By: Dana
Summary: Frodo suspects that something is wrong.
Characters: Frodo, Merry, Pippin
Pairings:: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: A Christmas-ficlet for Vanessa.
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.

Frodo knew that there was a problem when Pippin, red cheeks and glazed eyes, hiccupped, and sat down right on the floor at the middle of the parlor, with the punchbowl – and Bilbo's finest punchbowl, too – before him. Yes, Frodo had added rum to the concoction – to add flavour, of course – but hardly enough to cause Pippin to react in such a way. He was still rather young, but he more likely than not drank more than this when he was at his own home. Yes, something was a foot.

(And here he'd thought it a perfectly fitting night before the night before First Yule – the candles where all lit, and the room smelled of cinnamon, evergreen, and spice.)

Frodo quirked one eyebrow at Merry. Merry had only had one full cup, himself – he was slowly nursing his second, which he had managed to fill before Pippin had made off with the bowl. Frodo had had less than even that.

"This is the best drink ever, you know," Pippin giggled, and downed his eighth cup. "You both you should have more."

Merry laughed, "And how do you suppose we'll manage that, Pip? You tried biting Frodo, the last time he came near – "

Frodo laughed out loud, which drew both his cousin's attention, puzzled expressions on their faces as he laughed far more than he ought to. "Well, the mystery of the holiday punch has been solved."

Pippin was ladling out his next cup, and Merry shook his head, and said, which set Frodo, once again, to laughing: "I'm amazed our cousin here isn't drinking his punch directly from the bowl. Aren't you?"

"Actually, I am. Now, Merry, what did you add to it?"

Merry didn't even flinch. "Brandy," he admitted without shame, his gaze not moving from where it had settled, so intently, upon Pippin – Pippin, as he downed his ninth cup.

Frodo chuckled. "Perhaps you shouldn't have been so quick, then, given that I'd already added the rum."

Merry tilted his head at Frodo, and grinned right back at him – he was far too smug, at times, but Frodo could hardly fault him. Not that he often tried. "Perhaps that was my point, dear cousin."

"You didn't know, I'm sure," Frodo grinned back. "Now, let's get him up off the floor, before he spills something and makes a mess – "

Pippin hiccupped. "Now, Frodo, there's no need to say – that – you know I wouldn't dare spill a – " he hiccupped, again, then laughed. "A drop!"

Frodo rolled his eyes heavenward, then settled his gaze back on Merry, who had reclaimed his grin. "If you'll please."

Merry nodded, and went to crouch at Pippin's back, ducking his arms under Pippin's, and hoisting him to his feet. Pippin made a startled noise somewhere between sitting flat on the floor, and between standing mostly-straight on wobbling legs and useless feet.

"Merry! You – " Pippin sputtered. "Let me go oh no don't let me go!"

He had quickly gone from irate, to giggling, and he slumped forward in Merry's arms, giggling still, and quite helplessly, now. That is, he slid downwards, almost sliding right from Merry's hold. "I don't think I could stand, if you did let me go."

"Yes, Pip," Merry said, "we know."

Merry hoisted him back up, and took him to the sofa, where he was free to slump, though Pippin almost slid further, right off the cushions. He'd have brought them with him, as well. Merry steadied him, and Frodo set the bowl of punch down on the long tray that had been brought in from the kitchen. He gave the bowl a glance – the liquid had yet to fully settle, after being moved, and it sloshed up along the insides of the fine white bowl – only a third filled, now, after Pippin had set to draining it, as fast as he could.

And, admittedly, he'd done quite a good job. "How about I bring in – " he turned to face his cousins and made a rather startled noise as Merry and Pippin both fell, rather ungracefully, from the sofa.

"Goodness! Are you – "

He stopped, mid-step. Merry seemed that he would burst from laughter, his cheeks red, and Pippin wormed his way back, sitting astride Merry's lap. Merry was left flat on his back, his legs up on the couch – he'd upset the cushions, from the look of it.

Frodo blinked. "Just what did I miss?"

"Everything," Pippin replied, and then he blinked, and laughed. Merry pushed up on his elbows and then, keeping himself level with one arm, pushed one hand up beneath Pippin's shirt. Pippin shrieked as Merry began to tickle – he tried fighting Merry off, but ended up, pinned back against the sofa, Merry kneeling before him, and both of Merry's hands up under his shirt.

Frodo sighed. Pippin yelped, then laughed. "Stop it! No fair!"

"That's just what you always say, Pip."

Frodo watched them, and laughed.

Merry took that as a cue, it seemed – he hoisted Pippin back up, and dropped him back on the sofa, then sitting down over Pippin's lap – over, not on, and Pippin seemed caught beneath Merry's legs.

Merry smiled, then cleared his throat. "Pippin, you're drunk."

Pippin tried to wriggle himself free. "I – " he hiccupped. "Am not."

"Are too, Pip."

"Am – " Pippin giggled. "Perhaps I am."

"Are you two just about finished?" Frodo asked, though he couldn't help but grin.

"Yes, I think so," Merry said, though his right hand snuck up underneath Pippin's shirt, again, and teased at his stomach – Pippin half sat up, at least as much as he could, and swatted at Merry's hand, laughing.

"Stop!"

Laughing again, as Merry and Pippin then fell back into their wrestling, Frodo said, though it was likely that he wasn't heard: "Maybe it's not that Pippin is too drunk, Merry. Maybe it's that you and I – well, at least I, as you seem drunk enough – aren't drunk enough."

Filling his cup, Frodo toasted the night.