Fairer Than Most V: Heirloom

"Is that the last of it?" Merry asked, shoving Frodo's satchel of books into the back of the cart.

"Yes," Frodo answered, tossing his pack of clothes carelessly on top of it. "All except for Sam's--"

"Coming, Mr. Frodo!" Sam nearly tripped down the front steps, laden as he was with his own bag and the few odd items that Frodo had invariably forgotten: a few loose books, the dark blue weskit he'd worn the day before, and several jars of flavored honey that Esmeralda had pressed upon them.

"Mum would have a fit, she would, if she knew you'd forgotten those," Merry pointed out, chuckling as he watched Frodo race to Sam's aid.

"You'll break your neck one of these days," Frodo warned, slipping one arm through the weskit before relieving Sam of the books and honey. "And I fear that's more than I'm capable of mending."

"I'm sorry, sir," Sam replied, slinging his pack over the side of the cart. "But seeing as your mind's more often set on poetry than packing, I'd best take the risk."

Frodo tried to glare and instead found himself fighting a smile. "That still doesn't solve the matter of having a complete invalid on my hands."

"Nothing a kiss or two can't cure, cousin," Merry interjected, tucking his chin over Frodo's shoulder and poking his side playfully. "Besides, that sprained ankle a few months back never kept Pip from--"

"A cracked neck is hardly a hurt ankle, and where is he?" Frodo asked impatiently, shoving Merry off with a sigh. "We're about to be off, and he hasn't even said goodbye."

"Still sleepin'," Merry chuckled. "Where on earth did you think?"

"Don't surprize me none," Sam muttered.

Merry ignored the comment. "Mum and Dad wouldn't mind a last hurrah, I'm sure. They told me to send you in once you'd loaded everything. Didn't feel like stepping out of their robes today, by my guess."

Frodo rolled his eyes, and couldn't help but notice Sam's faint blush. "We'll do that, Merry," Frodo replied, taking Sam by the wrist. "And if they aren't dressed, I'll hold you acc--"

"But, sir," Sam protested, "they didn't ask for me--"

One glance at Merry's taunting demeanor was enough to send Sam on his way. Frodo led him through the wide, cool front hall back a few winding corridors, until they reached a partially open door spilling sunlight at their feet.

"They take breakfast here," Frodo explained. "Ever since I can remember."

Sam hung back. "I still don't think it's proper--"

"If they wanted us to stop in, I can't see why they'd be unpresentable," Frodo reasoned, tugging Sam back up beside him, and then a bit closer. He touched Sam's cheek. "And I can't see why they wouldn't want to see you. If they don't realize--then--oh, they know you mean something to me, in the very least."

"If you like, sir," Sam said softly, leaning to press a light kiss to Frodo's lips.

"You know I do."

"Then let's get this done with, and be off," Sam sighed.

Frodo raised his eyebrows. "You're eager to return."

"I'm eager to be out of this great hive an' back where there ain't no hum to keep me from hearin' you proper, begging your pardon."

Frodo laughed. "Sam, your Gaffer was right when he said you're--"

"If you don't come in this instant, my boy, I'll see to it Merry plunders your wine cellar for all he's worth, next time he has the chance."

Frodo turned, startled, but recovered soon enough. "Uncle Saradoc, what makes you so sure I've anything of value left?" Frodo turned his head from the crack in the door and gestured for Sam to follow him inside.

"Frodo, dear, must you go so soon?" Esmeralda asked, rising from her chair with a half-eaten muffin still in hand. "It's not often you're here, nowadays, and I fear it'll be even less, why, now that you're master of Bag End."

Frodo ducked his head, half to accept Esmeralda's kiss to his forehead and half to conceal his embarrassment. "We'll make it when we can, Aunt Esme."

"Samwise is always welcome, certainly, no worry there," Saradoc reassured Frodo, as if Frodo's response had implied concern. Saradoc raised his teacup in salute. "Why, I'd be without those morning glories if not for your Old Hamfast advisin' Emeric some years back. You follow your Mr. Frodo as often as you like."

"Thank you, sir," Sam responded, ducking his head in turn. "I will, at that."

Frodo shifted under his aunt's gaze, which had gone thoughtful during the course of her husband's exchange with Sam. "Yes," she murmured, nodding, smile breaking even broader than her son's. "Yes, you keep that in mind, both of you. Now, don't you let that honey go to waste. I remember which you're fondest of--mint and blueberry, and that's two jars of each, and no less."

"They're accounted for," Frodo reasured her, knowing that if he caught Sam's eye, he'd never hold in his laughter. "Take care of yourself, Aunt Esme. Uncle."

"'Fraid she's a bit too reckless for that, my gem is," Saradoc sighed, heaving himself up from his chair, stepping up behind Esmeralda to slip a familiar arm around her. "So I'll tell you what, dear boy, I'll keep her for you. See to it she's in one piece for next time you come around, eh?"

"I appreciate it," Frodo replied with a nod and a smile. "We'd best be on our way, if we expect to reach Whitfurrows by nightfall."

"Very well, then. You take care of him, Samwise," Esmeralda called after them.

"Put in a good word at the Winding Oak," Saradoc added, jabbing his pipe at them mindfully. "There's no finer inn till Frogmorton, and Master Marshworth's lass keeps as fine a table as any."

Sam paused in the doorway and looked back, meeting her eyes. "I'll do that, Miss Esmeralda--Mr. Saradoc. I promise," Sam murmured, nodding again, and followed Frodo back out into daylight.

"So, which of Mum's robes did you get a peek at?" Merry asked from where he lay sprawled in the grass. "The violet one? Rose? That awful calico brocade that Pip dressed one of the goats--"

"They were dressed, Merry. And if you don't move, you'll be covered in cart tracks. I'd like to see Pip kiss those away."

"Oh, would you, now, Frodo? Does your Gamgee approve--"

"Goodbye, Mr. Merry," Sam said curtly. "Frodo, here, let's get you up--hup--there." Sam turned back to Merry once Frodo had settled, eyeing the empty driver's seat. "Where's Rufus gotten off to?"

"Didn't expect him to leave without askin' a last kiss of his pretty Oleander, did you? Finest kitchen-maid we've got, and rumor has--"

"Merry, that's quite enough. Save it for your next visit. We wouldn't want you to spend all your gossip ahead of time. If you bore us, I might have to set you out with no wine at all."

"You would, too," Merry grumbled.

"I see him," Sam said abruptly, pointing to the figure ambling up over the hill. Sam scrambled into the cart and settled beside Frodo. "Good luck, Mr. Merry. With Mr. Pippin so tired an' all, seems to me as you'll need it."

* * *

Dusk had just settled when the soft, scattered lights of Whitfurrows rose ahead in the distance. A biting breeze had stirred up, a reminder that the last days of summer now had no binding. Frodo shivered and pressed closer to Sam, who turned to wrap both arms around him.

"I should've thought to ask for a blanket," Sam murmured, rubbing warmth into Frodo's arms and back as best he could.

"We'll be there soon," Frodo sighed, pressing his cheek to Sam's. "And none too soon." Frodo grimaced at the rumbling of his stomach.

"We'll quiet you in no time, just you wait." Sam spoke as if to a child, giving Frodo's belly a soothing rub.

Frodo smiled, tried to hold back a hum that held more than just contentment. He touched his lips to Sam's ear and whispered, "There's more of me wanting such a promise, I'll have you know, except that I'll guarantee no such thing as quiet."

"Then I'll just have to keep that tongue of yours busy, if we've neighbors for the night."

Frodo stifled a laugh in Sam's hair, winding it down to a kiss just behind his ear. "Do you promise?"

Sam glanced at Rufus, who seemed to have more mind for the road than what conversation drifted behind him, whether on purpose or by chance. Sam turned and found Frodo's mouth pliant and ready, as if he had read Sam's intent to drown their breaths in a deep, silent kiss.

"Aye," Sam breathed when they drew apart, and tucked Frodo's head into the curve of his neck until, at last, they pulled up alongside the towering, spidery oak that gave Marshworth's inn its name.

After the bother of unloading and making sure that Rufus could see to his own quarters and the stable arrangements, procuring supper and one of the Oak's finest rooms seemed all too simple. Sam stood by as Frodo thanked the inkeeper for agreeing to send something up so late, relayed Saradoc's well-wishing, and paid for their lodging. In no time at all, they were settled in overstuffed chairs before a fire, sharing some ale, stew, and bread baked fresh that day. At length, Frodo leaned forward and set his bowl on the low table, took a last swig of his ale. He glanced across at Sam, who had finished moments before. Sam now watched him intently, leaning on one arm of the chair, feet tucked up and eyes half closed with drowsy content.

"Have I lost you, Samwise?" Frodo sighed affectionately, rising from his chair and crossing the short distance to Sam's.

"Mm, no," Sam responded, eyes drifting wider at Frodo's approach, a gaze much brighter than Frodo had expected.

"Good," Frodo said softly, settling down beside Sam even as he shifted to make room. "Because I'm still...a bit hungry..."

No hurry in this; oh, none at all. Sam turned in the chair to face Frodo, framed by the glow and lick of flames. Frodo reached for Sam's buttons slowly--waistcoat first, then his shirt, parting the fabric as he moved carefully down the line. Sam leaned back and closed his eyes as Frodo leaned to press his mouth over his heart. Frodo slid his hands along Sam's waist, tugging the shirt free, moving his lips in soft, shapeless tastings until Sam tangled his fingers in Frodo's hair with a whimper.

"What do you want?" Frodo whispered, hands busy at the front of Sam's trousers.

"You. Bed. Anything--ah! Frodo..."

Frodo slid off the chair and tugged Sam's hips forward a bit, bending to bury his face against warm fabric and warmer flesh. "I think bed can wait," Frodo breathed.

Sam bit his lip and groaned.

* * *

"Mm, Sam."

Frodo closed his eyes and turned his face sideways into the pillow, still trembling under Sam's light touch. Frodo felt the mattress shift as Sam leaned lower, finding a place on Frodo's neck that sent chills rolling nigh as badly as Sam's hand still tracing gentle circles over his belly, the insides of his thighs. Frodo wrapped his arms around Sam's neck and gave a shuddering sigh.

"That's it." Sam lifted his hand away, despite Frodo's hum of protest. "No sense in windin' you up again, what when we've got another early start to consider." Sam's hand returned, this time with the soft cloth that hung over the washbasin next to the bed.

Frodo opened his eyes and blinked as Sam cleaned him with familiar ease. Oh, he could have watched forever, once his vision cleared. The way Sam's brow creased, making sure he'd gotten every last bit. The way he frowned just a little until he was satisfied, and then bent to brush a kiss where...

"Too good for me," Frodo whispered, threading his fingers in those lovely curls bent low over his stomach.

Frodo felt Sam breathe out, lift his head just enough. "That ain't so."

"You are, and I say so," Frodo murmured, slipping his fingers from Sam's hair and holding his arms out. Sam crawled up and settled against Frodo, tugging the covers up over them. Frodo's fingers found their way back to an easy tangle. "And that's why I shan't ever let you go."

"I'd never want it, sir, let alone ask--"

"Sometimes you forget," Frodo laughed softly, "where we are."

"Or mayhap it's not so forgetful as you think."

Frodo regarded Sam thoughtfully, though his features by now lay mostly hidden in the dim light. Sam accepted a kiss and settled them more snugly. Frodo breathed deeply at Sam's ear.

"I'll take that," he murmured. "Good night, Sam-love."

" 'Night, an' I'll gladly take that..."

Sam was already drifting off, voice slurred and faint. Frodo lay awake for a long time, and found himself thinking of that morning, of sunlit curtains and someone always there to share tea.

* * *

"You're all set. Not a book or a jar forgotten, neither," Sam reassured Frodo, setting the last of Frodo's things just inside the door.

"Because you made sure of it," Frodo sighed, reaching for Sam's hand. "Stay for supper?"

"It'll be dusk soon," Sam said quietly. "I promised my Gaffer I'd come right home. We're already a day past what we'd said. An' Mum misses me doin' up first breakfast, so I think--"

"I understand." Frodo sighed heavily, tugged Sam in for a parting kiss. "But you'll be here..."

"Frodo, I'm always here."

Frodo nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose you are."

"I do love you, me dear. Sometimes those eyes make me think you're fixin' to forget--"

"That I offered you a lifetime's worth? Never," Frodo whispered, backing up a step, not certain why something fondly said could sting.

Sam kissed him again. "You sleep well, sir."

"You too, Sam."

Frodo stood in the doorway until Sam cleared the gate, casting a smile and a backwards glance as he continued up the Row. Frodo closed his door immediately after, lest Sam look back again, lest Frodo take off running--

Frodo had promised a lifetime's worth. But he hadn't considered exactly what he meant, and hadn't fully understood what until now. Frodo gathered his things quickly and padded back the hall, stumbling once or twice. A sharp, sudden memory left him blind.

"Frodo-lad, I was sorting through some old things last night, and bless me, if I hadn't found it, I might have forgotten. I've something to show you."

"What is it, Uncle Bilbo? If it's that ring, I know--"

"Yes, yes, you know the tales, and I daresay I'll show you that one of these days, too. This is something else. It belonged to my mother."

Frodo dropped his bags on the bedroom floor, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, breathed harshly against the memory. Bilbo. Bilbo--

"Did it, Uncle? What is it?"

"Patience, lad. First I've got to find where I've set it! Hah..."

"It sounds important. It would be a shame if you lost it again."

"I haven't lost it, I tell you! I put it--oh, that dratted--around here--somewhere--"

"What's this?"

"Oh, now, mind those boxes, Frodo, they'll topple in all of--my lad, that's it. You've found it."

"What is it?"

Frodo sat trembling at Bilbo's--his desk, brushing a recent layer of dust off of the finely-carved oak box. It was small enough, and thin, as big as his fists side by side, as thick as a small slab of butter. He fumbled to open it.

"An heirloom from my father's side, for as long as he can remember. Given to each new wife through the generations down. Have a look."

Frodo's breath caught as the lid gave way; his hand slipped, and it clattered harmlessly to the desktop. Frodo set it down reverently, reaching with an index finger to trace--

"Uncle, it's beautiful. The silversmithing, these swirls--"

"Not Elvish, I'm afraid, but aye, they look it. The stone's rare, my lad. Comes from the far north, as tradition goes. Some dwarf trader had it, likely. One thing's for certain--they say it never matched a Baggins lad's choice of a lass fairer than my father's."

"Belladonna. Well, her name says--"

"You have her eyes, lad. Hers, and her sister's."

"Makes sense. Your Aunt Mirabella, was she..."

"Lovely as my mother? Nearly. And Primula, why, Primula claimed those blues and passed them right to you. Go on, touch the stone. See there, in the mirror? You couldn't ask a finer match."

"Bilbo, I hardly think I'll be wearing this."

"Aye, lad, of course you won't. But I'm passing it to you now, for when you wed."

"But that means it'll leave Belladonna's li--"

"It's about time Mirabella got her share, don't you think?"

"I'm cheating her of it, Uncle," Frodo whispered, and replaced the lid before he got to considering things that were best left unconsidered.

* * *

Some things, Ted Sandyman decided, just weren't worth gossiping about.

Peridot Bunce's affair with Lodo Goodbody? Old news. He ordered a second ale and told Filibert Bolger where he could take his wagging tongue. Gilly Brownlock's melodramatic hop in the river? Please. It was but a foot deep, and Mosco Baggins ought to know it--

"Baggins, now, Baggins," Ted chortled over the contents of his tankard, and poor Mosco went several shades of pink and relocated to a table in the corner. "Has anyone got news about that new hermit and heir of Bag End?"

"Frodo's not been about this week," Filibert piped up matter-of-factly. "Off in Buckland, he is. Visiting cousins."

"Too good for the lot of us, he is," Ted scoffed, "and don't that just stand to prove it. Can't even mingle with the locals, has to go takin' his visits--"

"Frodo mingles with his serving-folk often enough," Mosco offered. "Never a day that Gaffer or his Sam-lad's here that they aren't singin' his praises left and right."

"Servants and Brandybucks," Ted muttered, taking a long pull of his ale. He swiped his mouth clean and spat. "He's a queerer one than ever Mad Baggins was before 'im, you mark me! Tales and songs's one thing, but uppishness and forgettin' what's proper's another--"

"Oh, come off it, Sandyman," Mosco muttered. "You've gone too far, you have. He's kin of mine, however distant, and you ain't heard ever that Frodo Baggins is aught but kind, have you? Have you?" Mosco turned to look around the room, and found his question med with a majority of slow nods and agreeable murmurs, and even a few toasts. "So, there you have it. You've no business to be sayin' the things you have."

Ted might have reached Mosco's neck if it weren't for a soft, unexpected response from the opposite end of the counter.

"No offense, Mosco-lad, but he does."

Ted turned, his trembling quarry forgotten. "Aye, now, have I? And would you mind tellin' this sorry lot why?

The hobbit who had spoken shifted, turning so that the light revealed him somewhat light of hair, bright of eye, and none too blemished in a face that otherwise might be called comely. Mosco made a disgusted sound, rose with a slam of his ale, and left. A few who seemed to be his companions followed, glaring just as scathingly as they left. Most others hummed in confusion or turned back to their own business, whether they knew the interloper or not. A few remained interested, but they were not to be rewarded. The stranger hopped down from his stool, crossed to Ted, and proved himself not so strange after all.

"Took a lot of courage on yer Mum's part, I see, lettin' you run loose all the way from 'cross the river. Or don't she know?"

"Master Sandyman, I've no interest to share what knowledge I've come by unless you retract that at once."

"Then consider it 'tracted, and keep all that fancy-talk to yourself, 'less you're goin' the way of your cousin, Lotho-lad."

Lotho bristled. "You will call me--"

"Whatever the blazes I please, little weasel that you are. Mum's spy, don't I just know it. Excuse us, gentlemen. We're takin' this outside. Appears there's nothin' more to it than Master Sackville-Baggins here wantin' his hide ironed."

A huff of raucous laughter saw them out. Lotho had no choice but to gulp and dash along after Ted, who had a firm grip on his wrist. In no time, Lotho found himself pinned roughly up against the shadowy planks alongside the threshhold, gasping for breath as Ted's grip slowly pulled and twisted his collar tight.

"Now, if you tell me this bit of mockery, lad, I might just let you off with nothin' broke."

"B--But I just heard it," Lotho stammered, struggling.

Ted narrowed his eyes. "From who, now? The only one you'd'a been talkin' to is that pretty Rose Cotton as goes about and fills--"

"Y--Yes, I heard it from that lass. Can't remember her name, ever, but her brothers know Sam Gamgee. 'Twas they that told her Sam hasn't been about for a week, either, because he's done taken off to Buckland with his master. Now, will you let--go--aah!"

Lotho hit the ground with a groan. Ted bent and peered at him.

"Is that so, Mr. Lotho?"

Lotho straightened his cravat indignantly. "It is. And if Mum so much as knows I gave what I've found--"

"Oh, shut it, Lotho-lad," Ted sighed, tugging Lotho to his feet. "I ain't yer Mum. Get along and have another pint, and run along home."

Lotho stuck out his jaw. "I'm not leaving till I hear all there is to be heard."

"Apparently, you've done got all there was to be heard."

Lotho's lips curved into a secretive smile. "Aye, and what if I haven't told it all?"

Ted grabbed him by the lapels this time. Lotho cowered.

"It's nothing you shouldn't have figured out by now! You bloody live here!"

"Aye, Lotho-lad, but I haven't the connections you have, if you mark me."

"More like dumb luck," Lotho gasped sourly as Ted released him for the last time. "I'm surprized I can bring back as much as I do, seeing as I don't make it down this often. Mum's looking to unravel Frodo's good name, if you mark me."

"Aye," Ted replied, prompting impatiently.

Lotho tilted his head. "It seems to me that you want the same thing, but for reasons entirely petty. Slime, you are, Ted Sandyman, and don't you touch me again, or else you shan't hear--"

"Out with--"

"Think about what you saw the night of the Party, then think about this," Lotho whispered hastily, shrugging his coat into order as he dashed a short ways out into the dark. Ted tried to follow, but Lotho held out a hand and as menacing a look as he could muster. "There's likely a reason that Sam followed Frodo to Buckland, if you follow."

And with that, Lotho dashed off towards the glitter of water, and Ted was lost in thought. What had he seen at the Party? Well. Sam had shared his master's table. Frodo had danced a while, but with no-one in particular. Frodo had come back to the table--leaned close, some mirthful private exchange, then he'd tossed Sam out for a dance with that Rose-lass, that he didn't seem to want more than he wanted his ale and--

And he was sure that a gentlehobbit ought to have no real use for his gardener on the road, neither--

Ted grunted in surprize.

Just after that exchange--nay, just after the whole fireworks mess with that Merry Brandybuck and reckless little Took. It might have appeared in jest, but one thing for certain: he had seen the looks Frodo gave Sam, and th'other way around, too.

Ted had seen them dance.

* * *

Frodo woke late, rousing to a creak outside, followed by a sort of metallic clatter. He reached out instinctively, sighing as he remembered, and rolled into the empty patch of bedclothes where Sam would have lain. It was unusual that Sam hadn't awakened him; hardly a morning passed that he hadn't stayed for the night and not made certain he threw Frodo's shutters and leaned to touch, to murmur him gently awake, as if in apology that he hadn't been there the whole night through.

Frodo stretched and slipped out of bed, padded over to the window. He hadn't bothered to take his breeches off; it would be a simple matter to shrug into a shirt and step outside to investigate. He could see nothing from this vantage point, though the creaking continued after a few moments, and he suspected that he knew what it was.

Frodo slipped hastily into the shirt he'd worn the day before, not even bothering to tuck it in. He was at the front door in no time, and there, just around the corner and into the sunshine...

Sam had the wheelbarrow out and about, already half full of the season's last straggling weeds. He knelt beside it, back to Frodo, leaning to pull some dandelions up from about the roots of some lilies and iris.

"So busy already?"

"Mr. Frodo! Oh, bless you, you're up." Sam brushed his hands off hastily, rising to face Frodo with a look of slight concern. "I thought I'd let you sleep. You seemed a bit done in last night, from traveling and all...it's nigh elevenses, did you know?"

Frodo blinked. "No..." He must have been tired after all.

Sam's look softened. "I'm sorry I didn't think to..."

Frodo stepped up to him, sliding arms low about his waist. "Then, would you join me for elevenses?"

"I'd hoped to finish--" Sam cut off, eyeing the wheelbarrow's contents critically.

Frodo frowned. "Can't it wait? Surely it's gotten chill enough that no new shoots could possibly..."

"Mm, no harm in it, I s'pose," Sam sighed, tucking a kiss against Frodo's neck. "After all, I haven't done right by takin' care of you, an' Miss Esmeralda made me promise..."

A bath and two meals later, Sam tried to tear himself away.

"Frodo, if I can get through weedin', then tomorrow--"

Frodo tugged him back onto the sofa, lips a firm-set line of determination. "Sam, you're so set on escaping, all of a sudden! What's happened--"

Sam tilted his head, regarded Frodo thoughtfully. "Perhaps I ought to be askin' you that, begging your pardon."

Frodo's jaw worked soundlessly. "What--What do you mean?"

"You're jittery. I show the slightest sign of havin' someplace to go, and you're all set on keepin' me from it. An' I haven't left yet, unless it was that I had to."

Frodo sat back, stared at his hands. "I suppose so."

"What is it, me dear?" Sam pressed softly, brushing at Frodo's curls.

"It's...oh, you'll think me a fool. Do you remember--well, Uncle Saradoc...and Aunt Esme...?"

Sam nodded patiently.

"I...I just wonder, Sam. What that's like."

"Rulin' over a place such as Brandy Hall? I don't think you'd care for it, overmuch. A house full of young'uns alone is fit to drive Mum mad, and we ain't little no more, neither."

Frodo sighed. "No, not that. Just--what they have. That room, all to themselves. Every morning. Whenever they'd like."

"It's as sweet as anything, Frodo-love," Sam said softly, brow crinkling in confusion. "Don't you know it? This. Like this, right now. I reckon this is it." He leaned and kissed Frodo searchingly, and Frodo hadn't the heart to do aught but respond.

"I suppose you're right, Sam. I suppose this is..."

...what it's like when you're courting, and can't yet share a bed or a life in full.

"But I'm passing it to you now, for when you wed."

Frodo spent the rest of the evening reading in the shade, watching Sam till he was certain not a single weed remained. Sam watched, too, glances still wary, still concerned. He did not leave Frodo that night.

* * *

"Pssst. You, there!"

"Ah!" Lotho jumped at the feel of rough fingers on his elbow.

"Oh, would you hush?" Ted growled. "This way."

Lotho allowed himself to be tugged from his usual corner and drawn, stumbling, into an even darker one. Ted pressed him into a chair and then rounded the table, settling across from Lotho. He let out a puff of smoke, biting down on the stem of his pipe with eyes narrowed. Lotho swallowed.

"What have you got for me?"

"Nothing," Lotho gulped. "That Rose Cotton isn't here. And if I had gone asking aloud, I'd have come off no better than you."

Ted sneered. "Four days not enough time for spyin', not even for the likes of you, what, a bleedin' professional?"

"It's harder than you think!" was all Lotho could find by way of response, hands fisting helplessly at his sides. "Why don't you go and try escaping--"

"I haven't got a Mum to worry about. Now, you listen here: I have tried, and I have got something, so listen close."

Lotho's eyes widened.

Ted chuckled, satisfied. "Aye. I thought so. Well, here goes, then..."

Lotho shifted in his seat, glaring as Ted took his merry time refilling that horrible pipe. "Out with it, Master Sandyman, if you please. I haven't all night!"

"Apparently, that uppish cousin of yours has. And more'n just one night, Lotho-lad."

"You're joking," Lotho breathed.

"Never. I've got it by way of m'own eyes, I have."

"You've been watching the Row? That's pathetic."

"Only evenin' and thereabouts, and from a distance, mind you. And mayhap by a few more sets, but never you mind whose they are. Ted Sandyman, he knows."

"Knows what, then?" Lotho demanded defiantly. "I want to hear you say it."

"The Gamgee lad ain't left Bag End these last few nights."

"Really," Lotho breathed weakly. So, it was true...

"Now, most o' my eyes, you see, well--they think it ain't more than Mr. Baggins readin' that poetry of his to Sam-lad till odd hours. But me, well, I think I know better, and so do you."

"Yes," Lotho said, gritting his teeth. "Fine. That leaves you free to make a scene, doesn't it, next you see them?"

"If I feel like it."

"I don't see why you wouldn't."

"Mayhap I don't like doin' things just because some overstuffed Baggins lady wants--"

"Sackville-Baggins to you, and you will speak of her with resp--"

"Depends on how much she's payin', Lotho-lad."

"Less than you're like to ask."

"Don't you be so sure," Ted murmured, leaning across the table to lay a hand against Lotho's cheek. "Don't you be so sure. I'm sure we'll figure out somethin', now, won't we?"

Lotho swallowed hard, and managed to croak out a yes.

* * *

"Frodo, I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? They've given you no trouble since we've gotten back--"

"You didn't see the looks Mum was givin' me before I came back here after dinner last night, begging your pardon," Sam countered. "She looks as if she's fixin' to set me out with no more'n the clothes on my back."

Frodo made a frustrated gesture. "Your Gaffer would have none of it."

"My Gaffer can't stand up to her, neither!" Sam groaned, head in his hands.

"You could come here," Frodo said softly, eyes dead set on Sam's. "And you know it."

Sam drew his breath in sharply, sat up straight. "That's what this whole thing's been about, ain't it?"

"Yes." Frodo closed his eyes and sat back, letting his breath hiss out, relieved. Finally. He felt Sam shift on the sofa, silence so tense it was surely about to snap.

"I can't do that, neither."

Frodo opened his eyes, grasped at Sam's hand, sat forward tensely. "Why not?"

"It...It's...Frodo," Sam moaned, taking Frodo's hand and giving it a fierce squeeze. "Mum'd want nothing to do with me then, for certain, and I can't say as I could take--"

"I wish I hadn't done what I did," Frodo said softly. "Those words...I wish I could take them all back."

"I wish I could tell you she wished the same of hers, but it's likely she don't."

"I thought not."

"Frodo...Frodo, please, don't you forget..." Sam pleaded, twining their fingers.

Frodo could see it in Sam's eyes: Don't forget what I promised you, don't you ever.

"I won't, Sam. But you know how I feel, and that I can't help it, either. This place is empty, in the hours you're not here. I'm sick of it."

"And home's not home without you," Sam said quietly, leaning to brush Frodo's cheek.

Frodo pulled back. "Then say you'll consider it. Please. All folk will have to know is you've become my valet as well as my gardener. And those close enough to guess it, well, I don't think they should have any reason to--"

"I can't, and you know it. Leastaways, not yet. Maybe never, Mr. Frodo, but don't you forget this, neither: you'll always have me, even if not every minute. Now, my Gaffer's expectin' I'll see to supper. Good night, Frodo-love."

And with that and a kiss briefer than ever he'd given, Sam was gone.

* * *

Keener than anything he'd ever known, Sam knew this: by the look in Frodo's eyes as he'd left him, Sam would be lucky if he could work up the nerve to show up the next morning as usual, whether they be lovers or no. This was a fight, Lady help him. He'd let himself get into an honest-to-goodness fight...

With Frodo.

Sam's Gaffer asked very few questions regarding his sullen silence, and for that, he was grateful. He found that he could hide the redness of his eyes behind the steam, could brush off the hoarseness in his voice if he blamed it on a bit of a cold. All of this, his Gaffer accepted with quiet equanimity. His mother had few enough words for him as it was, let alone the desire to ask after his grief. Sam served dinner in silence, and ate it accordingly. His Gaffer's lazy gossip in addition to Marigold's tireless chatter was enough to lull him even further into numbness.

Once Sam got to bed, the tears that had followed him up Bagshot Row returned with a bitter vengeance. Sleep came to him far later than was merciful, which was usually the way with such things. And, try as he might, he couldn't help but wish the spare pillow bunched in his arms was...

* * *

Frodo sat at his desk until the paper before him blurred with more than just tears. Meaningless, all of it meaningless. What good was writing to distract himself, what when he wished Sam were there to listen, and tell him if the cadence were right?

Frodo cleared the page away with an angry swipe, uncaring that ink stained the sleeve of his dressing gown. What had Sam meant? Would he be there in the morning, or had Frodo pushed him too hard? Pushed him away? Frodo buried his face in his hands, couldn't help surrendering. So he hadn't cried enough for the night after all. No, of course not. Frodo stretched forward miserably, letting his forehead fall on the hardwood, heedless of what his outstretched arms may scatter. Papers, ink, wood--

Wood. Frodo gasped for air and sat up straight, wiping his eyes just enough to see, to reach for that blasted box. He opened it and set the lid aside, staring and shaking as sobs still wrenched through him.

"For when you wed."

Frodo pushed the box aside, couldn't bear to look upon the pendant. He leaned curled forward and leaned on his arms, weeping until he was spent. Wed, indeed! At this rate, it looked as if it would never happen--

Frodo choked.

If Sam wouldn't have him, then perhaps, in time, it would.

* * *

"Son, oughtn't you be along to Bag End soon?"

Sam dropped his trowel, ducked forward into the hedge as best he could. "N--No, sir. I finished the weeds up yesterday, and I thought our own bit of ground could use some tendin'."

"Good lad," the Gaffer murmured, shading his eyes as he squinted at the sky. Chill it was, but painfully bright. "Though somethin' tells me that perhaps your Mr. Frodo's in need of it worse."

Sam rocked back on his heels, gasping in frustration. "Dad! I've been there for all of these few days past, what makes you think--"

"He's the only thing you'd cry over, Samwise, exceptin' perhaps a patch o' failed posies."

"Cryin'," Sam muttered, and picked up his trowel.

"Don't you try hidin' it," the Gaffer warned, kneeling beside his son. "If it's Bell you've done fought over, I told you not to--"

"It's lots of things, Dad," Sam whispered, setting the trowel down again. He turned and looked his father in the eye, biting his lip hard against fresh tears. He'd struggled against them all night, albeit unsuccessfully.

The Gaffer rubbed his chin, stared once more at the sky. "Don't take a fool t'see he'd like more of you to himself than he's already got," he murmured.

"Hidin' it? I ain't never tryin' again," Sam sniffed, closing his eyes on a deep breath. "What am I supposed to do? I...I couldn't leave...and I'm sure you wouldn't think much of me decidin'--"

"That would be your choice, Sam-lad, no matter that your old Dad ain't used to such a thing," the Gaffer sighed, eyes drifting back to earth again. "It'd be right strange without you 'round here, no mistake--"

"Then, that settles--"

"I ain't finished, Sam. You listen."

Sam sighed, knowing that tone meant he'd better look his Gaffer in the eye, and fast.

"No sense in hidin' reasons from your Mum. She knows more'n you could possibly think, more'n I do, like as not. Lasses have got a sense like that. But me, I'm a sight more practical than my Bell, or leastaways I hope. Mr. Frodo's got an awful big place on his hands, and gentlehobbits ain't raised for that kind of caretakin'. If he's a sight as clumsy at the griddle as you say he is, he's in need of a constant cook. Winter's nigh here, son. This's the last of green things that'll need your hands for a long while. And I s'pose when spring comes, this garden here's not beyond me own. Bag End, now, that takes a right strong lad," the Gaffer said, tipping Sam's chin up meaningfully. "So does the gentlehobbit that lives in the hole beside."

Sam's throat tightened. "Dad--"

"He loves you, son. Don't take eyes as keen as once I had, or as keen as you have, neither, to see it. You think on that," the Gaffer said, stretching as he rose, eyes on the parting clouds. "It's a clear day, and no mistake. But that don't mean a thing if you don't make the best of it."

Sam was left staring at his trowel, wondering if he'd really heard what he thought he had.

* * *

By the time noon arrived, Frodo was certain that Sam wasn't coming. He'd slept only in fits and snatches, at last giving up when dawn seeped its first rays through his bedroom window. He'd gotten up, then, decided to make tea. No better cure for a head fogged with tears and confusion, Bilbo had always said, though it had never quite applied to something like this. Petty tweenaged quarrels with cousins were one thing. This was entirely another.

By the time luncheon had passed, Frodo retreated to his study, from which there was only one window to keep vigil, and a terrible view, besides. He did very little reading, and what writing he set down was (though he wouldn't admit it) illegible. On an attempt at his second favorite excerpt, Frodo gave up. On this same attempt, he woke some time later to find himself mostly smeared with ink, and a static presence to the room that didn't make itself clear until he had been staring at it for several moments.

Sam bent over the desk to lay a hand against Frodo's cheek, breath shaking with tears. "I shoul--should've known I'd find you like this," Sam whispered, framing Frodo's face in his hands, worrying at what must have been ink smudges with his thumbs.

"Sam," Frodo whispered, fingers drifting slowly to the ones cradling his cheeks. "I'm...I'm so--"

"Me dear, hush. It's nigh afternoon tea-time, and you haven't eaten a thing--oh, what a blind fool you are, Sam Gamgee, a blind--"

"No, I haven't," Frodo murmured absently, and if it hadn't been for the taste of salt on his lips, he mightn't have realized he was crying. "Sam...I don't understand how you could..."

Sam finished with the marks along Frodo's jawline, his own tears running something awful. "How I could what, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo turned and rose as Sam circled the desk, feeling himself give way just as Sam's arms closed around him, unbearably, wonderfully tight. "...come back, Sam. How you could come back. I pushed you too--"

"None of that, Frodo-love, none," Sam whispered, and soon his mouth was over Frodo's and the numbness was gone and Frodo remembered how properly painful sobbing ought to be.

"But...Sam..."

"No 'buts', neither. We're goin' to bed, and I don't mean for a tumble. You've slept less'n I have, and once we're up and around, why, then, we'll have a bath and--"

"I'm hungry," Frodo whispered, his cry breaking on what might have been a laugh. He couldn't quite be sure, but Sam seemed to be.

"We'll take care of that, first, then," he murmured against Frodo's neck, kissing softly. "And after, we'll have a good sleep."

Frodo thought he felt Sam smile. "What if we get crumbs all over? The ink's bad enough--"

"You'll be noddin' off before you leave the table, once I'm through with you."

* * *

"I should be going."

An all-too-familiar hand struck out in the dusky light, catching Lotho by the wrist. "So soon, lad?"

Lotho tugged free of Ted's grip, shuddering in remembrance--half shock, half pleasure--of it elsewhere. "I...well, yes. I told Mother I'd be--"

"Surely, now, she expects her grown lad to go disappearin' now and then?" Ted breathed, and Lotho could feel warmth at his back, another hand on his shoulder.

"N--Not exactly." Lotho closed his eyes and shivered again.

"Always cold, you are," Ted murmured, voice husky, and suddenly Lotho couldn't think of where he'd been heading. Those rough fingers were too tight again. "I...sup--pose..."

"Good lad..."

Lotho whimpered and let Ted's arms still him. Hand in his hair. Almost gentle, almost...

"As long as...not too much later..."

"We'll be at the Dragon by then, Lotho-dear. And mayhap we'll have a bit of luck. Wouldn't you like to see it? Do yer Mum proud?"

Lotho trembled and let his mouth be taken.

Not anymore.

* * *

Sam couldn't sleep, and he'd never been so glad of it. Frodo lying peaceful in his arms was rest enough, the tickle of damp hair at his chin a blessing. Sam stifled a chuckle--Frodo had gotten his way after all, but he had nodded off before their tender bathing turned to more serious play. Far too easy to lift him from the water, dry him, push him gently back the hall, then settle down in the sheets with not a thread between them. Oh, his Gaffer was right, as usual: what a piece of work Frodo was, indeed! But such a dear one, Sam thought, and curled his sleeping master even closer.

Master...well, that would always be so, no matter what had come to pass these recent months. Sam couldn't imagine it, not quite--even if without a thought he now called Frodo lover. It weren't right, somehow, to forget that he was still Mr. Frodo. His Mr. Frodo. Sam closed his eyes, almost content. No words had passed between them concerning all the foolishness of the day before. It would surface in time, he reckoned. And then they'd settle it, and then he'd say--

"I'm sorry."

Frodo's whisper was so faint that Sam felt it, a fine prickle of breath against his chest. Sam stretched and kissed Frodo's forehead, decided he'd let this take its course. "Bless you, you're awake already."

"I am." Frodo had tipped his chin up just enough to meet Sam's eyes, his own grave and sullen. "There was no more call for the things I said to you than for the things I said to your mother."

Sam sighed as Frodo's fingers stroked up his sides. "I reckon they needed to be said, all the same. Bad blood only gets worse if you don't let it, says my Gaffer."

Frodo laughed softly. "Remind me never to put bringing up your Gaffer in bed past you again."

"Frodo?"

"Sam," Frodo murmured, tracing a gentle spiral at Sam's throat, eyes inquiring.

Sam tried to take a breath, but Frodo's gaze locked onto his was enough to chase it far, far away. "I'm sorrier, sir."

Frodo frowned. "You have no reason to be."

"Oh, but I have every."

"Why do you think--"

"For not tellin' you sooner what I'm about to tell you now," Sam said, tucking some of Frodo's hair back behind his ear. Sam felt Frodo tense, as if he were bracing himself against something he didn't want to hear. Sam hushed him, stroking down his back till Frodo closed his eyes and let out a strained whimper. "It ain't like that. You listen."

"I...I am..."

"I'm stayin'."

Frodo's breath drained slowly. "You mean--for the night?"

"No, Frodo-love, for good."

"That's--Sam, that's--I couldn't really ask for more than you've--"

"For you."

* * *

It was a good while before either of them regained composure enough to speak again, but once they had, it didn't matter much: kissing took up most of their breath, proving words of little to no significance. Somewhere between the clearing of tears and murmuring of promises, Frodo decided exactly what he would do. But not just yet.

"It's time for supper, now," Frodo said softly, kissing at the lingering redness beneath Sam's eyes. "And I've an idea. I think we ought to go out and celebrate, don't you? I miss the Dragon's ale and company, and besides, they've a fair enough kitchen, even you agree with that... Sam?"

"Ah, seein' you smile again," Sam sighed, pushing himself up from the mattress. "We ought to get dressed and goin', then..."

"Not so fast," Frodo murmured, catching Sam's arm.

Sam leaned close, till they were a breath apart. "Aye?"

Frodo saw to it that dressing wasn't so hurried as he made it sound. All in all, they left Bag End in good time, time enough that darkness had descended and the glow of the Green Dragon's windows pierced it through with warm welcome. An even warmer one awaited them inside.

"Why, look who's back!"

A heavy chuckle. "We thought we'd seen the last of you, Mr. Baggins."

"Aye! What news from Buckland?"

"If it isn't Sam Gamgee. Hey, lad! Them Cottons have missed you somethin' fierce."

"...and a fair sight longer since you've come in together. What, a month or two? Hear, hear! To Frodo Baggins, who's come of age!"

Amidst the hearty welcome and rounds of toasts, claps on the back and shakings of the hand, Sam was fortunate to have gotten them a table to themselves at all. It sat against the back wall, at least, a bit away from the general bustle. The back room, as it turned out, was taken.

"Though, this is more of a fuss than I'd bargained for," Frodo laughed softly, allowing Sam to pull a chair for him.

Sam drew his own up close beside Frodo. "Not to worry, sir. I'll chase them off if--"

"Good evening, Master Baggins. Sam," Rosie murmured, eyes resting on Sam for a moment longer than Frodo would have liked. "A couple of ales then, to start?"

"Yes, thank you," Frodo replied before Sam could stammer around his blush. Frodo watched until she was gone, then turned to Sam, only to find him staring hard at his hands.

"Wish she weren't..." Sam murmured it so far under his breath that Frodo could scarcely hear, but he understood it for having heard it once before.

"I know, Sam," Frodo said softly. "I know."

Sam touched Frodo's hand briefly, gratefully. It wasn't but a few moments before their first drinks came and their supper was ordered, and a few Bolger lads and Mosco came over with greetings and gossip. This was more like it, Frodo thought. As things used to be, more or less, if not exactly. By the time Rosie turned up with their plates, conversation had turned to goings on in Hobbiton in their absence, rather than those in Buckland.

"Well, Mosco?" Frodo asked. "How have things been since the party? Your wife?"

"Oh, fine as ever, except she wishes I'd steer clearer of, well, here. And I have a mind to listen, what with Old Sandyman's doings of late," Mosco sighed.

Sam frowned. "You mean Ted, or his old Dad?"

Mosco took a swallow of ale and grimaced. "Oh, I mean Ted all right."

"No good, he is, an' I expect you won't go tellin' me again not to waste my--"

Frodo laid a hand on Sam's knee under the table in attempt to calm him. "Mosco, what has he done?"

Mosco set his ale down hard, a rare flash in his eyes. "Gone lookin' for a reason to sully our name, Ted has. Yours, in particular, but you didn't hear--"

"Shut your trap, Moss!" one of the Bolgers hissed.

Mosco sat back in his chair, indignant. "Whyever should I? So long's old Sandyarse has a bone to pick with me and mine, I'll have somethin' to say about it! Even if I haven't...a single..."

Sam glared at the owner of the hand twisting tight in Mosco's collar. Frodo tightened his hand on Sam's knee.

"Let him go, Master Sandyman," Frodo said coolly, meeting Ted's smirk of amusement without so much as blinking. "He's done nothing, except perhaps let on that your quarrel is with me. Isn't that so?"

Ted gave a short laugh and let go of Mosco roughly. "What a warm, warm welcome, Master Baggins. Drawin' me into some trouble already, hardly behavior you'd expect of a gentlehobbit--"

Sam started a lunge so hard that the table shook. Frodo let his breath hiss out between his teeth. His fingers had nearly snapped with the effort of restraining. Sam sat breathing hard, now, eyes dark with malice.

"Mosco, lads," Frodo said, raising his mug. "You heard Master Sandyman: he has business with me. Good evening to you all."

Ted stood back just enough to let them tensely file away, his eyes never once leaving Frodo's. He took Mosco's seat casually, eyes flicking to the side quickly, but just slowly enough for Frodo to follow--

Hobbit hunched at the far corner of the bar, half in shadow. Odd, that glint of gold--

It couldn't be!

Frodo took a swallow of his ale, his hand on Sam's knee shaking with rage. He licked his lips and finally looked up at Ted. "Since I've no idea what this is really about, I'd be glad if you got this over with, and quickly."

Ted just grinned. "Supposin' I can't tell it quickly, what then?"

Sam gritted his teeth and cut in, "Supposin' you've forgotten who your betters are--"

Ted laughed so loudly, then, that Frodo feared the entire inn might turn to look. Once Ted had quieted, he leaned forward with a dark intensity that left the hair of Frodo's toes standing on end. "You, Sam-lad," Ted whispered, jabbing his Pipe at Sam, "are a fine one to talk."

Frodo clamped down on another spasm in Sam's thigh, closing his eyes. He heard Sam's cool reply.

"An' why's that, may I ask?"

A moment of silence. Too much silence, and Frodo opened his eyes too late: by the time he heard Sam's choked cry, he was staring at Ted's back as he rose from a peek under the table. Frodo's jaw dropped. He released his clawed grip on Sam as Ted leaned closer than he ever had before. Frodo glanced sidelong at Sam; who was staring at the tabletop in such fierce shock that Frodo feared his pupils might bore holes in it. And then, there: there was Ted's sour breath, only a hair's breadth away.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Ted drawled in a whisper, "a Baggins would turn over for a Gamgee. At least Old Bilbo seemed t'know he were better off with dw--"

"That's enough," Sam growled, and he'd caught Ted by the waistcoat before Frodo had even had time to fully process the insult. "You back down this instant, an' I'll consider lettin' you go without--"

Ted's grin broadened. "Sam-lad, Sam-lad, surely," he scolded with a quiet laugh, "you don't mean to tell me that such a fine gardener as yourself don't know better where to plant his--"

Crash.

Frodo hit the wall with a yell, chair tipping precariously. The contents of their plates had gone scattering every which way as Sam dived over the table and directly into Ted. Frodo fell forward with a gasp and stood, shaking, hands braced on the edge of the table. He couldn't even see the pair wrestling on the floor, for the sheer number of hobbits that had crowded 'round to either cheer them on or break them up. Frodo skirted the table frantically, pushing his way...

"Let me through, let me--"

"No, Master Baggins, you stay--"

Frodo spun in shock, nearly throwing the pair of delicate hands restraining him. "Rose--?"

"He wouldn't want you caught in it. Stay back, Mr. Frodo, please."

Frodo pressed against the wall, hardly feeling those gentle hands still fretting at his arm.

He wouldn't want you caught in it.

It was finished quickly enough: two resounding blows and two cries later (one from each; Frodo could tell that the second had not been Sam), the crowd pulled back to reveal Sam crouched on his knees, eyes alight with fury, shaking. Frodo winced at the sight of blood on his lip; Rosie's fingers tightened, one hand even loosening to gently stroke. Frodo's could only take in so much, and despite the lass' unexpected gesture, all that he could see was Ted doubled over and groaning, head pressed into his forearm against the rough wooden floor. His sleeve was covered, no, nigh drenched in vivid scarlet.

"I...think..." Frodo whispered, but nothing more came.

Rosie's fingers tightened again. "Sir?"

"Mr. Frodo..."

Sam stood before them, apology raw in his eyes, dabbing at his lip with his sleeve as best he could.

Frodo took a shaking breath. "Oh, don't--"

"Here," Rosie said softly. She pressed something dry and soft into Frodo's hand.

Frodo stared at the linen napkin, then looked up. "Thank--"

Rosie was already gone, helping to clear away the mess even as some of the lads helped haul Ted outside.

Trembling, Frodo pressed the cloth to Sam's lip. "I shouldn't have--"

"Shhh," Sam whispered through the muffling cloth, and set a hand over Frodo's. Frodo leaned forward just enough to embrace Sam, nothing out of the ordinary. Just enough to look over his shoulder, as if observing the aftermath with proper shock.

Lotho was nowhere in sight.

* * *

"Frodo...Frodo, I swear it'll be--ahhh--not s'much--"

Frodo stared dubiously at the dark liquid in the pot, dabbing Sam's lip with care. "Sam, are you sure...I must've put in too much bark, not enough root."

Sam made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a wince.

"Well, Bilbo always used it. 'Sassafras is as good for pain as it is for tea, lad. Don't forget.' " Frodo grimaced, re-soaking the corner of the cloth. "It was probably your Gaffer that told him in the first place," Frodo sighed, and applied the mendicant yet again.

"He--ain't never used it, not that I can remember," Sam replied with an effort, voice full of mild surprize. "Sounds a mite Tookish, if you ask me."

"Well, what if it is?" Frodo challenged. He leaned to kiss Sam's cheek.

"No harm done, unless my skin starts turnin' with the color."

"It does stain," Frodo murmured ominously, enjoying Sam's faint indignance. "Oh, don't you worry. I haven't come near your shirt. Of course, this certainly helps..." Frodo ran his hand down Sam's exposed chest, brushing the fabric aside intently.

"Frodo, I think...I...mm, think...it's feelin' better, now."

Frodo eased the napkin away, brushed gently at the cut and bruised flesh. "I'll have his neck for it. Somehow. I swear I will. It should have been--"

"Never," Sam said softly, easing Frodo's hand away, settling it on his shoulder. "We're lucky most of 'em thought Ted had it comin' as it was. If there'd been blame, I wouldn't have wanted you takin' it."

Frodo lowered his eyes. "It's not fair to you that..."

"Ted ain't fair to anyone, me dear. He was aimin' for the both of us at one go."

Frodo permitted himself a smile. "And he nearly had us, I think. I didn't know what to say."

"That's why you ought to just keep them pretty words to yourself, sometimes, and let me see to it," Sam replied, brushing a kiss carefully over the bridge of Frodo's nose. "Besides, Ted's right. I've gotten above myself, I have. I want all that fair talkin' for myself..."

The kiss was tentative, clumsy, both of them mindful of Sam's injury. Frodo lingered at the untouched corner of Sam's mouth, biting tenderly. "We really ought to...celebrate properly," he whispered, trailing a hand from Sam's heart to his navel.

Sam pressed Frodo's hand there, his breath shallow. "I think...hmmm...so, too..."

* * *

Sam hadn't a clue what Frodo had in mind, but he couldn't have been happier not knowing. And he loved the soft thrill, the uncertainty that came with Frodo's caprice. Sam lay back under Frodo's roaming hands, sighing at the brush of those sensitive scholar's fingers skimming unhurried, detour-rich trails from hips to collarbone. He bit back a cry as Frodo bent to nuzzle at his nipple. Frodo switched to a light scrape of teeth while he worked his hands under Sam's sleeves at the shoulders.

"Sit up, Sam," Frodo whispered, shifting to sit astride Sam, briefly worrying at Sam's other nipple before raising himself. "Let's get you out of this."

Sam opened his eyes and lifted his head, and, oh, if the sight of Frodo like that weren't enough to stop his heart. Shirt already gone, lips and pale neck livid with kisses (he'd gotten carried away, of course, which gave Frodo every right to return the tease). Sam caught Frodo around the waist, holding him until Frodo's impatient tugging on his shirt required him to let go. Sam gasped, finding himself pressed back onto the sheets, the contrast of cool softness beneath and living warmth above enough to set him trembling.

"Ah, Sam," Frodo whispered head tipping back as Sam pressed up slowly, his hips rocking down in gentle counterpoint. "Sam..."

"Let's get you out of those," Sam said, voice husky as he tugged Frodo down into a kiss. Sam rolled him over with a low moan. Ah, but if they weren't careful...

"Only if you'll shed yours, too," Frodo whispered coyly, and those clever hands of his were down the sides of Sam's breeches before he could say--

"Oh! Slow...down..." Sam whimpered and shifted to Frodo's side, dancing fingertips over his belly before loosening the top buttons on each side, working them down Frodo's hips.

Frodo closed his eyes again, took a slow, shivering breath as Sam tugged the garment away entirely. How beautiful, Sam thought--cheeks flushed, damp with the faintest sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling on rapid breaths no matter how hard Frodo tried to stop it. Sam swallowed, resisted the urge to touch him. He unlaced his own breeches quickly.

Frodo opened his eyes, gazing up expectantly. He rolled closer to Sam, reaching out to run his fingers over Sam's arousal. Sam pressed into Frodo's hand, no use resisting...

And then Sam was free of his clothing, too, and Frodo was touching him, molding heated whispers against his ear, doing things with his fingers down Sam's thighs that simply shouldn't be allowed until...until...

"Frodo," Sam gasped, and clutched at him hard. "I don't...think..."

Frodo stopped, easing away with a kiss to Sam's chin. "Then, I'm ready," he said softly, and caught Sam's mouth so firmly that it stung, and for a moment, he thought he tasted blood.

Frodo pulled away; Sam must have whimpered. "Oh...oh, I'm sorry--"

"You're worth it," Sam breathed, tangling his fingers in Frodo's hair, drawing him down again. "Now, what's this about you bein' ready?"

Frodo nuzzled Sam's cheek, a brief flash of trepidation crossing his gaze before he closed his eyes. "I want you," he whispered, trailing his mouth down to Sam's ear, releasing the last words on a tremulous breath, "to take me."

Sam's eyes flew wide. Well, that was different. Ever since they had first tried it, Sam had gladly been the receiver, but this...

"I won't hurt you, not nohow," Sam whispered firmly, reassuring Frodo with a kiss. "Don't you worry, just go on and--"

"It must...it must feel good," Frodo whispered, blushing deeply. "And I've been...well, lacking in courage, for want of a better--"

"Oh, it does," Sam whispered. "An' just knowin' it's you..."

Frodo put a hand on him and Sam's thoughts scattered. "Yes," Frodo whispered.

Sam grappled with his wits...they'd need...

"Where's--"

"Floor," Frodo whispered sheepishly, squirming away to retrieve it.

The bottle was cool in his hands. Sam turned it over and over, watching Frodo settle down before him, breaths shallow again. Sam leaned for another kiss--more pain, but he didn't mind a bit. Frodo made an indistinct sound, tried to turn on his side. Sam set the bottle aside, held Frodo as still as he could with shaking hands.

"Like that," Sam said softly. "I'd like...if you think..."

"I don't see why not," Frodo whispered. "And...I want to see you..."

And there was Frodo's hand, pressing the bottle back into Sam's own. Sam shivered, worked the cork free clumsily. His breath fled him yet again; Frodo's eyes went glazed and heavy as he watched Sam prepare himself, and they slid closed on a gasp as Sam turned his fingers on Frodo, massaging so cautiously, testing--

"Oh!"

"Frodo?"

"Do...Do that again," Frodo whispered thinly, hardly able to shape the words.

Sam looked down. He hadn't realized how deep he'd gone, how...and maybe if he drew back, just a bit...then, another--

"Sam!"

Sam bent low over Frodo, kissed him softly. "Good? Frodo? It's not too--"

"Just...a little more, I think...before..." Frodo's voice shook, and he clung to Sam's shoulders with hands unsteadier than Sam's own.

Sam took another deep breath--steady, now, he's wanting, wanting. Somehow, Sam managed it, one more finger eased in deeply, one more touch that made Frodo sob. Sam ached with the sound, with the sight--

"Frodo...shh, Frodo-love, I'm going to..."

Frodo's eyes fluttered for a moment, bright and wide open. "I know," he whispered, hand wavering to Sam's cheek. "Then, please--"

Please!

Sam couldn't hear anything above Frodo's first scream, above the blood pounding in his ears. It was difficult, though to lose his nerve would have been easy enough. Sensation didn't register, not at first, not seeing Frodo's features twisted in pain, but somehow, somehow, he kept going, and soon Frodo was breathing again--gasping, even, whimpering, and it didn't sound like--

"More," Frodo pleaded.

Fingers sliding down Sam's back, pushing at him. Palms flat, pushing hard enough to--

"OH!"

Sam lurched foward, slid deep. He almost lost hold on Frodo's hips almost lost...

Everything.

And when the flames finished--washed through and receded, every fiber of him, the final spark sharpest and deepest of all, there between them--he was still moaning in Frodo's ear, still shaking, and Frodo was calming him this time, saying something...something about...

"...love you, Sam...Sam, that...that was..."

Soft, fractured phrases, and gradually, Sam understood them. Understood them enough to lift his head and meet Frodo's eyes, still stained and bright with tears, and the relief at seeing no agony, no ill, that was...

"Frodo."

Frodo moved just a little, and Sam slid free, gasping. He pressed close for warmth again, for those limbs tugging him close. Tugging him home.

* * *

Frodo managed to slip out of bed without waking Sam. He looked over his shoulder, finding it difficult to turn from what he saw: Sam tangled in the sheets, still sleeping heavy and peaceful, smiling as if aware of the warmth that morning spilled upon him through the curtains overhead. Frodo smiled, felt compelled to pull the darker shades over. The sun wouldn't have Sam--not today.

Frodo crept to the desk soundlessly, nerves alight to the cooler air of the room raising gooseflesh on his arms and legs, his back and his stomach. Best that he got back to bed quickly, back to the comfort of his Sam. Now, where was--

Ah, there. Frodo tucked the bit of cool hardness against his palm quickly, silencing the chain with his other hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed slowly, studying Sam for a moment longer. If nothing else, it was perfectly ridiculous, and Sam would get a laugh out of it. Frodo bent, fingers poised and ready. It was tricky, but if he slid close to Sam, brushed a kiss to his cheek as if lazing half awake, slid one hand with its precarious, tiny errand just between Sam's neck and the pillow...

When Frodo settled at last, his arms shook with the effort. Sam had stirred but a little, pressing them closer, arms tight around Frodo, even in his sleep. Frodo closed his eyes and smiled, never mind that Belladonna's heirloom pressed up cold between their hearts.

It would warm up soon enough.

~finis~

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