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TITLE: In The Eye Of The Beholder AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG-ish SUMMARY: Pippin has a surprise for Frodo
A/N: This is a birthday present for
Elanor Gardner,
who knows exactly how much the subject matter… well, let's just say that this is
not my kink. (Which is, of course, exactly why she asked for it.) But since I
love her madly,
* * *
IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
"This will be bloody brilliant, Frodo, just you wait and see! It'll be the best time ever and you'll thank me for it, just see if you don't."
Frodo chuckled, draped his arm about Pippin's increasingly-wider frame. The cart lurched a little, shimmied, and Pippin clucked at the pony, gave a quick tug on the reins.
"I've no doubt," Frodo replied with a wry grin. "In fact, I already do. I feel a bit like a king, with the Thain's Son coming all this way just to fetch me. You could have written, you know; no need to make the trip when a post would have done as well."
"Oh, well, that's the thing, then, isn't it?" Pippin's return grin was knowing and sly. "One never knows with you. One day you're burrowed in Bag End like a tick and the next you're dancing on tables in Buckland. Had to make sure you'd come."
Frodo tried a scowl. "I don't dance on tables," he sniffed.
A snort and a roll of his eyes and Pippin wrapped his free arm about Frodo, squeezed. "Right, of course you don't." He was several shades too cheeky, to Frodo's mind. "Reginard made it all up, I'm sure. You probably didn't even attend Dahlia's wedding and it was some other skinny bloke with dark hair doing the buck-and-wing too bloody close to the cake." A pause and a quick slant of his roguish glance. "Someone else entirely."
Frodo blinked, closed his mouth with a clack of teeth. He dipped his head, flushed a little. "All right, maybe the once," was his quiet response. He paused, frowned, elbowed Pippin in the ribs. "I'm not skinny."
Pippin's grin was unrepentant now. "Then it couldn't have been you," he agreed.
Frodo tried a glare this time; it worked just as well as the scowl. Meaning not at all. He looked down, surreptitiously patted at his belly; not hanging over his belt but nicely-rounded, or so Frodo was convinced. Cheeky Took.
"And you know, young hobbit," Frodo trained his tone stern, "you're awfully free with the foul mouth. That's two 'bloodys' in the space of three minutes."
"With age comes privilege," Pippin retorted. "I'll be twenty-five, you know."
Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "In four years."
Pippin only shrugged. "Details."
Frodo let it go, shook his head and shifted on the board. He squinted through the gloom of twilight, could just see the rise of the top of the great hill beneath which Smials nestled. The trip, sudden and surprising as it was, had gone quite nicely. Pippin was always entertaining company and when he had a secret, as he apparently did now, he was somehow yet more charming for his smugness. Frodo had no idea why Pippin had come all this way just to drag him out here, but he'd been caught in a bit of a lull and somewhat on the gloomy side, so he hadn't given Pippin as much trouble as he might have over agreeing to allow himself to be hauled away from home under the vague promise of a surprise that would very definitely be worth it -- or so Pippin had enthused over and over again. He was so exuberant and obviously pleased with himself that even had Frodo wanted to say him nay, he wouldn't have had the heart.
Not that he had wanted to refuse; he'd been rather bored, in truth. These weeks after the planting were always a bit lethargy-inducing, with everyone just sort of sitting about and waiting for the first shoots to rear their little green heads. Hobbiton didn't celebrate Eostre as Tuckborough did, having decided too many years ago for even the gaffers to remember that it was a frivolous holiday and rather crude, what with its eggs and its hares and its dawn fires.
It was still too wet for a good ramble, so Frodo had been, as Pippin had so lovingly put it, burrowed in Bag End like a--
No, he just flat-out refused to compare himself to a tick.
Anyway, he'd been bored and Merry was supposed to have been for a visit this week but he'd had to beg off on some vague Bounder business that was still apparently rather urgent for all its vagueness. So, when Pippin had shown up unannounced and interrupted Frodo's thumb-twiddling, Frodo had given him a bit of a fight just for show then threw his pack together and hopped in the cart. He'd been to Tuckborough at Eostre several times previous, sometimes scheduling his spring visit to coincide with the festivities, and he knew the celebrations to be somewhat faunt-oriented until the Sun went down, when it would turn boisterous and rather bawdy. Because it was Tuckborough, after all. Just the cure for Frodo's recent lassitude. Though, what with the focus of the celebration being fertility and the mechanics of accomplishing such, Frodo found himself missing Merry and even more disappointed that his visit had had to be postponed.
Well, it couldn't be helped, he supposed; Merry wouldn't have cancelled unless he'd absolutely had to and he'd promised to arrange another trip in a fortnight or so. Frodo decided not to let it interfere with what promised to be a very nice time, despite the potential of Pippin's surprise looming over him. Frodo really hoped it wasn't like Pippin's last surprise, because he didn't fancy having to use yet another travesty of kitchenware, if Pippin had been trying to impress young Poppy with his pottery skills again.
He resolutely put it out of his head, determined to try not to think about either Merry or wayward crockery, and concentrated instead on allowing his young cousin to have his way. He didn't get to see Pippin as often as he liked anymore and he was getting so grown-up; Frodo set his mind to enjoying his company and the celebration.
And so, after a very pleasant ride and wonderful company -- despite the 'skinny' crack -- Frodo found himself grinning as Pippin pulled the cart into the yard and tossed the reins to the freckle-faced lad who appeared out of the gloom as if by magic. Frodo hopped from the cart, slung his pack over his shoulder and followed after Pippin, who instead of angling up the walk to the main entrance, led Frodo around to the side and to what Frodo knew to be the staff entrance. Frodo quirked a brow, but Pippin threw a quick, "Party preparations," over his shoulder by way of explanation and Frodo only nodded and kept following.
They met a rather harried Eglantine in the main hall at the juncture where it diverged into three separate tunnels.
"Frodo!" she cried, gave him a warm, open smile, and Frodo found it just as infectious and endearing as her son's.
He dropped his pack, wrapped his aunt in a fond embrace. "So lovely to see you again, Aunt."
"Yes, and who'd have thought it would be so soon, hm?" Eglantine returned the embrace then pushed him back, kissed his cheek. "Two visits in one season! How did we get so lucky?"
Frodo grinned at the tease, flushed a little. "Well, your son can be rather insistent," he told her, shot a glance Pippin's way.
Pippin was bouncing on his feet, everything about him anxious and impatient. "Mum, can we get done with the drooling-over-Frodo part of the visit, please? We haven't much time."
"Cheek is never attractive, Peregrin," Eglantine answered with a wry twist of her mouth.
"And yet it's always so much fun," was Pippin's smirking retort. "Is everything set, do you know?"
Eglantine sighed, shook her head. "Pippin, I've already told you that I'm not going to help you with this. I haven't liked it from the start and I'm thinking your Aunt Esmeralda is going to have your--" She stopped, cut a quick guilty glance at Frodo. "Well, she's not going to like it, you know."
Frodo was beginning to feel not only left out of a conversation he was standing in the middle of, but also decidedly nervous. All set for what? Surely not the surprise? And why would Esmeralda have Pippin's whatever-Eglantine-almost-said because of it? And why wasn't Eglantine throwing one of her daughters at him? He'd been here almost five minutes, after all.
"Mum," Pippin said, "you're a bit of a wet blanket."
"Peregrin," his mother retorted, "I'm going to laugh when you get your arse kicked."
Pippin grinned, leaned in and bussed his mum on the cheek. "So am I," he replied then took hold of Frodo's elbow and started dragging him up the middle tunnel, slowing down only long enough for Eglantine to scoop up Frodo's pack and toss it to him; Frodo only managed a wave in thanks before Pippin was hauling him around the bend and up the tunnel to his room.
"Pippin, what is going on?" Frodo wanted to know as Pippin shoved him through the door to his guest-smial. Ten minutes ago he had been willing to wait on the surprise and take his chances; now he had a very distinct uneasiness burbling in the pit of his stomach and a quite insistent need to know.
"It'll be brilliant, Frodo, just wait and see!" Pippin stripped Frodo of his pack, unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the bed and began hanging up his things.
"Yes, so you've said," Frodo replied, snagging up a shirt and shaking the wrinkles out of it. "But I'm not sure I considered the fact before that your definition of 'brilliant' is sometimes quite different from everyone else's." He paused, shifted a suspicious glance to his younger cousin. "This isn't going to hurt or anything, is it?"
Pippin snorted, grimaced and rolled his eyes at the waistcoat in his hand. "You've the absolute worst taste in clothes, in case you didn't know. Where did you get this, from some travelling grave-digger? And no, I promise it's not going to hurt."
Frodo snatched up the waistcoat, smoothed it out. He scowled. He liked this one.
"Well, exactly what is--"
"Oh, glory, would you look at time?" Pippin hurriedly tossed Frodo's things into the wardrobe, snatched the fashionably-questionable waistcoat from Frodo's hands then pushed him over to the washstand. Frodo didn't even have the time to work up a good scowl before Pippin released him and started for the door. "Have yourself a quick wash then get dressed for the bonfire. I'll be back to collect you in about fifteen minutes, don't be late!"
And Pippin was gone. Frodo stared at the door, blinked then turned to the mirror, peered at his confused face and shook his head.
"Well, it seems you've let yourself in for it this time," he told his reflection. He pointed a finger at the glass, waggled it. "Never. Trust. A Took." A sigh and a roll of his eyes; the hobbit in the mirror was absolutely disgusted with him.
* * *
It was more like five minutes and Frodo was shirtless and mopping at his face and neck when Pippin burst back into the room, eyes sparkling bright. "Come on, we haven't time for all this," he told Frodo as he crossed the room and laid hold of Frodo's arm, started tugging.
"Time for what?" Frodo wanted to know, batting at his cousin. "Time for clothes?"
Pippin yanked the flannel from Frodo's hand, tossed it to the washstand then proceeded to shove him into his shirt. "No," Pippin answered, "time for you to spend an hour preening."
"I don't-- Hoy!" This as Pippin made an attempt at bullying Frodo's buttons through their respective holes. "I do know how to dress myself, you know."
Pippin allowed Frodo to swat his hands away but it seemed only because the dire matter of Frodo's waistcoat took his immediate attention. He glared at the one Frodo had laid out on the bed as if it had just insulted his mother then turned to the wardrobe, pulled out the blue and gold one Frodo had worn on the trip here.
"Pippin," Frodo protested, "that one needs a good brushing and some freshening-up. It's got road dust on it and I don't fancy--"
"It could have pig dung on it and it would still be better than that one," Pippin retorted, jerking his chin towards where Frodo had lain the other.
"There is nothing wrong with--"
"It's perfectly fine for funerals and any other occasion that requires a person to cry," Pippin said as he closed in on Frodo and began bundling him into the chosen waistcoat. "But it just will not do for this evening. I'm sorry, Frodo, I know you had your heart set on appearing half-dead, but I must insist."
Frodo was slowly beginning to remember why he usually kept his visits to Smials to twice a year.
"And I must insist," Frodo said as Pippin roughed him about, "that you keep your paws off my waistcoat and off my person and give me a moment's peace, or it's quite possible I shall develop a sudden splitting headache and be forced to spend the evening in my room!"
Pippin stopped, narrowed his eyes, smiled… then snatched up the waistcoat from the bed, rolled it into a ball, tossed it. It landed with a sloppy splash in the wash-basin and Frodo couldn't be entirely sure, but he might have heard it whimper as it sailed over his head. He blinked, looked from the basin to Pippin and back again.
"Pippin, that's silk! I can't believe you just--"
"It had to be put out of its misery, love," Pippin said and took advantage of Frodo's shock to finish grappling him into the other waistcoat. "It was the only kind thing to do."
"But… but…" Frodo made a dive towards the basin, intent on rescue, but Pippin darted between him and it and blocked his way. "But silk!" was all Frodo seemed able to bluster. He watched a few bubbles rise to the surface of the water and was sure he heard a whimper this time.
"We'll hold services later," Pippin told him. "We'll wait for it to dry then we'll burn it and give it a proper burial. It will be a martyr to awful clothes everywhere. Lobelia's clothespress will bow down and pay homage. Come on!"
Frodo was rather dumbfounded, didn't realise he was fully-dressed until Pippin was brushing the shoulders of his coat and giving him a shove towards the door. He thought about resisting but the death of the waistcoat had been a bit of a shock, sudden and violent as it was. Instead, he let Pippin drag him down more tunnels, only occasionally complained when Pippin would forget he had someone attached to his hand, cut a corner too short and run Frodo right into a wall -- which he did with some regularity, actually, and Frodo was just beginning to suspect that it was not as 'accidental' as Pippin would have him believe, when he realised they were not making their way towards the back entrance and the glen where the bonfires would be set. Instead, they seemed to be on their way towards the small, normally-unused ballroom where Frodo remembered having taken fencing lessons from Paladin a decade or so ago. All right, probably more like two decades. And a half. Gah, he was getting old.
"Where are we going?" he wanted to know, more suspicious now than before. Hardly anyone used the smials in this wing and a person could probably scream for days and no one would hear him. Perhaps a little paranoid, but he was, after all, in the custody of Pippin and he'd heard rumours two years ago that this same little cousin, with the clear innocent laugh of a sprite and the face of a cherub, had harnessed a drunken Moro to a hayhook and pulleyed him up to the ceiling of the feed-silo. Naked. And left him to be found by the forehobbit the next morning. Of course, Moro had deserved such wrath, or so Frodo had heard, what with the way he'd been nervy enough to tease Pippin about his… oh, no! Hadn't Frodo heard that it had been over a waistcoat?
He stopped abruptly, only yelped a little when Pippin nearly pulled his arm out of its socket, dug in his heels. He didn't think Pippin would go to such trouble to get him dressed only to then strip him and hang him from a ceiling, but one never could tell with Pippin.
"Pippin, I am not moving another step until you tell--"
And then he was shoved through the double-doors of the ballroom. So much for commanding tones and respect for elder cousins.
"In you go!" Pippin cried and the mirth in his voice was unmistakable.
Frodo skidded to a halt on the smooth marble of the floor, peered up suspiciously. No pulleys or ropes that he could see, but Pippin was rather clever.
"Pippin, you bloody rotter! This was not part of the deal!"
Strange. That sounded just like Merry's voice.
Frodo tore his gaze from the ceiling, looked about him, only now noticing that there seemed to be a bit of a party going on and he was suddenly the centre of attention. There must have been a good twenty-five people -- tweens for the most part, it appeared -- milling about the room when Frodo had been hurled through the doors. Now they all peered at Frodo with expectant grins. Frodo blinked. Were they expecting a revival of the buck-and-wing?
No Merry, of course -- he was off on his Vague Bounder Business. Must have been a trick of the ear.
Frodo blinked some more. Pervinca was smirking at him, which wasn't really anything new, but she didn't have that hungry look to her that Frodo had come to know and got rather good at ducking, if he did say so. Ah, the pitfalls of being well-off and marriageable… he'd throw himself a pity-party later.
Moro was there, looking altogether too smug for someone who'd been calling for his mum when the forehobbit found him strung up in the silo. Naked. Frodo would have smirked knowingly at him but Moro wasn't looking his way, instead watching his brother, Minto, and Pippin wrestle with a lass who seemed to be suddenly intent on making tracks to anywhere but here. Frodo frowned.
"Here now!" he said sternly.
She was rather broad for a lass and seemed to be quite capable of giving both Minto and Pippin a run for their money, but still. It was rather appalling, actually; he'd never figured Pippin one for carrying a joke quite this far and in decidedly poor taste and decorum.
"Hoy!" Frodo cried sharply. The three stopped the struggle, Pippin and Minto grinning far too smugly for two who had been in the process of assaulting a young girl. A young, strapping, very strong-looking girl, but still. Poor thing -- she couldn't even seem to look at him; her head hung down so low her chin almost rested on her bosom and now that Frodo really looked at her… good grief, the girl was huge! In every way possible. He didn't know they grew them this big in the Tooklands. She'd put even the burliest of farmhands to shame. Frodo gave his head a little jerk, cleared his throat.
"I am ashamed of you, Peregrin Took," he told his young cousin. "And you, too, Minto." He peered about him, met the eyes of every hobbit in the room, none of whom appeared nearly as contrite as Frodo thought they should. "Shame on the lot of you! One does not lay hands on a lady, not ever. If a lass says 'no', that means no! What on earth were you all thinking? What kind of a joke is this, anyway? And Pervinca! I would have thought--"
"Frodo," Pippin interjected, his voice still burbling with a mirth that made Frodo's teeth clench, "if you'd only look--"
"And if you'd only listen, Peregrin, you would know that this young lady would apparently rather that you were not restraining her! Unhand her!"
To Frodo's further astonishment and chagrin, Pippin shook his head and his grin widened. "Nope."
Had he fallen into some alternate reality? Certainly Pippin sometimes dipped down into poor taste but this was beyond anything Frodo ever would have suspected, even from him. Pippin had promised -- or threatened -- a surprise and this was certainly surprising, to say the very least. Surely this was all a joke on Frodo himself and this young girl was in on it?
"Pippin, I don't know what you think you're doing, but this is not the least bit funny. I say again: unhand her!"
And to Frodo's utter horror, instead of setting the girl loose, Pippin snarled a hand to her hair and yanked her head back. Frodo lurched forward, well beyond angry now and dipping alarmingly into rage.
"Hoy!" he cried. "Just what do you--"
Stopped. Could almost swear he felt his jaw hit the floor.
"Merry?"
A roar of laughter assaulted his ears but Frodo only heard it from miles away. It was impossible. He had to be dreaming. He could not possibly be seeing what his eyes kept insisting they were seeing.
Yards of ginger-on-safflower gingham swam up from the floor, clung to decidedly un-feminine hips then cinched itself about a waist thick and wide; the inward flow was not only interrupted but overpowered by an astounding bosom that loomed over it all, nearly casting the flounces of the full skirt into shadow. And at the top of this, just above a high lacy collar, Merry's face peered back at Frodo, misery and indignant rage writhing over it in equal measure. It was from somewhere outside himself that Frodo noted that Merry's hair was done up in a soft upsweep, curly little wisps of tendrils framing his face. He rather suspected he had Pervinca to thank for that and absently wondered how much rope they'd had to use to tie Merry down long enough for her to do it.
He couldn't speak, could only shake his head, stutter, "Wh-wha… this… did…" Closed his eyes tight, popped them open again. No -- still there. "Wha…?"
"I lost a bet," Merry told him morosely.
Oh. Well, there it was, then. That explained everything.
Or not.
"But… but…" Frodo cleared his throat, gave his head a quick shake. "But you don't gamble."
So hang him; it was the best he could come up with. Though, seeing as how he had suddenly been faced with a rather stacked and buxom Merry, he thought he was doing remarkably well.
"No, I don't," Merry agreed and Frodo thought he had never heard anything so surreal as Merry's deep-timbered voice coming from inside that dress. "But it was Pippin, you know, and--"
"I won't be blamed for your gullibility," Pippin cut in.
Frodo was suddenly made aware that there were other people in the world besides himself and Merry -- namely the twenty-five or so other people in this very room -- turned his wide gaze over to Pippin. Blinked. Pippin, if it was possible, was looking even more smug than he had a few moments ago and appeared as though he might literally burst from the laughter straining in his chest. He slung an arm across Frodo's shoulders.
"It was a fair bet," he told Frodo. "Don't let him tell you otherwise."
"It was a trick!" Merry argued hotly, stepped forward and made a swipe at his younger cousin.
Pippin ducked behind Frodo, who put a hand to Merry's chest to hold him back. Merry and Frodo stared at each other dumbly for a moment then, as one, both looked down to Frodo's hand.
"Frodo," Merry said calmly, "unhand my bosom."
Frodo snatched his hand back as though he'd been burnt. "Merry," he replied, somewhat thinly, "you have breasts."
"Well, nothing gets by you, does it?"
Frodo would have elbowed Pippin in the ribs but was somewhat occupied with trying to coax his eyes back into their sockets.
"They're rather good, aren't they?" Pervinca said from behind her brother, who was still using Frodo as a shield. "I used a sling sort of thing and stuffed it with gamgee wads." Pervinca came around Frodo's left side, reached out and tweaked Merry's… Frodo didn't know how else to think of it, other than a breast.
"Hoy!" Merry shouted indignantly then reached out and returned the favour.
Pervinca jumped back, clutched both hands over her bosom. "Hoy!" she echoed.
Merry merely lifted an eyebrow. "You get to play with mine, I get to play with yours."
Frodo shook his head, pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Pervinca," he said and even as he said it, couldn't believe it was actually coming out of his mouth, "leave Merry's breasts alone."
"Then tell him to--"
"Merry," Frodo cut in and was amazed that his voice sounded so steady, "leave Pervinca's breasts alone."
Pippin snorted into Frodo's ear, which was a mistake, because Merry was now reminded of his presence and made another lunge for him. "Keep him off me, Frodo!" Pippin cried, backing up and bringing Frodo with him as Merry advanced, fists clenched. "It was a fair bet, I swear it! If he hadn't been so cocky, he would have figured it out -- it isn't my fault he thinks he knows everything!"
"It was a trick and so was bringing Frodo here, you slimy little wretch! That wasn't part of the deal!"
Merry tried to reach around Frodo, take hold of Pippin, but Pippin had Frodo by the shoulders, swung him around so that Merry's hand only grasped at Frodo's coat. Frodo was suddenly being buffeted between the two and feeling decidedly beside the point.
"Hoy, both of you-- hey, ow!"
This as Merry went to apparently throttle Pippin and instead ended up with a handful of Frodo's hair.
"Sorry," Merry replied absently, let go and tried again. He clipped Frodo on the ear this time.
"All right, enough!" Frodo shouted. He twisted himself sideways, took hold of Pippin's shirt in one hand and Merry's… oh, good grief -- Merry's dress in the other, shoved them apart. He couldn't help noting where his hand had landed on Merry's chest. Again.
Frodo turned to Pervinca, said evenly, "Yes, I am special and yes, I do get to touch them."
He turned back to Merry. "Tell me about this bet," he demanded.
Merry lifted his chin. "I would have you unhand me first," he replied. "You don't get to touch them unless I give you permission. You're not that special."
Frodo stared, looked down to his hand and back again to Merry. "Well, it isn't as though I could miss them, is it? A little bigger and we could name them for mountains!"
"Still." A shrug from Merry and he lifted his nose into the air. "When a lass says 'no' and all that."
"You're not--" Frodo stopped, dropped his chin to his chest, sighed. "Merry," he said between his teeth, "may I touch your breasts, please?"
Oh, stars and fire, did that really just come out of his mouth?
Merry sniffed. "Well, I don't know," he answered, a touch of haughty temper in his tone. "You've not brought me flowers or anything."
"Don't let him fool you, Frodo," Pippin said from the end of Frodo's other hand. "He's a bit of a tart, you know, prancing about in the petticoats. Should have seen him putting on the bloom--"
Frodo was jerked to the side as Merry made yet another charge, managing to ding Pippin upside his head this time before Frodo got them apart again.
"Enough!" Frodo no longer cared what he was grabbing onto, so long as he had a good, solid grip. He shook both of his cousins, growled, "I am not about to stand here and be beaten and bloodied by a hobbit in a dress!"
Pippin snorted and Frodo shook him again. "And we have yet to see about the fairness of this bet, Peregrin Took, so if you don't want to be hog-tied and given to your sisters as an early Yule present, I suggest you shut it and be still!"
It was Pervinca who snorted this time. Frodo shot her a glare and at least she had the good grace to turn her head and pretend to be coughing. He turned once again to Merry.
"Now," he said, drew a deep breath, continued calmly, "what about this bet?"
"It was a trick, Frodo," Merry replied, a touch stridently but his tone was more controlled than it had been. "He had a shotglass balanced on his palm -- upside-down, you know, and full of rum. He bet me that he could drink the rum without spilling it and without laying a finger on the glass."
"Oh, Merry." Frodo shook his head, sighed.
"What?" Merry wanted to know. "It was impossible! There was no way he could do it, so I took the bet." Merry glared at Pippin, clenched his teeth. "And then he--"
"He placed his other palm to the bottom of the glass, flipped it over and tossed it back." Frodo turned a jaundiced eye on Pippin, who only smirked a little. "And never once laid a finger on it," Frodo finished, sighed again and looked at Merry.
Merry was frowning at him, his eyebrows drawn together and knotted in the middle. "How did you know?" he asked.
Frodo looked down, blew out a long breath. "Well, I sort of taught it to him," he muttered, winced a little at Merry's sharp intake of breath.
"Frodo, how could you?" Merry was looking altogether too indignant for someone who was standing about in a dress.
"Well, how was I to know?" Frodo asked, watched as Merry lifted an eyebrow. They both turned, gave Pippin the once-over, turned back. "All right," Frodo conceded, "perhaps I should have."
"Hey!" Pippin objected.
"And anyway," Frodo chastised, "what were doing out drinking with Pippin? He's awfully young for that sort of thing, you know."
"What?" Merry replied defensively. "He'll be twenty-five."
Frodo stared. "In four years!"
"Details," Merry shrugged.
Frodo rolled his eyes, got back to the matter at hand. "So, the bet was that you had to put on a dress?"
"No," Pippin clarified. "The bet was that he had to wear the dress for Eostre and dance with a lad of my choosing." Pippin was grinning again. "And I chose you, Frodo."
Frodo lifted an eyebrow at his young cousin. "And this is my surprise?" Pippin only nodded, still grinning, and Frodo shook his head. "Your mum is right, you know -- Aunt Esme is going to kick your arse."
"'Aunt Esme' had bloody well better not find out about this!" Merry snarled. "Frodo wasn't part of the deal, Pippin, and neither was my mum! You'd better keep your big yap shut, or so help me, I'll--"
"Merry," Frodo cut in, "your mum and Pippin's mum are sisters by marriage, do you really think this bit of news won't travel?" Poor Merry -- to look at his expression, you’d think Frodo had just told him he had to adopt a troll. Or Pippin. "I'm sorry, love, but I'm afraid it's beginning to travel as it is. We seem to be missing several 'witnesses' already."
They all peered about them. Frodo was right -- only a few still lingered to see if there would be any bloodshed; the rest had already left in search of an ear to blabber into.
Frodo could actually feel Merry deflate. "I will never live this down!" he groaned.
Frodo released his grip from Merry's… oh, stars save him -- Merry's dress. He rolled his eyes, squeezed Merry's shoulder.
"Well, listen," he said, kept his grip on Pippin's shirt snug and tight. "The bet was that you had to wear the dress for Eostre, right?"
A morose nod from Merry, though Pippin had tensed and was watching Frodo with a keen eye. Frodo shot him a sideways glance, lifted an eyebrow.
"Well, it's Eostre and here you are, wearing the dress, so I'd say that part of it has been fulfilled."
"Oh, no," Pippin said, narrowed his eyes and glared at Frodo. "He has to wear the dress for Eostre -- that means the bonfire and then the dance after and then the breakfast at sunrise."
"Well, perhaps you're right, Pippin," Frodo agreed smoothly, "but that isn't what you said, is it?"
Merry's head popped up and he eyed them both now with renewed interest and a small spark of hope in his gaze.
"I said he had to wear the dress--"
"Yes, and you also said that you wouldn't lay a finger on the shotglass," Frodo agreed. "Funny how the things one says can be so easily misunderstood, isn't it?"
"Frodo Baggins, if you ruin this for me, I swear you'll be wearing--"
"Just try and get me in a dress, Peregrin Took," Frodo warned, "and I promise you, you'll know the true meaning of pain and humiliation when I lace your bodice and your petticoats to the hayhook and make a party of it."
Pippin's mouth snapped shut but only for a split-second before he challenged, "The dance! He has to dance with a lad of my choosing."
The smugness was back again and he aimed a smirk at Merry. Frodo saw Merry's jaw clench again, angled himself a little to keep him from making another grab at Pippin.
"And you've chosen me," Frodo told Pippin. "Very kind of you, I must say. I was rather disappointed when Merry said he couldn't make it to Hobbiton and now that I know the reason, I should think it would be only fair that you make some sort of arrangements to make it up to me."
Merry was looking confused now and the hope in his eyes was all but shattered. He swallowed and his shoulders slumped a little.
"Just the one dance?" he asked.
Merry's cheeks were pinking just at the thought of stepping onto the crowded dancefloor, subject to several dozen times the laughter and joking he'd already endured. Frodo was actually rather impressed that Merry had gone through with the payment of the bet in the first place.
"Oh, I think I'll be wanting more than one dance," Frodo answered, smiled at Merry's look of complete betrayal and turned back to Pippin. "Though the dances Merry and I engage in are really rather private and not for a dancefloor at all."
Pippin grimaced. "Thank you, Cousin, that was quite a lot more information than I needed." He rolled his eyes at Frodo's smirk. "But I'm afraid you have to have at least one dance on the dancefloor and in the dress. That was the bet."
"Was it, then?" Frodo turned to Merry. "What did Pippin say, love?"
Merry's mouth flapped for a moment then a tentative smile curled at his mouth. "'If you lose'," he recited obediently, "'you have to wear a dress for Eostre and dance with a lad of my choosing'."
He gave Frodo a huge grin; Frodo grinned back, turned to Pippin.
"He's worn the dress for Eostre and now it's time he retired to a more private place to dance with the lad of your choosing." He nodded a little. "That would be me."
Now it was Pippin's mouth that was flapping. "No! Frodo, that isn't what I meant and you know it!"
"Ah, but it's what you said, love."
Pippin actually stomped his foot. "Oh, this is so unfair! It was a fair bet, Frodo!"
"And the consequences have been paid just as fairly." Frodo bent in, gave Pippin a buss on the cheek. "It was a good try," he told him. "And had you not involved me in the whole thing, I may have let it pass. But honestly," he pointed over at Merry, "do you really think I want to be seen dancing with that?"
"Hoy!" Merry looked down at himself; Frodo had to choke down a cackle when he actually straightened his skirt. "Not all that bad," Merry defended. He cupped his bosom, rearranged it all a little higher on his chest. "I'm rather stacked, you know. Just the sort of thing you go for anyway."
Frodo closed his eyes, shook his head. "I did not just hear that."
"Oh, don't play innocent with me," Merry said knowingly. "I saw you looking. You're a bit of a letch, you know."
"I was not--"
"Yes, you were," Pippin cut in.
And wasn't it just Frodo's luck that the one thing his cousins had found to agree upon in probably months was that he was depraved? And this coming from the one in the dress and the one who'd put him in it!
"You've been staring at my breasts since you stumbled through the door," Merry went on.
Frodo gaped. "They're not even real br--"
"And you've copped a feel more than once," Pippin put in.
"Three times," Merry agreed.
"He always was one for the over-flowing bodices."
"I've often wondered if he's a little disappointed that I don't have any."
"Well, now's the time to find out, I'd say."
"I'm surprised Pervinca got away unscathed."
"Oh, hers aren't any more real that yours are."
"These are rather nice, aren't they? If you like that sort of thing."
"And Frodo certainly does."
"He has been staring."
"Well, in his defence, it would have been difficult not to notice."
"Well, he likes them this way."
"Can't argue with you there."
"If I'd known he was coming, I'd have made them bigger."
"He really is sort of a freak."
Frodo's eyes narrowed.
* * *
Moro was the one to find them -- bodices secured to the hayhooks, petticoats swaying with each frantic move they made. They only quit their bickering at each other long enough to beg Moro to help them down.
He eyed the rope secured to the cleat on the wall, followed it up to the pulley at the ceiling and then down to the two hobbits trussed at its end. Moro only grinned, shook his head.
And left them there for the forehobbit.
* * *
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