Pippin grunts. "Must be a Tuesday, then."
"No, it's Friday."
"I was being facetious, my dear Merry," answers Pippin, rolling over and poking Merry in the stomach. "Now stop thinking so much and go to sleep, you ass, I'm tired."
They had visited Bag End a week earlier, Merry and Sam had needed to discuss the season's herbs or somesuch thing that Pippin didn't have an interest in following the thread of, and as was becoming usual they found the head of the household in a bad state. Short-tempered, skin blotchy from chills and fever, hair hanging down in a damp, listless knot.
"It's the same illness that caught Stel by surprise a month ago, it's doing the rounds amongst folk who don't get enough fresh air. You didn't keep me up all night jabberin' with worry about her." Pippin nuzzles in against Merry's neck and breathes out contentedly, the sound becoming a sigh midway as Merry continues to talk and fret.
"Our Estella's a hardy lass, though. Frodo doesn't have much strength left in him, I think."
"He'd give you a thick ear if he heard you say that. Or Rosie would. Sam's too polite."
"Not a failing he shares with you, then," Merry says with a smile, tangling his fingers in Pippin's thick hair.
"Frodo's always been able to find his way about in the dark," Pippin points out with a yawn. "He'll be all right soon enough."
~