rutobuka2:

yubiwamonogatari:

A little drabble (A REAL DRABBLE) for @rutobuka2, who’s sick atm ;O;! I hope this heals u a little bit:

Frodo woke with a whimper, turning his head from one side to the other and blinking his eyes open.

“Shh,” Thorin murmured. He gently stroked his hand over the tangled mess of Frodo’s dark curls – matted with sleep, and sweat from a newly broken fever. “I’m here, lad.”

The little hobbit nodded, pressing his face against Thorin’s chest, laying on top of him. When the boy had fallen sick to a vicious cold Thorin’s kind could withstand, he’d offered to look after him. He’d had, as he’d pointed out, his fair share of caring for sick pebbles with Fíli and Kíli over the years, and with Frodo waking every half hour or so, it would be good for someone to sit with him.

Frodo coughed miserably, it ending in a wet sneeze and a whine.

“’M still sick…” he said. “Dis is duh worst cold I eber had…”

“And with only ten long years under your beard, I can believe it,” Thorin replied, placing a cool cloth on Frodo’s forehead. “Here. Take a little of this.” He held the little wooden cup to Frodo’s lips. Inside was a cool chamomile tea, mixed with honey to hide the bitter willow bark, but Frodo only managed a few sips before turning his head away.

Still, a mouthful every so often was better than none. He ran his fingers over Frodo’s head again, handing him one of many handkerchiefs strewn around the bedroom. Frodo blew his nose and handed it back.

Thorin carefully put it aside and then wiped the cool cloth over Frodo’s face.

“Are you hungry? There’s a little summer soup, if you can manage it.”

“No,” Frodo sighed, closing his eyes and looking like the picture of misery. Bilbo had only grown worried about the illness when Frodo – already a little slip of a fauntling, pale and slender – had started refusing meals.

Thorin brushed Frodo’s curls back from his face.

“Are you sure? Not one mouthful?”

Frodo sighed heavily and, without opening his eyes, opened his mouth. Thorin made sure to pack the spoon with the vegetables in the soup, feeding the boy his single mouthful and not pushing for him to take more. He knew all to well that stuffing an unwell pebble – or fauntling – with food often led to a resurfacing.

“Good lad,” he said, feeling Frodo’s limbs getting heavier as the little boy drifted back to sleep.

“Can you sing a song…?” Frodo asked, voice almost inaudible. “Duh far ober one…”

“Of course,” Thorin said, resting his hand on Frodo’s little back and starting to sing.

“Far over the Misty Mountains cold…”

;O;