A Surprise, part 2
Jul. 9th, 2009 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Title: A Surprise, part 2
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Summary: Frodo and Halbarad living randomly together in Bree. TOTALLY AU. Obviously. And then something VERY unexpected happens. Based on the TLC show “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant.” :D
Warnings in this chapter: None
AUTHOR NOTES: THERE IS NO MPREG IN THIS CHAPTER
Previous parts:
Part 1-mpreg
16 months earlier
“Higher! A little higher!” Merry yelled. Frodo strained his shoulders against the weight of the wooden platform filled with vases. He gritted his teeth and heaved with all his strength. If they dropped the platform, the Yule party decorations would crash to the floor of Butterbur‘s common room.
“I can’t keep hold of it at this angle,” he gasped. “I’m about to drop it.”
“Oh, oh dear!” Mrs. Butterbur bustled over to them. She was a round but sturdy woman with rosy cheeks, and if not for her height, which was not that tall for one of the Big Folk, she would fit right in among the hobbit lasses of Bree. She grabbed the platform on Frodo’s side and helped the hobbits lift it upon a long table.
The vases on the wooden platform, filled with poinsettias and decorations of candy canes and paper snowflakes, had been made by the hobbit children of Bree for the direct purpose of decorating the Common Room in the Prancing Pony, where the annual Yule ball in Breeland was always held. At this ball, hobbits and men from all over Breeland gathered for feasting and dancing. Many a folk had met lovers at this grand event.
Frodo knew that for himself that was unlikely to happen. He had been a bachelor for far too long, and none of the lasses of Bree had caught his eye. Nor would they ever likely do so. He lived with Merry and Pippin in a little cottage near the South Gate. Merry and Pippin had opened a flower and plant shop, which did very well. In fact, many of the poinsettias that decorated the Common Room came from their shop.
“Thank you, dear lady,” Merry said to Mrs. Butterbur. He bowed. “Awfully sorry to put you to any trouble.”
“Don’t ‘dear lady’ me,” Mrs. Butterbur said with good-natured crossness. “Let’s get these flowers on the tables.” She clapped. “Let‘s go, we haven‘t much time!”
“Frodo has a keen eye for decorating,” Merry said with a smirk.
“Hush,” Frodo whispered, elbowing him. Merry shoved him back, and they tussled until Mrs. Butterbur gave them a playful shove toward the vases. “Go on with it then!”
Frodo and Merry, still laughing, set the vases on all the tables.
Frodo had dressed in his best for the ball. He wore his starched white cotton shirt with embroidery on the collar, his brocaded vest in shades of blue and gold. Looking around the Common Room, he had to admit that he and the other hobbits had done a fine job with decorating. Breeland hobbits and Big Folk had begun to stream into the Common Room. Already Pippin had a rapt audience of youthful Breeland hobbits for his retelling of past naughty jests. Merry was in a circle of hobbit lasses, laughing and gesturing, touching a ribbon now and again in a flirtatious manner.
Frodo sighed, wishing that anyone would catch his eye. He had not told even his friends, but he did not prefer the lasses. Therefore, everyone he thought was beautiful and approachable was not, in fact, available to him. Breeland was small, and thus the chances of any other hobbit not only preferring lads to lasses but also appealing to him was slim to none.
He tried to shake himself out of his melancholy. He wanted to enjoy the party, regardless, and the least he could do was have some ale and perhaps tell some of Bilbo’s tales to the children. He got up, looking around for the group of children he had seen running around near the hearth.
Mrs. Butterbur bustled past him, out of breath and sweaty, carrying a large tray of pints of ales. Certainly she was not getting to enjoy one bit of the Yule Ball, and that was a pity.
Frodo caught her by the elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I was,” Mrs. Butterbur wiped her sweaty brow. “But then my husband and Nob had to go take care of some business or other in the stable and I just can’t catch up with these orders alone.”
“Let me help,” Frodo said. “I’m rather at loose ends.”
“No, no,” Mrs. Butterbur said. “You’re here for the party. I can’t make you work, that’s not fair.” She touched Frodo’s cheek with affection. “You need to find yourself a good lass. Go on, now. Matilda Underhill looks like she‘d like a dance.”
Frodo flushed a deep red. “Please, let me take that tray. Where does it go?”
Mrs. Butterbur looked relieved. “Oh all right then. Take this bread and cheese platter to that table of men back yonder.”
Frodo glanced at the table. His heart sank. Two rough-looking Rangers sat at the table. Frodo recognized them as Rangers based on the way they were dressed. Both in woodland-toned tunics. Their cloaks were filthy with mud and goodness knew what else. And they carried their weapons with them. He had never seen so many frightening, tall weapons in one place. When Mrs. Butterbur noticed Frodo’s nervousness, she pinched his cheek. “Fear not. They look gruffer than they are. If you‘re friendly to them, they‘ll be friendly back. They‘re used to people spitting on the ground in front of them.”
Frodo, determined to show that he was not afraid, made his way through the crowd, desperately hoping not to spill anything from the tray he carried or crash into anyone.
He tried to look nonchalant as he set the tray on the Ranger’s table. Now that he was close to them, he felt terribly small and exposed. They were larger and fitter than most of the Men of Bree. Frodo managed a nervous smile without meeting their eyes. The Rangers remained still and silent, appraising him with keen eyes. Frodo almost dropped the tray. It wobbled in his hand and he half dropped it upon the table, nearly causing the drinks to topple.
“Oh dear, pardon me,” Frodo mumbled, turning hot in the cheeks.
“Many thanks,” one of the Rangers said in a low, rumbling voice. Frodo then dared to meet his eyes and saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Frodo smiled back in full then, remembering what Mrs. Butterbur had said about being friendly to them. The Ranger’s eyes were handsome and wise, sad, too, although that might have been because of their gray color. Frodo found himself unable to turn away right away, at least not until the Ranger looked away first. When he did so, to say something to his companion, Frodo walked away with the empty tray, intrigued by the Rangers and what sort of folk they really were.
Frodo helped Mrs. Butterbur with a few more orders, and then Nob trotted in, flushed and apologetic. Frodo turned over duties to him and found a seat near Merry and Pippin, both of whom had abandoned their flocks of admirers. Frodo sipped on an ale, content to observe the others at the party. A few musicians had started to play, and some Breelanders, Big and Little, had begun to dance. The ale cooled Frodo’s dry throat and relaxed him. He watched a table of hobbit lasses, their eyes bright with hope, waiting to be asked to dance. He assumed Matilda Underhill was among them. He watched families with children. His heart clenched with envy. He so longed to have someone special in his life to love and more than that, a family. Given that he had no interest in the lasses, a family was not something he could ever expect, so he might as well put that thought out of his head.
He glanced back toward the Rangers. Their heads were bent together in a heated conversation. The one who had smiled at Frodo now looked grim and gestured wildly. His friend slammed his fist on the table. Frodo’s heart leaped to his throat. Such controlled strength in their large hands, such powerful grace in their movements. Frodo would be terrified to encounter one or both of them in the wild, but oh, to have them on his side, he would never fear the likes of Bill Ferny and his ragtag of mischief-making friends again, that was for certain. The Ranger who had smiled at him looked up at him and met his gaze. Frodo quickly looked away, blushing.
Frodo promised his cousins that he would return in a moment and then he found Barliman Butterbur, flushing and loading tankards of ale on a tray.
“Hoy, Frodo, what troubles you?” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” Frodo said, laughing, “But I was curious. Those Rangers over there in the corner. Who are they? Have they names?”
Butterbur whispered as if he feared that the Rangers, so far away, would hear his voice. “One of them, the one on the left, they call him Strider. Some folk around here call him Longshanks. He goes all about the world on his long legs. His friend? He don’t often come here, but he goes by Halbarad.” That was the Ranger with the sad gray eyes.
“Halbarad,” Frodo said, liking the sound of it on his lips. He watched Halbarad eat. He was eating as if he hadn’t had a real meal in weeks. Out in the wild, Frodo wondered what Rangers would eat. Probably berries and roots and whatever they could kill. Frodo observed that Halbarad carried a bow and arrows. He wondered how good a shot Halbarad was. For some reason, the thought made his groin feel warm.
“He’s fascinating,” Frodo said out loud, and Butterbur gave him a sharp look before bustling off again. Frodo returned to the other hobbits.
“What was that about?” Pippin asked. Frodo started to reply but then he saw Nob whispering frantically to Mrs. Butterbur. Mrs. Butterbur flushed with fury. She gestured toward the Rangers. Frodo could not help but watch as Nob trotted over to the Rangers. He said something to them and pointed toward the back corridor. Both of the Rangers got up and pushed past him, looking grim and purposeful.
“What are you looking at, cousin?” Pippin asked. “You’ve been distracted all evening.”
“I’m dying of curiosity about those Rangers.”
Pippin looked behind him. “I don’t see any Rangers,” he said. He guzzled down some more ale.
“They just followed Nob out. Something must be happening.”
“Well, we can go check out their belongings, can’t we?” Pippin asked, waggling his brows.
“Check what out?” Merry asked, looking suspicious. “I don’t want to be part of any trouble.”
“No, let’s not,” Frodo said, blushing. “I’d hate to have them come back and see us pawing through their things.”
“Wherever they’ve gone off to, they’re not going to be back right away.”
“You want to go through their things?” Merry asked. “Why?”
“I must be cracking, to listen to you,” Frodo said to Pippin. The truth is, he felt a heightened sense of excitement, a giddiness that was a sense of danger combined with the attraction, yes attraction, he felt for the Ranger with the sad gray eyes. And of course the ale had gone to his head a bit.
“You two go have your fun,” Merry said, shaking his head, clearly not in approval. “Be careful.”
Frodo followed Pippin to the Ranger’s table. A big dirty bag lay on the bench. “You be on the lookout,” Frodo whispered. He felt like a lad of twelve summers again, stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot. He crawled on the bench so that he was not overtly in view. He opened the bag. Inside the bag he saw a pouch that smelled good. He opened it. Some sort of herb that immediately calmed his mind. There were several dirty sharp knives. Frodo’s cheeks flamed as he touched a ripe undergarment. Oh, and they were ripe. Those Rangers must not have had the time to wash anything yet.
“Psst, Pippin,” Frodo whispered. “Rangers wear undergarments! Look!”
Pippin turned around. He started to laugh. His lack of watchfulness in that moment was their downfall, for all of the sudden they heard a harsh, “Hey!”
Frodo’s heart leaped. Oh, he had been such a confounded fool. He looked up to see the two grim Rangers towering over them. One of them had Pippin’s upper arm in an tight grip.
Go on to next part
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Summary: Frodo and Halbarad living randomly together in Bree. TOTALLY AU. Obviously. And then something VERY unexpected happens. Based on the TLC show “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant.” :D
Warnings in this chapter: None
AUTHOR NOTES: THERE IS NO MPREG IN THIS CHAPTER
Previous parts:
Part 1-mpreg
16 months earlier
“Higher! A little higher!” Merry yelled. Frodo strained his shoulders against the weight of the wooden platform filled with vases. He gritted his teeth and heaved with all his strength. If they dropped the platform, the Yule party decorations would crash to the floor of Butterbur‘s common room.
“I can’t keep hold of it at this angle,” he gasped. “I’m about to drop it.”
“Oh, oh dear!” Mrs. Butterbur bustled over to them. She was a round but sturdy woman with rosy cheeks, and if not for her height, which was not that tall for one of the Big Folk, she would fit right in among the hobbit lasses of Bree. She grabbed the platform on Frodo’s side and helped the hobbits lift it upon a long table.
The vases on the wooden platform, filled with poinsettias and decorations of candy canes and paper snowflakes, had been made by the hobbit children of Bree for the direct purpose of decorating the Common Room in the Prancing Pony, where the annual Yule ball in Breeland was always held. At this ball, hobbits and men from all over Breeland gathered for feasting and dancing. Many a folk had met lovers at this grand event.
Frodo knew that for himself that was unlikely to happen. He had been a bachelor for far too long, and none of the lasses of Bree had caught his eye. Nor would they ever likely do so. He lived with Merry and Pippin in a little cottage near the South Gate. Merry and Pippin had opened a flower and plant shop, which did very well. In fact, many of the poinsettias that decorated the Common Room came from their shop.
“Thank you, dear lady,” Merry said to Mrs. Butterbur. He bowed. “Awfully sorry to put you to any trouble.”
“Don’t ‘dear lady’ me,” Mrs. Butterbur said with good-natured crossness. “Let’s get these flowers on the tables.” She clapped. “Let‘s go, we haven‘t much time!”
“Frodo has a keen eye for decorating,” Merry said with a smirk.
“Hush,” Frodo whispered, elbowing him. Merry shoved him back, and they tussled until Mrs. Butterbur gave them a playful shove toward the vases. “Go on with it then!”
Frodo and Merry, still laughing, set the vases on all the tables.
Frodo had dressed in his best for the ball. He wore his starched white cotton shirt with embroidery on the collar, his brocaded vest in shades of blue and gold. Looking around the Common Room, he had to admit that he and the other hobbits had done a fine job with decorating. Breeland hobbits and Big Folk had begun to stream into the Common Room. Already Pippin had a rapt audience of youthful Breeland hobbits for his retelling of past naughty jests. Merry was in a circle of hobbit lasses, laughing and gesturing, touching a ribbon now and again in a flirtatious manner.
Frodo sighed, wishing that anyone would catch his eye. He had not told even his friends, but he did not prefer the lasses. Therefore, everyone he thought was beautiful and approachable was not, in fact, available to him. Breeland was small, and thus the chances of any other hobbit not only preferring lads to lasses but also appealing to him was slim to none.
He tried to shake himself out of his melancholy. He wanted to enjoy the party, regardless, and the least he could do was have some ale and perhaps tell some of Bilbo’s tales to the children. He got up, looking around for the group of children he had seen running around near the hearth.
Mrs. Butterbur bustled past him, out of breath and sweaty, carrying a large tray of pints of ales. Certainly she was not getting to enjoy one bit of the Yule Ball, and that was a pity.
Frodo caught her by the elbow. “Are you all right?”
“I was,” Mrs. Butterbur wiped her sweaty brow. “But then my husband and Nob had to go take care of some business or other in the stable and I just can’t catch up with these orders alone.”
“Let me help,” Frodo said. “I’m rather at loose ends.”
“No, no,” Mrs. Butterbur said. “You’re here for the party. I can’t make you work, that’s not fair.” She touched Frodo’s cheek with affection. “You need to find yourself a good lass. Go on, now. Matilda Underhill looks like she‘d like a dance.”
Frodo flushed a deep red. “Please, let me take that tray. Where does it go?”
Mrs. Butterbur looked relieved. “Oh all right then. Take this bread and cheese platter to that table of men back yonder.”
Frodo glanced at the table. His heart sank. Two rough-looking Rangers sat at the table. Frodo recognized them as Rangers based on the way they were dressed. Both in woodland-toned tunics. Their cloaks were filthy with mud and goodness knew what else. And they carried their weapons with them. He had never seen so many frightening, tall weapons in one place. When Mrs. Butterbur noticed Frodo’s nervousness, she pinched his cheek. “Fear not. They look gruffer than they are. If you‘re friendly to them, they‘ll be friendly back. They‘re used to people spitting on the ground in front of them.”
Frodo, determined to show that he was not afraid, made his way through the crowd, desperately hoping not to spill anything from the tray he carried or crash into anyone.
He tried to look nonchalant as he set the tray on the Ranger’s table. Now that he was close to them, he felt terribly small and exposed. They were larger and fitter than most of the Men of Bree. Frodo managed a nervous smile without meeting their eyes. The Rangers remained still and silent, appraising him with keen eyes. Frodo almost dropped the tray. It wobbled in his hand and he half dropped it upon the table, nearly causing the drinks to topple.
“Oh dear, pardon me,” Frodo mumbled, turning hot in the cheeks.
“Many thanks,” one of the Rangers said in a low, rumbling voice. Frodo then dared to meet his eyes and saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Frodo smiled back in full then, remembering what Mrs. Butterbur had said about being friendly to them. The Ranger’s eyes were handsome and wise, sad, too, although that might have been because of their gray color. Frodo found himself unable to turn away right away, at least not until the Ranger looked away first. When he did so, to say something to his companion, Frodo walked away with the empty tray, intrigued by the Rangers and what sort of folk they really were.
Frodo helped Mrs. Butterbur with a few more orders, and then Nob trotted in, flushed and apologetic. Frodo turned over duties to him and found a seat near Merry and Pippin, both of whom had abandoned their flocks of admirers. Frodo sipped on an ale, content to observe the others at the party. A few musicians had started to play, and some Breelanders, Big and Little, had begun to dance. The ale cooled Frodo’s dry throat and relaxed him. He watched a table of hobbit lasses, their eyes bright with hope, waiting to be asked to dance. He assumed Matilda Underhill was among them. He watched families with children. His heart clenched with envy. He so longed to have someone special in his life to love and more than that, a family. Given that he had no interest in the lasses, a family was not something he could ever expect, so he might as well put that thought out of his head.
He glanced back toward the Rangers. Their heads were bent together in a heated conversation. The one who had smiled at Frodo now looked grim and gestured wildly. His friend slammed his fist on the table. Frodo’s heart leaped to his throat. Such controlled strength in their large hands, such powerful grace in their movements. Frodo would be terrified to encounter one or both of them in the wild, but oh, to have them on his side, he would never fear the likes of Bill Ferny and his ragtag of mischief-making friends again, that was for certain. The Ranger who had smiled at him looked up at him and met his gaze. Frodo quickly looked away, blushing.
Frodo promised his cousins that he would return in a moment and then he found Barliman Butterbur, flushing and loading tankards of ale on a tray.
“Hoy, Frodo, what troubles you?” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” Frodo said, laughing, “But I was curious. Those Rangers over there in the corner. Who are they? Have they names?”
Butterbur whispered as if he feared that the Rangers, so far away, would hear his voice. “One of them, the one on the left, they call him Strider. Some folk around here call him Longshanks. He goes all about the world on his long legs. His friend? He don’t often come here, but he goes by Halbarad.” That was the Ranger with the sad gray eyes.
“Halbarad,” Frodo said, liking the sound of it on his lips. He watched Halbarad eat. He was eating as if he hadn’t had a real meal in weeks. Out in the wild, Frodo wondered what Rangers would eat. Probably berries and roots and whatever they could kill. Frodo observed that Halbarad carried a bow and arrows. He wondered how good a shot Halbarad was. For some reason, the thought made his groin feel warm.
“He’s fascinating,” Frodo said out loud, and Butterbur gave him a sharp look before bustling off again. Frodo returned to the other hobbits.
“What was that about?” Pippin asked. Frodo started to reply but then he saw Nob whispering frantically to Mrs. Butterbur. Mrs. Butterbur flushed with fury. She gestured toward the Rangers. Frodo could not help but watch as Nob trotted over to the Rangers. He said something to them and pointed toward the back corridor. Both of the Rangers got up and pushed past him, looking grim and purposeful.
“What are you looking at, cousin?” Pippin asked. “You’ve been distracted all evening.”
“I’m dying of curiosity about those Rangers.”
Pippin looked behind him. “I don’t see any Rangers,” he said. He guzzled down some more ale.
“They just followed Nob out. Something must be happening.”
“Well, we can go check out their belongings, can’t we?” Pippin asked, waggling his brows.
“Check what out?” Merry asked, looking suspicious. “I don’t want to be part of any trouble.”
“No, let’s not,” Frodo said, blushing. “I’d hate to have them come back and see us pawing through their things.”
“Wherever they’ve gone off to, they’re not going to be back right away.”
“You want to go through their things?” Merry asked. “Why?”
“I must be cracking, to listen to you,” Frodo said to Pippin. The truth is, he felt a heightened sense of excitement, a giddiness that was a sense of danger combined with the attraction, yes attraction, he felt for the Ranger with the sad gray eyes. And of course the ale had gone to his head a bit.
“You two go have your fun,” Merry said, shaking his head, clearly not in approval. “Be careful.”
Frodo followed Pippin to the Ranger’s table. A big dirty bag lay on the bench. “You be on the lookout,” Frodo whispered. He felt like a lad of twelve summers again, stealing mushrooms from Farmer Maggot. He crawled on the bench so that he was not overtly in view. He opened the bag. Inside the bag he saw a pouch that smelled good. He opened it. Some sort of herb that immediately calmed his mind. There were several dirty sharp knives. Frodo’s cheeks flamed as he touched a ripe undergarment. Oh, and they were ripe. Those Rangers must not have had the time to wash anything yet.
“Psst, Pippin,” Frodo whispered. “Rangers wear undergarments! Look!”
Pippin turned around. He started to laugh. His lack of watchfulness in that moment was their downfall, for all of the sudden they heard a harsh, “Hey!”
Frodo’s heart leaped. Oh, he had been such a confounded fool. He looked up to see the two grim Rangers towering over them. One of them had Pippin’s upper arm in an tight grip.
Go on to next part