FIC: TROUBLEMAKERS Part 4/? 
 
Author: Lily Baggins 
 
PAIRINGS: Frodo/Aragorn 
 
RATINGS: NC-17 sex, violence, angst, bad language 
 
WARNINGS: NON-CONSENSUAL SEXUAL SITUATION.  
Angst. Lots of h/c.  
 
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, or whoever has the rights now, and I only give them  
interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. So  
here I am, getting Frodo into all sorts of precarious  
situations . . .  
 
Setting: The Prancing Pony. More movieverse than bookiverse. I find  
the Prancing Pony of the movie to be a much more sinister place than  
that described in the book. We all remember those nasty-looking men  
at the bar . . . they were plot bunnies that couldn't be ignored.  
This is almost an AU --- boy, am I taking liberties here.  
 
*** 
 
His small body aching, Frodo finally managed to pull himself out from  
under Rancit's unmoving body. The man's pallor and the blood in the  
alleyway gave testimony to the fact that Rancit was, indeed, dead.  
Frodo shuddered; he had never before witnessed a human---or hobbit--- 
killing another. Looking beyond the corpse, Frodo saw two men  
fighting with fists and knives. One was Nettles; the other, Frodo  
didn't know, but he looked vaguely familiar somehow.  
 
 
Gasping at the pain in his head, side, and ankle, the hobbit crawled  
as far away as he could get from Rancit's dead body and the fight  
going on before him. Reaching the wall of a building lining the  
alley, Frodo leaned back against it, closing his eyes for a moment.  
His bottom and legs were freezing, and the hobbit remembered his  
state of undress. He still had his knee-length coat on, and he  
pulled it down and wrapped it tightly around himself to hide his  
nudity. Wearily, he looked around for his pants. He needed his pants.  
Then he saw them---on the other side of the alley, under the fighting  
men's feet.  
 
 
Suddenly, Frodo heard a grunt as his rescuer soundly walloped Nettles  
in the head with his knife handle. The tall scrawny man fell to the  
ground, unconscious.  
 
 
Eyeing the man still standing, Frodo tried to place him. Surely he  
had seen him in the Prancing Pony . . . then sudden realization came.  
Was this the man in the corner who had stared at Frodo all evening?  
In his pain and exhaustion, Frodo could barely remember what old  
Butterbur had said about him---a ranger called Strider? Yes, that was  
it. And then he recalled Butterbur's other words: "Dangerous folk  
they are." 
 
 
The hobbit realized he needed to get out of there before "Strider"  
decided to come after him. The human probably wanted the Ring for  
himself. Why else would he have been so carefully watching Frodo all  
evening? Frodo sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as he sat  
trying to gather his strength for a get-away. 
 
 
When he opened his eyes a second later and looked up, Strider had put  
his knife away and was gazing at Frodo from across the alley. Then,  
to Frodo's dismay, the ranger began walking toward him.  
 
 
Scrambling as fast as he could on his injured ankle, his head  
throbbing, Frodo tried to stand up, but found his legs wouldn't carry  
him. He sank back down to the ground and curled up against the wall,  
trying to make himself as small as possible. His hand automatically  
went to his vest pocket, ensuring that the Ring still dwelt safely  
within it.  
 
 
"Stay away!" Frodo called, his voice hoarse with pain, bright blue  
eyes shining with fear. "I have a weapon!" Which was untrue.  
 
 
Aragorn stopped for a moment in his tracks, his eyes soft as he  
looked at Frodo. Inwardly, he sighed. For Frodo's own sake, Aragorn  
needed to prove his good faith. He held his hands out in a gesture  
of peace. 
 
 
"Do not fear me, Frodo Baggins," the ranger said gently. "My name is  
Strider. I am a friend here to help you. I promise I will not harm  
you, nor let any harm come to you."  
 
 
The hobbit looked at him, startled. "How do you know my name?" he  
asked. "I don't believe you."  
 
 
Aragorn slowly advanced toward Frodo and the hobbit shrank back  
further against the wall, drawing his coat about himself more  
tightly. Looking at the hobbit's big blue eyes shining with fear,  
Aragorn felt like he was approaching a small frightened animal in the  
wild.  
 
 
Which was about what Frodo looked like, the ranger thought. The  
hobbit was a mess. He was filthy from head to foot from having been  
dragged through the mud and his hair was in wild disarray. Aragorn  
could see one short piece sticking out slightly on the side--- the  
piece Rancit must have hacked off.  
 
 
A large, ugly-looking bruised lump was forming on the hobbit's  
temple, and despite his outward show of stoicism, Frodo was laboring  
for breath, obviously in pain. His ankle, what Aragorn could see of  
it, was black, blue and very swollen. And to top it all off, the  
hobbit had obviously been stripped of all clothing below the waist  
and had pulled his coat down as far as possible in a pitiful attempt  
to cover himself.  
 
 
Aragorn had lived a long time and had fought on many battlefields. He  
had seen every manner of atrocity that could be committed upon elf or  
man. But when he looked at the beautiful blue-eyed hobbit cowering  
against the wall, battered and shocked from the trauma of his  
abduction, something caught in the ranger's throat. In his adult  
life, Aragorn could not remember having felt such pity for a living  
creature as he did gazing upon Frodo's innocent, dirt-smudged face.  
 
 
Cautiously, as if he were approaching a wounded deer about to bolt,  
Aragorn knelt in front of the hobbit. As quickly as he dared, the  
ranger reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair away from Frodo's  
bruised head. Seeing Aragorn looking at him with such kind eyes,  
Frodo relaxed a bit. He was hurting too badly and was too weary to  
fight. If the ranger wanted him dead, so be it. There was nowhere  
else for him to run.  
 
 
A tear slipped free of one of Frodo's eyes and rolled down his filthy  
cheek. Moving his hand down, Aragorn gently brushed the tear away and  
put his hand under the hobbit's chin, turning Frodo's eyes to meet  
his. The ranger's eyes were deep and intelligent, and Frodo felt  
strangely drawn to them. In fact, the man himself, although a bit  
scruffy, was very handsome, the hobbit noted.  
 
 
"We must get you out of here, little one, and tend to your wounds,"  
Aragorn said. "Your friends are all safe back at the inn. They are  
terribly worried though, Frodo, with good reason. Will you go back  
with me now? I think, if truth be told, it's either that or stay here  
in this alley. You cannot even stand up on your own."  
 
 
"How do you know my name?" Frodo pressed again. Then, in a small  
voice, he nodded toward the men in the alley. "They're dead, aren't  
they?" he asked.  
 
 
Aragorn lowered his eyes. "Yes, Rancit is dead. I recognized him when  
I saw him up close. The man has had a `wanted, dead or alive' bounty  
on his head in nearly all Middle-earth. I will alert Butterbur when  
we get back. The other man, however, will only be unconscious for a  
long time."  
 
 
The ranger continued. "As to how I know your name, Frodo, well, I  
know all about you. I am a friend of Gandalf's, and since he is not  
here, I am here to guide you."  
 
 
"Gandalf!" Frodo cried, forgetting his own pain for an instant. "What  
has become of him?"  
 
 
Aragorn shook his head. "I know it not. But you cannot wait for him,  
Frodo. The Black Riders are out there --- and as long as you have the  
Ring, they will never stop hunting you." 
 
 
Frodo nodded, a bit startled at the mention of the Ring. Suddenly,  
looking up at the man's chiseled features, he felt as if he could  
trust Strider. "I will go with you. And I . . . thank you for saving  
my life." He sighed and looked around. "My pants . . . I need my  
pants," he said in a cracked whisper. "I cannot go anywhere like  
this."  
 
 
Reluctantly leaving the hobbit's side, Aragorn cast about for Frodo's  
pants, then spotted them lying on the other side of the alley, a bit  
the worse for wear. He picked them up---so small, he thought to  
himself, looking at them---and returned to Frodo's side.  
 
 
"Here, little one," the ranger said, handing Frodo his pants. "You  
look like you'll need help putting these back on. We must hurry and  
get you out of here. Your head and ankle need tending immediately."  
Bending down next to the hobbit, Aragorn looked at him  
intently. "Frodo . . ." he began, feeling a bit awkward. "I saw what  
those men were about to do to you. Tell me, before I got here, did  
they . . . hurt you? Did those men rape you, Frodo?" he asked gently,  
praying the answer would be no.  
 
 
The hobbit cast his eyes down at the ground and shook his head. "No,"  
he whispered. "Thanks to you, they did . . . not have a chance,  
Strider. I am . . . all right."  
 
 
"I think you're far from `all right,' little hobbit," the ranger  
remarked, "but I am relieved they did not touch you so. It would  
have broken my heart to have had such a thing happen to you. Here,"  
he said, handing Frodo his pants. "Let me help you with these." 
 
 
The hobbit shook his head. "I can do it." So saying, Frodo grabbed  
the pants and clutched them to his chest for a moment. Then he looked  
up at Aragorn, his large blue eyes pleading. "Do you mind . . .  
turning around?" the hobbit asked in a whisper, wanting to put his  
pants back on in privacy.  
 
 
Humoring Frodo, Aragorn did so.  
 
 
Gingerly uncurling himself, Frodo reached forward to slip his pants  
on, but the movement was too much for him. He groaned as a wave of  
dizziness and nausea assailed him, and Aragorn turned around, past  
the point of caring about the hobbit's modesty.  
 
 
"Frodo?" he asked, kneeling down by the hobbit and observing Frodo's  
pale face.  
 
 
"Strider . . . think . . . going to be sick," Frodo murmured.  
 
 
Aragorn quickly grasped the hobbit's shoulders and supported his head  
as Frodo leaned over the dirty ground, waiting for the stomach spasms  
he knew were coming. 
 
 
After a moment, unable to hold it at bay, Frodo began to vomit.  
Aragorn supporting Frodo's head as he wretched up the remaining  
contents of his stomach out onto the dirt.  
 
 
Dry heaves followed, and when they finally stopped, Aragorn found a  
piece of cloth in his pocket and gently wiped the hobbit's mouth.  
Frodo was gasping for air, clutching at his sore ribs, and tears were  
starting to roll down his face. Feeling a moment of intense sympathy,  
Aragorn reached out and slowly drew the hobbit's head to rest against  
his own chest. Then Aragorn wrapped his arms around Frodo's small  
back and just held him, gently rocking, careful of the hobbit's  
injuries.  
 
 
The ranger had a woodsy, pleasant smell, and Frodo, his shock wearing  
off somewhat, found himself feeling safe for the first time since he  
had set foot outside the Shire. Memories of his earlier terror came  
rushing back, and a sob escaped his chest. The next thing he knew, he  
was clutching the ranger as his chest heaved with the pent-up 
emotion. 
 
 
"Sssshhh," the ranger comforted, rubbing Frodo's back in circles and  
smoothing his dark curly hair. "You are safe now, Frodo, and those  
men will not harm you ever again."  
 
 
Now that he had an armful of hobbit, Aragorn had to admit he found it  
downright pleasant. He only wished the circumstances could have been  
different. In fact, he reflected as he held Frodo close and gently  
kissed the top of his head, holding Frodo was quite stimulating.  
Control yourself, Aragorn, he told himself, hoping the hobbit would  
not notice the ranger's arousal. The last thing Frodo needed was to  
think every man in Bree was out to bed him. If the hobbit suspected,  
it would totally destroy his newfound trust in Aragorn.  
 
 
Luckily for Aragorn's emotional and sexual sanity, Frodo's sobs  
subsided after a few minutes, and he reluctantly pulled away from the  
ranger.  
 
 
Aragorn picked his pants up. "Here, little one, let me help you now,"  
he said softly.  
 
 
At this, Frodo looked up at him and said, in a small voice, "Very  
well, Strider. Thank you . . . I'm sorry I . . ." 
 
 
"Do not be sorry, Frodo. You're much braver than many men would be in  
this situation. I'm glad you've finally decided to trust me." 
 
 
With that, Aragorn pushed Frodo gently back to lie flat on the  
ground, then Aragorn lifted one of the hobbit's legs and slipped a  
pant leg over it. The other leg had the badly injured ankle, and  
Frodo winced as the ranger touched it. Aragorn gently maneuvered the  
pant leg over the swollen area as the hobbit hissed in pain. When  
that was done, the ranger slowly lowered Frodo's leg back to the  
ground. He had to gently lift Frodo up to pull the pants to his  
waist, and the hobbit whimpered in pain.  
 
 
"There, nearly all done," Strider said, hating to have caused Frodo  
pain. He bent to button up Frodo's trouser front.  
 
 
"Uh, I can do that," Frodo said, now embarrassed to have the man's  
hands roaming over that area of his body. Truth to tell, Frodo found  
the man attractive and was worried his body might respond to that.  
Brushing the ranger's hands away, Frodo reached down and fumbled with  
the buttons. Finally getting them fastened, he sighed and closed his  
eyes for a moment.  
 
 
"Are you ready now?" Aragorn asked, and he bent down to scoop the  
hobbit up in his arms. "Here, let me take you." 
 
 
"Please," Frodo said, not wanting the ranger to think he was totally  
incapable of taking care of himself. "There is no need. I can make it  
on my own. I am all right, really."  
 
 
Aragorn pulled his hands away and rolled his eyes skyward at the  
hobbit's continued stubbornness.  
 
 
Painfully, Frodo raised himself on his elbows, his head swimming. He  
hadn't thought getting up would be this painful. He finally managed  
to get on his hands and knees and stood on all fours a moment,  
gasping for breath, before trying to stand.  
 
 
Unable to hold himself back, Aragorn leaned down and put his hands  
under the hobbit's arms, supporting him as he finally gained his  
feet. Frodo grimaced and sucked his breath in as he put weight on the  
injured ankle. It promptly gave out under him.  
 
 
 
"Maybe just a little help . . . would be not unwelcome," the hobbit  
whispered, feeling regretful that he had turned down Aragorn's  
earlier offer to carry him.  
 
 
"Of course, little one," said the ranger, wrapping his arms tighter  
about the hobbit. Frodo gingerly tried to take one step, but it was  
too much. With a low moan, he wiped at his sweating brow. The world  
suddenly started spinning, and he had to fight to keep his eyes  
open. "Strider . . ." he murmured.  
 
 
Aragorn caught Frodo just as the hobbit sagged, barely conscious.  
With the utmost care, the ranger picked him up, cradling him in his  
arms. Frodo's eyes fluttered for a moment and he flung his short arms  
around Aragorn's neck, snuggling closer to him. Aragorn could feel  
Frodo's breath on his neck and the softness of the hobbit's long  
hair. Then, with a small sigh, Frodo went entirely limp, his arms  
flailing.  
 
 
Aragorn looked down at the pale, innocent face and felt his heart  
give a tug. Thank the saints, the ranger thought, the two ruffians  
had not hurt Frodo more. Silently, Aragorn carried his small burden  
back toward the inn. 
 
To be continued