Faramir Fiction Archive

Visiting Hours (PG-13)

Written by Dixon of Dock Leaf

31 January 2006 | 2865 words

Email: dixonofdockleaf@hotmail.com
Pairing: Faramir/Éomer
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No, not a hope. They aren’t mine and it’s so unfair.
Beta: Half Elf Lost. She’s finger lickin’ good!
Feedback: Hit me baby, one more time.
Author’s Notes: Faramir’s convalescent boredom is relieved when a visitor to the Houses of Healing takes a wrong turn. You have to love the directionally challenged…

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Faramir couldn’t remember ever having been so bored. Admittedly, it was better than being dead, which according to the purse-lipped Healer who attended him he had only narrowly avoided. But the afterlife might have been preferable to this unrelenting dullness, particularly if Boromir was there; his brother had always known how to make the most out of any situation. “Wonderful. Now you’re depressed as well as bored,” Faramir muttered to himself, wincing as he shifted position on the narrow stone window seat. He had to admit that for all his griping, he was quite glad to not have followed his brother just yet, but if his boredom levels got much higher, well, who knew?

The trouble was, the Houses of Healing weren’t really designed to offer much in the way of diversion and, grateful as Faramir was to the Healers, the better he felt, the more he wanted to do. The more he wanted to do, the more the hens started to cluck. It wasn’t as though he wanted to ride off and take on a cohort of Uruk-Hai single-handedly, he just wanted to do something, anything other than sit in this room, at this window and count the cracks in the ceiling. Oh wait, he’d already done that, he’d have to move onto another form of heady excitement. Maybe, if he felt really daring, he’d guess how many knots there were in the back of the door.

He gave the door a look of acute distaste, just as there was a forceful knock from the corridor. Faramir jumped. He wasn’t expecting anyone. “Who’s left to expect?” he thought. The Healers had already been on their rounds and, unless something vital dropped off without him noticing, they wouldn’t be back until the evening.

The knock came again, louder this time and with an impatient edge to it, as though the person in the corridor wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

“Come in,” Faramir called out.

The words had hardly left his mouth, when the door flew open and a tall man with long hair the colour of barley strode in.

“WHAT are you doing in my sister’s room?” he growled, advancing towards the startled Faramir.

“Sister?” Faramir repeated.

“Sister. Éowyn of Rohan. The Healers told me she was here. So, I ask you again, where is she and what are you doing in her room?”

Faramir stared at the man. Confused though he was, he couldn’t help but notice his irate visitor was distinctly attractive, even though he was scowling ferociously. He exuded a vitality, an impression that there wasn’t really an indoor space big enough to fit all of him into. Faramir had a sudden vision of wide-open plains, the thundering of hooves, and a never-ending horizon into which this man fitted perfectly.

Realizing that he wasn’t contributing overly to the conversation, Faramir gave himself a mental kick and smiled at his visitor.

“I think I see the problem,” he said, in what he hoped were calming tones. “I’m afraid the Healers have sent you in the wrong direction; any women brought here are looked after in the Southern House, not the Western.” Faramir paused, searching his memory.

“Éowyn… Éowyn..blonde, slim, scary looking, impressive flounce?” His visitor actually cracked a grin at this pithy description of his sibling and nodded.

“Definitely in the Southern House,” Faramir said positively, “I saw her two days ago when my Healer allowed me to walk there.”

“Then, this isn’t her room?”

“No.”

“It’s never been her room?”

“No.”

“So you haven’t…?”

“NO!”

“Are you saying that she’s ugly?!”

“No, I’m saying that even if she were Luthien herself bought back to the world, it still wouldn’t, how can I put this, pluck my bow.”

“Oh. OHHHH…”

“Exactly.”

Faramir, ever courteous, not to mention delighted at finally having someone to talk to, got up from his seat by the window and bowed slightly.

“Now that we’ve cleared that up, allow me to introduce myself properly. I’m Faramir.”

His visitor, obviously determined to not be outdone in politeness, returned the bow.

“Éomer, Third Marshall of Rohan, at your service.”

Introductions over, the two men stared at each other before Éomer cleared his throat and bowed again. “Well, my apologies for the intrusion, Faramir, I hope that I haven’t disturbed you overly.”

With these words, Éomer turned and headed back across the room. As he reached the door, Faramir’s brain finally started working properly. “Ask him to stay, idiot, ask him to stay!” it shouted “QUICK!!” Faramir, in full agreement with this brilliant plan, obeyed with alacrity. Moving faster than he had in weeks, he strode forward, meaning to catch up with Éomer before he disappeared and left Faramir with nothing better to do than twiddle his thumbs again.

Unfortunately, this proved to be a very unpopular move with the parts of his body that the Orcs had mistaken for a pincushion. The sudden movement caused a bright burst of pain to blossom and a muffled shout escaped him.

Éomer whirled at the noise behind him to see Faramir, turning whiter than his bandages, falter mid stride. The Horse Lord darted back across the room, just in time to catch the collapsing man before head and flagstones made contact.

“Wonderful!” Faramir thought fuzzily as the mist descended, “he’s staying!”

Faramir was flat on his back again. Swimming back to consciousness, he was disappointed to find he was alone in the bed and not, as he’d dreamt, with someone gorgeous. That someone possessed long blonde hair, brown eyes, strong hands and a feisty nature and he had been doing wonderful things with Faramir, things that no one had done for what felt like several centuries. Disappointing then, that it had only happened in a dream.

As he pondered on this with the seriousness of the slightly drugged, voices began to filter through the feeling that his head was full of treacle. One voice in particular stood out and it didn’t sound happy.

“What did I do? I didn’t DO anything! One minute he was fine and the next he was doing a passable impression of a felled tree!”

“Hmm” mused Faramir dreamily, “Éomer’s still here.”

Another, far less interesting voice, broke into his reverie. “The Lord Faramir should not be excited in any way,” it chided.

“Spoilsport” thought Faramir as he finally began to catch up with events. He cranked an eye open and squinted through the dazzling light towards the voices. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, it became apparent that he had awakened just in time. The considerably taller Éomer, hands clenched at his sides, was glowering ferociously down at the quailing Healer.

“It looks to me,” snarled Éomer “that being excited is JUST what the Lord Faramir needs! It’s obvious to anyone with half a brain that he’s dying of boredom. The poor man’s been cooped up in here like a trussed pigeon, being fussed and fretted over by a gaggle of old women. He needs to see something other than stone walls and bracket faced killjoys who look as though they’ve spent the last twenty years sucking lemons under a rock!”

The Healer, soundlessly mouthing, wilted visibly under this torrent. Éomer, however, was just getting into his stride.

“I will personally take responsibility for Lord Faramir’s well-being” he continued, voice dropping into a low, deadly purr that brooked no argument. “He will be leaving here, with me, tomorrow. This is not negotiable. Are we clear?”

The Healer managed to force out a squeak of assent before turning on his heel and almost running from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Faramir couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Do you know, I’m really quite glad that you’re on my side?” he said, propping himself up on his elbows as Éomer grinned before settling himself comfortably on the end of the bed with his back resting against the bedpost.

“Well, did you want to stop staring at the walls or not?” he enquired.

“Absolutely,” Faramir replied emphatically, cautiously sitting upright. “What I want to know is how did YOU know? I’ve never seen you before, we only spoke for a few minutes but here you are, taking, what was it? Oh yes, ‘personal responsibility’ for me. Why?”

Éomer didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he kept his gaze locked onto Faramir who in return, gazed steadily back. Was it just him or did the room seem to be growing warmer? In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the space between he and Éomer burst into flames. There was a definite spark in the air and that felt good. No, it felt better than good, it felt wonderful.

Suddenly, Éomer flashed that very sexy grin again.

“That’s why,” he said cryptically.

Faramir decided not to push the point. After all, he’d got what he wanted: Company of a hitherto undreamed of level and a way out of the Houses. He’d give a little more thought to the whys and wherefores at a later date.

Three days into his liberation, something happened to make Faramir consider those whys and wherefores again.

It had been a glorious three days, he had to admit. Éomer had been as good as his word, timing his return to the Houses as the Healers were doing their rounds the following morning. This time around, he didn’t have to say a word; he simply folded his arms across his impressively broad chest, lowered his brows and waited. Faramir, who had hardly slept the night before due to a combination of excitement and the fact that every time he closed his eyes he saw that grin, was raring to go. Faced with the looming presence in the corner, the Healers let him escape with no more than a token lecture about rest and light exercise.

Since then, the time had passed in a blur. Faramir had initially revelled in the fact that he was really and truly back in his city, drinking in the sounds and smells that he’d been away from for what seemed an age. On that first day, he’d wandered through the streets for hours, up through the higher levels, smiling and exchanging greetings with soldiers and civilians until, almost without realizing, he was as high as he could go. Leaning on the parapet and shivering slightly as the chill of the early evening wind started to bite, he sensed a presence at his back and realized with a start that he’d managed to forget all about Éomer.

That didn’t last for long. Before Faramir could turn and apologise, the unseen presence behind him became solid warmth as Éomer, quite matter of factly wrapped his arms around Faramir’s shoulders and held the startled man firmly against him. The wind had picked up and Éomer’s cloak, snapping and rippling out past both men, seemed to be a part of the conspiracy to hold Faramir in place.

Nothing was said. Faramir, gradually relaxing into the warmth of Éomers body, was initially far too surprised and his muscles had tensed at the contact, ready to push away, fight back, whatever was required by the sudden turn of events. Then, as the seconds of silence stretched into minutes, the simple physical pleasure of being held in this curious, undemanding embrace began to work a subtle magic. The tension leached from him and, by degrees, he moved closer into Éomer’s arms, settling himself more comfortably against the other man’s solid and reassuring warmth.

As his breathing slowed, Faramir felt, to his horror, the barriers he’d carefully maintained for so long against his emotions start to crumble in the face of the feeling produced by Éomer’s arms around him. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one to sense it.

“Let them go, Faramir.” Éomer spoke so quietly that Faramir felt, rather than heard the words rumble against his back.

“And then what will I have?” he replied just as quietly, unable to conceal the desolation in his words.

Éomer tightened his grip ever so slightly and sighed.

“Peace” he replied. “Peace and the chance to become yourself again. Not Faramir, Son of Denethor, not Faramir, Brother of Boromir. Just, Faramir. Be yourself and live no more in shadows.”

That was the moment Faramir fell in love. The realisation hit and, at the same time, the knot in his soul unravelled, bringing a rain of scalding tears that shook him where he stood. All of the frustration he had felt in his injuries, his father’s life-long disdain and descent into madness and the unspoken pain of his brother’s death tore loose and, heedless of what Éomer might think of him, he shouted his rage and grief into the wind.

The tears ended as suddenly as they had begun, leaving Faramir drained and exhausted by the strength of his emotion. Turning in Éomer’s arms, he returned the embrace as hard as his injuries would allow. Éomer leaned back and looked at Faramir through the rapidly descending dusk.

“What was that for?” he asked, the grin beginning to lurk around the corners of his mouth.

Faramir raised his eyebrows. “Just because.” he replied lightly. “Can’t a man hug another man on top of this city in the dark without his motives being questioned?”

Without waiting for an answer, throwing caution over the edge of the parapet (which was where he might end up as well if he’d mis-read the signals), Faramir leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips. Éomer kissed him back, hard. Faramir wasn’t certain after that just who was kissing whom, there seemed to be lips, teeth and tongues everywhere. He was just thinking about stopping to draw breath when a voice from the past, laced with laughter, ghosted through him.

“You think too much, Little Brother.”

Faramir, in the depths of his own head, smiled at Boromir and agreed placidly, then stopped thinking about everything apart from what was the quickest route down to Éomer’s lodging. Quickest, and darkest. The firm bulge pressing against his own confirmed that this would be a very good idea and something Éomer might appreciate as well.

Faramir heard the bed slats creak at the same time as he felt the body that spooned neatly up behind him. Unable to stop the huge smile spreading across his face, he stretched lazily and rolled over, turning the bed cover into a tent as soon as he landed on his back.

“I’d say ‘Good Morning’ but it looks though you knew that anyway,” said an amused voice in his ear. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have for a long time” Faramir replied, “You must have tired me out.”

“Why? It’s not that long a walk here, even if we did take the scenic route.”

Faramir opened his eyes at this and found he was looking straight up at Éomer, propped up on an elbow and arranged comfortably alongside. The sun was streaming in and Faramir could hear birds outside.

“Well,” he said, “maybe the walk didn’t do it, but what about afterwards?”

“There wasn’t exactly what you could call an ‘afterwards’ in the way you think,” Éomer said. “You stayed awake just long enough for me to get your boots off but that was it. Have you always been a pillow stealer? I thought I was going to have to break your arms to get it back.”

“Then how did I end up like this?” Faramir asked, horribly aware he was blushing.

Éomer grinned, but with a glint in his eye. “I’m very patient when I need to be. I don’t think I missed anything, did I?”

Faramir’s reply was muffled in the pillow he’d pulled over his face in an effort to hide the blush. “No, nothing missed, thanks.”

Éomer pulled the pillow away and kissed him on the end of the nose. “Idiot,” he said affectionately. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“You?” Faramir replied, encouraged by the kiss. “I’d like you, with honey, please.”

“How did you know I’d brought the honey?”

“Because,” Faramir replied, nudging Éomer over until he was on his back and Faramir was able to lie comfortably next to him, “you look like a honey man.”

Actually, Faramir thought, Éomer did look like he was made of honey as he lay there. The sun had moved and Éomer’s body seemed to be made of gold, umber and caramel. Faramir could have looked at him forever. But, while looking was all very well, touching was even nicer.

Reaching out, he smoothed the tawny hair away from Éomer’s face and leant forward to drop a kiss onto the smiling mouth just inches away. Éomer returned the kiss with the same passion he had shown the previous night. Patience, it appeared to Faramir as his cock pressed up against Éomer’s thigh, was obviously a virtue worth having.

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