Measure for Measure; or, Pippin the Irredeemable

It took mortal danger to daunt Pippin from a task when he was sober, and when he had five (for it had been five, not three) half-pints and a shot of brandy under his belt it would be advisable not to let him give himself tasks at all. So it was that Rosie awoke to the jump of the mattress, and to the sight of a hobbit sitting at the foot of her marriage bed. It was a moment before she was awake enough to fumble for the covers and pull them over herself.

Sam was sitting up next to her, clearly more up to date than she, as he was already saying, "Now, while I under—"

"Shush!" said their guest, and Rosie realised with dawning horror who it was. "Before you say a word, Sam, if I may, or mayn't, I have to say, I mean..."

Rosie groaned. It was Pippin, and a drunk Pippin at that. Sam swung his legs over the bed's side and lit the bedside candle.

"What was I saying again?" asked Pippin.

"You were telling my wife," Sam said calmly, "why I understand about her and you and the pantry."

"Right!" said Pippin happily, and clambered into Sam's lap.

Sam was still quite naked, and Pippin fully dressed for a chilly night. In the candle and the moon's light Sam was one smooth surface, and Pippin a collection of small black shadows, or a patchwork of light.

Rosie knew about her husband and Mr Frodo. There were times when, after they'd been in the study for a while, she'd listened at the door to hear voices in conversation before knocking. Pays to be sure, she thought. Sam had made his little confession after he'd finally asked her, but it had not been much of a surprise, nor a hindrance as far as she could see. Sam said she thought too much, but some things, she knew, didn't need understanding too well, and what's between two people, well, it's not necessarily something a third needs to know about.

But this was her bed, now, and that wasn't Mr Frodo kissing her Sam, his fingers tangled in the soft hair on Sam's neck. She saw a flicker of tongue pass between their mouths, and her own lips tingled in memory.

Sam pulled away, laughing a little, and stole a brief embarrassed glance at his wife. "You see, Rosie, I know what it's like when Mr. Pippin—hey, no, oh!"

All Rosie could see was Pippin's head buried in the crook of Sam's neck, and the tips of the lad's fingers running lightly across his side, and Sam bent back, and oh, she knew those spots, Sam never could push her away if she got him bending like that, and oh, she was going to throttle Mr. Pippin, she was. If only she wasn't naked.

"No – Mr. Pippin, NO," Sam tried, but he was already on his back, and Pippin threw his legs up to straddle him, grinning from ear to ear.

To the pit with modesty, Rosie thought, and threw the covers aside. "A no is a no, fancy Tookish thain son or not—" She was aware of a blush of anger on her face as she put herself between the two, both palms pushing Pippin away at his chest. But she really should not have tried to give him a stern look. It was only half-light, but damn him for an oversized lush, Pippin was doing the thing with his eyes again.

His eyebrows would shoot up, and his mouth would become a small curved suggestion of a smile, and your eyes were drawn to his, and they were always just the shade you needed to see to convince you.

"Oh, Rosie, I was only trying to make you see," he said, as innocent as you please.

"Oh, I see, all right," Rosie huffed, hanging tight onto her anger. "Fine, I won't feel bad about myself anymore, and I'll even forgive you if you'll get off my husband now, if it please you, Mr Pippin, sir."

Pippin didn't budge, but that little mouth curved downwards, a picture of hurt pride. "I don't want you two to fight."

"Oh, no, we are agreed, aren't we Sam, that it's all Mr. Pippin's fault?"

"Absolutely." Sam wasn't budging, either, but watching her with quiet admiration.

"Oh, now, that isn't fair, either. I wasn't the only one who wanted it."

"You make people want it, Pippin, and you know it."

Pippin's mouth curved up again. Yes, that pleased him, didn't it, him with his dreadful, wonderful eyes. He forced the grin down, but his eyes still glinted, when he continued, "I see. I see. Very well then, I can see when I'm not wanted." He stood up on his knees, allowing Sam to squirm into a sitting position. "Good night then, Rosie," he said, and kissed her again. She hardly noticed it when her mouth fell open against his, and there was the flicker of tongue, and his fingers brushing the side of her breast. A small moan escaped her. By the time he'd released her she was beef red, and only half noticed him swooping in on Sam again. She heard his "Goodnight, Sam," and blinked up to see her husband reddening under much the same treatment. Then Pippin slid quickly out of the bed and toddled into the hallway.

Oh, spit that boy!