Sam is in the front garden, not far from the gate, checking the sacking on the rosebushes for rips after the fierce wind they had last night, when he hears the click and then the quiet thump that mean Mr. Frodo has just come out of the front door to have a word with him, just as the distinctive pattern of footsteps and taps that forewarn of the Gaffer coming down the road to pay him a visit grows louder and the Gaffer himself comes into view.

Botheration! The quivers and jumps of his stomach whenever Mr. Frodo is around, asking quiet questions and looking at him just so over a cup of tea, are quite the torment (if a pleasant one), and a visit from his Gaffer is always good for a solid half-hour of jumpy tension as he pokes about the garden, looking for what's ill-done or neglected, and though he's not finding much these days (to Sam's pride) the silent poking is still enough to make a body nervous. And to have both at once! Sam shuffles nervously and stares at his feet on the bare frozen ground, all snow cover melted off in that mild spell they had a few weeks back.

"Hullo, Sam," comes Frodo's casual greeting, almost at the same time as the Gaffer's hollered "Samwise! Whereabouts be ye, boy?"

Sam is just about to greet both in turn when the best possible outcome of this combination of events occurs (the best impossible outcome, of course, being that his Gaffer just popped down to tell him he's such a fine gardener he won't be troubling him while he's about his business no more, before Mr. Frodo invites him inside and confesses his fervent and undying love for him) - each turns his attention to the other, and Sam is forgotten.

"Mr. Frodo, sir! It's a pleasure to see ye on this fine winter mornin'."

"And it's a pleasure to see you about as well, Master Gamgee. How go your preparations for the trip to Tighfield?"

"All's ready an' waitin' fer us to set out on the morrow, sir. Plannin' on stayin' three days or so with young Halfred."

"I wish you pleasant travel and a good visit, then. I'm sure my garden will miss Sam here while he's away."

Sam opens his mouth to say something at that, but his Gaffer is quicker. "Oh, Samwise here ain't goin', so he'll be here to look after the garden all right, not that much needs doin' at this time o' the year."

"Not going! Why ever not?"

"It's his turn to look in on the Widow Rumble. May stayed last time we was off visitin', an' it's a good thin', too, fer the Widow near took a nasty fall bringin' in her washin'. So this time Sam's to stay an' make sure she's all she needs. But I hear ye're off on a visit of yer own, to Buckland, if the talk at the Green Dragon can be trusted, Mr. Frodo."

"Indeed, I plan to set off the day after tomorrow." Frodo puts a hand over his eyes, squints up at the sky (today a washed-out, pale blue that has nothing on Frodo's eyes, in Sam's opinion), and looks thoughtful. "That is, if it doesn't snow."

---

'That is, if it doesn't snow.' As Sam rakes up the few sad leaves that were blown into the garden by the windstorm, he ponders over those words of Mr. Frodo's. If he's not mistaken (and he rarely is, where his master's concerned), there was something almost wistful to Mr. Frodo's voice when he said it. With all the instincts he uses to care for Frodo as if he's another plant in the garden, Sam is sure that Frodo wants it to snow. Some of him - a good part of him, if he's honest -is curious to know why Frodo would want to stay here and not go to Buckland to visit Master Merry and the rest of his kin; parts of him that are more hopeful than they've a right to be wonder if maybe Mr. Frodo would like to stay here for the chance to spend time with him while his family's not around to wonder what he's doing, those long hours at Bag End when there's so little to be done in the garden, reminding him to keep to his place and not go getting above himself.

But that's just stuff and nonsense, a foolish fancy thinner than pipeweed smoke. It's not his place to wonder at the reasons of the Master of Bag End, but it is his place, as far as he's concerned, to do everything in his power to make him happy and give him what he wants. And what Frodo wants, it seems, is snow, so Sam thinks on all the ways he's ever heard of to make it snow.

He's heard tell of a family down in Tuckborough who do a special dance to make it snow, but he's never seen it, and he hears they don't like sharing their secret with outsiders nowise. So a snow dance is right out.

He's also known some hobbits to toss bits and shavings of ice into the woods or streams to bring on snow, but the only ice Sam could get hold of these days is in Mr. Frodo's cellar, keeping the cream fresh, and it wouldn't do to go wasting it.

He's been told by some that sleeping with a fork or spoon or even a knife under one's pillow is a dependable way to bring on a winter storm, and this method he's sure he can use. With his sisters gone, there'll be no one to be worrying about him making off with a fork before bed. But he's also heard that the magic is in the metal of the utensil, and that the best metal for the purpose is silver.

Now, there's certainly no silver at Number Three that he can hide under his pillow. But Mr. Frodo, now, he's got silver and to spare in his smial. Course, it wouldn't be right at all for Sam to remove any of it from the premises, as it were, and sleep with it under his own pillow; but if he were to hide it under Mr. Frodo's pillow, the magic'd work just the same, and that'd be all right all around, he reckons; Mr. Frodo still gets the snow and without Sam saying nothing to him about it, nothing valuable leaves Bag End, and he'll put the fork or whatever right back as soon as he can, no-one the wiser.

---

The next morning, Sam sees his sisters and the Gaffer off right early, then sits at home carving a new pipe for himself until he's sure Frodo's up and about over at Bag End. Then he takes up the basket of Mr. Frodo's laundry what Marigold finished yesterday and didn't get a chance to bring over, and sets off.

When he knocks on the kitchen door and then lets himself in, Mr. Frodo's up, as he expected, if only barely, his hair a mess and those fine blue eyes sleepy as he blinks at Sam through the steam rising from his cup of tea.

"Oh, hullo, Sam. You're here early today. Family set off already?"

"Yes, sir. They wanted to get an early start, I reckon. I brought over your laundry, Mr. Frodo. Thought you might want some of it for your packin', sir."

"Packing? Oh yes, for Buckland. Ought to pack, oughtn't I? I tell you, Sam, I tried last night but I just can't seem to get started on it. Though I suppose it'd be very 'Mad Baggins' of me to leave it all until the last minute."

"Just as long as you remember your handkerchiefs," Sam replies, and they both smile for a moment at the memory of Mr. Bilbo's tales. Then Sam sets the basket down by the door and says, "I'll just be checkin' on your bath water, then, sir," and Frodo nods, still lost in a reverie. It pays to know his master's routine, Sam thinks as he checks the temperature of the big kettle and, judging it ready, pours it into the bath. Every morning, up late, cup of tea while waiting for bath water to heat, then the bath.

Back in the kitchen, he tells Frodo, "It's ready whenever you are, sir," and prepares to wash the empty teacup. "There's fresh sheets in the laundry I brought over, so I'll just pop in an' make up your bed while you're in there, if you don't mind."

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo replies, and disappears into the bathroom. Sam counts to thirty after he shuts the door behind him before he heads for the drawer where Frodo keeps the good silver, the counting not just a precaution to make sure Frodo's well and truly gone but also a way to keep Sam's own imagination from racing out of control, thinking about what's happening on the other side of that door.

He selects a fork from the drawer, his favourite from years of polishing, delicate and plain with no fancy embellishments (and maybe that's why it's his favourite), and picking up the laundry heads into Frodo's bedroom. Here too there are dangers for his fancy but, like the counting, the sheets provide an orderly focus for his thoughts. He slips the fork under two down pillows, on the side of the bed his master doesn't favour (not that he's paid much attention, mind). Indoor tasks accomplished, he slips back out of the kitchen door into the garden, sure to find a few odds and ends to occupy him for an hour or so.

---

Just before lunch he re-enters the smial. "I'm off to check on the Widow, Mr. Frodo," he says. "An' afterwards, I thought I'd head home, if you've nothin' else for me today, sir."

"That'll be fine, Sam," Frodo replies. "Enjoy your visit to the Widow."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Sam adds on his way out of the door. "My Gaffer says I'm to check on you as well, if it snows an' you're stuck here in Hobbiton."

"That's very kind of you, Sam. I must admit, if I am snowed in, I'm sure I'll be glad of the company. Does he think it very likely? The snow, I mean."

"The Gaffer? Oh no, sir. Said he couldn't feel no snow in his bones at all," Sam replies, trying not to sound downcast. The Gaffer had, in fact, been vehement on the subject when Sam had brought it up last night by suggesting he check on Mr. Frodo, too, if there was snow.

---

"It ain't goin' to snow, Samwise."

"Aye, but if it do..."

"It ain't, I'm tellin' ye. Someday ye'll be my age, an' yer bones'll creak with the weather, an' ye won't be sayin' 'but if' then."

"Aye, but if it do..."

"All right. If it do snow - an' it won't - ye're to check on Mr. Frodo. Which means shovel his path an' make sure there's enough firewood an' to spare laid about the smial, not share two pots o' tea an' a load o' fanciful tales with him an' waste yer afternoon forgettin' yer place."

And what could Sam say or do in reply to that except nod?

---

Sam goes to bed especially early that night, to give the magic extra time to work. Lying in bed with one of his own tin forks under his pillow, he can't help but think of Mr. Frodo. There's a fork under his pillow, too, and it's a silly thing for them to have in common, but it's there. He wonders what else they might have in common. What if Mr. Frodo's lying in his bed right now, thinking of Sam? Except that's that foolishness of his again. Mr. Frodo probably isn't even abed yet; he's likely still packing in a rush, or reading in the study, or if he's asleep it's probably in a chair in front of the fire. And there's no reason for him to be thinking of Samwise Gamgee at all, is there?

When Sam awakens the next morning, he's nervous. What if it didn't work? Magic is fickle at the best of times, he knows from Mr. Bilbo's stories, and even though it'd be no fault of his if he couldn't make it snow for Mr. Frodo, he wants there to be snow so bad, if there's anything right in Middle Earth, it will have snowed.

There's no window in his room, so the first thing he does, even before making tea, is rush to the door and throw it open. There's snow on the ground, nearly two hands deep, and he resists the urge to toss handfuls in the air and do a dance of joy. He's planning on time for such foolishness later, with Mr. Frodo but, if that's to happen, there're things he has to do first.

So it's off to the Widow Rumble's, to shovel for her and pay a quick visit. While he sips tea and nibbles on a freshly-baked scone or two, the Widow prattles on about the storm, and how her knee didn't give her any trouble the day before like it usually does when there's weather coming, and how odd that is, and Sam has to smile to himself, because it's his snow, and it's a gift, from him to Mr. Frodo. Who he ought to be checking in on, by now, so he makes his excuses to the Widow and she shows him out.

As he shovels his way up the Bag End path, he can see Mr. Frodo watching him from the parlour window, and when he's almost to the front step, Frodo opens the door and comes out to greet him. He looks cheerier than he has in days, so Sam knows he was right about the snow even before Frodo says anything.

"Good morning, Sam! Quite a surprise, isn't it? I suppose the Gaffer's bones can't always be right, eh?"

"Aye, there's a fair bit o' snow here, Mr. Frodo. I'm afraid you won't be headin' to Buckland anytime soon, beggin' your pardon, sir."

"Oh, it's quite all right. I'm afraid I never even packed! For some reason, I felt compelled to go to bed quite early, instead. And when I woke up, there was all this lovely snow, everywhere I looked. All done, Sam?"

"Yes, sir."

"Come inside for a cup of tea then, will you, Sam?"

"I reckon I'd like that, sir," Sam says, leaning his shovel against the wall and carefully knocking his feet against the front step to shake off the snow before coming inside.

After the tea, Mr. Frodo convinces him to go back outside and build a snowhobbit in the garden with him, which takes them until lunch, what with the small snowball fights that keep breaking out between them and slowing their progress.

Over soup for lunch, Mr. Frodo asks Sam if he needs to check on the Widow again. "No sir, there's no need," Sam replies. "She's as snug as a bug down there, an' she don't need half the fussin' the Gaffer thinks she does. He does tend to worrit about her somethin' awful. But if anyone tried coddlin' him that way, he'd give 'em an earful, an' no mistake."

"So you're all mine?"

"For the rest of the day, sir," Sam replies, as 'for the rest of my life' seems too bold an answer to a question so innocuous.

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, stretching their feet towards the kitchen fire. Finally, Frodo speaks. "This has been the perfect day so far. Thank you for sharing it with me, Sam. I must confess, I didn't really want to go to Brandy Hall, anyway."

"I suspected as much, sir."

More silence. Then, "Sam," Frodo says, "would you like to know why I didn't want to leave Bag End on this visit?" He stares into the fire, not looking at Sam.

"If you've a mind to tell me, sir, I'm here to listen," Sam replies, and out the corner of his eye catches Frodo looking almost disappointed. Was that perhaps a bit too circumspect and formal for Mr. Frodo, after a morning spent playing in the snow as if they were tweens again? "That is, I would like to know, Mr. Frodo, if you'd like to tell me," he ventures.

Frodo sighs. "I'm tired of travelling to be with the ones I love. With Bilbo gone, Bag End won't feel like home again until there's someone who loves me here, not just in Buckland or Tuckborough. Not that Merry and Pippin aren't dear to me, but it's not the same."

Sam has frozen at the words 'someone who loves me here', and is now staring mutely at Frodo. Should he dare to hope?

Frodo turns and looks right into Sam's eyes. "Do you know of anyone like that, Sam? Someone who loves me, right here in Hobbiton?"

Sam chuckles nervously, but doesn't look away. "I can think of a few, sir."

"Anyone in particular?" Frodo asks, and there's a tone to the 'particular' that makes Sam bold, for he replies, "There's one hobbit o' my acquaintance, sir, who loves you with his whole heart, such as it is."

Frodo leans in closer. "If it's the same hobbit I'm thinking of, he has a heart as big as the Shire itself, and that's more than enough love for any hobbit."

Sam's mouth is scant inches from Frodo's now, breath on breath, and he's already submerged in those marvellous eyes, so the distance he has to cross suddenly doesn't seem so great, after all. "F-Frodo?" he breathes.

"Sam," Frodo answers, and closes the distance between them. It is everything and nothing Sam ever imagined; Frodo's mouth is soft and moist and yielding, and the smell and taste of him are intoxicating, like them Dwarven spirits Mr. Bilbo used to keep around and only bring out when someone were ill. And just like when he were but a faunt and had a real bad cough and Mr. Bilbo'd pour some right down his throat, Sam can feel the warmth coursing right through him, pulsing and burning as it goes, then settling in one place with special urgency. He is suddenly very aware of the kitchen table between them.

Frodo pulls away from the kiss, and stands up from the table. Sam notices he's feeling some urgency of his own, too. Frodo offers Sam his hand, and pulls him up so that he's standing, too. He is still holding Sam's hand, and when he speaks again, the moment seems oddly formal. No, not formal; ceremonial, Sam corrects himself.

"Sam, will you lie with me today? I can think of no better way to spend a snowy afternoon."

"Well now, I'm partial to a bit of sleddin' myself, s-" Sam begins to joke, but Frodo cuts him off by kissing him again, frantically and thoroughly, and soon he's practically dragging Sam down the hall, never breaking the kiss.

When Frodo reaches the bed he falls backwards onto it, pulling Sam with him, and soon they're tumbling and kissing, fumbling at clothes and kissing, and then tumbling some more, and when he comes up for air, Sam realises that they've ended up all upside-down, with their feet on the pillows and heads nearly hanging off the bottom of the bed. He rolls off Frodo to lie beside him, so they can move their heads and feet where they're supposed to be and then get back to what they were doing right quick.

Frodo's doing just that when he makes an unexpected sound. "Ow!"

Sam scrambles upright. "What is it, me dear?"

Frodo is holding the fork. He looks puzzled. "Now Sam, I know I have a reputation as a bit of a scatterbrain, but I am almost positive I never left any of the good silver in my bed."

Sam figures it's time to come clean. It wasn't quite right what he did, after all, making free with the silver when he's only the gardener, even if he meant no harm by it. "Er, that would be my fault, sir. It was to make it snow, see? You sleep with a fork under your pillow, and when you wake up, there'll be snow. I slept with one under my pillow, too, only silver's supposed to work better than other metals, so I just thought...I was goin' to put it back as soon as I could." He shrugs and tries to look down at the sheets, but Frodo grabs his chin and keeps him looking right in his eyes.

Frodo looks like he's never seen anything half so wonderful as Sam at that moment. "Dear Sam. Beautiful Sam. My Sam. I should have known you could make it snow for me." He sets the fork aside carefully, as if it is a precious treasure. "What can I ever give you in return?"

"Just keep smiling at me, me dear, an' with your eyes as blue as the sky an' the warmth in them like sunlight, you've given me spring."

"Oh Sam, with your heart as big as the Shire and your soul of a poet! Stay with me forever?"

"Of course," Sam replies, and kisses him, long and careful, to make it a promise.