TITLE:  Things To Do In Buckland When You're Ned

AUTHOR:  Daffodil Bolger (with lots of background and input from Willow-wode)

PAIRING:  Let's see, F/P, F/M, M/P, P/B… oh screw it -- Everyone/Everyone

RATING:  Adult-ish (for language, low-brow humour and smarmy innuendo)

SUMMARY:  When in Buckland…

A/N: I have, once again, borrowed Willow-wode's RoP-'verse for this story, with much poking, prodding and pleading permission from Ms. W.  (What can I say?  She rarely uses a guilt-trip as a weapon, but when she does…)  We have been kicking this thing back and forth for some time (You write it -- No, you write it), in fact, for so long that I am no longer sure which lines/ideas/plot-points are whose.  So, though I did the writing, I think I can safely assert that the story belongs to both of us.  Well, those parts to which either of us are willing to lay claim, anyway.

* * *

THINGS TO DO IN BUCKLAND WHEN YOU'RE NED

* * *

Buckland, to the mind of Edgard Bunce, was just one more reason why he should never leave Cottonbottom. 

Ever.

Oh, it was beautiful, he'd give it that, with its wide-open fields of rolling green and wheat so high it would brush even the tallest hobbit's nose.  He knew Brandy Hall was run with an efficiency he supposed even Great Smials might envy -- not that he'd ever been there, either -- and that Buckland, wild river-hobbits notwithstanding, commanded some bit of respect for at least that.  And he had to admit that he wasn't exactly missing the constant company of his wife, bless her, she really did try, and she couldn't help that she'd been born with the body of a temptress, the sharp mind of a wizard, a face with a beauty that rivalled the Sun herself, and… well, and a mouth like a river in spring runoff, not to put too fine a point on it, and oh, he'd never had so much blessed silence in all his life as when it was just him and the rhythmic, muffled pad of his own two feet on the road.  The weather was gorgeous, too, sun all the time, and he wouldn't ever dream of saying so out loud, but the weather here was better than in Cottonbottom, where the only thing worse than the fog of the downs was the fog of the moors.

So, he couldn't really say that Buckland itself was the problem.  No, Ned decided, the problem was that Buckland was absolutely riddled with… well, with Bucklanders.

And, among many other oddities Ned was discovering daily, Bucklanders swam.  In water!  He'd seen it with his own eyes, and he'd heard the tales, but he'd never quite believed them.  Splashing about and feet kicking and arms flailing and, and, and… well, it just wasn't done.  Boats floating about and people in them!  And more likely than not, there were feet kicking and arms flailing in those, too.  For all he knew, they really did wear boots.  Boots!

Ned had never seen so many odd ducks, roustabouts and rowdies in all his life, since he'd come to Buckland.  And they just had this… this sort of… look about them that said they may not be the sharpest group of tacks in the Shire's toolbox, but they knew good and well they could take you if they wanted to and What good is your big giant Southfarthing brain now, with your teeth all scattered in the dirt like that?  Can a brain help you suck your food through a straw for the rest of your life?

Not that he'd been threatened in the slightest, mind.  Not out loud.  And not overtly… 

Fine, so it was mostly in his imagination, in point of fact, if he were going to be honest.  But still.

All right, he had to admit that he'd yet to see a frown and his cheeks were actually a little sore from politely returning welcoming smiles.  Kind as the day was long, the Bucklanders were, he'd give them that, having been taken in several times in his travels… though 'taken in' hadn't been exactly the case, in truth -- more like plucked right off the Road and hijacked into having supper and an overnight at some robust stranger's home because 'Can't let it be said that we Bucklanders don't know how to treat a hobbit on holiday.'  Ned had supped and slept amongst more hobbits in his three days in Buckland than he thought perhaps he'd met in his entire life, up until now. 

And it hadn't done him a whit of good to explain that he wasn't on holiday at all, but business, and he really should move along and take care of that business so he could get back home, since his wife had sent him out on said business and she would be waiting, after all; it usually only earned him a few slow blinks and a clap on the back that nearly sent him hurtling through the nearest solid structure and then a more demanding insistence that 'business' was all the more reason to keep his strength up on the road.  Slightly on the dim side, some of these riverfolk, but terribly friendly in a you'll-have-a-good-time-and-like-it-or-else sort of way.  Rather large, nearly all of them, and Ned had never considered himself diminutive, but less than a week in Buckland and he was discovering a meekness in himself he'd never before suspected.  Not surprising, seeing as how he had yet to meet a Bucklander who didn't look like they could pick him up, break him in half and use him for kindling if they wanted to.  And the adults were even bigger!

A fact that was brought home to him both immediately and dramatically when he stepped over the threshold of The Salty Dog.

Smoke-filled and bright-lit, the pub fair reeked of what his wife called River Trouble.  Pine tables, knotted and scratched, set on pine floors equally grazed and aged, and hobbits crowded in clusters about each one.  A great, long bar stretched itself against the eastern wall, mahogany, Ned would swear to it, edged with brass, and he might have been more impressed if it hadn't been so scuffed and beaten that any lustre it might once have had seemed to have gone the way of the dragons.  More hobbits were propped against the walls and it seemed to Ned that the brightness of the lamps only served to point up the ruddiness in most of the cheeks and the redness of the eyes.

Baritone voices were raised in song, which might not have been so bad, had the patrons of the pub all been singing the same song at once; as it was, there appeared to be roughly eight individual groups of perhaps ten hobbits each, every group trying to out-sing the others, resulting in a cacophony of several different off-key drinking songs all assaulting Ned's ears at once.  Hobbits lounged at tables, puddled over their chairs and benches; they stood in loose, wobbly circles and hung over each others' shoulders; some took their performances to the tabletops and added a jig, and… and what was that smell?

Oh, Ned, dear, his wife's voice whispered, what have you gone and got yourself into?  Ned could only shake his head slowly, tell her, I'm sure I don't know, love, but you'll see that I'm buried in my good black suit, won't you?  And next time you order from a River merchant, perhaps you'll remember your dear old Ned and think better, aye?

Bawdy and rowdy -- fine.  Drunk and bawdy -- even better.  Drunk and bawdy and rowdy and bloody huge?  Ned imagined that if stood side-by-side with almost every hobbit in the room, he'd probably only reach the height of their chins at best.  And he wouldn't even make half of one of them in breadth.

Two voices rose above the din, and these not raised in song but ire, and Ned turned his head just in time to see two hobbits -- both probably about thirty-ish --  standing nose-to-nose, one with hair as bright as sun-dried wheat and the other with a little bit of red, but that was the only thing that distinguished one from the other for Ned; he supposed they could tell each other apart, but he certainly couldn't -- both of them with their colour high and fists the size of entire hams clenched tight at their sides.  He couldn't tell what they were arguing about, seeing as how no one else in the pub seemed interested enough to stop singing.  Until one of them took a swing at the other.  It was amazing to watch, really, and Ned found his feet stuck fast to the floor, riveted, as the two went down, and the rest of the pub stopped their singing long enough to watch, some of them taking bets, some of them cheering for one or the other, and some of them using the opportunity to step into the open spaces at the bar the curious had just vacated.

It was over almost immediately; several good, grinding blows each, a bit of rolling about, and the hobbit with the blond hair put the one with the reddish hair into a headlock and it was… over.  Just like that -- over. 

Ned could only blink, shake his head a little, as they both stood, laughing, and embraced, pounding each other on the back then reclaiming their mugs to toast each other.  The rest of the patrons collected on bets and then went back to their mugs and their songs.  No one stepping in to drag one off the other, no parting shots or verbal jabs, no accusations of broken teeth or low-blows…  Just over.  As though it was the most normal thing in the world to break into fisticuffs in the middle of a crowded pub, beat each other bloody, and then carry on like nothing had happened.

Well, then.  There it was.  Obviously, they were all insane.

Ned took a small step backwards; no one had yet noticed him and he could probably make it back out the door before getting stepped on.

A five day trip across the Shire wasted, a waiting wife who would try her best to hide her disappointment but would fail, and the new knowledge that if cut, he might well bleed yellow -- none of it was enough to stop Ned from his steady backwards pace to the door.  Everyone he'd asked since reaching Buckland's borders had told him that if the RiverMaster was on land, he'd eventually turn up here, but Ned was buggered if he was going to end up squashed like a bug because some merchant in Dwaling couldn't tell green from blue.

Perhaps he'd go straight to Brandy Hall and enquire of the RiverMaster there.  They were his kin, right?  They should know his whereabouts, no need to go hunting him down in some seedy pub where Ned was more likely to get blinded by whatever passed for liquor here than acquire useful information, and…

And what was that smell?

He'd just tell his pretty Saffron that he couldn't find him, that's what he'd do.  Tell her he'd gone off to Sea and no one had heard from him since.  She'd believe it; she already referred to him as That Odd River-hobbit and had warned Ned over and over again not to let himself get sweet-talked and swindled or worse, though he hadn't thought to press her on the 'or worse' bit.  All kinds of tales they'd heard of the RiverMaster and each a bit more wild than the last, and if he was half as big and ornery as the hobbits here, Ned was better off--

"Hoy, there, stranger, going the wrong way aren't ya?"

Well, bugger.

Ned tried not to wince as the giant paw gripped his shoulder (Can't show weakness in these situations, Saffron told him) peered up -- and up and up -- into the ruddy face of the blond hobbit who'd been rolling about on the floor with a fist in his ear not thirty seconds ago.  A quick-blossoming shadow lurked at his chin and another near his temple, but Ned supposed the lad would feel it in the morning; now the hobbit grinned at Ned, which wouldn't have been half as frightening had his teeth not been sheened with blood.

Ned swallowed, twitched a small smile.  "Oh, I was just, um--"

"Rudigar!" the hobbit shouted and propelled Ned to the bar with a grip like a vise.  "This hobbit hasn't a drink in his hand!  What kind of business are you running here, anyway?"

"Oh, no, no," Ned protested, tried to twist a bit out of the hobbit's grasp, but he knew it was useless, seeing as how his feet were barely touching the floor.  He was now firmly in the very literal grip of what passed for hospitality in Buckland.  "I was just going to--"

"Why don't you shut your hole, Mosco Burrows, before I wake your dad and have him do it for you?"  This, Ned cleverly deduced, must be Rudigar; the barkeep flipped a cloth over his shoulder, leaned over the bar and eyed Ned with a squint then peered back at Mosco.  "Get your great mitt of him, why don't you, and go pick your dad up -- he's fallen off his chair again." 

"Aw, Rudigar, you know how he gets.  If I try and move him in the middle of a good kip, he's liable to wake up swinging." 

Ned wasn't sure if he was more surprised to find himself suddenly propped up on a barstool with no real idea how he'd got up there, or the suddenly-plaintive tone of this gigantic lad's voice. 

The barkeep -- Rudigar -- however, was apparently having none of it.  "And he's cut off," he furthered in a tone that certainly Ned himself would never dream of arguing with.  "That hobbit has one more half, he's liable to splash next time he hits the floor."

While Ned was pondering the mental picture this brought, Mosco seemed to have decided that Rudigar was serious.  The 'great mitt' did indeed leave Ned's  shoulder, but not before his new acquaintance had bowed himself away with a muttered, 'All right, but if I lose a tooth it's on your head,' to Rudigar then a grin and a 'Glad to meet ya,' to Ned, followed by one last wary glance to the barkeep.  Ned turned to watch Mosco's progress as he arrowed his way across the pub; he sort of wanted to see the hobbit passed out on the floor.  He craned his neck, bobbed to-and-fro in his seat as he tried to see through the crowd through which Mosco was currently pushing his way.  If the son was this large, the father must be huge.  Probably like that sleeping giant in the tale his mum used to tell him when he was--

"What can I do for you?" Rudigar asked.

Ned jumped, turned back with a grin that he hoped looked meek and friendly and not at all meddlesome.  "I'm looking for a Brandybuck," he said.  Which, now that he thought about it, sounded rather meddlesome.

Rudigar gave a surly grunt, twitched the cloth from his shoulder and wiped at the bar.  "Swing a dead cat," he muttered.

"Ah," said Ned and adjusted himself in his seat, let his pack slip to the floor by his feet.  "Right, yes, well, I'm looking for a specific Brand--"

"To drink," Rudigar cut in.  "I've customers as get a bit high-strung when they aren't kept sedated.  I haven't all night to jaw."

"Ah," Ned said again.  "Right."  Cleared his throat.  "A half of the house, if you please."

Rudigar took up a glass, side-stepped down the bar a little.  "Which?" he wanted to know.

Ned blinked.  "Well… whichever you'd recommend, I think.  Not terribly familiar with Eastfarthing stock."

Rudigar stopped, lifted an eyebrow at him.  "Which Brandybuck?"

"Oh!"  Perhaps it was possible to look more like a rube, and it seemed Ned was giving it a good go.  "Sorry.  I'm looking for--"

"You bloody, sodding, tosser!"

That was almost enough to startle Ned right off his seat, deep and angry and terribly loud as it was; he turned to see another two hobbits on their feet, nose-to-nose and fists clenched.  The one with the blond hair -- not Mosco this time -- clearly outweighed the one with the brown hair, but the brown-haired one was still rather large and looked meaner.

"Merry!"  This from a dark-haired hobbit just to the blond one's left, and Ned was abstractly pleased that at least there was one hobbit in the pub he himself outweighed.  "Just sit down, will you, it isn't worth it to--"

That was as far as he got before the blond hobbit -- Merry, it would seem -- hauled back and decked the other.  There was no brawl this time; the brown-haired hobbit simply dropped like a stone and all in the pub, cheated out of another display, turned back to their drinks and their conversations.  All except for the dark-haired hobbit, who had what appeared to be some choice words for this Merry -- seeing as how said words seemed to Ned to be forced out from between tightly-clenched teeth -- then, when he apparently didn't get the response he wanted, shook his head and stomped over to the bar as a few others dragged the unfortunate hobbit on the floor to his feet.  The other -- Merry -- shot a bewildered, frustrated glance at the smaller hobbit's back then simply shook out his hand and peered down to inspect the damage.  The knuckles were bloodied, Ned noticed; must have caught the other in the teeth.

Ned turned back, blinked at the barkeep.  "Well, then," was all he could think to say.  "What do you call that, I wonder?"

"Call what?" the barkeep wanted to know.

"Well, I've not been here five minutes and already two set-tos."

"Oh."  Rudigar only shook his head, rolled his eyes a little as he slid Ned's half-pint in front of him.  "I call that Sterday."

"Send a few pitchers over there, will you, Rudigar?"  The dark-haired hobbit was beside Ned now, hoisted himself up onto a stool and leaned on the bar.  "And a round of liquorice-whips to Sadoc and his lot.  P'raps that will settle them down.  I'll have a uisge."

Ned didn't know whether to be amused or impressed.  He'd never had Tuckborough uisge himself, but he'd heard enough about it to at once wish he had and be grateful he hadn't.  And this little chap looked like he shouldn't have anything stronger than apple-jack.

Rudigar sighed.  "Now, master Frodo, you know what happened the last time you--"

"A uisge, Rudigar, and I'll have another after that and probably another after that, as well.  In fact, keep them coming until I tell you to stop, won't you?  I've a feeling I'll be needing every last drop.  Cheers."

Well, then.  Perhaps he was small, but he seemed to make up for it with attitude.

Rudigar sighed, muttered, "Bloody uisge," under his breath and moved to do as he was bid.  The dark-haired hobbit turned to Ned, looked him over for a quick moment then extended his hand.

"Frodo Baggins at your service," he said with a nod of his head.

Ned smiled and took the hand; Frodo's grip was sure and strong and his gaze direct, and Ned returned the nod with one of his own. 

"Edgard Bunce at yours and your family's.  My friends call me Ned."

Another nod, "Mine call me Frodo," and he pulled a bowl of nuts closer then poked at them until he found a walnut.  "So, then, Ned," he said as he popped the nut in his mouth, "what brings you to Buckland?"

Ned frowned, cocked his head to the side.  "How d'you know I'm not from about here?" he wanted to know.  For some reason, he found himself on the edge of offended.  He might not be quite as large as the rest, but he was no slouch and he was certainly bigger than this Frodo Baggins.

Frodo only lifted an eyebrow at him, looked him up-and-down then smirked a little.  "Must've been the pack," he said, flicking an amused glance to where Ned's pack rested by his feet.  "And the accent."

Ned decided he liked this explanation better than, 'Well, look around you, mate, if you hailed from about here, you wouldn't have lived this long.'

"Ah," said Ned.  "Yes, I suppose that might be a bit of a giveaway, then."  Coughed a bit.  Frodo was politely non-committal.  "I'm looking for a Brandybuck," Ned told him.

Frodo snorted, gave a frowning Rudigar a courteous nod and a smile as the barkeep placed a shotglass in front of him then filled it.  "Swing a dead cat," Frodo said then tossed the amber uisge back, grimaced a little, but smacked the glass down and tapped it with his finger.  Rudigar rolled his eyes but complied.

"No, no," said Ned, "I'm looking for a specific Brandybuck."

Frodo knocked back the second shot, hissed in a breath between his teeth before the glass hit the bar again and he again tapped it with his finger.  Ned decided 'amused' wasn't quite right and went with 'impressed'.

"Which?" Frodo wanted to know.

Ned took a sip of his own drink, raised his eyebrows at the full-bodied taste.  "The RiverMaster," he said.

Frodo's glance was a little sharp as he flicked it at Ned and then quickly down again to the bowl of nuts.  And did the barkeep's gaze just turn wary? 

"The RiverMaster, mm?" Frodo said as he found a hazelnut this time then exchanged a quick, steady gaze with Rudigar.

Ned waited for a moment, but when Frodo only continued poking about the bowl of nuts as Rudigar went about the business of preparing the drinks Frodo had requested, he pressed, "You know him, then?"

Frodo opened his mouth, but Rudigar was the one to answer.

"Sure and we know him," he said, shot another glance Frodo's way then peered at Ned with a smile that was just this side of genuine. 

Good glory, was this RiverMaster some sort of brigand to merit this kind of reaction?  Perhaps the Shirriffs were after him or something, or… no, it was Bounders in Buckland, wasn't it?  Perhaps there was a warrant out on him and these fellows were protecting him, or something.  And wouldn't that just figure?  Just exactly what had Ned's wife gone and got him into, anyway? 

"Everyone about here does," Rudigar went on.  "Why, that's his son, right over there."

Rudigar pointed out a young hobbit with light-brown hair, sitting next to the hobbit Frodo had chastised not a few moments ago.  Merry, wasn't it?  And another -- this one perhaps about Frodo's size and with copper curls that could only mean a Took.  Their heads were bent over Merry's hand -- examining the damage to his knuckles, Ned had no doubt -- and then the brown-haired one whipped his head about and glared.  Ned followed his gaze to a small group of hobbits gathered about the one Merry had dropped earlier.

He decided he would do well to keep an eye on the lot of them; if for nothing else than to make sure they didn't spill his drink when the brewing storm broke loose.  He was just about to turn back and mind that drink when Merry's gaze caught his then shifted and settled on Frodo.  A firm set of the young hobbit's jaw and a determined stride towards the bar told Ned that he should get to drinking and rather quickly.  And perhaps scoot down a few stools from Frodo and out of striking-distance.

"I cannot even believe you would be mad at me!"

Damn.  Too late.  Ned risked a quick glance sideways, saw Merry standing next to Frodo at the bar, noted Merry's angry stare at Frodo and the clench of Frodo's jaw.  Decided that a staring contest with the foam in his glass was in order.

Rudigar, whistling casually, slipped out from behind the bar, laden tray in hand.

"Right," Frodo answered curtly, "not listening."

"Did you hear the things he was saying?"

"Well, he said them to me, didn't he, then?"

"All the more reason why you should--"

"If I can ignore it, so can you."

"But--"

"Leave it, Merry."  Frodo's voice was low and controlled but even Ned could hear the thunder beneath it.

Apparently, so could Merry, because when he next spoke, his own tone was less angry and more truculent.

"Fine, then," he said.  "I'll just be over there.  You know -- bleeding."

And he stomped away.  Ned noted a distinct slumping of Frodo's shoulders out the corner of his eye and then Frodo's head was in his hand as he rubbed his brow, ran his finger absently around the rim of his shotglass.

He took a deep breath, turned back to Ned.

"So, you're looking for the RiverMaster."

Ned took a sip of his beer and nodded.  "I am, yes."

"And what would you be wanting with him?" Frodo wanted to know.

"Oh, just a bit of business," Ned replied.  "A bit of business gone wrong, actually.  You see, my wife--"

"Frodo Baggins, are you off your head?"  Odd.  Ned hadn't even noticed the young Took coming their way and now suddenly he was at Frodo's side, elbow leaning on the bar, as though he'd never been anywhere else.  "Why on earth would you send a round to Sadoc and his horde of vermin?  And why do they get liquorice-whips and we get beer?"

That was the second time someone had mentioned liquorice-whips.  Odd, that, sweets in a pub.  But, he supposed, when in Buckland…

Frodo sighed, lifted his head.  "Edgard Bunce, my cousin, Peregrin Took, son of the Thain."

Ned stood with a smile, gave a little bow and extended his hand.  "At your service," he said then tilted his head.  "I didn't know old Ferumbras had any children."

The young Took shook Ned's hand and returned his bow with a quick one of his own.  "And your family's," he answered, then: "No, he means the real Thain, which would be my dad, Paladin, grandson to Gerontius, cousin to Ferumbras, and next in line when Ferumbras pops off, which doesn't--"

"Pippin!"

"What?  I didn't say I wanted him to pop off, he's a lovely old hobbit, after all, and my dad quite likes him, so I wasn't implying--"

"All right, Pippin, just…"  Frodo trailed off, threw back his shot of uisge and peered about for Rudigar.  "Just leave it, all right?  We don't need the lineage and history."

Peregrin -- or Pippin, apparently -- didn't miss a beat.  He took the reprimand in stride; in fact, seemed not to notice it at all, and twisted a pair of expressive copper eyebrows at Frodo.

"Why are you being so miserable to Merry?" he wanted to know.  "'Tisn't my birthday."

"I am not being miserable to Merry," Frodo growled, looked about again for the barkeep as he jiggled his glass on the bar.  "And you should learn to mind your business."  He finally caught Rudigar's gaze; the barkeep rolled his eyes again, moved down the bar, snatching up the bottle from beneath it as he came.  "Leave the bottle," Frodo told him as he filled the shotglass; Rudigar only shook his head in disapproval but complied.

"Ooh, they've uisge here!"  Pippin nearly bounced as he made a snatch at the bottle, only to have his hand slapped away by Frodo.

"You will keep your greedy fingers to yourself, young hobbit, or I'll--"

He was cut off by several shouts from the table against the wall and a great deal of laughter.  Ned turned, half-expecting another scrap, but everyone at the table was laughing and grinning, peering at the hobbit who'd got decked earlier -- Ned deduced this must be Sadoc -- as the hobbit winced and held his hand to his mouth.  Probably had a tooth or two knocked loose, Ned guessed, which couldn't feel terribly good if one was trying to drink, though he supposed there was nothing better to dull the pain, and…

"Stars save us," Ned said and wrinkled his nose, "what is that smell?"

"Ah," said Pippin sagely.  "Have you never had a liquorice-whip?"

Ned blinked, frowned.  Did he really look like that much of a bumpkin?

"Well, of course I have," he answered.  "But as far as I know, liquorice-whips don't smell like… I don't even know what that smells like, but it's--"

"Over-done pork and burnt hair," Pippin cut in.

"Yes," agreed Ned.  "There it is; that's exactly what it smells like."

"These are not the liquorice-whips that are ten for a penny at the market," Frodo supplied.  "A liquorice-whip in Buckland is a shot of blackberry brandy with a dose of anisette.  The anisette sits on top and you light it with a match and drink it.  The trick is to toss it back before the anisette burns off."

Pippin grinned at Ned.  "Sometimes you miss."

Ned grimaced, peered about… only now noticed that there were several hobbits present who seemed to be missing an eyebrow or two.  And this bit of news now put an entirely different perspective on the red noses, didn't it?  Stars above, he was in the middle of an entire pub full of hobbits who made a habit of tossing flaming drinks into their faces.  No wonder it smelled like someone had burnt down a pig-sty.  Ned could only shake his head, take a swig from his glass as Pippin turned back to Frodo.

"I've not had a chance to tell you.  You will never guess who I ran into this morning."

Frodo nodded, took a sip of his uisge, answered, "All right, then."

Pippin waited for a moment then rolled his eyes.  "Frodo, you’re supposed to guess.  That's how these things work."

"You just said I'd never guess, so what's the point?"

Ned thought perhaps he'd been in Buckland too long, because that sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

"Oh, that's right," Pippin replied.  "I forgot that you're a stick in the mud."

"Pippin, I'm warning you, I'm not in the mood, so--"

"Daisy Greenhand."

Frodo sighed, let the insult pass and sipped at his drink.  "And did you talk to her this time?"

Pippin looked at Frodo as though he'd just asked him if he'd dipped his head in tar.  "Oh, heavens, no, I wouldn't want to do that!"

Frodo stopped playing with his drink, tossed it back and poured himself another.  "And why not?"

"Well, because then she'd talk back, of course."

"Isn't that rather the point?"

"Your point, perhaps, but that's probably why the lasses only giggle at you."

"They do not only--"

"And anyway, I wouldn't want to ruin the fantasy."

"The…"  Frodo paused, shook his head as if to clear it.  "What?"

"The fantasy, Frodo, have you never had one?"

"You…  Of course I've--"  Frodo sputtered, clenched his teeth.  "You know, that's none of your bloody business."

Pippin gave a sympathetic nod.  "Spoken like one deep in the pits of denial."  He patted Frodo's arm.  "Poor duck."

Frodo shrugged him off.  "Peregrin Took, if you--"

"You see, if I don't talk to her," Pippin explained patiently, "I get to keep the fantasy; if I do talk to her, the reality will cancel out the fantasy and I'm not quite done with it yet."

Frodo looked as bewildered as Ned felt.  "But what if the reality is better than the fantasy?" he wanted to know.

Pippin lifted an eyebrow.  "Have you ever had a reality better than a fantasy?"

A shrug from Frodo.  "Well… yes, in fact I have."

This time Pippin sighed, shook his head.  "Oh, Frodo, you really must pry yourself away from Hobbiton more often.  It's having a terrible effect on you."

"Hobbiton is just fine, thank you very much," Frodo answered, his tone clipped and cool.  "And if you're trying to imply that I'm dull--"

"Pedantic."

Frodo shot him a narrow, sideways glance.  "Do you even know what that means?"

"Yes, it means dull, but in a very stylish way.  It's sort of a compliment, you know."

"I am not--"

"If you were falling off a cliff and your life flashed before your eyes, it would probably bore you to death before you hit the ground."

Frodo's teeth clenched again.  "That--"  And he shook his head.  "Pippin, I swear, you're going to end up--"

"And anyway," Pippin cut in, "we were talking about me."

"Fine," Frodo said and took another, larger sip from his drink.  "Let's please do talk about you."

Pippin seemed to have missed or ignored entirely the sarcasm in Frodo's retort.

"Well," he said, lowered his voice and leaned in a little.  "I understand that Daisy…"  He waggled his eyebrows, grinned.  "You know."   

Frodo shook his head, rubbed a hand over his face.  "No, Pippin, I don't know."

"Sure you do."

"No, I don't."

Pippin leaned in farther.  "Daisy Greenhand wets the willy."

Frodo rolled his eyes, reached over and flicked at Pippin's ear.  "What are you, twelve?  Wets the willy?"

Pippin glared, rubbed at his ear.  "Make fun all you want, Frodo Baggins," he retorted, snatched up Frodo's shotglass and downed its contents before Frodo could swipe it back.  And then just went right on talking.  "But it's terribly important, you know.  My dad says that if you find a lass who does that, you have to marry her."  And he smacked the glass back down in front of Frodo.

"Your dad--"  Frodo shook his head, refilled his glass and kept a better hold on it this time.  "He never did."

Pippin shrugged.  "Well, no, but he would have done, if he'd thought of it."

It seemed that all Frodo could do was shake his head and Ned couldn't help but sympathise.  His own head was spinning from the conversation and he'd only had a half a glass of beer; he'd lost count of the number of shots Frodo'd had.

"So, what?" Frodo asked Pippin.  "You want to get married now?"

"Now?"  A winning grin from Pippin.  "Well, it's a bit sudden and I'm awfully young, but all right.  Make an honest lad of me."

"Pippin--"

"Mum always said you'd make a good husband.  Will you show me where the tunnels of dragon's gold are, then?"

Dragon's gold!  Ned knew the name had sounded familiar.  This was not only a Baggins, but one of the Bagginses.  Why had he not made the connection before?

Frodo's teeth were clenching again.  "I am not even going to--"

"You don't expect me to have your babies, do you?" Pippin interjected.  "I've heard that's murder on the figure and supposedly it's somewhat painful.  I don't deal well with pain."

Ned hid his ill-advised snickers by draining the rest of his beer.  It seemed to him as though it was quickly broaching a point where there would be no choice: Frodo would have to kill Pippin.

"You know…"  Frodo's hand clenched around his glass.  "I'll give you pain, all right," he muttered darkly.  "Why don't you run along and torment Merry for a change?  You can have his babies."

"Oh, well, that's just crazy-talk," Pippin said.  "Get another Took and a Brandybuck together and we'll end up with another one of him!"

"Fine, then," Frodo said.  "Go find Rill.  Off you go."

"You're not listening a'tall, are you, Frodo?  He's a Brandybuck, too, you know.  I really don't want a litter of Merrys running about -- they'd be climbing all over you all the time, saying 'mineminemine!' and you'd never let me come to Hobbiton again."

"Right," Frodo answered wearily, rubbed at his brow and turned to Ned.  "See, it's my fault for letting him suck me into these conversations."

"You have this awful habit of talking about a person as though they're not here," Pippin said, waved at Rudigar as he rounded the end of the bar.  "Quite rude, you know."

"There are worse habits," Frodo told his uisge.  "I could make it a habit to stew tarty little cousins and eat them for pudding."

"Tarty?"  Pippin was indignant.  "Why would you think I’m a tart?" he demanded. "'Tisn't as though I run about, bedding anyone who'll have me, you know -- not like some people I know."

Frodo's eyes narrowed.  "Did you just imply that I--"

"You called me tarty!"

"Well, you just stood here and waxed rhapsodic about the virtues of wetting willies!"

A shrug from Pippin. "Yes, but that's just plain common sense."

"Everything all right, lads?" Rudigar wanted to know, as he took Ned's empty glass away and replaced it with a full one.  "A beer, young master?" he asked Pippin.

"I'll have a bottle of that."  Pippin nodded towards Frodo's bottle with a smile.

Rudigar sighed, slumped his shoulders.  Then he leaned in close, said, "You won't be sharing with the young masters over there, will you?"

Pippin widened his eyes as though the thought had never even occurred to him.  "With them?"  He shook his head, gave Rudigar's arm a pat.  "Everyone knows Brandybucks shouldn't be allowed uisge.  It rots their brains."

"Hey!" Frodo protested.

Pippin only grinned, leaned in and bussed him on the cheek.  "With one or two exceptions," he offered diplomatically.

Rudigar shook his head -- it seemed he did that a lot… especially when the subject of uisge came up -- took another bottle from beneath the bar and held it out to Pippin then turned to Ned again.

"Are these lads helping you with finding the RiverMaster, then?"

"Frodo is," Pippin answered as he took his bottle and turned away from the bar.  "I'm off to keep Merry out of trouble.  Frodo's forcing me to marry him and I don't want anyone cocking up his face.  It's his only good feature."  He paused, rolled his eyes.  "All right, one of two."  And then he grinned again.  "Pleased to have met you, Mister Bunce.  Ta!"

And he was gone, leaving both Ned and Rudigar blinking after him; Frodo only shook his head again and downed half his drink.

"So," Ned said into the awkward silence, "he comes here often, then?  The RiverMaster?"

"Whenever he's about," Rudigar answered.  "Known him since he was old enough to lift a mug.  He and master Peregrin's dad used to haunt that table right over there, where master Merry and his lads are sat.  In fact…"  He squinted a bit, turned the corner of his mouth up.  "Funny.  If I didn't know better, I'd almost say those are their ghosts over there now."  He pointed a meaty finger.  "You've Master Saradoc's son -- young Merry -- and his cousin, Berilac, son to the RiverMaster -- most folks call him Rill -- and then you've young Pippin, Thain Paladin's son."  He shook his head.  "Yes, sir, if the furniture was all smashed up and there were more black eyes and bloody noses, I'd swear it was them as was sitting over there."

"Bloody noses," Ned said, flicked a glance towards Frodo then back to the barkeep.  "Roustabouts, then?"

Frodo snorted but otherwise kept his attention on his drink.

"Well, let's just say that trouble had a way of finding them," Rudigar explained.  "And they didn't exactly try to avoid it when it did.  You might want to re-think bringing any 'business problems' to the RiverMaster." 

There was a wink but Ned didn't quite know what to make of it, considering the apparent warning that had come along with it.  Rudigar leaned his elbows on the bar with a little grin. 

"I remember one time, oh… way back when master Merimac -- that's our RiverMaster, you know -- even before he'd christened the 'flower, and he and his brother, the Master, and young master Paladin, they were celebrating something or other with a bottle of this here uisge."  Rudigar nodded towards the bottle on the bar; Frodo gave Rudigar a wary glance and wrapped his fingers protectively around it.  "In fact," the barkeep went on thoughtfully, "I believe Milo Burrows was about, as well -- Mosco's dad; he's the one over there on the floor -- and if I remember right, master Frodo, your dad come in with them, too."

Frodo perked up at that.  "My dad?"

Rudigar nodded.  "Aye.  He sat right here in this spot, trying to cheer himself up with a bottle of this here uisge."  He paused to glare a bit at Frodo's bottle, gave a resigned shrug then smiled a little.  "I'm afraid Drogo Baggins has the dubious distinction of being one of the few hobbits to ever live who lost at cards to Saradoc Brandybuck."

Drogo Baggins.  It was all coming together for Ned now.  Drogo Baggins was the hobbit who'd married a Bucklander lass and got himself drowned.  Saffron had brought the matter up as a caution as Ned was leaving Cottonbottom, though Ned wasn't entirely sure if she was cautioning him against the dangers of boating or Buckland lasses.

So, this Frodo must be the young orphan whom Bilbo Baggins of the Hill had taken in some years back.  Ned's respect for Frodo instantly went up a notch; not only could the lad handle Tuckborough uisge, but there were also several stories making the rounds over the past several years about how he 'handled' the Sackville-Bagginses.

Frodo was openly gaping.  "My father lost at cards to Uncle Sara?"

"'fraid so," Rudigar told him then shifted his glance to Ned, explained, "Our Master had quite a reputation as a lad."

"Yes," Frodo agreed, tossed back the rest of his drink and shook his head.  "He was complete rot at cards."

"So he was," Rudigar confirmed.  "And your dad was even worse, though at least he had the sense not to make a habit of playing for money."

Frodo poured himself another drink.  "Was Old Uncle with him?"

"The Old Master?"  Rudigar shook his head.  "Old Rory only ever came in back then to haul young Merimac out of trouble or to pay for damages after one or both of the lads had got into a scrape and busted up my pub."  Another shake of the head.  "Aye, 'twas a banner day for The Salty Dog when the Master's lads finally shaped up.  Them and their blasted uisge."  A morose shake of the head then a wink towards Ned.  "I've saved a fortune since then on furniture."

Frodo was frowning.  "I didn't know my dad went about with Uncle Sara."

"Well, I don't know as I'd say 'went about', and I've no doubt that he was here that night as a favour to the Old Master."  Rudigar pounded at the bar with a meaty fist; Ned tried not to topple off his seat at the start it gave him.  "That's right!" Rudigar said.  "I remember now.  'Twas the young Master's birthday, that's what they were celebrating, and mister Drogo said as he'd got dragged along from the Hall when master Saradoc decided the festivities there weren't… how did he put it?"

Frodo snorted.  "Knowing Uncle Sara, he probably put it as they were not quite up to his expectations."

Ned blinked.  Well, then.  Apparently no love lost between young Frodo Baggins and the Master of Buckland. 

Rudigar either didn't hear the peevish bite to Frodo's tone or politely chose to ignore it.  He nodded with a grin. 

"That sounds about right," he agreed.  "Your dad told me as the birthday lad decided a night at the pub was in order and that he got caught up in the rush to the door.  And that Old Rory just laughed and waved at him when he'd looked for a way out of it -- told him to keep an eye on his lads, while he was at it."

Frodo grinned this time.  "Sounds like Old Uncle."

"'Tenny rate," Rudigar went on, "they were celebrating over there, and mister Drogo was over here at the bar.  Apparently, the lads were a little much for him after a bit."  Rudigar frowned a little, peered again at the bottle on the bar.  "Bought himself a bottle of uisge with what coins he had left when the young Master was through with him." 

Frodo said nothing, only gave Rudigar a chary look and continued to sip at his drink, one hand wrapped about his glass and the other firmly gripping the bottle.  Ned hid a small chuckle; young master Frodo was quite protective of his uisge. 

Ned peered over his shoulder, looking for young Merry.  He'd never met the Master of Buckland, and probably never would, but now that he knew young Merry was his son, he decided he wanted another look.  It might be as close as he ever got to the Master, after all, and he wanted an impressive tale to tell Saffron when he got home.  Both the Thain's and the Master's sons in one night -- imagine!

He did a bit of a double-take.  Sadoc was back again.  And young Merry wasn't looking terribly happy about it.  In fact, he was looking quite cross about the whole thing, if Ned was any judge.  Merry was once again on his feet, hands clenched into fists; Pippin was at Merry's left elbow, glowering fiercely, and the one Rudigar called Rill was at Merry's right elbow, levelling a narrow, rather nasty-looking smirk at Sadoc.  Sadoc himself had not come unaccompanied: several large hobbits clustered behind him, eyes sharp, and expectant little grins on their faces.

Ned's glance caught on the bottle of uisge in the middle of the table; if he was not very much mistaken, it was already less than half-full.  And now that Ned really thought about it, young master Pippin hadn't actually said he wasn't going to share; in fact, if Ned recalled correctly, he'd quite neatly side-stepped the issue when Rudigar had brought it up.

"Anyway," Rudigar continued, twitched the cloth from his shoulder and gave the bar a quick swipe.  Ned took another look behind him before turning back to the barkeep.  "I believe it all started over young master Paladin."  He shook his head, flung the cloth back over his shoulder.  "Or perhaps master Paladin started it, I never did find out, but knowing that lot, it was our RiverMaster as started it and it was most likely over young Paladin.  But it was masters Saradoc and Milo as finished it good and proper."

"You'd best shut that rubbish-hole you call a mouth," Ned heard from behind him, turned to find that it was Rill, "or I'll shut it for you."

A nasty little smirk from Sadoc.  "Will you, then?  You and your little precious here?"  He raked Pippin with a lewd sneer before his gaze shifted, caught on Ned's; Ned quickly turned back to the bar.

"You see," Rudigar was saying, "Tooks rather like their uisge, and it makes them…"  A long-suffering sigh.  "Well, at least the Tooks move their disagreements outside when the mood takes them; Brandybucks, on the other hand tend to swing where they stand, and when there's uisge…"  He paused, shrugged a little, shot Frodo an apologetic glance then a grin to Ned.  "Well, it turns a Brandybuck mean -- never served the stuff to young Merimac, you know, not 'til he'd grown some sense.  I've no idea how he got hold of it that night, because his brother would never let him have it, either, but I rather suspect master Paladin.  Anyway, the Tooks, they tend to be a bit less careful with what they say and to whom, when the stuff is involved, so between the two of them, I've never been able to decide exactly who started it all, and they've never told."

"Really, Sadoc?" Ned didn't need to turn around and look behind him to know it was young Pippin speaking this time.  "Precious?  You're going to go with smarmy innuendo?  And here I thought you were going to be so original.  Blast, now I'm bored."

"Pippin," Merry this time, "shut your gob before you start something you can't finish."

"So, I suspect," Rudigar continued, "that it was young Paladin who let his mouth run away with him and master Merimac as got the whole thing started."

"I'm warning you, Sadoc."  Rill again.  "You'd do well to crawl back under your rock before you find yourself with your head permanently lodged up your arse."

Ned risked another glance over his shoulder.

"Under his rock?"  Pippin looked to Rill, wide-eyed.  "Now, Rill, that would imply that our Sadoc here is no more than a bug and that's highly insulting.  You'll need to apologise to bugs in general.  And anyway, his head's already up his arse."

"Pippin," Merry warned again.  "Just shut it, before I shut it for you."

"Yes, Pippin," Sadoc smirked, stepped in and swiped a fingertip down Pippin's cheek.  "Do shut it.  After all, from what I hear, you open it for just about every lad in Buckland, and we wouldn't want you to catch flies."

Oh, dear.  Sadoc was just asking for it now, and from Ned's angle, both Rill and now Merry were ready to give it to him; Merry stepped in front of Pippin, drew himself up to his full height and pushed out his chest.

"That's my cousin you're talking to," Merry snarled.

A confident shrug from Sadoc and he smirked.  "What do you care?  I've heard you say worse to him."

"I'm allowed!"

"No, you're not," came from behind him.

Merry whipped about, glared.  "Pippin, if you don't shut it--"

"He did not!" Frodo cried, and Ned startled again, turned back to find Frodo nearly collapsed on the bar, laughing.  "My father?"

Oh, bother.  Ned didn't know which way to turn anymore.  Either way, he missed something.

"Quite a right-hook on him, old Drogo," Rudigar said with a grin.  "And he'd told the Old Master he'd keep an eye on the lads -- how was it going to look if he brought them back with broken limbs and bashed-in skulls?  The Mistress would lay him out herself!"  A fond smile from the barkeep.  "Aye, master Saradoc took up for his brother, so your dad took up for master Saradoc.  This right here," he pointed to a dent in the brass railing that trimmed the mahogany of the bar, "that's from the Master's head."

Frodo's mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide.  "Uncle Sara?"  He peered down, shook his head and grinned, ran his fingertips over the dent.  "This right here is from Saradoc Brandybuck's head?"

"Aye," replied Rudigar with a twinkle.  "Old Rory came by the next day to inspect the damage and pay for the repairs, but I left this just how it was.  Old Rory said I might one day be able to claim it as the spot where sense had finally been knocked into Saradoc Brandybuck's head."

Frodo laughed again, long and loud, and Ned chuckled along with Rudigar.

"I still don't know exactly what happened to start it all, as I said," Rudigar went on, "but we looked over to see a bit of a stand-off between the hobbits at master Saradoc's table and when--"

"Take it back!" came from behind them and they all turned this time to see Merry again standing nose-to-nose with Sadoc.

"Oh," said Rudigar resignedly, his smile melting into a frown, "this can only end in tears." 

And then there was a shout, a blur of motion, and young Merry's head was slamming into the brass railing with a dull 'bong'.

"Yes," Rudigar said with a slow nod.  "That's exactly how it happened."

Ned was too stunned to move, could only sit there and blink for a moment, as Merry sat up, dazed, shook his head then pressed a hand to his forehead, snarled when his fingertips came back smeared with blood.

"Ned," said Frodo calmly, "I'd like you to meet my cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  Merry, Ned Bunce."

Ned blinked, a polite greeting automatically rising to his tongue.  "Pleased to--"

"Sodding rotter blindsided me," Merry said then peered up at Frodo.  "Now do you see what I mean?"  Glanced over at Ned.  "Hullo."

"I thought we talked about this," Frodo said, "and agreed that engaging in fisticuffs with the likes of Sadoc wasn't worth the bruises the next day."

He held out his hand; Merry rolled his eyes, took it and allowed Frodo to help him to his feet.

"You agreed," he retorted.  "I decided to use my own judgement."

"And how is that working for you?"

Merry leaned against the bar, reached over and snatched up Frodo's shotglass, tossed its contents down his throat.  "He's a mouth like the arse end of a pig and a mind to match it," he groused.  "You should have heard him over there!"

"That isn't the point, Merry," Frodo said reasonably as he swiped his glass back.  "The point is that you let them rile you too easily.  Everything riles you too easily -- even defenceless animals."

"Sadoc's an animal, I'll give you that, but he's hardly defenceless."

"I was talking about last week."

Merry frowned, obviously bewildered.  "Last week?"

"Golf?" Frodo answered.  "Uncle Paladin?"

Merry's mouth dropped open.  "That doesn't count!" he defended.  "It had nothing to do with temper, the stupid thing just got in the way!"

"You were angry because you stepped in their leavings on the fourth green and then had to take a drop and lose a stroke because you were afraid to go near them."

"I was not afraid!"  Merry was indignant.  "And anyway, Tuckborough's fairways are bloody lousy with geese and that big one attacked me!  It was lucky to die quick and painless, when you get right down to it -- I've still the bruise on my arse, you know.  I mean, who has geese in their water hazards?  Honestly!"

Frodo blinked, lifted an eyebrow.  "It was a goose, Merry.  And you were a lot bigger than it, in case you didn't notice.  You let your temper get the best of you, as always.  It didn't deserve the death-by-golf-ball it got."

"No, it deserved death-by-nine-iron and it isn't as though I did it on purpose.  I can't help it if it was too stupid to know what 'fore!' meant."

"Again," Frodo said evenly, "it was a goose."

"You keep saying that as though I was aiming for it or something.  And anyway, if it was going to make a habit of strolling about on a fairway, of all places, it should have learnt the language!"

Frodo only stared, blinked again, repeated, "Goose."

Merry rolled his eyes, clenched his teeth.  "Frodo, I've just had my head rammed into a bloody bar and I'm bleeding, for pity's sake!  Can we discuss geese and the disadvantages of the Brandybuck temper another time, please?"

Frodo's countenance softened; he leaned in, inspected the gash and rising welt on Merry's brow.

"You've had worse," he said as he retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the cut on Merry's head.  "That's hardly any blood at all."

"It's more blood than I'm comfortable parting with!" Merry growled then, "Ow!" as Frodo pressed a little too hard.