A holiday ficlet written for Elendiari22 :)

Fireside Tales

1402 S.R.

One Yuletide evening at Great Smials, Pippin was exasperated to find that he would have to play with the littler lads whilst Merry and the other tweens partook in more grown-up activities; namely, joining their parents in celebrating the season over several bottles of the Old Took’s finest.

When Merry left Pippin at the door of the playroom with a sympathetic pat on the back, he watched his resentful cousin throw himself into a chair by the fire and pick up a book, scowling at the small lads playing with wooden farm animals on the floor. A dozen pairs of curious eyes landed on Pippin, and Merry smiled to himself as he closed the door. Pippin had no idea how much respect he had in that room - he was always too busy catching up with Merry to notice such things. But Merry had noticed. Amongst the younger Tooks, Pippin was greatly admired for having known old Bilbo and for holding his own with the tweens. That the tweens in question more commonly dismissed him as “tagalong-Pip” bothered Pippin very little. Merry’s opinions, and his approval, were far more important.

----

The festivities were still in full swing when Merry returned a couple of hours later to see how things were going in the playroom. He opened the door, listening for a moment, and then frowned when his sharp ears were met with complete silence. Perhaps the youngsters had already been sent to bed, he wondered, but he poked his head around the door, just to make sure.

Confronted with the scene before him, his breath caught in his throat; a gasp or a chuckle, he was too surprised to decide. Pippin was still sitting in the old chair by the fire, his legs curled up beneath him, but his sulk was apparently long forgotten.

All around him the other lads and lasses had gathered on the rug, some of them holding each others’ hands with tremulous expressions on their young faces. With one word, Pippin broke the silence, and revealed to his astounded cousin the spell that was binding them all: the story of Bilbo’s encounter with Smaug. As Pippin’s animated voice drew out the suspense of the climactic moment before Bilbo returned to the dragon’s lair, the only other sound to be heard in the room was the fire crackling in the hearth, heightening the illusion.

As transfixed by Pippin’s telling of the story as any of the little ones in the room, Merry jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find that Frodo, peering into the room from behind him, had also left the party.

“He’s quite the storyteller, isn’t he?” Merry whispered.

Frodo nodded. “He learnt from the best,” he agreed, smiling wistfully, and Merry met his eye and squeezed his hand.

Together they listened in anticipation as Pippin reached the part of the story that had always made the lad jump out of his seat and into Merry’s lap when he was tiny, back when Bilbo had been the one telling the story.

"Bilbo went back to Smaug’s lair," Pippin continued. "He was rather frightened about going in there again, but the dragon was asleep; snoring, just like he was before. Bilbo decided that he was safe, so he crept a little further, ever so quietly, hoping he wouldn’t wake him." Pippin lowered his voice and leaned forward, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "He wanted to find his weak spot as quickly as possible so he could get out of there before Smaug woke up! But it was too late," Pippin announced, snapping his book shut loudly as he delivered the much-anticipated and dreaded news: "Smaug was waiting for him!"

A chorus of little gasps and squeaks of delighted terror burst out of the crowd of youngsters at Pippin’s feet, and a small voice begged, "Then what did Bilbo do?"

Pippin smiled enigmatically and drew back to resume the story, and Merry nearly applauded his cousin’s performance. Not wishing to distract attention away from the lad, he thought better of it and contented himself with sitting on the floor at the edge of the room to listen along with the rest. Frodo joined him quietly, and if Pippin noticed their presence, he didn’t look over.

Merry frowned, trying to ignore the sudden and unpleasant tug of jealousy at his heart, and settled down more comfortably, leaning against Frodo. Relishing the warmth, the familiar tale he had not heard told for some while now, and the comfortable glow of the wine he’d enjoyed earlier, his thoughts drifted to past winters when the roles had been reversed and little Pippin had been the one clutching Merry’s hand tightly during the frightening parts of Bilbo’s tales. He would squeak if a log in the hearth burst into flame or if the wind rattled the windows, for the firelight would cast flickering shadows over their faces in such a way as to make them all believe they were in the dragon’s lair with Bilbo…

Merry shook himself out of his reverie when he realised that Frodo was watching him, a knowing and affectionate smile lighting his face.

"Don’t worry, Merry," Frodo whispered. "I think he’ll still be your lad for a while yet. He’d rather be on one of your adventures than tell bedtime stories."

“Yes, I expect he would,” Merry grinned, letting out the deep breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. He shook his head, mystified, and leaned in closer to Frodo. “That lad is twelve,” he whispered incredulously. “And he’s never seen anything more fearsome than a fox. But I bet every one of them believes he saw it all with his own eyes. I rather think I might even believe it.”

A moment later he caught Pippin glance at him out of the corner of his eye, and gave the lad an encouraging wink. Pippin grinned back, narrowing his eyes at Merry, before turning back to his audience to continue the tale, throwing himself into a most suspenseful account of how Bilbo escaped the dragon’s clutches.

Bilbo knew just where the best adventures could be had, Merry thought as he put his arm around Frodo with a smile. Now it was just a matter of waiting until their little cousin was old enough to make a story of his own fit for telling by the fireside.