Sam had always considered himself a sound sleeper, and by all accounts, that was true. Even by his Gaffer's-"Why, he sleeps sound as you please, does my Sam. It'd take twice the likes o' Mr. Bilbo's dragon to wake him, and those clatterin' dwarfs besides. But, you mark me, he wakes early as you please with nary a cock-crow t'see to it!" To the likes of which Sam usually took a long swig of ale and waited for the guffaws to die down. Of course, a few claps on the back were small things to endure for another ale on the house.

Now, sharing a bed-with Frodo, no less-well, that changed a few things. On those nights, Sam noticed, it was harder to fall asleep as quickly as usual, but for the cause, he could hardly complain. Frodo liked to nestle up close, front to front, and tuck his head into the curve of Sam's neck. It took a bit of adjustment, no mistake; Sam was quite used to sprawling on his back, one arm or the other flung up as he pleased. But Frodo liked to be wrapped in them, so that ruled out another familiar habit. Again, not that Sam had any objections to forming new ones. It simply took some getting used to.

Once they got to sleep, it was yet another matter. Frodo was prone to shifting now and again, sometimes murmuring or even crying out, depending on the dream. And, well, depending on the dream, sometimes both of them ended up awake (and thoroughly drowsier afterward). Regardless, however small the movement, Sam found himself awakened with every sense alert. And when he thought about it, he decided he'd accept no less of himself.

If Frodo slipped out of bed, it was generally for mundane things-a drink, a trip to the privy, an extra blanket to wrap them in. Sam did those things himself, and each had no more mind to stir for the other beyond a blind murmur, a kiss on the lips, an I'll be right back.

It registered, therefore, with no small amount of shock when Frodo slipped out of bed that morning as early as Sam usually rose, and did none of those small, reassuring things. Awake though Sam was, a pleasant heaviness still held him, and, supposing that Frodo didn't wish to wake him (and for once having no desire to do so), he lay still and waited for Frodo's footsteps to clear the room.

They didn't. In fact, they seemed to go no further than a few paces beyond the bed. Sam heard the soft rustle of papers, an almost imperceptible click. He opened his eyes, and just as he was about to call softly…

Frodo was bent over something atop the small desk. Whatever it was, his hands obscured it, and he stared down at it with such strange intensity that it was several moments before Sam gathered his thoughts and parted his lips again-

Even sidelong as he was watching, face half buried in a pillow besides, Sam saw Frodo smile. And that gentle sway of Frodo's body, just the sparest shifting from one foot to the other-

Sam closed his eyes just as Frodo turned. A few seconds more, and the return of Frodo's weight on the mattress set Sam's heart to racing. What had he seen, then? Some private ritual of Frodo's? Something that Bilbo had left him, perhaps, that he only dared glimpse in secret? Since the party, Frodo had been like that with his grief-one show that he considered excessive had been enough. Perhaps it was that ring, and perhaps he'd finally found it in his heart to laugh at Bilbo's jest-

Sam could feel Frodo's labored breathing, almost nervous, as Frodo slid one hand beneath his neck with infinite care. Something smooth and cool followed in its wake, serpentine and slim against his neck. Sam took a fine chill at the touch of some metal, and heard Frodo hold his breath until he supposed that Sam's minute stir had passed. Frodo let his breath out again, and his other hand slid up gently, meeting the first just at the nape of Sam's neck. More coldness about the other side; if Sam had been free to, he would have frowned.

A chain?

Sam fought another shiver, this one much more insistent, as Frodo's fingers slid back around, pulling something along that made a soft hiss against the chain, and made Sam flinch inwardly as Frodo's hand pressed it carefully to his heart, then let go. It made a gentle drop from there to the sheets, still bound to him by what he was then certain had to be a chain. There was nothing else for it, oh, and then Frodo snuggled back down as if nothing had happened, and the cold, hard thing that had hit the mattress found a place between them.

Sam let Frodo settle again (there it was, late in coming: just the softest kiss at his earlobe), let Frodo's breathing slow into light, restful sleep before forcing his eyes wide open. Dawn spilled a hazy gray through the curtains above them; Sam could see one side of the room, but not before he could see a pale blur of pillowcase and a wisp of Frodo's hair that had ventured past its usual place at his cheek. Between them, that strange cold something had lost some of its intensity.

What in Elbereth's name was he wearing?

Some kind of necklace, Sam reckoned. He couldn't easily shift Frodo away to investigate. For one thing, Frodo had taken Sam's arms and situated himself in them as usual, and Sam had obliged reflexively. For another thing, Frodo obviously intended for this to be a surprise. Either that, or some kind of fooling. Sam tilted his head until Frodo's soft curls and the faint trace of violet soap were all he had to think by.

Not likely that ring, then-a relic from Mr. Bilbo's adventure, it was, and that was just too personal to be given up, or joked with. Sam pressed Frodo a bit closer, was rewarded with a bit of nuzzling and a sleepy sigh that sounded of his name. Sam furrowed his brow, concentrating on that thing between them, now a bit more clearly defined. It was too large to be a ring, and definitely too solid. And it had mostly taken on the warmth of their skin, and shape too readily eluded him.

Being a practical hobbit, Sam decided that, what with another hour or so of sleep imminent and Frodo tucked in his arms, that whatever-it-was could just wait…

* * *

Frodo couldn't.

How was he supposed to sleep, knowing what he'd just done? How was he supposed to explain it, once Sam woke? Half a dozen things that Frodo hadn't considered on rising wasted little time in rushing down upon him, once he'd gotten settled again.

Just go back to sleep.

Frodo closed his eyes and sighed, buried his face against Sam's neck. He breathed in deeply, half wishing Sam were awake. He smelled wonderful, comforting: of sweat and sleep, faint traces of scented oil and their loving the night before. Frodo liked that best of all-detectable proof that he was as much a part of Sam as Sam was a part of him. Frodo moved closer, drew his lips gently away from the place that he'd kissed. If he went on thinking like this, Sam would wake whether he wished it or not.

Fine, then, Frodo would sleep. He would sleep until Sam stirred with a mumble against his forehead, until the warm, strong body cradling his own shifted enough to realize that something lay between them, until…

Frodo bit his lip. Oh, none of this was helping.

Sam stirred briefly in his sleep, a reflexive flinch, nothing unusual. Though, the effect it had on Frodo was hardly unusual. He breathed out softly in surrender and hooked a leg cautiously around Sam's hip. Frodo wouldn't wake him, couldn't, not after what he'd been through the night before, and certainly not after the overwhelming experience following. No wonder Sam hardly stirred! Frodo couldn't blame Sam any more than he could ignore what he wanted to do with the rest of the morning. If Sam woke to Frodo like this, then maybe he wouldn't need words at all-

Another flinch, this time Sam's stomach. Frodo bit back something fairly nonsensical and pressed up for relief, however fleeting. He would not wake Sam so long as he slept this soundly, he…

Was utterly terrified, and aroused out of his mind besides. Frodo closed his eyes tighter and prayed for either sleep or for Sam to shift his weight just a bit too far to the left.

* * *

A game's a game, but you've gone far enough. Put him out of his misery before you're no better off yourself!

Sam had dreamed about this sort of thing since…well, since when, he'd never permitted himself to measure, at least not until Frodo's quiet glances had blossomed into something louder than his Gaffer's early crocuses. Sam held his breath and swore he'd never find a growing thing brighter than those eyes, never. And that he'd see to it they had mornings like this, and ones completely different, and ones he hadn't even gotten to thinking up yet. So far as he'd thought this one up, it was about time it happened.

As if sensing his thoughts, Frodo shifted again, and that warm nudge against his belly was nigh enough to send a hobbit with any sort of sense into fits.

Sam stretched, careful to keep his eyes closed, and rolled over Frodo with a sleepy huff as his face met with pillow and curls. Frodo stiffened under him with a soft cry, and it was only a moment before he went pliant again, breath coming much too fast as he renewed his hold. Sam blinked into the pillow, dazed for a moment, fighting a moan that rose in answer.

If he don't know I'm awake by now, I ought to pinch him.

A few moments of stillness, silence. Sam felt Frodo's heartbeat wild against his chest, fit to outrace his own. A few moments, too, to take Frodo in a bit at a time. Fingers trying very hard to stay relaxed on Sam's shoulders. Breath fluttering at his ear, soft, steady beats of feathery heat that said Sam and ah by turns. Too soft, far too soft.

Let me hear you, Frodo-love.

Sam turned his head against the pillow so that his lips brushed Frodo's cheek. Frodo let go of another cry, this one softer. And it was his name, which was of course what Sam had wished for, and that deserved more compliance. He slid just a bit lower, and suddenly, Frodo's fingers weren't trying so hard to be gentle anymore.

"Sam…"

Frodo's whisper was barely there. Sam went still again, running the breath over once, twice in his mind. So timid-Frodo really seemed to think…

He's a courteous one, your Mr. Frodo, ain't nothin' going to change that, 'cept maybe a bit too much ale and heartache . So you'd better-

"Mmm?" Sam responded softly, burying his face again to hide a smile.

Frodo's fingers skated down the length of his back, fast and shaky. Sam feigned another drowsy murmur and let his hands speak for him, tugging Frodo's legs up gently by the crooks of his knees. This time, one of the ahs came clear. Sam dipped his head for an aimless nip at Frodo's neck. Frodo bucked up with a short, hissing breath.

Sam nuzzled some more, as if to indicate waking. He shivered as the pendant-or whatever it was-took a slither backwards from where it had settled on Frodo's shoulder, and wetness tickled his navel. With that, Sam found that he couldn't think other than to shift and find the soft crease of Frodo's thigh and press just there while he was at it, and sure as anything Frodo clung and sobbed and fought release with frantic movements that went still with his shout as a second wave hit. Sam picked up where Frodo ended, then, and for the first time lifted his head as it took him, too, and for a moment he held Frodo's shattered praise on his lips until his own voice surged up to wash it under.

* * *

As soon as Frodo's wits found something worth latching onto beyond those wet, lazy kisses and the slow recovery of his limbs, he found a fleeting memory of nervousness and something vaguely heavy grazing his shoulder. Something unlike Sam's fingers splayed on his cheeks, something unlike the way they slid up and through the mess of his hair as if it were fine silk. Frodo slid one hand up Sam's back with an effort until his fingers were likewise tangled, and held Sam's head as still as he could.

Frodo caught Sam's lower lip between his teeth. "Sam-"

"Oh, g'morning to you, too," Sam mumbled affectionately. "Begging your pardon, but I meant to do this all day-mmm-"

Frodo drew his other hand up and fumbled over his shoulder, taking advantage of Sam's renewed fervor. He held the pendant against his palm and slid it flat up against Sam's cheek. He wished his fingers wouldn't shake so. Sam would wonder…

Frodo pulled away gently, tried for a look of mischievous reproach. "I should like to know where you got this. Did you honestly think that if you kissed me senseless, I wouldn't notice?"

Sam pulled his fingers from Frodo's hair and molded them over Frodo's hand at his cheek, brow furrowed. "Seems I've a secret admirer, sir. An' I figured you wouldn't take well to knowin' he seems as clever a burglar as Old Mr. Bilbo ever was, but th'other way around."

Sam Gamgee, you're the worst…

"You knew?" Frodo whispered, easing his hand away slowly, folding the pendant into Sam's fingers with his own.

"I don't rightly know what it is," Sam mused, laying his palm out flat, studying the jewel thoughtfully. It winked bright sapphire even in the wan light, as if lit with secrets within. "But mayhap I know how it got here."

"You'll never sleep soundly again," Frodo sighed ruefully. "I'm-"

Sam's eyes were grave, pensive. "If I wore…t'explain this, I don't…oh, Mr. Frodo, I ain't some lass, as pretty as you pl-"

"You please me well enough," Frodo murmured, and reminded Sam of what he had a mind to do all day, and just how he ought to go about-

…and I love you for it.

~finis~