"Sam, won't you come down? The water's lovely. Almost warm, if you can believe it!"

"More than half Brandybuck indeed. You know full well what I've to say to that."

"Too well," Frodo sighed, and dived under.

From his spot high on the Brandywine's grassy bank, Sam watched Frodo glide beneath the glassy ripples as if he were a creature never meant for land. In a few smooth strokes, he had swum the distance from the broad midstream shallows to the shore. Frodo surfaced with a purposeful splash. Sam groaned and recoiled.

"See here, a breeze's picking up! Want us both to catch our death of a chill, do you?"

"A few drops ought to do you good, Sam. Just as you're forever insisting I get a little sun. I daresay I've gotten more than my fill," Frodo winced, running his fingertips hard over a patch of his pale, dripping arm. The white flesh flooded with stinging pink.

Sam frowned. "Come here before the wind gets the better of you. It's picking up. I'll not have you both burned and frostbitten."

Frodo glanced up at the swaying leaves against a darkening sky. He shivered as the sun faded, brushing the worst of the water from his bare skin. He stepped lightly to the blanket, falling beside Sam with another soft wince. Sam extended a cautious hand, bringing it to rest on Frodo's shoulder, brushing tentatively. Frodo flinched.

"I said you ought to've come in half an hour ago," Sam chided, lightening his touch, letting his fingers trail up to Frodo's similarly tinged cheek. "Bless you, you're warm as a stone, and shivering somethin' awful. Come here."

Frodo needed no coaxing. "Why are you always right?" he murmured through chattering teeth, nuzzling at Sam's neck, seeking heat. Sam held him tight, glancing up thoughtfully as the clouds passed once more, leaving them bathed in sunlight.

"I owe a lot to my Gaffer," he mused, pinching Frodo payfully, "but you ought to know that better'n anyone! And it seems to me he once said that the best way to chase off cold is skin on skin, if you follow."

Frodo toyed with Sam's collar, grinning. "If my life is in danger, then I suppose I can endure it. For pity's sake!" Frodo burst into laughter. "The river's coaxed you out of your clothes whether you like it or not, for it coaxed me out of mine first. And there's no doubt my lack of them has--"

"Oh, hush," Sam grunted, making quick work of his own buttons when he tired of Frodo's teasing, slow progress. He shrugged out of his shirt and made quicker work still of his breeches. Bemused, Frodo took the loose flap in his hands and gave a suggestive tug.

"This poses quite a difficulty. Your lap is comfortable, Sam. I can't bear to part with it, but it seems your trousers can."

Sam grinned. "Then, without further to-do," he murmured, grasping Frodo firmly about the waist, "let's not disappoint them." Sam set Frodo aside authoritatively and jumped to his feet.

"At the price of disappointing me?" Frodo asked, staring up with distinctly pitiful eyes. "That's hardly a fair trade."

"Oh, isn't it?" Sam feigned nonchalance, lazily shucking his breeches down and kicking them aside. He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, feet spread apart, gazing down. Frodo's lips parted a fraction, his cheeks darkening even as his eyes drained and sharpened with want.

"I...uhm, I'm...not sure...anymore. Perhaps I'll reconsider."

Sam raised his eyebrows, tilting his head. "Will you, now?"

Frodo's body gathered in a crouch, ready to pounce. "As a matter of fact--"

Sam descended on Frodo before he could complete the thought. Sam swallowed his surprised yelp, drinking deeply of the eager tongue and resulting whimpers as he settled himself firmly atop Frodo. And he was certainly in no hurry, though Frodo pleaded the opposite extremity.

"Sam, you're not...making this any..easier. How am I supposed to--ohfortheloveof--seduce you if you're so--oh!--bent on...umm, on me. Sam!"

"Hmm?" Sam mumbled, tracing a languid path from Frodo's knee to his hip. "This isn't what you had in mind? Looks to me like you got what you were askin'. Hold still. I cant reach your--mmm. Frodo, what are you--"

"Doing?" Frodo panted, succeeding in his attempt to wrestle Sam onto his back by way of a cleverly placed nibble. "You."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. "I suppose that would be..."

He couldn't find the strength to finish. Not when Frodo's fingers were creeping up the backs of his thighs, almost squeezing. Not when Frodo's mouth was working heated wonders on the hollow of his throat, suckling a greedy flush up from the very tips of his toes. Sam shuddered beneath Frodo's warm, slight weight.

"Oh--oh, you," he gasped, closing his eyes against the dizzy heat swelling up to meet Frodo's busy hips. "How...how is it that...unm, mmm--"

Frodo paused, raising his head. "That what?" he whispered, his hair falling in damp spirals across his forehead, his nostrils flaring, cheeks aflame.

"No don't stop!" Sam cried, catching Frodo tight about the waist, clasping him. "Not now...Frodo, Frodo, Frodo," he groaned low and in Frodo's ear, allowing one hand to slide up and tangle in his dark curls. "That close..."

Frodo's breath caught this time, escaping after long seconds as a taut whimper. "Oh, me too," he gasped, head dropping to Sam's shoulder with a helpless sob. He ground twice as fast into Sam's matching ache.

Sam closed his eyes and held on fiercely, lips parted in ecstatic dismay. Could this be the hobbit he'd known since childhood? Dear, kind Mr. Frodo who one day turned from mentor to friend with all an Elf-lord's grace? This spirit so dear and familiar that it could be naught but the missing half of his own? This body...this body...

"Frodo," Sam pleaded, running his fingers dazedly down Frodo's damp back, "let me...let me...!"

"How could I stop you?" Frodo moaned, teeth briefly grazing Sam's collarbone, giving permission with the gentle shifting of his weight to one side.

Sam gasped with delight as he rolled Frodo over, settling as he had before, coaxing insistent tremors from him. Their limbs knew precisely where to go; this entanglement had been with them since their first union over two weeks previous. Sam's rhythm was slower, more searching. And beneath it, Frodo writhed, fading fast.

"I still," Sam whispered in Frodo's ear, "like this best."

Frodo's only response was a choked whimper. He tucked his head in the curve of Sam's neck, panting hard. Sam gathered the quiver in Frodo's lower body close with gentle hands at the small of his back.

"Stop...worrying about me, d'you hear?" he gasped in Frodo's ear. "I--want--you!"

"Ohhhyouhaveme---!"

Sam's heart turned a wild somersault as Frodo's cry broke at the peak of an arching crescendo, fading into parched nothingness as his body fell limp. Sam claimed Frodo's tremulous breath and found triumph in a last quickened thrust. Frodo stirred at Sam's muted cry, limbs moving slowly to anchor and soothe.

"Frodo."

"Oh...oh, I...dearly love to hear you," Frodo managed, finding his lips reluctant to obey. He rubbed Sam's lower back, knowing him to be as fond of it as Frodo was himself. Sam breathed another soft moan, fingers clutching weakly at the blanket.

"Goodness," Frodo whispered, stroking Sam's sun-tinted hair off his forehead. "I think you're done for. Why didn't you tell me it was one of those?" He shifted with a soft grunt, managing to roll Sam over so that he could slide over him like a blanket, leaving shaken kisses against his ear. "Next time, you're going to lie back and enjoy it, do you understand, Samwise Gamgee?"

"Hmm."

"For your sake, that had better be a yes."

Sam sighed, reaching up to touch Frodo's cheek. Frodo clasped his hand there, turning his mouth against the palm, bestowing a light kiss. Sam broke into a thoughtful grin.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." Frodo glared and bore down hard against his belly. "Uff! What in the world was that for--"

Frodo was laughing so hard that Sam cut off midsentence and stared in bafflement.

"What in the world do you think?" Frodo murmured, bending to tenderly press his lips to Sam's, his tongue slipping deftly between them. Sam winced with pleasure and let his arms slide languorously up Frodo's back, crossing at his shoulders, kneading them.

"I think," announced a clear, strong voice from somewhere near the water, "that you two ought to be a bit more considerate about your use of the property. Buckland may be lawless, but there are a few regulations."

"We ought to know," piped a second. "We've broken every one of 'em!" There was a brief scuffle and a splash, followed immediately by a high-pitched yelp.

"Serves you right, Pip," Merry admonished, glancing at Frodo and Sam with vast amusement. Sam had gone nigh as red as a strawberry. Frodo was glaring so fiercely that Merry turned away for a moment to help a floundering Pippin stand. "You two need some lightening up," he called over his shoulder, bundling the naked, shivering Took up in his arms, planting a kiss on his forehead. "And you do that on purpose."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about, Merry," Pippin murmured, nuzzling his cousin's cheek.

"I'd say you just broke one," Frodo remarked coolly, tugging one side of the blanket over himself and Sam. "As I recall, your parents didn't appreciate it the night we came bursting in on--"

Merry closed his eyes and groaned. "Don't remind me." Pippin swung his legs and snickered, which earned him a decisive slap on the backside.

"Aaah! Merry, that wasn't--"

"I'll show you what's necessary, you imp of a Took," Merry informed him curtly, turning back in the direction from whence they had come, massaging the stinging spot on Pippin's bottom thoughtfully. He kissed his younger cousin's forehead and cast a mischievous look over his shoulder at Sam and Frodo. "And if it's a hint you want, those two have the right idea. Dinner's at five, mind you. Mum won't be happy if her table's empty despite the fact it's overflowin'."

Frodo nodded and waved Merry off with an impatient sigh, watching until he had disappeared into the foliage with his squirming burden. Sam's gently inquiring hands tugged his attention back immediately. Frodo shivered as they crept up his back, bracing firmly as Sam rolled them to one side, winding further into the blanket. They lay listening for long peaceful moments, lulled by the whisper of water.

Frodo closed his eyes, murmuring against Sam's chest. "I could fall asleep like this...and never wake." He pursed his lips against warm skin, savoring the moment.

Sam combed at Frodo's hair thoughtfully, pressed his own lips to Frodo's brow. "I could hold you for ten times that, and no mistake...but we'd best be off up the hill before too long, I reckon--Frodo?"

The other hobbit had stiffened and sucked in his breath. Sam rubbed his back soothingly. Frodo did not respond.

"I know it's as sore a spot as any you've got right now, Mr. Frodo, and seemingly that's most of you. But you can't go forgettin' why we've come all this way--"

"Merry--"

"Happens to live here, and that Took might as well, too, and it's all well and good that Master Saradoc's keeping us a few days. But don't you forget why we've come."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably, and when he spoke, he sounded almost hurt. "How could you, of all hobbits, accuse me of..." He trailed off, but his fingers flexed against Sam's back, tense with warning.

Sam pressed Frodo flat beneath himself, looking straight into his eyes. "Don't you give me that. Not after yesterday evenin', Mr. Frodo, don't you dare," Sam whispered, wide-eyed. "'Twas you who said we ought to in the first place. Same with my Gaffer. You sayin' I'd have to tell him sometime. But...but yesterday..." Sam faltered, lowering his head quickly so that Frodo would not see him cry, though it made little difference.

Frodo choked softly, his arms tightening about Sam. "Oh, how could I ever--why does it...why does this feel so different? So much different than looking--"

Bell Gamgee in the eye.

Frodo would never forget the look awaiting him behind the modest green door of Number Three Bagshot Row. As ten minutes of nervously waiting at Sam's side (clad in his second-finest embroidery, after long agonizing moments following their bath that Sam had not been privy to) stretched to fifteen, then twenty, even Sam had begun to fidget and pace.

They had spent the night before curled up before Bag End's blazing hearth, wound tightly in a pile of down blankets and each other, kissing and tangling their way blindly through the aftermath of something they had perhaps tried too soon, but had salvaged quite comfortably all the same. They had fallen asleep before the knock came. Late the next morning, Sam was first to wake and notice his mother's handwriting against a rectangle of cream on the tiled floor. Frodo had blinked his way into hazy wakefulness through Sam's hurried kiss, stared a bit blankly at the paper in his hand.

An invitation. To dinner, no less. Signed, in addition, by the Gaffer.

Frodo had bitten his lip, glanced up at Sam, said nothing. Sam had shoved the paper aside on the floor and climbed groggily back into their nest, and had seen to it Frodo couldn't speak properly for another half an hour or so besides. "We have all day to get ready," he had murmured softly in Frodo's ear. "Don't you let her worry you. Not one bit. That's my concern, that is."

"But she's--but you're--I'm--"

Frodo couldn't continue, not when Sam was so ready within his reach.

And there they had shuffled their feet, many hours later, kept waiting until at last, no less than twenty minutes later by Frodo's reckoning, the mistress of Number Three opened the door with a grand flourish. Frodo and Sam had frozen on the spot, each ready to speak and neither saying a word. Frodo had swallowed and stared.

Not a good time to realize that Sam had his mother's eyes.

"Dear me, but I hope I haven't kept you overlong?" Bell asked, eyebrows raised, her voice a deceptively soft, high chime of sweetness. Frodo shook his head too quickly, opening his mouth. Sam had the same idea.

"By no means, Ma'am--"

"'Course not, Mum--"

They both stopped, having spoken perfectly in unison. Bell clucked softly, motioning them inside. "Stewed chicken and your Gaffer's finest taters, Samwise. These things can't be rushed, surely your Mr. Frodo knows...?"

Frodo shot Sam a sidelong glance as they followed Bell's plump, bustling backside into the smial.

"Of course. Sam prepares it on a regular basis, and as finely as you please."

Bell gave a brief cluck of approval and motioned for them to sit on a carved, high-backed bench laid out with plump home-stuffed cushions before the fire. She nodded with curt approval as they settled themselves, tapping one finger against her pursed lips.

"Well. You lads wait until you're called, then. Your father and I haven't quite finished," she informed them, giving Sam a mildly hard look. "Bread pudding with currants, you know." With that, she swept off.

Frodo slumped against Sam's shoulder. "She has daggers for me."

Sam slid a tentative arm around Frodo, glancing about the room. "She has'em for me, too, and don't you forget it."

"Oh, Sam, I'm sorry. I know..."

"She's sent the rest away. There ain't another soul here."

"Except your Gaffer?"

Sam nodded gravely. "Sisters must be off up the road at Proudfoot's by now, with his lasses."

Frodo tightened his grip on Sam's forearm. "Sam..."

"Hum?" he murmured, brushing Frodo's cheek, regarding his wide eyes thoughtfully.

"I'm afraid. I thought I ought to--"

"To table! To table, I say!" the Gaffer called, one callused hand waving from behind the curve of the wall leading into the dining room. "Son, for as quiet as you've been, I reckon you might've forgotten your Mr.--"

"Dad!"

"No, I'm here," Frodo called, unable to stifle a smile. The Gaffer's presence had always cheered him.

"Then, whatever's keeping you, lads? In with you! Why, Mr. Frodo, it's a pleasure to see you."

"And you, Master Hamfast," Frodo replied with a tense nod.

Sam took Frodo's hand unexpectedly. "'Evening, Dad. Sorry."

Bell cast her son a disapproving look and brushed off her hands after settling the bread pudding between the chicken and the taters. "Sam, offer Mr. Frodo a seat."

Sam nearly tripped over his feet in attempt to avoid his mother's gaze and lead Frodo around to their seats at the same time. As the arrangement fell, Sam sat across from his father and Frodo sat across from Bell. Frodo shifted in his seat, careful to keep his eyes glued sidelong on Sam, who didn't seem to have the faintest idea of where he ought to keep his own. He sought Frodo's hand again under the table, squeezing it in distress. Frodo swallowed and returned the gesture, and decided that if someone had to show some nerve, it might as well be him, seeing as Sam seemed to have lost his.

"It looks wonderful, all of it," Frodo murmured with a smile, allowing his eyes to drift from Hamfast's amiable visage to Bell's staid-but-alert one. He glanced into his glass briefly to surmise what was in it--ciderwine, judging by the color--and raised it to a reasonable height. "May the Lady bless and Shire keep, then."

"Aye, hear, hear!" the Gaffer responded enthusiastically, raising his own glass. Sam followed suit, but didn't say a word--he merely nodded. Bell raised her own glass halfway, then tilted her head with a subtle flick of the eyes.

"Indeed, if She listens."

The three who had already raised glasses to their lips lowered them with spectacularly varying reactions. The Gaffer sputtered, turning to stare at his wife, who in turn continued to stare straight ahead. Sam made a rather impressive save of losing a hold on his glass, even if some wine splashed the tablecloth.

Frodo stared straight back, biting down on the rim of his glass in a wide-eyed flush of shock. He released it with a high, tight breath.

"On such a fine hobbit as your son, why would she not?"

Bell set her glass down firmly. "My son is not the unlikelihood here."

Frodo set his jaw. "Then I'm to assume it's either you or myself."

Sam gripped Frodo's wrist in a panic. "Mr. Frodo--"

"No, Samwise. Let him speak. That's exactly the sort of thing I'm wanting to prove."

Sam let go of Frodo's wrist, gaping, furious. "And just what's that, Mum? That he's not willing to stand up for me and such? Don't this just prove the opposite?"

"Son, let her--"

"Ham, you stay out of this. I've had enough of where you stand; don't you pretend to go disciplinin' him now! You listen to me, Samwise Gamgee," Bell said in a low, warning tone, leaning far enough over the table that Frodo could feel her breath. "There isn't much I can do, not at all. You're as stubborn a lout as your father here, and what with all that hand-holdin', I see it--you've made your pick, you really have. My hope's that you don't live to regret it."

"Mum!" Sam stood up so quickly that his chair tipped and hit the wall.

The Gaffer shot Frodo a look somewhere between apology and grief. Frodo sat back in his chair, staring between Bell and Sam with so many words crowding in his throat that not a single one of them gained clearance.

Bell flung a wild gesture at her son. "What do you think you're proving? That you're more than your father ever--"

"You're mad," Sam whispered, groping for Frodo's shoulder, squeezing it, urging him to rise. "And we're leaving."

"Wait--just, wait," Frodo said, clasping Sam's hand. "There's no call for what I said."

"No more'n for what she said!" Sam cried, tugging Frodo to his feet. "I won't stand for--"

"And I won't stand for anyone insulting you," Frodo whispered, taking Sam by the shoulders and turning him until they faced each other. "But it's my fault things came to that. I should have let it go. I should have."

Sam's features tightened, as if against the threat of tears. "I led us into a--"

"No," Frodo said softly, winding his arms around Sam's neck, no longer caring who watched or with what expression. "I wanted them to know. You hesitated, I pushed you. In one respect, I...your mother...she's right. What might I one day lead you into that could change you for good?"

Sam choked back a cry and bit his lip. "Nothing, Mr. Frodo. Nothing at all."

"How can you know for--"

"Because I do."

Frodo couldn't have stopped Sam from kissing him if he had tried. It was brief and deep. Frodo eased away unsteadily, lowering his forehead to Sam's shoulder. Now they would certainly be leaving. Sam still held him, was very still. Frodo didn't dare look up.

"Why don't we get on with the servin'?"

Frodo blinked. The Gaffer sounded as if nothing had happened. Sam's embrace loosened, arms pulling back gently till one hand remained on Frodo's waist, the other rising to rest lightly against his cheek. Frodo felt his head lifted and turned at Sam's gentle urging.

Bell Gamgee stood with eyes closed, lips parted, fists clenched on the tabletop as a few silent tears coursed down her cheeks.

Frodo looked away with a hasty swallow, eyes coming to rest on the Gaffer, who nodded sagely, almost proudly. Frodo closed his eyes again. What had he done?

"It's getting cold, lads. Help yourselves, now, and we'll be along before it's half gone."

Before either of them could react, Frodo and Sam were alone at the table. Frodo stared after the Gaffer as he led Bell from the room.

"I've made a fool of myself," Frodo whispered.

"No, you made a fool of her, and I reckon she needed it."

"Sam, how can you say that? She must be right about--"

"She's been right about nothin' where I'm concerned for near six months now. Don't tell me what she knows and don't."

Frodo turned away. "I'm sorry."

Sam's hand fell on his shoulder. Frodo felt him trembling.

"Oh--Frodo--I didn't mean--"

"You have the right to mean everything you say, and I shan't say another word tonight."

Which was how the evening had progressed, in the end: Hamfast and Bell returned, and father and son accounted for the primary weight of conversation, with a few interjections from Frodo and fewer still from Bell. An air of aloof cordiality had settled by dessert, and as they sat around the fire afterward, no one spent a word or glance in comment when Sam pulled Frodo into his lap and wrapped a quilt around them. At length, good-nights were bid and an invitation to stay made by the Gaffer. Frodo couldn't muster the courage to politely decline, and somehow he managed to forget it, somewhere between thoughts of departing for Buckland the next day and making love on Sam's linen sheets, breathless and quiet. If this was a claim Sam needed to make, so be it--

"We oughtn't dwell on it," Sam whispered, stroking Frodo's cheek, bringing him back to the present, to warm, damp blankets and skin against skin. Somewhere in the near distance, Frodo heard Pippin pleading with Merry over some point he rathered not consider too deeply. "What's done is done, and she'll be over it. And if not over it, she'll not say another word in my presence, or in yours either."

"I still failed you," Frodo whispered, rolling over and burying his face in the blanket. "And I suppose I may yet. So who am I to assume that my...that they...that they'd even--"

"I don't care who approves and who don't, Frodo," Sam murmured against the back of his neck, one hand running gently down his side. "And to tell you the truth, we'll have no real way of knowin' if they do or don't--"

Frodo rolled onto his back, flashing a hurt look up at Sam.

"Look now, who's bein' the fool," Sam sighed, leaning to offer an apologetic kiss. "That's why I'm so afraid," Frodo whispered against his mouth.

"That we won't really know for sure?"

Frodo nodded.

"Me dear, Mr. Bilbo--"

"Was not my parents," Frodo said firmly, "and in this, his approval shan't stand substitute. But I'm afraid you'll have to drag me to my feet and dress me, if we're to get there before dinnertime."

"Mayhap you want to wait till after?..."

Frodo gave a small, unexpected laugh. "Sam Gamgee, are you frightened?"

Sam winced in protest. "I just don't like--well, it's kind of odd, goin' into a place where none of my kin ever set foot, livin' or--"

Frodo touched his cheek. "It'll be too late, if we wait, and much too dark. And my guess is that you'd like it even less then. I certainly do."

"You mean you've been--"

"What do you think? Merry's idea of a laugh doesn't exclude the morbid."

Sam snorted. "Brandybucks."

Frodo kissed his neck gently. "Need I remind you you're lying with one?"

"No, but the Baggins in you sure had me fooled."