"Careful, now, Mr. Frodo," Sam warned gently, stepping up behind Frodo at the counter under the pretense of supervising while he sliced mushrooms. "I don't want to be dressing no cuts, d'you hear?"

Frodo paused for a moment to drain the dregs of his teacup, turning to give Sam an impish grin over the rim.

"Sam, must I remind you that I'll be of age in four days' time?" he asked with mock indignation that never quite succeeded, particularly when faced with Bilbo or Gandalf. "I should know my way around with knives well enough by now, don't you thi--"

Sam could not resist. With a soft growl, he caught Frodo about the waist and lost himself in the scent of clean, damp hair.

"I love you so," he murmured huskily, adding that he hadn't nearly gotten his fill of cuddling, not even in the bath.

Frodo went delightfully weak for a moment before he resumed cutting and murmured, "So forward all of a sudden, Master Gamgee! Whatever has managed to cure you?"

"Of what?" Sam mumbled, busily nuzzling Frodo's ear.

Frodo chuckled, brushing the finished mound of mushrooms aside with the flat of the blade. "Why, that confounded bashful streak of yours that finally drove me to certain acts of desperation."

Sam laughed even harder, recalling the evening back in late August that they'd spent stargazing after a few ales at the Green Dragon. "How was I s'posed to resist you, all whimpery and shivering and starry-eyed as anything! If you don't mind my saying so, that third ale worked a wonder and a half on that roundabout tongue of yours. Just what prompted it, if I might ask?"

Frodo raised an eyebrow. "My begging you to warm my sorry hide or drinking over my limit?"

"Er, both."

"Rosie Cotton," Frodo replied, transferring the fungus to a waiting skillet without skipping a beat. "She was making eyes at you every which way. I decided it was safer to drown my misery than risk expulsion for apparently needless glaring and snapping at the waitstaff."

Sam looked up in touched astonishment. "Oh, Frodo!"

"It's true. I daresay my only comfort was in you paying her no more mind than was proper."

"I wish she weren't sweet on me," Sam sighed, turning Frodo to face him, brushing his cheek. "I reckon she'll be wanting a dance on Thursday.... Oh, Frodo. I hate to be rude, but it don't feel right," he fretted.

"To me least of all," Frodo reassured Sam with a soothing kiss, "but don't let it concern you. Everyone dances with everyone else. It's all well enough." Then he teased as an afterthought, "So long as a dance is all you give her!"

Sam snorted as Frodo moved away to add butter and some of the Gaffer's herbed salt to the mushrooms. "If that! There's nobody I'd like to hold while Mr. Gandalf's setting off his fireworks, 'cept for you."

Frodo looked up from his cooking, eyes languid at the thought. "And I should like to be held, so perhaps we'll slip a little ways off and watch...after..." Frodo trailed off, sounding faintly troubled.

"After what?" Sam asked in concern. "Frodo--"

"Sam. You must promise me something," Frodo whispered gravely. "As dearly as you love a good chat, this must not get out: Bilbo may be leaving."

"Why would he do such a thing?" Sam asked incredulously. "And where would he go, that he hasn't already been?"

Frodo gave a troubled sigh. "I overheard him speaking with Gandalf a few months back. He's tired, Sam, but he's restless. He'd like to see the Lonely Mountain again, and Mirkwood..."

"All those places in his stories," Sam breathed, but suddenly, his heart clenched. "You--don't mean to tell me that--you'd be going with--"

Frodo cried out in remorse at the sight of Sam's tears and hugged him fiercely. "Oh, no, nothing like that! It's just that...it's occurred to me that he may mean it. I'm to recieve my inheritance, you know, and suppose that...that it were to be Bag End..."

Frodo was so overwhelmed that Sam could do little more than hold and rock him while he wept. The thought seemed almost a sin, but he could not help it: Frodo was utterly beautiful when he cried.

"Shh, Frodo my love, hush now," Sam murmured. "Surely that'd be only if he's not coming back, and why in blazes would he do a thing like--"

"Because he's Bilbo," Frodo sobbed quietly, more frightened than angry. "I can't deny that I'm like him, Sam. I know him; I can feel it...and I'll miss him so..."

Since Frodo didn't seem inclined to anger, Sam more than willingly felt it for him. "How could he! Leavin' you, what when the reason he took you in the first place was--"

"But he must mean well, Sam, please don't forget that! I'm grown now, and by all accounts he must think he's doing me a favor. It's just..." Frodo bit his lip, looking more vulnerable than Sam had ever seen him. "I honestly can't abide the thought of being alone."

Sam looked Frodo straight in the eye and murmured, "You won't be, Mr. Frodo. Your Sam's not going anywhere."

As Sam kissed his tears, Frodo managed a nervous smile. "I'm glad to hear it. Because if all of this comes to pass...I thought, perhaps..." Suddenly, Frodo was shaking so badly that he could hardly speak.

Sam realized that the mushrooms had begun to bubble and hiss in warning, but it was inconsequential by comparison. Trying to still Frodo with murmurs and caresses, he asked gently, "That what?"

Frodo's thoughts emerged in a stammering rush. "That, well, I know you're not of age yet, but if lasses can be married off at twenty-one without so much as a thought, and assuming your Gaffer wouldn't be adverse to--and, oh, if I could tell you how happy these past few weeks--gracious, no, what am I saying?--years have been, so--supposing--"

An unceremonious racket at the front door left a flustered Frodo and a befuddled Sam staring dumbly at each other through a cloud of acrid black smoke.

"Frodo, my lad, be quick now and come open the door for a poor old hobbit with his hands full!"

"Come now, cousin, you heard Uncle Bilbo! And bring that sturdy Gamgee of yours, before our arms fall off!"

"Aye, and our stomachs! Merry, what d'you suppose that smell is? Reminds me of the time you burned--"

"It's mushrooms, Pip--"

"Out of the way, Meriadoc! My kitchen!"

Boxes full of what sounded like crockery fell with a clatter. Followed by the creak of a door carelessly flung open, the mad patter of bare feet accompanied by familiar huffing raced towards them. Bilbo skidded into the kitchen with a cry of alarm. Frodo and Sam stared at him, too stricken with chagrined shock to move.

"Don't just stand there! Put it out, put it out!"

As if on cue, Sam and Frodo reached for the flaming skillet simultaneously, which resulted in a collision, the spilling of its charred contents across Bilbo's fine tile, and a sharp yell of pain. Bilbo ploughed his way through the smoke, coughing, to find the skillet dangling from Sam's grasp and Frodo doubled over the countertop, clutching his right arm, gasping. The skillet hit the floor a second later as Sam nearly knocked Bilbo out of the way in order to reach Frodo.

"Mr. Frodo! Are you hurt? I'm so sorry, I--!"

Bilbo caught his breath, sighing wearily as Merry and Pippin wandered in, as heavily laden with boxes as he had been. Quick to assess the situation, Merry peered around his burden, brow furrowed. Pippin's expression went from confused to devastated.

"What's goin' on--oh, that's nice! Now we haven't got any mushrooms!"

Merry kicked Pippin lightly in the shin and hissed, "Be quiet, Pip! Frodo's burnt."

"Ahh--aahh!" Frodo moaned softly, hesitant to surrender his arm to scrutiny. Sam succeded in pulling it gently away from his chest. Bilbo winced in horror, the mess instantly forgotten. Frodo's eyes gleamed with anguish and shame.

"It was my fault, Uncle Bilbo. I'm sorry."

Glancing once more at the angry red streak marring the smooth, pale underside of Frodo's forearm, the old hobbit seemed ready to cry himself. Instinctively, Sam had slid an arm around Frodo, his other hand still cradling the injured limb. Merry looked on steadily, eyeing Frodo with concern. Pippin shifted uncomfortably, as if regretting his misplaced priorities. Shaking himself, Bilbo finally broke the silence.

"Take care of him, Samwise," he sighed heavily, waving the importunate pair from the kitchen. "Meriadoc, take Peregrin to the second pantry; put those boxes down and fetch what's left unshattered out front. I daresay your mother will never lend me her spare cookware again. I'll take care of this..." Bilbo trailed off, indicating the wasted mushrooms with a flustered sweep of his arms. "Go on! Off with you!"

"Yes, sir," Merry said with a nod, turning on his heel. "Pippin! Come on."

Meanwhile, Sam had already steered Frodo to the bathroom, where he had seated him on the rim of the tub, fretting profusely.

"Should've held your tongue, for if it's anyone's fault, I'm the one to blame. Distractin' you like that, makin' you think on things you ought'n't even to worry about till it's well enough time--"

"Sam, please," Frodo whispered harshly. "It's not your fault. I'm absent-minded and a terrible cook. No wonder I don't trust Bilbo leaving me here! I'd sooner burn the place than make a suitable steward for--aaah! Sam... Sam," Frodo whimpered, panting as the other hobbit pressed a cold, wet cloth to the burn.

"Right nasty, it is," Sam murmured, shaking his head. "And don't you go makin' those excuses while your Sam's in earshot! I love your absent mind as well as the rest of you, and I'd see to it you never have to cook a day in your--"

The soft glance passing between them was interrupted by Merry striding authoritatively through the door, rolling his sleeves down. Pippin hung back anxiously, as if he feared a rebuke (or worse) from the ever-vigilant Sam.

"Frodo, you all right?" Merry asked, taking a seat beside him. Frodo nodded, though his lips were taut and his face unusually white.

" 'Course he is," Sam replied, removing the cloth in order to wet it afresh. Merry's eyes widened at the exposed blister. Giving in to lurid curiosity, Pippin forgot his hesitation and sidled up to his best friend, peering at the wound with a mixture of wonder and disgust.

"That must hurt! And to think it was just some mush--"

An amiable tap across the back of the head silenced him. "You, my friend, are the very picture of tact," Merry muttered.

"I'm just havin' a look!" Pippin protested.

"Well, now you've had one," Sam said curtly, peeling the cloth away as carefully as he could, looking every bit as pained as Frodo. "So, if you'd be so kind as to let me finish--"

"Meriadoc! The boxes outside, if you please...?" Bilbo's stern call rang in the corridor, replacing Frodo's wan expression with a faint smile.

"What have you done this time, cousin? He has it in for you."

"Oh, nothin' much," Merry said with a grin. "Merely sprung an unexpected guest on him," he explained, clapping Pippin on the back. "Let's go, Pip. We'd best remind the old gentlehobbit that we haven't committed anything so serious as arson."

Merry pulled Pippin out of the room after him before Sam's glare could verbally resolve itself. Instead, he muttered under his breath as he rummaged in a cupboard for suitable salve. Frodo extended one leg and brushed Sam's ankle with the tips of his toes, laughing softly.

"Go easy on them, Sam. They're quite right. For once, the uproar's not on their account in the least! We've turned out to be fine troublemakers, if you ask me. Poor Bilbo!"

Sam relented with a smile, administering the homemade remedy with the utmost care. "I s'pose you're right. Though you won't convince me for a minute that a Took and a Brandybuck shan't add up to disaster before the night's out!"

"All right, then!" Frodo challenged, his smile quickly fading to another grimace as Sam wrapped his arm. "A--hrmm--bottle of Old Winyard's spiced currant--ow!--says that Merry'll keep Pip on his best behavior, considering he's imposed upon Bilbo as it is."

"Which behavior I wouldn't count on sooner than daisies bloomin' in winter, so says one of my Gaffer's truffle cakes," Sam countered with a grin, securing the bandage, satisfied with the undisguisable craving in Frodo's eyes. "Though I'll not be the one payin' up, mind you."

Frodo raised his chin with a defiant smirk. "We'll see about that," he countered, but inwardly, he hoped against hope that Merry's rein on Pip was well reinforced.

Sam's tried his best to keep a straight face, but he couldn't resist for long. Laughing for sheer relief that Frodo's spirits were recovered, he slid an arm about Frodo's waist and kissed him soundly.

"Nothin' finer than seein' you content," Sam murmured against his cheek once they had drawn apart.

Frodo closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Sam's. "I have every reason to be."

Sam basked for a moment before his mind turned to their thwarted conversation in the kitchen. He tilted Frodo's chin up and searched his eyes for where they had left off.

"Those things you were sayin', Frodo...about how happy these past few years have been--"

Just then, a soft tapping at the partially closed door interrupted him. "Master Gamgee, is your patient in any condition to receive visitors?"

Sam's heart sank as the brightness that had welled up in Frodo's eyes was quickly extinguished. "Yes, Uncle Bilbo, I'm quite all right! Come in," he called, his eyes falling to his newly bandaged arm. Sam tightened his hand on Frodo's shoulder, but said nothing.

Bilbo stepped inside, carefully taking Frodo's arm, examining Sam's handiwork. He gave the young hobbit a look of earnest gratitude, something not entirely unlike what he had seen in Frodo's gaze bubbling beneath the surface. Sam's eyes sought out the floor, and he felt his cheeks go warm.

"Between your cooking and gardening and doctoring, Samwise, we want for nothing," Bilbo marveled, giving Frodo's arm a featherlight pat and releasing it. "For that, I am most grateful."

Blushing fully, Sam gave Bilbo a modest nod and said, "Speaking of which, sir, the goose ought to be done by now, not to mention the stew. I'll fix everything up, if you like."

"It's not so much me as those rascals in my drawing room, barely content with tea and scones!" Bilbo exclaimed, helping Frodo to his feet with a pat on the back. "There now, my lad. Promise you'll stay clear of the kitchen till everything's laid out?" Bilbo winked at Sam, ignoring Frodo's indignant gasp.

"But I promised Sam I'd--"

"Frodo, you have company. Don't disappoint them."

"Go on, Mr. Frodo," Sam said with a nod. "We'll all be at the table in no time."

"And I'll be more than glad to assist in the kitchen. After all, I've more tricks up my sleeves than you lads have had the privelege to taste! Come along, now, our stomachs are getting no fuller..."

Leaving Bilbo and Sam to the kitchen, Frodo wandered into the drawing room, feeling somewhat lightheaded. He wished that Bilbo hadn't interrupted; breathing would seem so much easier if he had just been able to finish...

"Oh, there you are, Frodo!" Pippin exclaimed around a mouthful of jelly-filled blueberry scone. "We were wonderin'--"

Merry elbowed Pip rather harder than Frodo thought necessary. The young Took sputtered crumbs indignantly.

"What he means is, we were hoping you'd be along soon. Which you are, so why not have a seat and grab some tea?"

"Invited to tea in my own home," Frodo sighed, sliding into the chair across from Merry. "I suppose next you'll be asking me to stay for the night!"

"Would you?" Pippin burst out in excited sarcasm. "We'd have ever so much fun! Wouldn't we, Merry? Pipeweed and stories, cider--"

"Pip, it's bad enough that you're here by my graces alone. Go on offering Bilbo's things to just anybody who passes by and you'll be out of a bed yourself!" Merry replied, winking at Frodo.

Frodo burst into helpless laughter, grasping Merry's shoulder affectionately. "I'm reminded of why I missed you so! You do my heart so much good."

Merry grinned and raised his teacup in salute, downing what remained in one swig. "To the best company west of Buckland!"

Pippin followed suit enthusiastically. "And Tuckborough!"

Frodo barely stifled another burst of laughter. Merry shot Pippin a deadpan look.

"Hobbiton's north of Tuckborough, Pip."

"Oh...got it...right! Cheers!"

Chuckling, Merry and Frodo shook their heads, and the three of them finished off the scones and tea in companionable silence, which was punctuated by the sound of Bilbo and Sam talking back the hall as they transferred the repast from kitchen to table. Frodo hadn't realized how hungry he was. Bilbo's shout couldn't have come soon enough.

"To the back dining room, my lads! Has Master Gamgee got a feast in store for you!"

Pippin sped away before Merry and Frodo had the chance to rise. They followed not unhurriedly themselves, however, propelled by the tantalizing aroma that had awakened Frodo blending with a few others--including what smelled like a new batch of sauteed mushrooms and a fresh pot of sassafras. Frodo's stomach growled, but fleetingly, his hunger was for much more than nourishment. His dear, thoughtful Sam...

The dining room was lit brightly with tall white tapers in Bilbo's silver candlesticks. The table was set with fine pale china that Frodo had only seen on a few occasions, and even the silverware was possessed of a rare elegance. Pippin bounced in his seat, grinning anxiously into a huge tureen of steaming rabbit and vegetable stew in creamed tater broth with basil. Merry sank weakly into the seat next to him, looking as if he'd died and gone to paradise. Frodo drifted to the other side of the table, taking the seat across from Pippin, next to the head of the table. Just then, Bilbo and Sam both entered bearing the last of the savory dishes. Sam placed the goose in front of Frodo, and he was instantly overwhelmed by steaming plum sauce. Bilbo relieved himself of the mushrooms and the teapot, rubbing his palms together in delight.

"Samwise, have a seat and leave the wine to me! You've done enough for we poor bachelors today, sit down! There, now...touch a thing before I return and you'll have not a bite..."

Pippin whimpered audibly as Bilbo dashed off to the wine cellar. Sam took a seat beside Frodo, catching his eye sidelong through the steam. Frodo turned to face him, reaching under the table to squeeze his hand briefly.

Licking his lips, Frodo breathed softly, "It looks delicious. As always."

Sam bit back gasp and managed, "I'm...glad, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo might have melted into those warm, questioning brown eyes had Merry's voice not broken the spell.

"Well! It looks as if we've got mushrooms after all," he announced jovially, narrowing his eyes at Frodo, who was suddenly twice as grateful of the steam.

"Bilbo made them," Sam blurted.

"Right," Merry murmured, his grin widening impossibly as he glanced at Pippin. The youngest hobbit was still too entranced by the stew to find anything else of consequence.

"Ah, have we a treat tonight!" Bilbo cried, scurrying back into the room with a bottle cradled to his chest. Frodo smiled; Bilbo could never find it in his heart to begrudge company for long, whether they were invited or not. He even took Pippin's goblet first, filling it to the brim with the sparkling, rose-tinted liquor.

Merry studied the stuff as it flowed into his own, distinctly impressed. "Shirebourn Rose!" he exclaimed. "What year?"

Bilbo nodded proudly as he filled Sam's goblet. "All the way up from Willowbottom, I brought this...eh, about thirty years back? Finest blush in the Shire, if you ask me, though don't tell Old Winyard!"

Bilbo took his seat and proposed a toast once all goblets had been filled. "To the finest bunch of lads ever to trouble an old hobbit so, that at eleventy-one, he's never felt younger!"

"Hear!" shouted Pippin, wishing to make an addition. "To this fine stew here, that'll soon devour me if I don't strike first!"

"Which would mean a toast to you, Samwise, for having made it, as well as the rest of this table," Frodo added fondly, tapping his goblet to Sam's before all five at last clinked in unison.

"Not quite," Merry cautioned, taking a sip of the wine with closed eyes and a shiver of relish. "We mustn't forget Uncle Bilbo's mushrooms."

Bilbo chuckled, draining his completely. "If you aren't the damnedest fellow, Meriadoc! You could charm your way out of a troll's lair, if it came down to it."

"Wouldn't be surprised at all if he winds up in one, sometime, him and Pip both," Sam muttered under his breath to Frodo, who barely managed not to spray a mouthful of wine.

"Sam, you're the worst," he murmured, eyes glowing merrily in the candlelight.

While Pippin dove into the stew, Bilbo made a grand ceremony of carving the goose. Sam made a last trip to the kitchen and, as an afterthought, returned with an improvised but wondrous salad of greens he must have picked that morning. Eventually, over heaping plates and bowls near to overflowing, the five hobbits delved into a discussion that required little talking. As usual, Pippin's commentary was both the most copious and enthusiastic.

"Umm," Merry murmured at long last, dabbing at his mouth, breaking the food-filled reverie. "Not...another...bite!"

Which would have been impossible, considering that not a single bite remained. Frodo nodded in agreement, sipping some tea. Sam was smiling at him in satisfaction, nursing his second goblet of wine. Bilbo was murmuring happily into what was perhaps his third, and Pippin seemed peevish over what remained of his first, though none too pleased with the amount of stew he'd consumed.

"Wine not to your liking, Pip?" Merry asked, tapping his goblet with possessive inetent.

"Not really," Pippin replied, wrinkling his nose. "It's--"

"Just not ale?" Merry cut in with a grin. "Thanks, Pip," he gurgled, polishing it off with a connoiseur's flair.

"Oh, we've got plenty of that," Bilbo slurred, rising from the table. "Why didn't you say so, lad, why didn't you say so..."

Feeling comfortably full and a touch drowsy, Frodo sought out Sam's hand once more, and, slightly emboldened by the wine, leaned on his shoulder.

"Wonderful, Sam, all of it," he murmured, and Sam twined their fingers a little more tightly.

"Really was!" Pippin piped cheerfully, his eyes widening as Bilbo returned with a mug of ale and set it before him. He took a swallow and wriggled in his chair giddily. "Merry, oh, have a taste! It's some of your lot's!"

"Indeed, Peregrin," Bilbo said, eyes twinkling. "Let it not be said that Buckland hasn't a way with beer. Well, lads, what have we got to finish?" Bilbo glanced at Sam expectantly.

"I can't take no credit for it. Dad sent it up yesterday," he said, and left to retrieve the unnamed delicacy. Frodo, who had been present at its delivery, shifted in anticipation. His weakness for sweet tea was exceeded only by his weakness for the Gaffer's desserts.

Sam returned with a crock of fresh buckleberry custard topped with shortbread crumbs and drizzled caramel. Raspberries dotted the surface, interrupted here and there by a dark, ripe cherry. Frodo grunted, his mouth watering. He didn't seem to notice that Merry had once more made him the target of a mischievous glare.

"Cherries, Frodo," he intoned wickedly. "You never could resist cherries. Remember that summer you cleared the last jar in Mum's pantry? Oh, she was fit to be tied."

Frodo shook himself, fixing Merry with an annoyed look. "I remember," he said coolly. "And I also seem to recall that, that summer was the very one in which you were caught for pinching your Dad's Old Toby. Pipeweed's a far cry from fruit, dearest Merry, considering to what ends it was consumed..."

Pippin was giggling helplessly. "Eh, Merry, you did what?"

Bilbo raised his eyebrows at both Frodo and his cousin, eyes still twinkling.

Merry grabbed the mug from Pippin and muttered into it. "Never mind."

Satisfied, Frodo began portioning out the custard with great authority. If any of them had assumed they were full, the notion was quickly withdrawn. Until the night previous, Frodo would have called each rich forkful the headiest ecstasy known to hobbits. Of course, the thought of kissing it from Sam's lips, his ears, his chest...argued highly in favor of combining the two. Frodo bit down on his fork, digging his toes into the carpet. Sam's voice close to his ear didn't improve things much.

"To your liking, Mr. Frodo?"

"Mhmm," Frodo managed. "Perfectly." His stomach twisted in distress at the thought of the approaching night. Sam would stay, certainly, but the chances of sharing a bed seemed considerably slimmer. And he hated to keep secrets from Bilbo.

Sam was gently sqeezing his shoulder. "Are you all right? Your arm's not stingin', I hope--"

"No," Frodo breathed, turning in his seat to face Sam dizzily. "In fact...I'd forgotten it completely..."

Sam swallowed, feeling his throat and groin tighten at the gleam in Frodo's eyes. Already, he knew it as well as he knew the exquisite softness of that porcelain skin, as well as he knew the way they fitted so comfortably against each other, writhing and pressing in the down of Frodo's mattress...

"I'll clear this," Sam volunteered abruptly, whisking his own plate and Frodo's away before Bilbo could protest.

"I'll help," Frodo mumbled, sweeping away with Bilbo's and his cousins'.

No sooner had they laid the dishes in the sink than Frodo tugged Sam close for a ravenous kiss. It was several moments before they succeeded in tearing themselves apart.

"That's...that's in case...we don't get to...later..."

"Bilbo'll tell a story or two, I'm sure," Sam breathed unevenly, winding his fingers possessively into Frodo's hair, drawing him near once again. "I'm sure we can cozy up under that quilt and they'll be none the wiser, if you look sleepy enough and just snuggle up nice against my chest...and...mmmhhf..."

"Merry's onto something," Frodo murmured. "I'm certain it wasn't really cherries he was getting at. I didn't exactly do a good job of concealing that I was making unholy connections between you and the pudding."

Sam's eyes widened. "Were you, now?"

Frodo breathed out, groaning softly.

Sam's hands crept instinctively to Frodo's hips, clasping firmly. "I'll take it that's a--"

"Doin' the dishes, I see? Or more importantly, deciding what to do with the leftovers?"

Sam and Frodo separated with a start, whirling to find Merry leaning against the wall, hands full with a stack of plates. His dark eyes danced with severe amusement.

"There aren't any," Frodo responded haltingly, too abashed to think of a proper comeback.

Merry waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, but yes there are. There's custard. You'd best go and claim it before Pip decides to polish it off."

"Or stash it away for later," Sam retaliated, glowering, "in case you two get to cravin' a late elevenses."

Merry gave a whoop, clapping Sam on the shoulder almost proudly. "Master Gamgee! Not only are you absolutely correct, but you might've just made the finest retort I've ever heard."

Frodo's jaw dropped. "Not only is he... Wait, do you...do you mean..."

Merry pinched his cousin's cheek on his way to the sink. "Oh, don't be such a prude, you rascal of a Baggins. My sheets are no colder than your own, of late," he said with a wink at Samwise, "if you take my meaning."

With that, Merry spun on his heel, whistling, clearly with the intent to go fetch more dishes. Frodo gaped after him. Sam was the quickest to recover.

"Makes as much sense as anything," he said with a shrug. "Let's go help him finish up. Mr. Bilbo'll be wondering."

Frodo was still too busy absorbing it to respond, which Sam found vastly amusing, and said so as he led him back to the dining room. Between the five of them, the job was mercifully short, if somewhat perilous. Pippin succeeded in dropping everything that he was permitted to carry--which fortunately was only silverware.

At length, Bilbo shooed Merry and Pippin off to the fireplace, informing them that they had better have their pipes in hand by the time he got there. Left alone in the kitchen with Frodo and Sam, he dealt out final instructions.

"And you lads had better have yours, too, once you finish these dishes," Bilbo ordered with mild sternness. "I haven't forgotten this morning, you know."

"Of course, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo replied evenly, sounding almost grateful that his carelessness would not go unpunished.

"Yes, sir," Sam echoed.

"Good lads!" Bilbo exclaimed jovially, humming as he departed.

"Though...I had expected far worse," Frodo said with a sigh, his brow furrowed as he fetched a dish cloth and filled the dish basin with water.

Sam found a dry towel and sidled up to Frodo comfortingly. "It's like you said. You're grown now, and he knows it. He's not going to treat you like a child if he can help it, I reckon. You don't exactly go raidin' fields and pantries anymore."

"No," Frodo sighed softly, and began scrubbing the plates in silence.

Sam knew that it was best simply to be present when Frodo slipped into a fit of brooding. He seemed grateful of an occasional touch, even pausing once, up to his elbows in suds, to lean heavily on Sam's shoulder.

"Why don't you run along while I finish up?" Sam asked softly, brushing a few curls back from his forehead.

"No, I'll wait," Frodo sighed, leaning against the countertop.

Before long, his eyes were fixed on Sam's sure, steady hands as they dried each plate with infinite care. His spine tingled in remembrance of those same fingers gliding down his back, molding to the contours of his hips and thighs in trembling disbelief as their bodies came together at last... With a sharp breath, Frodo closed his eyes tightly and gripped the counter, unable to remain any more still at the thought than he had been able to in the moment itself. Suddenly he found himself caught by the wrist and pulled to the solid warmth in his mind. Frodo whimpered softly into Sam's tenderly inquiring mouth.

"Don't you go daydreaming without me," he whispered. "I think this'll do fine enough. I've a mind to curl up with a pipe between my teeth and you elsewhere, if you follow."

Frodo smiled hesitantly. "I hope they haven't taken the quilt. Merry and Pip... Do you suppose Bilbo knows? And do you suppose he--"

"It doesn't matter to me one way or the other," Sam replied firmly. "Mr. Bilbo's no fool; he knows what he knows. Whether that means us or them or nothin' at all. But what I know is, so long as there's a warm fire to share, you're going no further than my heartbeat can reach."

Frodo nodded, his pulse fluttering. Sam gave him a searching look.

"You're really as nervous as all that? 'Bout what your Uncle Bilbo will think?"

Frodo hesitated. "No...no! Of course not... it's just...well, sudden, you have to admit..."

"I meant what I said last night," Sam murmured. "And this morning, too."

Frodo gave him a weary smile. "You've enough patience for the whole of the Shire, Samwise Gamgee."

"Usually," he chuckled. "Not tonight. You won't slip away from me, not on account of cousins, nor anything!"

"As if I wanted to, Sam!" Frodo whispered, his eyes gleaming with nervously summoned resolve. "Let's go, then."

They found Merry and Pippin side by side on the rugs in front of the fireplace, while Bilbo sat in his favorite chair. Merry leaned against the hearthstones with one elbow, rakishly enjoying his pipe. Sure enough, there was Pippin curled against him, nearly in his lap, happily nursing another half-pint of ale. Merry and Bilbo made lazy conversation while Pippin murmured soft mmms to himself every so often, when sipping or when Merry's fingers took to absently tracing circles on his arm. Frodo slipped onto the sofa, drawing Sam down beside him. Bilbo took a puff of his Old Toby and greeted them.

"Well, it's about time, wouldn't you say! Meriadoc, be a good lad and toss another log on the fire. Now, then, we were just discussing the folk traipsing in from all over and what a great, bothersome to-do this party is turning out to be! Frodo, I trust you'll avoid Otho and Lobelia at all costs. No saying what else they might think of to badger you about, what with this being your coming-of-age and all. As Meriadoc pointed out, they're not the only ones who've spoken amiss on occasion, by no means. In fact, Took-rumors still fly as far and wide as any of those bearing the name of Baggins!" Bilbo rambled, clearly much worse for drink than he had been before. Frodo glanced at the floor and noticed a pint mug at his feet, for which he reached almost instantly and took a sip.

"Oh, is that so?" Pippin burst out, leaning forward a little, pointing his mug at Bilbo. "They mustn't be sayin' such things at Brandy Hall, then, for I've heard nothin' of the sort!"

Bilbo chuckled, winking at Merry, who had just settled back down with Pip, slipping an arm snug about him. "Not so much new gossip, my lad, as things from days long past. Very very long past, indeed, longer than my days, for they're tales I've heard since childhood. Why, in fact, it so happens I've written a song on one, one that's given me a chuckle ever since I heard it. I supposed it would make fine entertainment at the party, what with the Sackville-Bagginses and those incorrigible Proudfoots present. As sure as I'm living, Proudfoots and rumors will run in packs till--"

"Which one is it?" Frodo asked with interest as Sam lit his pipe.

"Aye, what, my lad?" Bilbo asked, blinking at him through the smoke.

"Which story is it? I should like to hear it."

"And so would I, especially if it's something to do with Tooks. My duty to do somethin' about it if they're speakin' amiss, it is--"

"Pip, be quiet," Merry murmured, blowing a smoke ring in his face.

"Oh, fine then," Pippin pouted, taking a long swig of his ale. "Keep me in the dark, go on dishonorin'--"

"And says who it's a dishonor?" Bilbo asked indignantly, setting his pipe down with vigor. "Sackville-Bagginses and Proudfoots? One day you'll learn to take them quite lightly indeed, dear Peregrin!"

"Would you sing it for us, Mr. Bilbo? Sounds as if I haven't rightly heard it. You've got me frightfully interested, you understand," Sam interjected, drawing Frodo close against himself as he draped the quilt over them. Frodo settled back with an involuntary sigh, nodding in agreement.

With an even grander glint in his eye than before, Bilbo took a long draught from his mug and rose, surprisingly steady on his feet. "Master Gamgee, but of course. It is my intention to use you fine young gentlehobbits as my experimental audience, what else? Now, this story is not overly long, but neither is it short. Not a one of you had better drift off on me, mark my words!"

"Uncle Bilbo, I wouldn't dream of it," Merry responded gallantly.

"An' neither would I," Pippin seconded, perking up over his ale, not to be outdone. Bilbo smiled roguishly, glancing at Sam and Frodo. "Can I expect such a stalwart pledge from you as well, lads? I haven't quite got my wits, you know, Frodo; I'll be needing a pitch."

Frodo snapped to attention, as he had drifted into quite a comfortable reverie over the hidden caresses that Sam was lavishing upon his belly. "Ah--a pitch?"

"You've a better voice than even your old Bilbo has, dear boy. Yes, a pitch. I have been setting this one to that lilting Southfarthing air that tends to drift about at parties once the dancing's died down and everyone's gone back to the table."

Frodo hummed a bar immediately--and, as expected, perfectly.

"It's a good choice," Sam confirmed. "Right pretty, my Gaffer always says, and a shame it has no words."

Bilbo bowed modestly. "And now it has," he said with ceremony, and began:

        Whilst searching volumes writ of old,
        what curious thing did I find,
        but a legend set in ink of gold
        concerning our very own kind!

        Of Grubbs and Chubbs is known fair play;
        of Boffins and Bagginses--books!
        And, though others are present today
        this story revolves around--Tooks!

        Perhaps 'twas penned by Hildigrim
        of whom I'm told words were quite fond,
        or Gerontius (it's said of him
        he wielded folk-tales like a wand!)

        Regardless, it now rests with me
        to share this startling piece of lore,
        which, passing back o'er a son or three,
        must concern Fortinbras or his fore.

        Consider, then, this worthy thane
        of a line most deserving respect,
        who took a curious bride by name
        of origins oddly suspect--

        "Ancaluine, my love," he cried,
        both pledging his heart and his life,
        "Come follow me, walk at my side
        and glad I shall make thee my wife!"

        'Twas in a forest fair they met,
        in a valley long leagues from here,
        for all know that Took-souls are set
        on journeying farther than near!

        Now, the name of his maiden pale
        was fine and rare as the hue
        of her wide-set Elven eyes:
        Ancaluine, which means Brightest Blue.

        Tales they shared as o'er the miles
        they wandered back to his home--
        "O tell me, shall I like Great Smials,
        and shall I be liked by thy own?"

        "Calla, my dear, I have great hope,"
        said he, for such was she called,
        "that you'll find welcome with my folk
        and within our own four snug walls!

        "Bright one, it is no secret to me
        that thou art some manner of fey,
        but, I've taken right well to thee,
        and 'twill keep forever-a-day!"

        Said she, "My love, 'tis true, so true
        that my kindred are old and wise,
        but by my troth, I'll stay with you
        beneath the far Shire's broad clear skies!"

        Day by night, and night by day again,
        closer approached her new home;
        dusk till dawn, they rode along till when
        the hills a-rolling bade them cease to roam.

        So joyful passed the years they spent,
        with weddings and beddings and babes,
        and beauty most magnificent
        did shape future faces and fames!

        To Old Took's daughters, winsome eyes
        of brightest sapphire did pass,
        and to Hildifons, though not so wise,
        came a wanderlust none could surpass!

        Alas, my friends, no more was writ
        than that, and I hazard a guess
        in spinning yarns too ill to fit
        this tongue made of wiles much less!

By the end of it, a curious stillness had fallen. The only movement was that of Bilbo's eyes as they passed over the faces before him, one by one. Merry and Pippin remained awake, having drawn closer together and become very still. Both ale and pipe entirely forgotten, their eyes were fixed in the very place that Sam's, too, had come to spellbound rest.

Fading firelight danced upon the plane of Frodo's cheek as he slept, the other turned snug into the rise and fall of Sam's chest. As if disturbed by the unnatural silence, his visible eyelid fluttered, and from beneath the fringe of fine lashes shone a glint of the brightest blue.

"Do you reckon it's true, my lads?" Bilbo asked with a quiet smile, managing to rouse Sam from his unblinking wonder. Frodo raised his head and shook it groggily, immediately winning him back. For a long moment, Sam's earnest, dark gaze held Frodo's questioning clear one.

"It may be, Mr. Bilbo," Sam replied at length, returning his host's smile gravely. "It just may be."

"What may be?" Frodo asked uncertainly, and with that, the spell was broken.

"Uncle Bilbo's story, that's what," Merry replied with a slow grin. "And it was you that asked to hear it."

Pippin, too, broke free of the collective reverie. "That's right! An' you were the one to fall asleep, to boot!"

Bilbo clucked in mock disappointment. "Come, now, you know I was jesting! You haven't answered my question, Peregrin... Meriadoc..."

Merry made a show of stretching, his mouth wide in a nonchalant yawn. "Why, I suppose I'm in agreement with Master Gamgee. It just might be. Like all your tales, Uncle Bilbo. It requires a sort of imagination. Don't you agree, Pip?"

"Absolutely, and seeing as it speaks well of Tooks, I liked it just fine," the youngest hobbit replied, finding Merry's yawn perfectly contagious. "Though, I can tell you the Proudfoots shan't be cheering!"

Bilbo shook his head, chuckling indulgently. "Some insightful lot you are! Off to bed with you, since it seems you can keep neither your eyes open, nor your mouths closed!"

Merry gave another huge yawn and took a last lengthy drag of his pipe. "For a tale well told," he proposed, letting go of Pippin long enough to start a round of applause. Sam and Frodo joined in somewhat clumsily, as the former had not bothered to let go of the latter.

"Right!" Pippin cheered, yawning a second time himself. "So, then, where do we sleep?"

Bilbo waved back the central corridor. "Meriadoc, you know my guestrooms like the backs of your hands; take what you like. Good night, my lads. Dream soundly."

The pair on the couch exchanged startled looks as Bilbo stretched vigorously and bent for his mug, which he drained promptly, slapping his belly with a satisfied hah! He stared after the retreating Merry and Pippin briefly before turning his attention to his nephew.

"Meriadoc was right, you know," Bilbo intoned seriously. "You dozed off, Frodo, and missed what they tell me is quite a remarkable tale. For that, I expect to have a word with you. Samwise, your Gaffer expects you'll be spending most of the week here, seeing as I need your excellent culinary skills on hand. For that, you deserve more than those rascals. You'll find the third room back the hall nearest the kitchen to your liking, I expect, and quite comfortable."

Sam stared at him for a moment before stammering, "But--Mr. Bilbo, sir--isn't that--"

Frodo's jaw worked, but no sound escaped his lips.

Bilbo gazed sternly at Sam. "You will accept that which is offered to you, Master Gamgee, or you shall have no place at all, save perhaps the shelter of your favorite hedge row beneath the window."

Sam stepped away from Frodo reluctantly, shaking from head to hairy toes. "Y--Yes, sir, Mr. Bilbo...I...!"

Dumbfounded, he gave Frodo's shoulder the ghost of a squeeze before sprinting off as if his feet barely touched the floor. Frodo opened his mouth once more, but still, he could find no words. With an expression both doting and unreadable, Bilbo advanced slowly upon his nephew, halting only when the youngster was caught tight in his embrace. Frodo clung to him impulsively, unable to stifle a sob of dismay.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place, my dear, dear boy?" Bilbo murmured, his own voice breaking with emotion.

"Because...I... Oh, Uncle Bilbo! I'm so very sorry..."

Bilbo guffawed unexpectedly, releasing Frodo with a tight, jarring squeeze. "What did you think, that your old Uncle's gone blind as well as tone-deaf? No, Frodo my lad, not even close. The key you're humming in is clear enough to me, and I'm not one for formal note-reading! Go on and bed him proper. If it's my blessing you were waiting on, you have it."

A furious blush crept into Frodo's pale cheeks. "Well... not exactly...that is, I--"

"Wait? Bah, of course you didn't!" Bilbo chortled, cuffing him fondly. "Don't you ever forget I was young, once," he added softly, his eyes warm and distant. "A youth not unlike yourself, my boy, though I pray with all the days I have left that your ending's less lonesome than mine..."

Through tears, Frodo caught Bilbo's glance and held it for all he was worth. "I would hope that, if nothing else, I have been good company..."

"Oh, Frodo, no," Bilbo whispered, patting his cheek. "Don't you cry; don't you go minding an old hobbit's regret. I've been lonesome in one respect only, and not in the respect that truly matters. For that, I have you to thank--oh, hush, there now..."

For several minutes, they simply held each other, clinging until both tears and words found their rest.

"He's waiting on you," Bilbo whispered finally, smoothing Frodo's untidy curls.

Frodo only nodded, hugging him fiercely. "Good night, Uncle Bilbo.

Holding Frodo at arms' length, Bilbo stood back and gave a nod of wistful pride. "Good night, Frodo. May your dreams and Master Gamgee's be the sweetest of all."

Frodo drifted to his room as if he did not know the way. Pushing through the half open door was like entering it for the first time in his life. But seeing Sam perched on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands and his eyes fixed restlessly upon a newly-lit fire in the hearth...

That was coming home.

Frodo smiled, feeling as if his heart might burst. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Samwise?" he asked, lingering in the doorway.

Sam looked up with a gasp, the moment taking its own duration to sink in. With a grin, he murmured, "No, I don't think so, but you can come here--"

And indeed, Frodo was there before he could finish, his slight weight knocking Sam back onto the mattress with more strength than such a hobbit ought to have. Sam felt the dearest of all mouths press a warm kiss atop his head, from whence it trailed entrancingly to his ear.

"You said earlier that you hadn't gotten nearly enough cuddling. Is that true, Sam?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo."

"Then what would you say if I offered you a lifetime's worth?"

"I reckon I'd like that just fine."

"Good," Frodo whispered, taking Sam's earlobe between his teeth. "Because I don't believe that I have, either."