Playing for Keeps: A Brief Fast-Forward
--for Lorelei, who wanted a Baggins birthdayfic--
Notes: This cropped up while I was writing its prequel, Playing for Keeps, which will hopefully appear in Cara's spring zine with AOD, so if you want to know more, I suppose you'll have to track it down when the time comes;)
"She's still makin' eyes at you," Sam murmured just loud enough for
Frodo to hear, but mostly muffled into his ale. He shifted in his seat and
skimmed his knuckles across the rough grain of the table, bringing his
fist to rest just inches from Frodo's hand. Without looking up from a swig
of his wine, Frodo reached out and grasped it.
"It doesn't matter," Frodo said softly as he set down his glass. He
looked at Sam, finally, his glance full of a muted intensity that kindled
warmth all through Sam's skin. "She knows I shan't return them--or,
rather, that I shall return them gladly, by which I mean her own,"
Frodo sighed. Briefly, he turned towards the next table over. Sam squeezed
Frodo's hand, and though he couldn't see Frodo's eyes, the returning look
from Angelica's was crestfallen enough to let him know that Frodo had done
a rare thing indeed: glare.
Across from them, Merry snickered, swirling one finger idly through the
foam icing his mug. "Oh, that's the way, cousin! Put off her Mum and
Master Ponto while you're at it, and you'll have another set of
Sackville-Bagginses on your ha--"
Sam let go of Frodo's hand and jabbed a finger straight at Merry's
nose. "You'll be the one drawin' unwanted attention, begging your pardon.
And the last thing Mr. Frodo needs is--"
"That's enough," Frodo said evenly, turning back to them with a look of
his own that proved a bit disgruntled. "Merry, when Pippin gets back,
please--"
"--me, quick! Merry, she'll skin--"
And before any of them knew quite what happened, something quite
Tookish came crashing into Merry from behind and knocked him forward
across the table, and three fine waistcoats were promptly ruined.
"Peregrin, don't you dare," Merry hissed, collecting his wits in
all of a second and catching Pippin by the arm before he could tear off
again. Pippin winced and tried to pull away; Merry's eyes were making
deliberate trips back and forth between Pippin's chagrined expression and
his sopping clothes. "Now--you were saying?" Merry glanced over at Sam and
Frodo, then back to Pippin.
Pippin swallowed, but he didn't resist when Merry pulled him down on
the bench. "Well, you see...I...that is, Pervinca--oh, Merry! That silly
cow Orchid called me--well, you know what she calls me--and Vinca laughed,
too, so I had to--"
Frodo's sudden laughter carried a ring of annoyance, but he seemed in
surprisingly good humor for having just had Old Winyard's splashed down
his front. "You had to nothing, Pippin. Get yourself some ale and
join us. I can't afford to have you ruin the whole of my guests'
wardrobes."
Sam mopped at his own drenched shirt and muttered, "I hope what she
called him's more'n half as bad as what I--"
Frodo found Sam's hand again, on the bench this time, and stroked it.
"Nor can I afford to have your tongue be what prompts it, Sam. Please,
don't worry about it...I'll get..."
That soft, still look between them was enough to send the pair across
the table into smothered fits of their own. Pippin had seized Merry's ale
for his own, and he was adding a considerable host of bubbles to it. Merry
sat wiping his chin on his sleeve, chortling.
"I take it all back: Pip's brilliant. You two are the best show of the
night."
Sam very quickly let go of Frodo's hand; Frodo turned the same look
that he'd had for Angelica on Merry. Frodo said quietly, "If you have no
more governance over your tongue than Pip, then I suggest the two of you
take your indiscretions elsewhere. Unless I add mine to the fray, but I
must confess, I'm nowhere near drunk enough, and the repercussions are
hardly worth it."
Merry cleared his throat and looked soberly down at his hands. "I'm
sorry, Frodo."
"And?"
Merry looked up, blinked a few times. Pippin had put down the ale, and
proceeded to elbow him very hard.
"Ow--oh! Sam, I'm sorry."
"Of course he is," Pippin said matter-of-factly, tucking his chin over
Merry's shoulder, upon which he bestowed a proud pat. "And so am I, though
that does not extend to Vinca and her herd of pretty weeds. Come on,
Merry--there's dancing!"
And before Sam could even nod befuddled thanks, the two of them took
off, leaving the ale behind. Sam reached for it with a sigh and offered
Frodo a drink, then took one himself. Frodo's cheeks had colored a bit,
and the brightness of his eyes could hardly outshine his smile.
"I reckon they're gettin' even smaller mathoms than last year, sir?"
"Or none at all," Frodo said, still smiling. He traced Sam's buttons
briefly with his index finger. "I've far more interest in what I'm giving
you; I may not find the time for them. Yours is buried under quite a
few...things."
Sam grinned at Frodo's loss for words, though he was sure he was pinker
than he'd ever been. He took another swallow of ale at Frodo's offering,
and over the rim, Sam hoped that his silence said, good and proper, If
I could kiss you now, I would.
The night passed on much as it had in past years since Bilbo's
departure: dances were danced (least of all by Merry and Pippin; they had
managed to vanish and weren't seen till dawn, though not by Frodo and
Sam), songs were sung, and toasts were made. Those were usually saved till
closing, or as near to it as Frodo could reckon. He hadn't much mind to
let the festivities amble into morning, not this year. Sam was patient
beside him, almost too patient, and just as uncomfortable as Frodo in his
damp clothes, besides. Frodo climbed onto the table just before midnight,
having just ended a tireless stream of well wishers.
"I regret to inform you that this is the end," he called out, and
waited for the ensuing roar of laughter to die down. Frodo's lips twisted
in a brief smile; he licked his lips and continued. "As mathoms go, I'm
afraid I haven't been so organized this year. Take the dishes, if you
like--ah...only the blue-ringed ones, mind you, and I trust you'll leave
the silver." With this, his eyes had passed briefly over Lobelia, and
those that had been in on the joke (which was most of them, as time did
wonders for gossip) rewarded him with another chorus of guffaws and howls.
"Good night, dear friends and hobbits!" Frodo cried, and the laughter
turned to applause, and there was much more well-wishing as they all
departed.
"A very happy birthday indeed, Master Baggins! Good night!"
"Forty-five...I say, lad, you look it even less than your Old
Bilbo did, and you can say I said so! By the way, any news from--"
"That's enough, Odo. Happy birthday, dear! Samwise, that
garden..."
"That garden is the only thing worth taking," Lobelia said, stepping up
to Frodo importantly. "A very good call it was, Amelia." Lobelia nodded to
the other woman, who turned on her heel with a sniff and clung firmly to
her Odo's arm. Lobelia turned back to Frodo, eyes resting on him for only
a moment before she smiled at Sam. "Would you consider it, Master Gamgee?
I'm sure that I can afford more than--"
"Lobelia, Lobelia. Really," interjected Freddy Bolger, before
Otho could add his own disdain to the offer,"aren't you happy with Orchid?
Or is it that she's not happy with you? Why, you'd better find her
now, she's been running about with that Peregrin Took's sister all
evening. She'll be serving the ladies of Great Smials before dawn, I'd
wager, if you don't hurry."
Well, that left Lobelia so flummoxed that she did just that, and
Otho found himself dragged off in tow. Which was fortunate for Sam--he'd
had such a time of containing his rage that he was sure he might break his
own fingers for how tightly they were fisted. As soon as Freddy had given
his own pleasantries and gone off to find Folco and Estella, Frodo turned
and very gently took Sam's hands, and worked them loose in his own.
"She's gone," Frodo reassured him. "And she's never here for long."
"There's still Angelica somewhere, if you follow."
Frodo drew Sam's hands up to his chest briefly, cascaded gentle spirals
with his fingertips down to Sam's wrists before releasing them. "I don't
intend to give her that pleasure. Anyone who's closest to me or considers
themselves so--they've had their chance." Frodo turned on his heel, but
held Sam's gaze over his shoulder. "And I think that all of this tidying
can wait till tomorrow, and I'm feeling rather indifferent towards the
dishes. There'll be fewer to do, now, after all."
"Aye," Sam said softly. He stepped up behind Frodo and followed, waving
and shouting goodbyes all the way back to Bagshot Row. His Gaffer wasn't
to be found--home and asleep already, Sam supposed, and that was just as
well.
* * *
Only a few months of this, so far--of learning how it felt to kiss
Frodo Baggins. They held each other up, braced so tight that Sam couldn't
breathe, and he was sure that Frodo couldn't, either. He felt the heat
from Frodo's hearth behind him, the easy seep of flames through the cotton
of his shirt, and Frodo's hands following them with long sweeps and
wishful pauses. And the heat passing back and forth between their
mouths...wet flames, these, bright and gasping and deep. Frodo drew back,
breathing soft and fast, his damp forehead pressed to Sam's.
"Sir," Sam murmured softly, skimming his fingers down Frodo's temple
and over the curve of his cheek. "You're so tired--"
"I'm not tired of you," Frodo pointed out, and with a whimper
and an answer from Sam, they were kissing again.
It was learning how it felt to hold Frodo, too. Sam slipped his
arms around Frodo's waist and felt Frodo tremble just as he had those few
times before, and tugged him impossibly close. More than a few, Sam
supposed--the time he was thinking of, they hadn't been wearing much, and
tonight, he was sure he wanted Frodo wearing even less, if Frodo would
have it. Sam let his hands tug Frodo's shirt loose carefully, finding warm
skin at the small of his back. Frodo gasped, let his arms slide down Sam's
arms and back to Sam's wrists, squeezing lightly. Sam tilted his head a
bit, delving more deeply for the taste of Frodo mingled with ale and wine,
and gave a gentle push with both hands.
"Sam!" Frodo's cry was choked, mostly scattered by the kiss. "Sam, I
don't think...I can't..." Frodo slid his hands back up Sam's arms and
clung with all of his strength, and Sam thought he might collapse, too,
when Frodo went weak and whispering: "I can't stand, not like this..."
"Oh, then...we won't..." Sam hardly understood himself, but it was
enough that he was holding Frodo, and kissing his forehead and all over
his dear face, and saying something about the bed being just over there,
and they could rest--
"Not quite yet," Frodo breathed, sinking down on the edge of the
mattress at Sam's bidding. He leaned up and caught Sam's mouth in another
kiss, hard and demanding. Sam winced, pleased, and leaned over Frodo, both
hands braced on the mattress. He'd somehow forgotten that their waistcoats
were still damp, but Frodo's fingers tracing the buttons of his own were
ample reminder.
"Frodo," he whispered, pressing Frodo's hand over his heart, and that,
he hoped, said yes.
"Dear Sam," Frodo replied, and before Sam knew it, his waistcoat and
shirt hung undone, and Frodo was under him as he leaned on all fours now,
crawling onto the bed. Frodo grasped Sam's hips and scooted up with a
breathless laugh, and that deserved several kisses, small and
light, until Sam realized Frodo had slid his hands up his chest, and was
playing with curious fingertips at all of the places he'd learned were
sensitive. Sam groaned a little; he couldn't help it. Frodo was making it
hard to think, and Sam had wanted...wanted to...
"Frodo--Frodo, please let--"
"Whatever you wish," Frodo murmured, tilting his head back and closing
his eyes as Sam ran one hand down Frodo's front, catching his waistcoat
buttons one by one.
Looking down on Frodo like that, it was--Sam found that he didn't have
words for it, though his fingers found the slipping of fabric and brush of
skin worth the blinding sting of tears. Sam fought it, leaning to kiss one
flushed cheek and then the other as he parted Frodo's shirt, let his hand
drift down to the smooth, soft warmth of Frodo's stomach. Frodo shifted
restlessly, parting his lips on something between a sigh and Sam's name.
They'd been here before, something like this, but Sam couldn't remember
feeling as if he might die if he couldn't give, and give, and
give--
"Ah, please..."
Frodo, this time, struggling to sit up, his mouth colliding feverishly
with Sam's cheek, his hands tugging at Sam's collar, begging. Sam tugged
Frodo's hands away with ease, pressed a kiss to each wrist before he
pressed Frodo back and cast his garments off himself, and Frodo was
half-sitting again before long, breath more shallow and faster still. He
didn't need to reach; Sam was already there, pushing his sleeves back and
down, and then, not at all. Frodo fell back again, lay staring up through
half-lidded eyes, lips meeting and shaping soundlessly, trying to find his
voice.
"Sam, I can't tell you...tell you how I..."
"Don't try too hard," Sam said quietly, turning his head just enough to
kiss the palm pressed to his cheek. He stroked Frodo's wrist, just as
Frodo had done to his earlier that evening. Very slowly, Frodo turned his
head till they were facing each other again.
"Yes," he said very softly, and everything, oh,
everything was so...
Hushed, disbelieving. The way Frodo moved when Sam touched him with
deliberate slowness, fingers molding and tracing every place that he had
missed before, and every place that he had not. The way Sam couldn't keep
from crying out when Frodo let his mouth wander from throat to stomach,
and back again. The way their hands found and brushed and moved again,
always just skirting--
"There," Frodo breathed, voice cracking, nostrils flaring with the
effort of breath as he held Sam's face in his trembling hands. "Oh,
there..."
Sam felt tears again; he could only nod, only nod and do what Frodo
wished, what he wanted above all else in that moment, and beyond
it. Once more, a kiss, always searching, this time slow and deep enough to
catch time in the palm of his hand, and it was almost that: feeling the
line of Frodo's skin, from flutter of heart and rise and fall of stomach
until, until...
"Frodo," Sam whispered, and words went dry.
Frodo had closed his eyes. There was fear in a broad, tense stroke
across his brow, and the pursing of his lips set defiance against whatever
struggled behind them to burst free. Sam knelt there with eyes as wide as
Frodo's were tight. With his hands gentle on Frodo's skin, his trousers
pushed back and away, breathing wonder at too great a distance, too far
from this beauty under his touch and his gaze. Sam tugged at the fabric
eased it down, down and away, and then gone. And when Sam's hands found
the place they'd rested before, and the curves of Frodo's thighs, and then
back--
"Bless you, but you're beautiful," Sam managed to choke out, and that
was only the beginning, only the start, because Frodo had taken hold of
his wrists again, and tears seeped from under his closed eyes, and Sam
wished he could open them with murmured promises and comforts--
"If you can say that..."
"I can." Sam leaned and kissed one eye, tended it with lips and breath
for a moment before moving to the other.
"...then..."
"Frodo?" Sam sat back reluctantly, let his hand drift to rest over
Frodo's heart.
Frodo opened his eyes, and the tears in them, oh, the tears.
Beautiful. Frodo lay biting his lip, holding back sobs and things
that Sam was sure he wanted to say, just as he did himself.
"You are," Sam said, and meant it as he'd never meant anything.
"Never so much as you!"
And Frodo was against him, then, and around him. When they fell, what
he knew was enough to close his own eyes, and to wrench his voice and
heart wide. Frodo's hands doing as his had done, finding as his had found.
At last he, too, had nothing to hide, and nowhere--unless it were the
shelter of Frodo's arms, and the warmth, beauty, comforting shock
of skin and limbs and nothing between them as they held to--
"Sam," Frodo gasped in his ear, though it was more a cry than aught.
Sam, Sam! Frodo couldn't stop repeating it, and Sam didn't think he
could bear it if Frodo did.
"Me dear," was all that Sam could whisper, before he wound his fingers
in Frodo's hair and drew him down again, before his other hand sought out
heat and dampness to hold and to know and find that Frodo filled him with
cries so beautiful that he might...
And there were no more words from there, or at least nothing resembling
them. Frodo was against him, banishing all hesitation, all space. Sam
could only weep for how real, how true and how finally this was,
and when he pressed Frodo closest of all, and drew himself up, every limb
and shout and stumbling of heart, and when their moving as one reached
that point so tight and turning--and full of light--
Sam could remember how it was, just after, coming back to him through
the haze, the heat and sweet blindness remaining, and Frodo was still
crying softly in his ear, and shaking with it, with him. Sam
wrapped his arms around Frodo more tightly, and let one hand drift up to
stroke sweat-dampened curls, and he murmured love-words and calming
things, as nearly as his mind could reach them through that shattering
bliss. It was many long moments until Frodo was still and quiet, and many
more before Sam could say...
"That's what I couldn't let...her take..."
Frodo shook his head against the pillow and kissed Sam's neck tenderly.
"She wouldn't have. Ever."
"I know, I s'pose, but till I knew..." Kissing Frodo's neck
right back meant more than finishing the sentence, certainly.
Frodo smiled and stretched and held Sam more tightly, too.
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