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TITLE: All's Well That Ends Well AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger (and Trianne who says she didn't do enough to be co-author, and I disagreed, so I have cleverly used parentheses in technical adherence to her command, though she was enormously helpful and contributed much -- she'll deny it; don't let her fool you -- not the least of which was pointing out the forest through all those distracting trees.) PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: Adult SUMMARY: Frodo is having a really bad day
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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
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All right.
Fine.
It wasn't all that bad, really. Other people had worse days, he supposed. People, for instance, who got eaten by wolves or sat upon by a troll or something equally big and unsavoury, though Frodo wouldn't be terribly surprised to see either wolf or troll -- or both -- show up at his door in the next… how many more hours were left of this never-ending day? Probably sixty-nine, the way his luck was running.
He sighed, not caring that it came out all wobbly and dramatic, moved to rub at his brow and caught himself just in time. Bad idea. Very, very bad idea. Manoeuvred the hand back down between his knees where he'd got it, and lifted the other. Sank his fingers into his hair and kneaded.
Ow.
Well, there was the headache. He supposed the day wouldn't have been complete without it.
A sharp curse from around the back and the clink of tools; Mister Greenly was having words with the pump again.
Squinting down at the paving-stones, Frodo examined his toes. Not too bad; he'd managed to get most of the black off, anyway, and he supposed that with one more wash, he'd be able to safely pad about the smial without worrying about ruining any more carpets. If he ever got one more wash.
He slanted his gaze towards the side of the Hill where Bilbo's old hearthrug lay drying in the afternoon sun. Frodo had done his very best, but considering that it had been buried beneath a veritable Misty Mountain of soot (all right, maybe not a mountain, but a considerable little hill, anyway), several tons of rotting leaves (tons, ounces -- there really wasn't a notable difference when it was all billowing onto your parlour floor), and a nest the Eagles their-majestic-bloody-selves would have been proud of (so, it was a robin's nest and you know, this was his little whinging episode and he would appreciate it if facts and commonsense stopped trying to shove their annoying foot in the door… feet… fine… whatever), he wasn't holding out much hope. Even if it looked clean when it dried, he'd never get the smell out.
He frowned, bent his neck and sniffed at his shirt. Winced. Well, that was for the bin. Just as well; he couldn't even remember what colour it had been when he'd put it on this morning.
Ah, this morning, when he'd risen from a lovely night's sleep to the sound of birdsong and the warmth of sunshine and everything had been right with the world.
So, fine, he'd actually awoken to a cat yowling somewhere down the Row and the sun was only glowing all over the place because he'd forgotten to close his bedroom window -- and the curtains and the shutters -- and it had been bloody freezing this morning and he'd thought for a few minutes that his toes had gone missing as he'd yipped and acked his way across the room to shut the window, only to find two apparently-courting squirrels mooning at each other on the windowsill -- all right, yes, they were shagging -- and not at all pleased at his interruption. Who knew squirrels could hiss? Luckily, the shriek he loosed when he startled backwards and caught his feet in yesterday's trousers scared them off. Of course, it took a while for Frodo to notice because he'd been busy inventing new profanities (some of which he fully intended to record in that other Red Book, the one he kept under the bed), and only when he'd finally picked himself up off the floor, wondering if one was supposed to apply ice or heat when one sprained one's arse, did he notice that he'd apparently literally scared the shit right out of the ratty little duo.
He'd groaned in disgust, decided that no one in the world could possibly look askance at his opting to at least have a cup of tea -- or six -- before even thinking about how none of the lessons on how best to care for a home that Esmeralda and Bilbo had at various times imparted ever, even once, mentioned the leavings of the common Shire squirrel – odd though that might seem. He would be on his own for this one and he absolutely refused to so much as pick up a cleaning rag and soap until after that cup of tea. Or six.
That was when he'd discovered the water problem. Or rather, the lack-of-water problem. Because, seeing as how this had turned out to be The Worst Day Ever, it only made sense that it had started out as it had.
He'd forgotten to fill the kettle last night when he'd banked the stove and it had simmered itself dry overnight. At least he'd remembered to bank the stove and hadn't burned the place down. He was able to console himself with that thought for about ten minutes -- the length of time it took him to understand that no amount of pumping (or cursing) was going to make water come out of the spigot -- before he had to admit that having no tea was going to be the least of his problems this day.
All right, so it hadn't exactly been a good morning. Still, it was the best part of this stupid, bloody, never-ending day and Frodo remembered it almost-fondly.
The gate squeaked; Frodo refused to look up. That would be either the wolf or the troll. Or both. And he'd be damned if he was going to lift his head and bare his throat… although, one didn't necessarily need to bare one's throat in order to be sat upon…
Frodo sighed again and lifted his head. Scowled when he saw who it was.
"You're late," he growled.
Merry stopped in his tracks, blinked. "Um… I'm two days early, in fact."
Frodo frowned, slumped. "Oh," he said, voice smaller than he liked, "two days…" He tilted his head, frowned some more. "It's still only Hensday?"
A nod from Merry and a wary little grin. "Er… Surprise?"
Frodo dropped his head back into his palm, closed his eyes. "Woohoo," was all he said. He would have twirled a finger in the air for more effect, but one hand was busy holding up his head and the other was… well… not.
"Well, I like that," Merry answered, his tone indignant. "Shall I just go on to Tuckborough and see if Pippin's come out from under the skirts of Miss Lavender yet, or would you like to invite me in?"
For a moment, Frodo actually considered sending Merry along to Tuckborough. All he needed now to top off this day was to be faced with the shining example of Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was everything a hobbit was supposed to be and never had days like this one. Even after a full day on the road, or so Frodo had to assume, he was bloody spotless and Frodo had to stop himself from curling his lip. Merry's stupid, sodding jacket, all clean and fresh-looking, and his stupid, sodding hair, golden and wavy, and his stupid, sodding face, tanned with a touch of rose on nose and cheeks, and his stupid, sodding feet, all brushed and clean, but for the lightest coating of road-dust, and how dare Merry show up here with clean feet! Frodo would be willing to lay real money that no squirrels had ever had their morning shag and poo on Merry's windowsill.
"I thought it was Lilac this month," was all Frodo said.
A snort and a shrug from Merry. "Who can keep track? Some purple flower name, anyway. So? Do I get to come in or do I have to go back and tell Mum you're unwell? But then I've no doubt she'll be here herself within a day or so and I doubt she'll shag you in the kitchen, so you're better off with me."
Well, Frodo knew Merry had never shied away from blackmail when it suited him. And the tosser was grinning.
Frodo rolled his eyes. "I can't invite you in," he grumbled. "I mean, I can invite you to go in, but I can't come with you. I'm filthy, in case you didn't notice."
A rustle of grass as Merry took a few steps closer. "What's going on?" he asked, dropping his pack. "What's happened to your clothes? And…" A pause while he got a better look. "And your feet! And your hair! Frodo, you're a mess! What happened?"
Frodo unwillingly opened his eyes and peered down at himself; he really did look like something that had just crawled out of the dustbin.
"Well, it's all rather the same story," he answered, peering up at Merry. "Which part would you like to hear first?"
A pause and Merry leaned in closer, eyes narrowing and mouth dropping slightly open. "Well, how about you start with what happened to your eye!"
"Eye?" Frodo reached up, pressed at his cheekbone, grimaced. "Oh." Gave a surly grunt. "Well, there was a bee."
A lift of sandy eyebrows. "A bee."
"Yes, a bee. You know -- black and yellow stripes, buzzes about and stings people it doesn't like? A bee!"
Merry leaned closer, eyed Frodo's cheekbone keenly then: "But that doesn't look like a sting."
Was Merry being annoying on purpose or was it just Frodo's mood?
"It isn't a sting. But I was… well, it kept diving at my head and… well, and…"
Merry frowned. "And what? It punched you?"
"No." Frodo's cheeks were feeling suspiciously hot. "I tried to wave it away and… sort of… um…"
There was a pause while Merry waited for Frodo to continue; Frodo decided this was about where he was going to -- most likely very ineffectually -- dig in his heels. He buttoned his lip firmly, blinked up at Merry.
"Sort of what?" Merry pressed. "Pummelled yourself about the face to scare it away? Took a stick to your own head? Threw a rock at yourself? What, Frodo?"
Frodo only stared for a moment. Not only was Merry bloody-ridiculously perfect, but he was going to force Frodo into admitting how far from it he was himself. He sighed, shifted. Pulled his hand from between his knees.
Merry's eyebrows went up and he blinked. "Frodo," he said slowly, "you've a vase on your hand."
"Cheers, Cousin, now perhaps you'd like to tell me what colour grass is."
"But…" Merry shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest. "All right, then -- why is there a vase on your hand?"
"Because it's stuck there," Frodo replied and that was all.
Merry waited for a few beats, but when Frodo didn't clarify, he sighed, rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "We'll do it your way. How did you get a vase stuck on your hand?"
The scowls were coming so easily to Frodo now. "I had to show Lilly that there wasn't a sorcerer inside it."
"And Lilly is who?" Merry wanted to know. "Your imaginary playmate?"
A glare this time. "No," Frodo retorted. "Lilly is May Gamgee's little one. I mean May Smalltoes. She came to pick up the washing for Marigold and Lilly came along with her mum, seeing as how there was no one else at Number Three to look after her because of the to-do at the Cottons' and I needed a break from drawing up water to clean the carpet, so I offered to tell her a story--"
"Carpet? Wait, what--"
"--and I took her into the parlour and told her the one about the sorcerer who lived in the lamp. You remember the one -- with the three wishes?"
"Yes, but what about--"
"And it's apparently a lot more frightening than I'd realised because the child started screaming about how she knew there was a sorcerer in the vase -- called me a liar, can you believe it, in my own home; bring the child in, feed her cider and biscuits in the best parlour, tell her a story, and the next thing I know, my eardrums are vibrating out of my head with the screams -- and I was afraid May was going to think I was trying to throttle the little beast or something, so I turned the sodding vase upside-down and shook it, but that wasn't good enough, was it, nooooooo, said I had to reach in and grab him by his little sorcerer throat because he was magic and he could just cling to the inside of the vase if I shook it, couldn't he--"
"Waitwaitwait, whoa," Merry cut in and his eyes had narrowed again. "You took her into the best parlour? I'm not even allowed in the best parlour!"
Frodo looked at Merry sideways, shrugged. "Well last time you were in there, you broke the tea table."
Merry's mouth dropped open. "I was twelve!"
"Well, I couldn't take her to the second-best, could I? Not after Stinky Harfoot got through with it."
Merry's look of indignation turned slowly to one of disbelief. "Is that someone's name?"
Frodo shook his head, sighed up at the sky. "Don't ask."
To his credit, Merry didn't; instead he asked, "Well, what did he do?"
A grimace. "He's apprenticing with his father," Frodo answered and now he did curl his lip. "Posco Harfoot is the chimneysweep."
Merry tilted his head. "And Stinky…?"
"Was practicing on Bag End. Only, apparently, Posco hadn't yet taught his son the part about how, when birds have nested in a chimney, one does not take a very long stick and try to poke -- or, in Stinky's case, ram -- said nest down the flue." Frodo again kneaded at his temple. "Nest, leaves and soot all screed down in one giant whoosh; Posco and Stinky and I managed to get the furniture and floors cleaned up but the hearthrug is most likely in its death-throes over there." A disgusted flick of his hand. Which would probably have been more effective without the vase. "Which is almost just as well because after I finally got rid of the Harfoots and the lovely Miss Lilly of the Eardrum-Piercing Screech, I went back down to finish trying to clean the rug -- one-handed, of course -- and the bloody thing tripped me. Fell into a sodding lake of sooty mud because I couldn't catch myself without breaking the vase and I had to twist a bit, landed on my arse for the second time today and would have gone rolling down the Hill, had I not bashed right into the well."
Merry only stared for a moment, then: "Second time?"
"Right." Frodo sighed. "The first time was because of the squirrels."
Merry appeared to ponder that one for a moment. "Should I ask?"
"I'd really rather you didn't."
"All right, but what--"
"So I decided then that I was done for the day because really -- how much convincing does a person need before he realises that Fate and Chance have got together and made a bet on how long it will take for him to either go completely mad or hang himself with his braces?"
"Well," said Merry slowly, "You haven’t hung yourself at least."
"I might have done," Frodo replied, "but I was afraid I'd miss or something. And anyway, I can't exactly tie a knot properly, can I?" The abyss of Maudlin and Morose was yawning ever closer and Frodo almost-happily jumped in with both feet. "I can't even throw myself off the roof," he lamented.
"Well, I dunno," Merry told him, peered up, squinted a little, then looked back down to the ground. "If you got a running-start, you might hit the flagstones. Just have to make sure you go head-first."
"I'd probably just trip and go rolling down the Hill and then I'd be even more sore and it's not like I can have a bath and a good, long soak, is it?"
"I should hope so," Merry returned a little too quickly. "Sorry, love, but you reek." As if Frodo didn't already know that. "Why can't you have a bath?"
Frodo's mouth pinched; he levelled a surly glare on Merry, held up his hand.
"What?" Merry wanted to know, lifted an eyebrow. "The sorcerer will drown?"
Frodo rolled his eyes. "Sometimes you can be such an ass, you know that? I can't exactly draw water one-handed, can I?"
Merry ignored the insult, asked, "Since when have you had to draw water for a bath? Did the bathtub explode, too, or something?"
"No, but just give it time," Frodo said. "And I've had to draw water since this morning when I woke and found the pumps aren't working."
Now Merry was the one frowning. "None of them?"
"None of them," Frodo confirmed. "Even the one in the back garden. So, I asked May to stop on her way to the Cottons' and send Mister Greenly by; he's been here since around second-breakfast, fighting with various pumps and such and generally cursing the Hill and its apparently 'new-fangled, too-modern and confusing' plumbing system."
"Three pumps and a well are confusing?"
"Well, according to Mister Greenly, three pumps is two more than 'decent folk' ought to have and he's most definitely not impressed with a tub having a room all to itself. I didn't have the nerve to show him the water-closet. Which, by the way, is also not working."
Merry gave his head a little shake, pinched at the bridge of his nose. "All right, so you can't draw water from the well with the vase on your hand, is that the problem, then?"
Frodo only nodded, dropped his hand into his lap -- gingerly, because really, all he needed now was a thump to the stones -- and found himself vaguely disturbed that somewhere along the line, he'd come to think of it as the 'vase-hand'.
"So, why don't you just smash the poxy thing?" Merry wanted to know. "That'll get it off."
It would and it wasn't as though it hadn't occurred to Frodo, but: "First of all," he replied, "it isn't a 'poxy thing', it was my mother's and I don't want to break it." A pause and Frodo bent again to examine the ground. "And second of all, the way this day is going, I'd probably open a vein in the process and I really don't think--"
"Well, thar 'tis," said a gravelled voice to their left; Merry and Frodo both turned to see Mister Greenly swaggering his way around the side of the Hill. Frodo quickly secreted the vase-hand between his knees again. Refused to acknowledge how naturally 'vase-hand' was inserting itself into his thoughts. "'Twill have to be re-dug."
Frodo blinked. "The well?"
With the patronising look Greenly threw at him, Frodo was surprised he didn't saunter on over and pat his head.
"Yuh," was all he said.
Merry turned to Frodo. "I thought you said you were drawing water from it this morning."
"Well… yes, I was."
Merry cast a wary glance back to Greenly. "Why would it need to be re-dug, if it isn't dry?"
"Well, the pumps ain't pumpin' is they?" Greenly demanded, somewhat indignantly.
Merry's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to retort, but Frodo cut him off. "How much will it cost?" he wanted to know. Not that it mattered; he might just hand over the keys to the strongbox and Bag End itself right now, if he could just get a bath out of the deal.
Greenly turned that patronising look on him again and Frodo took a moment to wonder why he was feeling a little put out that Merry got a fiery glance from the old hobbit and yet Frodo himself only rated condescension.
"Hard to say," Greenly answered. "It's charged by the foot and 'twould depend on how many feet down we'd have to dig."
"And how long would it take?"
Please, please, please, let him say an hour or two…
"Hard to say," Greenly said again. "I can have my lads out here tomorrow, but I wouldn't count on having no water for at least a fortnight."
"A fortnight?!"
No. Nonononono! A bath. All he wanted was a bath! It wasn't so much to ask, really. Frodo reeked, Merry'd even said so, didn't Greenly understand? And he was sore and he was tired and he needed to sink into hot water up to his collarbones, revel in the slippery sluice of soap against his skin, wash and rinse his hair until it didn't smell like a days-old campfire and. Just. NO! He'd had a bloody horrible day and now he needed one lousy, stupid, sodding bath!
"That's assumin' we hit water on the first dig," Greenly went on. "Sometimes we don't and then we have to start all over again. 'Course, you'd still have to pay for the first dig, whether we hit water or no."
Frodo wondered if the sudden breeze was from the flapping of his jaw. "Well, can't you tell where the water is?"
A lift of a bushy grey eyebrow. "Can you?"
Frodo's cheeks pinked a little. "Well, no, but… well, I'm not a well-digger, am I?" Frodo stood, quickly slid his hand behind his back, tried very hard to look like a person who did not have a vase stuck on his hand, thank you. "Look here, are you telling me that if I want water, I'm going to have to pay you for however-many wells you decide to dig and that--"
"It doesn't matter," Merry put in, laid a hand to Frodo's arm. "There will be no well-digging because a new well is not necessary, since the old one still has water."
Well, at least Merry got the patronising look this time.
"Water or no, it don't matter much if ye cain't get it up from under, do it? Three pumps and not a one of 'em drawin' water, and if that don't call for a well dug, then--"
"Are the pumps in working order?" Merry asked.
Frodo was torn between the satisfaction of seeing Greenly's mouth pinch so tight you could probably jam a piece of coal in it and pop out a diamond, and indignation that Merry-Bloody-Brandybuck, Future-Bloody-Master of Brandy-Bloody-Hall, was in the process of trying to step into Frodo's business and manage a situation over which Frodo had lost control with the first glimpse of mating squirrels.
"As I said," Greenly grated slowly, "three pumps and not a one of 'em workin' proper."
"Yes, but are they not working or simply not drawing water?"
"Well, since a pump's only purpose is to draw water, I'm thinkin' it don't rightly matter, do it?"
And now Merry's jaw set itself firm, his eyes took on thunder, and Frodo decided he would trade his indignation for what promised to be a bloody-good show. There was an uncomfortable moment or two when he wondered if a filmy gown, a pointy hat and a scarf were entirely necessary to his new role of Damsel in Distress, but it turned even more uncomfortable when he realised he'd actually consider it if it got him a bath. Frodo mentally kicked himself in the arse -- really, really hard -- then sat back down, relegated himself to observer.
"If the pumps are working," Merry answered just as slowly and just as firmly, "and not drawing water, yet the well hasn't dried, it most probably means that there has been a drop in the water-table and does not mean a new well must be dug." He turned to Frodo. "You've new tenants, yes? You said a few months ago that Folco's cousin… what was his name?"
"Moro Longburrow."
"Longburrow, right. You said he and his new wife had dug a burrow and it would be finished in Wedmath."
Frodo nodded, not at all sure where this might be going. "They moved in the first of Halimath."
"And they've livestock?"
Again, Frodo nodded. "Pigs and cattle and a few goats. Almost a hundred head of cattle, actually."
"Which take up a lot of water." Merry turned back to Greenly. "Which, in turn, tends to lower the water-table -- especially when there's not been as much rain as usual this year."
Greenly rolled his eyes, looked at Merry as though he were a very slow child. "Yuh," he replied with a bit of smug satisfaction. "So, when you run out of water, you dig a new well!"
Ooooh, and here was a crossroads and Frodo eyed Merry carefully, waiting to see which way it would go. In ten minutes, Greenly was either going to want to call the Shirriffs on Merry or shag him.
A slowly-unfurling smile; a tilt of the head…
And Frodo only just choked off a snort as he watched Merry's gears switch and haughty temper turned, just like that, to solicitous charm. Frodo had no idea where Merry was going with any of this, but he'd seen him in action before, knew that one really shouldn't argue over the nature of water and wells with the hobbit who had basically re-invented irrigation methods for all of Buckland; Frodo simply leaned back against the porch steps and watched. Despite the lingering disquiet over the whole 'Damsel' thing, Merry had officially engaged The Charisma and Frodo wasn't about to miss Greenly getting blindsided by it.
"No," Merry returned through a pleasant smile. "A hobbit of your knowledge certainly knows the nature of the ebb and flow of the water-table. Why, you're obviously very successful and know your business, else my cousin wouldn't depend upon you so to get him out of these taxing straits."
Frodo tried to look suitably downtrodden.
"In fact," Merry went on, "I'm only sorry you weren't about when I was re-designing the Hall's water system. I've no doubt you would have had at least a thing or two to tell me."
Merry stopped, his face twisting now into -- to Frodo at least, because he knew better, didn't he -- comically-overdone alarm.
"I'm so sorry, Mister Greenly!" Merry dipped a small bow. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service." He leaned in. "You must forgive my cousin for not introducing us. He's having a bit of a day."
Ah, there it was -- that spark of recognition. Frodo could tell Greenly had heard all about the Young Master and the innovations over which so many had rolled their eyes. Until, that is, those innovations had proven so successful and now almost every large farm throughout the Shire had copied or at least tried to copy the Hall's methods.
Greenly bobbed a mechanical little bow, followed Merry's gaze to Frodo; Frodo thought the poor sod was looking a little bewildered. He turned back to Merry.
"Mungo Greenly, at your--"
"So, anyway," Merry furthered, "I've no doubt you know that when there is water underground and in the immediate vicinity of already-placed pumps, you needn't go to all the trouble of digging a new well, am I right?"
A twist of the brow from Greenly. "Uh… yes?"
"Of course!" Merry replied, widened his smile. "See? I knew you knew your business." He cut a chastising look at Frodo. "Honestly, Frodo, why can't you just let the hobbit do his job?"
Frodo turned to Merry, thought about whacking him with the vase-hand, but decided he wanted water a whole lot more than he wanted to blacken Merry's eye. At the moment, anyway. He shrugged, tried not to roll his eyes and did his best to look chastened.
"What my cousin couldn't know," Merry went on, "because he is not, as he has already admitted, a well-digger…" And here both Merry and Greenly cast a sideways glance at Frodo, one eyebrow each sliding up sceptically; Frodo did roll his eyes this time. "…is that when your water-table has ebbed -- and I think we've agreed that it has, yes?"
"Er…" A slow nod from Greenly. "Yes?"
"Right," said Merry. "When your water-table has ebbed, you simply lower the shaft of the pump several feet so that the siphon can reach the water that's still down there, only a bit lower than it was!"
Greenly's mouth snapped shut. He stared at Merry for a moment, jaw twitching, then: "Aye, I s'pose that might work," he ventured slowly. "I was going to try that next."
A sidelong look from Merry and a nod. "Well, why don't you try it with one and we'll see where that leaves us, yes?"
And Frodo forgot all about any envy or indignation or embarrassment at Merry handling Mister Greenly better than Frodo did. Because it appeared he might, after all, have water. And a bath was topping the long list of Things Frodo Needs Right Now. A good, stiff drink was landing right about second.
"Start with the bathing-room one, please," Frodo told Greenly, ignored the disapproving look he received. Perhaps the kitchen pump was the more important one in the scheme of things, but he could always wash dishes in the bathtub if he really had to.
"Yuh," grunted Greenly then he stomped back around the side of the Hill.
Merry sighed, shook his head. "All right, you're going to sit right there and not move and I'm going to go and start the fire in the bathing-room then bring up some water. By the time it's hot, perhaps he’ll have that pump working and you'll have your bath. How does that sound?"
Frodo's eyes were not burning with tears of relief. "Heavenly," was all he said, and he sighed, rested his head back to his hand.
"Good," said Merry. "And we'll have to see about getting you some supper, I think. I'll wager you've not eaten today, have you?"
All right. Here it was: he could admit that his stomach was feeling a little as though it might start to eat itself any minute, since Frodo had completely forgotten to eat -- what with all the ruckus going on all day, one thing right after the other, plus a vase on his hand, which made pretty much everything a little difficult to manage, let alone a frying-pan and let’s don't even mention a fork -- and chance whatever evil thing Merry concocted in Frodo's beloved and pristine kitchen, or…
Or he could just starve.
He wondered if stomachs really could eat themselves.
"Big lunch," he muttered to his toes. "Lots of snacks and such, you know, not hungry at all, really." His stomach gave a mighty gripe at the lie and Frodo hunched himself in, hoped Merry didn't hear.
"Are you all right?" Merry wanted to know.
"Fine, fine, just fine," Frodo babbled. "No food, don't need anything to eat, thank you, perfectly fine, just a bath."
A pause and Frodo could almost feel Merry's assessing gaze. "All right then," was the sceptical reply. "Now, you just sit tight and… I'll… oh, bugger."
Frodo didn't even have the time to lift his head, follow Merry's disgusted gaze, before the voice hit him square between the eardrums.
"Hoy, there, Frodo Baggins, I've a bone to pick with you!"
"Oh," said Frodo as he watched Lotho stride up the walk, "this just keeps getting better and better."
"What do you think your game is, is what I'd like to know." Lotho gave Merry a narrow, sideways glance, lifted his nose. "Brandybuck." The name came out as an audible sneer.
Apparently, Merry had decided that Lotho wasn't worth The Charisma, because his face took on bored disgust and he rolled his eyes. "Pimple," was all he said, dismissing Lotho in favour of inspecting his fingernails.
Frodo had to stifle a snort when Lotho bristled. "Good afternoon, Lotho," he said and he really did try, but he didn't think he kept the amused resignation out of his tone very well. "What's this bone, then?"
Lotho was still glaring daggers at Merry, but he lifted his chin, turned to Frodo. "Well, aren't you going to invite me in, at least? Or shall I stand out here on the step, pleading my case to the Master like a common tenant?"
Frodo didn't miss how the beady eyes scrutinised him from tip-to-toe and very obviously found him, as usual, quite lacking. Though, considering the state he was in at the moment, he didn't really have an argument against that one.
"Please forgive me, Lotho, but, as you can see, I'm not exactly presentable today and Bag End is in a bit of a state as well. I'm afraid you've caught me out."
Lotho snorted. "Well, that's nothing new, is it?" A lift of an eyebrow and Lotho's eyes sparked with malicious humour. "Been digging about for the old hobbit's treasure, have you? Maybe you should have found out where it was before you and that wizard did away with-- gargh!"
It really was quite something to watch the fabric of Merry's coat stretch over his shoulders as he lifted Lotho by his collar and shook him a little. Lotho's pale, spidery fingers latched on to Merry's arm, scrabbled somewhat weakly. Frodo would go to his rescue, but… well, there was… um…
Well, there must be a good reason somewhere.
"That's such an old joke, Lotho, and quite used up by now, don't you think?" Merry said almost-pleasantly.
Lotho only made small, whimpering gagging noises, but he nodded.
The vase-hand! There it was. Frodo couldn't very well go rescuing people with a vase-hand, could he? He knew he'd think of something.
"And really not very funny when it was new, come to think of it," Merry went on. "Because, as you may or may not know, I myself was here at Bag End when Bilbo went off on his travels--" Merry stopped, grinned. Ooh, he gave Frodo delicious little shivers when he got that wicked look to him. "Oh, that's right -- you did know because you were here that next day, too, weren't you? We had words."
Well, Merry'd had words; Lotho had just about as much wit as he was demonstrating now, but Frodo wasn't about to go splitting hairs.
"And really," Merry was saying, "if Bilbo was 'done away with' then, that would mean I might have something to do with it." Lotho's eyes widened a little and Merry tilted his head. "You wouldn't really want people thinking that you're besmirching the Brandybuck name with rumour and malicious innuendo, would you?" A quick jerk of Lotho's head. "Because Brandybucks, as a whole, are rather…" He turned to Frodo. "What word am I looking for, Frodo? Not violent…"
"Big?" Frodo answered helpfully. "Strong? Always ready for a bloody good row? A right-hook like a sledgehammer? A little too fiercely protective sometimes?"
"Fierce! That's it! Thank you, love."
"Not at all, glad I could help."
"Too fierce? You think, really?"
"Well, you've rather a tight grip there."
"What, he can still breathe." Merry turned back to Lotho. "Brandybucks are a bit fierce sometimes and we wouldn't want someone mistaking your little joke for wilful slander, would we?"
A bit of a mewl this time and Lotho shook his head again. Merry nodded, grinned, and Frodo didn't know how he did it but he managed to make it both cheerful and frightening all at the same time.
"Right," and Merry's tone was light and pleasant. "Because then we might have to get some of our uncles and cousins involved and--" He turned to Frodo again. "Have you seen Berilac lately? Stars, I think he's doubled in size since he took over the threshing last season."
"Really?" Frodo asked. "He was almost as wide as Merimac, last I saw."
"No one's as wide as Uncle Mac," Merry replied. "And you've not seen Berilac since last Yule, I don't think. You know, you really should get to Buckland more. Mum's always asking me, 'When's Frodo coming for a visit?' and I keep telling her--"
"Glurgh!" said Lotho.
Merry turned back, eyebrows raised, as though he'd forgotten entirely that Lotho was still squirming at the end of his arm.
"Perhaps you'd best let go," Frodo told him. "I'm quite done in and really can't be bothered to look for a place to hide the body today."
Merry looked disappointed. "Must I?"
"Well," Frodo shrugged, "unless you want to dig the hole…"
Merry looked Lotho up and down with a critical eye. "Eh, not worth it, really," he replied, let go his grip on Lotho's collar and let him drop to the ground. He brushed at his own lapels. "New jacket," he told Frodo by way of explanation.
Lotho sat panting for a moment, face red and twisted with rage, though Frodo didn't think he'd dare a cross word now.
"Buggery, bloody Brandybuck," Lotho gasped.
Hmph. Well, what do you know?
Merry made a bit of a lunge towards Lotho and Lotho squawked out a little shriek, scuttled back. Merry only snorted and shook his head.
"All right, that's enough now, Merry," Frodo told him. "I think Lotho will behave now, won't you, Lotho?"
Lotho shot looks of fiery hatred between Frodo and Merry, but his eyes kept flicking back-and-forth between Merry's fists and Merry's predatory little grin. Frodo again found himself thinking of damsels and pointy little hats, found a bit of envy and just a touch of resentment curling in his gut, wondered briefly what it would sound like if he arranged for the vase and Merry's head to become better acquainted, then wondered if Merry might agree to a shag right here on the porch steps. Decided thinking was probably not something he should be attempting at the moment. Besides, Lotho ended up nodding and that was something, anyway. It usually took Frodo a lot of gritting teeth and politely-oblique insults to get Lotho this red in the face, and he really did have to hand it to Merry. Even if he was disgustingly bloody perfect.
Tosser.
"Here, allow me," Merry said pleasantly, dipping down to take Lotho by the arm. Frodo couldn't help the little bit of satisfaction when Lotho flinched again, but Merry only dragged him to his feet, made a fuss over straightening Lotho's jacket and tugging his waistcoat down from where it had rucked up about his ribs. "There, that'll do it. Let me help you with your tie, it seems to have--"
"No!" Lotho yelped and took a few frantic steps backwards. He raised shaking fingers to his collar, pulled the tie loose. "I've got it."
"So you have," was all Merry said then he turned his back to Lotho, waggled his eyebrows at Frodo and Frodo again was torn between thwacking him so thoroughly he'd see stars and tackling him to the grass and shagging him so hard they dug up the daylily bulbs. And knew perfectly well that the only things preventing him from doing the latter were Lotho's presence and the vase-hand.
Frodo gave his arse another good mental kicking, said, "Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way, what is this bone, Lotho?"
Lotho was still seething, but there was a healthy dose of real fear beneath the rage. He glared at Frodo, but his glance kept drifting over to Merry, probably making sure he wasn't inching closer.
"It's that parcel from over to Rushock," Lotho said. "You've gone and stolen it right out from under my nose and I won't have it!" He jerked a quick glance Merry's way and when Merry didn't lunge at him again, Lotho's chin lifted a little and he tugged sharply on his waistcoat. "Just because you've Old Flourdumpling in your pocket doesn't give you the right to go snatching at every tract there is, you know."
Frodo blinked. "You were bidding on that tract?"
Lotho's eyes narrowed and he snorted. "As if you didn't know. As if you didn't out-bid me a-purpose, just to thwart me!"
"As if I'd do anything just because of you," Frodo retorted. "And anyway, I didn't even win the bid, so I'm afraid you're picking your bone with the wrong person." And it narked him doubly because Frodo really had wanted that parcel and not only did he not win the bid, but now he had to deal with Lotho because of it.
A sceptical sneer. "Oh, I believe that," Lotho sniped, cast a wary glance at Merry but strangely, Merry had suddenly gone very quiet, only stood there, watching. "I know you were bidding on it, Baggins, so don't try this Gentlehobbit of Honour rot with me. I know better, don't I?"
Frodo sighed. He wasn't even exactly angry, just very weary and very much in need of a bath and very much in need of the lack of Lotho's presence.
"You know a lot less than you think you do, Lotho, but that's always been a problem for you. In point of fact, and whether you believe it or no, I did not win that bid. Not that it's really any of your business." Frodo stopped, narrowed his eyes. "And anyway, those were supposed to be blind bids -- how could you know I was even bidding on it?"
Lotho sputtered. "I should think that's my concern and none of yours, so--"
"I should think it's everyone's concern," Merry said quietly, shot a level glance at Frodo then a narrow one at Lotho, "if bids held in private escrow somehow manage to become public knowledge."
Lotho's face reddened and his lips thinned. "I am having a conversation with my cousin, if you please," was his sally -- rather high-handed, if you asked Frodo, which told Frodo that Lotho thought himself cornered in something and my, wasn't this getting interesting? "And the things I know are the things I know and how I came to know them is another thing I know and not something you need to know and as long as I know it, then I'm the one who needs to know and…" A pause while they all tried to follow that one. "And you don't," he finished lamely. Added, "Need to know." Went silent.
Merry looked at Frodo, lifted an eyebrow and shook his head. "It's like watching a drunken hobbit trying to cross a frozen pond."
He really shouldn't have -- Frodo knew he really shouldn't have -- but he couldn't help it: he snorted. Then swallowed. Blinked. Pulled a straight face and peered between Merry and Lotho. Choked on another snort.
"Now, see here!"
All good-humour dried up. Frodo knew Lotho was a worm -- everyone knew Lotho was a worm; well, excepting perhaps his mother -- but this was beyond what even Frodo would have imagined from him.
And bloody damn, how did Merry know these things? First the water thing and now shady, backroom politics. Was it even the slightest bit possible for Frodo to feel any more inadequate?
Merry turned back to Lotho, eyes narrowed and a knowing little smile curling at his mouth. "You sodding rotter! You dishonest, dishonourable--"
"Now, see here! I don't have to stand here--"
"But your inside-rat wasn't worth whatever you paid him, was he?" Merry went on, every word now grinding out through clenched teeth and a rigid, hard little smile. "Because otherwise, you'd know that I won that bid, wouldn't you?"
Wait.
"You?" This from Frodo, who, despite having been treated to two quite lovely sights in the past five minutes -- those sights being Merry's broad shoulders flexing, and Lotho choking and sputtering respectively -- was suddenly reconsidering acquainting Merry's head with the vase. "You were bidding against me?"
Merry opened his mouth, blinked. "Well, I didn't know you were bidding, did I?" he asked, not quite as indignant as it might have been otherwise. "They were blind bids, after all." He aimed another sneer at Lotho. "And I, unlike some, don't go about bribing people in the public's employ for inside information!"
Well. Frodo had to give him that one. Still.
"And anyway," Merry went on with a grim little shake of his head, "you really shouldn't be bidding so low on a tract like that, you know. The water-rights alone are worth--"
"And how do you know it was a low bid?" Lotho wanted to know. "Sounds to me as if you've your own inside information."
Merry's jaw clenched tight. "I know," he ground out, "because I bid low myself and if I won the sodding tract, neither of you could have bid higher than I did, could you, you arrogant, bloody ass!"
Lotho's eyes went black and glittery. "I don't have to stand here and take this from some river-whelped--"
"No, you don't," Frodo said, low and hard. "So, why don't you just nip along before my cousin decides to re-check your tie size?" Good thing Lotho hadn't seen the vase-hand, else Frodo's cutting tone might not be working so well. "Or better, before we both decide to have a sit-down with the mayor and have a look through all of the bids and awards that have gone through his office since Minto's been in its employ?"
Lotho stilled. "You wouldn't."
And Frodo let the corner of his mouth turn up just a little. "Oh, Lotho," he answered, shook his head. "After all these years, you really have no idea what I would or wouldn't do, have you?"
Ha! Something Frodo had done that finally worked on this bloody, stupid, never-ending day: Lotho opened his mouth, closed it, did a rather good impression of a landed carp, then turned sharply and strutted down the path to the gate. It wasn't until Lotho threw the gate open and left it swinging on its hinges in his wake that Frodo let loose a great, deep sigh, rested his head in his palm again.
Ow.
"Headache?" Merry asked.
"Mm," was all Frodo replied.
"Well, it's not a wonder." Frodo didn't look up as Merry sank down beside him, and began a thorough kneading at his right shoulder. "After the day you've had and I'll wager that no matter what you say you've not had more than a bite." A nudge at his arm and Frodo opened his eyes, peered to the side. "Here, at least have a biscuit until we can get you something more resembling a meal."
Frodo glared at the biscuit then slanted the glare up to Merry. "What is that?"
Merry blinked a little, looked down, inspected the sweet in his hand. "Um… it's a biscuit." A small smile. "I've a pocketful. Mum sent them along."
Frodo glared some more. "It's chocolate," he said.
"So it is," Merry replied and good glory, if he got any more condescending, he really would end up with the vase a permanent feature on his head.
Frodo stuck out his hand, offered it to Merry. "Hullo, Frodo Baggins, apparently we've not met before."
Merry rolled his eyes. "I'm only trying to help, you know, and Mum sent them just for you, even told me she was going to ask how many got here so she could tell if I nicked some on the road, so I--"
"I hate chocolate!"
Merry blinked. "Well, I know that's what you've always said, Frodo, but it's just so wrong and I thought maybe you were having me on or something."
"Why would I have you on about something like that?" Frodo wanted to know.
A shrug from Merry. "Well, I dunno. Why do you insist upon arranging your pens by size? Why can't you sit down to smoke a pipe unless you've checked three times that the backdoor is closed? Why do you always have to have The Top on Sterdays? Why--"
"Just-- You know--" Frodo shrugged Merry's hand from his shoulder. He rather instantly regretted that one, because he was pretty sore and it had actually felt quite good. Still. "Not that I should have to explain anything to anyone, but I arrange my pens by size so that I can grab up the one I need without having to look up when I'm writing. And I check the backdoor when I have a smoke because… well, because I don't know, really, but Bilbo used to make me do it before pipes and now it's just a habit." He paused, felt a bit of a pout pulling at his mouth. "Sincerest apologies if it bothers you so."
Oh, someone just kill him now, could he be any more truculent and pathetic?
"I never said it bothered me." Merry inched a little closer, put his hand back on Frodo's shoulder and started rubbing again. Frodo, of course, let him, because indignation -- however petulant -- was one thing, but Merry was very good at this and it did feel awfully nice. "What about Sterday?" Merry wanted to know.
A bit of a scowl and Frodo pursed his lips. "What about it?"
"Well, you have this 'thing' about Sterdays," Merry ventured slowly. "Where does that one come from?"
Frodo looked down, felt his face grow hot. "I don't have a 'thing' about Sterdays," he mumbled. "Just… It's only that… Well…" A long sigh and a bit of a shrug. "Well, I only said 'Because it's Sterday,' that one time because I couldn't think of a good reason and you just assumed the rest. Who was I to argue?"
There. So, he was a deviant and a selfish deviant at that. And anyway, he'd had a good run with it -- it had taken Merry nearly ten years to catch on, and Frodo had had lots of pleasant Sterdays in those ten years, so he supposed it only made sense it would all have to end today. Because today just wouldn't stop coming, would it?
A long pause then: "Hmph," said Merry. Frodo peered over at him, expecting maybe indignation or accusations of trickery or something; instead, Merry was simply looking thoughtfully down the Hill, his head tilted to the side. He blinked, turned to Frodo. "I see what you mean about habit," he said. "I suppose I've a bit of a 'thing' for Sterdays now." A shrug and a crooked little smile. "I think we should keep it."
Well, that was a little too easy; Frodo narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Just like that?"
Merry shrugged. "Why not?"
"Well, I don't know," Frodo answered slowly then narrowed his eyes further. "What about Trewsdays?"
This time Merry's eyes flickered but he only shrugged again. "If you want."
"Hensdays."
"All right."
Now, this was just too much. Frodo leaned in, peered closely at Merry. It was one of those ongoing things between them, that bit of a skirmish for control, and Frodo had come to think of the tussle itself almost as foreplay over the years and he was quite certain Merry did as well. With the exception of Sterdays, he thought they each got their own way on a fairly even basis. And Frodo knew without a single doubt that Merry liked that control far too much for him to give it up just like that. He'd been a bit suspicious before; now he was downright wary.
"What if I wanted the top every day?" Frodo asked.
He could see Merry's jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth and tried to maintain his easy countenance. "If it's that important to you and it's really what you want."
"Hm..." Frodo leaned back, lifted an eyebrow and tried not to smile. Perhaps he was being petty for wanting a bit of revenge simply because Merry was too bloody perfect, but he'd had a really bad day and… and… Well, he'd had a really bad day. "I've a nice beef liver in the cold-cellar." He smiled a little, raised that oh-so-mobile eyebrow. "Why don't we fry it up with some bacon, have a glass or two of bitter then top it off with some raspberry cobbler while the coppers are heating?"
Merry's smile was nearly a pained grimace now. And Frodo wasn't sure but he thought Merry's eyes might be watering. He had just named everything he knew of that Merry absolutely hated and still…
"Sounds lovely," Merry said through his teeth.
Well, that tore it. He'd had quite enough condescension from Greenly, thank you very much, he didn't need it from Merry as well, blast it all.
"Why are you being so agreeable?"
It came out sharp enough that Merry flinched back a little. His mouth flapped and he blinked.
"What? I only said--"
"You hate liver."
Merry's eyes flicked away quickly then back again to Frodo. "Well, I don't actually hate li--"
"You hate it. And you hate bitter and you hate raspberries."
"Well, but--"
"You're handling me!" Frodo accused.
Merry looked shocked. "What, I've not even touched you!"
"No, I mean handle, like I'm one of your customers or vendors or something and all you have to do is get me drunk and laid and everything will be all better. We're not going to have sex, you know, so just stop trying to manoeuvre me."
Merry was indignant. "I wasn't doing anything of the sort, and I don't appreciate you accusing me of... wait, no sex at all?"
"No," Frodo said through his teeth.
"But…" Merry shook his head a little. "But it's Hensday and you just said--"
"You know," Frodo interjected with a roll of his eyes, "a blowjob isn't a cure-all."
A lift of an eyebrow from Merry. "For five minutes it is."
Frodo couldn't help it: he rolled his eyes again, elbowed Merry in the ribs. Merry yipped and twitched away. "I think if I lost an arm, you'd think a blowjob would make it better," Frodo growled.
Merry rubbed at his ribs, glared. "For five minutes, it would!"
"I cannot even believe you," Frodo grated. "You show up here, all clean and perfect and bloody gorgeous, work your magic over Greenly and Lotho and leave me standing here in my drawers, looking inept and completely foolish, and now you want sex?"
Merry grinned. "I'm a big fan of you in your drawers."
And blast it, why were the corners of Frodo's mouth twitching?
"Whatever I did way back in the mists of time," he said, adding timbre to the unfortunately-not-quite-stern-enough tone of his voice, "when we first became… close, I cannot comprehend. It must have given you the lasting impression that I'm a pushover, easy, a hobbit without standards." Frodo stood, rising to his full height, which merely made Merry grin even more, as Frodo at full height was a sight to see. "Let me put you straight, shall I?"
"Straight?" Merry stood, too, crowding close, his grin of gargantuan proportions now, irksomely wide and quite undaunted by Frodo's stand.
Ah, but for all his words, Frodo was really stuck, because that grin was doing things in his trousers that it should not be doing when he was so supremely irked. And 'handling' him or no, Merry had a bloody-amazing talent for turning Frodo's moods from self-involved sullenness to cheer an annoying amount of the time and he didn't think he wanted to let go of the irritation just yet.
"I quite like you straight," Merry said, nuzzled into the crook of Frodo's neck and pulled him tight against himself. "You're bloody gorgeous straight… and bent, and crooked, and upside-down, and twisted half-sideways, and--"
Frodo shoved at Merry, growled a little. "Stop trying to flatter me," he said. "Or you'll never get the top again."
And blast him, but Merry only waggled his eyebrows. "Watch yourself, love," he told Frodo, his voice low and seductive, "your Took is showing." Then he leaned in again, nipped at Frodo's ear.
There went the irritation.
Frodo tried not to grin, dipped his head so at least Merry wouldn't see it. He lifted his shoulder, nudged Merry away.
"Leave off," he said and even he could hear the reluctant smile in his voice. "I reek."
A sloppy kiss to his temple and Merry pulled back. "You do," he agreed. "Stay here. I'll go see how Greenly's doing and start the coppers."
All irritation was lost and immediately forgotten when Merry returned. Grinning.
And when he decided it was too late to cook and instead brought Frodo a glass of beer and a plate of cold chicken left over from last night's supper -- in the bath -- Frodo forgot that there even was such a thing as irritation.
* * *
Frodo had always loved butter. Even Merry had no objections to the rich yellow creamy spread; it was a point of confluence, a meeting of minds, a melding of Hobbity hearts that Frodo and Merry should both agree that butter was a very good thing indeed. And it had so many uses, two of which that day had had nothing whatever to do with food.
Frodo eyed his mother's vase, safe and sound upon the dresser, just a little slick and greasy about the rim but nothing that couldn't be fixed. Now to the other use. And perhaps he was wrong, perhaps this particular use did in fact have something to do with food, if Merry was the dish and he the gourmet…
"Owowow, leg, Frodo, ow, my leg!"
Frodo pulled back, growled a little. He eyed Merry, hair askew and tendrils of gold sticking damp to cheeks and brow, face sweated and looking quite debauched, one long, thick leg curled up and bent over Frodo's shoulder. His chest was heaving, lean muscle stretching and bunching beneath skin of bronze, filigreed with late-afternoon sun streaming in through the gap in the curtains.
"Have you any idea," Frodo murmured to him, leaned forward again just to hear Merry's sharp intake of breath, "how often you've twisted me into this very position?"
A gasp and a bit of a whine, then: "Well, you never seem to mind it much!" Merry retorted, grimaced as Frodo rested his weight on Merry's thigh. "And in case you hadn't noticed," he grated through his teeth, panting with the strain, "you're a bit more malleable than I am. Bloody wiry little--"
A quick thrust of Frodo's hips and he smiled at the sound that rolled up from Merry's chest -- something between a whimper and a moan.
"You are such a baby," he said, sucked his lip between his teeth, closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "You act as though… oh…" That last as Merry rolled his own hips, pushed up slow. "…act as though you're made of wood."
"Oh, that right there, yesyesyes, again," Merry breathed then, when Frodo pulled back to do it again: "Not all of us have bread-dough for bones, you know. Bloody freak of nature you are, in case-- gah! owowow, all right, I'm sorry!"
Frodo released Merry's ankle from where he'd lifted it above his head, let his leg fall back to a more natural position. Pulled back and away, to which Merry gasped, hissed and clenched his teeth. He opened his eyes, blinked up at Frodo, his brow creased.
"What?" he wanted to know. "Why have you--"
More blinking and a frown. Then a pout. "Sorry, what?"
Frodo smiled a little, leaned down, dropped a kiss, soft and sweet, to Merry's mouth. "You said anything I wanted." A quick flick of his tongue across Merry's bottom-lip. "Turn. Over."
"But…" Merry tried on a wounded look, which Frodo ignored. "But I like it better this--"
"And this is about what I like now, isn't it?" Frodo climbed over Merry's leg, pushed at his hip. "I've had a very bad day, remember? Come on, then, be a good lad."
Merry sat up, gave the wounded look another go. "But…" Combined it with the pout. "But I like to look at you," he said, dipped his head, peered at Frodo through his lashes. "Don't you like to look at me?"
Frodo just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. Instead he smiled again, laid another kiss to Merry's mouth.
"Of course I do, lovely Merry-lad." He ran his hand up Merry's arm, swirled his fingers over one broad shoulder. "But right now I'd like to look at your arse and your shoulders. Quite lovely, you know." He gave Merry another push. "Come on, over with you, hurry on."
Merry gave up the pout, turned it to a scowl, but he was starting to move, so Frodo didn't complain. "All business today, aren't you, then?" he grumbled, swung his legs over and rolled to his stomach. "You only love me for my body."
"Nonsense," Frodo told him. "I love you for your pretty face, too."
"My body and my face," Merry mumbled into the pillow. "I feel used."
"Not yet you don't." Frodo moved himself between Merry's legs, knelt, ran his hands slowly from calf-to-thigh. "Mmm," he breathed, slid his fingers over muscle and rib and backbone, dipped down to run his tongue up the narrow valley of Merry's spine. "But I promise you," he whispered into Merry's nape, "you will."
* * *
END
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