By: Dana
Summary: Merry and Pippin in the Houses of Healing.
Characters: Pippin, Merry
Pairings: None
Rating: G
Warnings: Angst
Author's Notes: Written for the 'lush, stone, frail, rug; bittersweet' challenge on ringprov.
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.

Pippin remained behind. "Was there ever any one like him?" he said. "Except Gandalf, of course. I think they must be related. My dear ass, your pack is lying by your bed, and you had it on your back when I met you. He saw it all the time, of course. And anyway I have some stuff of my own. Come on now! Longbottom Leaf it is. Fill up while I run and see about some food. And then let's be easy for a bit. Dear me! We Tooks and Brandybucks, we can't live long on the heights.

"No," said Merry. "I can't. Not yet, at any rate. But at least, Pippin, we can now see them, and honour them. It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend a garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad that I know about them, a little. But I don't know why I am talking like this. Where is that leaf? And get my pipe out of my pack, if it isn't broken."
--Book V, Chapter VIII: The Houses Of Healing, The Return of the King

Grinning at Merry, trying to lighten the mood, Pippin retrieved Merry's pipe from the pack that hung from the bedpost. He stroked the smooth wood, almost reverent in his handling of the thing. Instead of taking this pipe back to Merry's father, a token to remember him by, he was filling the pipe for its owner. Because of the remains of fear in the back of his mind, like smoke lingering after a fire is gone, he concentrated fiercely on the small tasks of filling the pipe, tamping it down, lighting it, drawing to get a good draught going. The leaf caught, and the first sweet smoke curled in the air.

"Here you are, cousin," Pippin said very seriously, handing the pipe to Merry; and Pippin was pleased to see, as Merry accepted the small gift which had taken so very much of Pippin, that his own hands did not shake, nor did Merry's. Merry gave a grateful nod as he took a deep pull and Pippin felt tears sting the corners of his eyes.

"I shall go and scavenge you a meal, Master Brandybuck," Pippin said, cautiously wiping at the moisture in his eyes. Merry nodded again and Pippin departed from the room.

It felt rather strange. Never in his life Pippin ever felt so relieved to part from Merry's presence; to be free of the weight of his gaze, the dark shadows flitting in the depths of his eyes. And they were darker now than they had been before. Perhaps, instead, it was a trick of the light. The cousins were growing, now, changing in ways that no hobbit should.

And Pippin knew that if he hadn't left, he would have begun to weep. He did not wish to make a fool of himself, not in front of Merry, who had faced... who had faced... he stumbled over the thought as he might have stumbled on a rocky trail in the dark... who had faced such a great and terrible foe. He dashed the tears that gathered in his eyes, darting down the corridors. And yet when he returned to Merry, with what food and drink he could gather, and indeed it seemed a bounty, Pippin could still feel the tears burning hot and bitter at the back of his throat.

He cracked the door and gazed in, and Merry sat like a statue at the center of his bed; it was too much for a hobbit, but the most proper bed that Merry would have seen since Rivendell. There was a thoughtful look on Merry's face, thoughtful, yes, and sad. There were tears in his eyes, as well, and Pippin swallowed a miserable lump the had lodged itself in his throat. There were more important things to deal with, now, than his own uncertainties, his fears. Merry had come too close to death, had looked death in the eyes; and Pippin hadn't realised, no, not until he'd let his cousin sink lightly down in a pool of sunlight on some nameless little side street in the White City, had taken his cousin's icy hand in his, had seen the lost look in Merry's eyes. He'd never thought that Merry could be taken away forever; for a little bit, yes, but there had never been any inkling that Merry could die. And he had come so close. Pippin was wary. It almost seemed too great a deed, for Merry to have been pulled from the clutches of Shadow back into the light.

Perhaps, he thought absently, a part of Merry had already died...

He entered the room, then, casting those thoughts aside. "I hope that I didn't leave you waiting too long," he said cheerfully, and Merry wiped at his eyes, more urgent than discreet. And Pippin smiled and nodded to Merry, and Merry nodded back, and Pippin took that as invitation to crawl up onto the bed.

"What have you brought for me?" Merry asked, and Pippin scoffed.

"What have I brought for us, you mean," he said, and carefully set the tray down. "Only the best that Minas Tirith has to offer, for a Rider of Rohan." It wasn't much, in comparison to home, but Merry knew when not to complain. And the look of the bread and cheese, and even some sort of stew, caused his stomach to growl out loud.

Merry smiled faintly. "It shall do for us. It is better to eat together, after all, than to eat alone."

Pippin nodded at that, and took great pleasure in breaking the loaf of bread in two. "I am not certain if I will be able to get us more, right away," he said. "The city is sad, now."

Merry nodded, and appreciatively took the offered food. He bit into it and decided that there was no better bread in the world. He made quick work of it, and they ate in silence. Their hands brushed once, reaching for the mug, and Pippin drew back quickly. Merry watched him carefully, and Pippin looked away. He could feel that same wretched lump attempting to wedge itself back into his throat, his eyes were burning, and he could feel Merry's gaze upon him like a brand.

"What this room needs is some cheer," Pippin said absently, uncertain of what really needed to be said. "A rug, perhaps, would warm the cold stone."

"Pippin"

"Yes, Merry?" Pippin responded, wondering if it would be possible to wipe the tears from his eyes before Merry could see that they were there. He doubted that he could, and he felt the first slip down the curve of his cheek.

"Pippin" and then, his voice faltered. "Pippin? Look at me, please."

Pippin couldn't not look at him, so he lifted his gaze, unhappily, to Merry's. And there was so much sorrow in the world, more than a single hobbit could bear. "I'm sorry, Merry, I'm so-so-sorry. I just cannot stop the tears, and I didn't want to cry, because you're here and you're still alive and it's silly for me to cry."

Hobbits might make light of their troubles when in the company of others, but that did not mean the same when they were left to their own devices. "Pippin, come here," said Merry, but Pippin shook his head and drew himself off of the bed.

"No, Merry, n-no." He claimed the tray and looked to Merry again, and didn't feel that he needed to be discreet as he openly wiped at the hot tears. "I just need a good cry, is all, I'll be just fine."

Merry doubted Pippin's words.

"You ought to lie back, then," said Pippin, "and have yourself a rest. I'll won't be long." He carefully set the mug down then left the room, only to stop down the corridor from Merry's room. He collapsed into a miserable heap and cried... and the Big People, in their kindness, and understanding, or perhaps in numb horror at the events of the past days, stepped carefully by and pretended not to see. And there was so much to cry about. Merry, almost losing Merry, Frodo, out there somewhere, alone with poor Sam. Oh, and Sam. They weren't fit for this, none of them. I want to go home, I want to go home.

But Merry had told him, hadn't he? They would see the Shire again.

Pippin might be small, but he knew that he was bigger than this. He hated to feel so frail. He wiped his tears away, took a deep, shuddering breath. He rose and went about his business. By the time he returned to Merry, you'd have to look hard to tell that he had even cried at all.

Merry slept.

He sat carefully at the corner of the bed, reached out and took Merry's hand in his own. Pippin was very silent, and sat very still. He closed his eyes and held his breath. He began to count, and reaching sixty, he let out his breath.

Merry opened his eyes.

"Pippin?"

"Evening, Merry," Pippin smiled in greeting. "Did you rest well?"

"It was just a nap."

And Pippin could look back and remember cat naps by the Brandywine, in the lush shade of tall trees, lazy afternoons where the only thing that mattered was what to have for tea. He turned his gaze to the present, and rubbed Merry's hand between his own. Merry sighed, softly. "You look weary, Pip. Maybe you ought to"

"Oh, no, don't worry about me. You'll just tire yourself out."

Merry nearly laughed. "I could sleep for a week."

"Perhaps you should, while there's still time," Pippin replied seriously. "But, if I could, I would sleep for two weeks."

"Two weeks? That seems excessive, Pip, even for you."

"It would be the best sleep of my life."

"Think of all you'd miss."

"Oh, but I wouldn't be alone," he said, and Merry's eyes flashed with interest. "My dreams, Merry lad. I'd have my dreams."

"But of course," said Merry, closing his eyes.

"I shall tell you a story," Pippin said, after that. "And then I will tell you another."

Merry murmured consent, and Pippin told the tale of their first meeting. When Merry slept again, he continued to speak; after all, his cousin needed good dreams, to chase away the Shadow. It was growing late, and Pippin was growing drowsy. He bent his head, clasping Merry's hand, and kissed his cousin's knuckles. Oh, he was warm again, alive. Pippin's earlier thoughts seemed silly. Merry was here, and whole. And Pippin wondered, for the first time, now that the terror of losing Merry was safely put behind him, just what had happened... Gandalf had only told him a little, that his cousin had done a great deed. That, then, would wait for later. Now...

"I will prove that I am strong, Merry. You have suffered enough, it is time to rest."

He was reluctant to let go. He did, though, and retrieved Merry's pipe. He cradled it tenderly, watching the light that flickered over its edges and slowly died. Pippin frowned and closed his eyes, breathing the rich ghost of lingering pipeweed smoke, then knocked out the pipe, careful not to make enough noise to waken Merry, and packed the pipe away. Then, thinking that if he had thought, had been given the chance, Merry would have invited him to share the warmth of his bed. It would take too long, thought Pippin, to find his own. So he unbuckled his sword belt, laying it by his helm, and then, suddenly seized by weariness so profound he could not force his eyelids to remain open, he crawled onto the bed to lie beside Merry. He closed his eyes, listened to the sound of his cousin's breath, imagined the sharp rise and fall of his chest.

Pippin slept; and the shadows he had chased from Merry, came back to haunt his own dreams.