* Minas Tirith:  Kitchen Duty * (written for MagicalRachel’s birthday)

"Pip, this is really hard for me to---"

"I don't care how many fingers you're missing, Frodo Baggins," Pippin said in exasperation.  "Do it!"  He pushed Frodo back down on the stool.  Again.

"Is that how your parents brought you up, Peregrin?  Ordering adults around like this?"  Frodo waved the paring knife at his cousin, trying to stall for time.  Surely Sam would rescue him?

"Such a fuss over a few little potatoes," Merry clucked.

“Little?” Frodo gasped.  “These are giants!”

"Strider said that peeling some every day would help your hand regain its dexterity," Merry reminded him.

"Still," Sam muttered, "peeling taters don't seem like somethin' Mr. Frodo should be doing.  Can't we help him with a few of those?"  He reached for Frodo's knife, only to have his hand slapped away by Pippin.

"He has to peel three more, Sam," Pippin said seriously.  "Ten a day, that's what Strider said."

Frodo sighed and picked up another potato in his left hand, and began peeling it slowly with his right.  It was good therapy for his hand, he could tell -- but Pippin was such fun to tease…

“What will folks say,” Frodo asked casually, “when they see a Knight of Gondor standing guard over the frail, injured Ring-bearer, forcing him to slave away in one of the kitchens?”

“Frail?  Hardly!” Merry chortled.

Pippin grinned, refusing to be baited.  “They’ll say, ‘There’s a Knight who loves his King, and loves his cousin…’”

“…and loves his potatoes,” Merry added.

“They really are beauties,” Sam marveled, picking up one of the large vegetables from the pile.

“You missed a spot, Frodo.”  Pippin pointed to a microscopic bit of peel left on one of the peeled potatoes.

“Mr. Pippin,” Sam said sternly, “he’s doin’ the best he can.”

“Finished!” Frodo said triumphantly.  He tossed the last nicely-peeled potato into the water-filled basin, and slowly got to his feet with an exaggerated groan.

“Stars above, Frodo,” Merry sighed, “don’t try that sympathy routine with us.  You haven’t aged a day in 17 years, and I doubt you’re falling to pieces this very minute.”

“Did he moan and groan this much in Mordor, Sam?” Pippin asked.  “How did you ever put up with it?”

“All right!” Frodo threw up his arms in surrender.  His eyes fell on the open window, through which a gentle, spring breeze wafted, fragrant with flowers and greenery.  “How about a walk before dinner?”  He took one step towards the door, but was halted by Merry’s hand against his chest.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Merry asked sternly.

“I don’t th---”

“Here you go, Frodo,” Pippin said, pressing a large, dried sea-sponge into his cousin’s unwilling grasp.  “Strider told us you need to get one of these things all sopping wet, then crush it slowly in your hand until all the water comes out of it.  Ten times.”

Frodo sighed and took the sponge.  He dipped it into the basin, his eyes widening at how much water it absorbed.

“Well,” Merry said slowly, “maybe eight times will do it.”

“Three,” Frodo countered quickly.

“Five, and not one squeeze less,” Pippin insisted firmly.

Frodo beamed at the two of them.  “You’re my favorite cousins, again.”  He began to slowly squeeze the sponge over the basin.

Sam pulled Pippin aside.  “Mr. Pippin,” he whispered, “I thought Strider told us that Mr. Frodo only had to squeeze that thing five times.”

“Did he?” Pippin asked innocently.  “Well even if he did, look how smug Frodo looks!  He needs to think he’s gotten the best of us once in a while, you know.”

“That’s pretty sneaky,” Sam said admiringly.  “Who taught you how to do that?”

“Merry and I learned from the best, Sam,” Pippin murmured, gazing fondly at Frodo.  “The very best.”