Flowers in a Lightning Storm - fanfiction

Summer Songs IV: Rosemary and Thyme

"Good day, Master Hamfast!" Smoke ring forgotten, Bilbo raised his pipe in salute from where he sat on his bench.

"Mr. Bilbo, sir," the Gaffer acknowledged with a nod, stepping up to the gate, leaning his forearms on the gently swinging door. "Pleasant morning?"

"Oh, pleasant enough. Your Bell stopped just after elevenses, on her way to market. Left a basket of something with Samwise, saying he'd requested it. I gave her a nod through the window, though I don't think she noticed. She had a few words with Frodo as well."

"Mr. Frodo was in the garden, sir? Bless him, but that skin of his--"

"I daresay your lad would have trundled him inside if he hadn't promised to keep to the shade," Bilbo sighed, taking a long drag on his pipe, eyes drifting to the quiet patch of lilies and irises.

The Gaffer scratched at the back of his hand, brow furrowed. "I've come to let Sam know he's got a job at the Widow's, come evening. Is he 'round the back?"

Bilbo's eyes darted back uneasily. He cleared his throat and replied, "No, he's gone with Frodo on one of their luncheon picnics, Lady knows where."

The Gaffer smiled. "S'plains a lot, then. Mr. Frodo's awful fond of me love's best toffee and cherry tarts. Baked up a storm last night, she did. Daresay that accounts for the basket."

Bilbo took another agitated puff, unusually quick to smile. "Yes, yes, of course."

The Gaffer cleared an errant creeper off the hinge, so as it wouldn't get itself crushed. "I reckon they'll be a while, sir?"

Bilbo coughed. "I suppose. No longer than--"

"Can't say as I blame 'em, if longer than usual. It's a right lovely day," the Gaffer said cheerfully, tilting his short brimmed cap as he backed from the gate. "Just so long as he's not past five. You tell him his Gaffer says so!"

Bilbo waited until he was well out of sight to mop at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Longer than usual indeed," he muttered, and tried not to think about what the Gaffer might or might not have noticed in the last fortnight.

* * *

"How was that?" Frodo whispered. He eased Sam's trembling thighs back onto the blanket and nuzzled his lower belly, kissing and lapping by turns.

Sam parted his lips, but only Frodo's name passed, a thin whimper. He couldn't think, let alone respond. Not with Frodo's face nestled against him, warm breath and warmer tongue tending to the aftermath. Sam sighed and closed his eyes, the leaves dancing light and shadow on the backs of his eyelids. If Frodo enjoyed him that much, then he was certainly in no place to object.

Frodo rested his cheek against Sam's thigh at length, pursing his lips, breathing a soft, cool puff over damp skin. Sam whimpered and shifted, half in protest, half in pleasure. Frodo stroked up Sam's sides, yawning a little, stretching catlike up the length of Sam's body, settling comfortably over him. "Mm. I'm full now."

Sam slid his arms up, wrapping them tight around Frodo's waist. "I'm...done for."

" 'Done in' is more like it," Frodo teased, pressing his lips to Sam's cheek with a happy hum. "I know better than that. 'Done for' is me after you've had your wicked say in the matter."

Sam stretched and blinked. "You wouldn't let me," he chided, clucking his tongue as he slid one hand up into Frodo's curls, urging him into a kiss.

Frodo drew it out, long and sweet. "I was hungry," he protested.

"More's the insult to Mum's tarts. I promise I won't go tellin'."

"Sam Gamgee," Frodo laughed, working a hand under Sam just enough to get in a good pinch.

Sam yelped. "There's no call for--"

"There's plenty," Frodo said matter-of-factly, taking Sam's own hand and setting it against his bare hip. "You tugged me out of my trousers and then let me distract you. I don't think that's fair."

"But you just said--oh, no use in arguin'," Sam muttered fondly, taking Frodo's hips in both hands, one stroking around to his belly, then lower. Frodo sat up, eyes half-lidded and bright, with cheeks flushed and lips parted as he looked down at Sam. The young gardener chuckled, thrusting up firmly.

Frodo stretched over him again, pressed flat and tense. "Please."

"Since you were so polite, I s'pose there's no harm in..."

"Oh."

"Mm." Sam caught Frodo around the waist, flipped him with startling ease. "None at all, sir..."

* * *

Between one fluff of her sheet and the next, Bell caught sight of her husband traipsing up Bagshot Row. She draped it carelessly over the clothesline, ran her damp hands over her apron, and stepped to the roadside to meet him. Her heart still caught at the sight of him like that: grin as bright as his fair hair, eyes twinkling this way and that as he pretended not to notice her. Bell folded her arms across her breast, tilted her head with a halfhearted frown. That was her part, and she played it well--sometimes too well. But not today.

"Hullo, sweet lass," the Gaffer called, eyes brightening impossibly, as if he had just noticed her. "Too fine an afternoon t'be at laundry, don't you think? Care to join an old stranger at his walk?"

Bell blushed, brushing a few loose tendrils back from her forehead smiling. Oh, he was a charming one, her Ham. And a stubborn one, too, as none had been so surprized as she when his courting finally paid off. Just when her heart had let him in, she couldn't rightly say. But sure as anything, it weren't ever letting him go, no sir. Surer than--

"Bell, me love, what's this? Midday and stars in your eyes? Get down here an' take my arm before you trip at where you're goin'."

"I'd trip into you, Ham Gamgee, with nary a thought," she murmured primly, and did so with a spring in her step and a laugh in her heart. "Just where are you taking me? Marigold's like to wake any time, and if that Brandybuck lad's about, I won't find my sheets till Halimath!"

"Just down to the green, love, to watch 'em settin' up for the fair. 'Twould be wise to drink our fill before it's overrun with young folk on the morrow."

"Aye, the Festival," Bell sighed. "Saw tents and stands and racket aplenty. I've been to market, you know. There'll be duck for supper."

"I do know, at that," Hamfast murmured mysteriously.

Bell pinched his arm. "Oh, do you, then? You've talked to Mr. Bilbo already, I suppose."

"Aye, and he said you ignored him, pretty as you please."

"He weren't out! Only Mr. Frodo with one of his books, and a lad that reminded me of none so much as you."

There was a moment of knowing silence, followed by Hamfast slipping his arm low about Bell's waist. "You took 'em a basket, me dear?" he murmured in her ear.

Bell nodded indifferently. "There's nothin' in it that a pair of hungry lads shan't find a use for."

"Chicken and dumplings from last night?"

Bell nodded again.

"Your toffee that Mr. Frodo's right sweet on?"

"Aye, that too."

"A tart or three for your Sam?" Ham tugged Bell closer against his side, slowing their pace. He stopped, cupping her cheek. "And as for right now, have you brought a kiss or--"

"Jam. Sweet blackberry-currant that matches naught but the old tablecloth I tucked in the bottom."

"Nothin' at all, me dear?"

"Nothin' you don't know, and nothin' they can't find out."

Hamfast hugged Bell hard and laughed even harder.

* * *

"Oh, that's pretty, that is," Sam murmured with satisfaction, rocking back on his heels to survey the somewhat ambling rows of runes that he'd spelled out on Frodo's chest in rich, black-red jam.

Frodo lay panting with his eyes closed tight, fists bunched in the tablecloth. "R--Read it to me? The sooner you get this over with, the--"

"Oh, now, Mr. Frodo, no hurryin'," Sam chided, leaning to fully lick away the word gracing Frodo's left collarbone. Frodo almost doubled up, crying out softly, trying to wrap himself around Sam, to crush them together. Sam held him down firmly until he finished, and said casually, "That right there was, 'Frodo'..."

Frodo bit his lip, pleading. "Sam..."

"...'Baggins'," Sam continued across the other side, winding his index finger through paths on Frodo's chest and belly miraculously not obstructed by any jam.

"Samwise--"

"Now, no gettin' ahead of me...'has the'..."

"Ugh!"

"...'most'...'delicious'..."

"--Gamgee!--"

Sam's next words were too muffled for Frodo to discern, at least till he realized, through the delirium, that they weren't really words at all, just a bunch of swirling nonsense for Sam to devour exactly as he pleased, exactly as drove Frodo wild, right across the curve of his stomach, wet and wanton. Frodo sobbed Sam's name again, wound his fingers tight in silken fair curls.

"Sir, not yet," Sam whispered, finally lifting himself away, high enough for Frodo to see through agonized blinks that his face was an absolute confectionary disaster, wild smears of jam gracing his chin and dimpled cheeks.

Frodo let his head drop back, groaning in frustration. "Then when--"

"Now. Last words are right here..."

"I know where they are," Frodo muttered, gritting his teeth.

"Mmhm. And they say...'signed'--well, they don't say that, I'm addin' that--"

"Sam, if you--"

"...'your'..."

Frodo lifted his head. "My?"

Sam nodded up at Frodo, holding him in both hands. "Well, yes, your...depends on what, but I'm thinkin' who..."

Frodo dropped his head again and hit the ground with both fists. "Sam!"

"That's exactly right, sir..."

And what Frodo cried next, Sam couldn't have written even if he'd tried, nor could he have spoken it, because his tongue was far too busy.

* * *

Bilbo paced across the dining room floor, staring out the window every so often. Frodo and Sam had been gone for the better part of three hours, and, for once, Bilbo was more concerned about the latter. About the message he'd been asked to relay by the Gaffer, rather. And did Frodo even realize that Sam had far more responsibilities in a single day than had ever been put on his Buckland-raised shoulders in his life?

After a while, even a hobbit's feet tire of overuse and repitition. Bilbo took a seat at the table and relit his pipe, staring into some unfinished tea. In the past two weeks, he had given the matter of his nephew and the Gaffer's son some serious thought, about which he could draw neither solid nor obvious conclusions. Ever since Sam had reached an age suitable enough for camaraderie with Frodo, they had become close and more than fond, that much had always been clear. But to find them abed together, clearly out of more than just convenience or for warmth? Despite all they had in common as it was, Bilbo had never fully expected the lad to take after him so--well, so--fully. Therefore, was one to call it coincidence, or some smugly appropriate twist of...

By the time Bilbo had thought through his entire, tenuous chain of reasoning again, there was an insistent pounding at the front door accompanied by a voice more than familiar.

"Unlce Bilbo! We're back!"--and then, more muffled, as if aside--"I suppose he's gone and had too much for lunch again. He won't wake for hour--"

"You watch that tongue of yours, Frodo-lad," Bilbo called, scurrying to answer, panting by the time he pulled the door open. "I might just have a mind not to give you such free rein tomorr--oh...Samwise. Your...father..."

Bilbo trailed off, stepping aside to let them pass, finding his jaw much less cooperative, given the immediate and necessary consideration of the state--and coloration--of Frodo's shirt.

Sam nodded at Bilbo, smiling as if nothing were amiss. " 'Afternoon, sir. My father...?"

Bilbo shook his head for a moment, as if to clear it, trying his very hardest not to stare at Frodo. "He--yes. Yes. He'd like you home at once. There's a job waiting for you at Widow Rumble's."

"Oh, that'd be her trellis. Fallen again, on account of Freesia climbin' it."

"But aren't the flowers supposed to--"

"Aye, sir," Sam explained, "but Freesia's her cat."

Bilbo blinked and finally gave in, staring at Frodo outright. "Oh."

Sam ducked his head politely. "Then I'll be goin', sir. Mr. Frodo..."

Frodo grasped Sam's hand, tugging him to the door, eyes wide and inquiring on Bilbo's, also seemingly oblivious to his own condition. "Do you mind if I--?"

Bilbo gave up, waved at them in exasperation. "No, no. Of course not."

"Then I'll be in, in a moment."

Bilbo trudged over to his chair in front of the hearth, where he sat puffing shortly on his pipe until Frodo re-entered several minutes later. The two regarded each other warily over the short distance. Bilbo sat forward slowly, motioning Frodo closer with what he hoped was a look of clear reprimand. Frodo's expression seemed to register only chagrin and faint amusement. Bilbo tugged at Frodo's sleeve disdainfully.

"Blackberry."

"Yes, blackberry. And currant, if you wanted to know. Uncle, would you excuse me? I'm in need of some washing up."

And with that, Bilbo found himself with only his pipe for company, wondering why on earth Frodo couldn't have been this exasperating in his tweens instead. But then, he reasoned, it might have involved Meriadoc Brandybuck instead, and that, Bilbo wouldn't even consider.

* * *

"Sam? Sam as in Samwise Gamgee? Everard, I think you're losin'--"

"I saw them," Everard insisted, slamming the door of their second-floor room at the Green Dragon. "Merry, I'm telling you. I was helping with my Da's tent and there they were up on the bridge, holding hands as blithely as you please. You can ask Stella. She saw, too."

"Saw what? My poncy cousin holding his best friend's hand? Everard, you've got to do better than--"

"They kissed. Quick as a blink, but we saw it."

Merry gaped, but only for a moment. He sat up, eyes narrowing. "And just what was Stella doing with you?"

Everard opened his mouth and shut it again. "Just...helping."

Merry folded his arms, scowling. "It doesn't take a lass to set up a tent."

Everard smirked. "It does if she's after a kiss or two."

Merry's jaw dropped. "Well, I never. You know full well I--that I hoped--Everard Took, I ought to--"

Everard circled to Merry's side of the bed, pressing him to sit down again. He was laughing so hard that Merry couldn't help but sputter in indignation.

"Oh, so. You think it's funny, do you? Leading a lass on at--"

"Merry, Merry, oh, Merry!" Everard cried, chortling hysterically. "She might've been after a kiss, she was, but I sure's anything didn't give her one. We were just talking."

Merry squirmed out of Everard's grasp. "You expect me to believe--"

"Aye, because the news I've got next, I'm afraid isn't a joke. I've got to be quick about it--Da'll be back up any minute with supper and ales. Listen close."

Merry nodded, his brow furrowed. Everard kissed the corner of his mouth quickly, eyes lowered.

"I, well...Merry, I promised her..."

Merry glared.

"That we'd both meet her down behind Gypsy Riddle's," Everard confessed in a rush.

"That we both--!"

"Tomorrow. Noontime or thereabouts." Everard gestured weakly, cringing.

Merry stared at him, eyes even colder than before. "You said--that--we'd both--"

"She wanted me to prove it!" Everard moaned.

"Prove what? I've a mind to prove any number of things, the foremost of which is--"

"That I kiss lads," Everard muttered, blushing. "And that you do, too. More precisely, that we kiss each other. She didn't believe me."

Merry flopped back against the pillows, exasperated. "Oh, fine, then. So we'll prove it and she'll be gone. Right?"

Everard loomed over him, looking even more sheepish than before. "I...well...I..."

Merry tightened his jaw, prepared for the worst.

"Sort of promised she could kiss us both. Part of the deal, it was."

"Just what're we getting out of this?" Merry was furious. He turned away from Everard with a huff.

Everard leaned and kissed the top of his head. "Her old man's best cordial. All we can drink, my friend. I'd settle for no less than two bottles."

Merry glanced over his shoulder at Everard hopefully. "Blackberry?"

"None other." Everard lay back, crossing his arms behind his head nonchalantly.

"You've just reminded me why I'm so keen on kissing you."

And Everard did his best to reinforce it, at least until his father's footsteps forbade.

* * *

Sam liked the feel of Bagshot Row at dusk. He liked the way the sun seemed to creep ever around the corner as the road continued its slow upward winding of the hill. It had taken all of ten minutes to set the Widow's trellis to rights; as Sam had expected, that wasn't really what she was looking for. She lamented her sparsely populated window boxes quite loudly, and Sam found himself predictably volunteered to transplant some of her gone-wild snapdragons into them. That job had taken nigh two hours, and by the time Sam reached Bagshot Row, the sun was just beginning to set. He felt empty, too, but his heart lightened at the thought of Bag End, just a few steps away. Perhaps Frodo's window--

No need. Frodo was sitting on the front bench, feet tucked up, bent over a his latest book, completely lost in the text. Sam paused a short ways off and smiled, knowing full well that Frodo wouldn't notice unless his name were called or a twister went through, whichever happened first. Sam tugged at his shirtsleeves, finding them best left rolled up as they were anyway. Briefly, he lamented the dirt remaining on his hands. Even from where he stood, he could tell Frodo had bathed. Dark curls hanging more tight and glistening than usual, shirt smooth, clean tan in the descending dusk, hands pale against the book's dark cover. Sam walked slowly up to the gate, leaning against it so gently that it gave not so much as a creak.

"Oh, you're a sight, you are," he murmured.

Frodo's head jerked up as if in alarm, looking about wildly before coming to rest on Sam, a flutter of delight settling in his wide eyes. He set the book aside quickly and was at the gate in what felt like a heartbeat.

"And you're a tease," Frodo whispered, meeting Sam's mouth greedily.

Sam rattled the gate between them in protest. Frodo drew away with a laugh, swinging it open. Sam stepped inside, wasted no time in tugging Frodo off to a more secluded corner of the garden. In a corner where dusty mauve roses formed a sort of perilously lined alcove, they settled on the grass and spoke in slow mumbling kisses.

"She kept...you a while, didn't..."

"Weren't no trellis. Snap--mmmdragons, in windowboxes--"

"Oh, bother her snapdragons! Doesn't--she know you'd...you'd rather--be tending my--"

"Your cousin might."

Frodo pulled back and frowned. "Merry?"

"Aye. Saw him and that Everard Took on me way here."

"That makes sense. They'd be here for the Festival. Staying at the Dragon, probably. Everard's father sells his carvings every year. What makes you think--"

"Askin' how you are don't require bein' so smug, if you ask me. And if you ask me, I think those two might have more'n plenty to be smug about. If they were out and about when we crossed the bridge..."

Frodo shrugged. "Of course they do. Merry's had an eye for pretty lads since he could walk."

Sam's eyes widened, as if he hadn't ever thought of--

"Mr. Frodo, did you...did he--ever--"

Frodo started, stifling a cry in the back of his throat. "No, Sam. Oh, no, no! Never, though Merry never tried to hide how much he appreciated..." Frodo trailed off, embarrassed. "Let's just say I've had to put him off once or twice, at his least sober." Sam, not liking the sound of any of it regardless, clutched Frodo, tucked his head under his chin.

"If he ever--if he ever tries--"

Frodo tilted Sam's chin up, kissed him slow and deep. Frodo's eyes shone when they drew apart, and Sam's breath fled for the beauty of his smile. "Oh, Sam. You'd never give him the chance! And tomorrow, well, he'll know, if he doesn't already. Besides, I think he's settled on Everard for eye candy, and possibly lip."

"More, even," Sam muttered. "And given how much ale flows when Tooks and Brandybucks--"

Frodo laughed, hard. Sam's brow furrowed, but Frodo was quick to kiss it.

"Not even when he's been drunk, Sam, has Merry dared ask for more than a peck, though I daresay he's gotten braver by now. Otherwise...he's scared to death."

Sam nodded slowly, a smile creeping across his features. "You mean--to--" Sam let his hand do the rest of the talking, let it slide slowly up Frodo's thigh.

Frodo nodded, shivering contently at Sam's touch. "Mm, even. He doesn't know heads from tails from...well, granted, you could argue we don't...quite...either..."

Sam kissed Frodo gently. "Don't you ever think we need to go rushin'. I've...heard things, I know what you're thinkin', sir, I--"

Frodo shook his head, let his hand rest on Sam's cheek. "No, it's not that. It's just..."

Sam waited patiently.

"Two weeks. I can hardly believe it. Two weeks and..."

"I know what makes you beg already?" Sam supplied helpfully.

Frodo tackled him, and a brief tussle full of breathless laughter ensued. "Yes, that. And I know what makes you squeal, besides. But not so much that as just--just--"

"Just us, Frodo dear. Just us."

* * *

"Now."

"No."

"Now."

"No!"

"NOW!"

"NO!" Pippin screeched, flopping hard onto the mattress after a fresh burst of jumping. He squirmed around, grabbed a pillow, and whacked Pervinca square in the nose. Before he could get too far, Estella grabbed the unsuspecting nine year-old from behind.

"Vinca! Vinca! She won't--let--me--"

Pervinca glared at her little brother, rubbing the bridge of her nose sourly. "And I won't tell her to, either. Serves you right. Now, for the last time. If you won't go to bed this instant, I won't take you with us tomorrow."

Estella tightened her strong grip on the lad's wrists, but not overly hard. "That's right, Peregrin. And even worse, we shan't get you any jam tarts."

Pippin struggled, lip quivering stubbornly. "Don't like 'em!"

"That's a shame," Pervinca crooned, replacing the pillow, smoothing it casually. "Bell Gamgee's are the best in the South Farthing, except maybe Brandy Hall's."

Pippin gave an audible whimper. He yanked free of Estella's grip and fell into a sullen heap on the coverlet. He curled up and pressed his face into the fabric, as if intent on smothering himself.

The lasses rolled their eyes and set about turning down the sheets, cranky Pippin in the way or no. They certainly hadn't planned on his presence--no, this was to have been an excursion solely for the girls' pleasure (and perhaps for the lads', too, they fancied). That is, until Pippin threw such a fit when he found out that Vinca would be going without him, that Eglantine and Paladin had not hesitated to insist she take him along, why, some Hobbiton air would do the lad good, but mind you, don't let him out of your sight, not with young Meriadoc and Everard and that brother of Estella's along for the ride...

Estella rolled Pippin out of the way, tugging the covers back just far enough to crawl in, stretching with a sigh. Pervinca took the other side, leaving an ominously Pippin-sized space between them. Pity most of the Dragon's rooms had a single bed. Pity they couldn't pawn Pippin off with--

"Why don't we see if Merry will take him? He's awfully good with the brat."

"Estella! He'll hear--"

"Of course he'll hear, and of course he heard, and I think he needs to hear it," Estella said matter-of-factly, kicking lightly at the Pippin-lump curled up and sulking at the foot of the bed.

Pervinca eyed Pippin guiltily, chewing her lip. "Ma said he's to stay with us."

Estella groaned. "Oh, what could he possibly get into--that--oh..." Her voice faded to a low murmur.

Pervinca tilted her head, puzzled. "Plenty, especially if they've snuck some ale--"

"That's not what I'm worried about. You're right. He's better off here."

Pervinca yawned. "Well, whatever it is you're worried about, you've acquired a terrible lot of sense in the last three seconds. Out with it."

"Never you mind. You're right. Ale and pipes and bawdy nonsense. No place for a child. Peregrin, dear?"

Pippin kicked her, responding with a muffled hmph.

"Come to bed, Pip," Pervinca called, patting the space beside her.

Pippin looked up, displaying a face mildly tearstained. Estella gasped, and Pervinca held her arms out. Pippin wiped at his nose and crawled quickly to his sister's side, huddling against her.

"I want Merry," he whispered, lip quivering, eyes angry and tear-filled and fixed on Estella.

Pervinca smoothed his hair. "You'll see him tomorrow."

Pippin turned against her side and sobbed.

Estella sighed and exchanged shrugs with Pervinca. They snuffed out the candles and settled down, each in her own right glad that Pippin's crying was short-lived. The lad was tired after all. Estella lay awake the longest, staring at the shadowy ceiling.

You'll see him tomorrow.

* * *

"Bilbo Baggins, it'll do you some good to see this sunrise!"

Frodo sat up on the sofa with a startled gasp. He knew that voice. That scratching rap. That laugh.

"Just a moment, Gandalf!" he called, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

He and Sam had stayed in their rose-cove rather late, talking and lazily watching the sky and kissing, but little else that would have set Bilbo back to his brooding, no matter how sour he looked when Frodo wandered in around midnight, stained with evening dew (and redness in places that his uncle wouldn't get a glance at, not this time). Bilbo had gone to bed, leaving Frodo to drowse on the couch and imagine the morrow, which imaginings led him unsuspecting into peaceful slumber. Which could not have been shattered in a less peaceful fashion. Frodo rose and staggered to the door, hand slipping on his first try to tug it open.

The wizard peered down at him, smiling. "Frodo, my boy, how you've grown."

Frodo laughed softly and fell into Gandalf's embrace. "I'd begun to wonder when we'd see you again."

"Never soon enough," Gandalf answered, following Frodo's sleepy wave inside. "You had a late night, it seems?"

Frodo turned from his hazy deliberation of what to offer his uncle's old friend and yawned. "Mm, you might say. Sam's got the roses maginficent this year. It was a lovely night."

Gandalf removed his hat, lips twitching in amusement. "And how is he, the Gaffer's lad?"

Frodo turned away, making for the back hall, as if to wake Bilbo, which he fully intended to do--and then perhaps crawl in his own bed for another few hours, till Sam came rapping at the window. He'd have time enough to bathe, and maybe, if Gandalf kept Bilbo occupied enough, Sam might join--

"Frodo?"

"Just fine," Frodo said quietly, lips curving into a smile. "I'll wake Bilbo, if you don't mind?"

Gandalf nodded, expression glazed with the same warmth as ever. "No, not at all."

"Just a moment, then," Frodo yawned, padding back the hall. "Uncle Bilbo! Bilbo! We've company..."

"Oh, who is it? Lobelia hasn't bothered to drag her lot up, has she?"

Frodo heard Bilbo's sleepy reply through the door. Frodo pressed his cheek to it, grinning so hard it hurt. "Lobelia could never get away with the hat. It's not near gaudy enough, besides."

Frodo stepped back as the lock jiggled frantically open. Bilbo opened the door and blinked at him. "Frodo-lad, are you--"

"Joking? No, no. Bilbo, my friend, you ought to know by now that's my business."

"Gandalf!"

Frodo pressed himself against the wall, waiting for his uncle to scurry past. He slipped into his own room, closing the door behind him. He blinked slightly in confusion at the sight of his window hanging open, and at the sight of Sam curled up in his sheets, apparently fallen asleep as he waited. Frodo backed up a step, surreptitiously locking his door. The sound startled Sam awake. He sat up, mussed curls not much the better for the position his head had been in. He must have bathed at home the night before. They appeared as clean as his hands now, nightshirt and breeches soft, wrinkled only with a night's wear.

Frodo crossed the room without a word, crawling up beside Sam with a murmur. "How long have you been here, you fool of a Gamgee?"

"I heard Mr. Gandalf's cart up the road, sir, and seeing's I couldn't get back to sleep, and thought--"

"Oh, clear enough," Frodo said with a soft laugh, pressing Sam into his pillows with a slow, wet kiss before settling against him, tugging the covers up. "I'm still tired, and we've a few hours yet. And I've a mind for what I'd like to do with you after that, but you haven't any fresh things here, and we'd do well to look respectable. Sam, you silly..." Frodo shook his head, laughed helplessly.

Sam nuzzled Frodo until he forgot why he was laughing. "I can get out again easier than not. Thanks to Mr. Bilbo, fancy that."

Frodo set a finger against Sam's lips, settled with closed eyes on his shoulder. "I'm going to sleep. And once I've gotten up, you're going straight out that window before I decide I like whatever idea you've dragged along--Sleep. Right. Whether you watch me or join me is entirely up to you."

Sam murmured contently, "Reckon I'll do a bit of both."

Frodo barely heard him, and before long, he heard nothing at all.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Gandalf, the lad has no respect for--"

The wizard glanced across the table dubiously, watching as Bilbo poured water for tea with a huff. "For whom? You? Bilbo, be reasonable. If Balin could hear--"

"I'm not listening--"

"Or H--"

"Holman is too close to the matter entirely, and you'd do well not to mention him again," Bilbo snapped, handing Gandalf his cup with a perfunctory wave. "The honey is--"

"You've had your lovers. Let him have his."

Bilbo sank in the chair across from him, sliding shaking hands around his own cup. "They're more than that, Gandalf," he whispered. "That's what frightens me. Something that just...just sort of leaps between their eyes when they look at each other, something that just...Gandalf, I can't be here forever--I...Gandalf...what will they do?"

Gandalf reached across the table, covered the hobbit's small hands with his own.

"They will do what they must, Bilbo Baggins, and so will you. You always have."

"I know, I know. But they aren't being terribly wise. Yesterday, Frodo--he came in with--covered--oh, why should I bother. You wouldn't believe me."

"If it's any more colorful than the display I have planned for this evening, then perhaps I wouldn't. But if it has anything to do with a descendant of the jar of that raspberry jam you tucked into your pack all those years--"

"Blackberry," Bilbo corrected him stubbornly. "It was blackberry, if you please, and it was utterly wasted."

"You know that dwarves haven't much taste for--"

"Don't remind me," Bilbo muttered, waving the chuckling wizard off as he set about draining his teacup. "And it was for tea in the first place, I tell you. Tea. When bread was to be had, it was for t--"

Gandalf's laughter filled the kitchen with a sound that felt, to Bilbo, curiously like forgiveness, and Bilbo closed his eyes to let it mingle with the steam, and perhaps with his own regret, perhaps to soothe it into nothingness.

* * *

"Vinca..."

"Hmm?"

"Pervinca!"

"What--"

Even half asleep, it took only a matter of minutes to deduce what Estella's frantic grip on her arm meant. Pervinca lashed out into the space between them with a cry: empty.

Estella raked a frantic hand through her disarrayed hair, returning Pervinca's stare with a no less annoyed one of her own. "What do we do? He could be at the fairgrounds by--"

Pervinca grabbed Estella's hand, shaking her head and waving for a moment of silence. She'd been dealing with Pippin for the better part of sixteen years. No matter how trying or ludicrous, the boy's disappearances were generally as simple to resolve as his antics--provided that one had help and unflappable patience. And that Meriadoc Brandybuck was not involved.

"Oh, bother. Where's Merry when you need him?" Estella groaned, shaking her head ruefully. "Your parents will have our necks."

"Only if they hear about it," Pervinca replied shortly, at last making solid eye contact. "We do this: head out and split up. We've a better chance of finding him if--Stella!"

Pervinca dragged the pillow from over her head and tugged her back into a sitting position. Estella crossed her arms, furious.

"He's your thorn in the arse. Now I shan't have time to comb out--"

"We," Pervinca repeated firmly, "are going. I doubt very much that you'd like my Mum and Da to hear--"

"Bother," Estella grumbled again, sliding reluctantly out of bed after Pervinca. "There's no question you and that brat are of the same stock. None at all."

Pervinca ignored the insult, hastily donning her petticoats. "We're splitting up. I'll take the vendors' side, you take--"

"No, I'll take it," Estella countered, voice muffled beneath layers of brocade and lace as she pulled her dress over her head. "Pip's more like to be where the food is, besides. And you are his sister."

"The lads are like to be as well. Good thinking," Pervinca replied, hastily tying her hair back in a green ribbon. "It's settled, then."

Estella breathed a sigh of relief. She fastened her cuffs in silence, glancing out the window. We'll be there till you arrive, and you'd best make it quick, Everard had said. Estella turned her back to Pervinca, cleared her throat, and lifted her chin.

"Right. Button me?"

* * *

"You wore that on purpose," Sam said upon meeting Frodo at the front gate of Bag End. He had been loath to leave Frodo's bed, to be sure, but common sense had (for once) prevailed.

Frodo blinked innocently, stepping down to take Sam's outstretched hand. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam fingered the fine burgundy embroidery at his cuffs and up his sleeves, where at his shoulders they joined with a sapphire blue weskit no less ornate. "You do, at that."

Frodo tugged Sam into a brief embrace, turning his head for a kiss equally so. "No, it's simply coincidence that you like my finery so well, and that this is an occasion kept for. If you're so bent on arguing, we'll never leave this spot," Frodo murmured teasingly, lingering on Sam's lower lip just long enough, hands creeping briefly to his waist. "You're not so dressed down yourself, Sam Gamgee."

Sam blushed. "Fine as I can manage, leastaways."

Frodo traced the line of buttons down his dark green weskit. "More than enough. Sam, if we stand here a moment longer, I'll be tempted to call this holiday off altogether in favor of something dreadfully private."

"You had your chance this mornin'. Not my fault you let it slip."

Frodo's eyes flashed. "What makes you think I did?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Mm, never mind. I suppose--"

Frodo nudged him forward, setting a steady pace in the direction of the festivities. "Don't think too hard on it now. I'm set on enjoying this. Enjoying you comes later, if we're fortunate."

Sam took Frodo's hand. "I'll enjoy you regardless, sir."

* * *

"There she is," Merry whispered, hunkering down beside Everard against the back side of Gypsy Riddle's tent. "Lady, what have you gotten us into? She looks madder than Maggot short a few turnips."

Everard chewed his lip. "She looks worried."

"I would be, too, if the lad I had my eye on was about to prove he's sweet on someone else, and right in my face, at that."

"Well, I'm not," Everard whispered earnestly, taking Merry's hand.

"No," Merry whispered absently, eyes still on Estella as she approached.

"She looks like she didn't sleep much."

Merry's lips twitched. "My bet it was Pip, but if we're lucky, maybe she's gone to Pervinca for consolation.

Everard snorted. "I doubt it."

Merry shrugged. "Can't hurt hoping."

"I suppose not. Here she is."

Estella was just six feet away, eyes fixed on the pair of them rather darkly as she approached. Everard was right, Merry thought: those circles under her eyes nigh resembled bruises. He'd have to thank Pippin...

"Gentlemen," Estella murmured. She held up a glazed bottle in each hand and set them at their feet, almost a challenge. "Had just enough time to stop by father's tent. He thinks I'm going to trade these for pie. You had better be ready to vouch for the fact you helped polish them off."

" 'Course we are," Merry said casually, rising to his feet, followed by Everard. "Where's Vinca?"

"Occupied."

Everard smirked. "Pippin?"

"Yes," Estella muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"Did he keep you up?"

"N--ow, you might say that."

Merry nodded. "He kicks."

Estella nodded vaguely.

Everard frowned. "What's he gone and done this time?"

"Nothing," Estella replied, too quickly for Merry's taste.

"What's he done?"

"Something without your help, Meriadoc," Estella said, sounding curiously satisfied. "He's run off somewhere."

"Gotten away from you already?" Everard laughed.

"Aye. He was gone when we woke," Estella replied shortly, eyes narrow. "Now, would you let up on the stalling and get down to--"

"He's gone?" Merry asked incredulously.

"Oh, for Eru's sake, he can't have gone far!"

Merry stepped up to Estella, furious. "He's probably lookin' for us! How could you let--"

"Everard, would you shut him up, already? Or need I remind you what--"

"You needn't remind me," Merry stormed, and caught a wide-eyed Everard around the neck before he could protest. It took little time for him to decide that a struggle was not only foolish, but not worth it. Merry murmured into the kiss with relish, wishing he could see Estella's face. He drew back slowly to find Everard blinking strangely. Likely at Estella's expression--

"She's gone, Merry. She bloody walked away."

Merry shrugged, not even turning to check. "As long as she left the bottles. Now, I really should go look for--"

The sound of applause spun them both in the opposite direction. Frodo stood at one corner of the tent, smirking broadly enough to do a Brandybuck proud. Samwise Gamgee hung at his side, trying his very best to find the merchandise at the next booth over interesting.

"The fortune-teller's, Merry? Celebrating some happy news? When's the wedding?"

"Ought I to ask you the same, cousin?" Merry returned the smirk, satisfied. While Frodo's expression remained cool, Sam's eyes had flown in his direction almost instantly, accompanied by the gardener's telltale blush.

Frodo took Sam's hand defensively. "If you like."

Everard cast Merry a sidelong glance. "I told you," he muttered.

Merry just stared for a few moments, not certain whether he found it shocking or utterly appropriate. Sam seemed to have found his nerve: every fiber of his being had been mustered into a glare considerably harsher than Frodo's.

"Well. At least we shan't have to worry about any advenurous little Bagginses running about."

"Nor any little thieves, seemingly."

Frodo and Merry exchanged a glance of bemused surprize. Frodo recovered first, sliding an arm about Sam's waist. "You heard Sam. And I suppose--"

"What do you want?" Everard cut in, eyes hard.

Merry turned and blinked at him. "Ev?"

"We can't have them spreading this all over--"

"We could spread them right back," Merry replied, loud enough for Frodo and Sam to hear.

"I'd rather not, and would rather not be found out, either," Everard murmured, turning before Merry's expression turned distinctly hurt. "Frodo?"

Frodo was thoughtful for a moment, still holding Sam, who seemed in considerable need of reassurance. "One of those," he said, pointing at the ground. "Seems you're already in trouble enough for the day."

"We came by 'em fair and square, we did," Merry said firmly, but he picked one up and held it out to Frodo all the same.

"Thank you."

Merry gave Frodo a curt nod, and Everard a cold one. "I've better things to do, anyway." He marched off. Frodo and Sam could stare for all he cared, and Everard twice as hard, at that. He'd be damned if ever he proved false, even to a mischievous child.

Everard could stand to take a lesson from Peregrin Took.

* * *

Pippin perched in the crook of two branches, keeping very still. He knew how when he had to, and this was unquestionably one of those times. He peered through a clump of the oak's lush leaves, holding his breath as Estella passed by far below for what seemed like the tenth time. It took Pippin a moment more to realize that she was pacing.

He'd come to this far end of the grounds in hopes of finding Merry. Never mind cousin Everard; his Da could enslave him in the tent, for all Pippin cared. It wasn't fair, keeping Merry from him like that. No, not at all.

Pippin fidgeted, chewing his thumbnail. He'd heard a pair of lads' voices in the storage tent directly below. Perhaps it was Merry and Everard, sorting through some delightful things without him. Fireworks, maybe? He'd seen that wizard with his own eyes. The one everyone told stories about, ever since he could remember. Those big, colorful things in his cart had to be kept somewhere. Fireworks didn't happen till the sky got dark. Pippin had never seen any with his own eyes, but that's what all the stories said. What if Merry and Everard could get one? Then, they'd have one for their very own. Except, it would be Everard's, too. Pippin made a face and decided that he hated Everard once and for all. He and Merry wouldn't share their firecracker, no sir. Just because Everard was older and thought he could boss around whoever he--

Pippin leaned forward with a hopeful gasp. He watched Estella pause for a moment, make an angry gesture at the ground, and stalk off straight ahead, into an adjacent tent. Pippin saw his chance. He took hold of the branch and swung to the ground, landing with a soft thud in the grass. He crept up behind the tent and ducked under without hesitation.

It took Pippin's eyes a moment to adjust. He blinked in the semidarkness, focusing first on the thin crease of sunlight creeping through from the front of the tent. He glanced around: no big colorful things here, as far as he could see. Only barrels and poles and coils of rope, and banners that no one had used. Well, this was no fun. Why on earth would Merry and--

A sound from off to the right startled Pippin. He flattened himself in the grass, breathing hard against his curled fist. His breeches were dark enough, but his pale nightshirt would stick out worse than his Mum's yellow sheets on the line, if anyone saw--

Pippin saw them, first. Two lads about Merry's size--one of them a bit sturdier--engaged in some kind of wrestling. Pippin squinted: they were half-hidden by a barrel, and they weren't shouting or punching or calling names. They held onto each other as if on purpose, limbs a-tangle, mouths...

Pippin had only ever seen his Da do that to his Mum, and Vinca once behind the shed to that visiting Bolger lad that time he came with his sister Estella, although--

And then, Pippin realized one of the lads on the ground was Estella's brother. Whatever his name was. Freddy or Fatty or something, or maybe both. Pippin hardly cared; he was too fascinated to move. He didn't know the other lad, oh, no, but his wondering was answered soon enough. Freddy/Fatty pulled his mouth away and said--

"Folco, I've--"

"Oh, bugger Merry and Ev. They're off someplace themselves, and you know it. Freddy, pl--hmmm..."

Pippin blinked several times. They were doing it again. What did Vinca call it? Oh, snogging. Not just regular kissing. Pippin knew kisses on cheeks and foreheads and hair. But Vinca always giggled at Mum and Da in the hall and ran off snickering with Estella about--

"They probably are," Freddy said. Pippin watched him run his fingers through Folco's hair. He'd seen his Da do that to his Mum, too, and--yes. Brush her cheek, just like that.

"Pity they don't get up to worse. Poor Merry's afraid his little shadow will find out."

Little shadow? Pippin's brow furrowed. Merry's shadow wasn't little at all, not even when the sun rode high, not even when the river scattered it. He wondered what it had to do with--

"Don't talk about him like that. Pip means well, and he drives Stella bats, he does. I don't even have to lift a finger when he's about."

Pippin edged backwards, panicking. Why had his name come up? Had they seen him? He hardly cared if Freddy was happy with how he treated stuffy old Stella. He had to get out.

Pippin found the edge edge of the canvas with his toes, slid quietly back into the sunlight, inch by inch. As he pulled his head through, breathing fast, the last thing he heard Folco say was something like--

"Merry had better lift one before too long."

Aye, Pippin thought, curling up in a peevish ball on the spot, panting and not caring who might find him there. Merry had better do just that. And point it right at Everard's funny nose, and tell him who's really best at pinching that wizard's--

"Pippin! Pippin Took, where have you been?"

"H'lo, Stella," Pippin murmured sullenly, refusing to look up. Girls.

"Your sister's been looking all over for you."

"Your brother's in there," Pippin informed her, poking at the tent. "Leave me alone."

"Well, he ought to be. Probably fetching rope for Everard's Da."

Pippin looked up, stared at her for a long moment. He'd make Freddy proud, he would...

"Mm-mm. He's snoggin' Folco."

And his only response to eyes as wide and furious as Estella's, of course, was to run.

* * *

Several hours had passed since their brush with Merry and Everard, Frodo guessed as Sam's fingers passed briefly through his own, a gentle touch as full of fire as those eyes dancing with his own over and again as they made their way through the now-crowded rows of stalls. They had eluded the temptation of finding a secluded spot and opening the bottle of cordial by wisely tucking it away in the knapsack Sam had thought to carry along. Otherwise, it contained a blanket for sitting on later that evening. The Rosemary Trio's performance would serve as a much-anticipated close to the day, though not as anticipated as Gandalf's fireworks to follow. Frodo wondered if Roderic Chubb still played the flute, as there had been considerable rumor concerning a sour romance with the trio's vocalist, Beryl Whittler, and that he had left for--

"Here's Mum," Sam said softly, squeezing Frodo's shoulder. "I told her we'd be by, sir."

Frodo blinked, turning his head to smile at Sam. "I don't object. You know that."

"You oughtn't," Sam murmured with a grin of his own, "seeing's I suspect she planted that jam."

"That explains a lot," Frodo muttered under his breath, earning exactly the affectionate squeeze he had hoped for. Sam's hand was gone just as quickly.

"She's saved us a batch of your favorites, I reckon," Sam murmured in Frodo's ear, nudging him in the direction of the stand his mother shared with a plump, aging housewife that Frodo had never seen before. The division seemed clear: all domain to the right was Bell's, to the left, the stranger's.

Bell's back was turned as they approached, apparently arranging a new tray in order to fill a decidedly sold-out rectangle of her own counter space. The stranger eyed Frodo and Sam none too sourly as they stepped up to the right.

"Hullo, Mum," Sam greeted.

Bell placed a last tart on the tray and swung around with a smile as bright as any Sam had ever given Frodo. "Sam, dear, I wondered if you'd forgotten!--ah, Mr. Frodo. Lovely to see you, and an honor, too, sir."

Frodo bowed and returned the smile warmly. "Pleasure's mine. And, no, Sam has anything but forgotten. I might have drifted us halfway to Bywater if he hadn't steered me in the right direction."

"Small wonder a lad keeps his head in the clouds on a day like--oh, begging your pardon, sir. I certainly meant no ill; simply that it's so fair I can't say I blame you. Samwise, take these and see to it you keep him good and grounded. 'Twould be a shame to miss Rosemary, son, and I can't say as I've ever known a Baggins didn't like his music. You mind yourself, Sam."

"Of course, Mum," Sam said patiently, taking Bell's offered parcel with a sidelong glance at Frodo, who couldn't help but smile all the more. Mind himself? Sam would sooner mind--

"For now, Mr. Frodo, there's no distraction this shan't cure."

Frodo blinked, alerted by both Sam's nudge at his elbow and Bell's suddenly large and expectant eyes directly across from his own. She held something out, laughter playing at her lips.

"Thank you," he murmured, accepting the toffee with wide eyes and an instant pang of relish.

" 'Afternoon, Mum," Sam said, tugging Frodo gently away before he had so much as waved. But Bell had already nodded with a hum of satisfaction, turning back to her work with pride while her companion sulked still.

"Sam Gamgee, whatever you've got up your sleeve this time, I--"

"Don't you worry a bit, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, tucking the parcel into his pack with a satisfied pat before swinging it back over his shoulder. "Nothin' your stomach won't be glad of this evening."

Frodo finally raised the sliver of toffee to his lips, letting it rest there as Sam tried his best not to grin. Frodo pursed his lips at last, sucked for a long, thoughtful moment, eyes fixed deliberately on Sam's. The gardener chuckled and pushed Frodo along once more, clucking under his breath.

"Not while there's more to be seen, you don't!"

Frodo took a crunching bite and laughed.

* * *

Some things about Pippin, Pervinca was sure she'd never understand. The way he insisted his breeches ought to go on backwards. His fascination with those vicious little crayfish down in the creek. How their detached, still-twitching claws always ended up in the washbasket as she hung things to dry. Some things, she was sure she didn't want to understand.

But the way Pippin looked at Meriadoc Brandybuck came as no surprize whatsoever. Oh, none at all. And there was naught else to be said about that, and Stella would have heartily agreed--if only Pervinca had the nerve to add to her jealousy, which she most certainly did not. Bad enough, the things she'd heard about what happened with him and Everard in the Bolgers' pantry that spring. She'd wanted to smack that Boffin lass clear to North Farthing, but one glimpse of them hand-in-hand at a distance a few weeks after had been enough. Meriadoc Brandybuck seemed no-one's for the taking, save perhaps his own whimsy's. And that of older, more tempting Tooks.

Pervinca sighed, following the dirt path that led down to Sandyman's mill pond. This, too, she knew of Pippin: when nowhere else to be found, he'd seek out the nearest source of water and sulk. Which usually led to more sulking, because the poor lad couldn't skip stones worth his inheritance, though he seemed to think he could learn without proper teaching.

There Pervinca found him, indeed, though no splash of pebbles announced his presence. He lay sprawled on the bank, chin on the backs of his hands, staring out over the water. Willow fronds from overhead dipped low with the breeze, brushing the lad's back through his thin nightshirt, as if to comfort him. Pervinca crept up quietly, knowing that leaves could offer no such thing, although--

"Vinca, go away."

Pervinca sighed wearily. As well as she knew her brother, she was known in return.

"I don't want anybody right now."

Pervinca knelt beside him in the grass, eyebrows raised. "Not even--"

"I hate Merry," Pippin whispered, the tears leaving a rough edge to his whisper.

Pervinca rubbed his back gently. "Why?"

"Haven't seen him all day. He's not even lookin' for me...why, Vinca? Why didn't he come--"

"Hush, Pip," Pervinca whispered, tugging the boy up into her lap. Pippin didn't protest, slumping against his sister with a crushed whimper. "I don't know. He was probably of having a good time, with Everard and--"

"I hate Everard more. And stupid Freddy an' Stella weren't with 'em."

Pervinca tilted Pippin's chin up and back. "You saw Stella?"

"I ran away from her," Pippin said matter-of-factly, instantly proud and defiant.

"I don't doubt it," Pervinca sighed. "And you saw Freddy?"

"I saw Freddy and Folco in a tent," Pippin said softly.

"Buying things? Getting their fortunes--"

"Kissing, Vinca. I'm not stupid," Pippin growled irritably, wriggling free of her grasp to slump in the grass, not unlike he had on the bedspread the night before.

"No. No, you're not, Pippin. You're as far from stupid as they come, at that."

Pippin looked up, eyes shining with both tears and disbelief. "I am?"

"Aye," Pervinca murmured, smiling sadly, fondly. "You'll be a right smart one, you will, if you keep those wits about you and learn to tie them down now and again."

Pippin smiled hesitantly, but it faded as quickly as it had come. "Merry wouldn't like that."

"I thought you hated Merry."

Pippin bunched his fists in the grass, eyes flashing. "I don't!"

"That's a relief. Never did anyone good, that."

Pippin tilted his head thoughtfully, rubbing at his damp eyes. "Vinca, do you...do you hate Everard?"

Pervinca bit her tongue and stared out across the water for long moments. Pippin didn't speak, patiently pulling up bits of grass until she looked down on him again and replied in a soft voice. "I don't hate anyone, Pip. Not really. Not even Estella and her ruddy spoiled temper, and don't you dare tell Da I used a word like that."

Pippin giggled in spite of himself. "Promise, but only if you don't tell 'im I ran away."

Pervinca gave him a warning look.

"Please," Pippin whispered. "I only did it 'cause I had to."

Pervinca couldn't bring herself to ask him what that meant, nor what any other of his heart-stopping, uncanny questions, either. She sat like that for long moments with her hands folded in her lap. Suddenly, the wind picked up, and a willow frond lashed out from behind and swayed back again, tangled in her hair.

"Oh, bother," Pervinca muttered, reaching back to catch the tangle.

"You sound like Stella," Pippin muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"Hush, you," Pervinca sighed, studying the knot of curls and stem and leaves as she drew it over her shoulder. She studied it thoughtfully, remembering. Some rhyme Stella taught her once, some silly thing they'd done down at the far end of the orchard where a weeping willow stood--

"Watch this, Pippin," Pervinca said softly. She gritted her teeth and took hold of the few strands of hair wound with the willow branch. She pulled and gave a little yell.

Pippin jumped. "What'd you do that for?"

Pervinca smiled shakily and held up the limp branch, which now had a few strands of her hair free-fluttering like whispy banners in the breeze. "You make a wish, Pip. You leave your hair and make a wish. If you're old enough, you wish that your true love will come."

Pippin sat up, rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, the other hand creeping to wind nervously in his own curls. "What if you're not old enough, and you have a wish anyway?"

Pervinca shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to make it anyway. But you mustn't say it out loud."

Pippin swallowed. "I have a wish."

Pervinca nodded slowly. "All right, then--"

"Don't pull hard!" Pippin cried, shrinking a bit.

Pervinca gentled her fingers in his hair. "I won't. Hold--still--"

"OW!"

"--there. Just a little piece for a lad, that's all you need," Pervinca said softly, holding the almost-invisible strand out for Pippin to see. He looked pleased.

"That's mine?"

"It's yours. Now, you'll have to tie it 'round a leaf, and not on the same branch as mine. Be careful, don't lose it--"

"I won't," Pippin whispered with determination, fingers claiming the hair with viselike accuracy. He trotted off to the far side of the tree before Pervinca could deal out any further instructions, and was back quick as a wink, looking satisfied with himself, and considerably more at ease. He sat down in Pervinca's lap.

"There."

"Did you tie it tight enough?"

Pippin sniffed. "I'm good at tying knots, Vinca."

"That you are," Pervinca muttered. She had never managed to extract the one he'd left in her favorite doll's hair.

They sat in silence, then, both tired and perhaps too full of wondering to speak. But content had fallen over, and a soft, early dusk had come with it. Pervinca tightened her arms around her brother's waist, rocking him gently in time to the ripples on the water.

"It'll be time for the music, soon," she murmured at length, smoothing a hand through Pippin's hair. His head lolled to one side. Pervinca sighed and shifted, laid him out full in the grass, heavy and asleep. And she sat there beside him, free to wonder without the weight of his own, besides. How long it was until the soft footsteps approached, Pervinca hadn't bothered to reckon, nor did she particularly care. She heard stirring in the distance; perhaps the stage was being set, the crowd moving nearer. Nothing mattered but that single set of steps, and she turned to them, her skirts a soft rustle in the grass.

"Merry."

"H'lo, Vinca," he said quietly. His eyes rested on Pippin. "Tuckered out already, is he? Listen, I'm sorry that--"

"He wasn't any trouble," Pervinca replied with a wistful smile. "But he was looking for you all day."

"I expected as much," Merry sighed, eyes askance, as if ashamed. He scratched the back of his neck and shifted on the spot. "Well, I should...I should have been looking for him myself."

"He forgives you," Pervinca said softly, rising to her feet. They stood facing each other, still and pensive. A willow front lashed out at Merry's cheek almost playfully. He caught it and tore it off, waving it with a smirk.

"I hope Everard didn't work that silly charm of Stella's. Because if he's expecting to find me here, he's got something coming, and it isn't..." Merry trailed off, red-faced.

"I knew. You knew I knew. You wouldn't have said it otherwise, cousin. Don't look so modest."

Merry sighed and stared down, tangling his toes in the grass. "Vinca...did...did you--"

"No," she said softly. "But Pippin did. I needed something to distract him, so I showed him."

Merry's head flew up. "Pippin made a wish for--"

"I don't know what he wished for, but I told him he could wish for whatever he wanted, even if he was too young."

"Then he's too young for what he wished for," Merry said softly. "But I do so want to give it."

"I'll--" Pervinca's breath caught. She couldn't meet Merry's gaze.

"Vinca?"

"--take it for him," she whispered. "He would trust me with it, Merry."

Merry's eyes were on hers, full and shining. "I know he would, Vinca. And so do I..."

No questioning how or why, no wishing for ever again. Pervinca tasted honey and liquor so dulcet it brought her to tears. And then Merry's tongue, brief and tender, and then air and the distant trilling of a pipe that signaled the call to the green.

"I'll carry him, Vinca."

I know.

* * *

"I can't thank you enough, old friend."

"No bother at all! Gandalf, you'd have been plundered down to the last sparkler, mark my words. Especially with that wild lad of Saradoc's on the loose. Merry couldn't keep his hands off a bit of flame if you bound them with some...some spell of yours," Bilbo chuckled, gesturing aimlessly with his pipe before taking a long, content puff. Gandalf did the same, rings of drifting and scattering as they rode down from the top of the hill toward the milling green.

"Ah, looks as if the entertainment's about to begin."

"Rosemary Hornblower's lot," Bilbo murmured approvingly, eyes scanning the throng of hobbits settling on blankets in the near distance, groups of tweenagers huddled and standing, laughing, children running about and playing at games of tag. "Sweet voice that young Beryl's got, and a fine poet she is, besides."

Gandalf urged the horse on with a leisurely tap, his laugh low and rich. "Bilbo, you must know every lad and lass born since your return!"

"Ah, my return," Bilbo murmured, fingers tracing an absent arc low against his jacket. "Not all, Gandalf, but enough. I know just what I ought, and I know what I ought to remember."

Gandalf turned to look at him, removing his pipe thoughtfully. "Surely you don't plan on giving up the ghost now? You've another half-century in you, I wouldn't doubt, and if I did, well, I'd see what I could do--"

Bilbo waved off the wizard's affectionate jibe with a good-natured huff. "Oh, rubbish. My time'll come when it comes. In the meanwhile, leave an old hobbit to his leaf and his music. Oh, come along, now! Faster, why don't you? I've a mind to find a good seat. Preferably somewhere far from Frodo."

* * *

"Don't you go noddin' off on me," Sam whispered, his voice muffled in Frodo's hair.

"I'm not," Frodo murmured, tucking himself closer against Sam's chest.

They had taken a spot against a tree along the back edge of the crowd well before the players began, and had made quick work of the supper Bell packed, which had indeed included more tarts than they had even hoped for. The blackberry cordial hadn't lasted all that long, either, and Frodo's drowsy state stood to prove it. They spent the first few numbers wrapped in a spare blanket, exchanging slow, deep kisses under the cover of descending dusk. As sorely as Sam's hands ached to wander, Frodo had been just alert enough for gentle catching and easing away. "Not yet," he had whispered, and pulled Sam back to the curve of his body, hair blending with the bark of the tree, flawless pale features eerie in contrast. Thankfully, few other occupants of the general vicinity minded: there wasn't a soul languid there without another beside them, in their arms, or burrowed precariously elsewhere.

Sam slid a hand to the small of Frodo's back, rubbing with gentle longing. "Just makin' sure. They haven't done your favorite yet, even."

"They'll end with it," Frodo said softly, yawning against Sam's shoulder. He lifted his head just enough to smile.

Sam's breath caught. "Bless you, but you're beautiful."

"I'd repeat you, but I have a much better idea," Frodo murmured, and he kissed Sam fiercely.

Oh, how Sam survived "Baranduin" and "An Overlithe Tale", he'd never know. Even the inclusion of Bilbo's well-known ode to Buckland's beloved river didn't stand a chance at prying Frodo from his embrace. If anything, Frodo sank deeper by the minute, waking and warming, breath soft and flush against Sam's ear, his neck, his throat, slender limbs twisiting and parting, his own helpless to resist, choosing, rather, to hold, clutching at Frodo's waist, hands stroking shakily down from hips to thighs, knees parted on either side of his torso, Frodo kneeling, rising up, then sinking again, thighs snug, but not tight, perhaps not meaning to--

"Stop," Sam panted against Frodo's lips parting once more over his own, fists winding tight in the fine embroidered weskit. "Just...oh, stop."

Frodo stilled, panting. "Wait, you don't--"

"Oh, I do," Sam croaked. "But..."

"Mm, shh. Song's ended. This might be..."

Sam closed his eyes, buried a groan in Frodo's hair. Oh, he hoped--

"Oh, it is," Frodo breathed, hushed and ecstatic. "They always end with it. Always. That means the fireworks--" Frodo bit his lip, deep in thought despite the tinge to his cheeks, the tremor all through him.

"But we've the song to worry about first, if you take--"

"Yes, and that's the idea," Frodo whispered, and his mouth covered Sam's once more. Somewhere through through the chill air and warm blankets, through the aching and Frodo pressed tight, moving carefully against him, Beryl's clear voice reached Sam's ears though they rang with Frodo's kiss-stifled moans and his own helpless whimpers:

On warm wind and over sea,
Lady, keep and carry me
homeward, swift and sure this time,
and let love be mine.

"Frodo, singin' will...oh, oh...will draw...even more--"

"No it won't, ah, ah, Sam, oh..."

Sam closed his eyes tight and bit his lower lip as Frodo slackened against him, thighs loosening, movements gone fluid and full of grace. His hands slid firm and deliberate down from Sam's shoulders, one to rest at his belly, the other molded precisely where he'd hoped...

For I have waited, patient, here;
asked neither when, nor where
I might find him; in good time,
perhaps, love shall be mine.

Sam gasped, body arching against the melodic whisper against his ear as much as into Frodo's fingers smoothing his trousers away, hands sliding up his shirt, deft and gentle. He didn't realize Frodo had unbuttoned himself--not until Frodo tilted forward with a gasp of his own, eyes round and unfocused, lips letting the verse die on a hiss.

"I think," Frodo whispered, leaning to run his tongue along Sam's lower lip, "that this might feel...very good, but...mmm, Sam, you'll have to let me know--"

"Frodo!"

Frodo swallowed Sam's moan hastily, rising to his knees, leaning forward, his shifts loose and mobile, cleverly controlled. Sam thrust up in spite of himself, only to have the teasing brush pull back, feel the clever wiggling slow. He grunted protest into Frodo's mouth, reached for him, but not soon enough. Frodo's hands slipped from teasing touches beneath Sam's shirt and captured his wrists, pinning them at his sides. Sam writhed in protest, but the grass only dug into his palms and Frodo only laughed, low and muffled, bearing down for a beat--two--three, thrusts swift and hard, knocking the breath out of whatever Sam had meant to cry, rendering him silent and straining against the melody that rose sweetly, clear and urgent--

On warm wind and over sea,
Lady, keep and carry me
homeward--

"--swift and sure--this--time!" Frodo breathed, releasing Sam's wrists, bearing down so tight, so still, so close--

--and love will be--

"Mine!" Sam choked, and he clasped Frodo tight enough to shatter against his own rent and quaking body, and felt Frodo's head dip and tuck just so, there, beneath his chin, and Sam arched forward from the tree as night flooded through him, soul and eyes snapping, all fading to black and flashes of brightness and--

"Thunder?" Frodo whispered thickly, mouth still crushed to Sam's neck, gasping quiet, hiccoughing sobs.

Sam shook his head against the roughness of bark, slumping back against it. "No...Gandalf..." He tightened his arms around Frodo, hugging fiercely, burying his face in damp, silky curls. He cried Frodo's name softly, over and over again. No one could hear them over the noise. Oh, no one at all--

"Sam."

He barely heard it, felt Frodo's breath heated against his throat.

"Frodo," Sam whispered, blinking away tears, lifting his head, tilting it just enough to see, filtered through leaf-sway and breeze-brushed darkness, green-gold sparks from overhead dancing against Frodo's pale cheek.

~finis~