A Use for Hobbits

He sleeps in short shifts, folded under his cloak like a soldier laid out for burial. The reassuring familiarity of cold earth bears him up; cold earth and stone; the floor of a cave, he knows in waking moments – knows too that the entrance is just a smidgen narrower than the span of his outstretched arms, that Strider can stretch out full-length across the cave but couldn't if he were much taller, that the crevice at the back doesn't extend any further than the light of a candle and that the crevice in question is just wide enough to hold the two older hobbits in a sort of granite cradle.

He knows it's snowing. The air has that whispering hush to it. He knows it must be cold, though for his own part he hasn't been warm since he lost Osgiliath.

He knows he's a very long way from home.

All of this rests at a level close to the subconscious – mental muscle-memory, perhaps. It certainly doesn't account for Legolas urgently nudging his arm and whispering “Wake up. Wake up,” and then, after the half-second it takes to accomplish that, before he can make a sound, “Shhh.”

“Wh...” Derailed from their usual course of Dealing With Emergencies At Obscene Hours, the words jam up in his mouth and tumble out in a knot of syllables. “Wha' th'fff?”

“Pippin's shoveling snow in the nude.”

“Whhh?” This is when his brain catches up to him; he takes a moment to marshal the errant words into some semblance of order, producing a very careful “How is this my problem?”

“You are the one who deals with them,” the elf hisses.

“It helps not to treat them like stupid children.” So much for not picking a fight with anyone today. He gives himself a swift mental kick in the arse as he steps out into the falling galaxy of snow. It is cold, and quite dark, and sure enough there's a little pale figure up to his chest in snow, determinedly chucking it aside shovelful by shovelful.

He's made a dent of a yard and a half or so in it, but he's not very awake – certainly less so than Boromir, who at least is a veteran of being up at stupid hours. He drops his cloak matter-of-factly around the young hobbit's shoulders and then wraps him in it like a large, wiggly burrito until Pippin's brain, sleep-fogged as it is, catches up and he stills.

“Wha...?”

“You don't have anything on, little one. It's cold.”

Pippin stumbles back and turns to peer at him blearily, blinking red-rimmed eyes. “Iss...iss'snowing. Needed to, to move the snow. So we can move. In the morning.” He draws himself up straight as he speaks and nods fiercely, hugging the faded black cloak with its white tree tight around him and swaying; there's something tragic in his determination, and it makes Boromir want to scoop him up and hug him but that's exactly the opposite of what he needs, and he proves it with a tight-voiced “I can be useful.”

“I just want to be good for something,” Faramir whispers wretchedly, coltishly fifteen and looking like a dead spider as he hugs himself, staring at the ground.

“You are,” says the older brother gently, inexorably, honestly and dredges from the miasma of sorrow the right time, the right name and a crooked smile warm as the night is cold. “You've got the toughest part over with, Pip; you've cleared the first few yards to give usroom to work with any kind of leverage, and you've broken the ice of previous melts.”

Pippin's fragile ferocity wavers and, finally, cracks into a sleepily proud smile.

“D'you really think so...?”

“Absolutely.” He does hug him then, down on one knee in the snow so he doesn't tower over him. The curly head nuzzles into his shoulder and the little body wrapped in his cloak shivers into his as the warmth sinks in. After a long moment, his resistance caves and he asks, a bit helplessly, “Why are you nude?”

He can just about hear Pippin blush.

“B-because...becauseMerryandIsleepnakedsometimes.” The sentence crashes to a halt and Pippin, gone quite still again save for shivering, asks, like a child caught stealing honey-cakes, “Please don't hate us for it.”

It hurts him, for Pippin's sake.

“I won't. It is common in Gondor to lie with one's own sex.” He pulls the young hobbit in close again and Pippin clings to him a bit. “My grandfather Ecthelion preferred the company of men throughout his life.”

Pippin makes a small noise and burrows close and, after a moment, whispers “thank you;” it comes out hoarse and blurs into an embarrassed laugh. “I was just thinking about the snow, and doing some good for once.”

“You do much good, and you did very well.” He hugs him more tightly, then stands up and, wrapping an arm around Pippin's shoulders, steers him back toward the cave. “I'll work on the snow; get in there, put on clothes, stir up the fire and get breakfast on.”

At that, Pippin actually grins and snaps off...well, tries to snap off a salute, which Boromir decides is more than good enough. And, if Pippin has any doubt of his usefulness, the gusto with which the Steward of Gondor's heir, fresh in from the snow an hour later just as the rest of the Fellowship is stirring, devours his portion of delicious fried vegetables and cheese on toast before attempting to mooch from Gandalf does much to eradicate it.