One Week
This is set in Foreyule of 1412, so Pippin is 22 and Frodo is 44.

One week until the beginning of Yule, and Pippin was sick in bed with a nasty cold. Three days until the family was supposed to travel to Brandy Hall, and Pippin was sick in bed with a nasty cold. One day until Frodo was due to arrive, to visit and then travel with them to Brandy Hall, and Pippin was sick in bed with a nasty cold.

Pippin sighed in frustration and misery, trying to think of something more cheerful than his current situation, but nothing much came to mind. His nose was runny and sore and he snuffled mightily, hoping he wouldn’t have to blow it. No luck, it was still runny. And still sore, of course. Giving in, he grabbed a fresh handkerchief and rubbed the offending appendage, blowing to release all the gunk stored up therein. There, he should be able to breathe for five or six minutes, if he was lucky. One or two minutes if he was less lucky. Or, he thought as his nose immediately stuffed up again, twenty or thirty seconds was better than nothing.

He huddled down in his blankets, resting his feet against the warming pan at the foot of the bed. He was cold and shivery, so he supposed the fever was up a bit again. Sighing again, in resignation this time, he turned his attention to the book he’d been trying to read all afternoon, but his head ached and he couldn’t properly concentrate on the meaning of the words. Gently tossing the book aside, he laid his head down on the pillow and rolled over onto his side, looking out his window.

Not that the view gave him much comfort. It was a day typical of late Foreyule, with grey skies and rampant dampness. It was cold and the moisture in the air was going from rain to freezing rain to wet snow and back again. After looking at this for only a few minutes, Pippin rolled over to his other side, turning his back on the wet outside.

Inside was considerably better, he admitted. There was a cheery fire burning on the grate and a kettle of water was beginning to bubble and boil. His mum had just gone out to the kitchen to get him some soup (not that he was hungry, but it made her feel better to feed him, so he would do his best to eat and appreciate whatever she brought). She had brought a basket of mending in and left it sitting by the old rocking chair that had been in his room forever. It was the chair she had rocked him in when he was little. She said it had been the same chair her mum had rocked her in when she was little. He smiled, just a little, at the image of his formidable mother as a wee infant being rocked by his Banks grandmother, while at the same time wishing rather wistfully that he was still small enough to be rocked by his mother. Somehow, that had always made him feel so much better when he was sick as a child.

He was starting to feel warm and drowsy. Blowing his nose one more time, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off into an uncomfortable doze. He woke some time later to the awareness that someone else was in the room with him.

"Is the soup still hot?" he asked sleepily, not yet opening his eyes.

"What soup and why should it still be hot?" a familiar voice asked.

Pippin’s eyes flew open. "Frodo!" he exclaimed, as joyously as he could in his current, overly stuffed up condition. "Are you early or am I late?"

Frodo shook his head and laughed. "I see you are making about as much sense as ever. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d worry that you were delirious. As it happens, I am early. I decided to come today instead of tomorrow. I think the roads might be rather icy tomorrow."

Pippin laughed along with Frodo, but broke off when his throat, already dry and scratchy, decided to seize up altogether. Coughing hard, he gratefully accepted the cup of warm tea Frodo handed him, and soon the paroxysm eased off.

"Here, I’m guessing this is the soup you were mumbling about earlier." The older hobbit helped Pippin sit up and fluffed his pillows to give him a nice, comfy support before picking up a tray that had been sitting on the hearth and placing it across Pippin’s lap.

Pippin looked at the soup in dismay. It was a thin chicken broth with small bits of meat and finely chopped vegetables, mixed with long, slender noodles. Normally, it was the perfect thing to eat on a cold, winter afternoon, but today he could muster very little enthusiasm for it. Resigning himself to the task, he managed to eat a small portion before setting it aside. There were toast triangles as well, but the thought of toast with his unhappy throat was not to be tolerated. He left them sitting, cold and unloved, on the plate. He did, however, find it in him to eat a bit of the pudding his mum had also included on the tray. All in all, he ate barely enough to keep a bird alive, as Frodo was quick to point out, but it was the best he could do, under the circumstances.

"Never mind, Pip. I know how it is when you aren’t feeling well. So does Aunt Tinie, and I’m sure she’ll be pleased that you’ve managed to eat anything at all." Frodo gave him an encouraging smile. "Now, I must go visit with all the cousins for a bit, and make an appearance at supper, I suppose, but I’ll come back in few hours and we can have a nice long chat, if you feel up to it."

"I’d like that, Frodo. I’ve a book I’ve been wanting to show you." Pippin smiled back, already feeling sleepy again. He watched Frodo walk to the door and step aside so his mum could enter, murmuring a few words too quiet for Pippin to hear before he went out into the hall.

"How are you feeling now, Pippin love?" his mum asked as she settled herself into the rocker and picked up the breeches she’d been mending earlier. "Frodo said you ate something and had a bit of tea."

"Mm," Pippin mumbled, not rousing enough to really speak properly. "‘m glad Fro’s here."

"I know, dear, so am I. Get some sleep now.

Pippin rolled over again, facing the window once more. It was snowing now, proper fat flakes that looked as though they’d fallen out of some fairy tale of long ago and far away. Wiping his nose with a fresh handkerchief, he allowed his eyes to close and slid into sleep, a real sleep this time, with dreams of playing in the snow and skating on the pond and eating roasted chestnuts and drinking hot cider.

Back in the real world, Eglantine smiled as she watched over her youngest child. The fever had broken and he would be feeling better soon. It would be difficult, she knew, keeping him sedentary for the next few days, so he could regain his strength before traveling to Buckland. She was very glad Frodo had been able to come early after he received her note. Pippin responded so well to his beloved older cousin. She rested easy in the knowledge that he would be quite well again by the time they reached Brandy Hall. With that thought, she sneezed prodigiously and groaned. Well, Pippin would be feeling better by then, she thought ruefully, whether she was or not.