A/N: If you are unfamiliar with the film/musical Chicago, you may not understand the premise for this fic. Although, I am pretty sure it can stand on its own nonetheless.

None of the music, lyrics or characters of Chicago are mine and are property of Miramax films and other people, and I am only using them as the basis for a non-profit story in which the characters are also not mine and belong to New Line Cinema and JRR Tolkien.

This story was so named for the song which inspired it.

Cell Block Tango - A tale told in six short increments in which Merry, Pippin, Sam and Frodo learn that it is called 'lady's work' for a reason.

-Thanks for reading!

Pop, Six, Squish, Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz...

Part I: Pop!

***

Pop! Snap. Pop! Snap.

Grr.

Pop!SnapPop!SnapPop!SnapPop!Snap.

... Ahh.

Pop!

"Arghh!" Pippin growled in disdain, flinging aside the offending object he held in his hands. Contemptuously eyeing the complex thousand-piece put-it-together-yourself toy that a (now loathed) relative had delightfully given to Faramir as a Yuletide gift, he grudgingly picked up another part.

Sitting on the floor, Pippin thought of said relation’s pleased face when Faramir had squealed in joy upon opening the present, and Pippin’s thoughts rambled in retaliation angrily ... Yer face i’gunna look a law di’frent next time Ah see you...

Looking over the directions for the ca-zillionth time, Pippin read: Slide nozzle A into latch 14 after clicking point F into the fifteenth hook section in color-coordinated receptor Aqua-Marine.

Eyes widening and brain somewhat frazzling, Pippin turned to the toy-turned-catastrophe laid out in a thousand pieces covering the floor by the Yuletide tree. Holding up the one small piece he did manage to complete, he gazed at it doubtfully while comparing it to the diagram.

"If Ah jus’ get th’t one piece in..." he said, picking up the piece he had thrown aside earlier in aggravation. "... then I can fit this piece," he said, and proceeded to cram the part into the respective point with all his might. It was being extremely difficult, so gathering his strength once more, Pippin inhaled and jammed it harder... Come’n Pippin, yer a Knight’f Gondor fer da’bloody Shire’s sake... you can build this toy...!

Crack.

Suddenly very gentle, Pippin held the, now broken, pieces in his hand, looking down at them, and then to his son who sat watching, stuffed bear in hand and thumb in mouth, beside him.

"Heh...whoops," Pippin offered, smiling anxiously at his son whose eyes were growing wider and more tear-filled by the second. "O, no...don’t cry, now. Dun’ go an’ cry..." Pippin begged, discarding the toy and reaching over to grab his lad, before he started to bawl.

Faramir’s eyes began to overflow as he squeezed his stuffed animal close to his chest, seeing the broken toy in pieces in front of his father’s lap; and before Pippin could reach him, he let out an incomparable shriek of sorrow, dissolving into tears.

"O, no," Pippin despaired, picking the bawling lad up off the ground and making many (failed) attempts to shush him. "Please, dun cry, Faramir," Pippin begged, his voice barely audible above his son’s howl. "Ah’ll fix it Ah promise," Pippin said hopefully, but to no avail. Trying to bounce Faramir in his arms, looking up in strain, Pippin sighed miserably, feeling quite like coming to tears himself.

Just then, Pippin’s wife Diamond blew into the room (probably heralded by her son’s sobs), eyes growing wide and surprised as the saw the state of utter mess the room (and her husband) were in.

"What happened?" She asked over Faramir’s sonorous screaming, brushing her light hair back behind her shoulder.

Pippin opened his eyes, for the first time noticing his wife there before him. Relief almost flooded through him, but seeing her critical gaze eyeing him scornfully, he immediately became defensive. "Well," he began tartly. "Ah was trying to put together this bleeding toy, but the Valar know that that is never going to happen," he explained. Faramir screaming in his ear, he continued, "Then, he starts to cry... It’s not my fault none of the directions make any bloody sense!"

Secretly amused at his frustration, Diamond stifled a smile behind her hand at his cursing, and hoped he didn’t notice, turning her gaze all the more disapproving.

"How in Middle-earth d’they expect a five-year-old t’play witha t’ousan’ piece toy, anyhow!" Pippin supplied in self-defense, the very burr of Tookland coming out of his incensed tone.

Diamond shook her head – at the mess or the state of her husband or at the state of her screaming son, she didn’t know. She picked up something off the floor.

She let the charade play out for a few more seconds then, "Faramir," she called quietly, and to Pippin’s surprise, he soon quieted and his wails subsided to bubbling sobs, as he stared with large, teary, green eyes to his mother.

Diamond smiled at her boy, and pulling a small round ball from behind her back, she held it aloft and said, "Do you want to play with me?"

Faramir’s face lit up, and with tears still wet on his cheeks, he gurgled in delight, reaching out to her from Pippin’s arms. Startled, Pippin let him to the ground and watched him toddle delightedly over to Diamond, arms outstretched.

Diamond handed her son the ball, and Faramir giggled, looking up to her, and she gave him a kind smile. Rolling the ball out of the room and down the hall, he chased after it gleefully.

Diamond coolly raised a brow to Pippin who stood flabbergasted amidst the wreckage of the Toy.

She turned to leave their apartment, but before she left, she stopped at the doorway, addressing Pippin’s attention up from the mess once more. "They don’t expect a five-year-old to play with a thousand-piece toy." Making to leave once more, she stopped again, looking in and saying with a sigh of pitiful tolerance, "Just clean up your mess, Pippin."

Seeing Diamond disappear once more into the hall, Pippin groaned as he looked down to the scattered parts he was going to have to pick up, and slapped his palm to his forehead, dragging his hand down his face.

"Bleeding thing," he grumbled, and kicked the pieces.

A piece flew up, hit the wall, then the floor, then bounced, (Pippin ducked), it hit the ceiling, then the wall once more, and to Pippin’s dismay:

Pop!

"Argh!!" he yelled and clutched his throbbing eye.

Pop, Six, Squish, Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz...

Part II:Six

***

"Six!" Pippin smiled from ear to ear, patting his friend on the back heartily. "And now seven. Congratulations, Sam!"

Sam laughed, as Merry shook his shoulders, "Samwise, you devil, you!"

"When did you find out?" asked Pippin, still smiling.

"Just this morning," informed Sam, the unmistakable grin of pride in full blossom on his lips, as he bent to throw aside a stick that had fallen into his walkway.

"Guess we’re gonna be playing catch-up, huh Pip?" Merry asked mirthfully, glancing sidelong to his cousin.

"Me?" asked Pippin, pressing his palm to his chest. "I don’t know about you, my dear cousin, but I am expecting to be expecting sextuplets and therefor take no part at all in this ‘catch-up’ you speak of."

Rolling his eyes, Merry slapped the back of Pippin’s head. "Don’t be such an arse Pippin." Pippin glared, then giggled.

"Well," said Sam stoutly, his original chore having been to round up the six of his children that were outside, (and never being one to shirk his duties lightly), he looked about for them, and hollered, "Come'n now all you! Inside, it’s a-gettin’ dark!"

Though, the only response he got for this valiant attempt were six delighted screams and a flurry of skirts and trousers and curls bolting around the yard (and away from him).

"Uh, I don’t think they want to come in," suggested Pippin.

Sam eyed him, nettled, and Pippin raised his brows innocently.

Taking another breath, Sam tried again, "Alright now all of you, Ellie, Frodo-lad, Rosie, Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks! Inside!" Again, the response was simply the same.

Sighing, Sam made for the tree before which sat Goldi, munching gleefully on an apple-tart (surely stolen) from inside.

Merry and Pippin got the hint, and turned in opposite directions to help Sam gather his children.

Goldilocks watched Sam approach, her eyes fixed on him, ready to dart at his next move.

"Now, Goldilocks," Sam admonished, "Be a good lass, and come to yer Da now," he said, moving another cautious step closer. She didn’t flee. A good sign. Sam took another step, carefully, carefully... and soon he was no more than a few feet from her. Feeling confident, he took a long stride – but the moment he put his foot down next to her she burst into a fit of giggles and scampered away. "Goldilocks!" Sam sighed, watching her dart away.

He gathered himself. She could barely crawl, let alone walk, and he would easily catch up to her.

Quickly approaching her, he was about to snatch her off the ground when she crawled under the hedge that ran along the side of the yard. "Goldi!" he shouted in dismay, bending down on his knees to peek under and catch a glimpse of her giggling form scooting further out of reach. He sighed, and paid a glance across the yard. Grimacing, he noticed Merry and Pippin were not having any more luck than he was.

"Pippin!" Merry shouted, "Come here!"

"I am here!" Pippin yelled indignantly from somewhere behind him.

"No," said Merry, "Not you Pippin, him Pippin!" and pointed up the tree Pippin-lad had scampered into. Looking up, eyes widening, "No," Merry instructed in his sternest voice. "Don’t you dare climb up another branch," he pointed a reprimanding finger at the little hellion, "Don’t you-"

"Ow!!"

Merry was interrupted by an exclamation of pain a few feet away, and looked over quickly. Pippin-lad took this to his advantage and scurried up two more branches.

Pippin Took was chasing Merry-lad, who thought it absolutely hysterical to pelt small pebbles at him during the process. "Ow! Ouch! ...ar!....hey! Oww," whined Pippin, "That’s hurts, Merry!" Pippin said, running to catch up to the wayward tyke (and losing).

Merry rolled his eyes from his place at the base of the tree as he watched his cousin, and looked up again to try and coax Pippin-lad down. "Pip, now you come down," he began, but stopped short, finding that Pip-lad had disappeared from the place he last saw him. "Pip?" Merry questioned worriedly, his voice coming to the squeaking summit it was wont to. "Pippin?" he said again, when he got no answer.

Furiously scanning the branches, Merry was rewarded with the sound of a snap! then a whoosh! then a plunk! as an apple came falling down from the shuddering branches (behind which the tree was suspiciously making giggling noises) and hit him square on the noggin.

"Woah!" Merry exclaimed, clutching his head and blinking the stars from his eyes. Shaking away the impending lump he was bound to earn from that little stunt for the moment, he grumbled, narrowing his eyes up at the fiend who hid someplace above him. He set his jaw with a determined grunt, and brushing his hands off, declared, "I’m coming up!"

Sam, on the other side of the yard, was a having quite a time of reaching under the hedge for his daughter – an action that was both fruitless and tiring; and upon seeing her headed for the thorny rose-bushes, slammed himself into them to block her path. Now, full of stings and scratches, he was on his stomach trying to reach her with one outstretched arm as she sat giggling just a few inches from his reach.

Pippin was faring better, with Rose and Elanor already hoisted up into his arms, he was making a run to catch Merry-lad again, who had gone from delightedly throwing small, annoying pebbles to (in Pippin’s opinion) demoniacally throwing fairly large, painful rocks.

Merry – a Brandybuck through and through in his dislike for heights, even for all his Tookishness – stood precariously on a branch outstretched to the point where it was beginning to get thin and wobbly.

"Don’t look down, don’t look down," Merry coached himself, but couldn’t help it, and looked, groaning miserably as he tightened his hold onto the branches around him. "Pippin Gamgee..." Merry began, but thought better of his graveled tone and tried a complacent one instead, "Pippin-lad, dear, would you please..." He looked down again. Gulp. "come off that branch."

He almost thought it had worked when he saw little Pippin Gamgee’s small round face emerge from the leaves above him.

But he should have known better of anyone named ‘Pippin’, as the lad merrily made to step right off the branch, (in agreement to Merry’s request), and so consequently plummet to the ground.

"Argh, no!" Merry shouted to stop him, "Don’t do that. Don’t." Merry sighed, looking up once more to the (he thought) smug face of the little lad, and took a deep breath, preparing to climb higher into the tree.

Mumbling to himself, Merry snaked the branches a little less gracefully than the squirrel-like Pippin-lad as he bounded from branch to branch. But he was stopped dead from his task upon hearing a roar like a small rabid army approach from behind him.

Turning his head to see the rest of the yard, he saw Pippin (Took) chasing a happily screaming Rosie, Frodo-lad, Merry (Gamgee) and Elanor all towards the tree, along with Sam following closely after, chasing a giggling Goldilocks.

In less than another instant, all six Gamgee children where scurrying up the tree, past Merry, on Merry and under Merry, almost giving said Merry a heart attack.

Pippin and Sam stood at the bottom of the tree, looking rather put-out and tired, but Merry clung to the branch, grinning in self-pleasure as he noticed that little Pippin Gamgee was now just an arm’s length away. Reaching out he declared to a startled Pippin, "Gotcha!" but before he could grasp him, he lost his footing, slipping off the branch and falling to the ground with a stupendous: CRASH.

"Merry!" shouted Sam and Pippin simultaneously, rushing to their friend, and all the Gamgee children suddenly hushed, peeking out from the tree at the accident.

Pippin rushed to his cousin, kneeling by his side, lifting his head up, "Are you alright, Merry?"

"Oww..." Merry groaned, and Sam sighed, relived to find that he was no worse for wear.

Getting up, Sam (who was just about fed up with his children today, thankyouverymuch) said, "Now, listen here everyone! Mr Merry could have just up and broke near ev’ry bone in his body, and you’re lucky he didn’t! Now, come down from that there tree, say you’re sorry to him, and-"

"Sam!" another voice sailed across the now dusk-bathed yard from the glowing doorway. It was Rosie. "Why haven’t you gone and called in the children?" There was a pause and Sam looked to Pippin who was helping Merry up (who was insisting he didn’t need help) and they all shared a look that simply said: Argh.

Rosie continued when no response from Sam came, "Come’n in Elanor, Rose, Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Goldi! Dinner!"

"Dinner?" all the children said in union, and then: "Yay!" Amidst squeals of celebration and joy, they bolted down from the tree, and off into the house.

"Dinner?" Merry Brandybuck despaired as he watched the little troop bolt into the house at their mother’s word. "All we needed to say was ‘dinner’?" He sighed and threw up his hands.

Pippin almost wanted to laugh, but turned instead to Sam."So, six going on seven, Samwise?" Pippin taunted good-naturedly, still red-faced from exertion. 

"Aye," Sam answered, though a bit more weary than before, "Six going on seven."

Pop, Six, Squish, Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz...

Part III: Squish

***

Squish.

O, wonderful, thought Frodo sarcastically. 

He hesitantly picked up his foot and looked at its bottom. Well, whatever that brown, gooey mess was, it is now embedded into every crease and line of his foot.

Sighing, Frodo put his book down on the table and leaned against the counter to scrape it off.

Squish.

Frowning, Frodo looked to the counter top and picked up his hand. Brown, gooey, glop.

Resisting the urge to be disgusted, Frodo held his hand as far from him as hobbitly possible and walked over the sink.

Squish.

Frodo stopped, and stepped in another direction.

Squish.

He cringed, and walked forward.

Squishsquish. Squishsquish.

"Ugh," groaning, Frodo looked down (even though he really, really didn’t want to) and found the entire floor was covered in brown, slimy, goo. "What in..." Frodo looked around in dismay. "What happened here?" he asked aloud, noticing the entire room was covered in the same deplorable substance.

Moving forward to at least grab a towel of some sort, Frodo clung desperately to chairs and cabinets, trying not to slip in the disgusting mess.

Reaching the drawer that held the towels, he picked one out and began scouring his hands. "How revolting," he commented to himself, and lifted his voice to sail through the window into the garden, "Sam! Are you out there?" he called. No answer. He wasn’t there, then. Sam always answered.

Fighting for his stomach to stay calm, Frodo picked the disgusting mess from under his nails, trying to scrub the sticky muck off his hands as his feet squishsquished in it below him.

Cleaning his hands as best as he could, Frodo placed the towel down and sighed. He took a step back, but unexpectedly lost his footing, and with an ‘Eep!’ slipped and fell into the gunk on the floor.

"Ugh!" Frodo growled in utmost revolt at the mess around him and attempted to get up, only to succeed in falling into the mess again, and then again, and then actually again, until he was curl to foot covered in the brownish muck. "This is absolutely nauseating!" he declared, throwing his hands up, making a small amount of the slime fly into his mouth.

Trying furiously to spit it from his mouth without use of his (already covered) hands was practically useless, and he bravely was forced to the decision that he had no choice but to swallow it.

Closing his eyes, he gulped down the goo, and his sickened face softened when he was surprised to find that it did not taste bad...actually it tasted rather... good.

Opening one sticky eye, he scrutinized the brown substance more carefully and, bringing his hand close to his nose, sniffed it. Bringing one cautious finger up to touch his tongue, he was actually relieved and delighted to find that the mess was indeed: Molasses.

The momentary relief gone, he was then left to ponder (quite perplexedly) why his kitchen was covered in the sweet slime.

Just as his face was contorting in interrogation of the inevitable question, he was started from his thoughts by the sound of an angry voice.

"Peregrin Took! I told you no dessert, you were punished!"

"I’m sorry, Pearl," sobbed young Pippin from somewhere in the hallway as the door slammed and Pearl sighed angrily. "Pearl, it’s in my eyes!" he whined miserably.

"Come on," she tugged his arm as she stormed past the kitchen, a molasses-covered, sobbing, sticking, Pippin in tow.

Stopping suddenly, Pearl backed up, and was shocked to discover that the entire kitchen of Bag End was doused in the sugary substance, sticky Pippin finger prints and hand prints marred the walls and floors in every direction. "Pippin!" she said, scandalized, "How much of the molasses did you use?"

Pippin sniffed. He was unhappy and messy and uncomfortable – Pearl was his most nicest, funniest, favoritest sister, and she never, ever got mad at him. And he was made even more miserable to be taken from her good graces for the moment. "The whole barrel," he answered softly.

"The whole...?" she sighed again. Looking back into the kitchen, this time she noticed Frodo sitting in the corner amidst the muck. "Frodo! Are you alright?" she said, surprised.

"I’m completely fine," Frodo assured. "Just a little slip," he explained, although his completely saturated state, followed by the fact that he was on the floor, betrayed this cool disposition he depicted. "What happened?"

"I don’t know... I told Pippin no dessert and somehow he ended up covering himself and the entire kitchen in molasses!"

"Frodo said I could, Pearl!" shouted Pippin in defense, tugging her skirts, "He said!"

"He did?" Pearl said skeptically, turning her bright green eyes to Frodo who blushed, though it could not be seen for the brown mess on his face.

"He said I could have some dessert I asked him after you said no when he was reading and he said ‘yes, sure whatever!’" Pippin rambled.

Frodo blushed harder under Pearl’s now severe gaze, as he realized his folly.

"Is this true, Frodo?" Pearl asked coolly, putting her hands on her hips, flipping the long braid of rich red hair behind her shoulders once more. She knew Frodo could never lie to her.

Frodo debated a moment whether or not to tell the truth, but then relented to the fact that he was a terrible liar, and sighed. Taking a minute to try and stand up without making himself out to be completely incapable and ridiculous, and slipping several times in the process, (once paying a baleful glare to the quietly giggling hellion who had unknowingly got him into this literal and figurative mess), he managed to stand; and with as much dignity as the present moment would allow him, leaned against the counter. "Well, I assumed when he asked that he was not punished," Frodo explained calmly.

Pearl raised her brows, "O, really?"

Frodo nodded a bit hesitantly, sensing from her poised disposition that he had just said something that was going to come back and bite him.

"I tend to doubt that Frodo, based on the fact that just oh..." she gazed up at the kitchen clock, "A little less than an hour ago – while you were reading in the parlor – I came up to you and told you Pippin was not to have any sweets for the rest of the day."

Frodo swallowed.

"And since you had answered me then with the exact ‘yes, sure whatever’ that Pippin had just described a moment ago... I can come to the conclusion that you weren’t listening to me, either," she finished mercilessly, and Frodo looked up, meeting her green-eyed gaze sheepishly.

"Emm..."

Pippin was in a state of revel, it was hardly ever that he got to see his wise older cousin being reprimanded and subsiding like a little lad. Pearl really was his favorite sister!

"So," Pearl announced sharply, bringing all back to attention. "While I go and give my filthy little brother a bath, it would be nice if you lived up to your end of the fault and cleaned the kitchen." Pippin giggled again, a sticky smile coming to his face as he realized Frodo was getting the brunt of his foolishness. Pearl tugged on his arm rather hard though, wiping the smile from his face as he gazed up at her – he forgot she was still mad. "And as for you," she began, as she pulled him out of the doorway towards the washroom.

"But, Pearl!" Frodo could hear him whining as she was pulling him away. He looked around the disaster area the kitchen had become and sighed. Placing his book aside he picked up a washcloth – the riveting History of Die and Their Function in the Origin of Playing Games was just going to have to wait until another afternoon.

Pop, Six, Squish, Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz...

Part IV: Uh-uh

***

Pippin hoisted his young son into his highchair. "There we go," he smiled as he fixed Faramir into his place and his small lad clapped happily.

"Fwa! Fwa!" Faramir gurgled, slapping his small fat hands on the table top.

"I know. I know, you’re hungry," Pippin said, his voice coming out from inside the pantry. "I’m just getting your stuff," he came out, a jar of canned applesauce in one hand, and a bowl of dried oats in the others.

Coming to sit at the table, Pippin yawned, still rubbing the sleep from his own eyes, even though the hour was quite into the day already. Since Diamond had gone to visit her relations in the North Country, he had been indulging himself by sleeping and staying up a bit (or rather, a lot) late. He could hear Merry’s wife Estella’s sweet song outside as she hung the laundry out to dry, her lovely melody sailing in the open windows along with the bright spring sunshine.

Merry had gone off earlier that morning for business at Brandy Hall, so he was free from the pestering of both his older cousin and his wife for the day, and smiled to his son who looked at the jar of applesauce in eager anticipation.

"Alright, alright," he laughed, and reached for the can, twisting open the top and spooning out some of the sweet confection into a bowl. Setting it aside, he poured out the dried oats into a smaller bowl as well.

Faramir reached forward with his tiny hands, trying to grab at the bowls, and Pippin laughed again. "You really are hungry, aren’t you? You little sprout," and Pippin ruffled his son’s hair.

Faramir merely blinked, green eyes still fixed on the applesauce. "Alright," announced Pippin, turning back to the food. "Now how was I supposed to feed you this?" he mused aloud, looking to the two bowls in front of him. "You’re supposed to eat both?" Pippin looked back to Faramir, who didn’t really appear as if he was going to pipe up with an answer, and then back to the both foods and shrugged, picking up a spoon. "Well, I guess I’ll feed you both, then."

Holding to Faramir’s mouth a spoonful of applesauce, the little tyke’s eyes lit up and he gobbled it off the spoon, happily licking his lips and already opening his small mouth for more.

"Alright, now a spoonful of oats," Pippin said, watching as his son excitedly wolfed down the food. But then, realizing the stuff was not apples at all, but something dry and salty, Faramir made a face of disgust and proceeded to spit the oats out and all over himself.

"Farry," Pippin admonished, and sighed. He took a spoonful of the apples and held it to his son’s lips. Faramir frowned, turning his face away from the dreaded substance. "No, no," Pippin assured, "This is the good stuff," and pushed the spoon closer.

Testing the offered food with his tongue, Faramir was delighted to find that it was indeed the apples and gulped it up, cooing happily, "Yum!"

"Now, you have to have some oats," Pippin said, taking another spoonful of the oats and offering it, which Faramir delightedly devoured, thinking he was again being extended the delicious sweetness of cinnamon apples and sugar.

"Yuk!" Faramir protested, getting instead of the treat the awful dry saltiness of the bland flaky oats. "Uh-uh!" he announced unhappily, slapping his small hands on the table in dissent.

"I’m sorry!" Pippin said, "But you can’t just eat sweets for breakfast." He remembered a time when his elders used to say the same thing to him, and grinned inwardly as he stuffed another flaky strawberry with honey-laced pastry into his mouth from his own breakfast (or luncheon rather) – they weren’t here to say it now though. Pippin chuckled, but it dissipated upon the malcontent of his son’s expression as Faramir looked up at him petulantly. "I know, I hated eating the ‘right’ stuff too," Pippin sympathized and took another spoonful of the apples to amend the unfairness of a healthy diet. "Here," he offered.

Faramir eyed the extended food skeptically and then looked up at his father the same way.

"What!" Pippin said, "It’s good, I promise."

Seeming to relent, Faramir opened his mouth and was pleased to find it was apples, not oats, and smiled.

"See?" Pippin took more oats and handed it to him, "Now you have to eat these too."

Faramir opened his mouth and tasted it a bit, but he would not be fooled this time, and as soon as he tasted the dry menace he shouted, "Uh-uh!" and hit the spoon with his hand crankily.

"Hey, now!" Pippin declared, picking it up off the ground. "That wasn’t very nice. Think of how the oats must feel." Faramir frowned. "Come on," Pippin cajoled, but to no avail. Faramir would not open his mouth. "Faramir," Pippin said reproachfully, but the lad would not yield. "Faramir Took this is your father speaking: eat your oats." Pippin tried his strictest tone (which was pathetically unconvincing) and sighed.

"Faramir. Eat them." Faramir would not. Pippin shoved the spoon closer, but Faramir did nothing more than fling it away, and the small silver spoon ended up hitting Pippin in the face. Rubbing his forehead as he picked the utensil up off the ground again, he looked to his son indignantly – but Faramir’s set gaze would not budge from its pettish expression.

Decidedly frightened, Pippin moved his chair back slowly from the disconcerted baby.

He turned the spoon to himself, eyeing the bran, "It doesn’t look that bad," he said, glancing to his son, who Pippin thought gave him a look that practically said: Well, you try it then!

Pippin turned his nose up haughtily, "Very well then, I will," and he spooned the oats into his mouth. "Mmmm...." Pippin began, trying to crunch down on the dry, salty roughage. But even Pippin could not pretend to enjoy the disgusting flavor and his face crumpled in disgust. He swallowed quickly to rid of the horrid taste. "Ugh!" he declared, "How could anyone make you eat that," he said, almost gagging to rid of the awful taste.

He looked back to Faramir who was looking terribly smug, and sighed. "Alright, you win." He pushed aside the oats.

After feeding Faramir the rest of the applesauce, he put his son down for a rest and taking his tea outside, leaned on the cool stone wall watching Estella hang the laundry.

"Did you give Faramir his meal?" she asked, her dark hair blowing in the clean warm breeze.

"I did, but he really didn’t like it," he said, sipping his drink.

"That’s funny," she commented, looking over to him. "Normally he loves oats and apples when Diamond and I feed him."

"Well, he loved the apples, just not the oats," Pippin frowned, "I’ve no idea how you two have the heart to feed him those things," he shuddered, "Disgusting."

Estella looked over.

Pippin looked up from his drink. "What?"

"Pippin, you didn’t feed Faramir the oats and the apples separately, did you?"

Pippin stammered, "Uhh..." He glanced sidelong guiltily, but, "‘Course not," he assured. "Why?"

"Oh," Estella said, her delicate brows knitted a bit and she rubbed her hands off on her apron, "Well, I was just wondering if you knew you were supposed to mix them together."

Pop, Six, Squish, Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz...

Part V: Cicero

***

Merry felt cheerily confident, and he brushed his hands off, as he walked away from the door, content to know that he had just successfully shooed his wife out for a day of rest and relaxation that she had indeed deserved.

Though, Estella had been hot in protesting it. All the way, in fact, to the door itself, moments ago.

"But, Merry –"

"Estella, I insist that you do this, my love, you need a day to rest, and I’m sure your friends agree," he said pushing her out the doorway, nodding to her two companions who waited in the carriage at the end of the drive.

"What if Apple needs me?" she asked, trying to keep her husband from forcing her out.

"Apple will be fine," Merry assured of their baby daughter.

"Well, what if she needs me?" Estella asked again, the sometimes irrational protectiveness that comes along with being a mother obvious in her tone.

Merry turned her reluctant form by the shoulders to face him and leaned against the doorway. He gave her a look, undeniably amused with her motherly paranoia, and crossed his arms over his chest, ready to reassure her once more, "Now, what, may I ask, could happen to her that I could not do for her myself and you can?" he asked sensibly.

"What if she gets hungry?" Estella asked, disregarding the question, thinking over in her mind the list of all things that could go terribly wrong (some which admittedly, were incredibly farfetched and implausible, to say the least).

"You think I’m incapable of feeding her?" Merry said, feigning indignance, lifting his brows and pressing his palm to his chest. "Please, I’m not Pippin."

Estella looked over to the carriage waiting for her. Then she turned, sighing, and looked up at him, her tall strong Merry. It was not as if she didn’t trust her husband. It was far from that, in fact, she trusted Merry wholeheartedly with a devotion that outmatched any other she would ever know.

She really didn’t have much of a qualm about leaving their daughter with him (he was splendid with children, as both a caretaker and a playmate, she thought smilingly) – it was simply leaving their daughter that was her problem. And she saw the mirth dance in her Merry’s eyes and knew he realized this – she smacked his shoulder.

"Hey!" he laughed, "What was that for?"

"For being a smug little sod," she said, smiling too.

"Estella," he said, this time serious and more softly, and put his large strong hands on her slender shoulders, she looked up, "Go and have yourself a peaceful day, I know you’ll miss her," and he smirked, "And hopefully me too," Estella laughed lightly, and he continued, "But she’ll be fine, and she’ll be happy and napping and snoring away when you get back, and you’ll feel refreshed and ready to wake up to her screaming at four in the morning while I sleep like a log in repayment for letting you leave me here helpless and alone."

Estella smiled, she could see the sincerity behind his words of jest and thought, surrendering to that gaze of blue-grey as she so often did, that she had been working awful hard lately, what with tending to their daughter (for they both ardently refused to except care from nurse-maids or nannies). But Appleberry was now speaking, and Estella eagerly awaited each new word she came up with.

"Oh, fine," Estella sighed, and Merry grinned.

"That’s my lass," he said, and pulled her close to kiss her forehead. "Everything will be fine, just go and have some fun," he lifted her chin with his finger and entreated, "alright?"

"Alright," she agreed, and turned, but spun around once more saying, "If she can’t sleep give her –"

"Her stuffed duck, I know," Merry assured.

"Oh..alright," said Estella, turning again. But she turned to face him once more, "Make sure that you feed her the food I have in –"

"The pantry, I know."

"And make sure to– "

"Heat it up."

"She likes her –"

"Milk warm."

"And she,"

"Estella!" Merry exclaimed, and proceeded to push her out the door. "Go!" he said laughingly, but his grin turned wicked as he looked up to see her friends, and then grasped Estella’s hand before she could walk away.

"Merry, wha..!"

But before she could question, he had pulled her into a deep and passionate kiss, and was delighted to hear muffled exclamations coming from the direction of the carriage. Finishing the delicious task, they slowly pulled apart and he smiled to see the happiness in her eyes, "Well," he grinned, "See if that won’t give you something to talk about today," and he chuckled while she rolled her eyes at him, "See you soon, my star."

"Goodbye, Merry," Estella said, "Tell Apple I will be home soon."

"I will."

"And that I miss her already."

"I will."

"And to be a good lass for her Papa."

"I will."

"And that I love her."

"Estella..." Merry began reproachfully.

"Oh, alright," she huffed, and turned, looking back to him, "You’re still a prat," she smirked, and he stuck his tongue out at her and shut the door.

Smiling, Merry made his way down the hallway, going into his bedroom to find that the sheets were still tossed from the previous night, and set to making it neat. After tidying up a bit, (he was a stickler for being tidy), he made his way back out into the hall, and noticed that Pippin’s door was still shut, and paying a quick glance to the slit at the bottom of the entryway, found that it was still pitch black in his room too. He must not have opened the shades yet, which means... he must not be up yet, Merry glanced to the clock. Thirty and eleven. He sighed.

"Pip," he said, knocking gently, and then rather harder. "Get up, you’ll sleep the day away again."

"Eh," came the muffled response after a minute.

Rolling his eyes Merry said, "You’ll get naught for luncheon if you don’t wake up," and feeling that the mention of food would be enough to provoke the desire to waken (eventually), he went into the kitchen to start up the meal.

Merry was a good cook, for the most part, as most hobbits were, and could hold his own in the kitchen. Although, when he was younger Pippin’s sisters often would shoo him away, dissatisfied with his commentary and suggestions (Merry later consoled himself that this was purely for the reason that they were jealous, for he was a far better cook).

He got his daughter’s preserves from the pantry, laying all the things out on the counter top, and put a frying pan onto the stove, pouring some oil into it, in order to cook up some mushrooms for himself and Pippin. He heated up the stove, leaving the pan to simmer.

Going into Apple’s room to fetch her so she could keep him company while he cooked, he had brought her back into the kitchen and placed her in the highchair by the table. "Pawa!" she gurgled happily, and Merry giggled at her gibber, bending down to rub his snub nose against hers affectionately.

"Hey baby," he said warmly, and she giggled in return, pressing one of her small hands against his strong jaw. Planting a soft kiss on her golden curls, he straightened up and returned to the counter to grab the things needed to prepare her food. He brought them back to the table so she could be next to him while he was making it. He kneeled on the floor next to her highchair, which stood at the end of the table, and faced away from the window that was glowing bright with the springtime sunshine above the stove.

While chopping up her meal, he listened to her incessant incomprehensible jabber with delight.

"Pawa! Mmm hunry, yum! Ook! Cicero!"

Merry thought of how very lovely she was, golden-haired and sky-eyed, like himself, but her features favoring her beautiful mother, and figured the Lady of the Wood’s magic had a hand in his Apple’s sunbeam locks. For, Estella’s hair was raven black, like Frodo’s, and she’d often boasted during her confinement that their child would come out looking all like her, inheriting her brown eyes to boot, and to this Merry would simply smile and shrug – it would not hurt to have two of the most beautiful lasses in the world. So it was to both their surprise that their daughter had come out with elven beauty, as Sam Gamgee had put it, with her mother’s angel face and her father’s bent for trouble.

Merry chuckled at his thoughts, and listened to his daughter’s banter beside him.

"Whoolooloo...Pawa! Cicero! Cicero!"

"Cicero, cicero," Merry said, repeating her and looking up as she gazed at him with her blue eyes. "Cicero, hmm?" He tapped her nose and she closed her eyes, scrunching up her little face with a smile, and then opened one again slowly, gazing up at him. This made him laugh, and he winked at her, and continued preparing her meal.

"Pawa...wa..wa," she gurgled, reaching her small hand out to something fascinating behind him, but he didn’t notice. "Pawaa..." she said again, looking up to him, but he still didn’t notice. She sighed, and kicked her little legs, watching as he chopped and diced the fruits into the savory blend that would be her meal. She smelled the delicious aroma and cooed happily.

"Are you hungry?" Merry asked, turning to her, he could hear the crackle-crackle of the bubbling oil behind him.

"Wha!" she exclaimed, reaching out to him, and he chuckled.

"I guess so!" he smiled. "One second, baby," he got up to put away the knife, and wipe his hands on the towel on the counter, and throwing the dirty things in the sink, he returned.

"Pawa!" she exclaimed again.

"I’m comin’, I’m comin’," he assured, opening a drawer to find a spoon small enough to feed her with.

"Pawawa! Cicero...Ooooo..!"

"I know, cicero...whatever that means," Merry answered, head down, as he looked for the utensil.

"Cicero, cicero!" she said again, slapping her little hands on the highchair top, and laughed. "Pawa, cicero!"

"Apple," Merry said, "I don’t know what yer sayin’ hun," and he grabbed the spoon and turned, shutting the drawer, but gasped before he could close it, dropping the spoon and exclaiming, " Lady of Lorien...!" as he saw the frying pan he had filled with oil in the midst of high rising flames atop the stove. "How could I forget I was going to cook the mushrooms...!" he despaired, at a loss of what to do for a moment.

"Cicero!" Apple laughed happily, clapping as she watched her father now leaning behind the black smoke to try and open the kitchen window. "Cicero!"

Merry coughed, waving his hand in front of his face and then ran over to grab his daughter, who was seemingly having quite a time watching him scramble. He lifted her up and out of her seat.

Just then, a sleepy eyed Pippin sauntered in, rubbing his face and saying in a very morning-voice, "Merry, I thought we were having luncheon?"

"Change of plans, Pip," Merry said, figuring Pippin still hadn’t noticed the billowing smoke.

Merry ran over to the door, opening it while holding his laughing daughter.

"Merry," Pippin said a moment later in realization, "I think you set the house on fire."

Merry rolled his eyes and ran over, "Come on," he grumbled, grabbing his shirt collar and pulling him out the kitchen door that led onto the cool stone terrace.

Apple was still clapping in his arms, and Pippin was still dazedly confused, when Merry thrust his daughter into his cousin’s arms and ran back inside to extinguish the fire with the water he had grabbed from the watering can left outside.

Pippin wanted to run in to help, but held Apple, knowing he couldn’t leave her alone.

A few minutes later, Merry emerged from the smoky kitchen, the black smog wafting out into the clean spring air. He looked rather disheveled, his face and hands smudged with soot, and he coughed, walking over to them, his hair unkempt, and his nice clothes blackened.

Pippin tried not to laugh. "Well, looks like we’ll have to go out and grab something to eat."

Merry leered, and snatched Apple from his hands, which made both Pippin and the little lass giggle.

"Oh, so you think it’s funny I nearly burned Crickhollow to ashes? I don’t know how that fire managed to start, but it nearly happened all the same," said a sooty Merry to his gurgling daughter, who looked up at him and smacked her small hands on his face, delighted to smudge the grime off and get it on her own hands. "No, no, don’t get yourself dirty," Merry admonished gently, sighing, wiping her small hands onto his already soiled shirt.

"Cicero!" she declared then, and Pippin raised a brow.

"Yah, she’s been sayin’ it all morning," Merry answered to his gesture, and she flapped her arms excitedly, tugging on her father’s tousled tarnished locks. Merry frowned and reached to take her hands from uprooting all his hair.

"Cicero!" she said happily.

"Cicero, cicero," Merry repeated. "What does that mean, anyways?"

"Cis-ell-rove.." Apple stressed in her infant tongue, looking at her father.

"What?" Pippin asked, now curious, finding that she had obviously meant something by the strange statement.

"Ciss-ull-sove," she said again, straining the words through her childish lisp.

Merry raised a brow, looking to Pippin, "Cisslesove?"

"Ciss-sle-sove!"

"Cissle..siss...sizzle...ohhh," Pippin’s face lit with understanding, and Apple sighed, exasperated, happy at least one of the grown-ups finally understood her.

"What? What is it, Pip?"

Pippin winced, looking to Merry, and said, "Sizzle-stove."

Merry almost glowered, looking back to her, but upon her continuous giggles, his annoyance dissolved and he sighed in defeat. His mother always did say husbands shouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen.

"Come on, Pip, let’s go get something to eat."

Pop, Six, Squish, Uh-uh, Cicero, Lipschitz...

Part VI: Lipschitz

***

"Lipschitz."

"It’s called Underhill and what?"

"I just told you: Lipschitz."

"Lipschitz?" Estella nodded. "What a strange name," commented Merry, turning to face the road again, reigns in his hands. He kept the ponies steady, as the roads were still muddy from the morning’s rain. It was damp and uncomfortable. Not very good travel weather at all.

Merry’s brows were lowered, almost to a frown, when Estella looked over, and she sighed slightly. They had been searching for this counting house for over an hour, and she was getting tired. It turned out that Bree-land owed to Buckland a considerable sum in for the brandy trade, and the papers required an official signature before payment could be shipped out. And conveniently enough, they happened to be on short holiday at precisely the same time, in precisely the same town, and Merry happened to be precisely official enough to sign the documents in stead of his father. What a coincidence! Estella snorted, this "short errand, I promise" was turning out to be a bit longer than expected.

She turned back to check on Appleberry and Wynnie, and was thankful when she found they were both fast asleep under the dry wool blanket they had brought, ("Estella we don’t need a blanket, it’s warm and sunny out." "You never know it might get cold." "In May?" "You never know." "Alright, Estella, it is going to get cold in May." "It might." "If you say so."). They seemed to be resting peacefully despite the wagon’s irritating bump-clump! bump-clump! as the ponies trotted down the narrow streets, which was a lot more than she could say for herself at the moment.

She was beginning to think they were lost. Actually, she had known they were lost ever since Merry had first told her they were taking a ‘short cut’ over an hour ago. She sighed, watching Merry’s pensive expression, debating whether or not to bring the subject up, or just keep quiet and hope that they reached the counting house and then the inn before her next birthday.

She gathered her will, "Ahem," she cleared her throat, looking at him sidelong.

A moment of silence went by, when the only sounds between them were the pitter-patter of the light drizzle and the clomp of the ponies’ feet against the soggy road.

"Ahem," she tried again, a bit more forcefully, though he didn’t look over, and the floppy hat that was on his head to keep the rain out of his eyes served to block out what she could see of his face.

But he did answer slightly, saying, "Hmm?"

"Merry, darling," she said, figuring if she buttered him up a little he may not answer her with his inevitable stubbornness. "I think that we might be..." she cringed, "lost."

There was a long pause again, and then, "We’re not lost, Estella."

"Well," she said, "Then, why aren’t we there yet?" The streets of Bree were unfamiliar to Estella, and the cold stone buildings covered with sagging thatched roofs, now dripping with rainwater, made her uncomfortable. And she felt uneasy as they passed the looming structures, which often would rise up on each side of the road like walls of a sort.

"Because," he answered, as if such a response was acceptable. "It’s just up ahead, don’t worry."

Estella sighed. She knew better than to say what she was going to say next, it was the one thing that you never said to a male. The one thing that offended them and challenged them and made them determined as ever to pursue their contermashious* (as the ladies in Tookland said) behavior to any end. All these things occurred in their minds at the same time for a reason not even the Valar would know. Why this simple statement would provoke them to dogged uncooperative conduct, would remain a mystery of Middle-earth for eternity. But the dreary weather was too much for her, and the next words came from her borne from her travel-weariness, although she knew their dire consequences. She cleared her throat and said: "I think, maybe, we should ask for directions."

She heard Merry chuckle almost, "Estella, why would we need to do that?"

"Because, my love, we don’t know where we are going," she was careful to use the word ‘we’, if she had insisted he was the one who had got them lost, well, she could pretty much count on riding through the routes of Bree forever (or at least until the ponies died – then they would walk).

"I told you, we’re not lost," he said turning to face her, his expression set.

"Hmph." Estella said in response, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, I think we are," and she turned her head to face the other direction.

"Alright then," Merry said, seemingly content to let her think whatever she wished as long as she remained silent about it. He took out his pipe, lit it up, and began smoking as they trotted through the mist.

Rolling her eyes Estella thought to herself, He has to smoke, I mean, it’s not as if it isn’t cloudy enough already, and she sighed and rested her head in her palm, trying vainly to spot a passerby in the haze.

It was quiet again for a little while, but then Estella thought of an alternative plan, "Why don’t we just stay over at the Prancing Pony tonight, and you can go with Butterbur to the counting house tomorrow morning before we wake up?"

Merry was silent for a minute, and she almost thought he was considering the suggestion when he said, "Well, no, let’s just stick with this."

She provided some wisdom, "Merry we can hardly see the ponies, never mind the roads, how do you know where you are going?" The fog had become incredibly thick. She sighed, if they weren’t going to be allowed to go back, at least maybe she could try and find this place herself. "At least let me drive."

Merry turned and looked at her, brows raised, "You want to drive?"

"Yes, so what?"

"Do you remember what happened last time you drove by yourself?"

"Nothing happened that I can recall," she answered.

"Estella," Merry leveled, "You crashed into the fish cart at the market, broke the two front wheels, managed to let the ponies run off and somehow you even ran over the wagon’s own yoke...how that is possible I still am ignorant."

"So," Estella said in defense, "It was only once."

"Twice," Merry corrected, and she could see the mirth dancing in his taunting gaze.

"I didn’t hit the fish cart the second time, and you know it."

"Oh, I’m sorry, it was the cheese stand."

"Yes, precisely... cheese is far less messy than fish."And she looked back to him, and noticed he was grinning, and added, "And if these wild Rohirric ponies of yours were half-sane then perhaps I could control them," Estella supported, jest underlying her words.

"Mhmm."

"But we are lost, Merry, dear," she said, hoping their banter had softened him a little.

Nope. "We are not lost, Estella."

"Merry Brandybuck, we’re lost!" she declared.

"Not we’re not!" said Merry in return.

"Well, then, would you mind telling me where we are if you’re so sure?" she asked.

"We are... in Bree, on our way to Underhill, Lipschitz & Sons Counting House, Shift End, Bree-land."

"Pfft," Estella snorted. "Lipschitz is a silly name, anyhow," she stated, this being the first thing that surfaced to her mind in her state of gentle frustration.

"Estella that hasn’t to do with anything... would you like people to say Bolger is a silly name?"

"Don’t patronize me, please, Mr Brandybuck."

"Well, don’t accuse me of faulty vehicle directional skills."

"Well, don’t get us lost, then."

"We’re not lost."

"Yes, we are!"

"No, we’re not!"

Estella sighed, exasperated, and refrained from exclaiming in return in forethought not to wake their sleeping children. But she did cross her arms over her chest, surfacing a nettled, "Hmpf!"

Merry frowned, "Let’s just not talk until we get there, sound good?"

"Sounds find to me," she said decisively.

They were quiet again for a while, and Estella shivered, and glanced back to their lasses who still slept soundly, despite the miserable weather, beneath the warm blanket. Merry glanced at her, watching her hold her shoulders miserably, and he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the lady he loved. He shook off his jacket and handed it to her, "Here," he said plainly, offering it with one hand while keeping his eyes on the road.

Estella regarded the offered piece of clothing coolly a minute, but then succumbed, "Thank you," she said simply, and took it from him, and slid it on. She smelt the scent of him, like pipeweed and hay and apples and soap, while she nestled into his jacket which was still warm from his body. She couldn’t help but look back over to him, and noticed with giddy delight like a tween’s that he had been staring at her, too, and attempted to quickly and nonchalantly divert his gaze when she looked over. She giggled into the collar of the jacket.

Ah, she loved him for all his faults, and she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pick an argument, it’s alright if we’re lost."

Merry sighed, he turned to his wife, "Estella, how many times do I have to say that we are not –"

But before he could finish, the wagon approached a sign which suddenly appeared right in front of them from out of the mist, they read what it said:

Thank You for Visiting Staddle, Now Entering Combe.

Estella turned to Merry who was sinking a little lower in his seat.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck," she said, her voice clear and echoing in the dissipating mist. "All this time you tell me that we are not lost, and that you know where you are going and that I don’t know what I’m talking about, and now this sign tells us that we have not only past our desired destination, but we have left the town, went through another town, and are now entering yet another?"She had to resist the urge to say ‘I told you so’, she was a lady after all. At least he had the decency to look sheepish.

Estella looked at Merry, her large brown eyes narrowing, the stray black curls of her hair falling into her face making her seem quite intimidating, as she pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips in pointed malcontent, tapping her fingers, vexed, in rapid succession against her body.

"Heh," he sputtered, and still for all her aggravation she couldn’t help but be charmed by that rakish, guiltless smile of his, and she felt her annoyance disappear as she let out a resigned sigh, shaking her head, trying to hide the smile on her lips – husbands.

But the next person she saw walking down the road, she turned to, calling out with a purposeful, "Excuse me!" She hopped out of the wagon alone, thankyouverymuch, and Merry watched from his seat as she approached the stranger, "Can you tell me the directions to a Lipschitz counting house...?"

***

Fin!

All the ladies later had this to say about their husband’s unfortunate situations: They had it comin’!

*contermashious - Scots for: stubborn even when wrong