mandybaggins, Gen, rated G.
Title: It Was the Chicken’s Fault.
Rating: G
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Bilbo.
Summary: Frodo discovers the downside to a bounteous Yule dinner.
Recipient: mandybaggins.
Scenario, prompt: Preferably a sick!frodo fic, something that involves his stomach upset perhaps. And food, lots of descriptive food please.
Squicks: Please no slash or anything like that, just... you know, regular, normal fiction.
Notes: Sorry it’s so late, Mandy! You know how Christmas can be for unexpected obligations and relatives never-ending Things That Must Be Done. *falls over*
Anyway, I hope it suits. Happy Holidays to you!
The ham was salted to perfection. The potatoes were roasted golden so that their skin crackled to the bite. The cabbage never wilted and the gravy, oh, it accentuated every flavour, every texture of the unsurpassable meal.
Frodo groans, clawing for the edge of his mattress and the nightstand, where Bilbo set the ceramic bowl for his convenience.
The beans had been crisp and ripe, the peas flavoursome balls reminiscent of springtime. And the mushrooms… Frodo can still taste them, buttery sauce moistening his lips as the flesh burst succulently between his teeth.
His curls are soaked with sweat and his nightshirt clings to him as his fingers find the cool edge of the bowl, yanking it frantically towards himself. Frodo is unsure what he has done to offend, but the meal he so enthusiastically enjoyed seems determined to leave his body.
He doesn’t know who to feel more sorry for, himself or poor Bilbo, who’s pride seemed to wilt at Frodo’s first clutch for his roiling stomach.
It isn’t Bilbo’s fault for being such a brilliant cook. Nor is young Samwise to blame for making such a fine budding apprentice in the kitchen.
It was the chicken’s fault for tasting so rich and seasoned.
The pudding’s fault for smelling like a gift of the Valar.
Frodo couldn’t help himself. He had to indulge.
Oh, but he is paying for it now. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he curls the bowl into his lap, leaning over it heavily. Poised and ready for an earthquake or avalanche, he waits to see if his body will continue the torture with further expulsion.
Nothing happens, and after a minute or so Frodo lets out a sigh, wearily replacing the thankfully empty bowl on the nightstand.
He flops to his back on the mussed mattress, cursing himself for his foolishness. He should not have eaten so much. Never in his life had be been faced with such a test on his self control. His first Yule dinner at Bag End with just himself and Bilbo (and little Sam, of course, who insisted on being there, despite his father’s scolding) at the table with plate after plate of all his favourite foods --and even more that he hadn’t known were his favourite foods until tonight.
Yuletide at Brandy Hall had never been quite so enjoyable. Under the sharp eye of his aunt, Frodo had never taken more than his fair share of the annual bounty, no matter how much his stomach insisted that Esmeralda wouldn’t notice if he took another slice of mushroom pie…
Still, he should not have eaten so much tonight. It was his own fault. Although… remembering the dark cinnamon fruitcake, topped with melting clotted cream and warm custard makes the whole affair seem worth it.
Frodo casts a disdainful glance at his bloated stomach. “I regret nothing,” he tells it firmly. “Nothing.”
It gives a rumble --perhaps in mocking-- and Frodo clutches at his midsection with a groan of self-pity.
Maybe the fruitcake wasn’t worth it after all.
Tap, tap, tap.
Frodo doesn’t even try to sit up to greet whoever is at his bedroom door. “Yes?” he calls wearily.
There is a gentle click as the catch is drawn back and the door opens. Soft footsteps patter across the floor, and then a pink-cheeked, tousle-curled head pops up at the edge of his mattress, peering at him with an expression of concern.
“Hullo, Mr Frodo,” Sam says quietly as if to a dying person.
Frodo forces a smile. “Hello Sam.” A lad of ten, almost eleven years, Sam Gamgee has been a bright spark in Frodo’s first two years at Bag End. He doesn’t think that he has ever met a boy so young with such an imagination. There is a thirst in Sam for knowledge and tales --both true and imagined-- that can not be guessed when looking at the shy, polite boy.
“Mr Bilbo said as you were still feeling poorly, Mr Frodo,” he says quickly, “an’ I… I wondered if mayhap a story might help?” And he lifts a sizeable book from where held it behind his back, letting it drop onto the edge of the mattress with a bounce.
Blearily, Frodo looks at the lad’s hopeful face and feels a twinge of regret. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he sighs, “but I don’t think I’m well enough to read anything.” He doesn’t want to disappoint the boy; he knows how Sam loves to hear him read. It has become custom for Frodo to read Sam a small tale at the end of each lesson he has with Bilbo at Bag End. They would sit in the parlour together, and Sam would shape the words with his mouth, tracing with his finger as Frodo reads them aloud.
The lad nods. “I know ye are, Mr Frodo,” he says. “But when I were sick abed last winter, Mr Bilbo came and he read me a story. Put me right to sleep, it did. And I felt better when I woke up. So’s I thought… maybe I’d read for you, sir? I’m getting good, honest!”
Frodo is surprised, but touched. “Oh. Well, yes Sam, I… I’d like that very much.”
The lad beams, and without waiting to be asked promptly scrambles up onto Frodo’s bed. He settles himself with his back against the headboard, propped up by pillows. Reverently, he places the book in his lap and opens it to the page marked by its red silk ribbon.
With a glance at Frodo lying beside him, he recites: “The tale of Gil-galad.”
Frodo smiles. This is one of Sam’s favourite stories, and he launches into it immediately. The boy’s reading voice is not as flowing as it could be, nor as accurate as he stumbles over unfamiliar sounds, but Frodo’s eyes close as he listens silently to the halting words, drifting into a tale that took place long ago to characters he has grown to know well.
Under the images of flying banners and falling foes, Frodo finds that he is almost asleep by the time Sam reaches the last word and closes the book with a sigh.
Frodo keeps still, his eyes closed and cheek pressed into the pillow, pretending sleep for the sake of his friend.
The lad gives a fond cluck, so in the manner of Bilbo that it is all Frodo can do not to smile. Then a small hand tenderly brushes the curls from his forehead and Sam presses a gentle kiss there.
“Sleep you easy, Mr Frodo,” he whispers, “and feel better.” With an obvious effort not to make a sound, Sam crawls to the edge of the mattress and slides to the floor. Moments later, Frodo hears his bedroom door open and softly close.
He sighs into his pillow and smiles. Every part of him is relaxed and peaceful. Even his stomach seemed to quieten to listen to Sam reading to him.
Funny, he thinks as gentle wavelets pull in the back of his mind, drawing him willingly towards sleep, I feel much better now.
End.
Rating: G
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Bilbo.
Summary: Frodo discovers the downside to a bounteous Yule dinner.
Recipient: mandybaggins.
Scenario, prompt: Preferably a sick!frodo fic, something that involves his stomach upset perhaps. And food, lots of descriptive food please.
Squicks: Please no slash or anything like that, just... you know, regular, normal fiction.
Notes: Sorry it’s so late, Mandy! You know how Christmas can be for unexpected obligations and relatives never-ending Things That Must Be Done. *falls over*
Anyway, I hope it suits. Happy Holidays to you!
The ham was salted to perfection. The potatoes were roasted golden so that their skin crackled to the bite. The cabbage never wilted and the gravy, oh, it accentuated every flavour, every texture of the unsurpassable meal.
Frodo groans, clawing for the edge of his mattress and the nightstand, where Bilbo set the ceramic bowl for his convenience.
The beans had been crisp and ripe, the peas flavoursome balls reminiscent of springtime. And the mushrooms… Frodo can still taste them, buttery sauce moistening his lips as the flesh burst succulently between his teeth.
His curls are soaked with sweat and his nightshirt clings to him as his fingers find the cool edge of the bowl, yanking it frantically towards himself. Frodo is unsure what he has done to offend, but the meal he so enthusiastically enjoyed seems determined to leave his body.
He doesn’t know who to feel more sorry for, himself or poor Bilbo, who’s pride seemed to wilt at Frodo’s first clutch for his roiling stomach.
It isn’t Bilbo’s fault for being such a brilliant cook. Nor is young Samwise to blame for making such a fine budding apprentice in the kitchen.
It was the chicken’s fault for tasting so rich and seasoned.
The pudding’s fault for smelling like a gift of the Valar.
Frodo couldn’t help himself. He had to indulge.
Oh, but he is paying for it now. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he curls the bowl into his lap, leaning over it heavily. Poised and ready for an earthquake or avalanche, he waits to see if his body will continue the torture with further expulsion.
Nothing happens, and after a minute or so Frodo lets out a sigh, wearily replacing the thankfully empty bowl on the nightstand.
He flops to his back on the mussed mattress, cursing himself for his foolishness. He should not have eaten so much. Never in his life had be been faced with such a test on his self control. His first Yule dinner at Bag End with just himself and Bilbo (and little Sam, of course, who insisted on being there, despite his father’s scolding) at the table with plate after plate of all his favourite foods --and even more that he hadn’t known were his favourite foods until tonight.
Yuletide at Brandy Hall had never been quite so enjoyable. Under the sharp eye of his aunt, Frodo had never taken more than his fair share of the annual bounty, no matter how much his stomach insisted that Esmeralda wouldn’t notice if he took another slice of mushroom pie…
Still, he should not have eaten so much tonight. It was his own fault. Although… remembering the dark cinnamon fruitcake, topped with melting clotted cream and warm custard makes the whole affair seem worth it.
Frodo casts a disdainful glance at his bloated stomach. “I regret nothing,” he tells it firmly. “Nothing.”
It gives a rumble --perhaps in mocking-- and Frodo clutches at his midsection with a groan of self-pity.
Maybe the fruitcake wasn’t worth it after all.
Tap, tap, tap.
Frodo doesn’t even try to sit up to greet whoever is at his bedroom door. “Yes?” he calls wearily.
There is a gentle click as the catch is drawn back and the door opens. Soft footsteps patter across the floor, and then a pink-cheeked, tousle-curled head pops up at the edge of his mattress, peering at him with an expression of concern.
“Hullo, Mr Frodo,” Sam says quietly as if to a dying person.
Frodo forces a smile. “Hello Sam.” A lad of ten, almost eleven years, Sam Gamgee has been a bright spark in Frodo’s first two years at Bag End. He doesn’t think that he has ever met a boy so young with such an imagination. There is a thirst in Sam for knowledge and tales --both true and imagined-- that can not be guessed when looking at the shy, polite boy.
“Mr Bilbo said as you were still feeling poorly, Mr Frodo,” he says quickly, “an’ I… I wondered if mayhap a story might help?” And he lifts a sizeable book from where held it behind his back, letting it drop onto the edge of the mattress with a bounce.
Blearily, Frodo looks at the lad’s hopeful face and feels a twinge of regret. “I’m sorry, Sam,” he sighs, “but I don’t think I’m well enough to read anything.” He doesn’t want to disappoint the boy; he knows how Sam loves to hear him read. It has become custom for Frodo to read Sam a small tale at the end of each lesson he has with Bilbo at Bag End. They would sit in the parlour together, and Sam would shape the words with his mouth, tracing with his finger as Frodo reads them aloud.
The lad nods. “I know ye are, Mr Frodo,” he says. “But when I were sick abed last winter, Mr Bilbo came and he read me a story. Put me right to sleep, it did. And I felt better when I woke up. So’s I thought… maybe I’d read for you, sir? I’m getting good, honest!”
Frodo is surprised, but touched. “Oh. Well, yes Sam, I… I’d like that very much.”
The lad beams, and without waiting to be asked promptly scrambles up onto Frodo’s bed. He settles himself with his back against the headboard, propped up by pillows. Reverently, he places the book in his lap and opens it to the page marked by its red silk ribbon.
With a glance at Frodo lying beside him, he recites: “The tale of Gil-galad.”
Frodo smiles. This is one of Sam’s favourite stories, and he launches into it immediately. The boy’s reading voice is not as flowing as it could be, nor as accurate as he stumbles over unfamiliar sounds, but Frodo’s eyes close as he listens silently to the halting words, drifting into a tale that took place long ago to characters he has grown to know well.
Under the images of flying banners and falling foes, Frodo finds that he is almost asleep by the time Sam reaches the last word and closes the book with a sigh.
Frodo keeps still, his eyes closed and cheek pressed into the pillow, pretending sleep for the sake of his friend.
The lad gives a fond cluck, so in the manner of Bilbo that it is all Frodo can do not to smile. Then a small hand tenderly brushes the curls from his forehead and Sam presses a gentle kiss there.
“Sleep you easy, Mr Frodo,” he whispers, “and feel better.” With an obvious effort not to make a sound, Sam crawls to the edge of the mattress and slides to the floor. Moments later, Frodo hears his bedroom door open and softly close.
He sighs into his pillow and smiles. Every part of him is relaxed and peaceful. Even his stomach seemed to quieten to listen to Sam reading to him.
Funny, he thinks as gentle wavelets pull in the back of his mind, drawing him willingly towards sleep, I feel much better now.
End.