. With both of them busy Bain approached Thranduil when he needed help: “Any chance you’re a Maths wiz or something? I don’t get this at all.”
Thranduil tried to hide his surprise and had a look at the boy’s book. The exercises seemed to be on graphs and quadratic functions, something he had not really looked into since his own school days. But his basic Math was pretty good, so he decided to give it a shot.
He and Bain managed to solve all of the exercises while Bard often looked up and watched them from under his eyelids. In the end, Bain was visibly relaxed and even gave Thranduil a high-five which he almost missed, seriously tired by now. But he was also very proud of himself - not just for handling graphs and functions, but also for getting along with Bain, which even Bard seemed to struggle with at the moment.
After the kids had gone to their rooms upstairs, Bard leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m beat. I’ll probably soon join them in going to bed. But… are you up for a nightcap before?”
“What do you have on offer?” Thranduil was quite tired himself - the long train ride and the excitement about seeing Bard again was taking its toll - but he would not miss the opportunity of even just a few more minutes alone with Bard.
“There’s apple juice of course, some beer, lemonade…,” Bard listed, “But I don’t think those are very appropriate for a nightcap. So maybe hot chocolate?” He raised a finger importantly. “All fancy with marshmallows.”
“Well, if there are marshmallows…” Thranduil grinned.
They had their hot chocolates (with marshmallows) at the kitchen table while talking about the upcoming opening celebrations for the Elvenstar Apartments & Resort in Blackpool. On the one hand, it was easy to talk about something so innocuous, but on the other hand, Thranduil feared that Bard had brought it up to remind him of their business relations and that they had agreed to restrict their relationship to only that: business. Not that he had forgotten about that himself; it was the only sensible solution. But somehow sense slipped a bit further from him every time his eyes met Bard’s.
Thranduil drank intentionally slow, not wanting the night to end, and Bard seemed to do the same. Still, there were only so many tiny sips one could take and eventually their cups were empty.
“You can go ahead to the bathroom while I clean up,” Bard told him, “There should be a spare toothbrush in the sink cabinet - and towels as well.”
It almost felt like an invasion of privacy to look through Bard’s cabinets but Thranduil reminded himself, that he had been asked to do so. And if he stopped to smell Bard’s deodorant and make a mental note of the brand before taking out a towel, then no one had to know.
After brushing his teeth and braiding his hair in preparation for bed Thranduil said good night to Bard.
“I hope you sleep well,” Bard said with a stifled yawn, “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. My bedroom is the downstairs one next to the bathroom.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Thranduil smiled, “Thank you again.”
The sofa really was as comfortable as it had looked and Thranduil fell asleep quickly. However, he also reawoke again quickly, not immediately sure why. Then he saw the streak of light glowing from under the kitchen door and heard glass clinking. While Thranduil first wondered if it was an intruder, he calmed down when he heard Bard shushing himself after a cupboard door fell closed with a small noise. He smiled, threw back the blanket before he could change his mind, and tiptoed towards the kitchen. He carefully pushed the door open, thankful it didn’t creak, and drew himself up to his full height. He put on a stern expression, put a hand on his hip and asked: “And what are you making such a racket for?”
Bard spun around wide-eyed and with a hand on his heart, almost dropping the glass he had just filled with water. Thranduil couldn’t keep up his act at that and dissolved into childish giggles.
“Jesus, Thranduil, you almost gave me a heart attack!” Bard hissed but he was grinning too.
“Right back at you,” Thranduil protested, “I thought you were an intruder or maybe a raccoon raiding the kitchen.”
“Well, I’m neither.”
“I don’t know.” Thranduil stepped closer and examined Bard with narrowed eyes. “There are quite prominent dark circles around your eyes…”
“Stop it, you!” Bard laughed quietly and hit him on the shoulder. “If anything I could imagine the goats stealing our food. It has happened before.”
Thranduil snorted at that. “You need to tame your beasts, Bard.”
“I’m trying, believe me,” he sighed, “Did I really wake you?”
“Yes, but I don’t mind,” Thranduil said truthfully, “I could actually do with some water myself.”
“That pasta bake was delicious but quite cheesy, huh?” Bard asked while filling another glass of water, which Thranduil accepted gratefully, “Always gets me the midnight thirst.”
Thranduil hummed in agreement and took a sip of water. When he set the glass back down he caught Bard staring at him with an odd look on his face. “What is wrong?”
Bard shook his head and seemed to come back to. “Nothing, sorry. It’s just weird to have you standing in my kitchen, drinking water in the middle of the night.”
“Oh.”
“Not in a bad way! It’s just…” Bard fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt. Thranduil tried not to look because the hem of his shirt was extremely close to the hem of his boxers which were the only pants he was wearing. “Why are you here, Thranduil?”
“I told you, I’m visiting all of the suppliers that-” Bard’s unimpressed expression cut him off. He gulped. Maybe the time for truth had come. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second.
“After London,” he started and heard Bard taking in a sharp breath, “I just… couldn’t get you off my mind. You leave quite the impression, Bard Bowman.” He tried to grin but it came out strained.
“Me?” Bard said incredulously and a bit too loud, considering that they really didn’t want to wake the kids. He scaled down the volume and whispered urgently: “Have you seen yourself?”
Thranduil beamed at him but quickly became serious again. “I thought I could get you off my mind by seeing you. You know, like when you have a song stuck in your head and the only way to get it out is to listen to it as a whole?” Explaining his little song theory made it seem even more pathetic. Thranduil grimaced. “I am afraid it doesn’t work like that with people.”
“I thought about you, too,” Bard admitted quietly. His eyes were fixed on the floor tiles. “A lot.”
“About how I deceived you and made you take exhaustingly long detours?” Thranduil offered with a wry smile, but his heart was beating furiously.
“No,” Bard said with a tauntingly raised eyebrow, “Although I did think about those detours my mind was mostly occupied with what happened at the hotel.”
Thranduil felt his whole body going hot at the memory of that. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. But I also thought about what you said afterwards.” Thranduil wanted to stamp his foot like a stubborn child who didn’t get its will. “How we are business partners and only business partners and how it would be best if it remained that way.”
“That may have been a premature judgement,” Thranduil admitted slowly. They were entering uncharted waters now, with no life raft in sight.
“What?” Bard’s eyes widened in surprise.
“You see, I was still quite new to my position and… well, interpersonal relations can overcomplicate things, so I was careful,” Thranduil explained, “But now I have realised that it is way more complicated to avoid interpersonal relations when all I can think about is… that person.” He looked at Bard meaningfully.
“Your convoluted sentences are overcomplicating things right now,” Bard complained. Thranduil’s shoulders sacked in frustration. He had hoped to bypass speaking his heart plainly but apparently, subtlety was wasted on Bard. Well, either that or he just wanted to be sure - he had much more to lose than Thranduil after all.
“What I am trying to say is…” Thranduil broke off with an exasperated huff. He was usually good with words but this situation proved rather challenging. He tried a different approach, wanting to give Bard some security so he might stop acting like he was slow on the uptake. “First of all, you should know that no matter what happens between us it won’t affect your deal with Elvenstar,” he said businesslike, ”I am well able to separate business and personal matters. Plus, after today, I am certain we wouldn’t find another food supplier so passionate about what he does.”
His flattery is lost on Bard, who just looks at him blankly. The cardigan he must have put on when getting up for the water slipped off one of his sagged shoulders but he didn’t move. Thranduil took it upon himself to fix the cardigan and left his hand on Bard’s shoulder afterwards. “Bard, did you hear me?”
His head slowly moved to the side to look at Thranduil’s hand, which it took him a lot of courage not to move. “I…” he croaked and cleared his throat. His eyes travelled back to Thranduil’s. “I have an idea where you are going with this,” he admitted, “But I’m scared to be wrong.”
Thranduil took another step closer to Bard, almost chest to chest to him now, and whispered: “Only one way to find out.”
Bard melted into him as if by command. All of his walls came down and his lips crashed into Thranduil’s forcefully. All or nothing.
But since this was of course where Thranduil had been going with this, he wasted no time himself. He returned the kiss just as urgently and sighed against Bard’s mouth at this finally happening.
And with it happening Bard seemed to have forgotten all of his earlier uncertainty. He pushed Thranduil up against the fridge, who responded with an aggressive buzzing sound, and buried his hands in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.
Thranduil surrendered himself to Bard; everything else faded and it was only him. Bard’s fingers tugging lightly on his hair, his beard, rough but not displeasingly so, where Thranduil’s hands cupped his face, his warm and strong body pressed up against him. It was better than Thranduil had remembered, better than he could have ever imagined if he had allowed himself to. How had he ever thought he could give this up?
He shifted his attention from Bard’s lips to his neck, kissing a trail from his earlobe to the collarbone, thanking God that the shirt’s neckline was so baggy. Bard breathed heavily into his ear, making him shiver all over, and nudged his temple with his nose to get him up to his lips again, a request Thranduil willingly accepted. They went right back to kissing each other senseless.
This whole time the fridge door handle pierced into Thranduil’s lower back and while he had successfully ignored it before, it was making itself noticeable now. As he shifted slightly to the side, refusing to break their tight embrace, his hips bucked forward, at which Bard let out a groan and ground against him shamelessly.
Thranduil felt his knees go weak at the same time that his pants seemed to grow tighter and leeched on to Bard when suddenly, he was grasping at air. This time it was Bard who still had enough sense and willpower to pull away.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” he rasped. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Thranduil remembered that his kids were in this very house, hopefully sleeping soundly only one floor above them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he saw were Bard’s wide-blown pupils and his perfect lips and his messy hair.
When Bard realised that he could not expect any intelligent words from him at the moment, he grabbed Thranduil’s hand and pulled him with him. “Come.”
Bard led the way as they stumbled through the dark living room and towards the open door next to the bath, that Thranduil recognised as Bard’s bedroom. The significance of this was enough to get his brain to work again. He stopped Bard in the middle of the doorway and asked quietly: “Are you sure?”
“I am if you are.” His smile was equally nervous and hopeful. Thranduil kissed him passionately in response and they were already tangled up in each other again as the door fell closed behind them.
As Thranduil woke up the next morning he needed a second to remember where he was. The bed felt different, although cosy, the sheets smelled different and the window, which only let in the first light of dawn, was on the wrong side of the room.
Then he saw Bard’s silhouette before the tall wardrobe, almost soundlessly slipping into some jeans and everything came rushing back to him. At first, he was happy. In his opinion, the night could not have turned out better even though it had really not gone according to plan. They would have to talk this through and establish some rules to make it work, but Thranduil was confident that they were up for it.
But what if Bard thought differently? What if the thought of the consequences of their actions had caught up with him and made him regret them? Thranduil could not see another reason why he would get up and dressed without as much as a word, leaving him there like a discarded one-night stand. But since this is Bard’s home shouldn’t he be the one leaving or rather being thrown out?
The confused little noise he made was enough to catch Bard’s attention. He walked to the head of the bed still shirtless and Thranduil already mourned that he would never be allowed to touch it again when Bard knelt down and gave him a smile so soft and sweet it made him forget all of his worries.
“Good morning handsome,” he whispered and brushed his forehead with his lips, “Sorry to wake you, but I have to feed the animals. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Thranduil could only nod, suddenly overwhelmed by Bard’s affection and the warm feeling of hope growing in his stomach. Bard stood back up, threw on a sweater and Thranduil another radiant grin before exiting the room quietly.
Thranduil dosed off again with a satisfied smile still on his face and only woke when Bard had come back and the other side of the bed sacked under his weight as he lay back down. Thranduil drowsily wrapped his arms around him and snuggled up to the soft fabric of his sweater. When their legs got entangled in the process he realised at the same time, that Bard had ditched his jeans and was only in boxers again and that he himself was still naked. Somehow he didn’t feel any shame or inhibitions.
He felt Bard’s chuckle vibrating in his chest before he heard it. “Did you sleep well?”
He put his arm around Thranduil and massaged his shoulders, which he countered with an appreciative sigh before mumbling: “Very well.”
“I’m glad.”
They cuddled like this for a while, Thranduil gradually awakening, before Bard carefully said: “Trust me when I say I could stay in this bed with you all day, but I’m afraid the kids will be up soon.”
This made Thranduil sit up so quickly that he was dizzy for a second. “I have to get back to the sofa. If I come out here with you… or if they come in and we’re still lying here…!” he stuttered and jumped out of the bed to find his clothes, unaware of Bard’s dark eyes on his body, “Not that there’s anything wrong with what we have done - on the contrary, it was very, very good . But… they only just met me yesterday and I don’t think either of us is ready for that yet and…” He stood there out of breath, still gesticulating and with his pants only half on.
“That’s what I thought,” Bard said calmly, but not without an amused smile at Thranduil’s panic. The other man’s shoulders sagged in relief and he finished getting dressed less hurriedly.
Bard got up and walked to the door, casually stroking Thranduil’s tense shoulders on the way, not knowing what this simple gesture set off in the other man. He cautiously opened the door just a smidge and peeked out.
“The coast is clear,” he reported and Thranduil crept out on his tiptoes, not sure if he felt more like a child playing a game or a criminal escaping prison.
“We’ll talk about this later?” he whispered almost inaudibly, but Bard nodded.
The next time Thranduil woke up he was on the sofa again and heard the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. From the smell, he deduced that someone was making eggs and a whole lot of bacon.
The food was great again but the breakfast still awkward. From the way her narrowed eyes kept moving between Bard and Thranduil, Sigrid at least suspected something. Luckily for them, Tilda had babbled away from the moment they had sat down, leaving no pause for critical questions. Thranduil didn’t envy Bard for he was sure that Sigrid would approach him the minute he had left.
The parting then came earlier than anticipated when Bain out of all people interrupted Tilda in the middle of a story about the goats: “Shouldn’t you get going?”
“I… don’t know,” Thranduil said, taken aback, “When is the next bus scheduled?”
“In half an hour,” Sigrid threw in with a glance at the clock, “And that’s the last one for today?”
“What?” Thranduil had known they had fiddled around, it was a lazy Sunday after all, but it was still just 11 am!
“Ah, shoot, I forgot!” Bard exclaimed and jumped up, “On Sundays, the bus only runs in the morning so people can get to church.”
Thranduil was a bit concerned about the outdatedness of that. But there were more important matters on hand now. “Then I have to go!”
“I’ll drive you,” Bard said curtly, “Get your stuff.”
Luckily Thranduil hadn’t brought much. He only made a grab for his clothes - still wearing Bard’s borrowed sweater-and-tracks combo - slipped into his shoes and the (unfortunately not dry yet) jacket and was ready to go.
“Then we will watch ‘Frozen’ next time?” Tilda asked in a mixture of sadness and hope as she and her siblings stood in the hall like a farewell committee. Thranduil threw Bard an imploring look, but he only shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘you’ve brought this upon yourself’.
So he replied vaguely: “I’m sure we will watch it one day.” and stroked her hair.
“I suppose we’ll be seeing you again then?” Sigrid asked pointedly.
“Well,” Thranduil began and looked up at Bard with a grin, “Your da will want his clothes back. So, yes, you might see me again.”
She looked unsure what to think of that.
Bain wasn’t one for long goodbyes either. He shook Thranduil’s hand and thanked him again for his Maths help and then, with another wave at Tilda, Bard ushered him out of the door.
His car - an old school 2005 Ford Ranger - was parked in the barn and got up to an impressive (and maybe a bit concerning) speed on the pot holey field roads. What had seemed like an endless walk when Thranduil arrived yesterday was now over in mere five minutes. Bard parked at the bus station and killed the engine. They hadn’t really talked during the drive but now there was still some time left before Thranduil had to get on the bus.
“I’m glad you visited,” Bard said quietly, eyes still set on where his hands clutched the steering wheel.
“Me too.” Thranduil gently detached his left hand and held it between his. “I really enjoyed spending some more time with you.”
Bard suck in a sharp breath and finally turned to look at him. “Will I see you again?”
“Well, I hope you will be at the hotel opening next month,” Thranduil grinned, “I’m counting on your delicious catering.”
Bard pouted but there was a humorous glint in his eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean!”
Thranduil had no choice, it was as if his body was moving on his own account as he leant forward and placed a long, soft kiss on Bard’s lips. “Is that answer enough?”
“Since I am prone to misunderstandings I have to admit I’d appreciate it if you could voice your thoughts.”
Thranduil laughed. “Of course; anything for you.” He took Bard’s other hand in his as well and turned to him fully. “Bard Bowman, I would love to see you again,” he said solemnly, “In and very far out of business context.”
Bard smiled and kissed him again. “I’ll give you my number?”
Thranduil almost broke a finger fishing out his phone and eagerly handed it to Bard who put his number in. Just as he gave the phone back to Thranduil there was a distorted announcement in the station.
“I think that’s you,” Bard muttered glumly. Thranduil grabbed his neck and pulled him in for one more passionate goodbye kiss. When they breathlessly moved apart, foreheads still connected, he whispered against Bard’s lips: “I will see you soon.”
Then he grabbed his clothes, opened the car door and was off.
Bard’s phone announced a new message from an unknown number just two minutes later: Birmingham next week?