Disclaimer: It's still not mine, nor will it ever be. Oh well.
1. Setting Off: It's a Bloody Business and No Mistake Innumerable millenia later, in a four-bedroom semi in Birmingham, Disarray and Pandemonium had long since taken a firm grip on the Fellowship and their affairs, and they didn't intend on letting go just yet.
Everything had been peaceful for centuries, a highly unusual occurrence (especially since the ghost of Boromir had turned up in the sixth century and never disappeared back into the ether, at least not for long, to Frodo's great distress), but someone had recently had the bright idea of Going On Holiday. Legolas - the only sane one in the house, he often thought, though everyone else privately disagreed - had very quickly vetoed the idea of going to Ibiza, as Merry and Pippin wanted, and after a lot of fighting involving Aragorn and Gandalf's old broadswords being brought down from the attic, they had finally settled on London.
It was a sunny Wednesday morning in August, the birds were singing, the cabbages were doing well, and at Number 32 Cherry Blossom Avenue (the house called "Lórien", which everyone thought was Greek), chaos reigned...
**
"Eight thirty-TWO and counting!" Legolas, all but hysterical, bellowed up the stairs. "And the train LEAVES at NINE-ELEVEN!"
"Calm doon!" Pippin bellowed back, rolling over in his bunk. "We'll be there, alreet? Shuttup already!"
"You're probably not even packed yet," Legolas noted, accurately.
"WHERETHEHELLAREMYBOXERS?!?" A tall, dark, and usually fairly handsome ranger went pelting past in a towelling robe and white football socks. Legolas shot out an arm and caught Aragorn by the back of the neck of the robe, which made him slip on the polished wood hall flooring and slither around for several seconds before finally regaining his balance. Aragorn had never quite been the same since Arwen 'moved on' in the fifteenth century AD. Certainly he'd never learnt basic housekeeping, in any case. "WHATDIDYOUDOTHATFOR?!"
*Deep breaths,* Legolas thought desperately, *deep breaths, project an aura of outer Elvishness and complete and unflappable serenity...* "One, calm down. Two, stop yelling. Three, on the washline in the kitchen."
"There's a washline in the kitchen!?"
"Frodo deals with it."
"Oh. Right." Aragorn thought about this for a moment, then turned his face heavenwards and bellowed, "FRODOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
Only a split-second later, the Hobbit poked his head around the kitchen door, blinking. "No need to shout, you know, I'm right here."
"Hmph."
"Frodo," Legolas said sweetly, thinking *CalmdowncalmdownalreadyLegolas!*, "would you mind popping into the kitchen and getting Aragorn some boxers please?"
Frodo stared at the elf like he was completely crackers. "Me? ARAGORN's boxers? You have GOT to be kidding me. Please say you're kidding me?"
"Unfortunately, I'm not."
"No, no, no, no, no no no no no nononononononoNO. Okay?"
Begging is so undignified at the best of times, and for Elves it's even worse. But when needs must... "Please?" Legolas said, blinking innocently.
"NO!"
"Go on, none of us can get in the kitchen."
"NO!"
"Please...?"
"NO!"
Legolas frowned for a moment, thinking. "Hang on..."
"What? No, by the way."
"Why don't you like touching them now?"
"Why should I?!"
"Well, since you wash things most in this house, next to me, and I refuse point-blanc to do anyone's underwear except mine, so it must have been you, you must have touched them when they were...worse."
Frodo considered this. "M'still not going to get them."
"OHFORCRYINGOUTLOUD!" Aragorn said suddenly, and dived past Frodo into the (minute) kitchen. A moment later, a shriek followed. "EEEYOOOOOOOOOOOOWW!"
Legolas shook his head. Anyone with half a gramme of brain cell would remember that what with Sam's enormous kitchen table, and Frodo's various shiny things like the industrial blender, the ice-cream maker and the fridge-freezer, AND the fitted work-units, there was literally NO room for a fully-grown over-testosteroned man- (or Elf-) sized person to get in there, fight his way to the clothes horse, and free a pair of boxers. And if he was to try it, he might end up in serious Pain. Capitalised.
"OwowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowOOOOWWWW!!"
"Stop whining and get out here!!" Legolas shrieked into the kitchen, forgetting the aura of outer Elvishness and complete and unflappable serenity for a moment, or perhaps a fortnight.
"Owowowowowowowowowowow!" Aragorn, red-faced and pained-looking, sheepishly looked round the kitchen door. "Have you Hobbits any idea of what height you have that kitchen table at?!"
"It does me well enough," Frodo said flippantly, which earned him worried looks from Aragorn and the now-bordering-on-sheer-panic Legolas.
Aragorn was first to recover. "Well it's not exactly...suitable...for anyone else!"
"But nobody else is ever IN my kitchen, are they?"
"They are when bloody Hobbits refuse to get them their underwear!"
"That's not my fault! They're your boxers, you wash 'em!"
"Why should I?! You're the well-trained house-Hobbit!"
Legolas meeped, panicked briefly, gave up, sighed and leaned on the bannister. This was going to go on for a while, he could tell.
"Me? Well-trained house Hobbit?! And what do you call yourself then?!"
"I am a tall, dark and handsome Ranger!"
"Riiight!! WhatEVER!"
"You're a fine one to talk!"
"What's that supposed to mean?!"
It was at that moment that they were interrupted in their arguing by two things: first a thump from upstairs - from Merry and Pippin's room, Legolas guessed accurately - and a long, low moaning from...inside the fridge!?
Ignoring the thump - it was a pretty usual occurrence for there to be thumps from, and on, and in the immediate vicinity of Merry and Pippin (with any luck they'd been dragging their suitcase off the top of the wardrobe) - Aragorn, Frodo and Legolas all turned to the fridge (or at least, the general direction of the fridge. Frodo dodged into the kitchen for a closer look, and Aragorn and Legolas stared at the wall, at around about where the fridge was.
Legolas' brow creased in a worried frown. "Was that...?"
"It bloody well better not've been," Aragorn cut him off, hopping around on one leg, trying to put his boxers on and maintain some kind of dignity at the same time: a near impossible task.
Of course, it had to be right at that most inopportune moment that Merry and Pippin finally decided to surface, and appeared, side by side, at the top of the stairs, complete with the most hastily-packed suitcase in the entire world's complete and unabridged history, most of which the Fellowship had been there for, to be greeted by the sight of Aragorn apparently doing some kind of Celtic sword-dance (sans swords but with boxers); Legolas looking skeptical, bored and panicked all at once (a very interesting expression, even more so on an Elven face); and Frodo darting worriedly in and out of the kitchen.
"What the hell...?" Merry asked, blinking.
"Ah donno, cousin o'mine," Pippin replied thoughtfully. "Looks mighty interestin', though."
"Yeah," Merry said. "Really, really interesting."
Aragorn, noticing the two observers for the first time, meeped in a more- than-a-bit-girlish fashion, and hop-dived into the living room, landing smack-bang on top of Gandalf, who was coming out to see what all the fuss was about.
"Sorry!" squeaked Aragorn, darted to the window, drew the curtains, slammed shut the door, and proceeded to finally get his boxers on in relative peace.
Gandalf, who had been up and ready for close to three hours now, was getting heartily pissed off by all this commotion outside. "What IS going on here?" he said sternly, standing, legs planted firmly and hands on hips, in the middle of the hall, completely blocking the way for anyone and everyone else.
"He's at it again," Legolas told him wearily.
"ARGH!" said Frodo, in a jolt of sudden realisation, and he zipped under the kitchen table slightly faster than your avarage streak of greased lightning.
"Oh Eru," Legolas said despairingly. "I do not NEED this today of all days!"
"OOH! I get it!" Merry shrieked suddenly. "S'Boromir, innit?!"
"YES," Legolas told him in a fierce whisper. "Haunting the fridge, of all things."
"Aggghhhhh..." said a little voice from under the table. "Arrrrrrrgk..."
"All right," Gandalf said firmly, trying hard to stride purposefully into the kitchen, but having to stop in the doorway. "I'll deal with this." He took a deep breath and said calmly, "Boromir son of Denethor ex-Steward of Gondor, GET THE HELL OUT HERE NOW!!"
Moments later, a somewhat sheepish but still rather defiant-looking (and very definitely transparent) Boromir floated through the fridge door, slightly frosted. "What? I was only scaring the wits out of the salami--"
"There's a salami in my fridge?!" said an enraged voice from under the table. "WHO put THAT there then?!?"
Merry and Pippin glanced guiltily at one another and snickered. It was a garlic salami, too.
Boromir frowned at the table. "Frodo?"
"Meep?"
"Why are you under the table?"
"S'obvious!"
"No it's not..."
"'Tis!"
"Isn't!"
"Is too!"
"I'm telling you, Baggins, it's not!"
Legolas could easily see this continuing for hours, so he decided to intervene. "He's terrified of you, ye silly clod!"
"Me?!"
"Yes, you!"
"ME a silly clod? You, like, total blonde!" Boromir said, putting on an over-the-top California-valley-girl accent.
"Excuse ME--" Legolas began, before realising he was getting into exactly the same argument as he had been trying to cut short between the ghost and the Hobbit. "Never mind," he added hastily, muttering, "Doesn't mean you're any less of a silly clod," so quietly that nobody but Gandalf heard.
Thankfully, perhaps, the wizard decided not to pass comment, and Legolas, after pausing a moment, continued thus: "The time--" he checked the hall clock "--is now eight-forty and nine seconds. And the train leaves at ELEVEN MINUTES past NINE o'clock, and Boromir's frightening Frodo and Aragorn's in a state of undress and Merry and Pippin are being generally Merry and Pippinish and WHERE THE HELL IS THAT SAMWISE GAMGEE?!?!?!?"
"Woah," Merry said. "Sheesh," he added. "He needs to calm down a little," he finished up.
"Chill pill time," Pippin said, nodding. "Wha's 'gen'rally Merry an' Pippinish', anyhoo?"
"Search me," Merry replied.
At that moment, Aragorn came hurtling out of the living room (with the curséd boxers on; insert thanks to whatever deity or higher power you like to believe in: here) and, while rocketing up the stairs at phenomenal velocity, shouted back, "I'll thank you to get your facts right, Legolas Greenleaf; it was SEMI-undress!"
The back door opened and a muddy Sam wandered in, looking wide-eyed, shocked, and, as usual, innocent. "Did someone call? I was out tendin' to me potatoes, but I'm all ready to go, Mr Legolas, honest!"
"Eep!" Legolas replied, by now close to apopleptic. "Goandgetcleanedup! It's eightfortytwonow!"
"Yessir!" said Sam. "Sorrysir!" And he dived off up the stairs after Aragorn.
**
Eight fifty-three and counting...
"Is this all right, sir?" Sam asked Legolas as he hurtled down the stairs.
"Fine," Legolas asked distractedly from his spot on the kitchen floor. Being the smallest (or at least most bendy) sane and relatively normal house-member aside from Sam, he had been voted in to go and talk Frodo out from under the table. Returning to this task, he added, "Please, Frodo. Come on. You do want to go to London, don't you?"
"NotwithHIM!"
"But the Ri--er--the Thing's gone now, Frodo. And he's dead, in any case. He can't hurt you."
"Nor would I want to," Boromir put in helpfully, from where he was sitting on thin air six feet up. Which completely destroyed all Legolas' hard work of the last eleven minutes.
"ARGH!" said Frodo, proving the above-mentioned point.
"Dammit," commented Legolas. "Frodoooooo..."
"Meep?"
"You're going to come out now..."
"Nomeep!"
"Because if you don't..."
"Whatmeep?"
"I'm going to go up to the attic and get down my bow and quiver WHICH ARE STILL IN PERFECT WORKING ORDER BECAUSE I CARE FOR MY POSSESSIONS..."
"Thenmeep?"
"I'm going to wriggle under there and shoot you up the bum until you MOVE IT!"
"Movingmeep!" said Frodo, and scrabbled to his feet. Hell hath no fury like a stressed Elf, especially one threatening to go and get his perfectly working bow.
"Right," said Legolas firmly. "Everyone into the car, and let's get to the station. Even though we're almost certainly going to miss the train now. It's only eight fifty-five, after all, and we only have sixteen minutes to get there..."
**
"Has everyone got everything they need?"
"Yessss..."
"Suitcases?"
"Yeeesss..."
"I put them ALL in the boot mySELF," Aragorn said peevishly. "Including a very large bright yellow one with 'American Tourister Reinforced Aluminum Exterior For Extra Protection of Contents, And Internal Clothes-Press' written on a label hanging off it," he added, to the accompaniment of sniggers from Merry and Pippin.
Legolas blushed but rallied magnificently: "Bags?"
"Yeeeesss."
"I put them in too," Aragorn said, well into the swing of revenge, "including the sweet little green hand-luggage style one containing, I do believe, a hairdryer, electric straighteners, electric curlers, an excess of twenty-nine hairclips, bobbles, and scrunchies, moisturiser, conditioner, shampoo, and numerous other little bottles of crèmes and oils and the like, and quite a lot of blonde hair-dye."
Merry and Pippin bent over in their seats, laughing fit to burst.
Legolas glowered at the smirking Ranger. Okay, so they both knew he'd been lying about the hair dye (there had been no hairdye involved in Legolas's life, EVER), but the rest of it was true, and besides, the other occupants of the Ranger Rover didn't KNOW Aragorn had been duplicitous on the last count... "Change of clothing IN the suitcases?" Legolas continued quickly.
"Ye-essss..." Aragorn couldn't think of a witty repartee to that one.
"Socks, toothpaste, axes, boxers Aragorn, and everything else?"
"YES LEGOLAS! GET ON WITH IT!" Aragorn bellowed, his limited patience finally snapping. Revenge was sweet, but only when someone else was on the receiving end of it. Elves were too damn good at hitting you right where it hurt, i.e., in Aragorn's case, his boxers. The ones he wasn't wearing at the time, that is.
"Righto," the Elf chirruped. "Roll call!"
"Do we have to, 'Mom'?" Aragorn asked, sighing, as he strapped himself in at the driver's seat.
"Yes," 'mommy' Legolas said, adding in a whisper, "unfortunately. I'll do the shortened version, though. Hobbits?"
"Yeah!"
"Aye!"
"Meep!"
"Yessir, Mr Legolas sir!"
"Can you make it any shorter, please, Legolas?" Aragorn asked irritably, revving the engine. They weren't even out of the drive yet, *and WHO was it who was so eager to get going and is NOW holding us back?* the ranger thought miserably, still smarting after Legolas's boxers crack.
"All right," Legolas said. "Really short version of roll call coming up. Ready?"
"Ready," replied a motley and tired-sounding chorus.
"Right," Legolas said. "Everyone?"
The responses came thick and fast, but by dint of a quick head count (by far the best roll call there can be), Legolas ascertained that everyone was present. Gandalf was looking increasingly murderous, Boromir was looking increasingly dead, the Hobbits were looking increasingly and dangerously close to complete mental breakdowns, with varying degrees of damage imminent... Quickly, Legolas strapped in in the front passenger seat and nodded to Aragorn, arguments and revenge forgotten in the face of the Hobbits.
The moment the Ranger Rover started to roll, Merry and Pippin let out a cheer; Gimli began wishing he'd brought his Best Axe along and not just his little chopper; Sam started pining for his cabbages; Frodo panicked about being in a confined space with two mad Hobbits, a manic elf, a stressed Ranger, and an altogether Far Too Calm wizard but most of all Boromir; Gandalf sighed and magicked some Anadins out of the air; and Boromir raised his eyebrows and concentrated on not getting left behind, floating in mid- air, when Aragorn hit the main road and stepped on the gas.
**
"WHSmith! Can I go in WHSmith, Legolas? Can I? Can I? Please?" Frodo was practically begging.
"Hmmm, iron...steel...nice roof support system..." Gimli, too, was in his element.
"Petunias!" said Sam, heading for a large planter full of pretty blooms. "Wonder how they keep them so vibrant in this dusty atmosphere?"
Merry and Pippin, giggling, set off following a passing teenager in a short skirt and knee-high boots. Legolas didn't bother trying to call them back. After all--
"Can I go in WHSmith?!"
"Anadin, Legolas?" Gandalf said kindly, proffering the little yellow packet.
Legolas considered, just for a moment, taking the lot and overdosing, but knowing his luck he'd end up in the same situation as Boromir, and still not shot of this little lot of imbeciles. "Thanks," he said gratefully, popping one tablet from its silver-foil holder. Elves really shouldn't take analgesics (or halucinogens or preventatives or modern alcohol, as he had learnt to his cost some decades ago) but surely just one, just this once, wouldn't do any harm. It certainly couldn't make his headache any worse. And besides--
"PLASTIC!" Sam wailed, almost hysterical. "Some vibrant petunias THEY turned out to be!"
"CAN I GO IN WHSMITHS PLEASE?!?"
"Hey baby, ken ah have yer number? Ye know yeh want tae!"
"Smeg off, shortie!" the teenager, obviously a Red Dwarf fan, told Pippin.
"You living lot are a bunch of complete idiots," Boromir noted, pretty accurately it must be said.
"PLEEEEEEEEEEEASSSSSSEEEEE!!"
"PLASTIC?!?!"
"Ah, go oern, honeh!"
"Smeg OFF, I said!"
"Oh, I see, so there's iron bolts in...there...and there...and steel roof supports running along from...there, to...here and..."
"You don't crunch tablets, Legolas, you swallow. Sort of - gulp, yes?"
"Urgh!" Legolas, one failed attempt at Anadin-ingestion behind him, bent over, coughing violently and almost choking. Anyways--
"I am in the long-stay carpark, right?" Aragorn fretted for the hundredth time. "Not the shortstay? Argh, shit! Did I put the steering lock on?!"
Legolas stopped hacking and wheezing for long enough to answer, "Yes, you did," before resuming the dying.
"CAN I GOT TO WHSMITHS PLEASE?!?!?!?!?"
Cough, cough, choke, die, "YES! WHATEVER!" In any case...
"I won't be long!" sang Frodo, and darted off.
...it didn't really matter...
"Are you sure?" Aragorn asked worriedly.
...because just as the Ranger Rover had pulled into the LONG stay car- park...
"Yes," wheezed Legolas, red in the face and hair matted from all the bending over.
...the nine-eleven to Kings' Cross had pulled out of the station...
"Go orn, pleahs, it's jest a flippin' telephone nummer!"
...and the next one to London was the two forty-five.
"Life sucks," Legolas noted sadly, still wheezing a little. Boromir nodded kindly, if a little transparently.
1. Setting Off: It's a Bloody Business and No Mistake Innumerable millenia later, in a four-bedroom semi in Birmingham, Disarray and Pandemonium had long since taken a firm grip on the Fellowship and their affairs, and they didn't intend on letting go just yet.
Everything had been peaceful for centuries, a highly unusual occurrence (especially since the ghost of Boromir had turned up in the sixth century and never disappeared back into the ether, at least not for long, to Frodo's great distress), but someone had recently had the bright idea of Going On Holiday. Legolas - the only sane one in the house, he often thought, though everyone else privately disagreed - had very quickly vetoed the idea of going to Ibiza, as Merry and Pippin wanted, and after a lot of fighting involving Aragorn and Gandalf's old broadswords being brought down from the attic, they had finally settled on London.
It was a sunny Wednesday morning in August, the birds were singing, the cabbages were doing well, and at Number 32 Cherry Blossom Avenue (the house called "Lórien", which everyone thought was Greek), chaos reigned...
**
"Eight thirty-TWO and counting!" Legolas, all but hysterical, bellowed up the stairs. "And the train LEAVES at NINE-ELEVEN!"
"Calm doon!" Pippin bellowed back, rolling over in his bunk. "We'll be there, alreet? Shuttup already!"
"You're probably not even packed yet," Legolas noted, accurately.
"WHERETHEHELLAREMYBOXERS?!?" A tall, dark, and usually fairly handsome ranger went pelting past in a towelling robe and white football socks. Legolas shot out an arm and caught Aragorn by the back of the neck of the robe, which made him slip on the polished wood hall flooring and slither around for several seconds before finally regaining his balance. Aragorn had never quite been the same since Arwen 'moved on' in the fifteenth century AD. Certainly he'd never learnt basic housekeeping, in any case. "WHATDIDYOUDOTHATFOR?!"
*Deep breaths,* Legolas thought desperately, *deep breaths, project an aura of outer Elvishness and complete and unflappable serenity...* "One, calm down. Two, stop yelling. Three, on the washline in the kitchen."
"There's a washline in the kitchen!?"
"Frodo deals with it."
"Oh. Right." Aragorn thought about this for a moment, then turned his face heavenwards and bellowed, "FRODOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
Only a split-second later, the Hobbit poked his head around the kitchen door, blinking. "No need to shout, you know, I'm right here."
"Hmph."
"Frodo," Legolas said sweetly, thinking *CalmdowncalmdownalreadyLegolas!*, "would you mind popping into the kitchen and getting Aragorn some boxers please?"
Frodo stared at the elf like he was completely crackers. "Me? ARAGORN's boxers? You have GOT to be kidding me. Please say you're kidding me?"
"Unfortunately, I'm not."
"No, no, no, no, no no no no no nononononononoNO. Okay?"
Begging is so undignified at the best of times, and for Elves it's even worse. But when needs must... "Please?" Legolas said, blinking innocently.
"NO!"
"Go on, none of us can get in the kitchen."
"NO!"
"Please...?"
"NO!"
Legolas frowned for a moment, thinking. "Hang on..."
"What? No, by the way."
"Why don't you like touching them now?"
"Why should I?!"
"Well, since you wash things most in this house, next to me, and I refuse point-blanc to do anyone's underwear except mine, so it must have been you, you must have touched them when they were...worse."
Frodo considered this. "M'still not going to get them."
"OHFORCRYINGOUTLOUD!" Aragorn said suddenly, and dived past Frodo into the (minute) kitchen. A moment later, a shriek followed. "EEEYOOOOOOOOOOOOWW!"
Legolas shook his head. Anyone with half a gramme of brain cell would remember that what with Sam's enormous kitchen table, and Frodo's various shiny things like the industrial blender, the ice-cream maker and the fridge-freezer, AND the fitted work-units, there was literally NO room for a fully-grown over-testosteroned man- (or Elf-) sized person to get in there, fight his way to the clothes horse, and free a pair of boxers. And if he was to try it, he might end up in serious Pain. Capitalised.
"OwowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowowOOOOWWWW!!"
"Stop whining and get out here!!" Legolas shrieked into the kitchen, forgetting the aura of outer Elvishness and complete and unflappable serenity for a moment, or perhaps a fortnight.
"Owowowowowowowowowowow!" Aragorn, red-faced and pained-looking, sheepishly looked round the kitchen door. "Have you Hobbits any idea of what height you have that kitchen table at?!"
"It does me well enough," Frodo said flippantly, which earned him worried looks from Aragorn and the now-bordering-on-sheer-panic Legolas.
Aragorn was first to recover. "Well it's not exactly...suitable...for anyone else!"
"But nobody else is ever IN my kitchen, are they?"
"They are when bloody Hobbits refuse to get them their underwear!"
"That's not my fault! They're your boxers, you wash 'em!"
"Why should I?! You're the well-trained house-Hobbit!"
Legolas meeped, panicked briefly, gave up, sighed and leaned on the bannister. This was going to go on for a while, he could tell.
"Me? Well-trained house Hobbit?! And what do you call yourself then?!"
"I am a tall, dark and handsome Ranger!"
"Riiight!! WhatEVER!"
"You're a fine one to talk!"
"What's that supposed to mean?!"
It was at that moment that they were interrupted in their arguing by two things: first a thump from upstairs - from Merry and Pippin's room, Legolas guessed accurately - and a long, low moaning from...inside the fridge!?
Ignoring the thump - it was a pretty usual occurrence for there to be thumps from, and on, and in the immediate vicinity of Merry and Pippin (with any luck they'd been dragging their suitcase off the top of the wardrobe) - Aragorn, Frodo and Legolas all turned to the fridge (or at least, the general direction of the fridge. Frodo dodged into the kitchen for a closer look, and Aragorn and Legolas stared at the wall, at around about where the fridge was.
Legolas' brow creased in a worried frown. "Was that...?"
"It bloody well better not've been," Aragorn cut him off, hopping around on one leg, trying to put his boxers on and maintain some kind of dignity at the same time: a near impossible task.
Of course, it had to be right at that most inopportune moment that Merry and Pippin finally decided to surface, and appeared, side by side, at the top of the stairs, complete with the most hastily-packed suitcase in the entire world's complete and unabridged history, most of which the Fellowship had been there for, to be greeted by the sight of Aragorn apparently doing some kind of Celtic sword-dance (sans swords but with boxers); Legolas looking skeptical, bored and panicked all at once (a very interesting expression, even more so on an Elven face); and Frodo darting worriedly in and out of the kitchen.
"What the hell...?" Merry asked, blinking.
"Ah donno, cousin o'mine," Pippin replied thoughtfully. "Looks mighty interestin', though."
"Yeah," Merry said. "Really, really interesting."
Aragorn, noticing the two observers for the first time, meeped in a more- than-a-bit-girlish fashion, and hop-dived into the living room, landing smack-bang on top of Gandalf, who was coming out to see what all the fuss was about.
"Sorry!" squeaked Aragorn, darted to the window, drew the curtains, slammed shut the door, and proceeded to finally get his boxers on in relative peace.
Gandalf, who had been up and ready for close to three hours now, was getting heartily pissed off by all this commotion outside. "What IS going on here?" he said sternly, standing, legs planted firmly and hands on hips, in the middle of the hall, completely blocking the way for anyone and everyone else.
"He's at it again," Legolas told him wearily.
"ARGH!" said Frodo, in a jolt of sudden realisation, and he zipped under the kitchen table slightly faster than your avarage streak of greased lightning.
"Oh Eru," Legolas said despairingly. "I do not NEED this today of all days!"
"OOH! I get it!" Merry shrieked suddenly. "S'Boromir, innit?!"
"YES," Legolas told him in a fierce whisper. "Haunting the fridge, of all things."
"Aggghhhhh..." said a little voice from under the table. "Arrrrrrrgk..."
"All right," Gandalf said firmly, trying hard to stride purposefully into the kitchen, but having to stop in the doorway. "I'll deal with this." He took a deep breath and said calmly, "Boromir son of Denethor ex-Steward of Gondor, GET THE HELL OUT HERE NOW!!"
Moments later, a somewhat sheepish but still rather defiant-looking (and very definitely transparent) Boromir floated through the fridge door, slightly frosted. "What? I was only scaring the wits out of the salami--"
"There's a salami in my fridge?!" said an enraged voice from under the table. "WHO put THAT there then?!?"
Merry and Pippin glanced guiltily at one another and snickered. It was a garlic salami, too.
Boromir frowned at the table. "Frodo?"
"Meep?"
"Why are you under the table?"
"S'obvious!"
"No it's not..."
"'Tis!"
"Isn't!"
"Is too!"
"I'm telling you, Baggins, it's not!"
Legolas could easily see this continuing for hours, so he decided to intervene. "He's terrified of you, ye silly clod!"
"Me?!"
"Yes, you!"
"ME a silly clod? You, like, total blonde!" Boromir said, putting on an over-the-top California-valley-girl accent.
"Excuse ME--" Legolas began, before realising he was getting into exactly the same argument as he had been trying to cut short between the ghost and the Hobbit. "Never mind," he added hastily, muttering, "Doesn't mean you're any less of a silly clod," so quietly that nobody but Gandalf heard.
Thankfully, perhaps, the wizard decided not to pass comment, and Legolas, after pausing a moment, continued thus: "The time--" he checked the hall clock "--is now eight-forty and nine seconds. And the train leaves at ELEVEN MINUTES past NINE o'clock, and Boromir's frightening Frodo and Aragorn's in a state of undress and Merry and Pippin are being generally Merry and Pippinish and WHERE THE HELL IS THAT SAMWISE GAMGEE?!?!?!?"
"Woah," Merry said. "Sheesh," he added. "He needs to calm down a little," he finished up.
"Chill pill time," Pippin said, nodding. "Wha's 'gen'rally Merry an' Pippinish', anyhoo?"
"Search me," Merry replied.
At that moment, Aragorn came hurtling out of the living room (with the curséd boxers on; insert thanks to whatever deity or higher power you like to believe in: here) and, while rocketing up the stairs at phenomenal velocity, shouted back, "I'll thank you to get your facts right, Legolas Greenleaf; it was SEMI-undress!"
The back door opened and a muddy Sam wandered in, looking wide-eyed, shocked, and, as usual, innocent. "Did someone call? I was out tendin' to me potatoes, but I'm all ready to go, Mr Legolas, honest!"
"Eep!" Legolas replied, by now close to apopleptic. "Goandgetcleanedup! It's eightfortytwonow!"
"Yessir!" said Sam. "Sorrysir!" And he dived off up the stairs after Aragorn.
**
Eight fifty-three and counting...
"Is this all right, sir?" Sam asked Legolas as he hurtled down the stairs.
"Fine," Legolas asked distractedly from his spot on the kitchen floor. Being the smallest (or at least most bendy) sane and relatively normal house-member aside from Sam, he had been voted in to go and talk Frodo out from under the table. Returning to this task, he added, "Please, Frodo. Come on. You do want to go to London, don't you?"
"NotwithHIM!"
"But the Ri--er--the Thing's gone now, Frodo. And he's dead, in any case. He can't hurt you."
"Nor would I want to," Boromir put in helpfully, from where he was sitting on thin air six feet up. Which completely destroyed all Legolas' hard work of the last eleven minutes.
"ARGH!" said Frodo, proving the above-mentioned point.
"Dammit," commented Legolas. "Frodoooooo..."
"Meep?"
"You're going to come out now..."
"Nomeep!"
"Because if you don't..."
"Whatmeep?"
"I'm going to go up to the attic and get down my bow and quiver WHICH ARE STILL IN PERFECT WORKING ORDER BECAUSE I CARE FOR MY POSSESSIONS..."
"Thenmeep?"
"I'm going to wriggle under there and shoot you up the bum until you MOVE IT!"
"Movingmeep!" said Frodo, and scrabbled to his feet. Hell hath no fury like a stressed Elf, especially one threatening to go and get his perfectly working bow.
"Right," said Legolas firmly. "Everyone into the car, and let's get to the station. Even though we're almost certainly going to miss the train now. It's only eight fifty-five, after all, and we only have sixteen minutes to get there..."
**
"Has everyone got everything they need?"
"Yessss..."
"Suitcases?"
"Yeeesss..."
"I put them ALL in the boot mySELF," Aragorn said peevishly. "Including a very large bright yellow one with 'American Tourister Reinforced Aluminum Exterior For Extra Protection of Contents, And Internal Clothes-Press' written on a label hanging off it," he added, to the accompaniment of sniggers from Merry and Pippin.
Legolas blushed but rallied magnificently: "Bags?"
"Yeeeesss."
"I put them in too," Aragorn said, well into the swing of revenge, "including the sweet little green hand-luggage style one containing, I do believe, a hairdryer, electric straighteners, electric curlers, an excess of twenty-nine hairclips, bobbles, and scrunchies, moisturiser, conditioner, shampoo, and numerous other little bottles of crèmes and oils and the like, and quite a lot of blonde hair-dye."
Merry and Pippin bent over in their seats, laughing fit to burst.
Legolas glowered at the smirking Ranger. Okay, so they both knew he'd been lying about the hair dye (there had been no hairdye involved in Legolas's life, EVER), but the rest of it was true, and besides, the other occupants of the Ranger Rover didn't KNOW Aragorn had been duplicitous on the last count... "Change of clothing IN the suitcases?" Legolas continued quickly.
"Ye-essss..." Aragorn couldn't think of a witty repartee to that one.
"Socks, toothpaste, axes, boxers Aragorn, and everything else?"
"YES LEGOLAS! GET ON WITH IT!" Aragorn bellowed, his limited patience finally snapping. Revenge was sweet, but only when someone else was on the receiving end of it. Elves were too damn good at hitting you right where it hurt, i.e., in Aragorn's case, his boxers. The ones he wasn't wearing at the time, that is.
"Righto," the Elf chirruped. "Roll call!"
"Do we have to, 'Mom'?" Aragorn asked, sighing, as he strapped himself in at the driver's seat.
"Yes," 'mommy' Legolas said, adding in a whisper, "unfortunately. I'll do the shortened version, though. Hobbits?"
"Yeah!"
"Aye!"
"Meep!"
"Yessir, Mr Legolas sir!"
"Can you make it any shorter, please, Legolas?" Aragorn asked irritably, revving the engine. They weren't even out of the drive yet, *and WHO was it who was so eager to get going and is NOW holding us back?* the ranger thought miserably, still smarting after Legolas's boxers crack.
"All right," Legolas said. "Really short version of roll call coming up. Ready?"
"Ready," replied a motley and tired-sounding chorus.
"Right," Legolas said. "Everyone?"
The responses came thick and fast, but by dint of a quick head count (by far the best roll call there can be), Legolas ascertained that everyone was present. Gandalf was looking increasingly murderous, Boromir was looking increasingly dead, the Hobbits were looking increasingly and dangerously close to complete mental breakdowns, with varying degrees of damage imminent... Quickly, Legolas strapped in in the front passenger seat and nodded to Aragorn, arguments and revenge forgotten in the face of the Hobbits.
The moment the Ranger Rover started to roll, Merry and Pippin let out a cheer; Gimli began wishing he'd brought his Best Axe along and not just his little chopper; Sam started pining for his cabbages; Frodo panicked about being in a confined space with two mad Hobbits, a manic elf, a stressed Ranger, and an altogether Far Too Calm wizard but most of all Boromir; Gandalf sighed and magicked some Anadins out of the air; and Boromir raised his eyebrows and concentrated on not getting left behind, floating in mid- air, when Aragorn hit the main road and stepped on the gas.
**
"WHSmith! Can I go in WHSmith, Legolas? Can I? Can I? Please?" Frodo was practically begging.
"Hmmm, iron...steel...nice roof support system..." Gimli, too, was in his element.
"Petunias!" said Sam, heading for a large planter full of pretty blooms. "Wonder how they keep them so vibrant in this dusty atmosphere?"
Merry and Pippin, giggling, set off following a passing teenager in a short skirt and knee-high boots. Legolas didn't bother trying to call them back. After all--
"Can I go in WHSmith?!"
"Anadin, Legolas?" Gandalf said kindly, proffering the little yellow packet.
Legolas considered, just for a moment, taking the lot and overdosing, but knowing his luck he'd end up in the same situation as Boromir, and still not shot of this little lot of imbeciles. "Thanks," he said gratefully, popping one tablet from its silver-foil holder. Elves really shouldn't take analgesics (or halucinogens or preventatives or modern alcohol, as he had learnt to his cost some decades ago) but surely just one, just this once, wouldn't do any harm. It certainly couldn't make his headache any worse. And besides--
"PLASTIC!" Sam wailed, almost hysterical. "Some vibrant petunias THEY turned out to be!"
"CAN I GO IN WHSMITHS PLEASE?!?"
"Hey baby, ken ah have yer number? Ye know yeh want tae!"
"Smeg off, shortie!" the teenager, obviously a Red Dwarf fan, told Pippin.
"You living lot are a bunch of complete idiots," Boromir noted, pretty accurately it must be said.
"PLEEEEEEEEEEEASSSSSSEEEEE!!"
"PLASTIC?!?!"
"Ah, go oern, honeh!"
"Smeg OFF, I said!"
"Oh, I see, so there's iron bolts in...there...and there...and steel roof supports running along from...there, to...here and..."
"You don't crunch tablets, Legolas, you swallow. Sort of - gulp, yes?"
"Urgh!" Legolas, one failed attempt at Anadin-ingestion behind him, bent over, coughing violently and almost choking. Anyways--
"I am in the long-stay carpark, right?" Aragorn fretted for the hundredth time. "Not the shortstay? Argh, shit! Did I put the steering lock on?!"
Legolas stopped hacking and wheezing for long enough to answer, "Yes, you did," before resuming the dying.
"CAN I GOT TO WHSMITHS PLEASE?!?!?!?!?"
Cough, cough, choke, die, "YES! WHATEVER!" In any case...
"I won't be long!" sang Frodo, and darted off.
...it didn't really matter...
"Are you sure?" Aragorn asked worriedly.
...because just as the Ranger Rover had pulled into the LONG stay car- park...
"Yes," wheezed Legolas, red in the face and hair matted from all the bending over.
...the nine-eleven to Kings' Cross had pulled out of the station...
"Go orn, pleahs, it's jest a flippin' telephone nummer!"
...and the next one to London was the two forty-five.
"Life sucks," Legolas noted sadly, still wheezing a little. Boromir nodded kindly, if a little transparently.