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Pippin bounced next to the coachman with unalloyed delight as the first smials on the outskirts of Hobbiton came into view, smoke rising up into the chilly dusk. The coachman gave a thankful sigh as well, and Pippin gleefully gave his shoulder a friendly clout. "You know it isn't as bad as all of that," he teased him gaily. "If you must be carting me all over the Shire, an evening at the Green Dragon is surely better than an evening under the grim eye of Aunt Esme at Brandy Hall. And if this snowstorm starts, as it's certainly threatening to do, it might even be a couple of evenings at the Green Dragon."

The burly coachman gave a slight chuckle at that thought. "I'd hate to be puttin' the Master's ponies through any sort of bad weather, now," he offered hopefully. "Your Da'd never be thankin' me for that."

"Good thinking, Bart," Pippin nodded his head with a satisfied smile. "And I'll be sure to let my father know that it was the welfare of the ponies that was first and foremost in your mind. And the fact that the Green Dragon has some of the finest beer and most congenial company in these parts had nothing at all to do with it."

"Just so, just so," Bart gave a conspiratorial wink back at the young teen, and a glance up at the darkening sky. "And it looks like we'd be seein' that snow right soon, true enough. I'll just be havin' enough time to get you to Mr. Frodo's and get back here again," he added with a bit of suppressed longing, as they passed the warmly lit inn with a couple of well-bundled hobbits in the doorway, stamping the slush from their feet as they entered.

So Pippin and his various bundles were smartly dropped upon the doorstep of Bag End, just as the snow did indeed start in earnest, and Bart, ponies, carriage and all were off before Frodo had quite finished opening the door.

"Pippin, how wonderful to see you!" Frodo gave his young cousin a warm embrace and a quick kiss on the cheek, and then stood back, gazing at him with a thoughtful smile. "You are growing again, you young sprout. There'll come a day when you will be looking down on me, I just know it, but it isn't quite yet, I think. Well, why we are standing here, I have no idea, when there is a warm fire and hot tea to be had in the study."

He was half-way down the wood-paneled hall, with Pippin dutifully following him, when it suddenly occurred to Pippin that there was something missing from this cozy domestic scene.

"Sam?" he asked curiously, as he entered the warm study behind Frodo.

Frodo walked over to the fire, and gave it a quick prod with the poker. "Napping," he said briefly, giving Pippin a rueful smile. "I've had this annoying chill, the past several weeks, and have just gotten over it. We thought Sam might have escaped it, but this afternoon, he was looking flushed, and try as he might to hide it, a cough has most definitely set in. There was no time to cancel your visit, and the weather certainly isn't going to favor you going back anytime soon, so I suppose I'll just have to keep the two of you apart. Or your mother will be most put out with me."

"Pah," Pippin scoffed, with the false confidence of youth. "That sort of nonsense never bothers me at all. It's the young blood, you know, Frodo dear. Runs hotter, or something of the sort."

"Sam seemed to think along those lines, as well," Frodo laughed wryly, "yet there he lies, poor love. But what am I dithering on about? There you stand, with nothing hot to drink and worse yet, nothing in your hand to eat. Have a seat by the fire, you rascal, and warm yourself up. I'll be back in a moment; I just want to check on Sam first."

It was much later that night when Frodo finally slipped into bed with Sam. "Is Pippin here, now?" Sam asked, waking up in a rather groggy state. "I lost track of time, t'be sure, for it must be near dinner-time, and look how dark 'tis!"

"Ah, don't you be worrying yourself about that, Sam dearest," Frodo exclaimed warmly, as he tugged Sam up slightly, trying to remove his shirt, the only garment he still had on. "Pippin is here, no doubt about it, and I fed him a lovely dinner of sausages-and-mash, which I would have given you as well, only you seemed so very fast asleep that I hated to wake you. Sleep will do you better than food just now, I know all too well."

Sam gave a defeated sigh as he struggled to sit up, and had to put a hand to his spinning head. "I never had the chance to tidy up his room, and put the bedding to rights. I never meant to lie down and sleep the day away, no ways."

"Don't you be thinking twice about it, love," Frodo responded tenderly, as he finally got the shirt off over Sam's head and sent it sailing across the room. "Between the two of us, I think we got matters taken care of, and if Pippin's missing any comfort, he has only himself to blame, for not thinking of it sooner." Carefully he helped Sam drink down a glass of water that he had brought in with him, and wiped Sam's clammy forehead off with a damp warm cloth. "It's you I'm thinking of, right now, Sam, my dearest love, and my cousin shall have to shrift for himself."

He reached out to pinch out the candle, and wrapped himself around Sam, hugging him and nuzzling his neck lightly in the fading light of the dying fire. "Let me keep you warm, dearest," he murmured, as he felt Sam relax sleepily against him. "You'll be up and about soon, before you know it, and Pippin and I can manage things well enough, don't you be fretting, my darling. Just you sleep, now, I have you close to me."

The next morning found Bag End wrapped in a cocoon of softly falling snow, muffled from all the outside world, and enveloped in a muted grey light. Frodo, for once, awoke first, and vaguely realized that Sam was curled against him and breathing in the congested sort of manner that suggested that the intimation of a cold from the night before had well and truly set in. Almost guiltily, he also noticed that the room was quite chilly, since Sam had not risen first, as he normally did, and there was, therefore, no fire lit. And that there was a guest, not far down the hall, who was also, presumably, in an equally glacial state. Clearly, he was becoming lax in his responsibilities to both kin and lover. Stoically braving the frosty air therefore, he withdrew himself carefully from Sam's unconscious grasp, and set about amending matters.

So in no time at all, there was a brisk fire going in their bedroom, as well as one in the equally unconscious Pippin's, as well as a kettle of hot water set upon the kitchen fire for tea, and he was feeling quite satisfied as to his prowess as a host and caretaker. But when neither hobbit showed any sign of waking sufficiently to appreciate it, he shrugged philosophically to himself, and set off for his study, where he spent a happily productive morning.

Pippin wandered sleepily in about noon, although it was difficult to judge the time, in the endless soft grey of the day outside. Scratching his head reflexively, and giving a wide and rather noisy yawn, he startled an engrossed Frodo, who looked up at his guest, and suddenly realized quite how late it had actually gotten to be.

"Never sleep quite as well at home as I do here," Pippin muttered, with a bemused chuckle, as he followed Frodo back to the kitchen. "It's just such a peaceable place, here, I suppose."

"Rather a nice way of saying the both of us bore you to tears," Frodo snorted, as he entered the kitchen and set the kettle on the fire once more. "Here, Pip, make yourself useful," he glanced up. "I need to check on Sam. Find something in the back pantry that could pass as lunch, would you? There's a good lad."

And before Pippin had a chance to appear affronted at being labeled a good lad, Frodo was gone.

It was light kisses on his forehead that finally woke Sam up, and despite his rather hazy state, he smiled drowsily, and flung an arm up around Frodo's neck. "Mmm," he responded as Frodo's mouth found his, just before an errant cough entirely spoiled the moment. Frodo hauled him up into a semi-upright position and solicitously pounded his back.

"No matter, dear," he chuckled ruefully, as Sam recovered himself, "I should never have woken you, I suppose, but you never had dinner at all, the day before, and it is past lunch-time today, as well. Pippin is preparing something for us to eat, at least theoretically, and I'm sure you wouldn't want to miss that."

Sam laughed weakly at that thought, and immediately coughed again, giving a slight shiver. "Oh, my dear," Frodo was instantly sympathetic, rising up to find Sam's nightshirt, where it had landed the night before. "What was I thinking last night, my dearest? Just because I craved the touch of your skin against mine, that was no reason at all to be baring you to the chill while you were sick."

Sam gave another involuntary shiver, but with a warm smile, reached out a hand to the side of Frodo's face, as he returned with the shirt. "Don't you be frettin, me dearie," he murmured. "I'm made of hardy stuff, naught to be worrit about." And as Frodo raised the shirt back over his head, he added, slightly wistfully, "And your skin against mine is glorious indeed. I wouldn't have it any other way, no ways."

Glorious was an apt term, Frodo found himself thinking, as the back of his hand brushed down against Sam's chest, the soft homespun coming down onto Sam's shoulders, but it wasn't a thought of his own skin that sprang to mind. Even warmer than it usually was, Sam's glowed in the combined soft light of the fire in the room, and the pale light from out of doors, catching just the hint of the pale golden hairs that were lightly sprinkled (and how well he knew the location of every one) across Sam's chest. His hand simply couldn't help itself then, but opened lightly against Sam's chest with a gentle yet expressive touch. Sam shivered again, this time for reasons that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, nor any ailment of the chest, and a distinct movement under the bed clothing, just to the south of where Frodo's hand lay, indicated an intense interest in its further movement.

The nightshirt's progress had been halted, still draped right about the neck, and Frodo glanced up to its owner, with a sudden impish smile. "Why, Sam, perhaps you were right about the hot blood of youth after all. I know I never would have been this distractible, a few days ago, much as I adore you, my dear. I seem to remember wanting to remain immovable and senseless as much as possible, but you don't seem to be feeling in that sort of mood at all."

Sam gave a low chuckle at Frodo's words, only slightly punctuated by a quick cough, and deliberately pulled the shirt back off again, causing it to sail across the room once more. "Peasant stock, me darlin'," he grunted briefly, as he set to work on Frodo's buttons. "We come tough, we do at that."

Frodo laughed with delight, his hand having now descended under the bedclothes, a fact heartily appreciated by Sam, whose hands froze in place for a moment, despite his lower body performing the most delighted sort of wiggle, before he renewed his mission with great zeal, and at a much faster rate. "Tough?" mused Frodo, his one hand finding Sam's appreciation growing by the moment, and his other hand taking on his own trousers, in order to further assist Sam. "That is not quite the word, I believe, my dear Sam. Profusely? That, indeed. Copiously? Without a doubt. But tough? Nay, my dearest, not at all."

Sam had just defeated the last stubborn button as he gave a snort of amusement, and with another cough that was absolutely ignored by both himself and Frodo, had brushed an eager tongue against that dark eminently nibble-able nipple, accompanied by a sharp intake of delight from its owner, when a young and indignant voice was heard behind the both of them.

"Hoy! I like that!"

Both of their heads, the dark and golden alike, swung slowly around at the unwelcome interruption, and Pippin was found to be standing in the doorway, a tray of some sort in his hand, and a look of aggravation on his face. "I like that," he repeated testily. "Here you tell me to go make lunch for the lot of us - me, the guest, mind you, and I come back to find you getting ready to snog Sam. And Sam, I thought you were supposed to be dying, anyway. Seem fairly robust for one on death's doorstep to me, I should say."

"Good to see you again, Pippin," Sam murmured, not at all perturbed by the young hobbit's seemingly annoyed remarks, but prudently nestling a bit deeper into the bedclothes.

Pippin gave him a friendly enough nod though, and set the tray on a nearby chest as Frodo, hastily re-buttoning up his shirt and putting his trousers to rights, set off across the room for Sam's nightshirt once more. "I suppose I shouldn't have paid attention to Cousin Frodo's dramatic remarks, really. Nothing sets him off more than you being a bit off the mark, for any reason, I've noticed."

"See here, Pippin, I'm not that easily unsettled," Frodo returned, a little taken aback, as he handed Sam the nightshirt once again. Pippin gave him a bland smile in answer, and turning to the tray, began pouring out the tea. But a sudden unexpected sneeze from Sam quickly re-concentrated their attention, and Sam immediately found himself on the receiving end of additional blankets, fluffed pillows, and a steaming cup of tea. There was no denying that this sort of pampering was quite gratifying, even for Sam, and he was soon left alone with a heaping plate of bread and cheese, as well as a pot of tea, to nap the afternoon away.

Frodo returned to the study later that afternoon, having left his guest for while to start up a pot of chicken soup for dinner that evening. He found Pippin standing in front of the round study window, leaning against the thick glass with his forehead pressed to it, and staring out into the grey swirl of snow that was still falling in the fading light. "You seem far away, Pip," he mentioned lightly as he entered. "But then I suppose it's been that sort of day, hasn't it."

"Not so much that," Pippin said slowly, continuing to stare out the window. "I was just wondering…" and his voice trailed off.

"Wondering what?" Frodo asked curiously, walking up behind Pippin, and placing a light hand upon his shoulder. "Wondering isn't something you do often, Pip; out with it then," he prompted when Pippin seemed to fall suddenly silent.

"Wondering what it would feel like, to be loved as much as you are," Pippin said very quietly, after another moment's silence, and still not looking at Frodo.

Frodo stood up straight at that nearly inaudible comment, his hand falling to his side as he gazed in surprise at his young cousin's expression, as it was reflected back at him in the window against the darkening glass. "Many love you, Pippin," he mentioned softly, trying to read the teen's closed-off expression. "Not the least of whom is me."

"But not the way Sam loves you," Pippin's voice was suddenly low but passionate as he swung around to face Frodo. "And the way you love him. I've seen it in my parents' eyes sometimes, too, as if there were a connection that nothing could ever break. And I wish, I wish…" and his voice trailed off with the distinct threat of tears, as he turned to face the window once again, catching his fist to his mouth.

"You're thinking of Merry," Frodo wrapped the young hobbit in his arms, and gently rested his forehead against the bony young shoulder, now nearly as tall as his own. Pippin nodded almost imperceptibly, obviously not trusting his voice, and Frodo sighed.

"It takes time, Pippin love," he mentioned gently. "When I was your age, I had no idea. I never knew that it was Sam with whom I was in love until after I had come of age, and Bilbo had left. I was absolutely blind, without a doubt, and yet there it is. Sometimes, I think, if the one we love has always been about, it takes time to realize that it is indeed love that we feel. If it is meant to come, Pippin dear, then it will, and it will become a part of your life, so that you cannot imagine what would have become of you without it. But you cannot force love; it will not answer to you alone, and it will never heed your beck and call. Give it time though, Pip, and it will come to you, if it was meant to be."

Pippin watched the swirling snow for many moments in silence, mulling over Frodo's words. Then, as Frodo released Pippin from his embrace and walked toward the fire to stir it up again, Pippin murmured, "You never answered my question, Frodo. What is it like?"

Slightly startled, Frodo turned to Pippin, the poker still in his hand. "It's hard to say, really," he said slowly. "But I do know that I never would have been who I am without him. And that I never dreamed I would know such joy, such contentment in my life." He turned back to the fire, staring wordlessly at it for a few moments, and then turned back to Pippin with a slight smile. "Those are deep waters indeed, young Pippin, and the soup is very nearly ready. Ask me that again, someday, and I might have a better answer for you. And, of course, possibly not."

The next day continued in a seamless strand with the one before it, as the snow was unrelenting out of doors, and Frodo and Pippin spent their time in cozy companionship. For once, Pippin had Frodo's attention all to himself, and he prompted his older cousin into tale after tale of his years growing up at Brandy Hall with the young Merry. In addition, he asked Frodo curiously of what he remembered of his parents, and Frodo found himself telling Pippin of incidents that he had not thought of for years. As dearly as Frodo loved Sam, he knew that Sam had a tendency to not remember that he had once led a very different life, since it was hard for Sam himself to remember a life without Frodo at Bag End. Pippin's earliest memories of Frodo were, however, those of him at family gatherings at either Brandy Hall or the Great Smials, for it was only after Bilbo had left that his parents had let him visit Frodo at Bag End. Probably justifiably, they had their doubts as to the effect of an unrestrained Pippin on Bilbo at close quarters.

Sam was still abed, but fretting at being so, and Frodo spent a good deal of time with him, so Pippin had ended up, intermittently, at rather loose ends, not being the sort to content himself with curling up by the fireside with a good book.

So it was welcome news, indeed, on the third day of his visit, when the morning broke brilliantly blue over sparkling banks of snow, and word came from the Cottons' that a sledding party was being considered. A closely bundled Nibs had arrived with the invitation, breathing rather heavily with the effort of making his way to Bag End through the soft drifts of snow and, as always, respectfully refusing to enter any farther in to Bag End than the kitchen, for fear of tracking in mud. That was the polite excuse, as usual, and Frodo knew, that without Sam's reassuring presence, he had no hope of overcoming it. It had, after all, taken the Cottons a couple of years now to feel comfortable, on occasion, in the kitchen itself.

The invitation had been for himself and Sam, but Sam was still in no condition to be out of doors. So Frodo suggested that his guest, Master Pippin, might stand place of Sam. Nibs assented readily to the change, since Pippin was quite a favorite of the united Gamgee-Cotton clans. They had all agreed, upon first meeting him, that he was such wonderful company it was hard to remember that he was a gentlehobbit. Indeed, the tales that Daisy Gamgee would bring back with her from her visits to the Grand Smials had made the young Took very nearly legendary.

So Nibs, once more, stamped the snow off of his feet deferentially, and declined all offers excepting a quick mug of tea, and departed into the frosty morning with the exciting news that not only Mr. Frodo, but Master Took himself would be going sledding with them this afternoon. Sam's absence would, of course, be regretted, but then he would always be about, wouldn't he?

The two great farm wagons pulled up in front of the round green door of Bag End only an hour later. Most of the Cotton clan was represented, from Tom and Marigold, as well as Jolly and his new wife Aster, to their sister Rose and their younger brothers Nibs and Ned. In addition, Tolman Cotton had persuaded his old friend, Hamfast Gamgee along, as well as Daisy Gamgee. So it was a round dozen who set off later that morning just as the sun was reaching the heights.

Frodo gave a quick regretful look back as they left. He knew how much Sam would have enjoyed an excursion like this, but he had been in no shape for a day out in the snow just yet. He had left Sam behind in the snug study, wrapped warmly, and with a few volumes of his beloved poems and songs beside him to wile the time away. He had given him a lingering kiss and had hesitated, but Sam had instantly seen through that, and had firmly insisted that Frodo take Pippin out for a bit of fun, and not keep him stuck about the hole with an invalid such as himself. After all, he would recover just as fast if they were there or not. So Frodo had reluctantly agreed, and promised that the both of them would be back by nightfall.

Pippin, of course, had had no such qualms regarding leaving Sam on his own, and was excitedly chatting with Nibs and Ned in the back of the front wagon. That was where the wagons especially bounced, as the sturdy ponies dragged them through the newly fallen snow, instinctively following the tracks of the buried road. Pippin's copper curls flew into the air as he laughed in glee, and his fair cheeks were rosy in the frosty air. Frodo, more sedately seated in the wagon that was following, fondly smiled as he watched his cousin's delight. Pippin had been forever surrounded by those older than he, it seemed, and Ned and Nibs were only a few years older (indeed, Nibs a bare few months older) and it was lovely, he thought, to see the three of them merrily competing in who could bounce the farthest up. It was quite clear that the Cotton lads had forgotten Pippin's family's ranking, and that, Frodo thought with great satisfaction, was exactly what Pippin needed.

Once the wagons had finally made their way, not without a certain amount of difficulty, to the hills that lay just beyond Hobbiton, all the passengers descended, and immediately set about their appointed duties. The snow was brushed away from under a likely tree, where it appeared to be the most shallow, the dry logs brought expressly for the occasion were heaped there and a fire was lit. In no time at all, a kettle was set to the side, and was merrily boiling, and a great caldron of bean soup was in progress. That started, the younger set were absolved of any further duties, and had gleefully started to trudge up any promising hills that were devoid of vegetation, and had the potential of being set at just the proper angle.

It wasn't long before several had been tested and found satisfactory, and with a whoop and cry of glee, the carefully sanded boards that they had brought with them were put into play. Nibs and Pippin, as it turned out, were absolutely fearless, and willing to try out any incline, no matter how precipitous. And after allowing them a few trial runs, Ned and Jolly were eager to follow. Even Frodo and Tom were not at all reluctant to tackle the slopes, and it wasn't long before Marigold and Rose, who had been watching enviously from the sidelines, declared that sledding was not simply for the lads alone, and they were determined to have their say at it as well. They careened down the slope while the lads cheered and encouraged them on, their skirts flying to the side as they shrieked in delight all the way down the hill, usually ending up in a pile of bright woolen garments and snow-frosted curls.

Soon enough, the sharp air and strenuous exercise combined to make food and warm drink an absolute necessity, and the sledders rejoined the rest of the party under the bare tree, warming their frozen hands gratefully over the fire. Frodo climbed back up into the wagon, his warm bowl of soup in his hands, and glanced about with an affectionate smile. Once out of Bag End, even without Sam about, the Gamgees and Cottons had accepted him as one of their own, and he felt acknowledged, approved, allowed into their family circle in a way that he never was at Brandy Hall, and he felt once again humbly grateful to Sam's family and the way they had accepted him into their lives as more than simply the Master on the Hill.

And Pippin? The young teen's copper curls glinted under the snow flakes still left from his last riotous run in front of Nibs, and subsequent precipitous topple into a fortunately deep bank. His clear laugh rang out, along with the two young Cotton lads, as he greedily spooned the humble soup down, wiping the bowl quite clean with a hunk of rustic brown bread. Altogether, there was no trace of the melancholy lad from the night before, and Frodo was grateful for that. He knew that Pippin had meant everything he had said, and yet, he had far too many years ahead of him to be fretting about such matters. "An old stick-in-the-mud, indeed, that's what I've become," Frodo thought to himself rather ruefully, and yet knew it was true.

Appetite quenched for the moment, the younger hobbits were up again in no time, ready to return to the game. Frodo begged off for a bit longer, as Pippin tried to tug him out to the boards on the hill again. "You go ahead, Pip," he chuckled, "I'm still feeling that last landing. I suppose it comes of not weighing down the sled enough, but I'd wager I was truly airborne that last time. It is certainly odd how the lightest of snowdrifts can be so very unforgiving when you come down on it unexpectedly."

Pippin snickered at Frodo's comical expression as he woefully made his complaint. "Try riding with Tom the next time," he answered with a giggle. "The both of you would average out rather nicely, I think."

Frodo laughed, and shook his head with mock reproach. The sledders began their trudge back up the slopes, boards in tow, and Frodo turned back to the rest of the party. Frodo first offered to assist Daisy and Aster with the cleanup, but was shooed immediately away on no uncertain terms. He then found the two patriarchs, Masters Gamgee and Cotton, comfortably ensconced in the corners of the back wagon, and with their pipes drawn out and lit, basking comfortably in the unexpected and welcome sun. They genially welcomed him, Tolman even having a spare pipe, in case one of the lads might be wishing a smoke, and time quickly slipped away in such pleasant company.

On the hills, the sledders were beginning to find that their repeated runs down the nearby hills, along with the softening caused by the still welcome sun, were combining to make the going slower, and stickier. Fresh snow was what was needed, and so they wandered farther and farther from the wagons in search of it. It wasn't much longer before Tom and Jolly threw up their hands in defeat, after rolling down their last hill as much off the board as on, and declared their intention of returning to the wagons and warming their chilled hands and feet up again. "Come along, lass," Tom cried merrily up to the top of the hill, where Marigold and Rose had been waiting for the discovery of another likely hill. "Wouldn't you be ready to tuck those lovely ankles under a dry blanket right about now, and have a mug o'hot tea?"

Marigold laughed and conceded that that did indeed sound like a wonderful idea. She glanced over to Rose, assuming that she would be just as ready to follow, but she shook her head with a slight smile. "I'll follow you in just a bit," she demurred. "I'd just like a run or two more; 'tis rare that we get the lads to take us out like this."

Marigold shrugged, and was soon being escorted back to the rest of the party by Tom and Jolly, with a companionable arm linked through each of theirs. Pippin, Ned and Nibs were studying the slopes further east, as Rose, with some effort, walked over to them, sinking to her knees into the snow with each step. "Rosie, you daft lass," cried Ned, with some impatience, as he turned around at her approach. "You'd not be as tall nor strong as we lads; these hills'd not be for you. Go along back with Marigold, there's a good lass, we've just time enough for a run or two more."

"Nay," Rose shook her head, a stubborn look that her brothers recognized all too well settling on her face. "There's but the three of you left, I may as well ride along with one of you."

"Well, she'd be yours then, Pippin," Ned exclaimed in some exasperation, forgetting to title him, as he turned toward him with his hands on his hips. "I'd have had enough of lasses as forget they're lasses, and want t'be chasin' after the lads. Come, Nibs, that looks like a right long run over there." Nibs gave an apologetic shrug to Pippin, behind his brother's back, but dutifully climbed on the board with his arms around him, and their board flew off down the snowy hill, in and out of the light and the lengthening dark shadows cast by the trees on either side.

"Well, Miss Cotton," Pippin, somewhat startled but ever chivalrous, turned to her with a slight bow. "Is there a hill about that strikes your fancy? I am entirely at your command."

Rose laughed at such politesse, and Pippin suddenly realized what a very lovely, if somewhat quiet, lass she actually was, with her dark blond curls and light blue eyes. "Such pretty words," she teased him lightly. " 'Tis not what I'd be used hearin', no ways. A body could get used to them, indeed!"

"It's hard to believe you don't hear more pretty words, at least, from lads other than your brothers," Pippin gallantly replied, with a smile. "I'm a brother, myself, and I do know how rare it'd be to hear such from a sorry lot like ourselves. But you must be hearing them aplenty from the other lads."

"Haven't had much luck with the other lads," she answered shortly, a shadow seeming, for just a moment, to fall across her face. But it was gone so fast Pippin felt sure that he must have imagined it, as she smiled up at him again, with a tip of her head. "You choose, Master Pippin, but please make it a very long one, for I want to go so fast, that I could near take to my wings and fly away."

"Ah, my pretty fledgling," Pippin grinned back. "A long, fast hill it shall be, then." He looked about them and saw, past a boulder that jutted out of the snow, what appeared to be the crest of another hill. "That looks to be rather high," he nodded in its direction, "but it might be a bit of a scramble to get up there."

"I've done a bit of clamberin' in my day," she answered quickly, her chin tilted proudly up. "Don't you be in a fret on my account, Master Took."

"See here, now," Pippin gave her a look of mock reproach, as he took up the board again in one hand, and gave her his other for assistance through the drifts. "If you're to be flying down hillsides at my back, I am to be Pippin, and none other."

She laughed merrily again, as she grasped his hand firmly and pulled a foot out of an especially deep drift. "Then naught of the Miss Cotton, no ways. I'd be Rosie, plain and simple."

Both of them were out of breath when they reached the crest of the hill, but with one look they knew it was well worth the effort. The slope down the far side was glistening in the lowering sun, shining with golden light, and soft, smoothly rounded, the sort of slope that promised to fly forever away. Only down at the far end could trees be seen, dark tall pines growing thickly together. The rest of the party was now gone from their sight, and even their hearing, and Rose turned to Pippin with a surprising glint of tears in her eyes. " 'Tis perfect," she whispered.

Pippin had to agree, but felt compelled towards one last word of warning. "It will be quite a long trip back," he gave her a tentative look.

But Rose gave a merry laugh at his caution. "No matter for that," she cried out gaily. "Shall I sit in the front or you?"

"Here, now," Pippin protested lightly, with a chuckle, sitting down on the front of the slick board and digging his heels in the snow on either side as a temporary brake. "You must let the expert steer, really, you must!"

"Oh, very well," Rose was immediately behind him, stretching her legs out on either side of his and wrapping her arms tightly about his waist. "Just let us be off!"

And before Pippin had time to really notice how wonderfully nice it felt to be held like that, they were.

It was a glorious hill, even faster than it had looked, and it wasn't until they started to near the trees down in the basin that Pippin started to feel a little nervous at the speed at which they were traveling. Steering was indeed becoming necessary, and he tightly grasped the front end of the board, leaning forward, and watching for the swathes of white under the dark pines. Into the forest they flew, but just when it seemed that they must inevitably end up smacking into a trunk, the board scratched itself to a halt against a buried rock, and they skidded off of it. Twirling about, they tumbled downhill for several more feet until Pippin found himself atop of a Rose who was quite buried in a soft heap of snow that lay in the center of a small clearing in the pines.

For several moments, there was no sound, other than the breeze high in the treetops overhead, and their gasps as they struggled to catch their breath. But as he fought to get his wind back, Pippin found himself drawn by the curious expression on the face of this lass whom he really didn't know at all, very quiet, and yet, somehow, waiting. In addition, he also began to notice how very soft in all the proper ways she was under his lanky body, and moved by an instantly irresistible impulse, he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

Part of his mind expected a quick response to that, or at least a pert remark, but there was none. She returned the kiss, as lightly as he had given it, and then lay back in the drift, her curls flung out in the snow, her cheeks glowing from the brisk air, and those light blue eyes watching him so attentively.

This was a position in which he had never been before, and despite the cold, certain areas of his body were beginning to find these proceedings interesting indeed. His face flushed a bit at that, for he was positive that there was no way this could fail to come to Rose's attention, but before he could roll off of her, she reached a hand up and lightly stroked his cheek.

"You've a dear face," she murmured softly, "and a kind heart." He could think of nothing at all to reply to that, for his emotion of the moment was not kindness, not exactly, but Rose seemed to take no heed of his embarrassment, and now a cold hand was tentatively inching its way up his chest, under his jacket, and his own hand was under hers, and oh, stars. The softness and the sweet swell of flesh, and never had he ever felt the like. Her quiet moan was absolutely unconscious, and her eyes shuttered closed as she thrust herself against his touch. His head was aswirl, he had no idea what she meant, but his body instinctively pressed itself against hers, stretching and wanting and yearning. But no more than hers, as with her eyes tightly shut, she reached out to grasp his face, more roughly now, and her mouth met his again, but oh, what a difference from that first uncertain kiss. Now there was no hesitation, but rather her mouth open against his, and he felt his body suddenly inflamed, his tongue against hers, and they might have been inexperienced, the both of them, but instinct was proving to be the master teacher.

Quickly and inexpertly, he found himself fumbling against her skirts, and her, what were they again? Pantiloons? But her hand was there as well, fumbling clumsily at the fastenings of his trousers, and he felt himself harden desperately at her touch, and there was no turning back. Not that she seemed to want to do so, as her breathing quickened, and with her eyes still tightly shut, her other hand found his and guided it under the layers of clothing, and oh, mercy. Hot and wet and sweet, he could not help himself from bucking against her as she moaned, and guided it in deeper. Frantically, he sought to free himself of the impediments that still surrounded him, but the very touch of her was more than he could bear. Wildly, his body writhed against her, and there was no control over it whatsoever, as he frantically drove himself senselessly against her. He never had a chance, never had the time. It happened all so fast, and with a sharp choked cry, he found himself spilling hotly against her, never having found his way in. With a wail, she clutched his hand more tightly than ever, forcing it deeper, and now he felt her clench around him, and thrust herself against him with an anguished moan and a shudder that seemed to come from her very core.

Both of them lay very still then, their breathing hurried and urgent, their pulses beating wildly. Slowly the thought came through to Pippin, amidst the dazed jumble that seemed to have become his mind, that he must be heavy, lying on her as he was. So he rolled over to the side and sat up, holding an awkward hand out to her. "I'm so sorry, Rose," he whispered, and wasn't exactly sure what he was apologizing for.

But she took his hand and sat up as well, and with a slight smile, reached out to brush the snow from his curls. "Naught in the world to be sorry about," she murmured, almost as if comforting him. "You helped me fly."

It was well past nightfall when the cousins returned home to Bag End. The wagons had stopped by the Cotton smials first, to let off the lasses, and Pippin, to Frodo's surprise, was most insistent on not putting anyone out of their way, and that he and Frodo would be perfectly all right walking back to Bag End. Frodo, who had noticed that Pippin was unusually subdued on the way back from the snowfields, quickly agreed, and the matter was settled. Pippin had thanked the entire party for a marvelous day and, like a privileged nephew, had given all the lasses a parting kiss on the cheek. And if he had lingered a little longer over one of them, no-one else had noticed.

Fortunately, there was an early moon, and there was a hint of warmth in the air, indicating that the end of winter was not so very far away. Frodo let Pippin walk next to him in silence, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and his head bowed. It wasn't until they saw Bagshot Row come into view that Pippin raised his head up, seeming to have come to a conclusion. Frodo gave him a curious glance, but the teen's face, silvered by the moonlight, was difficult to read.

"Did you ever," he began hesitantly, "I mean, would you, no, that isn't what I meant. But, I mean, other than Sam, did you… No, I am being a total, what's Sam's expression? Ninnyhammer, to be sure."

"Pippin," Frodo said gently, stopping still and catching hold of his shoulder. "Tell me what happened."

So Pippin, leaning against the snow-covered hedgerow that ran along this part of the Row, did, in a very quiet voice. Frodo listened carefully, his hand never leaving Pippin's shoulder. But when the younger hobbit had finished his rather circumspect accounting, he sighed. "So you are wondering," he mentioned quietly, "what this all means. And I suspect that has something to do with Merry."

"If I loved him properly, I never would have let myself do something like that," Pippin gave Frodo almost a defiant look, but there was the track of what looked suspiciously like tears glinting on his face in the moonlight. "I hardly know the lass, she means nothing to me, and Merry, oh, Merry…"

And he stopped short, swallowing convulsively.

"Pippin, you're but a teen yet," Frodo pointed out carefully, to an unwilling Pippin. "You asked me about Sam," he continued on, glancing down. "He was not my first love, nor was I the first he was with."

"What?" Pippin gave him an incredulous look, never having known this.

Even in the moonlight, he could see Frodo's wry smile. "I'm afraid my past was far more checkered than Sam's ever was, but then my opportunities were a little more diverse, so to speak. But the point of it is, Pippin, that it really doesn't matter. You love Merry, and someday he will come to realize that he loves you, I'm quite sure of it, and that's what really matters, not what lies in the past."

Pippin stood still for a moment, and then glanced over to Frodo thoughtfully. "I suppose you're right. I probably am being a little over-dramatic; it's just that I never expected…"

"There is a good deal to life that we never expect," Frodo replied dryly, as they set off again, his arm around Pippin's shoulders. Bag End's warmly lit windows greeted them then, as they walked past the last turn. "You might not want to mention anything about this to Sam, though," Frodo added, as he reached out to open the front door. "That was the lass, after all, that everyone thought he was to marry. Very fortunately for me, he thought otherwise."

Frodo lay on his stomach on their bed, the most delicious lassitude finally overcoming him. The day had been strenuous, and had unexpectedly left its mark on him, as Sam had quickly discovered as they undressed for bed. Nothing would do, of course, but that he insisted on salving the bruises that had become apparent against Frodo's fair skin, and Frodo had no complaints about that at all. Indeed, the soothing aroma of Sam's special blend of herbs (and certainly that must be lavender that he smelled, for he was suddenly having visions of summer sun and bees lolling about, and lush fields of wildflowers) as well as his skilled touch was lulling him into a daze of pleasure.

"I'd best be stoppin' this, t'be sure," came Sam's voice, with a low chuckle, although his hands seemed to pay no mind to this threat, "or I'll not be gettin' you to continue where you left me this morning."

Frodo happily murmured something incoherent, but obviously Sam understood, for the touch of his hands seemed slowly to have nothing to do with the healing of bruises, but a different sort of healing altogether as they swept slowly and lingeringly over his back, his curves, dipping down, oh yes, dipping down just there. Frodo moaned at the delicious sensation, and arched his back up ever so slightly, and then there were kisses trailing down his back, delicious kisses pursuing the length of his spine, and then the tongue - oh, there simply were no words. So he never attempted them, but rather gasped, and flung his head back, and then there was the pillow, thrust under his hips, and he knew what Sam was preparing him for and couldn't help the cry of yearning, of desperate wanting, the breathed plea of "Oh Sam, please, oh Sam."

And then it seemed that Sam's salve had more than one use, as Sam's fingers slipped slickly within him, and he curved up with an incoherent groan. But Sam was apparently just as eager, for it was Sam suddenly in him and over him, and around him, and he felt a surge of joy in his heart for this love that had come to him. Recklessly, he pushed upward, feeling Sam, with an unconscious grunt, meeting him, and then there was Sam's hand and he wildly cried out for the sheer joy, the utterly absolute bliss of that touch. And so it was that Sam held him, caressed him, stroked him, and all the while thrust deeper and deeper, until Frodo lost himself unconditionally and forever.

Pippin lay in the next room, but never heard them, as he slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep. The next morning, Bart arrived to take him back home, and the snow was melting in rivulets along the roadside, there was the faint fragrance of something blooming in the air, and the sun shone in a brilliantly blue sky. Pippin inhaled deeply and felt a thrill of happiness flood him. Spring promised to be beautiful, indeed.