By: Dana
Summary: It isn't that he really wants to go back.
Characters: Pippin, Merry, mention of others
Pairings:: none
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: Angst
Author's Notes: A Christmas-ficlet for Pipwise Brandygin.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

They had run out over the grass, feeling the plain heat of sunlight sinking into their limbs, and they had lain out, basking, in that same sunlight. Pippin sits, with his legs stretched out, more tired than he ought to be. Perhaps the sun is too bright - no, that can't be, though the barrows had been long and dark - and Pippin finds that that frigid memory is almost too strong for him to bear, and he works at rubbing unwanted recollection from his limbs. There is a tightness in his chest, a burning in his eyes, and a stinging right through his throat. He would like to go home.

He will not sit and weep, though he is only aware of unshed tears in that moment, and he wraps his arms very tightly about his chest: it would do him no good to sit and look the fool, for his cousins and even Sam to see. How can he bear it, though, when what he wants most is home?

"Pippin?"

"What is it, Merry?"

"What perfect manners, you have." Merry looks him over, and moves to sit beside him. "Here, let me have a look at you. That place was absolutely awful, wouldn't you say?"

"I would," Pippin says, back, shivering at the chill touch of both Merry's hands as they press against his cheeks, and tilts his head. Merry's grin is lopsided, sheepish, as he looks back.

"And here I thought I was all warmed up."

"Well, you're not. Now, Merry, tell me the truth. I must look as awful as that barrow."

"Almost," Merry nods. He looks Pippin right in the eyes, and then tilts his head further. "You're quite dirty - looks like you could do with a bath." Pippin laughs, and Merry does, too. Then, and Merry's voice trickles concern like falling rain.

"Is that blood on your throat? It looks like you've got blood on your throat."

"I wouldn't - " Pippin swallows, and reaches up with one hand, touching dirty smudges on his throat, and then, pushing up and then back, he feels something, something that is rough beneath his fingertips, rough and mostly dry. He rubs at it, then peers at his finger. "Is it very bad?" he asks. His voice is low.

"Not bad at all - a scratch, and nothing more."

"Good. I - " Pippin's voice breaks, and the tears come rushing down his cheeks, though he does swallow back the worst of his sobs, clutching at Merry and pressing his face hard against his shoulder. "It isn't that I don't want to be here," he whispers, thinking of frigid cold and long darkness, and even further back, of the terrifying sound of the Old Forest at night, anything that would put him back closer to his home.

"Our place is here, Merry, here with Frodo. Everything might be different, but - it isn't that I really want to go back."

Merry wraps his arms back around Pippin, tightly, just like he understands. "I know."