Sam wanted to scratch his ass. The problem was finding a free arm. Frodo's shoulder had one pinned down, which left him snoring right in Sam's ear, and Rosie was sprawled, drooling, on the other. Sam mournfully considered that he had never agreed to spend every night of his life between them. Someone's guts answered with a gurgle. It would smell really nice in here any second.

Months ago he'd felt tender and protective, if sometimes a little outnumbered, between them -- his two loves, and all. Besides which, it would have been wrong not to sleep three in a bed, as they had but the one really good one. Most of Mr. Bilbo's old furniture had fallen victim to Lotho's ruffians while Sam and Frodo were away saving the world. How Sam missed the old, wide parlor sofa that had once provided a comfortable sleeping place for all guests too full of food or drink!

Sam wriggled his butt against the bedclothes, which was some relief. Rosie twitched and kicked him. Pregnancy had made her a restless sleeper. The hand she was lying on tingled unpleasantly. Frodo's arm tightened around Sam's neck as his breathing grew ragged and whimpery. Oh, Sun and Moon, not another nightmare! Sleeping between them wasn't sleeping at all!

At first it had kept things peaceful since, whichever one Sam had last been loving, both equally slept with him every night. Once Rose became pregnant, they all were all three enchanted, waiting for the child to move long before it was very likely, and didn't want to be parted a moment. Now, seven months into the pregnancy, Sam would happily wait for the child to be born before seeing it kick. What he couldn't wait for was to scratch properly.

Which part to move first? The leg that Frodo was wrapped around? The hand that was crushed under Rosie's hip? What kind of gardener would he be if one of his hands went to sleep forever? Come to think of it, what kind of father? Or lover?

He thought he might try the leg with nothing on it heavier than feet. He rolled it around until the feet slid off. Aaah, that was better. Rose grumbled and turned, elbowing his side as she jerked the covers. Too bad she still had his poor hand pinned. Frodo, for a wonder, rearranged himself and no longer gripped Sam as tight. Nightmare over. Good.

An arm to push with would have been helpful, but Sam was ever resourceful. He grasped Frodo's hair and pulled his head back while digging his own free foot into the mattress. Then he swung his hips, pushing Frodo onto his back. The arm around Sam's neck first tightened uncomfortably but finally gave up and let go.

Quick before Frodo could grab him again, Sam jerked his arm free and rolled towards Rosie. It took only a firm push on her back to get his numb hand out from under her. He pushed himself upright, and vaulted over her out of the bed.

The night air was cool and bracing after the tangle of sweaty bodies. Sam clumsily tossed the blankets over Rosie and Frodo, and tried to move his dead-feeling fingers while slipping out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Some minutes later, having finally scratched everyplace that needed it, Sam fetched two spare blankets and made up a bedroll in the parlor, on their new sofa, which was smaller and poorer than the old one but still quite serviceable tonight. There was snow outside and no fire. Sam didn't care. He stretched out luxuriously and was almost instantly asleep.

Sometime later he woke with a muzzy feeling that he really ought to go check on them. True, Rose was a healthy, hard-working lass, with often more sense than Sam himself, yet she was for the very first time with child. And Frodo, while harmless, was quite mad. Sam would sleep better knowing he wasn't too badly missed.

He felt his way down the hall, and found moonlight enough shining into the bedroom to show that he hadn't been missed at all. Frodo was now snuggled up to Rosie, one hand resting on her swelling belly as she lay on her back, half turned towards him. Slip Sam out of the middle and not a thing changes, he wryly told himself while padding back to the parlor.

Sounds from the kitchen finally woke Sam, and the tempting scent of frying bacon. He arrived to find Rose at the table, blanket-wrapped and grinning, stirring jam into a mug of tea. Frodo stood by the stove in a gaping dressing gown, eating bread and butter while flipping bacon.

"G'morning, Sam-love," said Rose, at the same as Sam said, "Frodo, you shouldn't –"

"Calm yourself, Sam," Rosie said easily. "He's doing fine and we're celebrating." She waved a piece of buttered bread vaguely.

"The baby moved," Frodo announced, grinning over his shoulder.

"It woke me up kicking –"

" – right under my hand -"

" – again and again! And where were you, Sam, after all our waiting?"

Sam pulled Frodo's dressing gown straight and brushed a quick kiss over his buttery lips, before taking the slice of bread from Rosie. How fetching she looked, wearing her blanket like a queen's royal robe, with a purple hat pulled down over her ears. She claimed pregnancy made them cold. He kissed her, too and poured himself a mug of tea.

"You're not telling, are you? Hmmph! Well, I'm sure now the child will be born by March. Here, feel, " she said proudly, resting her hands like a crown above the curve of her belly.

"By April," Frodo insisted mysteriously.

"What would you know? Come, Sam, lay your hand here and maybe it'll kick for you."

Sam put his hand beside Rosie's on her warm, taut skin. "Let's have a kick for your old dad."

They waited a few hopeful moments. The baby was quiet as a little sleeping mouse. Sam's pocket-watch ticked slowly. He noted that it needed winding. All else was silent until Frodo declared the bacon done.

"The mite must be all tired out," Sam decided, taking down plates. He felt only the tiniest twinge of regret for missing the moment. Any number of kicks (and elbowings and snores and drools and so on) were worth missing for a good night's sleep.