If chance it be

by Geale

Summary:

“Who’s that?”

Legolas looked. Admittedly, despite his elven-sharp senses he didn’t see much. He could maybe make out a set of shoulders against the back of the long sofa that lined the wall, but the face of the individual in question lay in shadow.

Even so, he couldn't quite tear his gaze away.

Notes:

My first ever modern AU. If nothing else, you can play ‘spot all the Legendarium references (besides the obvious ones) and the single Jaime Lannister one’.

There was a crust of glittering crystals laid upon the fallen leaves. Even in the evening darkness, illuminated by nothing more magical than the streetlights, Legolas admired them. This part of Eriador never saw much snow until late January or early February, but from mid-November, frost came regularly to sharpen the edges of the world and lessen the soggy impact of the near-overwhelming dullness of wet, decaying brown.

“Oi!”

His head jerked up.

Martin and Philip had continued on ahead and stood now by the door to the bar. The Stately Stud was a splash of golden light on this otherwise quite abandoned, wide back alley that wasn’t really a back alley at all. It was the end of this small town, rather. The last frontier to the border that was the surrounding woodland half-turned park by the local council.

“He's lost it,” Legolas heard Philip proclaim. “Again.”

“Legolas, come on!” Martin called. “The leaves will still be there tomorrow.”

He hurried over, feet light over the frost. “Sorry,” he said when he had caught up with them.

“Honestly...” Martin shook his head at him, a pitiful expression on his face. “We’re doing this for you.”

“And for me,” Philip chimed in cheerfully. Their breaths misted lightly before them.

Martin turned a raised eyebrow at him. “No? Because you're seeing Dina? No,” he went on decisively, taking Legolas by the arm and pulling him with him through the door. “We’re doing this for you, mate.”

It was true, to an extent. The Stately Stud was the only gay bar in Bree and while Legolas had not yet given up hope of finally meeting somebody (his father still asked, e-ve-ry time he called) Martin never said no to a night out even though it meant putting his own search for a fair maiden on hold. As for Philip who identified as somewhere on the straight-to-bisexual spectrum, he currently did have a girlfriend, but for as long as Legolas had known him (which was for almost three years now) he had never turned an offer of drinks down.

The Stud was most certainly not a club and it wasn't overly large. Legolas liked it because the entire structure was made from roughly hewn wooden boards. The lighting was dim and the music, on the whole, unobtrusive. And, for what it was worth, there was a relief-inducing quality to the distinct lack of desperation here. Sure, glances were cast on occasion, drinks were bought and palms could slide over somebody’s thigh, but, on the whole, the atmosphere was more amiable than arduous.

“Well?” Martin asked once the door had closed behind them. “See anybody new?”

And that was the problem. Not with The Stud, because it wasn't the bar’s fault that, size wise, the population of Bree had remained about the same over the past decade. Its saving grace was the council, really, which in its many attempts to ensure the town’s prosperity regularly launched new construction projects or culture events. Those drew people, workers and tourists, and sometimes a few of them ended up at The Stud.

Not tonight, however, it seemed.

While scanning familiar faces, Legolas told himself he wasn't disappointed. After all, he was only two hundred years old and would live for a very, very long time. He was in no hurry. He hadn't really planned on staying in Bree for this long, anyway, but he’d found work at a garden centre and then he’d met Martin and Philip and they'd become friends and...

He was not disappointed.

A slippery heaviness settled deep in his stomach, effectively betraying him to himself.

Still, he squared his shoulders. They'd have a fun Friday night out, he told himself firmly. Besides, the upside of no newcomers was that no one would stare too blatantly at him. A decent number of Elves per annum passed through Bree, but his looks always drew at least some attention and after a while (one-hundred-and-fifty years, approximately) that grew somewhat tiresome.

So this was good. This was perfect, actually. Could not have been better.

“Who's that?” Somewhat uncharacteristically, Martin had lowered his voice to a hiss. His elbow in Legolas’ ribs was sharp, though. He made a less than subtle nod in the direction of the darkest corner of the bar.

“Who?” Legolas asked, before he had quite caught on.

“My point exactly,” said Martin, under his breath.

He looked. Admittedly, despite his elven-sharp senses he didn't see much. He could maybe make out a set of shoulders against the back of the long sofa that lined the wall, but the face of the individual in question lay in shadow.

Philip had followed their gazes. “That’s no way to sit in a bar,” he said. “I bet you he’s either dull or dodgy. Best keep our distance.”

Legolas heard himself half-heartedly agree by way of an unconvinced hum. There was something... compelling about that shadow in the corner. He could never have said what, but he felt his eyes linger – indeed, found it next to impossible to look away. A tumbler stood placed on the small table in front of the figure. It caught the warm, low light and glinted just a little. And somehow, for some inconceivable reason, that broken glitter of light through the glass, sent a shiver straight down Legolas’ spine.

“Over there.” Martin was steering him by the elbow again, he realised belatedly, and was eventually forced to look away or he might be in danger of breaking his neck.

“Are we...” He allowed himself one more over-the-shoulder glance at the outline of the individual in the corner. “Are we sure we haven't seen them before?”

“Positive,” Martin said decisively, guiding him down into a seat. From where he had ended up, Legolas could just about make out the dense shadows that stubbornly obscured the stranger’s face from view.

For his part, Philip was looking expectantly at them. “Pints, yeah?”

Legolas made a face. “No?”

“But you hate their wine,” Philip reminded him.

“With good reason,” Legolas told him.

“Because you're spoiled,” Martin said, but not without affection. “But I suppose anyone would be, too, if their father was a wine merchant.”.

“So I'm forgiven?” Legolas grinned.

Under his mop of reddish-golden curls, Martin rolled his eyes. “Yes, today also. Get him something fruity,” he added, with a nod at Philip.

“I don't want anything fruity,” Legolas protested, but by then Philip had already made a beeline for the bar.

It didn't take long before he was back, bringing two pints and a muted orange cocktail for Legolas which he reluctantly could agree looked promising.

“OK, so I heard...” Philip began in a voice close to a hiss, leaning in much more than necessary while distributing the drinks, “that that fellow over there...” he made a not-so-subtle jerk of his head towards the dark corner, paired with an overly dramatic widening of his eyes, “has been hired to help maintain the forest.”

“Really?” Legolas could not help another glance in the newcomer’s direction.

“Yes,” Philip said as he plopped down into his seat. “Bali thinks he's some groundskeeper or other... although I suppose she hasn't exactly seen his qualifications.”

“Why did you ask?” Martin groaned.

“Why not?”

“You were the one who said he was dodgy.”

“I said he might be dodgy.”

Legolas carefully stirred his drink with the straw. There was no reason for why this new scrap of information should at all lodge itself among his thoughts and refuse to let go. Certainly, he was mighty desperate to develop a curiosity about a shadow who possibly had some connection to trees. Haldir, his brother, would never let him live that one down, if ever he learned of it. Mostly for that reason alone, Legolas had just decided to let the whole matter go when the stranger in question moved. In Legolas’ defence, he saw it in the corner of his eye and only because he hadn't yet had the sense to turn away.

The newcomer’s face still lay in shadow but as he unfolded and stood, Legolas saw that he was tall. And though it shouldn't be possible (because elven senses were not that sharp) Legolas was instantly, absolutely convinced that the stranger was watching him.

On impulse, he took a sip of his drink. And then another. He'd dressed pretty well this evening, he thought, in clean, skinny jeans and a tight willow-green button-up shirt, and he had washed and braided his hair only yesterday. Of course, the stranger opposite him might, for all Legolas knew, be into Cave Trolls in which case he didn't stand a chance.

This was about as far as his thoughts took him before he realised what he was doing and had to mentally kick himself. Haldir would have a field day – as they said – if he had even an inkling of what was passing through his mind. Besides, Legolas hadn’t even the faintest idea what the figure in the corner looked like and it wasn't like...

The stranger moved into the light.

And, well...

Shit.

‘Handsome’ would have been the understatement of the century. Of all the two centuries Legolas had seen. He was lean, dressed all in black and with dark hair and stubble to match. Still, there was some brightness about him – hard to pin down – that honest-to-all-the-Gods brought a fluttering to life in Legolas’ breast.

That was not fair.

So, Legolas did the only reasonable thing in response: he promptly tore his gaze away and took another long swallow of his drink. Because men like that did not simply turn up in tiny Bree and even if they did, the odds were that they were looking for somebody completely different. Not for a... slender, blond, stubble-free elf with a passion for something as outdated as archery. No way. Nope. Fat chance.

As they said.

“... never listen!” Martin clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Sure I do,” Philip objected.

Legolas plastered a smile onto his face. “No, you don't, Pip, but that's fine. We love you anyway.”

“Much good that does me,” Philip grumbled, but he had a hard time holding a smile of his own at bay.

“Come on,” Martin held up his drink. “To... Fridays?”

Legolas grinned. “To leaves.”

“For fuck’s sake...” Martin rolled his eyes but clinked their glasses together all the same.

*

He held out for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to be proud of. Then he caved.

And even as Legolas sat watching – as if the stranger could read his mind – he rose again and made his way over to the bar. It didn't matter that it was just walking – he moved with a grace that Legolas could only describe as ‘elvish’ and that, more than anything else so far, intrigued him.

A new debate was brewing to his left.

“But only yesterday you said...” Martin began.

“I never did!”

Legolas glanced around the table. Philip was almost done with his pint but Martin had a couple of inches left. Legolas hadn’t finished his own drink either.

“Next round is on me,” he said, jumping to his feet before the words were quite out of his mouth. Just as he had hoped, they ignored him in favour of their argument.

A nervous twist came to his stomach as he approached the bar. Only when he was fairly close did he dare to properly raise his eyes to the stranger’s face and promptly felt his insides positively melt.

Even with the dark stubble, his jaw was sharp. Perfect square chin and longish, shaggy black hair that framed his face. His eyes were... light. It was difficult to tell their true colour in here but they were mesmerising all the same.

They were firmly fastened on Legolas already and, truly, he felt the weight of that gaze in his knees.

“Hello,” he said, luckily just on the right side of the border to trembling. This utterly captivating stranger didn't need to know that he currently felt like he was disintegrating.

The man said nothing. He didn't look away, though.

“Erm...” Legolas glanced at Bali behind the counter where she was mixing some cocktail, her waist-length dark hair collected in a low ponytail and with the light catching in her nose ring.

“Go ahead,” said the stranger, which was disheartening. Not only since that could be interpreted as him telling Legolas to order his drinks and be off, but also because he had the most gorgeous voice. Low, smooth and with a hint of a rasp that could turn every single one of Legolas’ muscles into quivering aspen leaves. A secretive voice, in a way, that promised uncharted depths.

“No, it's... You were here first,” Legolas managed.

Maybe I was or maybe I wasn’t, the man's eyes said but he only gestured at the bar. A restricted movement with one hand. “Please.”

Fuck it. Sod it.

Legolas slid up to stand face to face with him. “No, really,” he said.

He was rewarded with the upwards turn of the man's mouth. It became the suggestion of a wry smile.

“I’ll have another then, please,” he told Bali, as if he somehow magically knew she’d hear and listen to him even though she was currently busy.

“Coming right up,” she said, with only the quickest sideways glance in his direction.

If nothing else, that was peculiar enough to pique Legolas’ interest.

“So…” He cleared his throat. “I haven't seen you here before.” In his own opinion, he succeeded pretty well at keeping his voice pleasantly unaffected.

“I’ve been here before,” said the man. “But it's... some years ago, now.”

“Oh. I only moved to Bree three years ago,” Legolas said. “Must have been before that, then.”

Bali placed a new tumbler before the man. It was whisky probably. Then she looked expectantly at Legolas, her brown eyes much too knowing for his comfort. “And for you, love?” she prompted, when he didn’t speak up.

“Erm... Two pints, please, of whatever they had before,” he said with a nod in his friends’ direction. “And...” All of a sudden he didn't want to order a cocktail. Not in front of the stranger beside him who was probably having something smoky and serious. “A glass of white wine, please.”

“Uh-huh,” she said slowly, but didn't object.

He looked on miserably as she busied herself with filling a glass with some wine he’d definitely hate. Not that Legolas needed to count every penny but this was certainly a complete waste of money. He accepted the wine with an inward sigh.

“No taste for ale?”

He started. The man was looking at him. His eyes were grey, Legolas distantly decided, and they were intent on him.

“No,” he confessed.

Normally, it was about this far into a conversation, halting or no, that the other party felt the need to point out the obvious and tell Legolas to his face that he appeared to be an Elf. This man did not, however. In fact – judging by how he acted – he could just as well not have noticed. It was refreshing, if a tad unsettling.

One pint was placed beside his wine glass.

“Your friend asked some questions about me,” said the man.

A cold weight fell from the base of Legolas’ throat into the pit of his stomach.

“Right...” he said as an awkward blush worked its way up his neck. “I'm sorry if he offended you... It's just, this is kind of a small place and... you know how people get when newcomers pop up.” He made an attempt at a lopsided smile. Then remembered. “Oh, but you said you've been here before. Sorry. About that as well.” His smile faltered.

The man's mouth curled in an odd mixture of... well, into something Legolas couldn't quite define. It was halfway to wry again but not amused.

“I'm sure he didn't mean for you to overhear,” Legolas tried, while wondering if that only made it worse.

“I am sure. But your friend should know he draws quite a bit of attention to himself. And so, consequently, to me.”

Legolas bit his lip. “And you don't want that?”

Next to the first, the second pint landed.

The man was silent for a long moment, gaze finally drifting away. Then it looked like a fight Legolas hadn't even known was in him ended and his shoulders dropped.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter, really,” he said, and if Legolas weren't mistaken a weariness had crept into his voice. “I am here to work. People will know me eventually.” When he looked up again, he actually did smile, if faintly. That didn't mean anything, though, because it was still a beautiful one. “I am Aragorn.”

When it came to smiles, Legolas’ was wide. “And I'm Legolas,” he said, sure he was mad for thinking he'd just been gifted something extremely precious. “And I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.”

At that, Aragorn actually chuckled. It was soft and very hard to miss, but at the sound of it Legolas’ felt his heart take a small leap.

“You should return to your companions,” said Aragorn. “Their ale is getting warm.”

“They're...” Legolas began, but unfortunately he was right. He worried the backs of his teeth with his tongue tip. “Any chance you’ll... come here again?” he asked, just above a breath.

And all over again, the intensity came into Aragorn’s eyes. “I'll be staying a while tonight,” he said quietly.

“Great,” Legolas got out while it felt like his heart crammed itself into his throat. He kept his eyes locked with Aragorn's for another second or two (or three) before he had to turn away or the man would think he was insane.

He was three paces away when, apparently, his own tongue decided to launch a rebellion against every rule of conduct:

“Listen,” he heard himself say while turning on the spot. Aragorn had not moved an inch. “I just have to make something clear. Men like you... don't hit on elves like me. Or on elves at all, really.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. Unfortunately, that did not stop Legolas from speaking:

“You like the rugged type. Believe me, I know. And since – obviously – I am not that, let's just... leave this where it lies, or however the saying goes. Because you are an... extremely attractive man and I don't particularly fancy being lured in only to be, well, not lured in, in the end. As it were.”

There was silence.

“Ah,” said Aragorn.

“Yes. So. It was nice meeting you, but no–”

“There are few men like me,” Aragorn said quietly. “And I don't mean that flippantly. It is the truth.”

Legolas watched him carefully as a tiny thrill sped through his entire upper body to land basically at the back of his tongue.

Aragorn’s eyes were fixed on his face. “Believe me when I say I do not like the rugged type.” Then he nodded in the direction of Martin and Philip. “I'll be here a while.”

It was mad, but Legolas was quite certain he couldn't feel his own feet as he made his way back to the table. It was like Aragorn’s voice was still ringing in his ears, full of impossible, tantalising promises.

“Legolaaaas,” Martin groaned as he began to distribute the drinks.

“What?”

“You ordered wine, which means you were flustered. Which means... he’s getting to you.”

“So what if he is?”

“Well, for one, I don’t like the way he looks at you – like he’s singled you out to be his next meal or whatnot – and, two, you don't know him!”

“He’s not going to eat me,” Legolas said decisively. “And as for not knowing him, there is a way to remedy that,” he added pointedly, reclaiming his seat. Managing to abstain from glancing in Aragorn’s direction, he made sure to keep his voice to just above a whisper. “Listen, I don't think he's human.”

“Oh, now we're not good enough for you?” Martin snorted, for his part not at all bothering about keeping his voice down. “Listen to that, Pip. Our mortal coil is boring the Elf.”

“You wound us!” Philip told him, affecting great suffering.

Legolas rolled his eyes. “I'm just curious.”

Martin gave him a dark look. “No, you're horny.”

“I suppose it's fair to say that those two don't necessarily cancel each other out,” Philip mused.

“My point still stands though,” Martin said. “All right, so maybe he's not human but how do you know he isn't some... I dunno... demon from the ancient world?”

Legolas raised an eyebrow. Martin shrugged.

“It's a good point,” said Philip. “He might eat you then. Literally.”

“No, it's not a good point,” Legolas objected. “There haven't been any demons around for the past... five hundred years or so.”

They both blanched.

“Right,” said Legolas. He took a swallow of his wine which proved just a sugary sweet as he had feared. “Anyway, from what I have been taught, demons feel much fouler. Felt. When they were around, I mean,” he quickly added, “they all perished during the Last Goblin War.”

At least according to the lore.

“Well, how d’you know he’s not a goblin?” Philip countered.

“He's not,” said Legolas, with another roll of his eyes.

Martin looked sceptical.

“All right,” Legolas relented, feeling his own shoulders perform a substantial, defeated drop. “But he's extremely handsome. You’ve got to give me that, at least. Pip?”

“Nah,” Philip shook his head. “He's the brooding kind, I can tell. Not for me.”

“And since when do you like introspective, depressed blokes?” Martin asked.

“You don't know if he's depressed,” Legolas protested in a hiss.

“You don't know he isn't,” Martin shot back.

“This is ridiculous.” He hesitated. Glanced over to where Aragorn was still sat in the badly lit corner. And, then, before he knew what he was doing, Legolas was standing again. “I'm going to find out if he is.”

“Oh, Gods...” Martin sighed. “But we’ll be watching,” he added in warning. “No shenanigans allowed.”

“Of the graver kind,” Philip grinned, and dodged Martin’s foot under the table.

Legolas left them to it. He had left the wine as well he realised when he was already halfway across the floor, which was stupid because now his approach might be interpreted as him angling for a drink. Fetching it would look even worse, though, so he steeled himself against his own awkwardness and slowly made his way over to Aragorn’s corner.

“Well, hello,” Aragorn said, and his voice was low and smooth.

“Hi. Again,” said Legolas. “Is... Is that seat taken?” he asked, gesturing at the obviously empty space next to Aragorn.

“It is not.”

For a very uncomfortable moment, Legolas thought he might be forced to ask outright and that was behaviour sure to turn him completely off, but then Aragorn shifted a little where he sat, making even more space. It was wholly unnecessary.

“Please,” he said. “I would really like it if you would care to join me.”

So, not really conscious of anything besides Aragorn’s gaze on him, he sank to sit.

“Didn't bring your wine?”

“Erm... no.” He tried out a smile. “I don't really... See, my father is a wine merchant so I guess I'm spoiled when it comes to vintages... and... the like...”

He only faltered because Aragorn's small smile was simply breathtaking. There was even a hint of fondness woven into it which made something near Legolas’ heart melt.

“Would you like me to get you something else?”

He shook his head – had to work to draw his eyes from Aragorn’s mouth. Not that his eyes were bad to look at either. “No, I didn't come over here to beg for a drink.”

“Why did you come?”

“Well...” He bit his lip. “Well, honestly, you've been staring at me ever since I walked through the door...” he dared.

At that, Aragorn's face fell. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, it's... But it's like I told you: men like you don't normally go for people like me. I mean, not saying I'm judging you by your appearance alone, but if I were judging you by your appearance alone...”

Surely, Aragorn’s gaze was a physical thing. “And it is like I told you in turn,” he said seriously, “there are few men like me. And I... I would prefer it if you did not judge me by my looks.”

“Of course, I'm sorry,” Legolas said quickly, feeling beyond stupid now. It was no wonder, really, that he had yet to bring home a boyfriend for his father's scrutiny. He drew a fortifying breath. “Would you give me a second chance?” He held out his hand. “Legolas.”

But Aragorn didn't take it. Instead, he carefully placed a hand over his heart and gave a small dip of his head. The unexpected familiarity of it made Legolas frown.

“Aragorn,” the man said quietly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

It came to him automatically, the gesture, as he returned it. “You have met Elves before?” he asked when it was over. 

Aragorn seemed to hesitate. “Yes,” he said slowly, after a moment. “I was... I was raised in foster care. My parents died young. My foster-father is half elven, actually.”

“Really?” Legolas, on some level, knew he was staring. “Oh, and I'm sorry about your parents,” he added quickly. “My mother died when I was an elfling. It's been me and my father ever since.” He made a face. “Well, and my brother but he doesn't count. Honestly, he's a pompous ars– erm... he's really full of himself,” he finished lamely.

But if he weren't mistaken, a hint of amusement flickered in Aragorn's eyes.

“So, it could be said you are an Elf-friend, then?” Legolas went on, before the man changed his mind and decided he was a moron.  

Aragorn shrugged a shoulder, his gaze finally dropping from Legolas’ face. “I am...” he began, reinforcing the impression that he found it somewhat tricky to open up about himself. “I am a Ranger,” he said quietly. Evenly. Heavily.

Legolas could practically feel his own eyes widen. “Oh, wow,” he said. “You’re not... I mean, there are not that many of you around anymore, right?” This time, fire positively leapt into his face and his hand flew to cover his mouth. “I'm sorry!” he winced behind it. “That was really insensitive. I'm such an idiot.”

Opposite him, the corner of Aragorn's mouth quirked upwards in a mostly humourless little smile. “You’re not wrong, though.” He sighed, gaze falling to the tumbler at his fingertips. “My foster-father was an acquaintance of my parents. Sickness had been plaguing my people for several years. That is how I ended up where I did.”

Legolas bit his lip. A captivating vulnerability had come over Aragorn's features and it made Legolas want to scoot close and put his arms around him. He managed to stay put, however.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. “I mean, I keep saying that – I realise that – but I really am.”

Aragorn acknowledged that with a nod. “It is long ago now.”

“Well... still.” It was difficult to tell whether Aragorn would rather move on from this discussion or if he were getting something out of it. Legolas decided to make one final point on the matter. “Among my people it is said that those we love never truly leave us. That their souls are connected to the souls of those they leave behind and that they still dwell in our hearts.”

“So it is said also among my foster-father’s people,” said Aragorn. His gaze flickered sideways and, very briefly, his brow furrowed, but when he once again met Legolas’ eyes, his own ones were clear. “Will you tell me what an Elf such as yourself is doing in Bree?”

They had made it across one threshold, it felt like. Some unnamed weight lifted from Legolas’ shoulders and he opted for a smile. “I wanted to travel, it’s truly as simple as that. At the outset, my father wasn’t terribly keen but he also likes to hear about what I get up to, so…”

“And what do you get up to?”

“Oh.” His cheeks warmed a little. The intensity in Aragorn’s eyes was as enchanting as it was intimidating. “I mean, nothing too exotic. I work at the garden centre.”

Aragorn laughed. It was the most brilliant sound. It came with what felt like an explosion of light and Legolas was left almost dizzy with it.

“And you come here, once in a while?” Aragorn asked, his stance, it felt like, much more inviting now.

“Once in a while,” Legolas confirmed, still a little dazed.

Nodding, Aragorn reached for his tumbler and took a sip. His eyes remained fixed on Legolas’ face, however. “I am glad.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Seriously.

“So… what will you do... for work?” Legolas asked, barely succeeding in getting the words out in their proper order.

Aragorn waited a moment before answering with a question of his own, “How much do you know about Rangers?”

Painfully little, was the honest truth. There were always stories and some facts were better known than others, but Rangers were secretive by tradition.

“Not much,” he was forced to admit. “But I have heard it said that the presence of a Ranger in a community should be considered a blessing.”

Aragorn gave a hum. “I have been hired to keep the forest, and the park,” he said, as a suggestion of an unpolished hardness seeped into his voice. “But the true work of a Ranger is a different one.”

Legolas didn't know if he was supposed to ask. In the end, Aragorn solved it for him by continuing:

 “The humans don’t know. They thank their lucky stars or their councils or whatever that nothing bad happens to them while they’re on their way home late at night.” He shook his head, sounded like he wasn’t too far off from a snort. “They do not know who is watching out for them in the shadows.”

Swallowing, Legolas leaned in just a fraction closer. “You are?” he asked, even though there wasn't really a need for it.

“It is the duty of a Ranger. It is our task. For that we are seldom compensated.”

“Well...” Legolas heard himself saying, while wondering what madness has seized him, “perhaps if you weren’t so secretive, you might be better recognised for it.”

There was another moment, but then Aragorn laughed. Maybe not as brightly as before but a laugh it was all the same. His eyes turned searching on Legolas.

“I am a wanderer by nature,” he said. “But this is a nice town and... I would stay a while... if I had... reason to.”

There were a lot of things Legolas could say in response to that. Most notably, perhaps, that his reasoning was of a similar kind but that what had so far kept him in Bree was friendship rather than any romantic entanglement. In fact, that would have been a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Instead, his tongue settled on:

“That's not some... elf fetish talking?”

He would have taken it back immediately – cheeks aflame – but Aragorn did not bat an eyelid.

“My foster-sister has always been told she is exceptionally beautiful,” he said. “But I have heard her complain about those who would only seek her attentions because of her nature.”

“Right, yeah...” Legolas said. He flashed a pale smile. “The struggle is real. Even though I’m not exceptionally beautiful.” His cheeks coloured some more. “And I promise that's not me fishing for a compliment.”

Aragorn watched him steadily. “I will give you one anyway,” he said, low and gravelly. “To my eyes, you are... very beautiful.”

Swallowing, Legolas didn't really know what to do with that but, once again, Aragorn came to his rescue:

“Please, allow me to buy you a drink?”

“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Just... not the awful wine, please.”

“Or the ale,” Aragorn said, in a way that made it feel like they had already established a private, almost secret, language of their own. “I will be right back.”

Legolas did not have to wait long. The Stud was about as busy as it ever got on a regular Friday and Aragorn was certainly not the only patron headed for, or seated at, the bar. Still, even though it wasn't exactly visible, somehow it appeared like the crowd sort of melted away before him, and soon enough Bali was looking up at him attentively.

Legolas wondered at this. Rangers weren't alone in having a purpose in the world. Elves, as a general rule, were keepers of lore and the preservers of what ordinary humans (and a few other species) termed ‘magic’. In everyday life, it was the small things: the glimmer of the stars, the sudden appearance of a parking spot, the odd sensation of time stretching just enough so that someone was able to catch the bus. Sometimes, if an elf was particularly accomplished and had the favour of the Gods, it could be a bigger thing – one of those that people usually called ‘miracles’, most often tied more intimately to life and death.

Aragorn's power, it seemed to him, was much different. A silent type of command of the room, even as he basically made no obvious effort to be noticed. Still, it was familiar in its otherworldly energy, offering Legolas something he maybe hadn't really realised he had been missing for a time.

And it didn't hurt that Aragorn, on top of that, was jaw-droppingly attractive.

Upon his return, he placed a clear glass with a clear, sparkling content before Legolas. Maybe it held a hint of green.

“What's this?” he asked, as Aragorn reclaimed his seat beside him.

Aragorn looked pleased. “Something I thought might suit you.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Legolas tried a first sip. It was fresh, neither dry nor sweet, and with some suggestion of herbs in the mix. “I like it,” he smiled. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Aragorn said, with a dip of his head.

His eyes had to be grey, Legolas thought. They reflected the warm light around them but he was pretty sure their true shade was cool.

However, no more had Legolas taken a second swallow of his drink than Martin and Philip materialised before them.

“Well, I guess we’re off,” Martin announced, a dry sort of twist to his lips. He did not bother to hide his doubtful look at Aragorn.

Aragorn’s face betrayed no particular emotion. “Forgive me, gentlemen, for stealing your companion from you this evening.”

“Oh, that's no problem,” said Pip, much more cheerfully. “That's why we came here tonight anyway, to see if we could find some bloke for Legolas. You’re doing us a favour, really.”

“Really...” Legolas began, but faltered at Aragorn's amused smile.

“Is that so?” he asked, aiming his question at all of them, it looked like.

“I'm not…” Legolas tried, an uncomfortable squirming in his stomach. He was swiftly cut off by Philip:

“He is.”

“I see,” said Aragorn.

“Yeah, well,” Martin cut in sharply, “for your information, Elves have a high alcohol tolerance–”

“Infuriatingly high, you might say,” supplied Philip.

“If you’re trying to get him drunk, I mean,” Martin finished, with an arch look at Aragorn.

“You have a stout heart. And you are a good friend,” said Aragorn. “But please rest assured that such is not my intent.”

Martin did not look convinced but Philip took him by the arm. “Come on, mate. Let's go. Have fun,” he added, with a grin at Legolas.

As soon as Martin and Philip had their backs turned to them, Legolas turned to Aragorn. “Listen,” he hastened to say, “I'm really not... I mean, I just like to come here. It's not like I'm, you know, actually looking for…”

“I'm sorry to hear it.” Aragorn’s eyes were golden-grey. “I am not saying I would shun any offer of friendship, but I was rather hoping that...” He licked his lips. “That you might be interested in something more than that.”

All air went out of Legolas. The bench felt like it shifted underneath. “Oh.”

A line appeared between Aragorn's dark brows. “Have I not made as much clear already?”

Legolas half-heartedly fought a smile as a new and very excited flutter came into his breast. Truth be told, he still wasn’t sure he was wholly convinced; he hadn’t been lying when he said that men who looked like Aragorn rarely looked twice at him. “Well... Maybe,” he admitted, finally. “Yes.”

Aragorn smiled. His frown was erased as he lifted a hand towards Legolas’ cheek. It hovered just an inch or so away from it before he, with utmost care, cupped it and gingerly angled Legolas’ head a little to the side. His smile changed – grew fonder – and suddenly his face was the most open Legolas had seen it thus far. He looked enthralled and earnest as he leaned in the remaining distance, and his eyes drifted closed.

Legolas was breathless even before the kiss began. Aragorn's lips were soft and warm as they pressed against his. Aragorn kissed him with devotion, taking his time and adding only minimal pressure to begin with. Soon, Legolas felt like he was floating – would have lost contact with the Earth completely if it had not been for Aragorn's hand on his cheek and his mouth against his own.

He melted. There really was no better word for it. Aragorn rubbed a tiny, slow circle into his skin with the pad of his thumb and Legolas felt so incredibly safe. As if his entire being – body, soul, mind and heart – knew beyond any shade of a doubt that he could trust this man. That this was the right thing to be doing in this very moment.

And he kissed back, leaning in, he too, and seeking to add a new layer to the kiss. Aragorn’s lips parted a little, he drew an audible breath, and Legolas took the opportunity to experimentally push the tip of his tongue into his mouth. He was rewarded with the hand sliding from his cheek to cup the back of his skull instead, fingers weaving through his long hair. Aragorn held him gently in place, and a sizzling sensation came into his blood. It made him want to mould against Aragorn – made him want to touch as well. A faint moan slipped from him and was answered by a hum from Aragorn. He took it for encouragement and opened up further, and his head swam as Aragorn’s tongue came questing and twined with his.

If they hadn’t been in a bar, Legolas would honestly have had no qualms about continuing. As it was, at the back of his mind, common sense refused to entirely let go and perhaps it was also so with Aragorn because just as the kiss was brought near a new edge, he pulled back and the energy began to slowly dissipate.

Legolas could not feel his feet, he was quite sure. Or his hands. When Aragorn released him, he mourned the physical contact like it was likely to never come again. But Aragorn’s smile was enchanting and even in their poorly lit corner, the new rosiness in his cheeks was visible.

“Something like that?” Aragorn asked, keeping his voice down. A raspiness had broken into it.

Legolas would have chuckled if he hadn’t been so overcome. “Yeah… something like that.”

Nodding, Aragorn reached for his drink. There was still an amber sheen in the bottom of the glass. He took a sip, eyes glued to Legolas over the rim. “I very rarely do this.”

“What, make out in a gay bar?” Legolas asked, producing a grin to go along.

Aragorn tipped his head a fraction to the side as if contemplating how he should answer that. “Well, I have always known that I prefer males, but… the Ranger’s existence is inherently a lonely one. Our lives are very long but we journey far and wide. Something will always, eventually, call me away.”

“Elves also live very long,” Legolas reminded him, his heart beating at a faster pace now. “And I do not mind travelling,” he dared to add.

Aragorn’s face was serious as he returned the tumbler to the table. “I am only telling you this because…” He shook his head, looking like he was attempting to shake his own thoughts from his mind. “Forgive me, I am well aware that we have only just met.”

“Well, yes…” Legolas agreed. Holding his breath, he challenged himself to lift a hand and place it atop one of Aragorn’s knees. “And I’m open to getting to know you better.”

Aragorn’s gaze was heavy on him. There was longing there, Legolas realised with a start. So much longing was emerging that it felt like Aragorn was suddenly transmitting a force field or whatever it was called.

Legolas bit his lip. He wasn't one hundred per cent sure he was reading Aragorn correctly, but... Carefully, he stroked his palm over Aragorn’s knee. “You say that your task now is to care for the people of Bree…” he said quietly, while a nervousness shifted through him, “but, tell me... who takes care of you?”

Before him, Aragorn’s eyes narrowed. There was a strange shimmer to them, but no joy.

Legolas tried a small smile. “Could be worth a try, letting me. If only for one night, if that’s what you prefer.”

“I don’t…” Aragorn cleared his throat. “I swear it is not an elf fetish.”

It made him laugh. He gave Aragorn’s knee a squeeze and had the pleasure of watching his face clear. “Good,” said Legolas, and before he could quite say what had happened, they were kissing again.

Aragorn’s kisses had the power to ruin him, most likely. Still, they felt sweet and filled with only honest intent. Aragorn carefully opened Legolas’ mouth with his own, coaxing him to relax even as sparks shot down his spine. He couldn’t stop another moan and, in turn, drank down Aragorn’s. He was beginning to toy with the idea that this night should not at all end with solely a kissing session and that was a prospect that felt as daunting as it felt exciting. Because, sure, Legolas came to The Stud once in a while but it was rare indeed that he should actually go home with somebody.

He wanted to go home with Aragorn, though. As Aragorn’s tongue slid against his own and one of Aragorn’s hands returned to his hair, Legolas rapidly came to that conclusion. His skin felt like it was heating up from the inside and his jeans were beginning to feel tight over his crotch. He slid his own palm up further, then. Up Aragorn’s thigh and practically shivered at the way the man deepened the kiss in response.

He fancied he could feel Aragorn’s breathing, faster now, as he angled his head and tried for another way to extend the kiss, preferably into eternity. His own breaths were short and shallow, and warmth ran in rivers down his arms. Tempted, Legolas lifted his hand off Aragorn’s thigh but as if the man could read his intent, his hand closed around it to still it and the kiss broke.

“You know I am a Ranger,” Aragorn murmured, hoarsely. “And so... Maybe you know...?”

Blinking reality back into view, Legolas found their faces only a couple of inches apart. His unsteady gaze fell to his own hand, held by Aragorn and stayed just above the man’s groin. There was a heavy-light sensation in his chest and there came a swirl into his stomach.

“I know...” he said, in close to a whisper, “that the Gods have graced you with... both.”

This was common enough knowledge among non-mortals. Perhaps in an attempt to balance the scales, the Gods had granted all Rangers, male and female alike, the ability to conceive and birth children. The Rangers had from the very beginning of time, it was told, belonged to an ever-dwindling race and children needed to be got in whichever way possible.

“It is so,” said Aragorn. There was a hot crack in his voice. “And if that is not to your liking, then... I think I need you to say so now.”

Looking up, Legolas found that the silver eyes were watchful. Guarded. It made him smile. His hand slid out of Aragorn's grasp easily. Keeping a close eye on the man's reaction he slowly lowered it and placed it, palm down, over his crotch.

Aragorn's lips parted just a fraction, in shock or disbelief or something else, but in his eyes rose a burn. Still smiling, Legolas cupped him and tried to get a feel for what he might discover there. A small bulge, maybe, and he squeezed it gently, watching in awe as the most immediate sharpness in Aragorn's expression gave way to unfiltered desire.

They were equally responsible for the kiss. Aragorn's stubble grazed his skin and his mouth was warm and hungry. His breath came quick against Legolas, as if he’d been running for ages to get to this point in time. Down below, Legolas rubbed his thumb along the humble, hardening ridge he had found in Aragorn's trousers.

“I have a cottage,” Aragorn whispered, pulling back just enough to achieve it, though his forehead remained pressed against Legolas’. “Not far from here. If you'd...”

Aragorn's lips were so close. Legolas caught them in yet another kiss, felt shivers race down his back and sides. When Aragorn's hand landed on top of his own, pushing it down further over the hardness under his palm, he made the decision as easily as if it hadn’t been a decision at all.

“Yes,” he mumbled, half into the kiss, letting the word linger and tingle.

Aragorn made a choked little noise in response. He pressed one more kiss to Legolas’ mouth before he ended it, withdrawing and lessening his hold on his hand as well. Smiling faintly, Legolas let his palm travel down Aragorn's thigh instead.

“Bali will throw us out if we keep this up,” he said even as he let his hand slip in between Aragorn's thighs. He came close to moaning again as Aragorn took him by the wrist and guided him upwards, towards all that might be found in his trousers. And whatever it turned out to be, Legolas was sure he wanted it.

“Then let’s go,” Aragorn suggested, even as he pressed Legolas’ palm to cover him anew.

Stealing another kiss from his lips, Legolas smiled faintly. “You’re making me hard,” he whispered, his cheeks stinging just a little with the admission.

“I want you hard,” Aragorn quietly rasped, mouth against his. “You’re so beautiful.”

In his tight, dusty-blue jeans, Legolas’ cock was straining by now. They needed to pull themselves together before Bali had had quite enough indeed and began chucking peanuts or worse at them. Behind her laid-back façade, she could be uncompromisingly unyielding, he knew.

With a last, gentle rub of Aragorn’s arousal, Legolas forced himself to end the new kiss prematurely. There was a buzzing in his body and if he could have teleported them to a bed this very minute, he would have done it. Sadly, any such magic had never been taught to the Elves, not as far as he knew at least.

Outside, the moon had risen above the treetops. Almost full, it sailed through a clear sky dotted with the shining stars. Aragorn was in a well-worn, long coat but he had not as much as raised an eyebrow when Legolas stepped out into the winter night without anything similar. It was something of a novelty, truth be told. Philip, for example, had – even after three years of friendship – still not got wholly used to the fact that Legolas did not feel the cold as he did, not to mention the atop-the-snow walking.

“It is not far,” Aragorn said as they began walking in the direction he indicated. The fire had died down in his eyes and yet again he looked slightly wary. “Perhaps you want to let your friends know where I am taking you.”

He probably should. He had come to the conclusion that he trusted Aragorn but he might be wrong. Slowing his pace just enough to end up half a step behind him, Legolas fished his phone out of his pocket and sent Martin a quick text. Once at the cottage, he would drop a pin as well.

All done, he matched his pace to Aragorn’s and chanced a glance at him. In the silver light, Aragorn’s profile was sharp.

“I…” Legolas began, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to say.

Still, Aragorn turned his face to him and, as if by mutual agreement, their pace slowed until they came to a stop.

“You do not have to do this,” Aragorn said, and there was an undeniable undercurrent of defeat in it.

Legolas frowned. “What?”

“If you have changed your mind?”

“If I have changed my mind?” he echoed Aragorn.

“Well…” He shrugged a shoulder. It looked heavy.

They were following one of the paths that led into the park and the tamed woodland beyond. The ground was hard under their feet and every twig and branch covered with tiny, icy crystals that glittered in the moonlight. Still, Legolas was mindful to keep his attention on Aragorn and try to read him.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

Clearly, it was not what Aragorn had expected, for now he frowned as well, and it looked like the shadows of night wanted to come play in his features and weigh down his heart. Frankly, it looked like sometimes he let them. Shaking his head, he looked utterly dejected. “I never could.”

Daring a smile, Legolas took a step closer. When Aragorn did not move, he tentatively took the man’s hand in his and laced their fingers together. “Me neither.”

The hope that rose in Aragorn’s eyes was a beautiful thing to behold. He did not say anything in response, but, as they resumed their walking, Aragorn drew closer and soon they were almost shoulder to shoulder.

The cottage lay nestled into a corner at the border to the forest proper, snug between climbing ivy, long-limbed aspen-trees and bare, slender, twining vines that were probably honeysuckle. The garden was completely overgrown and the cottage itself was in dire need of some loving repairs, but Legolas couldn’t help but to be charmed.

“This is lovely,” he said sincerely, coming to another stop beneath the branches of might prove to be a lilac come spring. “I thought I had seen virtually every inch of the forest but I’ve never been here before.”

“It is marked as private property, owned by the town. We passed the sign not long ago. Perhaps you have seen that and turned away,” said Aragorn.

“There was a sign?” Legolas asked. “Really?”

Aragorn’s smile was vaguely amused. “I was under the impression that elven senses were sharp.”

Legolas made a face. “I was too busy looking at the trees,” he admitted. “My friends always give me grief for that. I suppose they have a point.”

This time, Aragorn chuckled. “I will say nothing on the matter.”

As Aragorn unlocked the door, Legolas discreetly pulled out his phone again. Martin had sent him only an emoji, the one that rolled its eyes. Ignoring that, Legolas dropped him a pin and wrote simply ‘his cottage’. He didn’t wait for a reply but put the phone away instead.

The cottage was small and sparsely furnished in a way that suggested it was supposed to be rented out. Apart from a bathroom and a sort of extra room or storeroom or whatever it was meant to serve as, it was mainly made up of one single open space, with a rather simple kitchen to one side and a row of small windows under which a bed had been placed. At first glance it had a bit of an impersonal air, but here and there were various personal items strewn and Legolas could see that here was definite potential. It was something else than his own flat, to be sure.

“This is nice,” he said, slowly spinning on his heel.

“It serves well enough,” Aragorn said.

“No, but…” Drifting further into the room, Legolas tried to see it through the lens of a budding spring. Or lush summer, even. “I wager it’ll be lovely with the sun falling in and filtering through the leaves. In summertime the light is sure to be almost green.” When he looked back at Aragorn, he was struck by the hint of awe he spied in his face.

“Let us hope so,” said Aragorn, simply. Then he gestured at the kitchen area. “Can I offer you anything?”

Well, perhaps he might have liked some plain water, but Legolas also wanted to see Aragorn smile some more.

“No, thank you,” he said therefore, leaving the dreams of spring and summer behind. Now was winter and in this very moment Aragorn was standing before him, still in his coat, and looking like he did not dare to voice his true desires. “I think I mostly want you.”

It shifted something in Aragorn's face once again. It might have been, even, that he blushed. “Give me a moment,” he said, but made no further explanation before he pulled off his coat, hung it by the front door and disappeared into the bathroom.

Legolas could hear water running. Perhaps Aragorn was washing his hands? Honestly, that seemed a clever thing to do so Legolas hurried over to the kitchen sink to do the same. Then he drew nearer to the bed and, before he might question himself, began unbuttoning his shirt. By the time Aragorn emerged from the bathroom, Legolas was seated in a streak of moonlight that lay over the bed, entirely naked.

It brought Aragorn up short. At first, he seemed to think it would be anything but seemly to look anywhere else than into Legolas’ face, but it was not long before his eyes began to wander. It was a physical sensation upon Legolas’ skin, his gaze, as it journeyed over his shoulders, down his upper arms and over his chest. Without turning his eyes away, Aragorn began work on his own shirt.

He was devastatingly handsome, Legolas thought, as the returning desire made him harden anew. The cold winter air pressed against the window-glass from outside, but inside this room, he felt very warm. As Aragorn’s broad chest was revealed, muscled and dusted with dark hairs, yearning virtually tore through him. He sat watching avidly as Aragorn came closer, stepping into the moonlight.

With the silver-white light coating his skin, Aragorn let his trousers fall and Legolas must hold back a whimper. Truly, he was nothing short of gorgeous. His thighs were muscled as well and his length was just long and thick enough to achieve what Legolas quickly decided would be decent penetration. It jutted out from his body from a nest of wiry dark hairs and below were his tight balls and even further down...

Holding his breath, Legolas rose to kneel and waved him closer. Aragorn came warily, eyes now on Legolas’ face, now on his hardened member. When Aragorn was only a foot or so away, Legolas smiled.

“You'll have to tell me if I mess this up,” he said. “I haven't really...”

“You don't have to touch me there,” Aragorn said immediately. “I understand if it–”

“I want to touch you everywhere,” he promised, pleasure rolling through him as Aragorn’s eyes widened. With light fingertips, Legolas traced a line from Aragorn’s hip bone, down over his groin and towards his twitching member. Then he looked up. “If you could choose, what would you like?”

There was a strain in Aragorn’s voice. He spoke very quietly, on the border to a whisper, “I would feel you inside me.”

A thrill sped down Legolas’ spine. “Where?”

Aragorn both looked and sounded like his jaw was tightly clenched, “Cunt.”

Somehow, Legolas had expected that. There came a searing, addictive twist to his stomach. Moving his other hand to his own length, he gave a light stroke and, above him, Aragorn drew in a sharp breath.

“You don't...” he began again, but Legolas silenced him with a smile and a shake of his head.

Leaning in, he dropped a kiss to Aragorn's groin and revelled in the sensation of his cock brushing his cheek. Turning his head just so, he kissed the base also, and Aragorn let out a strangled noise.

Legolas was about to take it one step further when the thought struck him and he pulled back.

“Wait,” he said, looking up at Aragorn. “Could I get you with child? I mean, Elves cannot carry the diseases some others do, but... I don't think I should get you pregnant before we have mutually agreed that it would be a good idea.” He ended up grinning, in the wake of his own daring.

Aragorn, for his part, was looking perfectly bewildered. “I am healthy,” he said, around a confused frown. “But, no... you could not. Not presently. There is... my cycle...”

“Good,” Legolas told him, not entirely sure himself why he was speaking like this. He only knew that on some level, he had the feeling that letting Aragorn go after this night would be something he’d regret for the rest of his life.

“Come here,” he urged, as if to drive that possibility far away, and he pressed another kiss to the base of Aragorn's cock.

He took him in his mouth after that. Aragorn's groan met him in the moonlight as Legolas began sucking him off slowly, taking his time in a way he rarely had been afforded the luxury of doing after having left his own kin behind in Eryn Lasgalen. Not that Legolas had slept with that many people, but humans, in some way or other, were always pressed for time. That was in their nature and they couldn't really help it, but that also meant that he absolutely relished drawing this out, going about pleasuring Aragorn meticulously and making him tremble before him by slowly kissing his way up his length and then leaving a long, wet kiss over the tip of his member.

After a while, Aragorn’s hands found their way back into his hair and he ended up holding Legolas’ head. The grip was careful, very gentle, as if he didn’t dare to apply much more pressure than that. Still, his moans came, one after the other, in an endless stream that Legolas felt wrap around his spine like sun-heated cotton. Aragorn’s cock was rock hard, twitching and leaking onto Legolas’ tongue as he swirled it around, allowing the taste of Aragorn to rush into every corner of his body.

Pulling off enough to be able to speak, he glanced up. If he felt somewhat dizzy himself, Aragorn’s eyes were open and sharp and glued to his face. His lips slightly parted, as if still shackled by doubt.

“Spread a little for me?” Legolas suggested, keeping his voice down and as soothing as he could make it. He retained one hand on the base of Aragorn’s cock, but the other he slipped between his thighs.

“You…” Aragorn began, his voice much rougher, in some attempt at a warning perhaps.

“No, love,” said Legolas, the endearment simply slipping out of him but also feeling very right. “I want to feel you.”

A new tightness was seeping into Aragorn’s jaw but he obeyed and widened his stance until Legolas could more easily slide his hand upwards. The moonlight illuminated the desire as well as the trepidation in his eyes, but Legolas was not backing away now. To a twirling excitement within, he brought his fingers up as far as they could go and discovered soft folds behind Aragorn’s balls, where normally he’d find, well, nothing really, ahead of the type of opening he was much more familiar with. He surfed on top of a breath, lungs filled to the brim with buzzing air, as he delved yet a little deeper. Aragorn’s mouth opened further, perhaps around another warning that never came, but then Legolas found his wetness and a new fire burst into the grey.

“Oh,” Legolas heard himself say, working his fingers against the slick skin that felt like silk. “This is lovely.”

In the pale light, Aragorn’s cheeks were dark. Stealing a moment to do nothing more than admire him, Legolas smiled. Then he bent his head and took Aragorn in his mouth again.

It wasn’t the easiest task, trying to suck Aragorn off while also navigating the entirely unknown territory between his legs, but judging by the tentative sounds Aragorn began to make, Legolas was at least doing all right, at least where his cock was concerned. Where other parts of his body were concerned, Legolas tried to find a way to touch Aragorn that wasn’t just senseless rubbing but he feared he might need some guidance if he were going to succeed. And as if Aragorn could read his mind (or maybe it truly was that he was doing a less than satisfying job), he slid his hand in under Legolas’ chin.

“Please,” he rasped, tilting Legolas’ head back gently. His cock slipped out, wet and glistening.

“Sorry, I’m not…” Legolas began, hand stilling against Aragorn’s folds.

But Aragorn shook his head. “You are.”

Encouraged, Legolas dropped a kiss to his hip bone instead. “Show me?”

It took Aragorn a moment, but then he lowered himself onto the bed. There was a guarded quality to the way he kept Legolas in his line of vision, but whatever apprehension that had come over him was blatantly warring with pure want in a very promising fashion. Eventually, he half lay back, bracing himself on an elbow and, bending one leg, allowed for the knee to tip outwards.

“There is a…” Lifting a hand, he moved it to touch himself and revealed something not even a third of an inch or so below his balls. “A spot here… A tiny nub. It’s…” He sounded like he swallowed, then.

“It gives you pleasure when you touch it?” Legolas asked, when Aragorn appeared unable to make it further.

“Yes,” he said, voice low and cracked. “With slick fingertips.”

Legolas’ heart was beating madly. Honestly, he had never thought he would ever end up in a position such as this one but now he was more than curious. And even more than that, he wanted to make it good for Aragorn who felt like the most intriguing combination of fearful and determined he had ever met.

“Okay,” he said. “Would you let me try?”

In silent response, Aragorn parted his legs even further. What was between them lay mostly in pearly, pale shadow now but for this Legolas’ eyesight was certainly keen enough. He shifted into the space that had opened up for him, kneeling again but between Aragorn's thighs this time. He was just about to resume his exploration when Aragorn reached for him instead, brushing his own fingertips reverently over his hip.

“You are gorgeous,” he murmured.

And Legolas watched and felt as Aragorn pushed himself up for to be able to wrap his fingers around his length and how he gave a first stroke. He couldn't resist bucking into it and Aragorn’s breath caught. His own precome came to slick Aragorn’s palm and the grasp was firm. Sparks shot through the moonlight and over the small of his back as he thrust gently into Aragorn’s fist and he let his head fall forward, and his hair with it.

“I want you inside,” Aragorn said, hoarsely. “Like this.”

Legolas achieved only a hum. Aragorn was stroking him at such a perfect pace, with such perfect pressure that he could feel his entire body begin to liquefy. Barely conscious of what he was doing, he sank to sit, his hand once more finding its way in between Aragorn’s legs. And Aragorn shifted to accommodate him and continue the stroking, which was perfect, that too.

Aragorn was wet. Legolas slicked the pad of his thumb before he could question his own technique and then he searched for the nub. When he found it, Aragorn nearly choked on a breath.

“There?” Legolas asked, almost out of air himself.

Aragorn’s handsome face was a little blurry before him, and a stutter came into the rhythm of his stroking of Legolas’ length. “Yes,” he confirmed, rough and needy.

“Okay, tell me if I mess up.”

Aragorn never did. Either he was polite or Legolas was decent enough at pleasuring him that he felt no reason to. His hand fell away as Legolas urged him down onto his back. For his own part, Legolas’ head was swimming and his cock so hard it was aching but, bracing himself on one hand, he leaned over Aragorn and set to work, using whichever finger felt easiest to explore the near-hidden spot Aragorn had shown him. It was velvety soft and, massaging was, at first, deceptively easy. But the way Aragorn’s body tensed at intervals told him there was more finesse to this than he was currently achieving. He did his very best, though, and soon found himself almost stretched out, half on top of Aragorn and with his lips and stubble against his throat, and the man’s hands kneading his backside.

For a while, Legolas couldn’t say where he ended or where he began. His own length was pushing into Aragorn’s side, leaving his own wetness there, and scorching kisses were being sunk into his skin. The scent of Aragorn was all around: wild woodlands, a smouldering, almost spicy trace, and somehow also deeply rooted rocks and mountains. Basking in it, Legolas alternated between stroking Aragorn’s straining cock and fingering his cunt, and the arousal was a thick, never-ending, bone-melting stream flowing through him; and around them the moonlight was an endless sea of silver-white.

“I need…” Aragorn rasped. A shiver was in him, one foot planted on the bed and he was writhing. With one hand, he was grasping feverishly at Legolas’ hip. “Please.”

Legolas had not trouble obliging. In one moment, he was pushing against Aragorn’s hip and in the other, he had raised himself up and was taking himself by the base and rubbing the head of his cock against Aragorn’s slick, soft folds. “Where?” he asked, his own voice sounding coarse and foreign to his ears.

Aragorn’s hand closed around his own. When their eyes met, the grey was ablaze, shaking Legolas to the core. With their rapid breathing mingling, Aragorn pushed his hand a little further downwards and suddenly Legolas felt Aragorn’s body give way.

“Oh,” he heard himself say, as the tip of his length simply slid inside. “Oh.”

It was similar, yet different. Aragorn’s body yielded before him, accepted him like he was made to fit inside. It went to Legolas’ head and his heart all at once, and there was no way he could resist pushing all the way inside. And Aragorn surrounded him. Slick and warm and trembling, Aragorn pulled his knee up to give even further access and Legolas felt himself nearly dissolve.  

When he had gone as far as he could go, he dragged up a shaky smile. “This is good.”

“I’m…” Aragorn began, but closed his mouth around whatever it was that he had meant to say, but his gaze was burning into Legolas.

Trying a first thrust, Legolas pulled back a little and then slid back inside. Even if it was him leaning in over Aragorn, the latter absolutely overwhelmed him. Aragorn's cheeks were flushed and his eyes glittered in the half-light. His breathing came in short, flimsy bursts. And yet, for all the softness there was to him, somewhere underneath, in some difficult to define fashion, he still felt taut as a bowstring, even if he did not immediately look like it.

And so Legolas focused. Reached out with all of his power, such as it was, to make himself the one who surrounded Aragorn instead. To chase any lingering doubt far afield. His hair fell to hang around his face, but he leaned down anyway, enough to manage dropping a kiss to Aragorn’s mouth.

“Really good,” he whispered in affirmation, and as if he had prayed for more proof, his cock twitched deep inside of Aragorn. “Let me do this for you, love.”

The noise Aragorn made came from the back of his throat. It was hard to place, but it was frail. Legolas joined their mouths together again, pleased when Aragorn’s opened beneath his own. Smiling, he deepened the kiss while hoping that Aragorn wouldn’t mind bearing his weight.

He didn’t.

Legolas set a slow pace, mind returning to that place where time as the mortals knew it simply ceased to exist. He rolled his hips gently, feeling Aragorn’s arousal trapped between their bodies and meaning to create some friction. He fed off Aragorn’s moans that rippled out into the winter night, stoking the fire and making him see stars. Aragorn’s hands were everywhere, stroking his back, his hair, his cheek when he could, and reaching towards his arse. Legolas’ entire body shook as Aragorn succeeded in brushing over his entrance and his moan completely overtook their latest, uncoordinated kiss.

“Yes?” Aragorn asked, in a cracked whisper. The very tip of his finger was pressing down, almost into Legolas’ opening.

“Yes,” Legolas confirmed. His hips bucked on a whine as Aragorn maintained the pressure. “I want you there.”

“I’d love to,” Aragorn promised him, mouth hungry on his.

There were a hundred ways or more that they could make love, Legolas thought dizzily, as he pulled his hips back and unhindered slid inside again, with Aragorn’s legs wrapped around his waist. He could take Aragorn like this, his own hard shaft in his wet cunt, or Aragorn could take him, or Legolas could stretch Aragorn’s other hole and push into him that way. All of them seemed like more than just attractive prospects and, in the moment, there was no way he would be able to decide which one felt the most appealing. It was an amazing thing to discover that he didn’t care – as long as Aragorn held him secure like this, Legolas would try anything.

Their kisses turned sloppier. Waves of trembles were working their way through Aragorn’s body as Legolas shifted enough to the side to be able to close his hand around the humble arousal that lay leaking between them. The second he began stroking, Aragorn basically came off the bed, brow furrowing and lips parting. Legolas hadn’t managed more than maybe two strokes before Aragorn’s body clamped down around him and there came a new pulse to the way their bodies moved together.

“Close,” Aragorn breathed, a restlessness now in his limbs.

And Legolas chased it. He sank as deep as he could into Aragorn, his hand on his length not in tandem with what his hips did, but with Aragorn still writhing so mesmerisingly beneath him. With the pad of his thumb, he rubbed over the spot just beneath the crown of Aragorn’s cock and then, boosted by some bout of courage, he dropped his fingertips to the top of Aragorn’s folds to pleasure him there also.

It sent a thousand tremors through Aragorn. His face was turned into the crook of Legolas’ neck and his breathing almost eradicated. As Legolas’ palm covered his cock, fingers busy in that secret place below his balls and with his length lodged firmly in Aragorn’s cunt, the tension snapped and there came a tremendous pressure around Legolas’ length. It drew his own orgasm from him, tossed him into a whirlwind that was light only, and so wild he nearly lost his heartbeat. The only two things he was really conscious of were the way he spilled inside Aragorn and how the latter held him in an embrace that suggested he would never let go.

---

The moonlight had moved on to drape itself over the far end of the room instead – at least calculated from where Legolas was currently lying in Aragorn’s arms. Careful fingertips were moving over his temple, where the braids began, sending small rivers of joy down his arms. Then the fingertips drifted downwards, over a collarbone to circle one of his nipples. He smiled, eyes half closed and mind blissfully unanchored, at the treatment.

“Pleasurable?” Aragorn asked. His voice was a comforting rumble through Legolas’ entire upper body.

“Yes,” he said, since there was no point in denying that.

Aragorn repeated the action, slightly calloused fingertips painting patterns over Legolas’ unshielded skin and making his nipples harden into small pebbles. Tipping his head back, he felt a rush of affection through his heart as Aragorn graced him with another kiss.

“I could stay like this forever,” Aragorn said quietly, when it was over.

“As could I,” Legolas agreed. “Though I suppose the garden centre might try to hunt me down eventually.”

Aragorn chuckled. His hair was tousled but his eyes were bright. “Why the garden centre?”

Legolas managed a light shrug. “Plants. Leaves. I feel more at home there than I’d ever do at a grocery store or… bookshop.”

“Makes sense.” Aragorn was watching him fondly again.

“Yeah,” he said. “My father has my brother to take over the family business if he should ever tire of it himself. I’m not needed back home.”

“Your brother is happy with that?”

“Oh, believe me, Haldir is much too keen to show off his skills at… bookkeeping and… bargaining and… being a pompous arse in general to pass up an opportunity like that.” He made a face. “Excuse the language.”

The chuckle turned into an enthralling smile. “I, too, have brothers,” Aragorn said. “Or foster-brothers, technically. They are twins and, happily, not as pompous.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Legolas told him, wholly unprepared for the way Aragorn’s eyes softened at that and how his hand returned to gently brush down Legolas’ cheek instead.

“I do,” he said softly. Maybe a hint of wariness trickled back into his gaze or maybe it was only a trick of the night. “Could I persuade you to stay the night?”

“Honestly,” Legolas told him with a grin, “I think I’d be offended if you didn't try.”

Aragorn's answering smile was really all he needed.

They curled up again, under the covers this time and after a quick wash. Legolas easily found his way back into Aragorn's arms and it was lovely. The man left kisses on his ear, his brow, the bridge of his nose and his shoulder, and, before long, Legolas began drifting. He was halfway to sleep when he thought of something.

“Oh, by the way... Have you been to Artanis’?" he asked, without bothering to open his eyes.

Aragorn had been breathing evenly, but now he sounded as if Legolas unexpectedly speaking had jolted him fully awake. “I have not.”

Legolas snuggled closer and was very pleased when Aragorn felt like he relaxed and then proceeded to strengthen his hold on him.

“You should,” he said. “It’s the best bakery in town. I swear, the owner must have had dealings with the Elves at some point for they make the most perfect lembas.” He pressed a kiss to a spot near Aragorn’s nipple. “Tip of the day. Or, night, I suppose.”

The responding hum was so low and discreet he nearly missed it, but it did come with another pleasant rumble through Aragorn’s chest. “Thank you,” he said.

With a content smile, Legolas relaxed and allowed himself to slip into dreams.

---

He woke when it was still dark outside. Something was moving in the room with him – he more sensed than heard it – and it made him lift his head and his voice came out sleep-heavy:

“Aragorn?”

There came a distinct shuffle of feet. Aragorn’s voice was raspy but gentle as it wove through the surrounding darkness: “I’m going out.”

Pushing himself up to sit, Legolas tried to force his brain to work. The covers fell down to his waist and his hair hung around his face. He lifted it aside, still somewhat groggy. “You’re leaving?”

“Just for a short while.” Aragorn was drawing nearer, a shadow among shadows. “I tried not to wake you, but... didn’t take elvish hearing into account,” he sounded rueful. “There’s something I need to do, but I’ll be back before long. Try to get some more sleep.”

Legolas opened his mouth to say something but only ended up closing it. Aragorn had been abundantly clear yesterday about his job as protector of the people of Bree and if he was going out to do his duty, Legolas certainly didn’t have a say in the matter.

“Okay...” he said instead. “Just... be safe?”

There was a moment, but then Aragorn’s voice came again, warmer now. “I will be.”

He stayed true to his word. Legolas burrowed back down into the pillows and closed his eyes but he only made it to the border of sleep. Half his mind was still with Aragorn, wondering what he was doing and how long he would be gone. In the end, however, he returned much sooner than Legolas had expected.

Aragorn tried to be quiet, that much was obvious, and that alone sent a small thrill through Legolas’ breast.

“I’m awake,” he said, finally, not wanting Aragorn to have to stumble around in the darkness unnecessarily.

After a moment, a light was turned on in a distant corner. It spread a mild glow, enough to offer Legolas some sense of orientation. Aragorn appeared before him not long thereafter.

He was in dark trousers and a thick jumper by the looks of it. The sight of him was enough for Legolas to feel warm all over.

“I am sorry,” Aragorn said. “I really did not mean to disturb you. But maybe this can make up for it.” He held up something.

Again, Legolas pushed himself to sit. “What is it?”

Aragorn took a few steps closer. When he was by the bed, he reached down to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. He looked a little apprehensive as he held out whatever it was that he was carrying. It was a small paper bag and upon discovering its contents, Legolas’ mouth fell open.

“You got us lembas?” he asked incredulously. Looking up at Aragorn, he couldn’t believe it.

“I did.”

Smiling broadly up at him, Legolas sat with the buttery-sweet scent from the bread threading into the air. “What time is it? They must have only just opened.”

“I was first in line,” Aragorn admitted. “Do you... have to be somewhere?”

“Even if that were the case, there’s no chance of me leaving now,” Legolas told him. “I mean, provided you’re fine with me staying a while?”

“Well, I got us breakfast,” Aragorn said, and it was hard to interpret his tone of voice.

Setting aside the paper bag, Legolas reached for one of his hands instead. It was slightly cold to the touch. “Come back to bed?” he suggested. “I love that you got us lembas but... right now I want you?”

With the lembas stored safely atop the bedside table and his clothes shed, Aragorn crawled back into the bed. As soon as he had stretched out, Legolas found a place in his arms, moulding himself against his chest and positively adoring the way the man's arm curled around him to keep him close.

“Thank you,” Legolas said again. “No one ever got me those lembas before and the Gods know I’ve been harping on about them for the past two and a half years, ever since I found out about their existence.”

Aragorn was stroking over his hip with a broad hand. “How can that be?”

Perhaps he had meant it as a rhetorical question, but Legolas found himself considering.

“Bree-landers are welcoming enough. On the whole, they get along much better with Elves than many other folk do, but they are still human,” he said, finally. “They mind their business and let me mind my own, for the most part. Sometimes, especially after a drink or two, they like to remind me that I’m an Elf but that doesn't necessarily mean that they are actually interested in me. As a person.”

His little speech was met with a spell of silence. Then, ever so gently, Aragorn coaxed Legolas to roll onto his back. In the timid light of dawn, Aragorn was achingly handsome, his dark stubble slightly fuller after the night.

“I do not see it,” he said, and he appeared completely serious where he lay propped up on an elbow and looking down at Legolas. “I do not understand how no one has done that for you. You are magical.”

It became Legolas’ turn to blush. “That isn’t saying much, though. Since I am, quite literally.” He grimaced. “Depending on you definition of ‘magical’, I guess.”

But Aragorn did not bite. He shook his head mildly. “I have seen magic,” he said quietly. “And I see you.”

Swallowing, Legolas knew that there was only one way forward. He could never live with himself if he let this slip through his fingers.

“Well… I’m here, if you want to see more of me,” he said, attempting a smile that mostly felt like a nervous grimace. “Today and… any other day, really. I mean, seeing as we have established that you do not, in fact, like the rugged type.”

Though it was small and intimate, Aragorn’s smile still lit up the room better than the winter sun, still bleak and sleepy behind the trees, ever could. As he caressed Legolas’ cheek, his silver eyes shone. Then he slid two fingers under his chin and Legolas allowed his head to be gently tipped back. Somehow, Aragorn flowed into him, as though between their souls some bond had formed that he had never thought to expect.

“I want to see you every day,” Aragorn murmured, and his lips were soft and warm, and the kiss was long.

When it was over, Legolas glanced up at the row of windows. Through the ivy and the other, bare vines, a little more light was filtering now. “We could go for a walk?” he suggested. “And you can show me what other parts of these woods that I have missed.”

Aragorn was tracing the curve and pointed peak of his ear between the pad of his thumb and forefinger. “I will show you,” he promised. “Though you probably have seen more than you think. The forest is really not that vast.”

Shivering at the pleasant touch, Legolas both believed him and not. It seemed to him that if anyone besides an Elf knew the secrets of the trees, a Ranger would.

“Honestly,” he admitted, feeling a little stupid but it was just as well to get it over with, “I love exploring but I've also mostly been looking for a secluded spot to practise archery. And before you say anything, I know it's old-fashioned and a wholly outdated sport,” he added, prepared for the blow.

But the corner of Aragorn’s mouth turned upwards instead, in a peculiar smile. Then, without a word, he slipped out of bed and padded towards the door and the second room. When he re-emerged, he was – to Legolas’ astonishment – carrying a slender longbow and an elegant quiver full of arrows.

“Like this?” he asked, eyebrow lifted and still smiling.

Wide-eyed, Legolas could only give voice to the first thing that popped into his head:

“Those are Elven-made.”

“So they are,” said Aragorn, inclining his head. “In Imladris, West of the Mountains, where I was fostered.”  

Slipping out of the bed, Legolas felt an immense need to look into his face. And Aragorn waited for him, and then they stood, undressed and unshielded in the building morning, with eyes for naught but one another.  

“I used to think that I was alone,” Aragorn said, voice low, slightly rough, but with a reverence at the very edges. “That my feet were not guided. And I could not say why they should bring me back to Bree.”

With his free hand, he cupped Legolas’ cheek. “But perhaps it was not by chance that I came here, after all.”

Leaning into the touch, Legolas felt his heart grow impossibly light. “Not by chance,” he said. “Not if you are carrying that bow.”

Aragorn's eyes glittered with mirth. “Though I admit I prefer the sword.”

“The sword?” Legolas echoed him, incredulous now.

Aragorn shrugged. “My foster-father deems there is value in teaching the old ways also.”

Almost – almost – stunned, Legolas let his eyes wander over the sharp jaw, the wide mouth, the high brow and the eyes that shone of silver. “You do understand,” he said slowly, “that Ranger or no, I'm never letting you go now?”

Aragorn laughed. Carefully, he laid down the bow and quiver, but there was a shyness about how he placed a palm on Legolas’ hip. “I would ask that you never do.”

Smiling, Legolas drew him in, flush against his own body, and the kiss that followed would in some way or other, he was sure, last forever.