By: Dana
Summary: Merry looks back and remembers. Pippin looks back and knows that some things will never change.
Characters: Pippin, Merry, mention of Frodo
Pairings: (Frodo/)Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst, slash
Author's Notes: Post-quest, post-RotK. Written for the ringprov disgust, thin, rough, perceive; weary, challenge. Crickhollow hobbits for Elly.
Most recent revision: November 10, 2,004.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

When Pippin came at last to Brandy Hall, Merry was already gone.

"He went on to Crickhollow," was Estella's explanation, and Pippin turned aside offers of tea and cake and rest, embracing his cousin briefly, a light kiss on her cheek, before heading back down to the front hall. He took his cloak when it was offered, fastening it at his throat, fingers lingering a moment at the old elven brooch.

He was at Crickhollow within the hour, turning down the lane that led up to the old house. How long had it been, he wondered? Before they had even left the Shire, this place been a part of Frodo's final ruse; when they had first come back, afterwards, when they had cast the Ruffians out, this had become their home. A last gift, after Frodo had already given them so much.

Pippin dismounted, taking his pony by the reins. He saw to it the pony was stabled and fed; and there was Merry's pony, too, and Pippin gave its muzzle a fond rub as said his hellos. The pony whickered, flicked back it's ears, and Pippin said his good byes. Pippin went on up to the house.

Old wood, familiar grain, rough and worn through the passage of years. This place was saturated with the memories of times long passed, times that could never return. He ran his palm over the door knob before letting his fingers close round, turning, going in. "Merry?" he said, but his only greeting was the quiet of sunlight and shadow. Had it been a life since he had last walked this hall? It felt that, as Pippin closed the door. Quiet, again, still and calm.

"Merry," softer, and Pippin heard a stirring from the parlour. He went on, his hand coming to rest on the frame, and there was Merry, still in his cloak, watching the empty hearth as though it was instead filled with flame.

"Merry," again, and it was this third calling that Merry responded to, though he didn't lift his head.

"I hadn't thought to see you here," was Merry's reply, and Pippin crossed the room, coming to stand next to Merry, closer than breath but perfectly right.

"Well, you haven't, not yet," and Merry looked back, at that, grinning. It was that grin that Pippin knew, a grin he remembered from the first night they had really met. Oh, there had been parties enough that had brought them together, family gatherings. But it had been Frodo who had really brought them together, as friends, more than just cousins. If it hadn't been for Frodo, maybe they'd not have known each other very well at all.

And they knew each other well.

"Better, then?" Merry asked, and Pippin nodded. This was Merry, the same Merry, the Merry who had changed so much. Here in shadow, there was grey in his hair and his eyes; but he hadn't yet passed his prime. How long had it been? How long had it been since what?

"Much," and Pippin put a hand on Merry's shoulder. Merry turned back to watch the empty hearth, and Pippin followed his gaze. So little, too much. They had stayed here that last night before going off from the Shire. A long line of regret stretched down from that. Did Merry feel it, too? Under his hand, Merry's shoulder tensed.

"Are you well?" Pippin whispered, remembering again when he had found Merry, wandering the streets of Minas Tirith, pale and worn, thinking he would die. And how could he forget? Merry's nod was abrupt, and Pippin slid his hand down to grip Merry's, winding their fingers together. What more could he perceive? If there was a moment he remembered clearly, then it was then, when Merry had been worn beyond exhaustion, lost and confused. Are you going to bury me? Merry had asked, and Pippin had tried to laugh.

Silence, thick and heavy. Pippin leaned into Merry, and Merry leaned back. Pippin closed his eyes, sighing, and Merry's fingers relaxed in his grip. "I haven't been able to sleep," a murmur, yet Pippin could hear more than even that. Bothered by old troubles, haunted by old ghosts. Bitter disgust that could steal a hobbit's breath away.

"Frodo," he said, at length, and Merry nodded. Pippin felt the stir of curls against his cheek. He opened his eyes, drew himself back, put a hand on Merry's cheek; the other still firmly wrapped about Merry's right hand. "I think of him too."

"Has it been that long?" Merry questioned, looking back to the fire. Pippin could remember even more. The curve of Frodo's smile, and Frodo's laugh, Merry lit by moon and star and firelight, too. Knowing them both better than he knew himself. They had found something, the three of them.

If only Frodo could have stayed.

"Too long," Pippin replied, blinking back tears. "Far too long."

"Faramir is just a year."

"And little Goldilocks just born."

"He's missing so much."

"He already knew."

Silence, heavy and thick. How long had it been, then? Ten years, come the next week. Pippin pressed his lips to Merry's cheek, a thin offering, but Merry turned and murmured against Pippin's skin. "He should never have had to leave."

Maybe it would have been better, if they had all died. And this Pippin that stood here could not be startled by that thought, as the Pippin that once had been would have. "No, he shouldn't have. But we can't go and turn back time."

"No," an empty laugh, Merry's lips and old memories, mouth to mouth. "No, we can't."

"I would, if I could." The sound of silence, the murmur of mouth moving against mouth, too long, too long, and then they stood there, lips a breath apart, just standing, just breathing.

"I know."

"Little good that does us, after it all."

"Don't go and say that," and it was Merry who lifted his hand up to cradle Pippin's cheek, as Pippin slid his hand to let fingers curl at the nape of Merry's neck. There was more he could say, Pippin saw, but Merry said nothing, instead. Again they were silent, just standing, just breathing.

"What should I say, instead?" said Pippin, when the silence had become too much a burden a bear.

A smile, and Merry curled his fingers over Pippin's ear, shaking his head. "Nothing," he said, a soft slow sigh. "There's nothing more that can be said, not now."

He tilted his head, then, and Pippin fell into that momentum, too, bringing their mouths back together. Too much, too long. Had he forgotten Merry's touch? He was only now remembering Merry's kiss. It mattered little that Pippin was married. It mattered less that Merry would as well, soon. What mattered had gone and sail?d over the Sea. Pippin envied Sam, envied things that he could never know. And Merry's face, in Pippin's mind, faded to Frodo's, then back.

Sometimes, he just couldn't tell.

Merry spoke next, his voice a buzz at Pippin's ear. "It's already dark."

"Already?" And Pippin laughed, setting his hands on Merry's cheek. He searched those eyes, that face, laugh lines at the corners of Merry's eyes, more grey now than they had been in his youth. "Already, Merry. Already."

Merry frowned, more confusion than anything else, and lifted his hands to Pippin, taking hold of each. He held them, there, putting them between their two bodies. Did he know that he had spent his day here, longer than even that? Pippin had not known that there was a problem, until he had heard word from Buckland, the night before.

"What are you trying to say?" asked Merry.

But Pippin shook his head. "I haven't a clue."

Silence, then, and Merry laughed. So hard, in fact, that he was forced, red-cheeks, breathless, to lean his forehead against Pippin's shoulder. Pippin leaned his cheek alongside Merry's head, one hand on Merry's back, the other soothing though Merry's curls. Quaking, violent trembles. As Merry soothed, breath by breath regained, he put one hand at Pippin's hip, the other curling at the small of his back.

"Should we be doing this, still?" Merry murmured, turning his face so he could catch Pippin's lips. It was faint, but it resonated, and Pippin was no longer a father, a traveller, a soldier, instead just a twenty-something lad. When Pippin could speak again, he laughed, and tapped Merry's chin.

"We've already started," he said, but doubted that was what Merry had meant. He saw that, too, in Merry's eyes, fingertips skimming over Pippin's lips. Pippin sighed, kissed what he could of Merry, and Merry curled his fingers, brushed his knuckles along the curve of Pippin's cheek. "There's no turning back."

Merry's expression lightened. "I am quite sure that you are right," he said, leaning his head forehead. Against Pippin's, he paused, and closed his eyes. Pippin put his hands at Merry's side, clutching fine cloth in a loose grip.

"Let me put on the fire, Merry, and we can sit."

"And talk."

"And talk."

They parted, Pippin touching Merry's hand. He shed his cloak, then, and Merry shed his own, and Pippin too them both and laid them over the arm of the old sofa. This place, these memories. It had been years since Crickhollow had been a home, and even after they had parted, they never did have the heart to tear it all away. Half empty, it stood, a reminder. Of growing up, of change, of Frodo, before he went and went away.

Too much thought. Pippin looked back at Merry, and Merry watched Pippin over the curve of his shoulder. Pippin grinned, and Merry nodded, and Pippin went from the room. When he came back, it was to lay logs out in the hearth, logs, and smaller twigs. He knelt down, arranging the wood, and Merry sat with crossed legs out of the corner of his eye. With flint and steel Pippin sparked the fire, and when it caught, he urged it on, feeding it small twigs until it had gathered its strength.

He sat back, put his hands up with his fingers stretched wide, felt the warmth against his palms. Pippin looked to Merry, and Merry still looked back at Pippin. "What are you thinking about?" Pippin questioned. "It must be something heavy, Merry, to see such shadows in your eyes."

"Oh, but it is a light moment," and a smile moved Merry's lip. He nodded, beckoned Pippin close. "You needn't sit so far from me, Pip."

Another nod, this from Pippin, and Pippin moved so that he was sitting almost right in Merry's skin. "Better," Merry laughed, leaning against Pippin's shoulder. Pippin could feel the warmth of the fire against the soles of his feet, the warmth of Merry's hands burning through a layer of clothes.

"Good," Pippin said, more of an afterthought than anything else. He felt Merry's hand over his own, felt Merry's breath stir the hair that br?shed along his cheek. Pippin closed his eyes, thinking back. "We're not talking," he said, and Merry's laugh seemed far away.

"I'd noticed that," he said, and it seemed slow work for him to wrap his fingers around Pippin's, drawing Pippin's hand into his lap. Pippin frowned, drawing Merry's hand close, warming it with both of his own hands. And there was nothing that Merry said, as Pippin watched firelight dancing in his eyes. Pippin simply rubbed what warmth he could into Merry's hand. He had never been able to get used to that, how cold it could be, after they had come back. When they had been allowed to breathe again, to touch and feel and remember. He had gone so long, just trying to forget.

They owed Frodo so much.

"Let us remember, then," said Pippin, the soft curve of a smile and light in his eyes. "Then, there will be no need for any words."

Merry only nodded, and Pippin kissed the back of his hand. Careful, reverent. "I'm tired," a whisper, and Pippin could only nod.

"I know."

Another kiss and Merry was freed, letting Pippin busy his hands with other work. What memories stirred as buttons came free, what things he could remember as fastenings and ties came undone. Merry's body was a map of their life together, and it had been too long since Pippin had allowed himself a look.

And Merry was still sad; nothing more had changed. So Pippin kissed Merry, letting go of those thoughts, and Merry kissed Pippin, and they both let gravity pull them back down.