"You're not just anything, Merry." Frodo said firmly, trying to control the anger curling in his belly and keep it from his expression. "Well, actually, you are just barely passable at Merels and you are just terrible at--"

Merry's hand lifted up to touch Frodo's lips. "Frodo, I know you see me."

Frodo grasped the fingers resting against his lips and kissed them. "Merry, you just sat here and told me what they were doing to you -- that they were pushing you to be the Master long before you need to be, long before you want to be -- all because of their own tangle of reasons that have nothing to do with you -- that they are making you miss all the joy and wisdom that comes from just being a tween." He pushed dripping hair away from Merry's face. "Did you tell them?"

Merry shook his head. "I told you -- grandda keeps --"

"Merry. Did you tell them?"

"They-- I thought they would keep me away from you."

Frodo took Merry's face in his hands. "Merry, they cannot keep me from you. You know that don't you, love?"

"I--" Merry gazed at him, his eyes narrowing. "They respect you now. They think of you and treat you as an adult. Me--" He stopped and shrugged.

"And expecting you to suddenly be the Master of the Hall isn't treating you as if you were an adult?" Frodo growled, then realized what he was doing and took a deep breath. "I am not saying what they are doing is right, but if they are going to do it, take advantage of it -- a bit. Turn around and tell them how what they are doing makes you feel. If you are worthy of running the Hall, you are worth listening to as well."

There was a long silence and Frodo realized that Merry's gaze was thoughtful and unfocused as he stared at the wall behind Frodo, his jaw working feverishly.  Frodo stood up and let the water sluice off of him. "Just stew there for a bit, my parsnip. I will be right back."

Grabbing a towel, Frodo rapidly dried off, tying the towel around his waist as he headed for the windows. With the winter sunlight dwindling swiftly, the air in the room was cooling a bit too fast, and he needed to let his own temper cool a bit before he attempted, once more, to unwind the knots that Merry had himself wound up in. Closing the shutters and the drapes, he had to work not to slam or shove anything in his frustration with his Uncle Sara and Aunt Esmeralda and his Uncle Rory. Todo's mincing antics were almost feeble compared to the immature manoeuvrings of the Brandybuck scions at their worst.

Merry would make a magnificent Master some day, if the current denizens of the Hall didn't ruin him for it, and for everything else while they were at it. They didn't even deserve the kind of Master that Merry would make. He lit the lamps and candles rapidly, then went to the sideboard. There was the caramel sauce, as promised, over a warming lamp. And the wine. And cheese and bread and apples and pickles -- magnificent, large pickles -- and butter and preserves. He took a deep breath and poured two glasses of that glorious wine, taking them over to the fireplace and setting them aside carefully, glad that his hands were rock steady as he did so.

He glanced over at Merry, who hadn't moved and seemed to be contemplating whether or not one could successfully drown oneself in a tub. Moving the screen, Frodo put two more logs on the fire to chase off the chill, then got up and went to Merry's trunk, opening it and digging down until he found what he was looking for -- the old ragged quilts that had served many uses, not the least of which was helping intrepid hobbit travellers hide from the dragons in the family parlour -- little did they know then that sometimes there really were dragons in the family parlour.

A telling gleam from under damp bangs told Frodo that Merry was watching him as he unfolded the quilts in front of the fire and held out a towel with a dramatic flourish.

"I believe that you are quite thoroughly cooked through, my parsnip, and we need to move to step two in the recipe, which is the-- kneading with oil."

Merry's eyebrows rose sceptically as he raised his head and cocked it slightly sideways. "Kneading parsnips?"

Frodo nodded seriously. "Old Baggins family recipe. Much better than mashing."

He was rewarded with a quirk of Merry's lips. "I shall have to tell Izzy about this one."

Waggling his eyebrows in true Baggins' fashion, Frodo said quickly, "Ah, but she already knows."

Merry snorted and stood up, and Frodo took a long look as water sheeted over oiled, heat-flushed skin and harvest-hardened muscle. Grabbing the towel, Merry ignored his cousin's appreciative glance and dried off quickly as he stepped out and looked down at the quilts, starting to tie the towel at his waist.

Frodo motioned to the quilts. "No towel."

Crossing his arms, Merry stared at Frodo's towel pointedly.

"Perverted vegetable." Frodo pulled off the towel and flung it aside, putting his hands on his hips and looking at the quilts.

Still looking sceptical, Merry watched as Frodo knelt down and picked up two glasses of wine, holding one out to him. He finally dropped his towel and knelt as well, reaching out to take the glass.

"To a well-kneaded, and well-oiled parsnip," Frodo toasted.

"To an absolutely buggering-mad Baggins," Merry responded.

Frodo noticed that at least Merry was smiling as he took a long slow drink of the wine and started to set down his glass. "One more for good measure. I don't plan to let you up for a while."

As Frodo watched over the edge of his glass, Merry rolled his eyes and took another drink. He gestured to the quilts. "Face down, if you please -- parsnip -- sir."

Merry stretched out on the quilts, put his glass within reach, and folded his arms under his head, looking back at Frodo cautiously before he buried his face in his arms.

Frodo knelt beside Merry's feet and took up the bottle of oil, pouring some into his hands and rubbing them briskly, then he picked up Merry's right foot. Merry's leg stiffened.

"You have been cooked. Be limp like a nice boiled parsnip." Frodo shook Merry's leg for emphasis.

There was a muffled sound from Merry, but his leg relaxed somewhat and Frodo commenced to push his fingers through curly gold hair and knead the tough bottom of Merry's foot and the base of each toe with his thumbs.

"Ow--ow--ow--uhn--umm--mmm"

Frodo smiled. "What was that again?"

"Mmmmmm."

"That's what I thought."

Frodo remained silent for a while, focusing on his task as he finished with Merry's right foot and moved to his left, then on up to his calves. Except for an enthusiastic groan now and again, and a couple of sighs, Merry was quiet and malleable under his hands.

"Wh--where did you learn this?" Merry asked, his voice heavy and slow.

"The parsnip speaks." Frodo leaned over to pick up his wine glass and take a quick sip, shaking and flexing his fingers as he did. Then he poured a bit more oil into his hand. "Do you remember the Widow Rumble in Hobbiton?"

"You learned this from that ancient--"

"And very talented healer who saved my life," Frodo finished firmly. "Yes, I did."

"Very talented, I'll say," Merry muttered.

Frodo levered himself over Merry's legs and moved his attentions further up, trying not to dwell on how very well-formed those thighs were, just stroking slowly up and back down the sides, then up onto Merry's very nicely muscled buttocks and back down, kneading as hard as he dared.

"She didn't rub on your bum, did she?" Merry asked in a very serious tone.

Frodo smacked the object in question. "No."

"Good thing." Merry responded. "You have an ugly--"

Frodo dug his thumbs in at Merry's hipbones.

"Ow."

"You, on the other hand, have a decidedly lovely arse, Merry," Frodo smiled wickedly as he ran his fingers softly up the smooth golden cheeks and trailed them down the shadowy crevice between.

Merry gasped and the muscles in his back rippled and flexed.

"Along with many other things about you that are equally magnificent." Frodo poured the oil into his hands and waited for it to warm. "Put your arms down here for me, love."

Mumbling something undoubtedly derogatory under his breath, Merry shifted, moving his arms, palms up, to his sides. Frodo slowly slid further up, some parts of him highly pleased with the results. When he moved about just a bit to get things in an even more comfortable place, Merry sighed, "I like this p--position."

"So do I," Frodo whispered as he leaned forward and pressed the heels of his hands up Merry's spine, sliding up to the base of his neck, curling his fingers around to knead the tense muscles there and pulling back over Merry's broad shoulders and down his arms firmly, right out the tips of Merry's fingers.

"Nnnnnngh."

Frodo smiled and slowly pressed forward, up, around, pull, down.

"Nnnnnnn."

Up, around, pull, down.

"Gggggh."

Up, around, pull, down.

"Mmmm."

Up, around, pull, down.

A huff of air.

Up, around, pull, down.

Silence.

Frodo sank willingly into the sheer repetitiveness of the effort, relishing the heat of the fire, the warmth of the wine in his belly, the silky slide and tug of Merry's skin beneath him, and the slow simmer of arousal beneath it all. Merry was breathing deeply and slowly now, keeping an unknowing rhythm with Frodo's strokes. When Frodo finally slowed to a stop and rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms and his hands to loosen them, Merry continued breathing deeply and sonorously -- sound asleep.

Managing to carefully roll back onto his toes and stand without waking his cousin, Frodo stretched to ease out the kinks in his back, then turned to sit down on the quilt, leaning against the side of the tub and picking up his glass as he gazed at Merry.

Firelight danced and flickered over skin polished to a burnished gold and hair that had dried in complete disarray, curling and frizzing around features that had always fascinated Frodo with their changeability. Generous lips were open and lax -- teeth no longer grinding, jaw no longer working furiously. Frodo leaned forward. At times like these, with the light of the fire wavering and shimmering over his face, Merry could look so very fae -- so much a Took. Frodo wanted to reach out his fingers and trace the so slight up-tilt of that nose. Even the curve of Merry's chin, from this angle, seemed more fine than square.

Frodo smiled softly to himself, feeling as if some wild beautiful creature that he had barely tamed to his touch now lay softly panting and quiet at his feet. He was certain that no portrait would ever capture this particular perspective.

"The future Master of Brandy Hall," he whispered, raising his glass.

***

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