A/N: Okay, I would like to make a couple of things very, very clear. I am not Lady Alyssa or Random Dent. I am not anywhere near their league in terms of writing ability. I am not even the same gender. They said that as people did not pretend to be them, and gave credit where credit was due (consider it given), they could continue Bagenders. This a prequel, one that has been brewing for a bit and will almost certainly be a one shot. It's set in the mid 1990's.

It was 11 o'clock at night, and all was quiet, all the mice having been personally exterminated by Frodo last week, and Legolas heard a knock on the door. He sighed and wandered down to see who was calling at this hour. He opened the door. Then closed it very quickly and leant against the door, breathing fast. Gandalf. Clearly his attempt to kill him/get rid of him once and for all just after the Accidental Bungee Jumping Incident in 1989, by putting him on the plane to China and tipping off the Chinese authorities that Gandalf was a foreign spy and pro-democracy activist, had failed miserably.

On the other hand, he reflected, Gandalf was very good at looking old and harmless, right up until the moment that he pinned you to the ceiling, and the Chinese had this thing about elderly people.

In the case of those who had encountered Gandalf, it had either been erased or elevated to fully fledged worship.

It had also been the only reason that Gandalf had escaped after the Battle of Waterloo, his plan to conquer Europe by proxy having failed. That and what he did to the Duke of Wellington's breeches. Despite Legolas' efforts to keep the door shut it, was opening slowly but steadily, elves being endowed with strength not mass. His redoubled efforts to keep the door shut were foiled by a Smell. A Smell so... invasive… that it truly deserved the capital S.

As he stumbled away, coughing and hacking, Gandalf swept in, barely glancing at Legolas in his attempt to reach the fridge. However, he had not counted on Legolas' sheer determination, as the Smell struck elf managed to briefly waylay Gandalf with a professionally executed sliding tackle, which sent the Whit- Grubby wizard flying into the kitchen, crying "Drink!" at the top of his voice.

The sound of the scuffle had awoken the rest of the Fellowship, (save Gimli because he was on the night shift) Aragorn pounding down the stairs blearily waving a recently used and not recently cleaned toilet brush having been caught short, Frodo, who stopped on seeing Gandalf and started whimpering. He had not forgotten the Accidental Bungee Jumping incident, having been the one who had been situated underneath and had been looking up at Gandalf as he whizzed up into the ether sans underwear.

He had also been looking downwards as Gandalf had landed, and unfortunately for Frodo, his tenuous grip on sanity could not take the knowledge and sight that Gandalf had been going commando.

Sam had stopped and was now comforting Frodo who was gibbering at an unusual rate even for him, and Merry and Pippin had not been looking where they were going, hearing the sort of noises they associated with comedic injuries and thus free entertainment and had tripped over Frodo and Sam, crashing into Aragorn who went flying into Gandalf, toilet brush automatically extended like a sword which hit Gandalf in the solar plexus, dirtying the stained robe even more, causing him to collapse on top of Legolas, who slipped into merciful unconsciousness as frantic signals from his nose, which was in excessively close proximity to Gandalf's rear, initiated an emergency shutdown of his brain. Gandalf noticing this, made a token leering noise when he got his breath back, and finally got to the fridge and rooted about for alcohol, emerging triumphantly with a couple of large bottles of absinthe.

As he passed the rest of Fellowship on the way to the living room, most of whom were concussed or out of their minds (Frodo was muttering, "The Smell precioussss...it wants us to give in to it preciousssss" and Legolas was mumbling "Not the nose!"), he paused and said, "Do not meddle in the ways of wizards." He got no response, so continued into the living room, where he sat in the comfiest armchair, uncorked the absinthe, turned on the television, and commenced heavy breathing when he got to a Buffy re-run. As an afterthought, he cast a spell that would keep the Fellowship in their current state for the next few hours. He couldn't have them interrupting after all.

5 and a half hours later

Gimli opened the door quietly and walked towards the kitchen. It had been a good shift, and his attractive (by dwarf standards, so about 4"8' and hairy) female supervisor had smiled at him on the way out. Unfortunately, his day was taking a turn for the worse, as he froze, hearing the dreaded sounds of heavy breathing and soft pornography that indicated the presence of Gandalf. He glanced down the corridor, noting the gently snoring/whimpering Fellowship and guessing that they, along with a pervasive Smell, were Gandalf's handiwork, and made to enter the kitchen, when he was tugged by an unseen force into the living room and pinned to the ceiling. His first thought was 'What in Mahal's name is that Smell?' His next thought was, 'How do I get down?'

"Do not interfere in the ways of wizards, misbegotten dwarf!" Gandalf said, his eyes having not strayed from the television.

"Och, I won't, Gandalf, if you let me down," Gimli gibbered. He could feel his chain mail begin to develop a patina of unidentifiable grease, so he let the insult to his parentage slide. This was worse than the time Pippin had become King of the Franks, and that had been bad enough.

The only member of the Fellowship who didn't know about this incident was Aragorn, and since Arwen had run off with Charlemagne briefly, having a child by him to boot, the rest of the Fellowship had unanimously decided not to mention this to Aragorn. The revelation that he was technically stepfather to something with a large portion of Pippin's genes would either render him comatose or homicidal, and neither was a pleasant prospect.

As Gimli prayed to be let down, Gandalf considered his strategy. The Dwarf sounded serious and far too scared of him to do anything. I'll let him down on one condition, he decided. Dropping Gimli with a clatter of Dwarven armour, he yelled "Drink!" at the shell shocked dwarf, who scrambled to do the Wh-Grubby wizards bidding.

Gandalf smiled evilly as the dwarf scrambled into the kitchen to grab something to mollify Gandalf the Cunningly Alcoholic. He was going to have a lot of fun. It had been ages since he had last seen the Fellowship, and he wanted vengeance for his - admittedly brief, as after the Chinese intelligence service procured his MI5, MI6 and CIA files (along with a distinct sense of the extraordinary level of schadenfreude felt by their Western counterparts), then his KGB file, which had been buried in the deepest basement and classified into oblivion by successive Premiers, and saw what he had done to the last few guards, in between looking suspiciously old and harmless, they had decided they weren't and could not possibly be paid enough or threatened with enough to deal with Gandalf 24/7 - incarceration at the hands of that poncy elf.

And he was going to get it.

At breakfast the next morning, most of the Fellowship were alternately massaging aching heads and glancing fearfully at the door to the living room, while Frodo was twitching occasionally. Then Legolas voiced the question on everyone's minds. "How do we get rid of Gandalf?"

"We could kill him," Aragorn supplied, ever the advocate of the simple option.

"He just comes back, and it's embarrassing trying to steal his body from the morgue before he resurrects. You remember during the Blitz when he was killed just outside the cabinet war rooms and he resurrected in front of the high command?"

They all contemplated the incident in question. It had taken Aragorn impersonating an off duty Military Doctor in full 'the hands of a king are the hands of a healer' mode and Merry and Pippin acting as a lewd distraction (with the implicit threat that photos taken by Legolas of Merry and Pippin stripping in front of the high command would be circulated to major newspapers worldwide) to persuade Churchill not to have Gandalf sent to the front as a human shield, used as a test for biological weapons, or indeed used as a biological weapon.

While the Fellowship all wanted rid of Gandalf, they thought that drawing attention to themselves during wartime was a bad idea, Aragorn's occasional rants over the 'unsporting' use of gunpowder notwithstanding, as well as fearing his vengeance after his inevitable escape.

"Ahm sure we could just put him on the plane somewhere," Pippin broke in.

"That would involve touching him," Legolas said shuddering. He still hadn't quite recovered from last night. "Besides, we can't get close enough."

"If he wuz pissed out his brain I think we cud."

"Do you really want to touch him in that state? Or indeed any state? He smells worse than Aragorn did after he spent three months locked in the shed by Arwen in 1432! Last time someone touched his bare skin he caused a new type of fungal disease!"

Merry and Pippin suddenly shared a look, smiled and leaned forward, whispering, "We have a plan…"

After drugging Gandalf with approximately ten bottles of vodka, and an additional bottle of barbiturates to make sure he wouldn't wake up, Legolas and Aragorn retrieved Gandalf's staff and cautiously attached a winch cable to Gandalf's chair, before levering it into the hall.

Pippin, seeing Legolas give him a thumbs up, and started the engine of a large van of probably illegal provenance, Merry operating the winch that dragged the chair and its occupant into the back of the van, pulling up the ramp and shutting the back doors of the van, which took off at high speed towards Heathrow airport.

As the Fellowship reconvened, having assured puzzled neighbours that the participants were practising an escape sequence for the new James Bond film, Gandalf awoke to find himself in his chair in a suspiciously dark and noisy place, minus his staff. There was, instead, a note written on glow-in-the-dark paper. It said: "Your passport is attached, your chair bolted to the floor. Your destination is the Antarctic. Hoping never to see you again, The Fellowship."

Bastards. Good thing he'd stolen the Poncey Elf's wallet. He reached under the cushion where he had secreted the wallet, and instead found something papery that rustled. It was £30 in notes, with another note saying, "Nice try. That should be enough to keep you in Vadko for a while, failing that, the nearest form of alcohol. There's some Cherry Brandy under the pillow."

Gandalf glared at nothing in particular. They knew Cherry Brandy was the one of the few substances even he refused to drink, the list of things he did drink including furniture polish, ethanol and jet fuel.

And he vowed that he would enact a vengeance greater than the time he got Elrond pissed and made him perform a belly dancing routine in the main hall of Oliver Cromwell's country home in 1654 for chucking him out after he had caught Gandalf drinking his way through a carefully stored supply of Dorwinian. Gandalf's eyes narrowed in the darkness. Oh yes. The Fellowship were going to pay.