The Morning After the Night Before
Summary: Frodo and Pippin share the delightful morning-after activities. No slash, (real) violence or profanity, but references to self-inflicted hobbit hangovers.
A/N: My triumphant return to the world of LOTR fan fiction! Not really lol but oh how I missed it. Anyway this was inspired after rewatching FOTR for the first time in… I don't care to think about it. Just a bit of pre-quest silliness in honor of my two most beloved hobbits. Please enjoy, reviews are most welcome.
I do not own Tolkien or any of the following characters or places etc.
The Morning After the Night Before
Somewhere close by, water or liquid of some form was dripping loudly on to the wooden floor.
Loudly. How water could drip loudly Frodo was not entirely sure, but his garbled mind could hardly argue with the logic of the phenomena whilst he could hear it. Even then, it was less hearing it than being assaulted by it. He moaned.
It occurred to him slowly that the odd sensation in his forehead was being caused by the sturdy solidity of his dining table, against which his poor abused head was resting. Blinking, and wincing at the sudden sensation of having sandpaper under his eyelids, he waited for the morning light to stop stabbing at his senses before calmly taking in the chaos that surrounded him.
There seemed to be a lot of empty mugs lying about. Cushions, one with its side torn open and bleeding brown feathers on to a suspiciously sticky floor. What appeared to be broken fragments of pottery had been swept into a corner at some point, the broom involved having been consequently plucked up by curious hands, and repositioned to hang unsteadily from the chandelier. Frodo stared at it for a moment or two before deciding he didn't want to know.
A chair had been upturned and was draped with one of his good bed sheets, now covered in dirt and grass stains, and sporting make-shirt eyes – cut out of the fabric, of course. Not to worry, he mused. That particular blanket would be the one he used to suffocate the ingrate responsible for the mess.
He thought about it briefly, and truly hoped it hadn't been himself.
"You know, cousin," came a loud, lilting voice suddenly, and he grimaced, gritting his teeth. "Regardless of the rumors, you really can put it away. I'd top my hat to you, if I had one."
"You couldn't find one in your size," muttered Frodo darkly, ignoring the cheery laugh. Pippin dropped into a chair in his line of vision, smiling brightly at the sullen, bleary stare he was faced with.
"Honest, Frodo. You've put me to shame. Fancy beating a healthy young hobbit at his own game. And at your age."
"My age?" he echoed, vague amusement tugging at his expression despite himself. "Watch that lip, Peregrin Took, or I'll put you to work this morning. Don't think I don't remember what part you played in this mess last night."
"You're hardly a good judge of last night's events, now are you," snorted Pippin, grinning. "I don't suppose you remember joining Fatty in a round of table-top-verses?" The colour drained from Frodo's already pale face quickly, and he groaned. "I didn't think you would. All the better, really. I imagine Fatty won't either. That little tidbit is entirely for me to redistribute as I see fit."
"You'll be careful with that information if you ever want to have Sam cook for you again," threatened Frodo glumly, resting his chin in his hand. Pippin shot him a mock-hurt look.
"You'd withhold Sam's fine cooking from your beloved little cousin?"
"Said beloved little cousin might not make it till his twenty seventh birthday at this rate." Pippin laughed gleefully, delighted at having the upper hand for once, and Frodo found himself shrugging off his foul mood unconsciously, lightened by his cousin's presence. "Shouldn't you be passed out under a table somewhere?"
"You're occupying the table, cousin," he pointed out helpfully.
"Oh of course."
"And no, I was behaving myself last night. Pa warned me off ale for a week or two, in case there are any lingering effects from… you know." Frodo nodded, remembering all to clearly the illness that had kept Pippin bedridden and miserable for nearly a month. He supposed inwardly that the force with which he 'put it away' last night correlated directly with the anxiety past few weeks.
"You should have reminded me; I would have sat up with you and been sensible for a change. I wouldn't have this frightful headache, that way," he added as an afterthought. Pippin grinned somewhat wickedly, he thought.
"That's all the fun. It's not nearly as exciting the next morning when you feel as though you've been eating out of the barn. And now I'm fortunate enough to be able to recollect what went on last night. I think I may have evened out the score between Merry and myself," he confided, winking. Frodo smiled.
"Well it's about time. Where is your miscreant cousin, anyway?"
"Our cousin Meriadoc is currently snoring away in your tub," giggled Pippin, sitting upright suddenly as he remembered his original purpose in making the dangerous trek through the kitchen. "I thought your mood might be improved by aiding me when I toss a bucket of cold water over him."
"That's very generous of you, Pip," laughed Frodo, rubbing absently at his forehead. "But I don't think I could run fast enough in my condition. I'll just sit back and watch as you two fight your way past this mess. I'll cheer you on."
"If you insist," grinned Pippin, jumping up and hopping carefully over the assorted objects on the slippery-at-times wooden floor.
Frodo watched him go fondly, inwardly reflecting that he was blessed in his choice of dear friends. Although choice had not really had much to do with it. Both Merry and Pippin had latched on to him as mere infants and not once relinquished their iron grips. Not that he'd have it another way.
Gazing around the corner into the mess that was the kitchen, he pondered the best course of action. Bacon and eggs seemed suddenly, inherently important, as well as a strong cup of tea. Perhaps infused with something a little stronger.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, piercing scream, followed by hysterical cackling. A curse worthy of a drunken Sackville-Baggins screeched through Bag End, and running footsteps heralded the start of the morning's events.
A deeply amused Pippin skidded into sight and leapt over the wreckage, waving to Frodo as he passed. He reached the door and was half way outside before Merry appeared, dripping wet and puffing mad, figurative smoke billowing from his ears.
"You little wretch, I'm going to make you rue the day you were born! Morning Frodo, good to see you survived the party last night. Pippin, you get back here this instant! I'm going to feed you to Farmer Maggot's dogs, you little…"
Frodo grimaced as Merry's voice rose slightly before falling again and fading away into nothing as the Brandybuck disappeared outdoors and down the garden path, after the wildly laughing, surprisingly fast little Took.
Weighing the possible outcomes in his mind, he decided that he didn't want to risk loss of eye or limb should the chase return indoors, and climbed groaning to his feet to set about the task of clearing a path in the floor. Sam would be outraged, but then the young Gamgee had also been outraged when Frodo attempted to weed the garden beds, and he had managed to evade being impaled by the pitchfork that time-
Sam.
Frodo paused, jaw dropping at a fleeting memory of Sam pouring him yet another mug of ale and winking jovially at Pippin, before suggesting politely that his master challenge Fatty to a game of 'who-can-do-the-best-impersonation-of-Lobelia'.
A wicked smile of his own crept across his typically peaceful face, and he chuckled quietly to himself as he clambered onto a chair and attempted to extricate the broom from the chandelier.
Sam would pay for his role in the madness last night. Oh how he would pay.
The end, please r&r.