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It’s been weighing on his mind, but he hadn’t meant to specifically apologize. Rivendell seems to be full of elves that all look alike to Bofur, and though they have a few days to explore it, the exotic structure is confusing to navigate for a dwarf used to living inside mountains. He mainly pokes about just for the sake of it, keeping his eyes open for more enjoyable places to suggest to his friends, like that delightful fountain. But then he sees the particular elf that tends to trail dotingly behind Lord Elrond, and last night’s feast comes rolling back to Bofur, guilt and all.
He hadn’t meant to upset the elves. Not intentionally. It was just a spot of fun meant to liven up his brooding friends. Yet when he sees this elf coming, he acutely remembers the indignant horror painted over such calm, polished features. The poor elf had looked near ready to faint when a bread roll went past his head, reminding Bofur that not everyone in Middle Earth shares his kind of show.
And he’s a good enough dwarf to recognize that, so he beelines for the elf from last night. The fact that that elf is quite cute is just a bonus. Bofur has no special love for elves, but he also doesn’t turn down an exotic beauty when he finds one, and he’s already got an excuse for conversation. By the time the elf spots him, it’s too late to veer of the path inconspicuously, and they wind up walking straight for one another along the garden walkway.
As soon as he reaches the elf, Bofur strategically places a hand around the elf’s hip—not quite touching but herding—and gestures to a more secluded section of the sprawling buildings. Because he’s already forgotten the elf’s name, he introduces himself as, “Bofur, at your service. We met last night, master...?”
“Lindir,” the elf replies, somewhat curt but soft. He lets himself be corralled into the open corridor, where the two can hide behind a pillar and speak privately, although Lindir doesn’t seem to know why he’s being spoken to at all. His expression is weary and wary but still awkwardly polite, and it leaves the ball entirely in Bofur’s corner.
“Right, Master Lindir,” Bofur starts, with all the charm he can muster.
But Lindir gently cuts him off to correct, “Excuse me, but I am no one’s master. The only one here worthy of that title is my lord Elrond.”
“Of course,” Bofur corrects, opting not to mention that Thorin, and by extension, Fíli and Kíli, are also lords. And they still call Bilbo ‘Master Baggins’ from time to time. It’s a grave misconception that dwarves have no courtesy. It takes him a second to remember where he was and get back on track, and by now Lindir does look slightly curious. Clearing his throat, Bofur explains, “I just wanted to apologize to you for what happened last night, when I sang my song and whatnot. Dwarves have very different customs, as I’m sure you can imagine, and we’ve had a rocky time of it so far. I just wanted to cheer my friends up, but I truly didn’t meant to upset you.” He says it sincerely, though Lindir only looks puzzled. His brow has furrowed and his pouty lips seem to be frowning. It’s vaguely adorable, even for an elf.
Slowly, Lindir says, “I apologize if my failure to conceal my concern affected your evening poorly.” He bows his head once, letting his long, chestnut hair slither gracefully down his shoulders. The silver circlet around his head catches in the light through the open alcove, and when he straightens out again, he holds his arms behind his back. It looks like he’s standing at attention, ready to take new marching orders to correct this grievous error.
Bofur says, “What? No. That’s not...” He shakes his own head, lifting a hand to scratch it under the brim of his hat. Elves are strange indeed. They act as though they’re the height of good manners, and yet they don’t seem to understand simple apologies.
Lindir merely continues to look curiously at him, so Bofur sighs and settles in for his second tactic. Odd or not, Lindir is undeniably attractive, and close proximity’s only solidified Bofur’s choice of penance.
In the Blue Mountains, it’s not particularly uncommon to offer an apology by way of a blowjob, or some similar sexual favour. He can think of at least a half dozen times off the top of his head that he and Nori wronged one another specifically for that excuse to fall to their knees in front of each other, although he highly doubts Rivendell has such customs. But surely the idea of makeup sex, even between relative strangers, is within the realm of reason anywhere. Though subtlety is far from Bofur’s specialty, he licks his lips and carefully tries to hint, “I was thinking that perhaps I could make it up to you. If you were interested, of course.” Lindir merely raises an eyebrow, so Bofur continues, adjusting to lean against the pillar as sensually as he can manage. “We may not have slept in them last night, but I assume those spare rooms you offered us are still available? Perhaps we could ‘discuss’ this somewhere more... private?” A sliver of comprehension dawns in Lindir’s eyes, and Bofur hammers it home by grinning suggestively and purring, “My mouth is good for more than singing, if you get my meaning.”
He’d have to. Bofur knows he’s failed his subtlety attempt, and Lindir’s face tightens, the gravity of Bofur’s proposition clear. He says tonelessly, “I understand.”
Pleased with himself, Bofur’s grin grows. When he first set out on this quest, he’d meant to diversify his pleasures, not just in alcohol and food. Lindir isn’t exactly the sort of foreign delicacy he had in mind, but now that such an elf is on the table, Bofur’s quite satisfied with his catch.
Except that Lindir’s eyes lower to the floor, and he lifts his fingers to begin dutifully unbuttoning his long, tight robes. He looks aside as he pauses to shed the sleeveless crimson cloak from his shoulders, and then he’s back to revealing one little peek of smooth, creamy skin at a time. His expression, Bofur realizes with sudden horror, has become mildly distressed, but painted over with determination.
Dipping to the floor, Bofur grabs the cloak and thrusts his arm out with it, blurting in a hiss so as not to draw attention should anyone pass them by, “What are you doing?”
A note of confusion flickers into Lindir’s eyes, and he answers too easily, “There is no need to seek empty quarters.” With an almost haughty sniff, he adds, “You are my lord Elrond’s guest, and it is my job to attend to the needs of my lord’s guests, even if I failed to do so last night.”
“No,” Bofur says bluntly, driving more confusion onto Lindir’s pretty face. As attractive as he still is, all thoughts of getting up his robes have left Bofur’s head. “I wasn’t trying to force you into anything!”
“There is no force,” Lindir respond simply, as though Bofur’s the one that’s misunderstood the situation. “It is my role and honour to serve my lord’s guests.”
“But...”
Bofur doesn’t know what to do. He usually prides himself on his words—he’s good with them. But not in obvious culture clashes like this one, where he seems to have inadvertently thrown duty into pleasure. At least Lindir’s stopped stripping, though he hasn’t retrieved his cloak. Finally, Bofur, feeling increasing awkward and ashamed by the moment, chucks the bundle of fabric right into Lindir’s arms, who gracefully catches it.
Bofur says, “It’s alright,” and it comes out strained and half a question. But he’s already backing away before he can get an answer, hurriedly stepping out into the gardens again.
He’s halfway down the path when he hears Lindir’s silken voice call after him, “Bofur.”
He turns instantly, surprised Lindir bothered to remember his name. Lindir has straightened himself up again, buttoned up to his high collar with his cloak back over his shoulders. Blank faced, he calls, “If you change your mind, you need only to send for me.” Then he bows his head, turns, and strolls off the way he came.
It leaves Bofur to figure out if he’s just been propositioned, or if the definition of courtesy in Rivendell is far too strenuous.
Shaking his head, Bofur wanders off to find Nori, muttering to himself, “Elves.”