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Sweet Cider, Part One
Frodo rolled reflexively towards Sam from the cool edge of the bed, and once
again felt a rush of gratitude for his presence. Initially, it had been hard for
Frodo, who had never slept with anyone before, not to continue to wake through
the night and reassure himself that it was indeed Sam next to him, and that he
didn’t have to awaken him and urge him to leave, to go back home. They had lain
next to each other somewhat awkwardly at first, holding hands, but unsure of how
to fit together in sleep. Sam, who had learned restraint as a child when sharing
a bed with his brothers, tended to remain in one place, but Frodo, used to the
freedom of an entire bed to himself, had a tendency to roll about, and
occasionally fling an arm or leg out in his sleep.
More than once, Sam had been startled awake by a hand thrown across his chest,
or the sudden jab of a knee in his side. But he had quickly realized that the
best way to address that problem was to wrap himself around Frodo, and bury his
nose in the crook of Frodo’s neck, just under the ear, and kiss him.
Instinctively, Frodo, whether awake or still asleep, would murmur Sam’s name,
and curl his back against Sam, and hold Sam’s hand tightly to his chest. And Sam
had learned that that was a very pleasurable position indeed.
But this morning, it was Frodo who lay awake, listening to Sam’s steady
breathing, and wondering why he had never noticed how empty his bed had been
before, and how much Sam had improved it. It wasn’t until they got out of bed
that complications arose.
Summer was flourishing now, and Sam had become accustomed to rising early
without disturbing Frodo as much as he could help. Although Frodo awoke
frequently through the night, he usually fell into heavy slumber in the early
morning hours. At first, he had been disappointed that Sam was gone when he
finally awoke, but Sam gently pointed out to him that the early mornings were
the best times for the heavier gardening chores in the summer, when the air
still had a bit of coolness about it. There was time for Sam to hastily dress
and eat a first breakfast as he worked, and then get back, as the sun rose
higher, and became warmer, to prepare a more luxurious breakfast for Frodo when
he rose later. Frodo had felt initially as if he was imposing on Sam, who had
never cooked meals regularly for him before, but soon realized that Sam was
adamant about doing this for Frodo. Realizing the pleasure it gave Sam, he
quickly ceased his protestations and began to enjoy the improved quality of his
breakfasts.
Sam reserved the later afternoon hours for his chores back at Number Three
Bagshot Row. This gave the gaffer the opportunity to be elsewhere, which was
where he generally chose to be. Sam and his father had not exchanged more than a
bare minimum of words in the month since Marigold’s wedding. Sam had stopped by,
the next morning, to bundle up what clothes he had, but the gaffer had not been
about then, either. But Sam had been determined not to be found lacking in
attention to his family, and made sure that any gardening or household chores
were attended to promptly.
He had tried once, in the first few weeks of his residence at Bag End, to
question Daisy about it, but she had halted her spreading of the wet laundry on
the hedge, and eyed Sam without comment for several moments, making him feel
like a young lad caught sneaking a extra piece of bread-and-butter again. Then
she shook her head, and went back to the shirt she was spreading out. “Leave it
be, Sam” she stated flatly. Glancing back over at him, she softened somewhat at
his expression, but nonetheless continued firmly, “He’d not be a’that angry w’ye,
but he hasn’t the words to talk w’ye yet. Just leave it be.” And Sam had.
In addition, there was Rosie. Rosie Cotton had come to stay with the older
Gamgee girls, giving up her room at home to the newly-weds to use until their
own smial was dug out. May had been delighted, since she had always been fond of
Rosie, and in addition, the Cottons knew all the best families around Hobbiton.
Daisy was grateful May still had someone else about to chatter to. Sam, however,
found visits home all the more awkward.
Evenings, though, Sam quickly decided, evenings were glorious. With the
lengthened days, and what with summer being the busy season it was for Sam, he
scarcely saw Frodo at all during daylight. Tea-time had become a more hurried
affair, and frequently there was a task or two yet to be done before Sam could
stop for the day. But the evenings more than compensated. To sit with Frodo in
the study after dinner (and Sam had insisted on preparing that, as well - Frodo
had been in the habit of polishing off the tea leftovers which, to Sam’s mind,
were in no way a proper meal for a hobbit) was pure bliss for Sam. Frodo took
delight in reading and explaining what he had worked on during the day, and
found Sam to be a responsive audience. Other evenings, they would simply watch
the flames, side by side on the settle, content with idle conversation. And
other nights, especially when the moon was silvery full, they would walk out in
the garden, hands clasped, and Sam would be minded of the trip through the
ice-storm, and how he had felt that night.
But there would come the time, every night, when Frodo would turn to him with
that look, and no more need be said. The fires would be banked, the candles
snuffed, and Sam would follow Frodo down the Bag End hall, his heart singing.
And once more, in Frodo’s arms, he knew, with no doubt, that he was loved and
that he was home.
Frodo was helping Sam clear off the lunch things when he noticed that the
shoulder seam of Sam’s work shirt was beginning to separate. “Sam,” he pointed
out, “this is starting to give. Perhaps I should have another made for you.”
Sam shook his head at that, and continued rinse the dishes in the soapy water.
“No need,” he answered, rather tersely. “It’ll still mend.” Turning around as he
finished and drying his hands on the kitchen cloth, he added by way of
explanation, “It’s always been Daisy as sews my shirts.”
Turning to the kitchen door to return to the cucumber bed he’d been weeding out,
he added softly, more to himself, “She can’t be knowin’ as I need a new one.”
Frodo felt a pang of guilt as he watched him leave.
May was leaning towards the pink, but the green did bring out the highlights in
her auburn hair so very nicely. “Oh, I can’t be wearin’ both, now, can I?“ she
appealed to Rosie, who was sitting on the edge of the bed in their room. The
Cottons were to hold a party for the newly-wed couple in three nights, to
formally welcome them into Hobbiton society, and the question of the dress was
beginning to become urgent. She had questioned Rosie almost daily concerning the
guest list, and the list seemed very promising indeed. It had been a dreadful
shock to May, although she was sure that she had hidden it well, to find that
her younger sister had married before her. She was determined to remedy that
situation before the summer was out.
The finer points of this selection were an enthralling new concept to Rosie. She
had grown up the only lass in a household of lads, and her closest friend among
the Gamgee lasses had been Marigold, only a year older than she. But Marigold
had always worn whatever had been passed down from her sisters and had never
thought twice as to whether the color would bring out her eyes or not. May,
though, was quite different, and Rosie had begun to see how remiss she had been
about her own looks. Perhaps that was why Sam, on the rare occasions she saw him
nowadays, treated her with kindness, but no more than her brothers did. She was
determined to learn from May, for she had seen how the eyes of the lads always
followed her with admiration.
She had used to probe Marigold regarding Sam, but the youngest Gamgee had
suddenly become curiously silent on the subject of Sam’s doings, right before
her wedding. Rosie had decided that her timing must have needed improving, and
was patiently waiting for the new bride to settle in. But here was another
authority on not only Sam, but lads in general, and Rosie seized the
opportunity.
“Sam’s been that busy of late, I hav’na seen a bit of him about,” she suddenly
pointed out, with an ineffective show of nonchalance.
But May was distracted by the sight of her reflection in the treasured small bit
of silvered glass the Gamgee lasses used as a mirror. “Oh, aye,” she answered
absent-mindedly, “he’s been that busy up on the Hill.”
“Mr. Frodo must be right pleased to have someone as helpful as Sam about that
place o’his,” Rosie continued, bravely sticking to the subject. “I hear tell
it’s got rooms as no-one uses, it’s all that big.”
“Too big for the likes of one hobbit, be he gentlefolk or no,” May sniffed.
“Now, if Bag End were mine, I’d turn it out proper, I would…”
But the rest of her plans were not revealed as Daisy chose that moment to call
the younger two out to assist her in beating the mats on the line in the back
garden. And with the dust flying, and the giggling as they made up rhymes by
which to beat the worn floor mats, Rosie’s questions were quite forgotten.
That same afternoon, Frodo and Sam were returning from the back hill with pails
of hard-won blackberries. Sam’s prophecy had been correct, and it was a splendid
year for berries. Sam was pleased to find that there had been more than enough
for Frodo’s use, and that he’d be able, with Frodo’s consent of course, to offer
a few pails to the Cottons as a gift for the newly-weds. But blackberries were
never to be gained without cost, and he was weary, dirty, well-scratched, and
stained with berry juice. Frodo was in a similar state, having offered his help,
despite Sam’s misgivings.
“I never remember,” Frodo laughed as they rested on the grass for a moment
before climbing back down the hill, “ever getting quite this scratched before.
Of course, I was smaller the last time I went berrying, I suppose, and that
would account for it. It certainly is good to be out of that thicket though. The
breeze out here feels wonderful.” Closing his eyes, he turned to face the light
breeze, letting his dark hair be lifted from his face.
Sam watched him with a smile. How a hobbit that sweaty, dirty, and well-pricked
had any right to still look as beautiful as Frodo did just then was a mystery
that he knew he could never solve. He lay back on his elbows, still watching the
breeze lifting and tangling Frodo’s dark curls, and felt serenely happy.
Some time must have gone by when he felt Frodo gently shaking his shoulder, for
the sky was already beginning to darken. “No, don’t be tellin’ me as I nodded
off!” he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes and sitting up a trifle stiffly.
Frodo chuckled at his surprised expression. “You certainly did, Sam. You looked
as if you could use a nap, and I let you take one. It was far too lovely an
afternoon to do anything productive, anyway.”
“Aye, well, you should never ha’let a great lazy noddy as myself lay about like
that,” Sam grumbled softly as they got to their feet, collecting the pails of
berries.
“Lazy?” Frodo quirked up an eyebrow at that. “Really, Sam, you do drive yourself
a little hard at times.” But then with a smile, and a quick kiss to Sam’s cheek,
he added, ”I expect that’s the lack of something in your stomach that’s
speaking. We did miss lunch, after all, and we are in great danger of missing
tea as well. Goodness knows we can’t have that!”
Sam said no more.
When they got back, in the dusk, to Bag End, Sam emptied the pails into a large
earthenware bowl, and headed back out to the pump for bathwater. The kitchen
fire was urged into life, and the kettle put on. He filled the tub in the cozy
bathing room half-way with the cold water, and lit the candles. Soon the hot
water was ready as well, and it was added to the tub, steaming up at just the
proper temperature. Towels and a cake of soap were set on a small stool near by,
and all was ready. He returned to the kitchen, where he had left Frodo sipping a
quick cup of tea. “All ready, Frodo,” he announced, with brisk efficiency.
Frodo stood up, stretching a bit. “Ah, thank you, Sam, a hot bath is exactly
what I need just now, even more than food. It will be wonderful to get this
grime off.” But as he started to leave the kitchen, he turned around to look
back at Sam. “You’re looking a little ragged yourself, Sam,” he observed softly.
“Oh, aye,” Sam shrugged. “I suppose I’d best be havin’ a bath too, when you’re
through.”
Frodo, though, continued to look at him for a minute more, and then, with a
small movement of his shoulders as if coming to a decision, he reached for Sam’s
hand. “Come along, Samwise,” he murmured, and led a surprised Sam down the hall.
Entering the bathing room, Sam’s hand still firmly in his, he eyed the tub.
“Yes, I believe it’s big enough,” he stated firmly, and then turned to Sam,
added softly, “No need to wait, Sam.”
Sam immediately felt his face redden as he took in Frodo’s meaning. “Both of
us?” he asked, feeling an odd combination of awkwardness and excitement.
“I don’t see why not,” Frodo responded resolutely, the only sign of uncertainty
his reddened ear tip peeking out from his curls.
Sam glanced over at the bath again. Yes, it probably was large enough, although
they would fit in rather closely. Swallowing, he turned back to Frodo, but the
sight of the expression on Frodo’s face, of eagerness overcoming embarrassment,
suddenly made his heart lurch, and he whispered, “Well then. We’d best be gettin’
in afore the water cools.”
Although Sam was used enough to undressing in front of Frodo by now, and to
seeing Frodo undressed as well, it was normally in the bedroom, by the light of
the fire, or perhaps moonlight from the window. This was something entirely
different. He rapidly shed his dirty clothing, and turned to find Frodo, also
undressed, slipping into the steaming water. The sight of the candlelight
playing on Frodo’s slim, pale form was so breathtaking that for a moment, he
stopped, and watched, his breath catching at the sight. And then Frodo looked up
at him, and with a sudden smile, held out his arms. “Sam,” he murmured, and Sam
found he could move again.
Prompted by Frodo’s gentle guidance, he sank into the hot water, sitting against
Frodo, his back to Frodo’s chest. Frodo’s arms closed quickly about him, and he
raised his hands to hold them tight for a moment. Then Frodo reached for the
soap, and held it down in the water briefly. The scent of lavender was
noticeable in the steamy air as he raised the bar and began to lather Sam’s
back.
Sam felt as if he should protest, surely it was he who should be attending to
Frodo first, but it was so evident that Frodo wished to do this that he choked
it back, and let himself relax. Frodo’s fingers were strong and skilful, and Sam
felt knots of tightened muscles that he didn’t know he possessed being eased and
soothed by that sure touch. Dimly he realized that Frodo was humming under his
breath, some faint tune that Sam did not recognize, but surely never came from
the Shire.
“Now your hair, Sam,“ he heard Frodo’s quiet voice, close to his ear, along with
the briefest of kisses. Fearlessly, closing his eyes, he let himself fall back,
into Frodo’s arms, allowing his head to float in the warm water. Frodo had
resumed his humming, and that caressing touch was now lifting his wet, tangled
curls, soaping them carefully, heedful of keeping the suds from his eyes, and
gently rinsing them. And in between, there were soft touches to his face, that
had nothing to do with the task at hand, and then the soft brush of a kiss on
his forehead. At that, he opened his eyes to see Frodo tenderly smiling down at
him, his blue eyes dark in the flickering of the candlelight. And how could
Frodo do that? How could Frodo pierce his heart so until he didn’t know if it
was pain or joy that he was feeling, or perhaps some of both?
“Oh, me dear,” Sam sighed, turning to throw his arms around Frodo’s neck and the
soap bar was quickly cast aside. And there was room, after all, for them to
embrace, and slide into the water together.
Daisy frowned, examining the back tool shed with concern. The snows of the past
winter had been hard on it, and the tilt to one side was beginning to be
apparent. But the gaffer’s tools needed to be kept covered, and Sam had left
some of his there as well. “They may as well be kept in the front room,” she
thought in resignation, “for all the use we have of it.”
Rosie would be leaving soon enough, Tom and Marigold’s smial was nearly
complete. And Daisy fully expected to be attending another sister’s wedding by
fall, although to whom was not yet clear. Which left her and the gaffer.
Going back to her task of cleaning out the chicken coop, she shooed the three
red hens out into the yard and permitted herself a sigh but no more. “What
cannot be changed, must be borne,” she told herself sternly, “and this task
needs must be completed.” After all, Marigold’s party was on the morrow, and
there’d be no time then.
May eyed the sky that morning with trepidation. Rain would be disastrous. Her
cloak had barely made in through the last winter, and was looking decidedly
shabby. Rosie followed her out of the smial and studied the clouds on the
horizon with her. “No,” she finally determined, turning to May with a laugh.
“Too much of a breeze. And look, May, they’d be the fluffy white sort. Not a
drop in those.”
May’s brow smoothed out again. The lass was right. “Well, then,” she sighed in
relief, linking arms with May, and walking out into the orchard, “we’re to be
there at lunch, now?”
“A bit earlier,” Rosie reminded her. “Ma’s looking to us to help be settin’ up.
Jolly’s there, but the two little’uns aren’t much of a use.” Pausing for a
moment, she added wistfully, “Jolly would na mind a bit of help from Sam. You’d
know when he might be comin’?”
“Oh, there’s no tellin’, now that he’s so fine, livin’ up on the Hill,” May
waved her hand in dismissal.
“He’d be comin’ now, won’t he?” Rosie suddenly stopped, her eyes wide. “He’d be
knowin’ about today?”
“Sam’s reliable enough if there’s a fine feast to be had,” May laughed at
Rosie’s fears. “Don’t you worrit, now. He’d not be missin’ his sister’s party.”
Sam eyed his reflection in Frodo’s looking glass nervously, the late morning
light streaming through the bedroom window. He was still not accustomed to the
sight, even if he appeared to himself to be an unremarkable enough hobbit. His
nervousness, however, was not on behalf of his appearance.
He ran his hand through his hair and turned to go. Frodo was standing in the
bedroom doorway, watching him. “The last time you were wearing that weskit was
at the wedding,” he observed, his gaze on Sam intent.
“Aye, sure enough. It’d be my good one,” Sam shrugged.
Frodo paused and then mentioned quietly, “That was the night I thought I
wouldn’t see you again.”
“Oh, Frodo,” Sam was over to him in a moment, holding him tightly, nestling his
head reflexively on Frodo’s shoulder. “I would have come back to you, even if it
ha’been years.”
“I know you would have, Sam,” Frodo held him closely, “but they would have been
such lonely years. And now, now I can’t even imagine…” He closed his eyes, and
then kissed the side of Sam’s face.
“Well, I expect your family is waiting for you,” Frodo straightened up suddenly
and held Sam at an arm’s length. “Give Tom and your sister my best wishes. Tell
me all about it tonight.”
Sam turned to leave and then looked back. “I wish you could be comin’ too,” he
said wistfully.
Frodo laughed slightly and shook his head. “I imagine I’d be rather a damper on
the whole occasion,” he stated dryly. “Not to worry, Sam. I’ll keep myself
occupied.”
It was well into the afternoon when Sam found an opportunity to talk to Daisy.
Jolly had been glad enough to see him, and had quickly taken him in charge.
There were casks to be hauled, a dance field to be set up, and several benches
and tables to be set in place. His younger brothers, Nick and Nibs, were willing
enough, but still a little on the reedy side for this sort of work, and he
couldn’t very well ask Tom. “Why, I’m that sorry, Jolly,” Sam gasped
regretfully, as they made their way down the back path, each with the end of a
heavy table in their grasp. “I should ha’thought you’d be needin’ a bit o’help.”
Gratefully they both let go, the table in its proper place. Sam flexed his hands
and rubbed them against his trouser leg. “Why didn’t ye just come haul me down
in the Hill? I could’ve been here sooner.”
“Ah, well,” Jolly shook his head, shaking his hands out as well, “I don’like to
be botherin’ Mr. Frodo now.”
“He would na’mind,” Sam answered quietly, but Jolly said no more, and they
headed back to the smial for the benches.
The other guests had begun to arrive at that point, and Sam looked up from a
cask that he had just laid down to see the gaffer enter the back garden gate,
accompanied by Daisy. May and Rosie were right behind, May giggling and glancing
quickly about at the other guests, and Rosie was laughing too. But she caught
sight of Sam straightaway, nodding her head slightly, her face flushing
suddenly. Sam, with a sinking heart, returned the nod, and gratefully watched
May swoop towards a knot of lads near the food, Rosie firmly in tow.
He turned back to the gaffer, but he had seated himself in the corner along with
Tolman Cotton. As the fathers of the happy couple, guests kept making their way
to them to pay their respects, and Sam realized that there would be no chance of
a private word with the gaffer until late in the day, if at all. He had received
a nod from his father, but that was all, and he could not read the mood behind
that nod.
So he found Marigold, giving his sister a hug that made her give a faint squeal.
“Well, Mistress Cotton, if you don’t look that beautiful today,” he exclaimed
fondly, and truly she did, fair glowing with happiness.
“Ah, Sam, I’ve missed you,” she laughed affectionately, “and you must be our
very first guest after we’ve moved into our new home, and then I’ll be Mistress
Cotton indeed.” But she was quickly swept away at that point by May at her most
commanding, in dire need of certain introductions.
Sam walked out to the trees at the back of the field, finding there, as he had
expected, Daisy sitting on the trunk of a fallen pine, watching the proceedings
from afar. He sat down beside her without a word, and was rewarded with a faint
smile from Daisy. For a time, they viewed the festivities in a companionable
silence, and then Daisy turned to him thoughtfully.
“You should be dancing, Sam,” she told him, with a slight hint of reproach in
her voice. “There’d be one as has been waitin’ for you.”
“Rosie,” Sam sighed, looking down at his hands.
“Aye,” Daisy answered crisply. “An’ what will ye be tellin’ that lass, now?”
“But it was never me as said anything at all,” Sam clasped his hands together
and continued to stare at them.
Daisy chuckled briefly at that, and reaching over, gave Sam’s clasped hands a
brief pat. “Samwise, you can’t have grown with three lasses about, and not be
knowin’ the way a lass can build a palace out of a look, whether it be meant as
such, or no?” Turning back to watch the dancers again, she added, “And that lass
has built herself a fair one, I daresay. You be careful how you go about knockin’
it down.”
At that, Sam gathered up all his courage, and asked his sister what he should
have a month ago. “Tell me, Daisy, who’d be knowin’?” And as she looked quickly
back at him, he added, in a quiet voice, “About me and Mr. Frodo?”
She stared at him for a moment without answering. Then she said slowly, “Anyone
as saw him say goodbye to you that night. But I reckon that’d be me, Da, and
Tolman Cotton. And I’m sure Marigold had it worked out likewise.” Turning her
attention back to the dancers, she smiled briefly, “I’d not be knowin’ about
May. That lass has had her attention elsewhere as of late.” Her expression
became serious again as she turned back to Sam. “The both o’ye have scarcely
poked your noses out o’Bag End for the last month, Sam. That can’t be lastin’,
and so tales will spread. You best be ready for it.”
Sam gave her a regretful glance. “I know,” he answered softly.
Frodo got up from his desk with a gesture of impatience. The study suddenly
seemed closed in and confining, too reminiscent of the long days when he had
lived in Bag End alone. He was feeling oddly anxious, as the afternoon wore on,
with an edginess that was only increasing as he tried to focus his attention
elsewhere. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he stalked down the hallways of the
smial and out the round front door, irritated with himself and eager for fresh
air.
There was still light for several hours more, this close to mid-summer, and the
air was still warm and fragrant with the honeysuckle that grew around the
doorway of Bag End. There was no-one about, of course, as he stared down the
Row. Then the thought came to him as to how long it had been since he had
visited the Green Dragon. Surely, there would be someone about the place with
whom he could lift a mug or two, and, he realized with undeniable relief, he
would not be running into Gaffer Gamgee nor, likely enough, any of his cronies.
He reached inside the doorway for the jacket that usually hung there, and,
humming to himself, set off down the Row.
Business at the Dragon was fairly light that evening, the Cotton party having
siphoned off a rather considerable amount of business, so the proprietor greeted
him heartily. Ned Proudfoot called out a greeting as he turned around, full mug
in hand, and he found a place quickly made for him at the table Ned and his
friends were occupying.
Time went by, in a congenial manner, until Frodo noticed that it was past
dinnertime, and that Sam might be returning back to Bag End sometime soon. But
before he could get up and pay his farewells, someone he recognized all too well
strode through the Dragon’s entrance.
“Well, if it isn’t the Master on the Hill,” drawled Lotho Sackville-Baggins,
stopping in front of the table where Frodo sat.
“Lotho,” Frodo acknowledged his cousin in clipped tones, briefly nodding his
head.
“It’s been awhile since you’ve made time for us peasants now, hasn’t it,” Lotho
continued on, causing Ted Sandyman, following in his wake as usual, to snigger
unpleasantly.
Frodo’s table companions leveled unfriendly looks at the newcomers, and Ned set
down his mug in a business-like way.
But Lotho continued, undeterred. “Oh, that‘s right, you have that young lad
living on the hill with you as well now. Let me see, the name escapes me, one of
the gardener’s brats, I believe?” Tapping the side of his nose with a mock
warning gesture, he added in a loud whisper, “Best be counting the spoons,
Cousin Frodo.”
Frodo rose, facing Lotho and Ted, and the entire inn suddenly hushed with
palpable interest. “No need,” he answered coolly and clearly. “Although Cousin
Bilbo used to have to count them rather regularly, as I remember. But then your
mother hasn’t paid a visit since Bilbo left. My best to her, Lotho.” Turning, he
nodded to his companions, “Evening, gentle-hobbits,” and walked out into the
night, leaving behind Lotho with his face red and his fists clenched.
The exchange quickly passed into Green Dragon lore.
Sam was slowly surfacing up from the deepest of sleeps. There was something
trying to draw itself to his attention, but he was very reluctant to acknowledge
the intrusion. Frodo was wrapped most thoroughly around him, one arm across his
chest, nose tucked well into the side of Sam’s neck, and legs entwined in the
most complex way with his own. He heard Frodo give a sleepy growl and let
himself drift back off again. They had been awake well into the night, after
all. Sam, particularly, had not wanted to talk about the party, but rather had
held on to Frodo with tenacity and fervor, and Frodo had been more than willing
to let actions speak louder than words. But the morning sun was strong through
the east-ward facing window, and then the noise repeated itself.
With a start, Sam realized that the sound was that of a loud thumping on Bag
End’s front door. “The door, Frodo,” he hissed, shaking Frodo awake, “the door!”
Frodo sat up suddenly at that, and narrowed his eyes. “Merry and Pippin,” he
declared with resignation. “Those two can never manage to arrive at a reasonable
hour.”
“Were you expectin’ them?” Sam, sitting up as well, asked, startled.
“Never am,” Frodo answered flatly. “All part of the fun for them, you know.” He
got out of bed, hastily throwing on whatever clothing he could find.
“But what about..” Sam stopped short, staring at Frodo.
“Us?” Frodo answered softly. Sitting back on the side of the bed, he bent over
and kissed Sam most thoroughly. “Think about it, Sam,” he murmured, standing up
again as the attack on the front door recommenced. “We’ll have to decide, won’t
we.”
A short while later, the visitors were seated in the kitchen, watching Sam
quickly frying sausage-and-onions, while Frodo sliced the bread, and started the
tea steeping.
“So you’re staying with Frodo, now, Sam?” asked Pippin cheerily.
Sam studied the frying pan carefully as Frodo quickly answered for him. “As a
matter of fact, he’s taken on some of the household chores, as well as the
gardening,” he said smoothly, bringing over the teapot and cups. “Bilbo was such
a wonderful cook, he quite spoiled me. Sam has been kind enough to step in, I’m
horribly hopeless at that sort of thing.” Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo
caught Sam’s quick grateful smile.
It wasn’t until after lunch that Frodo was able to find Sam alone. Sam had been
digging trenches around the tomatoes when Frodo came out of the Bag End kitchen
door and walked over to him. “They’ve nodded off, the both of them,” he
exclaimed with relief, sitting down on the path next to where Sam was kneeling.
Sam sat back on his heels and gave Frodo a steady look. “What now, Frodo?” he
asked softly.
Frodo gazed steadily back at him. “It’s up to you, Sam,” he said quietly. “I’ll
tell them as much as you wish me to.”
Sam bent his glance back down to the spade in his hand at that. He remained
silent for a moment, and then gave a slight sigh. “I’d not want them knowin’,
not yet,” he looked back to Frodo, uncertainly. And suddenly, Frodo was reminded
of how young Sam was, as he saw Sam’s vulnerable expression. “I would na know
how t’act, I would na know my place…”
“Sam,” Frodo breathed at that, moving to enclose Sam in his arms. “Your place is
in my heart. Always, Sam.”
“I’d never doubt you, me dear,” Sam laid his head on Frodo’s encircling arm, his
voice muffled. “But ‘tis not my place in the world. You and your cousins, you’d
be gentle-folk, I could never be.” Raising his head, he looked back pleadingly
to Frodo. “I’ll stay in the back room. It’d not be forever.”
Frodo lifted his hands, enclosing Sam’s face. “If you wish, love,” he said
soberly. “But I promise you, those two may not know it yet, but this promises to
be a very short visit.” Bending forward, he kissed Sam slowly and emphatically,
and all the world could have seen for all that he cared. And Sam’s arms held him
tightly.
“Quite good, Sam, really quite good,” Merry rose from the dinner table,
stretching luxuriously.
Sam, collecting the well-scraped dishes, glanced quickly over at Merry, who was
sticking his thumbs in the pockets of his yellow brocade weskit in a rather
satisfied manner.
Pippin, also rising, nodded his head. “Quite as good as Cook,” he added, with
the air of one bestowing the ultimate accolade.
Sam gave a slight smile at that. “ ‘Twas my mam as showed me,” he murmured.
“Thank’ee, Mr. Pippin.” Arms full, he left for the kitchen.
Frodo’s eyes had followed Sam, but he was quickly reminded of present company by
Merry. “Frodo, my lad, you look as if you are somewhere else entirely. Should
have had a bit of a rest with us after lunch. you know.”
“I know, let’s have a smoke,” Pippin spoke up happily. “I’ve just got my first
long pipe, you know.”
Frodo laughed fondly at that, and rising up as well, giving Pippin’s shoulder an
affectionate squeeze. “Then we shall delay no longer. To the study then, lad,
and show us how it’s done.”
He saw Sam no more that evening.
“Here’s some shirts I’d not be seein’ afore,” Daisy raised her eyebrows as Sam
brought the laundry bundle down to her a couple days later.
“Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin,” Sam explained. He stopped short and stared at the
tool shed in the back garden of the Gamgee smial. “That wants proppin’” he
stated in surprise. “Why were you not tellin’ me, Daisy?”
“Because they’d only be so much as you can do in a day, Samwise,” she answered
crisply. “An’ what would they be thinkin’, you livin’ so fine on the Hill with
Mr. Frodo an’ all?” she continued, not to be deterred from her original subject.
“Oh, they just think I’m there to be givin’ him a bit of help,” he answered
carefully. Pointing to the base of the shed, he added, “We’d be needin’ a bit
more wood there. Snow rot, I’m thinkin’.”
“So Mr. Frodo would want to keep it quiet-like,” she sighed, bundling the shirts
up again in a sheet.
“No, that’d not be it at all,” Sam quickly turned around to face her, distress
clear on his face. “It’s just that, well, Mr. Merry now, he’d be the Master of
Buckland. An’ even Mr. Pippin, someday he’s to be the Thain. Me, I’m naught but
a gardener.”
“Mr. Frodo seems to find you more that that,” Daisy watched her younger brother
steadily.
Sam swallowed. “Aye, that he does,“ he said softly, and turned to go.
Sam lay in the narrow bed and stared up into the darkness. The back room had
been meant for servants of visitors to Bag End, and thus had no window. The room
was snug enough, with no drafts such as his old room back at Number Three had
had, but it was still cool, nonetheless. The last few days had seemed endless to
him, and, as much as it was good to see Frodo enjoying the time with his
cousins, he fervently wished they would go. How quickly had his life with Frodo
seemed to be all that there ever was, and he dully wished he had the courage to
stand up to the scorn of Frodo’s cousins to reclaim it. He could never imagine
them seeing him with Frodo and not thinking that Frodo should have been able to
do better.
Then he noticed the soft sound of footsteps down the hall, and the slow careful
creak of the door of his room being opened as stealthily as possible.
His heart leapt up as he heard that beloved voice whisper, ”Sam?”
“Frodo!” he gasped, sitting up at once.
“Sam, where are you? I have no idea where anything is in this room.”
“Here, Frodo, I’m here.” Quickly springing from the bed, he headed for where he
knew the door to be, and found an outstretched hand.
In an instant, he was in Frodo’s arms, and Frodo was holding him tightly indeed.
“I thought I would go mad if I had to hear ‘Mr. Frodo’ one more time,” Frodo
explained tersely, feverishly kissing the side of Sam’s face.
“Ah, Frodo, I’m that sorry,” Sam groaned, his hands running up Frodo’s back,
discovering nothing but a light nightshirt on him. Finding Frodo’s face in the
dark with his hands, he met Frodo’s lips with his own, and opened his mouth to
him desperately. Breaking away for only a moment, Sam breathed, “Come to bed
with me, Frodo-love.”
“Yes, dearest,” Frodo mumbled, trailing kisses unerringly down Sam’s throat,
“just show me where it is.”
Sam backed up to where he knew the bed to be, unwilling to break contact with
Frodo, not even for a moment. As he felt the back of his legs hit the side of
the bed, he grabbed the nightshirt Frodo was wearing and yanked it hurriedly up.
“Ah, careful, Sam dear, give me a bit of warning,” Frodo laughed breathlessly,
but stopped his assault on Sam’s throat long enough to rapidly pull it over his
head and cast it into the darkness. And then Sam’s hands were on him and it was
deliciously Frodo under his touch, that body that Sam knew so very well. The
slender chest, the flat stomach with the delightful swelling of hipbones on
either side and there in the center, ah yes, he knew that too.
At Sam’s eager but caressing touch, Frodo groaned deep in his throat, his hands
pausing to grip Sam’s shoulders, the strong fingers unknowingly digging in, as
he leaned, yes, leaned and pushed into Sam’s grasp.
Then quickly, as if recalling himself, he pulled away, choking out, ”No! You
too, Sam, you too…”
Sam had also been wearing a nightshirt, but Frodo hastily pulled it up and off,
and if Sam heard it tear as it came off him, he couldn’t have cared less. And
then Frodo’s hands were on him as well, and Sam fell back on the bed, holding
Frodo tightly to him as he cried, “Frodo! Oh, Frodo!”
Sam felt strong hands lifting his legs onto the bed and then there was Frodo’s
mouth on his, Frodo’s body on his, and there was nothing else ever for him but
that. He felt Frodo’s tongue in his mouth and he answered back joyously with his
own. He felt Frodo’s hand running down his side and then on him, holding him,
stroking him, and he answered in kind. And then there was no more time for
hands, there was Frodo clutching him tightly and grinding gloriously against
him, and he answered with his whole being, lifting himself up against Frodo
again and again, with incoherent cries of love and ecstasy, until finally he
felt Frodo shudder and groan in release, and he answered that as well.
Frodo lay limply over him for a few moments, the both of them gasping and
struggling to regain their breath. Then Frodo rolled over next to him and
stroked the side of Sam’s face. It mattered not to Sam that he couldn’t see
Frodo’s expression just then, for Frodo’s touch said everything. “I’d better go,
then,” Frodo finally said, with clear regret. He smoothed Sam’s hair back with a
loving touch and, finding his mouth once more in the dark, gave Sam a last
lingering kiss. “Oh, Sam,” he sighed quietly then, his hand still gentle on
Sam’s face. “I love you so.”
Sam covered Frodo’s hand with his own, but did not trust his voice to say
anything.
He heard Frodo one last time as he reached the door. “I have no idea where my
shirt went, Sam dear.”
Pippin thought he heard quiet footsteps in the hall pass by the room where he
and Merry generally stayed. Curious, he opened the door a bit and thought he saw
a glimpse of Frodo entering his room, next to theirs. “Odd,” he thought to
himself, ”it’s not that warm tonight.” He went back to bed, but had unusual
dreams that night.
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