Work Text:
Ever since the group parted ways, you had been anxiously awaiting a visit to the Shire. Your days were full of activity (what with the people to relocate, and the rebuilding to be done). Contrary to your expectations, the people of Rohan did not look at you with disgust, but in wonder. Many had never seen an Elf before. There were many questions (and you were happy to answer each and every one), especially from the children. But due to all of this you hardly had a day to yourself. In the empty moments—and moments they were, for apart from the little sleep you got you were rarely alone—you thought of nothing but your friends. You felt Frodo’s loss acutely, accompanied by a strange guilt for his sacrifice. There were often letters from Aragorn, and you commiserated about similar daily struggles. Rebuilding a kingdom was no easy task. Legolas stayed for a few weeks to avoid his father’s wrath for a while longer, and that was nice while it lasted. Then you were truly alone. Sure, you took some meals with Éowyn and her kin, but that was all. The Fellowship had dispersed, for good.
And, of course, you missed him. Pippin Took certainly lived up to his name—as soon as you saw those eyes, you were taken with him. At first you dismissed it as mere parental instinct, a desire to care for the innocent young hobbit. But as you got to know him, learned of his empathy and courage, and how much hope he somehow held in his four-foot-five body, you knew it was something more. By the end he was changed. Not so much as his Ringbearer companion, but there was a darkness, a maturity, a quiet to him, that there hadn’t been before. And you noticed. Of course you did. You spent more time than you should noticing him. The quirk of his lips when he was being particularly mischievous, the way he shook his hair from his eyes, the easy rhythm of his voice. Many of your “empty moments” were filled to the brim with thoughts of Pippin: what was he doing now? did he think of you? And with wishes that you could hold him right then.
You were long overdue for a break. And Éowyn gladly gave you one. She sent you off with a horse, some provisions (no lembas, thank Valar, you’ve had far too much for a lifetime), a letter to the hobbits, and her well wishes. You gave yours in return and returned to the road. It was a lonesome journey. The quiet was suffocating. But most roads were now safe from orc attacks. You allowed yourself to hum a little atop the trotting steed. This was what adventure should be, you mused.
The sun is setting as your horse finally reaches Hobbiton. The Shire is more beautiful and quaint than you imagined it. You get some looks from passing hobbits, but pay them no heed. There is only one (well, three) that you wish to see. And see them you do! Sam is pulling weeds in Bag End’s garden, and does not notice you dismounting. A few young hobbits approach Rohan’s horse and she preens under their attention. You push the gate open and in a few long strides tap the gardener on the shoulder. He whips his head around, flinching away and poking a spade at your ribs. You quickly (but gently enough) grab his “armed” wrist and push it away from you on instinct.
“Sam! Sam, it’s me,” you reassure the hobbit, who immediately releases you, muttering apologies. He stands and brushes soil from his knees. Samwise Gamgee looks down, ashamed, before pulling you into a hug. It is not much of a hug (as he hardly reaches your chest), but you wrap your arms around him as best as you can. The gardener looks up at you. There are tears beading in his eyes.
“I miss him,” he mutters. Your heart breaks for Sam. The only person who shares in his suffering is far, far away.
“Me too.”
You are invited in for lunch– a magnificent hobbitish one. It is a fine thing, catching up with friends, you decide, as you swallow another mouthful of Sam’s delicious quiche. He has been responsible for Bag End’s upkeep. Though he clearly loves his wife and child very much, he is more tense than you remember. Jittery is a good word for it, you decide. By the time you have helped with the dishes and drained your third cup of tea, the two of you are relaxed and conversing amicably.
“And if I’ve calculated this correctly, a baby hobbit would be..ten inches long? Is that right? Because that is the most adorable thought I’ve ever had. Really, is that how small Elanor was?” He confirms this with a chuckle at your shocked face.
Outside there is a familiar laugh, and a knock at the door. The both of you tense, but for different reasons. It is obvious that Sam’s walls are back up. You shoot him a look that is meant to mean something along the lines of you’re safe now, it’s alright. But the meaning might be obscured by the racing heart in your chest and the thought of he’s here he’s here he’s here. You make eye contact with Sam and jerk your head in the direction of the door.
“It might be better if you answer it, so as not to ruin the surprise.” He throws you a two-fingered salute and rises, grinning, from his chair.
You hear muffled pleasantries from the doorway.
“I’ve guests over, so don’t be entirely budgy, yeah?” Sam is really putting the act on. You smirk. You hear twin reassurances, and the pattering of feet; you rise from your chair, hands shaking. And there he is. You cannot look at him. Merry gasps in joy and runs eagerly toward you. You clap a hand on his shoulder and squint.
“I would say you’ve grown, but…” Merry scoffs and pulls away, but cracks a smile.
“I would say you’re matured, but…” You roll your eyes good naturedly and force a laugh.
You practically feel his eyes boring into your back. It isn’t possible to ignore him forever. You turn toward the hobbit you want to see the most, and the least.
At Aragorn’s wedding reception, the two of you had somehow ended up alone at a table. The silence between you was comfortable, but oh so oppressive. You weren’t going to be the one to break it, no chance. Pippin’s fingers trembled around his pint. He stared, almost curious, deep into the amber liquid, as if it held answers he didn’t particularly want to know, but were nagging at him nonetheless. Your eyes, however, didn’t stray from him. You were friends. And close as the Fellowship may be, there was a line. You wanted to jump clear over it and…you decided to end that line of thinking right there before it got away from you. The thing was, there wasn’t any way of knowing how close he was to that line, or how far.
“You’re staring,” he commented, not unkindly, not raising his eyes from the glass. You jolted, but didn’t move. You felt your cheeks heat up. He noticed.
“You’re blushing.” He smiled, surprised, as if you had been discussing the weather and not your obvious ogling. Even though you’d been caught you didn’t look away. How could you? Drink had made you far too daring: you reached across the table to take his hand in yours. Were your intentions clear? The hobbit tensed but did not pull away. Pippin finally, finally met your eyes, with an intensity you weren’t expecting—the last shove you needed over that damned line.
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” You murmured in his general direction. His eyes widened. “I stare because it is impossible not to. Because I—” Your breath caught. He was leaning ever closer and it was everything you wanted and… and you couldn’t do this to him. Couldn’t ruin your friendship with a drunken mistake. Neither of you were in your right mind. With a sudden wave of nerves you rose from your chair and ran toward your room, toward safety. It wasn’t fair, springing that on him. You prayed he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
Over a year has passed. His face holds a sullen exhaustion, a hesitance. It is impossible to read from the expression on his face how much he remembers of that night. But it is clear the tension between you still exists. He does not approach you. Pippin simply stands, gaping, far too many feet away for your liking, his hesitation giving far too much away to the others.
“Hello, Pip,” you whisper. With a strangled sob he takes a step toward you.
The line wavers.
You meet him in the middle and allow him to bury his face between your ribs. One of your arms is curled around him and the other rests on his head. Your fingers pierce his curls and rest on his scalp. His hands strain toward your ribs, your arms, to get closer to you, to bridge the gap. In your mind there is nothing but the two of you and that inevitable collision. You can feel his chest rise and fall as his heartbeat slowly syncs with yours.
“Walk with me?” he asks, looking up at you with that tear-streaked face and those perfect eyes. How can you deny him that which you so desperately want? You take his arm and duck your head through Bag End’s low door. The pair of hobbits behind you, forgotten, share a mischievous look.
Your horse is nowhere to be see.. You open your mouth to ask about it.
“Merry stabled her.” Curt, casual. You hum in gratitude. The silence between you is easy but demanding to be broken, so reminiscent of that night you long to forget.
The Shire is quite pretty. But it is looking at you more than you are looking at it. Once you leave the more populated area, though, it is all “little rivers,” as a certain Baggins once described it. For once you notice it more than you notice Pippin, treading softly beside you. And for not the first time you do not realize his eyes are on you.
“Here,” he blurts out, running ahead to climb a small grassy hill. You follow. He sits. Stares steadily ahead. Pats the ground next to him, inviting. You sit. Stare steadily at your lap. He glances over at you. His hand twitches. Hesitates. He grabs your hand, blushing furiously. You look up at him. Smirk.
“You’re blushing,” you comment. And regret it immediately.
“Using my own words against me, now?” You blush, all the way up to your pointed ears.
“I didn’t—you—you remember?” You stutter. Pippin’s grip loosens, tries to pull away. You can’t possibly lose this one sober touch just as soon as you get it. You hold onto it harder, clasping his small hand in both of yours. You gather your courage and leap headlong over that damned line.
“Do you really want to know what I wanted to do that night?”
“What you wanted to do was give me hope.” He mutters bitterly. You gape at him shamelessly.
“You…hoped?” Pippin, your Pippin, looks up at you with such reverence that there is nothing for it. You kiss him soundly, grabbing him by the shoulders and pressing him into the grass. An apology. A confession. A vow.
“Bastard,” Pippin mutters, but it is with a deep affection that he kisses you back: fierce, possessive, forgiving.
“It might have been better that we did this when we weren’t in view of the entire Fellowship,” he concedes when you come up for air. You rest your head on his chest, content; he wraps an arm over your shoulder. And you are finally happy to sit in silence awhile.
“Do you think Éowyn will be too angry when I tell her she’s not getting the horse back?”