Pairing: Frodo/Strider Frodo/OMC(s)
Rating: NC17 for the series
Warning: AU! AU! Frodo in Bree, pre-Quest, nothing book canon about him, not much film canon either, really. Except he's very beautiful and has a very good heart.

Disclaimer: Frodo, Strider, Hobbits and Bree are all the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien - I borrow them with respect, make no profit and intend no offence.

AN: A simple AU story set mostly in Bree; Frodo tries his hand at various trades before settling on becoming a barber. All does not go according to plan. NC17 for the series overall, but this part is PG13. A work in progress. Dedicated to Claudia, whose wonderful "Frood" stories are an inspiration. Her website can be found in the "bookmarks" section of this one.

Feedback: Yes please, always appreciated.

Chapter One

Snip. Snip. Snip.

The scissors flashed through the air, slicing through the coarse locks; the flagstone floor was soon covered in honest red hair and the barber, Bellwig, was holding out the mirror so his client could survey the back and sides.

"Will that do you?" asked Bellwig, wiping his free hand on his apron. He had a little trouble breathing lately, doubtless old age and breathing in copious amounts of hobbit hair had begun to take its toll. His customer turned his head this way and that way and nodded. "Aye, it'll do. Mrs. Gruttle can stop nagging me now," he said, scowling at the mirror.

"Frodo!" shouted old Bellwig in the direction of the back parlour. "Frodo! There's a floor as needs to be swept in 'ere." The barber took down his big bristled brush, handed down through the generations of Bellwigs, and began to remove the stray hairs from Gruttle's collar.

"I thought your apprentice lad did the brushing down," said Gruttle, a little too casually. Bellwig paused and then shouted once more, "Frodo lad! There's a customer as needs to be brushed down in 'ere." He eyed the hobbit in his chair, a hobbit he had known since they were both nippers running through the hamlets around Bree, and he saw not a pillar of the community, nor a father of seven - he saw opportunity.

The young apprentice appeared at the parlour door, a little flushed and breathless. "Sorry Mr. Bellwig, sir! I was putting the towels in the copper and-"

"Never mind that, Frodo. Give Farmer Gruttle 'ere a good brushing down. Make sure you do a through job, can't have him going 'ome to Mrs. Gruttle in a less'n tranquil state, now can we? I'll go put the kettle on for some tea." Bellwig handed the big brush over to Frodo and waddled into the back room.

Farmer Gruttle settled his bulk in the big comfy barber chair and sighed. Frodo began to apply the brush to the farmer's tweedy jacket and homespun shirt; he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach, stretching across the considerable girth of the red faced hobbit as he worked. Luckily, Farmer Gruttle didn't seem to mind.

Gruttle held onto the arms of the chair, resisting the urge to squirm. Oh, but they were right! Old Bramblepot, the cooper, had told him over an ale or three at the Green Dragon that - "Frodo, that new apprentice of Bellwig's, is the prettiest lad I ever laid eyes on. I tells you, when he cleans you up after old Bellwig's done his work, it's the best feeling in the world! He's respectable, more's the pity…"

Frodo diligently swept away the little hairs from Gruttle's collar and moved to one side so the farmer could climb down from the chair. But Gruttle gave no indication of wanting to get up and Frodo was confused.

"You missed a bit," Gruttle said, fixing his little eyes on Frodo. "There," and he pointed down between his great meaty tweed-clad thighs. Frodo looked but couldn't see how any hairs could have possibly made their way down there. Still, the customer was always right, as Mr. Bellwig was fond of saying.

He picked up the brush once more and began to sweep away at Gruttle's crotch. He still couldn't see anything but obviously the farmer was sensitive to such matters and could most likely feel every itchy scratchy shaft, even through his thick trousers. "Gone?" Frodo asked, looking up at Gruttle's face. He was a little surprised to see the farmer looking down at him, eyes glazed and his big tongue lolling out of his slack mouth.

"Farmer Gruttle, are you ill?" Frodo asked, the tip of the brush resting upon Gruttle's groin. He heard a low murmur and then he felt the brush rising in his hand as if it had a life of its own. Frodo slowly looked down at the brush and then back up to Gruttle's eyes, which suddenly had a rather feral look about them. He took a step back.

"I think I got it all, sir," Frodo stammered and dropped the offending implement upon the ledge as if it were a hot poker. He turned to run into the back room, bowling straight into Bellwig coming the other way. "Ah, Frodo, you finished?" Bellwig said, holding him by the arm.

"Yes, sir," Frodo replied, wriggling until Bellwig relented and released him. He shot off into the kitchen as fast as his legs could carry him, leaving Bellwig and Gruttle to talk about the bill.

He stood, his back to the kitchen door, willing himself to calm down.

Not again!

Frodo wanted to be a barber. Since he had been thrown out of Brandy Hall, he had to make his way in the world. Yet everything he tried seemed to go horribly wrong!

Candler - a worthy trade, he had thought. Everyone needed candles! How was he to know the apprentice had to learn his trade by applying butter to various objects, to "get the feel of it, lad, in your hands, afore you graduate on to the wax itself", and that the final object was one attached to the master?

Butchery - he had found himself far too tender-hearted and hadn't lasted more than a day; he never had found out why the butcher made his sausages dressed in naught but his skin, and he didn't care to, either.

Tailoring - he had been enthusiastic, eager to learn. The tailor, a nice and quiet gentlehobbit fallen on hard times, had seemed the ideal master for a willing apprentice. Until he had taken Frodo up to the attic and requested he model for him. Dresses and bonnets. Frodo had left as soon as he politely could.

Gardening - he had joined a band of itinerant gardeners, young men, not hobbits. These were the first men Frodo had known and he found them raucous company and interesting characters. He tried to keep up with their drinking and certainly could outdo them at eating. For their part, they seemed more than willing to take him on the road with them.

Through the summer, they had gone door-to-door in the villages of men. True, Frodo did not know a creeper from a rambler, yet he seemed always to be the one who was pushed forward to knock on the door, particularly at the cottages of known bachelors and widowers. The gang would set to in the garden whilst Frodo was encouraged to engage the customer in conversation at the kitchen table, or in the parlour. At the end of the day, it being pleasantly warm, they would make camp in some copse or orchard and count out their earnings as they ate. Words were not said but Frodo felt he was somehow disappointing his new friends and he determined to work harder the next day, to insist on helping pull weeds and plant shrubs - but always they would laugh and point to his soft hands and tell him "horses for courses, Frodo, horses for courses" and never explain what they meant.

Finally, at one cottage, the householder had invited him to come up to his bedroom so he could point out a particularly fine view over the hills. Frodo had never been in a man's bedroom before and had never seen a man's bed - it seemed to take up the whole of the available space.

He had politely admired the view and watched the gardeners at work below, the bees and butterflies at play among the profusion of flowers. One of them, the gang's natural leader, saw him at the upstairs window and waved; Frodo saw him say something to the others and then they were all waving, grinning broadly. When, after a moment, Frodo suggested he should go downstairs and offer the workers some tea, the man, who was standing close behind him, had sighed softly but had moved aside; Frodo thought he was lonely and he felt sorry for him. The man should get himself a wife, he thought, as he clambered down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. But when he carried out the tray of tea things to his friends in the garden, he had been surprised to see their scowling faces.

The day's work done, they had packed the cart and then climbed aboard; however, Frodo, when he tried to climb in after them, was turned away.

"Am I not to go with you, then, friends?" he had asked, perplexed.

"Here's how it is, friend, " the leader had said, tossing Frodo's little bundle to the ground, "you could have earned us a lot of coins, but you wouldn't do it. We did all the graft and all you had to do was keep the customer happy inside. You could earn three times what we can, just by going on your knees for the client, but did you? No! You're no good as a gardener and you're even less use as a whore!" And with that, they drove off down the lane, leaving Frodo quite alone. He was in a part of the Shire he did not know and he had not a clue what to do next.

He considered knocking upon the door of the cottage, asking the man to let him pass the night upon the settle in his parlour… But he remembered the big bed and the man's lonely eyes. It had never occurred to him until that moment that there was money to be made from anything but good, honest labour. He could turn his hand to, well, turning his hand. But once he did that, there might be no going back.

Frodo had squared his shoulders and walked away down the lane, determined to make his way in the world by honest means.

Now he was back almost where he started from, having worked his way around the Shire. He was at Bree, an apprentice barber, eager and willing to learn. If only they would let him alone long enough to acquire an honest trade!