FIC: A HOBBIT, CAUGHT OFF HIS GUARD 1/? 
 
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins 
 
WARNING: Threesome. HET sex warning.  
 
PAIRING: Frodo/Aragorn/Arwen 
 
RATING: NC-17 Sex.  
 
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own  
these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien  
Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them  
interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. 
 
**This fic is dedicated to Baranduin, who inspired it---especially  
with her Come Athelas! story. :)  
 
Author's note: I'm going to go ahead and use the movieverse here for  
Arwen, just because I don't feel that in the books, Arwen and Frodo  
had much of a connection until ROTK.  
 
*** 
 
 
Had he been the type of hobbit to curse in such a genteel crowd  
feasting at the Last Homely House, Frodo Baggins would have cursed,  
and quite loudly.  
 
 
Every time he stood to greet someone---just a moment before it had  
been one of Gimli and Gloin's companions---the cushions on his chair  
scattered to the floor. He had risen with a bit too much alacrity on  
this occasion, and they had not only fallen, but rolled, and then  
someone had unwittingly kicked them quite a long way under the  
enormous dining table. 
 
 
Frodo needed his cushions---these chairs were made for Big People and  
tall Elves, and without something in the seat to boost him up a bit,  
he felt small and overwhelmed---not to mention the fact that he could  
not eat properly when the tabletop came up higher than his chest. Of  
course, even with the pillows, Frodo still felt tiny and out of  
place. He was not a wise, great Ring-bearer---he was a simple hobbit  
who had, unfortunately, gotten the adventure he'd naively wanted for  
years.  
 
 
Rivendell was beautiful, Frodo had to admit, but since the Council  
the day before, his mind had been a bit preoccupied with his  
forthcoming journey. And although he had been up and about for the  
past two days since having been ill from his Morgul-blade stabbing,  
Frodo still felt exhausted and his shoulder ached much of the time.  
Elrond, who came to check on him often, had said that was to be  
expected.  
 
 
Rubbing his shoulder, Frodo bent and peered under the table. There  
was no help for it. He'd have to crawl under the table to retrieve  
the cushions. Not that anyone would miss him anyway, with all the  
great elf-lords and princes and people of that nature about. Not to  
mention Strider---Aragorn---he corrected himself---who was nothing  
less than a king. 
 
 
Glancing up, Frodo caught sight of Aragorn---no longer the mud-caked  
ranger but a noble man clad in velvet. The first time Frodo had seen  
him dressed thus, the hobbit had barely been able to tear his eyes  
off the way the sensuous material had clung to Aragorn's trim form.  
He'd felt himself blushing furiously, afraid the ranger could read  
the desire in his eyes.  
 
 
But Aragorn belonged to Arwen, and any kindnesses and concerns he'd  
shown to Frodo had been simply to protect the Ring-bearer, nothing  
more.  
 
 
And now Arwen was sitting next to Aragorn, gazing into the ranger's  
eyes. For just a moment, she looked Frodo's way and the hobbit  
quickly looked back down, embarrassed to be caught staring at the  
lovely couple. He could barely look at Arwen, so breathtaking was  
she. He, a hobbit from the Shire, had no right to entertain the  
thoughts he was entertaining. Frodo shook his head, thinking of how  
many jokes he'd already heard from Pippin about the injustice of  
Frodo's being far too ill to appreciate being cradled against the  
breasts of Arwen Undomiel. 
 
 
He was going to go for it, Frodo decided---the cushions, that was. He  
needed the cushions and there was no postponing it. Kneeling down, he  
crawled halfway under the table, and all the folk about him were  
quite oblivious. Under his hands and knees the rug was soft and  
velvety . . . and he could see myriads of booted legs and slippered  
feet about. No hairy feet like his own, though---the other hobbits  
had declined to attend the feast, preferring to keep company  
together.  
 
 
Only Frodo had gone, because Elrond had kindly asked him to, and  
because some tiny part of Frodo wanted to see Aragorn. He knew the  
ranger was leaving the next day on a scouting expedition with  
Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir, and might not be back for days,  
or even weeks.  
 
 
Not that it mattered that Frodo had attended---Aragorn had been  
preoccupied all evening with Arwen and other important people, and  
the Ring-bearer had not even been able to get near him. 
 
 
Ah---there was the farthest cushion, but a few feet in front of him.  
Frodo crawled toward it, reaching, and couldn't suppress a grunt of  
pain as a booted foot accidentally kicked him hard in the left  
shoulder---his recently wounded and still-quite-sore shoulder. The  
hobbit's eyes watered for a moment as he put a hand up to the injured  
spot, willing the pain to recede. 
 
 
Suddenly light streamed in under the table and Frodo jumped. Someone  
had lifted the edge of the tablecloth. 
 
 
"Frodo! Are you all right? And what in Middle-earth are you doing  
under there?" 
 
 
Aragorn. The hobbit sighed. The ranger probably already thought him a  
fool after the Ring incident in Bree and crawling under tables was  
just going to seal the nails into the pine coffin.  
 
 
Frodo grimaced and raised his eyes to meet the man's---who was  
looking at the hobbit's delicate face with a look of utter  
astonishment. Which quickly changed to amusement as Aragorn lifted an  
eyebrow and waited for an explanation.  
 
 
"I am retrieving my chair cushions," Frodo told him a bit  
breathlessly and a little more crossly than he'd intended to. He  
hadn't anticipated being spied under the table---least of all by  
Aragorn. The pain from being kicked wasn't helping either, and Frodo  
found himself become a bit peeved for no good reason. What else did  
the ranger think he'd be doing under the table? Waiting for crumbs?  
Looking up ladies' skirts?  
 
 
"Well, then, here, Frodo, let me help you . . ." Aragorn's eyes  
narrowed as he saw Frodo's white-knuckled hand clutching his  
shoulder. "Frodo, are you feeling ill? Does your shoulder hurt?" 
 
 
The hobbit shook his head. "No, no, someone just accidentally kicked  
me, that's all. It's my fault own for being under the table and in  
the way. Thank you, Aragorn---I shall return to my seat now." Hastily  
he grabbed the cushion the ranger had picked up and crawling off  
hurriedly back to his seat, picking up the other pillows along the  
way.  
 
 
His shoulder was still smarting, and settling the pillows back upon  
his chair, Frodo plopped himself on top of them and quickly finished  
his dinner, after which he began feeling weary. Truthfully, he longed  
to return to his room with a good book from one of Rivendell's  
exhaustive libraries. Gimli and Gloin were discussing in detail the  
marvels of mithril mining, and soon Frodo felt himself nodding off. 
 
 
At last there was a brief lull in the dwarves' conversation, and  
Frodo quietly slipped off his chair and bid goodnight to Gimli and  
Gloin before leaving the great hall. On his way out, the hobbit  
turned back briefly to look at the table full of merrymakers. He  
tried not to let his eyes linger on any one person, but he couldn't  
help himself---he wanted one last glance at Aragorn before the ranger  
left Rivendell. 
 
 
However, as Frodo's gaze drifted to the man, Aragorn glanced up from  
afar and met the hobbit's eyes, watching Frodo with curiosity.  
Gulping, Frodo quickly turned away and strode out the door and to his  
room for some much-needed rest and contemplation.  
 
To be continued