Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4748090.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_All_Media_Types, The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_J._R._R.
      Tolkien
  Relationship:
      Gimli/Legolas_Greenleaf
  Character:
      Gimli, Legolas_Greenleaf
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School,
      Xenophilia, Interspecies_Romance, Sloppy_Makeouts, Sculpture, Trees,
      Senses, Dwarf/Elf_Relationship(s), Bearded_Dwarf_Women, Beards_(Facial
      Hair), Scent_Marking, Asshole_Thranduil, Cultural_Differences, Nipple
      Play, Pheromones, References_to_Knotting, Masturbation, Assisted
      Masturbation, Thranduil's_A+_Parenting
  Series:
      Part 6 of Welcome_To_Greyhame_Academy
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-07 Completed: 2016-02-06 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 5101
****** Gimli Is A Pervy Elf-Fancier ******
by Not_You
Summary
     Xenophile makeouts in Gimli's rented room.
***** Chapter 1 *****
After much thought, Gimli has decided that the best thing about living in the
city is renting from humans. The house feels flimsy, of course, but it's very
good and solid for human stonework, and with his basement room Gimli is quite
comfortable. But more importantly, no one says anything about his bringing an
elf in to visit. They just wave, and Mrs. Beddowes calls from the kitchen to
tell her soon if his friend will be staying for dinner.
“Would you like to?” he asks, looking up at Legolas and trying not to blush.
“I would be delighted,” he says, his smile gentle and mischievous in equal
measure. Gimli relays this information, and then drags Legolas down to the
basement before his embarrassment can really overtake him. Like most dwarves
away from the mountains he has a lot of pretty tumbled agates and other common
stones; as well as some candles and a box of glow-slime. He doesn't really need
either one, but flickery red light and soft green light feel more like home
than the soft yellow of electricity. Legolas smiles, jumping most of the
staircase to land soundlessly on the rug as Gimli closes the door above. The
floor is concrete, but that's just more homey for Gimli. He grew up on fluffy
rugs atop cold stone, so he had just had some sent from the guest quarters at
home to replace the large, cheap one his hosts had apologetically put down
before his arrival.
“It is a bit like a cave, isn't it?” Legolas says, strolling around to look at
things as Gimli makes his way down the stairs.
“Not nearly as sturdy,” he says, “but yes.” Legolas looks taller than ever down
here, but at least the ceiling is a good height for him and Gimli has been able
to make things reasonably nice. The decorative chains garlanded around the
walls add shine and color, and the silver mirrors make the room seem more
spacious. Gimli's least crappy projects are hung up, propped up, or displayed
on shelves around the room. He feels pretty self-conscious about them now. It
only gets worse when Legolas beams and heads straight for the least obvious
shelf, which has the little gold tree he started sometime this summer and is
just now starting to think of as finished. But it's not finished enough for
Legolas to be looking at it, and Gimli scrambles after him.
“That's really barely finished,” he says, coming up beside Legolas, who has
crouched to be at eye level with the thing, “and it's only a first try and I
know the leaves aren't really right, so--”
“Gimli, dear,” Legolas says, taking his hand without looking away from the
sculpture, “shut up.” Gimli shuts up and lets Legolas slide his long, elegant
fingers between his own. “What I love most about this,” Legolas says, after a
long and increasingly comfortable silence, “are the mistakes.”
“You do?” The leaves are the shape of no real tree, since Gimli couldn't decide
on a reference photo and then kept screwing up anyway, and the thickness is
uneven and he knows that the veining is sloppy.
Legolas just smiles. “Yes. I'm an elf, Gimli. If I want to see the leaves of
any tree in the world expertly portrayed in precious metals, I know where to
look.”
“Yes, at a dwarven shop,” Gimli says, and Legolas laughs.
“Very well, there, too.” He turns and looks at Gimli with those big, moon-
silver eyes, the expression in them making his breath catch. “But if I want to
see the very idea of a real, spreading tree in summer as it catches a sensitive
and artistic mind for the first time, I must come to you.”
Gimli can feel himself blushing again, and then forgets about it as Legolas
leans in and kisses him. Now that they're not in public Legolas can nuzzle
Gimli's beard as much as they like, and he can almost hear him realizing that.
At least Gimli has had time to explain about chin-glands and domes. There are
people who think dwarves are more prone to warts than the other races, but
those are mostly overgrown domes. They're concentrated on the hands, feet, and
the areas covered by beard, with a few at the nape of the neck, and when
Legolas breathes wetly over one Gimli makes an unlovely, stunned sort of
gurgling noise.
“Mmm, these are sensitive,” Legolas purrs, sounding delighted with his
discovery, and the vibration makes Gimli tremble and whine, clutching at
Legolas's shoulders for support. He mumbles something that might be Khuzdul, so
it's just as well that it doesn't come out right. Legolas shivers and just
keeps nuzzling him for a while, punctuated with soft kisses. He's incredibly
gentle as he explores Gimli's jawline, and props him up as each newly-
discovered dome makes him go weak in the knees.
“So soft,” Legolas murmurs, rubbing his lower lip over one in a way that makes
reply absolutely impossible. “Like a rose petal.” Gimli likes roses. There's
something queenly and luxurious about them that calls to someone as used to
precious stones as he is. He might mention it if he could talk, but now Legolas
has nuzzled in even closer and is sucking lightly on the dome at the corner of
Gimli's jaw and he's afraid he's going to come in his pants. His mouth hangs
open and lets out quiet, tortured sounds that Legolas can probably only tell
are good by the way Gimli is clinging to him.
“Fffuck, Legolas!” he breathes, and Legolas chuckles against his neck.
“No wonder dwarves guard their beards so closely.” He pulls back to look into
Gimli's eyes, trembling a little at whatever he sees there. He says something
in Sindarin and then leans in again only to stop short, eyes still open. Gimli
isn't sure what he's doing, but it's probably elven and since the guy just
spent the past however long fondling Gimli's facial domes it's only polite to
play along. It's weird, but calming to sit here and breathe together. It lets
him really taste Legolas's pheromones and study the color of his eyes. It's
satisfying to see him flush pink after being so undone in the face of his
composure before, and once they've shared enough breath, Gimli nuzzles along
Legolas's smooth cheek to investigate the point of his ear. Everyone has heard
about this, and he's pleased to find that it's true. A soft, wet kiss makes him
gasp, and slow suckling on the very tip makes him moan and now he's the one who
can barely keep himself upright.
Legolas's skin is so smooth that it ought to remind Gimli of a child and put
him off, but somehow it doesn't. A large part of it is that subtle elven scent,
like moss and mystery and starlight, but there's also the sleek quality that
only elven skin has, and of course the shape of Legolas's ear against his lips,
as well as his voice when he gasps and then cries out softly as Gimli slips his
hand under the weight of his golden hair to cup the back of his neck. His eyes
are huge when Gimli pulls back to look into them.
“...Is this all right?” Gimli asks. Legolas doesn't smell frightened, but it's
best to check.
“Y-yes,” Legolas whispers, and when Gimli squeezes gently, he makes a yearning
little sound and tips his head forward, gazing up at Gimli now, and it makes
for a very interesting perspective.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Legolas has been carefully brought up to be a gracious guest, so he does not
fly into a rage when Mrs. Beddowes knocks on the door and calls to them that
dinner is ready, but it's a near thing. As it is he lets Gimli pull away and
the hot, stony pressure on the nape of his neck stops. It's all he can do not
to whine. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that there is plenty of
time to bask in the kind of touches a 'prince of Greenwood' ought never to
enjoy, as if the crown held any actual weight anymore, and while he's too
mature (and too decent) to start anything with anyone just to anger his father,
he can't deny that it's a pleasant extra. He chuckles at the thought and
stands, performing the little twitch of the head that lets him know that his
hair is presentable. Gimli is of course already standing, being so short to
start with, and gazes up at Legolas with an expression that makes him blush
again.
“Am I so beautiful?” he asks softly, and Gimli chuckles, kissing his hand and
nuzzling a little along the back. Sensitive as Legolas's hands are, he can't
feel any of the exquisitely sensitive domes through all the beard. That's
probably what it's there for, at least partially.
“You vanity doesn't need any feeding,” Gimli says, “but yes. You are.” He
squeezes Legolas's hand and then lets it go, preceding him to the door to let
him out with a little bow that doesn't feel like the joke it usually is.
Legolas has never actually been a dinner guest in a human household before, and
is fascinated by the table. A lot of the food is sort of hobbit-like, but
there's more meat and some southern fruits that Legolas's Shire-born friends
have never acquired a taste for. Mrs. Beddowes is an attentive hostess, making
sure that Gimli has his own shaker of the Ent-wife mineral blend he has been
bringing to school in a little twist of paper, and that Legolas gets all the
salad he needs. The household's children are small, but very used to non-human
company, so they just study Legolas when they think he isn't watching. He
catches the eye of the youngest and winks, wiggling the sharp tips of his ears
in the way that seems to amuse babies of all species. It works just as well
here, and Legolas smiles as the child giggles.
The Beddowes family seem like very nice people, and Legolas is glad that Gimli
has found a temporary home among them. He and Mr. Beddowes talk about steel
prices, and he and Mrs. Beddowes talk about current trends in jewelry and
everyone talks about school and how each of the household's children are doing.
Gimli has been warmly enfolded into that, and Legolas loves them for it. He
also loves them for the easy way they welcome Gimli's dwarven traits. Legolas
can only imagine the way his father would act with a dwarf seated at his table,
drinking rank fermented fungus and eating raw soil. Father is far too well-bred
to actually refer to a dinner guest as filthy little dirt-eater to his face,
but he would certainly do so later, and make his displeasure quietly obvious at
the time. The Beddowes family hardly seems to notice.
Once the meal is over, Legolas and Gimli clear up, resisting the impulse to
fling the plates to one another the way they do at Frodo's apartment. It's
actually the oldest Beddowes child's turn to do the dishes, but Gimli rinses a
few things to give him a head start before taking Legolas's hand and leading
him back down to the basement. Legolas jumps the stairs again, and Gimli
chuckles, locking the door at the top and then making his slower way down.
“It's nice to know that a prince of Greenwood isn't too dignified to bound
around like a squirrel.”
Legolas rolls his eyes, a little stung by the way the good-natured joke
combines with his own thoughts. “That's my father's problem, not mine.” He
tries to keep his voice light, but it must be a failure because Gimli comes up
and takes his hand, looking up at him with an endearing amount of concern.
“It's all right,” Legolas says, lacing his fingers between Gimili's. It's a
rather forward and intimate hold among elves, but Legolas wants to be sure that
he's making his point. Gimli squeezes gently. “I was just thinking about my
father earlier,” Legolas mutters.
“I'm sure he'd have a lot of things to say to me, and none of 'em would be
edinor veren,” Gimli says, lilting the Sindarin words just right.
Legolas smiles. “He'd have to try hard not to look like an owl in daylight when
he heard your pretty accent,” he says, and Gimli blushes. Legolas leads him
over to the wide, low bed in one corner. This is something else that would be
far too forward with another elf, but there's no other place to sit but Gimli's
little workbench. The bed is much more comfortable, even if it is so low that
Legolas has pull his boots off and cross his legs on the mattress to keep from
sprawling everywhere. Gimli looks over at him and smiles, his own heavy boots
planted on the floor.
“A real dwarven bed is lower than this,” he says, leaning against Legolas's
side, heavy and warm and comforting.
Legolas puts an arm around him. “It is? I don't see how.”
Gimli chuckles, nuzzling Legolas's shoulder. “They're sunken into the floor,
stone nests lined with furs and full of cushions.” He presses his chin to
Legolas's shirt, and there's a sudden, strong rush of the usual musky Gimli
smell.
“Did you just mark me?” Legolas asks, not sure if he should be offended or not.
Surely this is even more forward than he has been. Gimli blushes, sitting up
straight and pulling his beard backward to hide his flaming face. It's
adorable. “I don't exactly mind,” Legolas asks, amused and fond, his hand still
resting on Gimli's back, “I'm just curious.”
“I've marked you before,” Gimli mutters, “just not so much.”
“Really?” Legolas can feel how wide his eyes have gone.
“Just as a friend!” Gimli hastens to add. “Remember, when I clapped you on the
shoulder, late this summer? It was the first time, and I had a bit of scent on
my hand.”
“And here I thought you just needed to bathe. Only a mild need!” he adds when
Gimli tries to pull away in indignation. “I just noticed your scent, when I
usually don't.” Gimli relaxes, leaning on him again. He's still rather pink,
but much more composed.
“Dwarves mark good friends, and one puts a bit onto one's letters to prove that
they're genuine, but direct marking is only for family and... well. Our name
for it sounds silly in Westron.”
“So do many of the elven ones,” Legolas says. “If we didn't know Aragorn, I'd
suspect humans of having no romance in their souls.”
Gimli laughs. “I see that Boromir gets no mention.”
“Of course not,” Legolas says, grinning at him.
His smile fades into the solemnity of desire as Gimli cups his face with one
broad hand and gently pulls him down into a deep, slow kiss.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Gimli twines his fingers into Legolas's beautiful hair and holds him in place
so that he can kiss him properly. At the moment, he has no patience for
delicate elven breath-sharing, and he wants to make that clear. Legolas just
sighs and slides his tongue along Gimli's, getting two big handfuls of the back
of his shirt and tipping onto his back without the slightest suggestion of
resistance. There's something intoxicating to the ease of it, and Gimli growls
happily, letting go of Legolas's hair to prop himself up as he sweeps the whole
silky fall of it out from under Legolas's head and then ranges over him,
covering his neck and the milky skin over his collarbones in kisses as he pants
and grabs for Gimli's left hand. Gimli adjusts and lets him have it, shuddering
as Legolas sucks his first two fingers into his mouth. Legolas moans, a quiet
sound that sets Gimli's blood on fire and is going to haunt his dreams.
He has no way of knowing if this is an elven thing or a Legolas thing, but he's
stroking his mouth with Gimli's fingers, sucking and licking in a way that
makes Gimli's mind jump ahead to the thought of a similar performance on his
cock, and before he even knows he's doing it, he's biting Legolas's neck. He
knows perfectly well that elves think biting is beastly, but in the heat of the
moment he forgets himself. There is no real excuse, but surely having a
gorgeous elf sucking on the domes of his left hand is a mitigating
circumstance. He doesn't bite hard, just a loving press of the teeth, but
Legolas still jumps like a landed fish, yelping something in Sindarin.
“Shit,” Gimli mutters, scrambling to kneel beside him. “Sorry, sorry, are you
all right?” Legolas just stares up at him with huge eyes. He looks so shocked
that Gimli can't be sure if any of it is terror. And then his brain catches up
with his senses and he registers the cloud of sweet, bosky scent around
Legolas, and he's not sure of every elven pheromone combination yet, but he's
pretty sure this one is mostly arousal.
Legolas puts a hand to the spot where Gimli hasn't even left a mark and closes
his eyes, trembling as he takes a deep, slow breath. “I'm all right,” he says
softly, and then reaches for Gimli, tugging him down onto him again. Gimli is
glad to go, and sighs, nuzzling Legolas's neck.
“I'm sorry to be shocking,” he says softly, and Legolas laughs.
“If the unexpected were going to put me off, I wouldn't be so charmed by a
dwarf,” he says, and slips his fingers into the base of Gimli's braid, putting
just a little pressure on the back of his head and making the domes at the base
of his skull tingle and throb. “Please, again.”
There's no way that Gimli can resist that, and he bites Legolas again, wiping
his fingers on the sheet and unfastening the top quarter or so of Legolas's
long tunic, the tiny buttons presenting no obstacle to someone who does as much
delicate work as Gimli. Legolas gasps and whines, clutching at Gimli like these
gentle bites are more than he can bear. When Gimli sits back to open Legolas's
tunic, he makes a little mewl of complaint, and gazes up at Gimli, lips parted
and cheeks flushed pink. Gimli chuckles, resting his hand on Legolas's
breastbone. It looks huge, gnarled, and very brown against the milky skin and
delicate bone of Legolas's chest, and he strokes that smooth expanse as gently
as he can.
“Ai, your calluses,” Legolas coos, and Gimli kisses him, shivering at the
taste. The qualities of elven scent are here, but there's also a note that
Gimli can only think of as green and sunny. Before leaving the mountains he
would have been at even more of a loss, but now he can make tentative
comparisons to tree leaves and sorrel. As Gimli tastes, his fingertips seek out
one nipple. Legolas is no exception to the general elven preference for thin
fabrics, and lately Gimli has been driven mad by the two dainty little points
he can so often see through Legolas's clothes. Now he rolls his thumb over the
left one, and Legolas whines sharply, arching up into the touch.
“Are these as pretty as the rest of you?” Gimli asks, undoing a few more
buttons to admire the tiny, barely-pink nubs. “So pretty,” Gimli croons in
answer to himself. “May I put my mouth on them?” He asks, determined to show
better manners than he did with the bite. Legolas's blush deepens, and he looks
away and says something to himself in Sindarin that Gimli can't parse.
He looks back a moment later, and smiles. “Please,” he says softly, and Gimli
lowers his head slowly, to give Legolas plenty of time to change his mind.
Everyone who attends Greyhame gets a little primer on the other species, though
hobbits and humans can each choose to waive the other since they grow up
together so much more often, but of course it doesn't get into the stuff that
Gimli needs to know now. It's not as if suckling is a casual greeting among
dwarves, but it is just part of things after a certain point. Judging by
Legolas's attentive stillness, it's yet another thing that's so much more
Meaningful with elves. That's okay. Legolas means a lot to him. Gimli sighs
through his nose as he breathes over Legolas's nipple before just brushing it
with his lips. Legolas squirms and giggles, the sound high and silvery and
entirely too cute. “Yes?” Gimli asks, looking up and raising an eyebrow.
“Your beard tickles,” Legolas informs him, and giggles again.
Gimli grins at him and brushes it back and forth over his chest, inciting gales
of laughter that make him join in. It takes a bit for them to quiet, but when
they do, Gimli lowers his head again and sighs, sucking that tiny point into
his mouth and making Legolas shove a handful of the blanket between his teeth
to muffle a cry. The taste here is different from the rest of Legolas's skin so
far, and Gimli growls happily as he commits it to memory. He presses closer,
and feels Legolas's cock, as hard if not as hot as a dwarven one against his
ribs. He's fascinated and wants to learn its shape and texture, but Legolas
smells a little alarmed as Gimli runs a hand up his thigh, and that's more than
enough to make him shelve the issue for now. Besides, there's a whole other
side of Legolas's chest to map, and he tickles it with his beard before
soothing it with lips and tongue, his hands safely on Legolas's sides, gripping
his lean flanks and feeling the fine work of his ribcage. He feels like he
could do this all night, but all too soon there's a knock on the door.
“Gimli, dear,” Mrs. Beddowes calls, “it's nearly nine o'clock!”
One of the house rules is no guests after nine on school nights, and Gimli
grumbles before calling, “Of course, ma'am!” in reply. Legolas giggles, sitting
up and kissing Gimli's cheek.
***** Chapter 4 *****
“So, uh...” Gimli coughs and squirms. “We've got about fifteen minutes, I'd
say.”
Legolas is wearing his usual light leafsilk, and there is no way it will hide
his physical state. Elves may find most humans to be strangely embarrassed to
possess physical bodies and walk upon the earth, but acceptance of one's own
responses does not mean obtruding one's genitals onto public awareness. A
quiescent cock as witnessed at a bath house or in a river is one thing, but
erections are another.
“Uh... you gonna do anything about that?” Gimli asks, and Legolas cocks his
head, confused.
“Some breathing exercises, perhaps.”
“...Is that an elf thing, or a Legolas thing?” Gimli asks, squirming a little.
“I think most of us would do so in this situation, yes,” he says, beginning to
breathe in the restful pattern that will have him soft again in a few minutes.
“Most dwarves in this situation would have a quick wank,” Gimli says, “but I
don't want to be a bad host and make you uncomfortable.”
Legolas can feel his face flushing, and his breath falls out of rhythm. “I... I
would be comfortable with watching,” he offers, and Gimli makes a strange noise
somewhere between a whine and a growl, hiding his face in Legolas's chest for a
moment before he rolls onto his back and starts unlacing his trousers. Elven
fashion generally doesn't require zippers, and dwarves have never really taken
to them. Legolas is glad of it, because this way he can watch Gimli's hands.
They fascinate him, so heavy and knobbly but so quick and graceful.
He wriggles his broad hips and pushes the trousers down just far enough,
revealing a vast thicket of red-gold hair, a few shades darker and even more
curly than the hair on his head. His cock rises from it, thick and what would
be a pretty alarming color for an elf. Dwarven blood is darker, and Gimli's
erection is closer to purple than red. There's a curious thickening at the
base, and Gimli grips there first, squeezing tightly and biting his lip.
Legolas shivers, curling up beside him to watch, resting his head on Gimli's
shoulder, feeling the motion of his strong arm as he makes short, hard strokes
over and over the base of his cock.
Legolas has taken Comparative Anatomy, so he knows that dwarves have knots, but
he never thought he would see one for himself. It swells as Gimli grips it,
reaching a quarter again the size of the main shaft before he slides his hand
off of it to stroke his soft, thick foreskin over and over the sleek, narrow
head. He's pouring precome, and it seems so much thicker than what Legolas is
used to. It drips over Gimli's hand like melting ice cream, and Legolas can't
help a small giggle at the comparison.
“You'd better not be laughing at dwarven tackle, boyo,” Gimli growls, and
Legolas beams, kissing him and putting a hand on his forearm to feel the thick
muscle working.
“I just had a silly thought, dear one,” Legolas coos, nuzzling into his beard
and making his breath hitch in his chest. “I find this just as beautiful and
strange as the rest of you. Is the fluid always so thick?”
“Sometimes thicker,” Gimli says through gritted teeth, hissing as his puts his
hand on his knot again, squeezing it even harder than before. He groans quietly
and then has to bite on his free hand to stifle a cry as Legolas finds one of
the little domes hidden in the hair, nuzzling it and then suckling gently on it
as Gimli gasps and comes. It's an abrupt jolt like he hears humans and hobbits
have, but Gimli shakes for much longer than the thirty seconds to a minute that
Aragorn says his people get, semen slowly pulsing instead of shooting out. He
writhes with his teeth on his hand until Legolas leans in, offering the crook
of his neck.
It's still a shock when Gimli latches on, but Legolas just muffles a cry of his
own and relaxes into it, whimpering softly. He loves the way it feels, even if
most other elves would be appalled. It's so bestial and primitive and Legolas
is beginning to realize that he likes that. Gimli is also gentle, the muscle of
his jaw so controlled even as he writhes and pulses for another tiny eternity.
Even now, he won't hurt Legolas, and that thought makes him whimper and whisper
a few Sindarin endearments into Gimli's ear, brushing his lips across it to
familiarize himself with the oddly blunt shape, almost squared off.
At long last, Gimli shivers to a stop, and gives Legolas a grateful kiss before
going to clean up and leaving Legolas to perform his breathing exercises again.
It takes a great deal of concentration, but within a few minutes Legolas is
quiet again. He opens his eyes and smiles to see Gimli standing by the bed and
smiling shyly at him.
“You all right?”
Legolas chuckles. “Of course.” He tugs Gimli a little closer and kisses him
again. As they part, Mrs. Beddowes calls down to them again, and Gimli follows
Legolas up the stairs, where he thanks his hostess and bids the household a
fond farewell. He wants to kiss Gimli again, but he settles a tender press of
the hand instead. Humans never seem to notice all the subtitles of this form of
affection, and he can't be sure that Gimli understands the meaning of each
little press. The caress of one fingertip over a nearly-invisible dome on the
inside of Gimli's wrist is something much more obvious, though. Gimli just
blushes, and wishes Legolas a lovely evening.
Legolas grins, and runs off into the night. He could have driven here, but it's
a pleasant walk, and not so very long for an elf. He makes his way through back
gardens and along balconies, too quick and too light to disturb the humans
inside. On one balcony a cat hisses at him, and Legolas just laughs, bounding
away again.
A prince of Greenwood must of course have lodgings appropriate to his situation
in life, but Legolas has at least bargained his father down to an off-Park
residence. He's near the edge of the retained forest and its eleven buildings,
but is actually part of a multi-species apartment complex, thank the Valar.
There are heavy vines trained over the western wall, and Legolas climbs up to
his window, slipping through and sighing happily as he slips out of his boots
and makes the rounds of his various indoor plants. Elves in the city all keep
potted plants, particularly those without any yard space of their own. As he
plucks dead leaves and sings softly to encourage his hydroponic herbs, he
wonders which of the plants Gimli will like best when he returns the visit. The
mechanism of the hydroponic set will surely appeal to him, but he might be more
attracted by the saplings, so much more alien and exotic. Legolas chuckles,
fingertips lightly caressing their smooth bark as he murmurs to them, silly,
simple talk like humans always use with cats.
The delicate raindrop noise of a call from his father makes him roll his eyes
and sigh. “Yes, Father?” He says, pulling the phone out of his pocket.
“You know I dislike these machines,” he says, and Legolas groans quietly.
“Yes, Father. And how are you this fine autumn night?”
Father is fine, aside from fretting about Legolas's association with a ragtag
crew of mortals and his general failure to act exactly as his father thinks he
should. Legolas humors him as best he can, promises to come straight home for
autumn break. In the quiet after they hang up, he stretches out on the floor,
ruminating on the boring, stiff holiday before him. The soft clanking of a
hammer on metal announces a call from Gimli, and Legolas grins.
“Hello, dear one.”
“I like the way that sounds in your mouth,” he says softly, and Legolas can
feel himself blushing.
“Good. When I'm stuck with a stupid twiggy crown on my head listening to the
eighty-ninth verse of the Turning Hymn, I will think of how much you enjoy
being called my dear one, and be consoled.”
“Pawky elf,” Gimli mutters, and Legolas laughs.
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