TITLE: "Departure" (2/?)
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net
SITE: http://fangy.net/lotr
ARCHIVE: List archives, otherwise just ask.
RATING: R
PAIRINGS: Frodo/Sam, Merry/Pippin, Aragorn/Legolas.
SUMMARY: A modern AU. Tells FotR in a Middle-Earth a little different from the one we're used to playing in.
This was going to be a one-parter. But youse guys are relentless, and generally very nice, so here you go. Feedback is, as always, devoured.
* * *
Bagshot Row lay like a ribbon dividing the town in two; the bad neighbourhood, with its decrepit stores and its aging population, and the more glamourous parts, where book stores, stylish inns and art galleries stood elbow to elbow, the pride of the Hobbiton residents. Neither passé nor chic, the Row sat on the fence, leasing its properties mostly to middle-class hipsters who knew how to make the most of very little. Coffeehouses and used record stores lined the narrow sidewalk, peppered with bistros with full terraces and colourful thrift stores. In the East end of Bagshot Row was the Brockhouse cinema, which showed small films only college students and pretentious artiste-types wanted to see.
And in front of it sat the Bag End building, an old brick-and-stone thing painted a dull shade of seafoam years ago, the paint peeling at all the expected places. It stood proudly, three stories high, and housed recently renovated lofts, mostly leased to well-off youths who wouldn't be caught dead living in the good neighbourhood. Its tall uncurtained windows streamed in daylight and at night the ones facing the front of the building would also let in the pink glow of the theatre's flickering neon sign. Above the lobby doors, metal script letters spelled out 'Bag End', something one could guess might've made the whole thing look a little snazzy at the time.
Frodo leaned over the steering wheel of his car and stared at the brick monster through the windshield, squinting at the harsh grey of the morning light. Next to him, Sam squirmed in seat.
"Well?"
"Hold on..."
"Weren't we in a hurry? Because if I'm risking me life being nostalgic at an old building, well, actually, I'd rather not."
Frodo tore his eyes away from the rusting script letters and turned the key in the ignition. The Mustang awoke loudly. "Alright, christ, keep your pants on..."
"I'm just saying..."
"Those *are* your pants, right?"
"Actually..."
"Do you have any clothes of your own?"
"The rumours deny it."
"I just don't want any jokes about me wanting to get into my own pants."
"Aw, not fair. I was saving that one for later."
The pavement scraped the bottom of the car as they backed out of the parking lot and into the street, as it always did. Frodo shifted up to third and floored it; the car hiccuped and grunted forward reluctantly.
"Shit."
"You know what's funny about the cars nowadays - damn things require *gas* to run properly."
"There's a station at Weaverly. We can, y'know, coast there."
"Good thing we're not in a hurry or anything."
Frodo tried for a glare but met Sam's eyes with a stifled grin instead. As aggravated as he felt leaving Bag End for god-knows-what, he was glad he'd brought Sam and his snark along. As a rule, he was good to have around on trips. Frodo didn't want to try and imagine how far from the norm this particular outting would turn out to be.
The car, as planned, did make it to Weaverly, and Sam filled 'er up as Frodo hurried to the store to pay. A small bell jingled as he opened the door, and the young man at the counter barely looked up from his mini television to greet his only customer. Frodo turned to see if Sam was done filling up the tank, and reached blindly into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet - only to be knocked over as someone ran square into him, squeaking loudly as they tumbled to the floor.
"FUCK."
"Hey, watch it, asshole!"
"Bags!"
"Pippin!?"
Frodo shoved the dead weight off of him and sat up on the dirty linoleum, pawing at the hair that fell into his eyes. The teen smiled up at him from a scattered mess of car fresheners and Little Debbie cakes, sporting an unruly head of curls and an obnoxiously loud t-shirt promoting 25-cent peep shows.
"Heya Bags. Long time no see!"
"I saw you last night, Pip," Frodo groaned, rubbing the back of his head where a lump was sure to grow shortly.
"Right. Merry and I, we were just--"
"Are you lifting again? Because if you're lifting again..." He trailed off as a slightly older young man, his face hidden by similar but blonder curls and yellow-tinted sunglasses, skidded to a frantic stop behind Pippin.
"Ugh! PIPPIN. What did you DO! Oh hey Bags."
"Merry."
This is when the clerk decided to look up and notice his fine establishment was being pilfered. "HEY!"
Pippin's eyes went wide, his smile giving way to a terrified expression. "Uh oh."
"Shit." Merry yanked Pippin up by the jacket, grabbing Frodo on the way, and made for the exit.
"Wait! I gotta pay for--"
"NO TIME."
He was shoved through the double doors and stumbled onto the sunny pavement, crashing right into Sam.
"What the--"
"Merry, it's Sam! Hi Sam!"
"Pippin? Merry!"
"GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!"
Frodo ran to the driver's side as fast as his legs could carry him. Merry tossed Pippin into the backseat head-first, diving in right after him. Sam pushed the seat back, cramming the younger men copiously into the less-than-spacious backseat.
"Ow!"
"You're on my arm!"
"I can't close the door if your leg is sticking out!"
Limbs were pulled in, doors were slammed, and the car roared to life. They peeled off in a sputter of gravel and dust before merging messily into heavy traffic. A cacophony of horns and slammed breaks swallowed them; Frodo clutched at the wheel with both hands, swerving between protesting vehicles until they were several hundred feet away, careening down the fast lane.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT."
Merry was nervously peering out of the back window for any possible sign of the gas station clerk. Pippin just sat there, inspecting the car's upholstery.
"Nice ride, Bags! New?"
Frodo grinded his teeth, summoning the patience he always needed when dealing with those two. "Peregrin. Listen to me. Were you guys lifting?"
Frodo saw Pippin pout in his rearview mirror, picking distractedly at his jeans. "Yeah. But then you walked right into me and I lost everything. AND got caught. Not cool, Bags."
"Pippin! You CAN'T... you... Argh." Frodo gave up. "Why *car fresheners*?"
Pippin shrugged, already bored with the conversation.
But Frodo knew the answer. Because they were easy. Because they were small and light and flat and easy to pocket. Because Pippin, however enthusiastic, was still a novice, still learning, dying to please his mentor, wanting more than anything else to be every bit as good as Merry. He had a long way to go.
Merry finally sat back, a satisfied but serious look on his face, as per usual. Frodo eyed him suspiciously, his attention divided between traffic and his view of the backseat.
"Merry..." he scowled.
His cousin looked up but only stared at his reflection, expression still blank. Frodo couldn't remember when was the last time he'd seen the younger man's eyes.
"I just saved your ass, man. Fess up."
Merry stared in his general direction for a moment more then reached up and unzipped his jacket, a sea of stolen trinkets tumbling down into his lap and at their feet.
Pippin's eyes went wide, a look of giddy reverence plastered on his face. "WHOA!"
Sam turned around, whistling at the sight of the bountiful loot. "Nice."
Frodo whacked him on the shoulder with little conviction. "Don't encourage them."
"But... Turkish Delight!" Sam brandished the chocolate bar at him. "You're no fun."
TBC
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis
EMAIL: mc@fangy.net
SITE: http://fangy.net/lotr
ARCHIVE: List archives, otherwise just ask.
RATING: R
PAIRINGS: Frodo/Sam, Merry/Pippin, Aragorn/Legolas.
SUMMARY: A modern AU. Tells FotR in a Middle-Earth a little different from the one we're used to playing in.
This was going to be a one-parter. But youse guys are relentless, and generally very nice, so here you go. Feedback is, as always, devoured.
* * *
Bagshot Row lay like a ribbon dividing the town in two; the bad neighbourhood, with its decrepit stores and its aging population, and the more glamourous parts, where book stores, stylish inns and art galleries stood elbow to elbow, the pride of the Hobbiton residents. Neither passé nor chic, the Row sat on the fence, leasing its properties mostly to middle-class hipsters who knew how to make the most of very little. Coffeehouses and used record stores lined the narrow sidewalk, peppered with bistros with full terraces and colourful thrift stores. In the East end of Bagshot Row was the Brockhouse cinema, which showed small films only college students and pretentious artiste-types wanted to see.
And in front of it sat the Bag End building, an old brick-and-stone thing painted a dull shade of seafoam years ago, the paint peeling at all the expected places. It stood proudly, three stories high, and housed recently renovated lofts, mostly leased to well-off youths who wouldn't be caught dead living in the good neighbourhood. Its tall uncurtained windows streamed in daylight and at night the ones facing the front of the building would also let in the pink glow of the theatre's flickering neon sign. Above the lobby doors, metal script letters spelled out 'Bag End', something one could guess might've made the whole thing look a little snazzy at the time.
Frodo leaned over the steering wheel of his car and stared at the brick monster through the windshield, squinting at the harsh grey of the morning light. Next to him, Sam squirmed in seat.
"Well?"
"Hold on..."
"Weren't we in a hurry? Because if I'm risking me life being nostalgic at an old building, well, actually, I'd rather not."
Frodo tore his eyes away from the rusting script letters and turned the key in the ignition. The Mustang awoke loudly. "Alright, christ, keep your pants on..."
"I'm just saying..."
"Those *are* your pants, right?"
"Actually..."
"Do you have any clothes of your own?"
"The rumours deny it."
"I just don't want any jokes about me wanting to get into my own pants."
"Aw, not fair. I was saving that one for later."
The pavement scraped the bottom of the car as they backed out of the parking lot and into the street, as it always did. Frodo shifted up to third and floored it; the car hiccuped and grunted forward reluctantly.
"Shit."
"You know what's funny about the cars nowadays - damn things require *gas* to run properly."
"There's a station at Weaverly. We can, y'know, coast there."
"Good thing we're not in a hurry or anything."
Frodo tried for a glare but met Sam's eyes with a stifled grin instead. As aggravated as he felt leaving Bag End for god-knows-what, he was glad he'd brought Sam and his snark along. As a rule, he was good to have around on trips. Frodo didn't want to try and imagine how far from the norm this particular outting would turn out to be.
The car, as planned, did make it to Weaverly, and Sam filled 'er up as Frodo hurried to the store to pay. A small bell jingled as he opened the door, and the young man at the counter barely looked up from his mini television to greet his only customer. Frodo turned to see if Sam was done filling up the tank, and reached blindly into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet - only to be knocked over as someone ran square into him, squeaking loudly as they tumbled to the floor.
"FUCK."
"Hey, watch it, asshole!"
"Bags!"
"Pippin!?"
Frodo shoved the dead weight off of him and sat up on the dirty linoleum, pawing at the hair that fell into his eyes. The teen smiled up at him from a scattered mess of car fresheners and Little Debbie cakes, sporting an unruly head of curls and an obnoxiously loud t-shirt promoting 25-cent peep shows.
"Heya Bags. Long time no see!"
"I saw you last night, Pip," Frodo groaned, rubbing the back of his head where a lump was sure to grow shortly.
"Right. Merry and I, we were just--"
"Are you lifting again? Because if you're lifting again..." He trailed off as a slightly older young man, his face hidden by similar but blonder curls and yellow-tinted sunglasses, skidded to a frantic stop behind Pippin.
"Ugh! PIPPIN. What did you DO! Oh hey Bags."
"Merry."
This is when the clerk decided to look up and notice his fine establishment was being pilfered. "HEY!"
Pippin's eyes went wide, his smile giving way to a terrified expression. "Uh oh."
"Shit." Merry yanked Pippin up by the jacket, grabbing Frodo on the way, and made for the exit.
"Wait! I gotta pay for--"
"NO TIME."
He was shoved through the double doors and stumbled onto the sunny pavement, crashing right into Sam.
"What the--"
"Merry, it's Sam! Hi Sam!"
"Pippin? Merry!"
"GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!"
Frodo ran to the driver's side as fast as his legs could carry him. Merry tossed Pippin into the backseat head-first, diving in right after him. Sam pushed the seat back, cramming the younger men copiously into the less-than-spacious backseat.
"Ow!"
"You're on my arm!"
"I can't close the door if your leg is sticking out!"
Limbs were pulled in, doors were slammed, and the car roared to life. They peeled off in a sputter of gravel and dust before merging messily into heavy traffic. A cacophony of horns and slammed breaks swallowed them; Frodo clutched at the wheel with both hands, swerving between protesting vehicles until they were several hundred feet away, careening down the fast lane.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT."
Merry was nervously peering out of the back window for any possible sign of the gas station clerk. Pippin just sat there, inspecting the car's upholstery.
"Nice ride, Bags! New?"
Frodo grinded his teeth, summoning the patience he always needed when dealing with those two. "Peregrin. Listen to me. Were you guys lifting?"
Frodo saw Pippin pout in his rearview mirror, picking distractedly at his jeans. "Yeah. But then you walked right into me and I lost everything. AND got caught. Not cool, Bags."
"Pippin! You CAN'T... you... Argh." Frodo gave up. "Why *car fresheners*?"
Pippin shrugged, already bored with the conversation.
But Frodo knew the answer. Because they were easy. Because they were small and light and flat and easy to pocket. Because Pippin, however enthusiastic, was still a novice, still learning, dying to please his mentor, wanting more than anything else to be every bit as good as Merry. He had a long way to go.
Merry finally sat back, a satisfied but serious look on his face, as per usual. Frodo eyed him suspiciously, his attention divided between traffic and his view of the backseat.
"Merry..." he scowled.
His cousin looked up but only stared at his reflection, expression still blank. Frodo couldn't remember when was the last time he'd seen the younger man's eyes.
"I just saved your ass, man. Fess up."
Merry stared in his general direction for a moment more then reached up and unzipped his jacket, a sea of stolen trinkets tumbling down into his lap and at their feet.
Pippin's eyes went wide, a look of giddy reverence plastered on his face. "WHOA!"
Sam turned around, whistling at the sight of the bountiful loot. "Nice."
Frodo whacked him on the shoulder with little conviction. "Don't encourage them."
"But... Turkish Delight!" Sam brandished the chocolate bar at him. "You're no fun."
TBC