Disclaimer: Still not mine. Except Josephine, and that only slightly.
A/N: One reviewer summed this story up admirably. It is not an anti-American diatribe; it is an anti-American-Sue diatribe. And…yes, well, I hope you like, and are temporarily amused.
Of Squealing and Sickness
Two days later, there was about a pinch left in the pepper pouch, Merry and Pippin had been effectively forbidden from lighting or going within a yard of fires, and each of the two hobbits sported scorched trousers. Food was getting scarce more quickly than anyone had guessed before departing from Rivendell, and, privately, everyone, including Josephine, blamed Josephine. The teenager was not used to going without much food for long amounts of time, and she had developed a habit of waking up a few hours after midnight and helping herself to the food packs.
The mud had stained her thin tunic beyond repair, and she was wearing Boromir's one spare shirt underneath one of the hobbits' cloaks. The cloak was too small, and the shirt too large for her. She had resorted to tucking the latter into her breeches in order to keep the chilly wind from blowing up and into her bones. They were advancing towards the mountains, and it was getting colder by the day.
On his part, Legolas was seriously regretting the mistake he had made in not insisting that his father set up Houses of Healing every ten feet all over Middle-Earth. He had never actually thought that a measure like that might be necessary, but in this case, it was.
Josephine was…clinging to him.
She also kept babbling about someone named Orlando, and the words "poster" and "movies" kept jumping up into the one-sided conversation here and there, completely baffling him. The rest of the Fellowship, selfishly, was privately gloating about its narrow escape, and had made it a habit to keep about five yards behind Legolas and Josephine.
It had gotten so painful for Legolas that he was privately wishing for Sauron to come and swoop down upon them all. At least, he figured, if they weren't killed directly, men and women would likely be placed in separate cells. And he felt quite sure that Sauron would figuratively see through her trousers and group them separately.
"And I'm so excited about being here!" Josephine gabbled. "I mean, I saw the trailer for the movies and I think you looked a lot hotter in them, but whatever, y'know? I mean, I'm not a huge fantasy fan, so I didn't go see the first movie when it came out. Oooh, is that a bow?" she asked suddenly, diverted as she pointed at the item slung over Legolas' shoulder.
"It is," he said tiredly.
"Can you teach me how to use it?" she begged with wide-open hazel eyes. Legolas took this moment to notice just how sparse her eyelashes were, and felt justifiably proud of his own, which, pale though they were, at least existed.
"This is a weapon, lady, and—"
He broke off at the fifty-sixth squeal from Josephine, and almost shot an arrow down her throat.
"Yes?"
"You called me lady," she squeaked. "Eeeek! That's so hot!"
Legolas did not particularly care for being likened to a volcano, but, gallantly, he overlooked the comment and continued.
"I cannot train you in archery. We have much to accomplish and far to go, and we cannot pause for lessons. I have no doubt, however, that you may find someone who will agree to teach you at the healer's, where we will leave you."
Josephine hushed for about ten seconds, only casting a longing look at his quiver of arrows. Legolas breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He knew quite well that she would find it next to impossible to find a master; she was, after all, a woman, notwithstanding the breeches. However, that excuse meant that he would not have to teach her, and he had learned in the past two days that Josephine was capable of an exorbitant amount of whining.
"My feet hurt," she complained, with perfect timing. "Why are we walking so far? Don't you have carriages or wagons or something?"
Bill, the pony, perked up his ears as he heard those words, realized what he was in for, and gave an artful, exhausted whinny. Honestly, he thought, as if I'm not carrying most of this blasted Fellowship's supplies already!
"I'm tired," Josephine bleated again. "Can I ride the horse?"
"Pony," Sam mumbled, gritting his teeth and fists. "Bill is a pony."
"With a name," Merry added under his breath. "And you're too tall for him, anyway. Just like you're too tall for my cloak. And too tall for me to be sick on your head."
"You never know," Pippin said thoughtfully, memories of pinched food dancing vividly between his ears. "I could trip her if you wink at me."
"Would she think of washing her hair out with snow?" Merry asked eagerly.
Pippin smothered a grin as Josephine spun around in a circle and accidentally whacked her hand on a passing boulder. "I won't tell her if you won't."
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