This is a modern AU Bard fic for the Tolkien neglected characters challenge
You squint at the squiggly red lines under the words you just typed and growl. Your fingers have become your greatest enemy, tripping over each other on the laptop keyboard as your time and nerves peck at your typing skills. And where are you getting 'thousands' from? The literacy program helps a couple hundred children, at best.
Down to the close of your request, you don’t need to make these kinds of mistakes. This doc was due in your boss’s inbox this morning for her review. It’s now just after 1 p.m.
Thank goodness she’s at an offsite meeting and wouldn’t have time to look at it anyway, but still - it’s not like you to procrastinate this much.
You’ve taken advantage of her absence to leave your cubicle and work on the request at the coffee bar around the corner from the office during a very late lunch. The grinding of beans, the whirring of the machines, and the conversations - interwoven with chuckles and slurps of coffee and tea - provide just the right amount of white background noise.
Your office is much too quiet; comes with the territory of working for the library system.
There’s another noise rumbling through the usual din: the removing of a refrigerator from behind the counter.
You looked up only once, to see what all the grunting and screeching and thudding was about. A patron made a beeline from the door to the back, to help the delivery guy balance the awkward unit on the hand truck.
At last, it’s out. The new, more streamlined one is rolled in several minutes later with no issues.
“Take a break, guys,” the barista says. “Drinks are on me.”
Your eyes stay on your mangled words. What is wrong with me? Just finish this thing!
The male voice at the table next to yours has an accent you don’t recognize. It’s subtle but distinct. When you look up, the rugged, smiling face and the nearly shoulder-length salt-and-pepper locks look vaguely familiar, but you can’t be sure. You rarely pay attention to people in here.
“Hardly working,” you reply, keeping your eyes on your screen. His gaze hasn’t budged. It remains on you, and small fire in the pit of your stomach starts to burn.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, after taking another sip. “You’ve been at it since I walked through the door, and probably long before that.”
Your eyes flick up to him, then back to the screen. You want to look up again, take a longer look into those dark eyes. But if you do, you might be tempted to tell him to leave you the hell alone so you can work, and you’re not entirely sure why you don’t want to say that.
On second thought, yes, you do. It’s actually nice to take a break and talk to someone.
“I can’t get the words right,” you tell him, adding a sigh. “I work on getting donations for the library’s charitable projects, and I’m asking for a rather large donation to a literacy fund. I’m at the end, and I can’t close it.”
“Just close it,” he says. “ ‘Give us the money. The end.’ ”
Now you look up, taking note of his profile and his clothes. He’s the one who opened the front door and immediately jogged to the back to help with the refrigerator. You’ve seen him elsewhere, too. Maybe the docks? You’ve never come too close during your walks around the lake because everyone always looks so busy, but yes, he appears to be the one who often works shirtless.
He’s relaxing in his wooden chair, one arm hooked over the chair’s finial and hanging past the seat, the other across the table. His fingers loop through the handle of his mug. He’s looking handsome and cozy in his layers: a gray short sleeve shirt topped by a dark blue, long sleeve one. He’s got on faded jeans that are slightly worn.
“I can’t just end it,” you explain, tearing your eyes away, which is difficult since it seems like a magnet is pulling you toward him. “It has to sound eloquent and sincere, with a hint of groveling. More than a hint, actually.”
“Ah, I see,” he says, nodding. “You don’t really want to ask this donor, then.”
This time, you not only look up, you close your laptop halfway.
“How do you know?” you ask softly.
“I’ve seen you working in here many times before.” He points to you, squints a little. “You struck up a conversation with my daughter the last time, remember? Ten years old, very pretty.”
You smile at hearing the pride in his voice. Yes, you remember talking to a little girl who inquired about your library badge, but you didn’t realize she was his daughter. You didn’t even notice whom she came in with.
“Aye, Tilda.” His face lights up as he bring his dangling arm to the table and wraps both hands around the mug. “Anyway, that day and every other time I’ve seen you, you get right through your work with a tranquil look on your face. And I’ve said to myself, ‘that’s a focused one, there. Knows what she needs to do, gets it done, leaves.’ That’s how I know your heart must not be on this…this…” He gestures toward your laptop.
“Request.” He brings the cup to his lips and drinks. After he lowers his cup back onto the saucer, he licks his lips, and the fire in your belly sends sparks clear up to your face.
“I don’t blame you,” he continues. “Requests can be very tricky things. Scary things.”
You’re only half listening now. You’re thinking about what he said. No, you don’t want to ask this donor, an old-money family that demands much more than what’s required when asking for money. You always feel extra small when dealing with them.
“You’re right,” you concede quietly.
He hears your whisper and smiles before you catch him. He hides it with his mug, now empty, as soon as you look up. You’ve shut your laptop completely, not knowing what to do next.
“I’m Bard, by the way,” he says, abandoning his coffee and turning his body completely in your direction. He reaches over for a handshake. You pump his hand firmly and introduce yourself.
“That is a beautiful name,” he says, releasing your hand.
“Thank you.” You start to pack away your laptop into your bag.
Bard sets his mug down, slides closer to your table and props his chin on his palm while the other hand rests on his thigh.
“You’re not going to give up, are you?” he asks.
“No. I’m just out of ideas for now,” you say wearily. You’re not sure he heard you. He has this dreamy look in his eye. You check his left hand for a wedding ring; not there. Still, you’re not completely convinced little Tilda isn’t home with the Mrs.
“I have an idea,” he says. He puts his hand down, resting it casually over the edge of the table. “Join me for dinner.”
“With you, Tilda and your wife?” you ask, giving him the side eye while packing up your power cord.
“Just me. My wife is…” He looks off, blinks, then returns to you. “She passed away.”
“Oh…oh, my goodness…” You honestly don’t know what to say beyond that. You were expecting the ol’ ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ crap. Somehow, you know he’s not lying.
Finally, you’re able to say more.
He strums his fingers on the table and smiles. “I see her in each of our three beautiful children.”
“Does that scare you?” he asks.
You offer a half-smile. “Only if they don’t have library cards.”
He laughs, and his whole face lights up. The creases in his forehead deepen, and his teeth shine like pearls.
“They have cards. But I think they may have a few overdue books.”
“So…what about my request? Dinner tonight?”
Bard suggests a new fusion bistro that you’ve been dying to visit. You stand and place your bag strap over your shoulder. He stands with you.
“I’d like that, Bard. I’ll meet you there at 8.”
Bard walks you to the door and opens it for you.
“If things get awkward, you can always help me think up an ending.” You wave goodbye to him, and head toward your office.
“A beginning, love,” Bard whispers, watching with a smile as you walk off.
