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Monograms
Author: Aratlithiel Pairing: Sam/His Fantasy Life; Frodo/Daisy; Bilbo/His Aching Head Summary: The Terror of Buckland has moved on to Hobbiton Category: General/Humour Rating: Adult (for far too many references to Girl Bits… and Boy Bits, too, now that I think about it.)
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May 28, 2008
~*~
A/N - For Estelanui, who wanted Rascal!Frodo and didn't care what he was doing or who he was with. Little did she know…
Sincerest thanks to dearest Rosina, for being a fount of Brit slang (and aren't you sorry now?) and to Elanor Gardner, for the beta and for telling me that people would laugh with me.
~*~
MONOGRAMS
~*~
"…said monograms were four points."
Sam's ears pricked and he hunched his shoulders, applied himself a little more enthusiastically to the stranglevine winding its way about the little pear tree, and hoped the owner of that voice would pass him right by without notice. That were Glory Longdale, who had yet to forgive and/or forget Sam's little lapse of judgement involving an open window, a distinct lack of clothing and Sam's own wandering eye.
"Ye can't change the rules more'n a week into the game, y'know. It en't fair."
Despite the fact that the voice was moving closer, Sam couldn't help the grin. He'd got beat for it good and proper, and the Gaffer had done nothing but growl at him for a good solid fortnight, muttering now and then about how the Master's lad might be having the wrong influence on the local youth, but oh mercy, it had so been worth it. Master Frodo'd had nothing to do with Sam's own… er, accident (it were an accident… sort of), but if that were the reason some of the fogies gave young Master Frodo the gimlet eye now and then, Sam wished him all the best in his endeavours. He didn't know if Master Bilbo made as free with the willow branches as his Gaffer did, but some things, Sam thought stoutly, were worth a switching. From the under-voiced complaints rumbling about the Grange Hall these days, Sam reckoned p'raps Master Frodo thought so, too.
"She's right, 'tisn't fair to go changing the rules when the game's been started."
That got rid of Sam's grin. That one were Primrose Boffin. Sam wouldn't look in that cow's window for all the ale in the Shire. And the beer. He whacked a little more spitefully at the vine.
"I en't changing the rules!" That were Daisy. "Monograms are four points, but only when they're on a silk handkerchief."
Sam sighed. They were coming closer with every strident contradiction, and his chances of escaping without at least pretending at polite greetings were grimly small.
"But you said silk were worth two."
"It is worth two, when it don't have a monogram."
Stars, that Primrose's voice just grated on his last nerve, though that were probably most likely because he was still smarting from when she'd nicked near half a dozen biscuits from the cooling rack, and let Sam get the blame, grinning all the while. And then gave half of them to that rotter Robin Smallburrow, Daisy looking on the whole while, smiling sweet and simpery and putting in as how she'd baked them herself, hanging on one arm of the lout while Primrose hung on the other, trading speculation back and forth as to just how Robin might have got the nickname 'Cock-robin'. Sam didn't have to speculate -- that Robin'd got the nickname because he were a strutting idjit, which made every bite of them biscuits he took like a kick to Sam's own pride, especially with his own sister noodling up to said strutting idjit and giving Sam smart-arse winks over her shoulder.
He clenched his teeth. Usually, when a lad got buggered like that, he could at least expect a reach-around. Bints.
"…silk or plain, it don't make no sense. Who has silk and a monogram on their…"
Now, Glory -- Sam'd take the blame for that one any old day; in fact, he'd probably even do the nicking for her, if it meant one more peek. Or even if not. A simple gardener-lad, just closing in on his sixteenth birthday, did not often get the pleasure of seeing such magnificent knockers so up-close and personal, and Sam almost felt he owed Miss Glory for the accidental privilege. He grinned again, a little guiltily this time, blushed a bit, and dug at the roots a little more fiercely.
"…anyway, and that Prisca's already up on me by three, and I'll be hanged if…"
They were almost on top of him now and he willed them to take the turn in the path that led down to the Water and not the one to the burrow; if they took the one to the Water, they'd walk right behind the little hillock at his back and never even see him. It would save him from having to try not to stare at Glory's biscuits.
"…for just a plain old handkerchief, two for one with a monogram, three for silk with no monogram, and four-- gah, Sam!"
"I didn't do anything!" came flying out his mouth before he could stop it, and Sam was on his feet, hands going instinctively behind his back to hide… hide stranglevine, for the love of all that was blessed; he rolled his eyes at himself and scowled. Stars, he hated it when Daisy used that Mother Voice; it always made him feel like he'd been… well, looking in windows, since he was already on the subject, and the guilty flush deepened. With a moody grimace and an unvoiced curse -- because he hadn't been doing anything more sinister than pulling weeds, for pity's sake, what did he have to feel guilty about, anyway? -- he flung the vine to the ground, wiped his hands on his trousers then shoved them in his pockets. He deliberately looked at no one but his sister, eyed her warily. "What?" he wanted to know.
Daisy frowned back, just as warily. "Was you spying?"
"Well, if I'd meant to spy, I'd have to be a mind-reader, too, wouldn't I, since I were here first!"
He hoped the indignation in his tone distracted from the fact that he'd not answered the question. And anyway, he hadn't been spying -- he might have been eavesdropping, but it weren't his fault they all talked like they were a mile apart, and it weren't like he knew what in blazes they were talking about or even cared. Monograms. Handkerchiefs. Female falderal, that's what it was, and he'd be more than happy to leave them to it, if they'd just go away and leave him to his weeding and… and other things. And anyway, it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his eyes from wandering to Glory.
All right, Glory's mulligans.
"'Course he was," Primrose put in. "What else do little trolls have to do but crouch in the shadows and spy on more interesting folk."
Sam's lip curled on a sneer and his eyes narrowed. Little troll. Argh. Like she should go blathering about trolls; she'd best mind what she said, else someone might end up whacking her with her own ugly-stick. Again. Ha! Then she'd be twice as ugly. He almost snorted out loud. Of course, Sam couldn't actually tell her any of this; not just because it would be a little on the cruel side and Sam was not cruel by nature, but because Glory's wobblers were right in his peripheral vision and they were beginning to muddle his brain a little.
"Nobody likes you, ya know," was all he ended up telling Primrose.
Daisy tried to muffle a snort and Primrose sent her a glare; Sam quickly looked down and focussed on the slim trunk of the pear tree, else he risked a snort himself and that would just make them stay longer.
"He was listening," Primrose said, an evil little glint in her eye as she sidled past Daisy, bent to Sam's toolbox and plucked out the smaller of the two loppers.
That made Sam look up. "Hoy!" he cried. "That en't yours and you oughtn't be playing with it."
"Well, you weren't invited into our conversation and you oughtn't've been listening."
"And you oughtn't be diddling with a hobbit's tools!" He took a step, held out his hand. "Give it here!"
"Oooh, he's a hobbit now, is he? All growed up, are ya, then?" She stood firm, gave a sly little smile, and slipped the tool -- Sam gaped -- right into her cleavage. "Tell us what you heard and maybe you'll get it back."
Sam wasn't so sure he wanted it back now. Normally, the tool's current location would have immediately increased its value for Sam -- dumplings were dumplings, after all -- but these particular dumplings were attached to Primrose Boffin. His mind fogged a little as his libido began a half-hearted and rather bewildered squabble with his sense of justice.
Before she'd nicked the lopper, Sam might have told them everything he'd heard -- who cared, after all? He certainly didn't. What was it all to him? Now, he was edging into a simmer, and tempted to keep his mouth shut just for the sake of contrariness. Who did Primrose think she was, making free with his things? And it was more than clear whose side Daisy was on.
He ought to tell them he'd heard everything and bolt off, make them worry over who else he might tell and whether it might get back to the Gaffer. Make them stew. Because even if Sam had no idea what they were talking about, by the way they were all worriting over whether or not he'd heard it, he was fair-certain that, whatever it was, Daisy didn't want it getting back to their dad.
Still, the lopper set had been a gift from Mister Bilbo the past Yule, when the Gaffer had officially handed over sole responsibility for Bag End's kitchen garden to Sam. Dwarvish-make Mister Bilbo had told Sam, made of a steel so fine it wouldn't never rust, the blades so keen their sharpness would probably outlive Sam. Even the Gaffer had been impressed. They must've been in on it together, the Gaffer and the Master, planning the giving of the garden and the lopper set into one combined endorsement of Sam's growing skills. And they had to have been planning it since at least the autumn previous; Mister Bilbo had to have sent all the way to Dale for the tool, after all.
That did it -- Sam was angry now, and edging dangerously towards rage. Knockers notwithstanding, it was his gift and his property and she ought not be putting her honkers all over it. At least not without express permission. It just weren't proper. Now, Glory, on the other han--
"Samwise!"
"What?"
Bugger. That one had made Sam jump a little and his persistent blush deepened at Glory's little smirk. To his sincere chagrin, he only just prevented his mouth from curling up into a stupid, sappy grin in return.
"Tell us what you heard," Glory said, the smirk sliding away now and in its place, a supple, inviting smile, lashes swept low over a smoky, hazel gaze. "Go on," she furthered softly, full lips forming the words into something that was making Sam's libido pay very close attention. One long, slender finger traced a ribbon winding amongst the lace of her bodice. "You can tell me, can't you?"
See, this strategy might just work. Sam's respect for Glory instantly went up several notches. Not only was she magnificently endowed, but she was smart, too.
Oh, there were so many things Sam could tell Glory Longdale. And in very great detail. And he wanted to, that was the thing -- wanted to tell her anything she wanted to hear, in fact, and just go on telling until those plump, moist lips finally shaped the words, 'Stop talking, Sam, and find something more interesting to do with your mouth.'
Sam very nearly admitted to starting the Battle of Fornost, just to give her the confession she was asking for.
Instead, he found his tongue turning itself into an uncooperative lump in his mouth, and all he could manage to blurt was, "Nuthin'." Which was more or less true, actually; he'd only been paying half-attention in the first place, and it wasn't as though all the nattering about monograms and silk made a lick of sense, anyhow.
"Samwise."
There was that Mother Voice again, and Sam peered over at his sister, his shoulders hunching a little out of habit and a scowl at that particular habit working its way between his eyebrows. He was almost sixteen years old, for pity's sake, and she weren't his mum, just his sister, and he'd be the boss of her someday, when he reached his majority. If she weren't married by then. And if she let him live that long. Which wasn't always a given.
"It en't proper to be listening to other people's private conversations," Daisy said, voice laden with an unmistakable threat that made Sam's teeth clench. "Dad wouldn't think so, neither, so if you don't want--"
"I didn't hear a blessed thing!" Sam growled. "I've other things to keep my head busy, you know, the world don't revolve around you. Why you'd think I'd want to hear your blathering, I don't know, but whatever's so blasted important and secret to you don't mean nuts to me. Although, if you want to keep something secret, you shouldn't ought to go blatting it all up and down the Hill." He glared at his sister, pointed over to Primrose. "Make her give it back, or Dad'll be hearing all about what's proper and what en't!"
They stared, Daisy's brown eyes boring right into Sam, and it was all he could do to keep from squirming. He'd never snapped back at Daisy like that before, and certainly not in front of others. If he'd tried that just last year, she'd've had him out to the old willow by now, cutting his own switch. But this weren't last year. Sam was growing up -- even the Gaffer and Mister Bilbo thought so, and young Master Frodo always talked to him like he had a brain in his head and not just a big wad of stuffing; a body got used to that real quick-like, and it made it hard to swallow when you were then treated like a faunt, thwarted by the bigger bullies playing Keep Away.
He purposefully straightened his back, tilted his glance towards wrathful and set his jaw. He was in it now and nothing for it; all he could do was wait it out and see what happened next. He would either walk away with his lopper, or limp away with a lot less dignity than he'd started with. He kept his glare, hardened it a little, and dug in to wait.
Daisy blinked first.
She slid her gaze over to Primrose, said, "Give it back," and then shot a narrow, somewhat amused glance back to Sam.
"But what if he--"
"He won't," Daisy said, still looking at Sam, and now she smiled, small and clever. "Go on, then," she told Primrose. "Give it back."
Primrose hmphed, slipped the tool out of her cleavage and tossed it at Sam's head. Sam caught it one-handed, narrowly avoiding what would have been an impressive shiner, had it hit its mark, and was quite pleased with himself that he'd managed not to flinch. The lopper was skin-warm; Sam let the libido and the indignation draw straws as to how he was going to feel about that.
Daisy stepped in close, smiled at Sam, and it was a real smile this time -- not a smirk and not that sly thing she had on before. This time he almost did flinch when Daisy leaned in close, bussed him on the cheek.
"Ladies," she said, sparkling gaze still locked with Sam's, "I do believe young Samwise is coming into his own." The smile widened to a grin and she winked at Sam. "You'd all best watch out for this one. This time next year, I'm thinking that trick with the lopper won't work so well."
If Glory had tried it, Sam was near-certain, it wouldn't have worked this time, neither, because it wouldn't have taken much convincing for him to dive in after it.
"But Daisy!" Stars above, that caterwaul of Primrose's could go right through a person's teeth and down his spine. "What if he--"
"Didn't I say he won't?" Daisy spared a withering glare for Primrose before turning back to Sam. "He's nearly a grown hobbit," she said with that same warm smile as before. "He'll have his own secrets and games to play afore long, if he hasn't done already, and blood looks out for its own." And then she frowned a little, put her arm about Sam's shoulders to speak quietly into his ear: "You've not been up to your own games already, have ye, Sammy?"
Sam sputtered, jerked back. Games. Cor, as if he was going to tell his sister… wait.
Was that what they'd been on about? Handkerchiefs and monograms and…
Augh!
Tweening. They'd been talking about tweening! Which, all right, had it just been Glory and Primrose, it would have been one of Sam's tamer dreams come true, but… but his sister! His sister was talking about tweening games! Bloody ew!
If he beat himself in the head with the lopper, could he kill the things suddenly chasing themselves around in his brain?
It was inevitable, had to happen, and Sam knew that with some part of his head -- why should Daisy be different from any other lass her age, after all -- but no one had ever made him actually think about it before. His sister and dumplings and tweening and biscuits and… Bugger. That unavoidably brought Robin Smallburrow back to mind, and if that weren't enough to set any hobbit off his feed for a good, solid week. Sam doubted even old Cock-robin featured himself in his own fantasies, if the palsy of ew ew ew! that shook Sam were any clue. Because really -- who wanted to see that?
"Gah!" Sam shut his eyes tight, shook his head. "Oh, that's just wrong," he moaned.
Wait, this were his sister. And he were the Hobbit About the Burrow now, with his brothers gone and all. Shouldn't he be… protecting her virtue or something?
Did she have any?
Don't want to know, don't want to know -- Do. Not. Want. To. Know.
And -- amazing and anathema as it was -- he had now completely lost any and all interest in dumplings, mulligans, or honkers. And anything that might come along with them.
"Daisy," he managed, voice strangled and rough, "I'll do anything you want, if you'll just take them two and go away now."
"Sam, are you--"
"Not a word," he grated, eyes still shut tight, because really -- he might still salvage the Glory of his dreams if he never -- ever -- had to think of her in this particular context, and having to look at her now would cock that right up. "I won't say a blessed word about anything I may or may not've heard, if you'll just go now, all right?"
"But what--"
"Please!" Nearly choked out this time, and Sam didn't spare an ounce of energy towards feeling embarrassed by the pleading tone of it; he needed every bit of strength to beat back the images now most likely seared forever behind his eyeballs.
Long silence from Daisy, and if Sam weren't so studiously blanking his mind, he might have been able to picture her frowning. Then: "All right, Sam. C'mon, girls. Sam's got his own concerns to see to."
Sam listened intently for the swish of skirts and feet through grass to recede into the distance before he let himself sink down to the ground and take a deep, long breath. It took him a good ten minutes to work up the courage to open his eyes.
~*~
"Bilbo's going to flay me."
Frodo peered down at himself with not a little chagrin. No tears in his clothes, at least; that was something to cling to, he supposed. Still, that red clay was not only going to be hard to get past Bilbo, but it was rather like lighting fireworks in the sky as to where Frodo had been. There was only one place outside the Northfarthing that boasted that clay.
And it wasn't as though Frodo wasn't permitted as far as the Goodbody's farm -- he had no restrictions on his travels, other than that Bilbo liked to at least see him across the breakfast table every few days -- but he had a sinking feeling that Mister Goodbody was going to be making it his business to 'just happen to run into' one Mister Bilbo Baggins at The Dragon within the week, where he would, no doubt, expound long and loud on a certain Incident Concerning An Unidentified Dark-haired Lad, who only remained officially unidentified due to his quick -- and admittedly rather graceless -- exit out the loft window of the barn. And then, no doubt, further comment would be made on how the by-now Irate Mister Goodbody, having been witness to his daughter's -- lovely Miss Prisca, and oh my, but 'Goodbody' didn't half cover it -- woeful state of semi-undress, pursued said Unidentified Lad mercilessly for what must have been bloody hours. There would then be a lengthy tale of a mad-tear through the paddock, an awkward and fairly gamey dash through the sties and then a rather embarrassing slip-tumble-scree down the slope of too-bloody-distinctive red clay that led to the surrounding wood, wherein said Unidentified Lad lost said Irate Mister Goodbody by hunkering on a thick branch about thirty feet up the nearest pine, waiting him out and thanking every star in the sky that this particular farmer did not favour dogs.
Well, that last bit would probably be left to speculation, as Mister Goodbody had repeatedly failed to look up.
Capture having been evaded by the skin of his teeth, and having left no incriminating evidence at the scene -- Frodo quickly patted himself down; no, all articles of clothing he'd left the burrow with this morning were accounted for -- he intended now to do his damnedest to remain Unidentified. Or, failing that, at least Unidentified For Lack Of Solid Proof. Or, as Goodbody would no doubt refer to him, The Lad Wot Buggered Off Afore I Could Get A Good Look At 'Im. If he was to maintain any of those dubious identities -- or non-identities, as it were -- he had to get this red clay out of his clothes somehow.
The good news was that it was still relatively early in the season and the water at the Pool would be too cold for the locals to be nipping off for a quick wade or paddle. The bad news was that it was therefore too cold for anyone to be going for a wade or paddle -- or full immersion, Frodo thought with a grimace -- and Frodo was going to freeze his arse off.
"Better freeze it off than have it whipped off," he muttered.
Not that he really thought Bilbo would take a switch to him or anything -- he was twenty-five, after all -- but he wouldn't put it past the old hobbit to wink at Goodbody while he did the whipping. Bilbo could be a smart-arse like that sometimes.
And anyway, Bilbo was getting a little too nosy these days; it seemed like every time some lass got caught with her bloomers down and her father with only the back of the swift-moving hobbit to go by for any sort of dubious identification, that father would then find some way to 'just happen to run into' Bilbo and report the incident to The Master, with no lack of clever speculation and innuendo as to who the lad might have been. And every time, Frodo then had to sit through an interrogation as to where he'd been, who he'd been with, blahbittyblah, which inevitably segued into yet another Talk.
Frodo had never had so many talks about the birds and the bees in all his life.
And he didn't even know some of the lasses!
The talks themselves made no sense, since if he had been with all of the lasses in question, he obviously knew what he was doing -- no, he was not smirking -- and even if they had been necessary, how many times did a hobbit need to hear about stamens and pistils, for pity's sake? Bilbo could at least have the decency to change the narrative up a bit. And he had illustrations! Frodo rather thought the 'punishment' was not only the numbing boredom, but the fact that Bilbo got far too much amusement out of watching his ward twitch through the pollen bits.
All in all, Bilbo was taking this whole 'Guardian' thing a lot more seriously than Frodo had thought he would.
He blew out a long breath, tried not to feel the slight chill lingering in the air, really tried not to think about how cold the water was likely to be, and began to strip. It was more like peeling than disrobing, but it did feel good to slough off the heavy, clammy trousers. His jacket was probably a lost cause, but it had at least served the purpose of sparing his waistcoat and shirt. He regretted now having decided -- in a fit of spring fashion-sense -- on the beige jacket, but at least the trousers were brown and more likely to hide the stains. If he couldn't get the clay out, he might be able to slip past Bilbo with the jacket flung over an arm, but he didn't think that would work with the trousers. Bilbo may spend an inordinate amount of time in his own little world, but he'd probably notice Frodo coming home trouser-less. And if he didn't, someone along the way would no doubt make sure to point it out to him. Mister Goodbody sprang immediately to mind.
Frodo held back a growl. Perhaps if he'd had time to at least get Prisca's knickers down, all this might have been worth it. Now, all he seemed likely to get from this little adventure was that his blue balls were about to get even bluer.
All right, enough faffing about; if he didn't do this soon, not only would he miss the warmest part of the day, but he wouldn't leave himself enough time for the clothes to dry at least partially before Bilbo expected him back home, and it really wouldn't do to be late today. Best he be on his most gentlehobbitly behaviour for a few days and leave a good impression with his uncle before Mister Goodbody got hold of him.
Frodo quickly emptied the pockets of his trousers, tossed all of their contents onto the pile of semi-clean shirt and waistcoat then added his underlinens, and eyed the pool of still, clear water dubiously. Wading in would most likely be a mistake; he'd probably only get in up to his knees before losing his nerve. A direct and head-on plunge was the only way to go, here, and anticipatory gooseflesh broke out all over him at the thought. Nothing for it, though. The only thing to do was to sidle out on the bole of the great fallen tree, the roots of which still stubbornly clung to the hard-pack of the shore of the Pool, and the rest of which lay slashed across the water, its once-proud head now slicked and slimed and mostly submerged, rotting nubby branches jutting up at odd angles before disappearing altogether beneath the placid surface. The little ones used it to cling to when wading past their knees and the older ones sometimes lay upon it like lizards in the sun during the warmer months.
Providentially -- or not, depending upon one's mood, Frodo supposed -- it sank beneath the surface at the deepest part of the Pool. Frodo had, once or twice, shocked the locals by taking a running-start from shore, flying out to the end of the fallen tree and plunging into the water with a whoop and a great splash; the stunned looks and ill-hidden whispers that followed quickly convinced him that he should save his Crazy River-lad Antics for when the Pool was less populated.
Like now.
He sighed.
"Quick and over all at once," Frodo told himself with a firm nod.
He gathered the jacket and trousers to his chest, ignored the cold, slimy feel of the mud against his bare skin and grimaced a little before carefully stepping out onto the slippery surface of the great tree.
"Quick and over all at once," he said again, though the nod was a little less firm this time. "Quick and over." He squared his shoulders. "Quick. And. Over." And he sighed again. "Right."
Stars above, all this trouble and he'd never even got as far as getting Prisca's bodice all the way unlaced.
He clenched his teeth, shook his head. "Bilbo," he muttered, "if I die of shock from the cold, I'm coming back to haunt you."
With a growl and a bracing shift of his shoulders, he filled his lungs with a great, deep breath. Not giving himself even one more moment to contemplate the temperature of the water, he clutched the jacket and trousers to his chest, took a running start to the end of the log, and plunged into the Pool.
Gah, coldocoldcold, Great Bullroarer's Balls, coldcoldfreezingbloodycold!
He almost lost the clothes in his frantic attempt to resurface. He exploded out of the water, sputtering and blowing, cursing incoherently, and just generally snarling at Irate Farmers and Nosy Guardians as a whole. So, it only stood to reason that it took him a few minutes to register the female laughter coming from the shore.
Frodo whipped his head about, cascades of water flying from the sopping ends of his hair, and cringed. Then sighed.
Things just never went to plan, never.
"Miss Daisy," he said, dipped his head in as formal a bow as he could presently manage, and tried to stop his teeth from chattering. "Miss Glory, and…" He paused, squinted. "Miss Primrose, isn't it?"
"Master Frodo," Daisy replied with a little curtsy, a rather fetching blush to her cheek as she held back her giggles. "We thought that was you, but couldn't tell for sure from be-- That is, we only saw your backsi-- That is, from the rear--"
"Yes, Daisy, I see," Frodo cut in, steadfastly ignoring the way the other two nearly doubled over behind Daisy in a paroxysm of near-hysterical twittering. Obviously, they'd been there before he'd jumped into the water; he must have been putting on some show, bare arse and all the other bits flapping in the wind, as they'd been.
Frodo gathered his non-existent dignity, cleared his throat.
"Pardon my, um…" (existence?), "…my state of…" (mortification? absurdity? insanity?) "…my indiscretion, but I rather thought I'd have the place to myself."
(Translation: Go away, please, before my stones freeze off, I think they've gone numb already, and I've become quite attached to them just lately. They come rather in handy, I've found, and I'd show you, but I'm not even sure they're still there, so please go away now, so I can check.)
More twittering. And why wasn't the furious blush, which was no doubt turning his face into something most likely resembling a gigantic flaming raspberry, at least going a little way towards warming the rest of him? Were there no such things as small favours anymore?
All he needed now was for them to pull the trick of running off with his clothes and leaving him stranded. With a bit of a grimace, he realised it was probably what he would have done in the same situation. It was almost a requirement, when you happened upon a knicker-less halfwit who hadn't had the sense to secure his clothing before taking his eyes off his surroundings. Frodo reluctantly remembered all of his own stealthy prowling through the undergrowth by the River-strand; he hadn't got the moniker The Terror of Buckland for nothing, after all. He'd bloody-well earned it, hadn't he?
At least Frodo would still have his trousers, and he clutched what remained of his clothes a little more firmly to his chest beneath the water. Trousers and a jacket -- no, Bilbo wouldn't notice that bit of a fashion statement. Meh.
Perhaps this was some sort of kismet or divine payback. That would figure. And perhaps Bilbo would be laughing too hard to spare breath for a Talk.
No sooner had he begun cursing himself for a twice-arsed fool than Primrose was bending over the pile of his clothes, poking at it with a sly little grin tilted up towards her friends. Frodo only sighed; it stood to reason that it would be Primrose who thought of it. Evil cow.
There was no way in the world he was going to emerge from the cover of the water, not even under the threat of losing the clothes. Because starkers and the embarrassment of such notwithstanding, there was the even more potentially-humiliating issue of shrinkage to consider. The water was awfully cold.
He was just resigning himself to losing everything but what he held in his now numbing grasp, and mentally re-arranging his plan to get past Bilbo -- not to mention getting from the Pool to the Hill unseen -- when Daisy gave a bit of a snappish, "Hoy!", shooed Primrose up and away from the pile and then stood over it protectively. A hissed conversation ensued, during which Frodo could only guess they were arguing over which of them got to toss the pile into the nearest sty -- and how would he explain that one to Bilbo, especially if, stars forbid, the owner of the sty had a daughter floating about the premises who had been conveniently debauched recently -- when Daisy gathered up the pile and clutched it to her chest. She turned to Frodo, composed herself with a little smile and straightened her back.
"I'll just keep an eye on these for you, shall I, Master Frodo?" she called to him. "There's some folk--" she paused to glare at her companions, "--who might be tempted to have a little joke on you, otherwise."
"Um…" Frodo said, and blinked in surprise, but not yet
relief. He wasn't entirely sure that any of them could be trusted, in truth,
but with the looks Daisy was getting from both Primrose and Glory, and the looks
she was giving back, he very cautiously reconsidered his disappointment at the
lack of small favours. "Thank you, Miss--" "Which of ye've got his trousers?" Daisy snapped, narrowing a sharp glower on the other two.
Primrose and Glory both took an involuntary step back, shaking their heads, as Daisy advanced on them.
"Um… here," Frodo quickly volunteered. "I've got those, Daisy." Not that he was opposed to the prospect of a cat-fight, but it wouldn't be half as much fun if it came about because of his own dishonesty. And the water was getting really cold. He held up the trousers and the jacket, waved them over his head. "Had a bit of an accident," he explained. "I was just going to give them a quick wash when you arrived."
"Oh," Daisy said, frowned and squinted towards him. "What've you got on them?" she wanted to know. "Is that…" She took a step towards the water, leaned out and narrowed her eyes yet further. "Is that red clay?"
Frodo quickly dunked the sopping bundle back beneath the water. "Um…" he said.
What, did she have eagle eyes, for pity's sake? Frodo's hopes of escaping indictment entirely had depended upon no one making any connection whatsoever between himself and the Goodbody farm; now, if Mister Goodbody did start spreading tales about the Unidentified Lad having rolled about in red clay, there were three people who might volunteer the fact that The Master's Heir happened to have been spotted trying to get rid of some rather incriminating evidence.
And worse, he could only watch helplessly as Daisy's frown turned slowly to a smirk and she turned a sharp little smile on her companions. And there was no doubt about it: he definitely heard her say, "Prisca," before the three of them once more broke down into muffled giggles and hissed debate.
There went the 'small favours' idea again. Clearly, there was no such thing. Blast and buggery.
Very little of the conversation reached Frodo's ears. "… three points down," was all he could make out from Daisy and then, "Well, I get the next one, then," from Glory. Whatever the argument was this time, Daisy appeared to be winning it. Which was all well and good for her, but 'freezing his arse off' was fast becoming something other than a mildly-amusing metaphor to Frodo.
"Er, Daisy," he called, "I wonder if you'd mind--"
"Master Frodo," Daisy cut in as she spun about with a grin, "Glory and Primrose have to be off, I'm afraid, but they'll be sure to take care that no one else knows you've been here."
Frodo blinked, eyebrows rising. Was it possible that Daisy could read minds as well as spot red clay from forty paces?
And sure enough, both Glory and Primrose gave Frodo a sly little smile and a wave each, a bit of a glower towards Daisy, then turned and made their way back the way they'd come. Heads bent together as they walked, their snorted laughter was the last thing to follow them, and as it died down, Frodo turned a wary eye to Daisy.
Daisy was busy on the shore, folding his shirt and waistcoat neatly, making a show of dusting off a large flat rock, and laying the small bundle atop it. The former contents of his pockets followed, and once she had everything stacked to her satisfaction, she peered over to Frodo with a bright smile.
Frodo flashed her back a rather bewildered one, cleared his throat. "Uh… Daisy," he said, "may I ask if… that is, the water's getting awfully cold…"
He left it there, stared at her with a hopeful lift of his eyebrows. After all, if she could deduce a covert tryst with Prisca and the need to keep it covert, and all from red clay, surely she could guess that he needed her to leave so that he could get out of the water and get dressed. That was, if he could still move. The assumption of which was fast becoming rather dubious. The only reason he knew he even still had legs was because his head was still above the water.
But all Daisy said was, "Yes, I imagine it is. I hope you have a hearty constitution, or you're like to catch your death in there." And she broadened her smile, blinked wide, sparkling brown eyes at him.
Frodo stared. Blinked back. "Well," he replied slowly, "the point is rather that I wouldn't, you see. Want to catch my death."
Daisy nodded agreeably. "I should think," she answered, her smile sunny and sweet.
Which only made Frodo's gut curl a little with suspicion. Was she just planning to wait him out until he was forced to emerge, shrinkage and all? The way the shudders were now wracking through him, he was afraid the wait wouldn't be very long.
"Miss Gamgee," he said steadily, "do you suppose you could possibly find something else to do for a few moments?"
Daisy's smile curled even wider. "Why, Master Frodo," she replied, as she slipped a hand to her bodice, "I thought you'd never ask. I certainly hope 'a few moments' is your way of being modest."
And to Frodo's stunned amazement, she began undoing the laces of her dress. Not that he was complaining, but--
"Er, Daisy?" he stuttered. "What are--"
"Now don't you fret yourself, Master Fr--" She stopped, grinned and tilted a clever little smirk at him, fingers all the while working at the buttons and laces of her clothing. "I suppose I ought to claim the liberty of calling you Frodo for now, don't you?"
Frodo's mouth wasn't working quite as well as his eyes were, currently riveted to the smooth, creamy skin slowly being revealed from beneath layers of cotton. "Uh…" was all he said.
"I mean," Daisy went on blithely with a small flip of her hand through the long chestnut curls falling over one shoulder, "here we are, just a lad and a lass, with an afternoon to ourselves and no one about to say different, aye? No need to stand on formalities, 'less it's what you prefer…?"
She paused, fingers hovering just inside the dip between two enticingly round, smooth and very bare breasts. Frodo tore his gaze away just in time to see her eyebrows rise expectantly.
His mouth still wasn't working. He swallowed. "Uh…" he said again, and was now more than certain that his stones had not frozen off after all. And why had he been thinking before that the water was cold? He'd obviously been mistaken; a thin sweat had broken out on his brow and upper-lip, and cold was now the farthest thing from his mind.
"I thought not," Daisy said, renewed her grin and let bodice and blouse drop from bare shoulders, only just beginning to lose last year's healthy golden tan. "Things are a little different when folks have nothing between 'em but their skins, don't you agree?" And then she unhooked her skirt, let it drop to the ground in a billow about her feet.
Frodo agreed. Oh, Frodo agreed. Every single bit of Frodo agreed. In fact, parts of Frodo were standing up and nodding enthusiastic agreement right now.
He'd always thought Daisy quite fetching and had wished more than once that she'd turn those bright eyes on him. She had a soft, lilting laugh, a rather eye-catching way of tossing that mass of sorrel curls, and a kind, capable way about her that was always edged with clever humour. And more -- he liked her. He liked her a lot, in fact. And the bits were becoming rather fond of her, as well.
Except…
Some other treacherous part of Frodo -- stupid bigger-brain with its thinky nattering -- told him that if Bilbo would flay him if he found out about Prisca, he'd kill him if he ever found out about Daisy. That was one of Bilbo's first lessons: Never, never tween with a lass whose family was in any way beholden to the Hill. But it seemed like almost every family within twenty bloody leagues of Hobbiton was in some way beholden to the Hill and how fair was that, when an obviously-willing and quite-naked Daisy was standing there and not-quite-caring to wait for an invitation?
As if to prove the point, "Shall I come in and join you?" Daisy asked smoothly, small, fawn-furred foot stepping lightly from the skirt and towards the water. "If you'll hold on to me real tight and make sure as I don't drown, I'll see what I can do about that clay. And, um…" she grinned, twinkled at him, "…we'll just see what else comes up. An even trade, wouldn't you say?"
See, this wasn't fair. He could only think with one brain at a time and right now, the bigger one wasn't winning.
Honestly, was there a male in all the world who, in his particular and unique position, would find the wit to say no? Could find the wit? He hardly thought so. Then again, the smaller-brain was doing the majority of the thinking right now.
"Er…" said Frodo. Well, at least his vocabulary had moved on from the Uhs and into a different vowel family.
And now that Frodo thought about it, one of Bilbo's other many lessons was that he should always, always mind his manners and have a care not to insult the tenants or labourers that served Bag End. And standing here like a dolt, ignoring a perfectly obvious request for an invitation to join him in the Pool, seemed to Frodo to be unconscionably ill-mannered. Downright rude, when he thought about it. Why, even the Gaffer would probably say so, stickler on propriety and decorum that he was…
All right, that was probably pushing it.
But still.
Somehow, a somewhat dopey grin had slid to Frodo's face when he wasn't paying attention, and he only watched as Daisy took it as acquiescence and began wading into the water. Dark pink nipples peaked beautifully firm as the chill of the water touched her skin, and Frodo paused to admire the way the sun splashed golden over long, slender legs and warmed the light fur of them to the rich colour of honey. Smooth, round hips soon disappeared beneath the calm slate of the water, and Frodo was just beginning a lament that the intoxicating swells of her breasts would soon be next when Daisy paused, reached over to the log and leaned against it, arching her back over its bole and giving a lazy little sigh.
"I think you'd best meet me halfway," she murmured, dipping her head back until the tips of gold-lit curls streamed into the water behind her. "You promised not to let me drown." And she turned her head, slanted a half-lidded glance to him, smiled a little and crooked a finger. "Come on, then," she said.
Shrinkage? Was no longer a problem.
Frodo found that he did have legs, after all. And the stones were present and accounted for.
And he finally got his mouth to work.
~*~
Bilbo paused in the tunnel, waited for the sound of coughing to subside, winced at a harsh sneeze, then shook his head and resumed his pace. The kettle should be boiling by now and he wanted to make sure he got some of that elderberry and meadowsweet tea into Frodo before trying to get him to eat something. And perhaps it would take care of Bilbo's own pounding head. He sighed. The lad was going to be the end of him.
The kitchen was warm, the hearth blazing high and the stove stoked to within an inch of its life. A little late in the spring to be using up so much firewood, but as little as he knew about The Care And Feeding Of Young Hobbits -- which was a lot more than Esmeralda seemed to think, but that was another matter -- he did know that when a person was down with the ague, it was important to keep them warm, dry and fed. And this particular ague had been keeping a firm grasp on his young ward for longer than Bilbo liked, so beginning to feel like a slow-roasting turnip in his own smial was a small price to pay; he kept the fires stoked and young Samwise kept the wood supply stocked.
At least it had the side-effect of keeping Frodo at home, for a change. And out of trouble.
Bilbo rolled his eyes.
That wasn't entirely fair, he supposed. Frodo wasn't trouble so much as a magnet for it. His unfortunate reputation in Buckland had somehow leaked all the way here to Hobbiton, even before he'd come here to stay, and Bilbo rather thought that, considering the somewhat provincial attitudes of most Hobbiton residents, it was going to take an awful lot of good behaviour and deeds for the poor lad to overcome it.
Not that Bilbo had any doubt whatsoever that the lad more than likely deserved at least some of the less-than-quiet rumour floating about the Grange Hall and the various inns and pubs of the village; but good glory, if Frodo bedded nearly as many lasses as the number of fathers suddenly seeking Bilbo's attention indicated, he doubted the boy would have the energy to walk, let alone all the tumbling he was speculated to be doing. And no dark-haired fair-skinned little fauntlings had been brought to Bilbo's attention thus far, so even if the lad was being a little too carefree with his affections, at least he was being smart about it.
Still, Bilbo did so enjoy the Talks. Nothing was as sure to make the lad twitch as when Bilbo started in on the pollen bits. He'd have to make some more illustrations for next time; those always seemed to result in a cold-sweat and a sudden desire to stick about the burrow for the better part of a week.
Bilbo snorted, added the herbs in the prescribed amounts to the tea leaves already in the infuser, dropped the infuser into the teapot and poured the hot water. Setting it to steep, he turned his attention to the baskets of baked goods on the sideboard. And he snorted again.
As soon as word spread that the Young Master was under the weather, the baskets started arriving. Sometimes the lass would come herself, shy and smiling demurely at the big, green door, pushing the basket at Bilbo along with her name and her compliments to Master Frodo; sometimes a younger sibling would be drafted into service for the purpose, but Bilbo never doubted they'd been bribed into it by one of Frodo's… acquaintances. Or a lass who hoped to one day be an acquaintance -- who could keep track anymore?
He pulled two cinnamon biscuits from the basket young Miss Longdale had delivered just this morning and placed them next to the cranberry roll from young Miss Goodbody.
Bilbo rolled his eyes at that one. He'd been accosted not two days ago at The Dragon by the girl's father, going on about some lad who'd been almost-caught in a compromising position, but 'buggered off afore I got a good look at 'im,' and it had taken all of Bilbo's tact to reassure the burly -- and rather irate -- farmer that Frodo had been sick in bed for the better part of a week and that the 'search' should be conducted in a different direction. Mister Goodbody had tried to corner Bilbo and badger him as to how long, and starting when, and did he have clay on his clothes, and it had given Bilbo an inordinate amount of satisfaction to assure the hobbit that no, in fact, there had been not a trace of red clay about the burrow, though how red clay figured into a tryst, Bilbo wanted to neither know nor guess.
"Mister Bilbo, sir?"
Bilbo turned, smiled. "Ah, young Samwise!" He gestured for the lad to come in and took down another teacup and plate from the cupboard. Sam wasn't always in time to have elevenses before his lessons, but he must have got done with his chores early today. "The wood stacked up for me, is it?"
Sam nodded as he carefully wiped his feet on the kitchen mat and removed his hat before crossing the threshold. "Yes, sir, all by the door here, as you asked."
"Good lad," Bilbo said then turned back to his elevenses preparations. "Have a seat there, Samwise, I've got the tea steeping. Hope you don't mind a bit of elderberry and meadowsweet in it. A different sort of taste, but pleasant nonetheless, and quite suited to elevenses, I think."
"I don't mind a'tall, sir," Sam replied. "In fact, I'd prefer. Daisy's got her own case of the ague and I'd rather not be getting it, if you know what I mean."
"I certainly do," Bilbo concurred. "I hope she's not feeling too badly, Sam. Here, sit, sit."
Sam took the chair Bilbo indicated, shook his head. "Them spring colds is the worst, I think," he said sympathetically. "Seems they drag on and on, and don't let a body get near enough rest." He waited for Bilbo to pour him some tea and offer the sugarbowl. "Master Frodo's still poorly, then?"
"Ibe feelink better, Sab, thag you," came from the kitchen doorway.
Sam half-stood with a nod of his head and grinned up at Frodo; Bilbo peered over his shoulder and gave his own smile.
"Well, you're looking a little better, lad." Which was true; he didn't look quite so much like death on a plate anymore, at any rate. "How's your head?"
"Powdink, but dot so steadily." Frodo flopped into his chair and let Bilbo pour him some tea, added a bit of honey before turning his attention to the plate Bilbo pushed in front of him. "Are those cidamod?"
Bilbo nodded with a small, sideways smile. "From Miss Longdale," he answered.
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Miss Glory Longdale?" he blurted then quickly blushed and dropped his gaze.
"Why, yes," Bilbo told him, with just a touch of surprise. "I'm quite sure that was the young lady's name. Quite lovely, with rather striking hazel eyes."
Bilbo watched Frodo meet Sam's furtively tentative glance towards him then a slow smile turned up both corners of his mouth; Sam returned it with a somewhat sly one of his own and the two lads ducked their heads in some strange sort of concordance that Bilbo didn't want to know about.
Frodo caught the roll of Bilbo's eyes, sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. "Ad how is your fabbly, Sab?" he asked politely, gave Bilbo a sidelong look and relaxed a little when Bilbo returned him a small, approving nod.
"Oh, fairly well, Master Frodo, thank you for asking." Sam stuffed a cinnamon biscuit into his mouth with a little more vigour than Bilbo thought they deserved, but Sam seemed to be enjoying them immensely.
"Your dad?" Frodo furthered, paying studious attention to his tea but with another attempt at a furtive glance towards Bilbo.
Bilbo's antennae were twitching for some reason, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know why, as he watched the byplay between the two lads.
"Dad's enjoying the break from his rheumatiz that the warmer weather's giving him. I know he'll appreciate your asking."
"Sed hib by regards," Frodo said and took a sip of his tea, asked over the lip of it, "Your sisters?"
"Ah, well, they're lasses," Sam said with a negligent wave of his hand, paying too much attention to young Miss Glory's biscuits to spare much for his tone of voice, it seemed.
"Ah," Frodo said, took another sip of his tea before placing the cup carefully in the saucer. He took up a cranberry roll, brushed a few crumbs from it. "Ad Daisy?" he asked, brushing at that bun and not looking at Sam just a little too carefully.
Bilbo sat back, all his attention now riveted on the two young hobbits carrying on two entirely different conversations over his kitchen table. Frodo was very obviously fishing for information, though Bilbo couldn't guess why, and Sam was too busy cramming young Glory's biscuits in his mouth to notice.
"Well, now, Daisy's got herself a bit of that ague of your'n, Master Frodo," Sam replied, wetting the tip of a finger on his tongue and then dipping it to the crumbs left from the biscuit. "Been a-bed since a day or two after you took sick, but she's on her way back now, I think."
"Oh." Frodo looked crestfallen. "That's… that's too bad," he told Sam. "Please give her by regards, as well."
"I'll be sure and do that," Sam answered politely, dabbing at now non-existent crumbs, seemingly determined to have the very last morsel of Miss Glory's biscuits. As if in answer to Bilbo's thoughts, Sam stuck a cinnamon-coated finger in his mouth, swirled his tongue over it and closed his eyes with a wistful smile. "Stars, there's nothing in the world better'n Glory Longdale's biscuits," he sighed.
"Oh, I dode doe," Frodo replied, red-rimmed eyes drifting dreamily to the window and a small smile curling at his mouth. "I rather thig your sister Daisy's biscuits are ub…" The smile went sappy and he tilted his head. "Dicer."
And Bilbo was quite certain that at least Frodo was no longer talking about the sorts of biscuits one discussed in polite company.
Sam's happy, vacant gaze drifted across the table, his smile almost the very twin of Frodo's, then he caught the look on Frodo's face, and the smile faded to a slight frown. He leaned in, narrowed his eyes a little--
--and nearly knocked his plate from the table when Frodo released a great, wet sneeze, turning his head just in time to avoid spraying them all, snatching his napkin from beside his plate, and releasing another two into it.
Bilbo stood quickly, cried, "Here, now!" He dragged a handkerchief from his pocket, handed it over to Frodo. "Don't use your napkin, lad, where are your manners?"
"Sorry, Bilbo," Frodo replied, subdued, taking the handkerchief with a bit of a flush and mopping at his nose.
Bilbo snatched up the napkin and pushed it to the end of the table. "Where are all your handkerchiefs, boy?" he wanted to know. "I gave you a baker's dozen not six months ago for our birthday. Where the deuce do they all go?"
Frodo shook his head and wadded the handkerchief into his hand. "I just dote doe, Bilbo. They were all accowdded for a couple of weeks ago, but thed they just started disappearink. It's like sobwud is baking off with theb, wud by wud."
He looked sincerely distressed and more than a little bewildered, and Bilbo almost regretted being so sharp with him. Still, they'd been expensive handkerchiefs, real silk imported from the south, with Frodo's initials embroidered on them in fine, blue satin thread. He'd been so sure that Frodo was mature enough to appreciate them and take care of them, but now…
Bilbo sighed. "Well, Frodo, perhaps we'll have to-- Here now, Samwise, something wrong with your tea?"
Sam stared, wide-eyed and pale. "Handkerchiefs," he whispered faintly, then, even more nonsensically, "Biscuits."
The lad looked like he'd just swallowed poison and wasn't sure if it would be polite to spit it out on his plate. His face was going slowly from nearly-white to a red so deep it was nigh aubergine. His gaze, locked for some reason on the handkerchief in Frodo's hand, moved slowly up to meet Frodo's, hang there for long seconds, before turning finally to Bilbo.
"I… I…"
Bilbo frowned in concern. "You're not getting ill, are you, lad?"
Sam's mouth flapped for a moment, cheeks ruddy now and eyes almost fever-bright. "Ihavetogo," he blurted suddenly and leapt up from the table so fast, he nearly sent the tea service sailing. "Sorry! Sorry, Mister Bilbo, awfully clumsy of me, you'll pardon me, but I just remembered… er… right, sorry, gotta go, thank you for elevenses, tomorrow, the lesson, that is, lessons tomorrow, right, if you don't mind, sir, sorrysorry, but I need to… there's sommat I have to… Um, right."
And he was out the door, leaving Bilbo and Frodo both blinking: Frodo in something that looked too close to panic; Bilbo in bewilderment.
Until Bilbo heard Sam's harsh, strangled cry of, "Daisy! Daisy Gamgee!" from halfway down the Hill and watched Frodo's eyes widen a little and his cheeks pale as he suddenly found the dregs of his tea to be the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Oh.
And Bilbo sat back, sighed, dropped his now-aching head into his hand.
Oh.
"Daisy Gamgee?" he ventured reluctantly, and winced a little when Frodo choked.
Well, sticklebacks.
~*~
END
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