By: Dana
Summary: When the sky is grey, and the branches are bare.
Characters: Pippin, Merry
Pairings: Light Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG, if that
Warnings: Mild slash, bad attempt at H/C
Author's Notes: slightlytookish, this is for you.
fanfic100: Prompt: Winter (#61). Words: 4,895
58/100.
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.

The sky is grey and the branches are all bare, stretching out long and thin like great weathered fingers that reach towards the heavens – all dark and fine and glistening with ice. It is the week after Second Yule, a week into a new year – Pippin remembers riding to their home, after all the celebrating had been through. Fat wet snowflakes had drifted in the air, and his breath had bled out white into growing dark. It had been cold, had only promised to grow colder, and his bones were all aching, and he had started to think that maybe, maybe, it would have been best if they had stayed one last night at the Hall. But that was a week before them, and here they both are, and Pippin mutters something beneath his breath, the wind knocked from his lungs. He's out flat on his front, and his ankle and his back are both aching, too, and his head, in just a moment, starts to throb. He tries to sit, pushing against cold hard ground, still feeling winded, and he puts a hand to his brow, and he feels something wet and warm, so it can't all be grey hard sky and cold white frost. 'Oh, blast it all.'

He looks about, supporting himself with one hand and the other to his forehead, trying to make sense of what has happened – though, really, it shouldn't be all that very hard to figure out. The ground is cold and hard and the offending patch of ice glints at him, sly and untroubled – well, it would be untroubled, having gone to no good effort to keep him from falling. And he had fallen, his ankle giving out and twisting as he had, landing sprawled on his front, his head striking against something hard – oh, stone. He wonders, trying to keep himself up, and his head throbbing, if the King has ever fallen – he would have to ask him, old Strider, the next time he thought to write.

And really, all that, from falling to finding himself sitting – well, that didn't take that long.

Pippin mutters at the glinting patch of ice, and then Merry is at his side, breath frosting out, with hard grey sky at his back. 'Have you forgotten how to walk?' Merry asks. 'And are you well?'

Pippin scowls at him, and then manages his way back to his feet. 'My ankle,' he says, and the scowl falls off his face, and he when he puts pressure it's almost funny, how much it hurts. 'Oh, Merry, is this how it's all to end? I triumphed against my troll, but here I am, felled, and by nothing more than a wretched patch of ice... blast it all, Merry, you don't need to laugh. It's not as funny as you, ah, think.'

'I rather couldn't help myself, Pippin – you should see the look on your face. Now, put your arm about my shoulder, or I'll carry you back to the house and you must remember how well that went the last time I offered.' Then Merry's voice softens, and his grey eyes darken. 'You're bleeding.' Then he rummages in his coat, and hastily, and pulls out his handkerchief, and he dabs it against Pippin's brow.

Actually, Pippin does – remember, that is – and he smiles at Merry and leans against him, which makes what Merry's doing that much more awkward, and he puts that arm that had suffered to support him about Merry's shoulder as he lets Merry support him, now. 'Actually, I do,' he says, and kisses Merry's cheek. Merry's mouth quirks, a slight shifting, and then he's grinning. Pippin arches one eyebrow at him, and then hisses, cursing louder than he'd wanted to – putting weight on his right foot hadn't been a very good idea, and yet he had.

'My poor old Pippin-lad,' Merry whispers, steadying him. 'But really, if Auntie Eg were about, she wouldn't let you get away with such language, Pippin. Let's get you inside – your head must be hurting, and your ankle, too.'

'I can't help myself, Merry,' Pippin replies, blinking his eyes against the cold and the sharp pain in his right ankle and the sharper pain at his temple. 'It must be something I can blame on all those Men.'

'Must be,' Merry replies, though he smiles. 'Now, must I carry you, Pip, or do you think that you can walk?'

'Oh, I can walk. Lead on, Master Brandybuck – lead on.'

So Merry does, one arm tucked about Pippin. They turn when they can and go up the front path, the summer bushes all bare and bleak, though the front door is cheerful enough and, Pippin sees, Merry thought to leave the front lantern burning. It does make the house look homey, though it is the homiest place that Pippin knows – well, not near as homey as Bag End is, has been, but he's not thought it very homey since Frodo up and went away. Pippin guesses he must be blinking against the prick of cold in his eyes, because he wouldn't weep – he hasn't, not since – well, since before Yule. His vision does blur, though, but that's not from any tears – his head is aching, aching more, and he's looking forward to sitting down.

He misses Frodo. He does.

And his head hurts.

'Just let me – there now.'

The door-handle clicks when it turns, and then the door opens. The air inside is warmer than it is outside, and smells faintly of wood and old paint and woody spice. Merry helps Pippin in, and leads him to the parlour – leaving him there, sitting, hair damp from the cold and still bundled up. He aims a kiss at Pippin's forehead, and it falls where he'd wanted it, and then ruffles those same damp curls. Then he folds Pippin's fingers about his handkerchief, and grins at him – and Pippin's own grin seems weak, when he gives it in return.

'Don't you think to move, Master Took,' Merry says. 'Just let me get the door, and put another log or three onto the fire. It's gotten rather dreary in here, don't you think?'

Pippin nods, settling back, pulling off his gloves and flinging them onto the cushion to his left – then he sits forward, instead, and shrugs off his icy coat. Then Merry returns, his jacket left behind him. He moves the grate before the fire, and he feeds it from the pile of logs – and Pippin rubs one hand across his eyes, and wishes that the throbbing in his foot would go down. He shifts again, and lifts his leg up onto the sofa – and then Merry is there, once again, at his side, tucking one of the end pillows beneath it. Then Merry kneels, and pushes at the end of Pippin's trouser leg. 'Really, Pippin, you did a number on your ankle. There's a bit of swelling already – ' and then he gives it a slow prod, and Pippin yelps.

'You know, I could have told you on my own that it hurts. You needn't poke.'

Merry smiles at him, sheepishly. Then he stands, and moves, and sits at Pippin's side. He slides one arm about his shoulders, and presses his forehead against Pippin's cheek. 'Forgive me, won't you?'

'I can't stay mad at you. Well, unless you plan on poking me again.'

'No, no. Would you like some tea?'

'Will you sit with me, after?'

'I will. We should pack your ankle up, in a bit of ice... And I should do something for that cut, too. Well, clean it right.'

Pippin frowns. 'If you think it for the best.'

'Oh, I do.' He gives Pippin's cheek a kiss – and Pippin thinks, well, they have been doing that an awful lot, lately. Kissing each other – once, when they had been stuck at Brandy Hall for Yule (but not this last Yule), and they had both been drinking too much of the hot mulled wine, he had even kissed Merry on the mouth. Well, it's nice, and quite comfortable. Pippin turns his head and tips Merry's chin up, and sets his next kiss at the right corner of Merry's mouth. Merry's lips quirk, again, in a grin. And he says. 'I should see to the tea.'

'Yes.' Pippin grins back at him, grinning wide. 'You should see to the tea.'

When Merry leaves, he takes Pippin's gloves and his coat with him, and his scarf, too. Pippin settles back against the arm of the sofa, listening to the crackle of the fire and the creak of the old house. He blinks his eyes and dabs the handkerchief against the cut, wincing when he presses too hard – really, he did help fell a troll, so this should be no bother. But the blood is a wet, slow trickle, hot and languid. And all around, it is all very warm, and then – and then, before he really knows it, he knows he must be dreaming. It is all very dark, and even warmer, and the sky is wide and clear and black, though there are stars shining far in the distance.

But then they are all swallowed and Pippin wakes with a start and he sits up and he's breathing hard, and he doesn't know what else is going on because then Merry is holding him, and Pippin lets it all out in a long, suffered, sob.

Well, he thinks, pressing his face against Merry's shoulder: that had been unexpected.

But he cries like he's been meaning to, Merry's arms around him, Merry warm and solid and wonderful, and everything that Pippin doesn't think that he could be. His mouth tastes odd, like he needs a drink, and then he lifts his face and his cheeks are hot, wet, and Merry is looking at him, concerned – Merry, wonderful Merry, who is stronger than he is, stronger than he could ever be. Pippin is not so stupid, not so blind, to think that Merry hasn't had his terrors haunt him, still – but he doesn't think he's ever seen Merry cry, though he knows he must have, at some point. Pippin's chest is aching, more than his wretched ankle – Merry, wonderful Merry, and Pippin wonders if he'll ever love him like he'd like, most – if Merry could ever love him, like Pippin loves him.

Like not knowing how to breathe, like wanting more than could ever be. Like being greedy like a child who is used to getting its way – like thinking it would all be simple, that simple, if it could just be.

'Am I still bleeding? I hope I didn't get blood all over your shirt...'

'Does it matter, really? How do you feel? You dreamt. Would you like to talk about it, now?'

And Pippin shakes his head, forcing a smile. 'No, I don't think I would. But thank you, even...' and he shakes his head and rubs at his eyes, and his hands are left wet. 'Did you ever – the tea... my head. Oh, blast it all. Blast it all.'

'I put it on, but saw you slept and I hadn't the heart to wake you. Would you rather have it now?'

Pippin nods, but would rather Merry not leave him – he had thought he'd grown through that, really. That he could live without him – and it isn't that Merry would leave him, would really leave him. Pippin likes to think that they have both had enough of that, more than they would want.

'I – yes.'

But as Merry moves to leave, Pippin shakes his head.

'No – I. I think that I should sleep.'

Merry looks concerned, and Pippin feels like a fool. But Merry unwraps his arms and then helps Pippin to his feet – supporting him, careful of the bad ankle – and Pippin wants to hug him, wants to press his face back against Merry's shoulder, which is still damp. But he doesn't, just grits his teeth and bears it, lets Merry guide him from the front room to his bedroom, nearer to the back of the house. Then Pippin is sitting on his bed, and Merry tends the fire – closes the shutters – and brings Pippin his nightshirt. Pippin nods at him, throat tight and aching and Pippin wishes, oh, he wishes, that he could say something – anything – but he clutches the nightshirt in his hands and his chest is aching, throbbing, and his eyes are burning.

When you love, then you do as you must.

Merry touches his cheek and Pippin looks at him – looks at him, feeling miserable, and Merry says. 'Do you remember...'

'What?'

'At Yule. When we were both too drunk, and I kissed you...'

Pippin shakes his head, and blinks his eyes, and lets out his held breath. 'Merry, you have it all wrong. I kissed you, it wasn't – '

Merry's fingers curl at his ear, and the way he is standing must feel awkward, but then Merry's mouth is on his and, more than that, Pippin opens his own mouth in response – they have been kissing each other so often, but this is even better, this is nice.

And Pippin forgets himself, again and again, and when Merry draws back, Pippin blinks and stares at him and then he almost laughs – well, as it is, he almost cries.

'Now, Meriadoc. What was that for?'

'I think you do need to get a bit of sleep. I hope you don't dream.'

'I – Merry.'

Merry only smiles at him, and rises. Then he leaves, taking the lantern with him, and Pippin is left alone. And he doesn't want to be alone, doesn't like the thought of being left alone – but he drops his nightshirt on the floor and he pushes his covers back, hissing out when he's not as careful with his foot as he could have been. He pulls the covers back up, though, and grits his teeth hard.

And sleep, like that, comes hard and fast.

And he doesn't dream.

He hadn't thought to check his forehead, before he let himself fall off into sleep. The morning sunlight shines weakly, pale and clear, dust motes drifting slowly, settling into empty spaces. Pippin sits up, his body aching and it's from the cold – the fire had died down, and Pippin wonders why Merry hadn't thought to build it back up. Well, he's old enough now, and he should have thought to do it himself. And the sunlight isn't only pale, but it's grey and slightly orange-bronze, as if to say that the day is still very new – and Pippin swings one leg over the side of the bed, and then the other, wincing when his ankle sends a sharp something of pain up his leg. He doubles over, and cracks one eye open – the ankle is swollen, distended looking – blast it all, if he broke something, then he thinks he might laugh, because he doesn't think that he should cry.

The fire is almost dead, and Pippin rubs at his forehead at winces then, too, rubbing at tender flesh. He pulls his hand away – at least there's no blood, the cut had scabbed up, but it is still sore and the scabbing is rough. He puts pressure on his foot again, and winces harder. He hasn't had the displeasure of a broken bone – in, well, a while. He remembers (somewhat) being one big broken bone but, really, that hadn't been the same – and it always is easier to break bones when you've broken them before, though he doesn't remember haven broken this one – well, he could always be wrong. There was that incident with the tree climbing, when Merry had insisted he was cracked when he had insisted that he could climb up all the way to the top. And he had, recalling how he had teased Merry, saying that he couldn't get back down. But he had, and he had almost made it back to the bottom – he was too good at it, really, too natural – but his footing had given and his hands hadn't had anything to hold onto – air wasn't the most solid thing, really – and he had fallen, and he remembers how it had hurt, but how he had kept his chin up, after, and hadn't let himself cry.

And he wonders, looking at his ankle, scowling at it as if he can set it right, if he has broke this one before.

'Pip?'

'Merry,' Pippin gasps. His voice croaks and he almost laughs, because there's that part of him that really thinks this is all very funny, for him having been so very idiotic and ended in this place. He lifts his gaze and it is good, so good, to see Merry at the door – Merry, with a bundle of logs for the fire, and of course Merry would have been there, to build it up. 'I – oh.'

Pippin shuts his eyes and listens – listens, to the sound of Merry's footsteps, loud and heavy when he doesn't try otherwise; Merry, tending to the fire, building it back up. Pippin feels cold and sore and his eyes are hurting, he's clenching his jaw that tight. Then he hears the crackle of the fire, and distantly, sometime beyond that, the creak of the old bed as Merry sits beside him. 'Pippin.' Merry puts one arm about his shoulder, and touches Pippin's chin. Pippin turns, looks at him, eyes opened wide. And Merry, Merry doesn't look like he's rested very well, though Pippin feels that he himself slept too heavily. Pippin touches Merry's cheek, biting down harder, and Merry's smile seems tired, too.

'Cousin Beric brought our breakfast. I sent him back, to fetch Healer Thistle. I think it would do us both good, to have her take a look at that swelling.' Pippin nods, but doesn't speak up, and Merry goes on. 'How did you sleep? I hope – oh, I really do hope that there weren't any dreams. I do remember...'

Pippin nods. 'No, no, there were none. And thank goodness, given – well.' But Merry looks like he's dreamt too much, of late, and Pippin frowns and bites back what he wants to say, what he really wants to say, and instead blurts out: 'Now, if you ask me, I'm not the one who should worry about his dreams.'

'He left an hour ago,' Merry says, avoiding what else he might have said. 'So, I imagine that they'll return, and soon.'

Pippin nods – his ankle throbbing, distantly – and Merry touches his cheek. They are both sitting, and very close. Merry's breath is warm and sweet and Pippin feels prickles up and down his arms. 'I might have slept better,' Merry says, grinning as he does – but his eyes are dark and sad and tired, and, really, Pippin's not the one who should worry about his dreams. 'If I'd been with you.'

'There's always room. I thought – I mean – oh, Merry.'

Pippin's tongue feels knotted and Merry's eyes are on his – but then Merry moves, as though he plans on leaving him and Pippin feels it again, a sharp pang, sharper than any pain – and he does recall what pain is, having been it for a while. It chased after him when he slept, and he still feels the ache of it, now – he knew the storm was coming, before it descended on them during Yule, and all that to the aching of his too sensitive bones. 'Don't leave me.' He clutches at Merry's arm. Merry looks at him, his eyes deeper, darker, and then he says:

'I won't ever leave you, Pippin. Not ever.'

The fire is burning but the room is cold, and Pippin winces when he shifts (a bolt of pain shooting up through his leg, putting tears in his eyes, and he's really not surprised that he managed to break his ankle, given all his other luck) – and he touches Merry's mouth with his own, kisses him like he's been meaning to since before that time at Yule. It is better than he'd thought it would be, too, and Merry's mouth is hot and salty and Merry's kissing him, too, kissing him and holding him and groaning against his mouth – a warm buzz that doesn't shoot, just falls through him, slow and content and growing. Merry won't leave him – won't. It isn't that Pippin doesn't think that he could bear it, but – but, really, Merry hadn't left Pippin, before. Pippin had been the one who left Merry.

And he breaks back and he blinks and his jaw feels tense, like he'd been clenching it again – and all he can say is sorry, sorry. I really have gone and made a mess of everything.

'Now, Pippin,' Merry says, almost stern. 'You've done, well, you've no such thing.'

Then he touches Pippin's cheek and he kisses him, again, just like Pippin thinks Merry's been wanting too – and really, he shouldn't have let Merry leave him, the night before. The bed is big enough – Pippin might not fit anything else, in his life, but there'd still be enough room in his bed. Merry presses against him and Pippin groans and then Pippin winces, and curses, foot bumping against the bed and jarring him right away from Merry's mouth.

And Merry only says, 'Let's try this again. Don't move.'

And Pippin doesn't. Merry's mouth moves, slow and wet and warm, and Pippin wonders why they hadn't kissed like this before. Then Merry's hand is on his leg, firm pressure, and Merry looks Pippin in the eye – their mouths have moved apart – and Merry is looking Pippin in the eyes. Merry's jaw is tense, his eyes are shadowed, and Pippin lifts his hand, touches Merry's cheek. Everything feels very chaotic, upside down and inside out, and Pippin manages, then: 'You are distracting me very well.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. I've hardly thought about the pain.'

'Well. Good.' And Merry kisses him once more and, really, Pippin could get used to this – the sort of feeling that falls over him, like it is all easy and content, and he shouldn't worry himself about his troubles, and his pains. And anyhow, and Pippin kisses back and he kisses back harder, and he feels Merry's tension flowing, no, melting away, like ice turned to running water, running from his hands. And really, and really, Pippin's not the one who should worry about his dreams.

Then Merry draws back, and he regards Pippin with a critical eye. Pippin quirks one eyebrow, looking back at him, and Merry's serious expression mellows. Then, he touches Pippin's cheek. 'How about a cup of hot tea? It would use the last of the willow bark, but I really can't say I'm fond of you lying here in pain.'

'You are quite considerate,' Pippin smiles. He'd almost forgot about the pain, but at Merry's mention his ankle throbs and ache. Blasted thing, Pippin thinks. Merry tugs at Pippin's collar and rests his forehead against Pippin's. Pippin closes his eyes, and Merry brushes a kiss across Pippin's cheek. Then Merry chuckles, and sits back. And they are there like that, for a long enough moment, but then Merry is up and gone. Gone for the tea, knowing that it won't be long until the healer arrives. Pippin settles back, grits his teeth and sighs. He's had worse, but his ankle throbs dully, distended looking. It had best be broken, he thinks crossly, for all the trouble it has been.

He shuts his eyes.

He doesn't sleep, and then Merry arrives – he helps Pippin to sit, and then he holds the cup carefully, and Pippin chides him groggily, almost, that he doesn't need Merry to fuss over him, the way he has. But he feels safe, and that is a very nice feeling, safe and free and he could fall into darkness, and he thinks he might just, and he'd be safe again, after all that. The tea inside him, and he does sleep, but he doesn't dream, and he's glad of that. Somewhere beyond the warmth of Crickhollow, the skies are slate-blank and ice clings to bare branches. But inside, Pippin sleeps, and Merry sits at his side, but then takes up his proper place beneath the covers with Pippin, up against him and his arms about him, and after that one moment of waking, Pippin falls back into sleep.

He wakes again, but the bed is empty, though not overly cool. He opens his eyes, blinks at the ceiling. 'Hello, young Master Took,' Healer Thistle says, and Pippin mutters something groggily in reply. 'Ah, thank you, Lavender. Here now, we'll want to elevate his leg – ' Pippin attempted to look as aware as he could, but he was feeling rather disoriented, still.

He does feel it when his leg is moved, but it seems like a very distant thing, and other than the catch in his breath – he'd expected more pain – he does not react. Instead, he tries to focus on the ceiling overhead, and wonders at how such a simple thing could turn into such a very difficult task. 'How good of you to come, Mistress Thistle,' Pippin says, the task of keeping his eyes open almost too great a chore.

'Now, I can't say it's good to see you, Master Took, at least not given your circumstance.' Then she nods to her young assistant. 'Lavender, please.'

The lass nods, dark hair pulled back in its braid. Pippin wonders, distantly, where Merry has gone – and, more distant than that, feels Merry holding his hand, on the far side of the bed, furthest from the healer and her assistant. 'Good, Lavender – now, what do you think?'

'There's a good deal of swelling, Mistress, but he's not lost his circulation – we've no worry he'll lose the foot, or at least his toes. What he needs for now is a cold compress, and a dose of your poppy tea – and we'll need to splint it, of course.'

And Healer Thistle nods, and Lavender fades from Pippin's line of vision. 'There now,' she says. 'Does that sound too frightening, Master Took?'

He wants to say, he's a Knight of Gondor, a Hero of Bywater, but his mouth is clamped shut – all he can do it shake his head. She 'tsks', softly, but smiles softly. 'Good, good. You're not a little lad anymore. But I do recall the little lad you were.'

He wants to say, he's not a little lad, not now, not anymore, but words feel too distant, and his right hand feels cold. All he does is not and shut his eyes, the pain distant but throbbing dully. 'This will make it easier,' he hears, from high above him. he doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't much want to think or feel – but he does hear Merry's voice, closer, telling him that's he's had worse and that a bit of poppy-tea won't be the end of him, and he grumbles groggily enough in response but does drink the cup down.

Beyond that, it all seems very far away – as Thistle speaks, and Lavender acts, and with Merry sitting at Pippin's side. Merry, Pippin tries to say, but can't manage his mouth or his tongue; Merry, your hand is cold. He would rub it if he could, but he can't – and Merry seems further and further away.

Once Pippin is awake again, Merry is gone but Healer Thistle and Lavender are gone as well. The room seems cold but, as Pippin looks to the side, he can see that the fire is burning, and cheerily enough.

When Merry does come back into the room, Pippin hopes he's not brought more of Healer Thistle's tea. 'Good to see you're in the waking world, Pip,' Merry says, and Pippin smiles at him, still groggy.

All Pippin says is, 'Come here.'

And Merry does, down on his knees at the side of the bed. But Pippin shakes his head, frowning. 'No. I. I need to sit up. Help me sit up.'

Merry does – Pippin's leg had been elevated, still, and then Merry is sitting at Pippin's side, and Pippin is clinging to him, breathing hard. Then he laughs, and presses a kiss against Merry's collar, and he shuts his eyes and bends his head against Merry's shoulder. Like that, he says, 'What did the good healer say?'

'That the break wasn't as bad off as it might have been, and that you'll need crutches, still. You'll need to stay off your foot, as much as you can, and that you don't need to push yourself too hard. It's splinted, but you'd not want to complicate it further.'

'Well, she'd have to say that,' Pippin says and, unsteady, he laughs. 'I'm very good at complicating things.'

'Aren't you though? But I do love you.'

'That's very good to hear. You'll be stuck looking after me, it seems, and I do want to... well, I'll have to make it all up to you. In time.'

Merry arches one eyebrow at him. 'Oh. In time?'

Leaning back, Pippin nods. His lips feel numbs. Then he takes Merry's hand, and he rubs it between his own – not that's it's as cold as it had been. But, there is still a lingering stiffness, a lingering chill. Pippin bends his head, and kisses Merry's hand – and he lets that linger, too.