By: Dana
Summary: In the quiet of their last night in the Shire, Merry and Pippin sit, and talk.
Characters: Merry, Pippin
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: G
Warnings: Slash, but more pre-slash than anything else
Author's Notes: Written because I could, really. Would be set in Fellowship of the Ring. This story seems to relate to Count Back Years. Molly is lovely, and took a look at it. Thank you. ♥
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.

The house has been tidied, the very last of the packing has been tended to, and both Frodo and Fatty are off to their separate, it should be noted beds. Sam is already long asleep. Pippin is left sitting in the parlor, reclining back against the arm of the sofa that is closest to the hearth-fire, his feet quite idly lounging ankle over ankle in Merry's lap. "Shall we sit out on the steps, cousin, and have ourselves a smoke?"

Merry, leaning back against the cushions, awake despite the late hour and the length of the day, is wide-eyed and aware as he finger-strokes through the foot hair atop Pippin's right foot. "I don't see why not, Pip, though I am quite certain that my pipe is already packed."

Pippin shrugs, an awkward up and down rolling of his shoulders, and he extricates one foot from Merry's lap and sets it down, stretching his leg out as he does, down so that his foot is pressed flat against the floor. "I don't pack half as well as you," he adds, almost as an afterthought, as Merry wraps his fingers around Pippin's ankle. "So, illogical as it might sound, it shouldn't be too difficult to find my pipe, and my pouch."

"I suppose," Merry grins, with a playful tug on Pippin's foot, though he then lets go as Pippin's mouth twists in an almost-grinning mock-grimace. "We ought to sleep soon, you know. We have a long journey ahead of us, and it won't do us any good if hoy, Pippin, just what did you pack in that pack?"

Pippin, now sitting at the sofa's edge, one leg stretched out, the other bent only at the knee, the contents of his pack strewn before him, can only look up at Merry, and grin. Merry gapes, and Pippin waves the pipe at him, the oh-so-precious pipe, and Merry remembers a half-dozen years ago when that pipe had been Frodo's, and Merry had instead thought it should be his.

"You're taking that one with you, then?"

"I don't see why not," Pippin shrugs, hoisting his pouch lightly in the other hand, letting the small, leather pocket swing back and forth. "Here, I'll let you light it, if you wish."

Merry did, accepting it from Pippin, watching as Pippin smiles. "He gave you this for his birthday," Merry says, loosening the tie of the pouch with one hand, holding the light weight of the long, slender pipe in the other, fingers clutching like air at the base of the long stem. When Pippin nods, Merry crumbles leaf into the well-rounded bowl, his eyes half on Pippin, half on his task.

"He did, and you thought that he had been mistaken, and had given me your gift, instead of my own." Pippin grins, at that, shaking a hand at Merry, then tapping him on the cheek with his forefinger, before moving like something liquid, slow but with intent, settling back. "But you were quite wrong, and he gave you that old feathered cap, instead. I didn't think you'd ever forgive him for it, and I'm amazed you ever forgave me."

Merry crumbles the very last of the leaf, pressing his fingers together as he does, and though he doesn't look Pippin in the eye as he answers, he does answer: "It was just a pipe, Pippin."

"Yes, well, I suppose so," Pippin replies, handing over flint and steel when Merry holds his hand out, and Pippin turns, leaning back against the sofa, watching as Merry carefully lights the pipe, letting the fire in the leaf smolder into life. A slow expression takes Pippin's mouth, and Merry is not certain if it is smile, frown, or grin. "I always was quite charmed by that cap, though, Merry. It made you look quite dashing."

Merry laughs, feeling the sting of smoke in his eyes.

"Should we go and sit out on the steps?" Pippin asks, in the silence after, once Merry has taken a long drawl, exhaling sweetly scented smoke that smells of autumn's distinctive scent. Merry thinks of wet leaves and a cold, grey sky. Merry shakes his head, a final tendril of smoke leaking slowly from his mouth.

"I don't see the point, Pippin. It's much more comfortable here in the parlor, don't you think?"

"It is," Pippin nods, accepting the pipe, giving it such respect and admiration that Merry finds it difficult to believe that this is Pippin, really Pippin, his Pippin who filches pies and is never as much help with the apple harvest as he ought to, not when he is so intent on eating as much as he can of the fruit. "It is," he says again, clamping his mouth around the mouth of the pipe, rolling it between his teeth before he inhales.

Merry, and it isn't the first time, so he doesn't suppose that it will be the last, finds his attention has settled on the shape of Pippin's mouth, the way his eyes are half-closed as he slowly exhales, then drawing back breath and sweet-smelling smoke. Pippin, at least, hardly seems to care those times when he stares.

Pippin hands the pipe back over and Merry nods his head quite politely, tasting Pippin on the smooth wood of the pipe as he sets the stem between his mouth. He breathes in, sucking Pippin down into his lungs, feeling dizzy. He exhales, watching Pippin through a haze of smoke and half-remembered dreams. Absently, he lets his tongue touch smooth wood, tasting autumn-Pippin-burning leaf.

"We really should go to sleep," he whispers, absently, once he has exhaled. "We won't do Frodo any good if we're stumbling around only half awake and half in a daze."

"True," Pippin says, and he takes the pipe back, just once more, a long, slow draw that Merry can feel in his own lungs. Pippin lets his head fall back, his mouth opened and leaking grey wisps and curls.

Pippin, Merry thinks, is lovely, half in shadows, half in light, and something in his chest, something indistinct, aches. He sits, watching, as Pippin stands, then kneeling at the hearth-fire, tapping the pipe out, emptying the bowl in a fire that has all but burned down. He has never never wanted so much, as he does, right now, and Merry yearns for something, for something he can't quite name no, he can, but maybe that is too much, and he sits quietly, wishing after embers, instead.

"I really should tell you what I thought of meeting elves," Pippin says, quite absently, staring at the pipe, then standing, gazing at it and then the mantel beyond. He lifts his arms up, setting the pipe right there. "It would be awful luck if I were to break it," he says, turning.

Merry is already on his feet, grinning, "Good to see that you're thinking ahead."

"It happens every so often, I hear," Pippin replies, smirking, and Merry steps closer, standing close enough that they are both taking breaths from the very same air. "It all feels strange," Pippin?whispers. "Goodness, it isn't as if we'll never be seeing this place, or our homes, again. An adventure does sound like a grand old thing, wouldn't you say?"

Indistinct, that feeling, but Merry can feel it growing, and Merry clasps Pippin's shoulder as Pippin turns his head, smiling, though Merry wants nothing but to hold and kiss him until they are both left wanting for air.

Oh, but this is hardly the time.

He squeezes Pippin's shoulder, briefly, before drawing back, yawning and stretching as he does, watching as Pippin just as briefly caresses the stem of the long pipe with his hand. "Good thing I packed a spare," he says, quite absently, and Merry chuckles.

"I shall see you in the morning, then, cousin."

"Yes, Merry," Pippin says, smiling, then stretching, "you shall."

Merry thinks of a hundred other possible ways that this long night could be ending, with kisses and touches and things being said that he has long wanted to say, but instead, he bites his tongue and does not speak: it is better off this way, he thinks, makes himself believe, as Pippin turns to leave.

Merry stands there until even the last of the embers on the hearth-fire has died, before he goes seeking his own bed.

The next morning, Merry wakes early, far too early, to a day that is not yet born and a future that is not clear.