Title: "Heat" 1/1 Author: KayRey E-mail: caprice363@yahoo.com Rating: NC-17 Pairing: F/S Category: Fun with cooking. Recipes available. Timeline: Early pre-quest. Warnings: Hmm … while not exactly fluffy, you won't find much angst either. Surprised? Me, too. Summary: The new Master of Bag End addresses his deficiencies in the kitchen with the aid of his faithful Master Gardener. Feedback: Would be much appreciated :o ) Disclaimer: So *not* mine; no money made. Notes: More in this "First & Forever" series that seems to be developing. Frodo & Sam advised that they would like to have some fun prior to more angst-filled storylines & this is what they gave me. It should have been a pwp, except plot began to assert itself. Those busy little hobbits! Bouquets of shire blossoms & boxes of virtual chocolate go to my betas, the gracious Cara and meticulous Pwsbpanthael. Thanks for your encouragement, your enthusiasm, suggestions & corrections - *and* & your fabulous fic & essays. You rock my world! (Pippin - Turn down that AfroCelt! We're thanking people here!) Ahem … all errors belong to me. "Heat" KayRey 10/16/02 Sam blinked awake in the ink-black dark of Frodo's bedroom, harkening to the quiet. No bird song floating in from outside meant no rising yet. No birds meant he should still, by rights, be sound asleep. Sighing, he rolled to his side, eyes falling shut, and stretched out, reaching for Frodo. Then stretched farther, palm sweeping over cool linen. No Frodo. Sam took in a deep breath, the puzzle pushing sleep farther away. Then sat straight up. Smoke -- he could smell it strong. The stink spread through the room, harsh and bitter. Sam scurried out of bed, grabbed his robe and bolted for the door, mind racing through a list of possibilities. Had a flue dropped shut, a chimney clogged? Could they have missed putting out a candle? Mayhap a spark from the fireplace had leapt onto a hearthrug and was smoldering away at furniture and - Shire's mercy! - all those piles of books and scrolls and maps? Sam's feet slapped sharp against the tile as he ran down the hall to the main rooms. And where was Frodo? In the kitchen as it turned out, standing over the stove and in the thick of a black cloud. Frodo alternately scraped at the contents of a large iron frying pan and coughed. He knuckled a tear from his eye and spoke to the skillet: "Come on. Stop it!" "What are you doing?" Sam didn't even try to keep the panic out of his voice. Frodo turned, startled. "Sam!" He hovered between a cough and explanation. The cotton of his nightshirt brushed against the stove. Sam grabbed him before the fabric began to smolder and pulled him back. He took up a pot rag and lifted the skillet. A new cloud of black soared up to smack him in the face. For an instant, he considered heaving the whole mess out the window, but quick second thoughts as to garden damage and genuine fire stopped that action. Sam settled on the sink and set the skillet down, pumping water over all. Charred contents and iron let off an angry hiss, but the smoke went to steam and faded. He clutched the sides of the sink, glaring at it the same way he might warn a garden vole with trespass on its mind. "I'm sorry." Frodo's voice broke the quiet behind him. Barely. "I didn't mean to wake you up." Waking up seemed to be the least of the worries and Sam was prepared to say so, turning from the debris in the sink. Then lost the thought. Frodo was standing very still, watching him with anxious, luminous eyes. His hands were clasped together and held tight against his middle as if his next movement might bring new calamity. Thick sable curls rioted at his face and throat, the tip of one ear peeking through. Sam's gaze fastened on Frodo's mouth, then dropped to his neck, strong where it showed at the open throat of his nightshirt. The garment was one of Bilbo's left-behinds. Too big for Frodo's slender body, it was roomy and comfortable, and had been washed until the cloth had gone to little more than gauze. Standing in the light from the hearth, the material floated over Frodo like a sheet of fog. Strange how it made him appear something more than naked, Sam supposed, swallowing. There was clear muscle definition in the length of Frodo's arms and shoulders, his legs, and only the slightest hobbit-like curve to his belly. The cloth stretched tight across the swell of Frodo's chest, straining against the startling dark of his nipples, then gathered full over the neat diamond of fur, as black as his curls, that covered his loins. Well, Sam concluded, imagination was a handy thing and one might, at first glance, try to imagine what that petal white skin felt like. But he knew Frodo's touch, and the taste of him, too. The vision made things low in Sam's body tighten and burn. It made his heart swell and throat lock on words he could never quite get out without stuttering. If he hadn't fallen in love the first time they'd met all those years ago, he would have done it again at that very instant. But if the whole truth were told, Sam, confessed to himself, he fell in love with Mr. Frodo Baggins every time he saw him. "Sam?" Dark curls dipped to one side, concern furrowed Frodo's brow. "Are you all right?" Sam tore his gaze away from the Master of Bag End to fasten on the madness that had been the kitchen. At first glance, it looked as though every pot, pan and bowl had been pulled out from the cupboards. Flour, eggs, egg shells, sugar, milk, spices, salt, butter, blueberries, pot rags, dish cloths, spoons of varying sizes, sifter, colander, a tea cup and scattered papers covered every available surface. Nor had the floor escaped. Sam shifted his weight and became aware of a sticky film beneath his feet. Not a pleasant sensation, but definitely an attention-getter. "I was going to clean that up before you woke," Frodo began. "I was going to clean it *all* up. Would you like a cup of tea?" Still wordless, Sam nodded. Frodo gave him a quick smile and swept an arm across a portion of the table, clearing a space, clattering mixing bowls, egg shells and various items together. Within a few minutes, Sam sat at the table, hands fastened around a hot cup of tea, one of the few things Frodo did well in the kitchen. A small candle began to flicker in the Frodo-induced shock of Sam's mind. "You were cooking?" Sam asked. It seemed a better explanation than the thought that Frodo would attempt to set both himself and the smial afire at once. "I was making breakfast." Frodo settled onto the bench beside him, facing the hearth. "*Trying* to make breakfast," he amended. "I wanted to surprise you." Sam nodded carefully. "Well, that you did." "It was supposed to be a nice surprise." Sam considered it best not to comment. "If you wanted something special, all you had to do was ask," he said. "I make the breakfast here." "And second breakfast, elevensies, lunch, tea, dinner, supper and afters." Frodo frowned. Sam frowned back. "I thought you liked my cooking." "I love it," Frodo sighed. "Your cooking is perfection itself, Sam. No one could ask for better." "Well, then, sir…" Sam's voice trailed off. His head was still in a muddle. Perhaps there was lingering smoke. "I don't understand." "You do for me all the time, you've always done for me - and for Bilbo when he was here. But it's different now. *We're* different and … and I want to do for you as much as you do for me." Frodo's words spilled out in a rush. "But…" He shook his head. "I don't know how. There was never any need at Brandy Hall and you know how Bilbo loved to cook for himself." "Oh, yes. Indeed I do. Very particular he was about his meals." "Exactly. He never let me near the stove. I couldn't peel potatoes well enough to suit him." "Ah, no, me dear, I don't think it was that," Sam said. "Puttering in the kitchen was more his way of working things out. I've watched you both through the years. When you reach a hard spot in your writing, you always take to the garden and off to the hills. You'd wander about for days, like as not, if someone didn't keep track of you and see you got back home." Frodo offered a soft smile. "Someone like you." "Who better than the one who loves you most?" Sam blushed furiously, but continued on. "Mr. Bilbo took his walks too, and long ones they were at times. But mostly, he'd putter about in here with his pots and his pans. And the delicious smells what came out of this kitchen seemed to help bring him the words that got him back to his desk the next day, happy and content. Once he'd had his fill of cooking and eating." He smiled with the memory. "But whether it be cooking or walking, not neither of you want company when you're pondering things through. Not unless it's them who knows how to be quiet and let you think in peace. And not a young one full of questions about where do elves come from and where do they go and what's rhubarb for and who wants it if it tastes so sour." "You remember that, after all this time?" Blue eyes sparkled with affection. "You've a keen eye and a keen ear, Sam Gamgee. And a more loving heart I've never known." Sam felt the color rush to his face again and ducked his head to study the tea cup he had circled between his hands. "Well," he murmured, "I wanted to know them things, meself." "I suspect you already knew about rhubarb." Frodo shifted closer on the bench and slipped his arm around Sam's waist, burrowing against his shoulder. "Even if I were the best cook in the Shire, it wouldn't mean anything without you," he said softly. "I'm not sure that I would want to do anything without you. Or if I could." "You could, me dear." Sam pressed his lips to the top of Frodo's head. "But bless me if you'll ever have to." They sat together quietly for a time, each nestled against the other. It was dark outside and quiet with the impenetrable stillness that covered all just before dawn. Flames from the hearth filled the kitchen with a soft warm glow, chasing night's shadows. Finally, Sam said: "There's rain coming. I can smell it in the air," and Frodo said, "Um-hum," eyes closed and smiling, contented. Then Sam said: "What were you trying to make, if I might ask, and why so early?" "I wanted to make those thin, little pancakes you love. With the blueberry sauce. I visited your mother and Daisy. They told me how to make them and I wrote it all down." "Wrote it down?" Sam chuckled, not unkindly. "No one writes down the makings of a dish." "So I've found," Frodo returned, wryly. "Your mother thought I was quite mad, but not any more so than usual. Daisy seemed to take it in better stride." "Writing down the works. Let me see." Frodo sat up and took up the sheaf of parchment from the table. He shook off a layer of flour and sugar before handing it to Sam. Sam read through the pages and smiled. Frodo had a neat hand for writing, more curved and flowing than his uncle Bilbo's. Pretty to look at, even when he got in a rush and it all ran together so that only he could make out the words. Sam found a lot of rushing on the pages before him and lots of heavy stroking where whole lines had been crossed out. Sam finished off the last of his tea. "Well," he concluded, "you've got the bones of it, make no mistake. But how you could make sense of what you were doing with all this crossing off, I don't know. Let me see that batter." Frodo gave Sam the bowl, watching, as the mixture was stirred and tasted. "It seems right to me," he said. "It looked like what you fix, but it went black almost as soon as I dished it into the skillet." "The pan was too hot," Sam told him. "And you might not have used enough butter to coat and cook. A blessing that, since more butter might have meant fire as well as smoke. You don't want to do these things alone till you have a better feel for it. It can all go wrong very fast." "Are you offering to teach me to cook, Sam?" Well, no, Sam thought, staring down at the bowl. He wasn't offering. It wasn't proper, not proper at all. Cooking was Sam's job, like tending to the garden and the smial and, most especially, to Mr. Frodo, hisself. Frodo noted the hesitation and laughed. "I suppose it would give Ted Sandyman new grist for his gossip mill. Me learning to cook after all these years -- he'd probably take it that I was planning to set fire to the Shire." "Humph." Sam scowled. "I'm thinking the miller's too busy putting out his own fires to worry about any you'd set." Frodo's smile faded. "What do you mean?" "Talk is the miller's been shorting folks on their grain," Sam explained gruffly. "The Sandymans have always been a tight fisted lot. Some shorting's to be expected, but this is enough to notice. Enough to hurt some." "Who?" "Small farmers mostly. Them as live out near the South Farthing." "Shorting is a tradition?" "Aye, just a hand here and there. It begun as a benevolence, something to draw from for them as was in need, from what me old Gaffer says. But the Sandymans begun to take it as their due." Sam's voice was laced with scorn. "Ted's been the worst of the lot and he's getting out of hand again." "Again?" Frodo queried. "What stopped him before?" Sam hesitated, uncomfortable. "Mr. Bilbo had words with him a few years back." "But Bilbo's gone now and I'm what's left." Frodo captured Sam with a direct blue gaze. "How long have you known about this?" "Young Till Bunch was complaining of it down at the Ivy Bush last week, till his Da shut him up. And there was talk at the market Mersday from Ponto Green and Isengrim Smallburrow." "Gossip or real talk?" "Real enough, I'm thinking." Frodo raised an eyebrow and gazed at Sam searchingly. Sam let out a deep sigh. "I was looking for the right time to tell you -- and the right way to tell you, too. No one's willing to speak direct. They're that angry about what they lost, but afraid it might be worse, if you take my meaning. The way it stands now, there's nothing to be done about it." "Still it's the Master of Bag End who should attend to these matters," "Aye. But there's the Mayor at Michel Delving, too. Seems to me, he should be taking an interest hisself." "Would the small farmers go to the Mayor?" Frodo asked. "Even if they got past their fear, do they have the time to file a complaint and see it through -- or do they have to take care of their farms and feed their families? You'd need a solicitor to go up against Ted Sandyman effectively. Who among them has the means for that?" "Well, it's a riddle, to be sure, and none to be solved soon." Sam nodded, agreeing. "Most solicitors in the Shire have tied their interests to the miller. They profit from his business. Ted wants his family to be named as gentry and he's buying support where he can. The Lady knows he won't earn it with his winning ways. He'll petition for his station when he feels he's strong enough." Frodo's eyes flashed with more than indignation. "You can't buy a name off the plates of other hobbits." "You've always had a heart for them as was smaller or weaker than yourself." Sam spoke with quiet pride. "You'll take care of this. I know you will." "I will," Frodo promised. "I don't know how yet, but I will. I promise." He shook his head, angry. "I can not abide bullies." "I know that, me dear." Sam smoothed Frodo's cheek gently. "I know." Frodo returned a heartfelt smile, leaning into the touch. "You were my first true friend here in Hobbiton, Sam," he said and brushed his lips against Sam's fingers. "You're the best friend I've ever had." "And you to me, sir," Sam murmured. He slipped an arm around Frodo and held him closer. "Shire bless me, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for you and that's the truth." Frodo grew quiet for a moment, relishing the warmth and strength of Sam's body. Then smiled. "Does that mean you *will* teach me to cook?" Sam winced and bit back a groan. "Caught," he growled. "Caught like a mouse eyeing the cheese so hard, he forgets the cat in the corner." Frodo giggled. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" "Oh, aye. Yes it is." Sam hugged him affectionately. "There's always been as much fox as cat in you. Very sly, me dear." "But sweet enough, too, or so you've told me." Frodo kissed him briefly. "What do we do first?" "First we clean this kitchen. There's no proper learning in a mess like this," Sam said. "Then we'll start over and we'll do it right." It took them just over an hour to clean up. By the time they started to cook, the sky had begun to lighten and a rush of bird song soared in through the window. Cleaning might have gone faster, but the need for closeness and touching had become a part of the task. Sam finally thought to tie his robe closed upon rising from the bench although Frodo indicated that that wasn't really necessary; the kitchen was far warm enough and the sight of Sam just made it that much warmer. Sam's face had gone the color of ripe, red raspberries, but he'd smiled, too. Then advised that, if they wanted to actually get to the cooking before dinner, it was best if the robe was shut. And Mr. Frodo might want to consider donning an apron. Once clothing was adjusted, the table was cleared, dishes and utensils washed, and the floor mopped clean. Frodo fetched clean parchment, ink and a sharpened quill to make notes. Sam began to place the items and ingredients they would use on the table. "It's best to have your fixings set out in advance," he explained. "Bilbo always pulled from the shelves as he went along," Frodo said. "I can't show you the way Mr. Bilbo cooked," Sam told him. "I can only teach you my way. When you get comfortable in the kitchen, you'll find ways of fixing that'll be all your own, too." "Do you think I'll ever be that comfortable with it?" "I do," Sam said firmly. "It takes some getting used to and some practice, but you'll find your way. We'll start with the blueberries first. They can stand to cook down a bit." He handed the bowl to Frodo. "You want to wash them off and take off any stems and bad bits." Frodo smiled. "I know that." "Then go to it." Sam smiled back, standing by to watch. After a while he said. "I don't understand why you picked this for first breakfast. Not when it's something we'd have for elevensies or tea." "But you like these pancakes." Frodo scrutinized the berries with the care of a dwarf seeking a fresh vein of gold. "And this was supposed to be your surprise." "But why so early? You must have started near as soon as we got to bed." "Not that soon." Frodo flashed him a bright smile. "I had to wear you out first, didn't I? And then I had to take some rest." He laughed at Sam's blush. "Anyway, I wasn't sure how long it would take me to do it." Sam shook his head, speechless with pleasure. No one had ever tried to do for him like this, not like his Mr. Frodo. Certainly, there had always been shared kindnesses at home and amongst his friends, but no one had the way of making him feel special. No one had ever made him feel this cared for, as if him being happy was a necessary thing. He reached up to smooth the froth of black curls. Frodo's eyes went serious with concern. "Sam, your hand's shaking. Are you all right?" "Just thinking how much I'm loving you," Sam replied gruffly. "It's nothing." "Well, it's something to me." Frodo hesitated and bit his lip a moment before whispering, "It's *everything,* Samwise Gamgee, and you know it well." "Aye. I do." Sam stepped forward to place a hand at Frodo's waist. *But Shire bless me if I'll ever understand why,* he thought. He touched his fingers to Frodo's chin, then cupped his cheek in his palm. That fair skin was so smooth, so soft. Sam caught his breath on a sigh. Frodo's eyes closed, mouth curving into a smile. Sam brushed his thumb over the fine blue veins of an eyelid, the kitten-fur kiss of lash and brow. He pressed his lips to Frodo's forehead, his cheek, his lips. Frodo leaned into Sam, opening to him, still up to his wrists in a bowl of water and blueberries. Lips and tongue and jaw worked slowly, drinking Sam in like warm, sweet cream. Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo and pulled him in the best he could. Frodo turned into Sam's embrace, water dripping down from one hand to form a new puddle on the clean floor. Sam buried a groan in Frodo's mouth and held him tighter. His hand slipped down the smooth muscle of Frodo's back to rest on the curve of his rump, blunt, garden-worn fingers slipping along the cleft. Frodo drew his head back with a sharp little cry, then buried his face in Sam's throat. The heat that rose between them had nothing to do with the warming stove. For a long moment, Sam just held him and petted him, trying to calm them both. "We ain't never going to get breakfast cooked," he groaned. "Not like this." Frodo shivered, then swallowed. "We missed waking up with each other. That's the problem." "Waking up … when I smelled the smoke this morning and you weren't there…." "Dear Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." "I know you didn't." Sam gave him a smile. He put his hands on Frodo's shoulders and stepped back. "Let's learn this proper so you don't scare your Sam again." "All right." Frodo took in a deep breath, equally determined, and turned back to the berries. He checked the last handful, dropping them in the colander to drain. "What next?" Sam guided him through the preparations of blueberry sauce. It took longer than normal, but not because of the need for touching. It was the step-by-step cooking, the explaining, the writing down, "So I'll know what to do next time," Frodo said. "It will be easier next time," Sam assured him. "Just take your time with it and think it through. And if you get into trouble, ask for help. What are you smiling about?" "Memories," Frodo said softly. "You sound so much like Bilbo, back when he was giving lessons. Remember?" "Of course I do, Mr. Frodo. And a sweet memory it is." The comparison brought a surge of pride to Sam's heart. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea that Frodo learn his way around the kitchen. How could it hurt if the Master learned to prepare something other than tea and toast? If Frodo began to take pleasure in such things, might he take more interest in his meals? There were times when Frodo was just too slim, living more on air and moonlight, it seemed, than proper hobbit victuals. Sam warmed to the promise of the two of them learning together again. Like when Mr. Frodo had first begun to teach him writing and reading all those years back when the young Master had come to visit with Mr. Bilbo. "You don't have to wait for anyone to read to you, Sam," Frodo had told him. "You can do this yourself." Sam had taken to those lessons with unbridled delight as the mysteries of reading and writing had been revealed. He understood from the beginning that his father wouldn't take kindly to the idea. Book learning was only a time waster and not meant for hobbit folk who toiled to live. But Sam couldn't have stopped himself, even under threat of being hogtied and tossed into the Bywater for his cheek. It had been a race against discovery; Sam was determined to absorb as much as possible before he was found out. And, yes, his old Gaffer had been thoroughly displeased when he discovered what his youngest son had been up to. "What do you think you are?" the Gaffer had demanded, as angry as Sam had ever seen him. "Would you be putting on a false face like the miller's lad? If you don't have enough work to fill your time, I'll make sure you do from this day on. Plain hobbit ways has always been good enough for the Gamgees. Them lessons stop now." But Sam couldn't bring himself to stop and that had brought harsher words and a proper switchin' as well. Frodo's rage -- and it was nothing less than rage -- over the punishment mirrored the stuff of legends. Beren One- Hand himself couldn't have been more volatile in Sam's defense. Frodo's wrath had brought Bilbo into the fray, dithering through the confusion until all parties were sent to their separate corners and he could "sort things out." Sam had been so stunned to be the center of so much attention, he didn't know what to think, much less do. By the time all had quieted down, Frodo's visit was over and it was time for him to return to Buckland. Sam's heart was breaking; he hadn't expected the lessons to continue, but that his Mr. Frodo was to be sent away was more than he could bear. "Don't fret yourself, Sam," Frodo had told him. "I'll be back before you know it - and we'll read together next visit. Bilbo will give you your lessons now, he made the Gaffer promise to it. And when I come back, he'll teach us together. Won't that be fine?" Sam had blinked at him through his tears. "I'll never touch another book as long as I live if you'll just stay," he had wanted to say. But Frodo had picked him up, big as he was, and cuddled him close. Squeezed him so hard, Sam could feel it for days after when he shut his eyes tight and looked up into the sun. And true to his word, when other hobbits went home to rest in the high heat of the day, young Sam met with Bilbo Baggins, the Master of Bag End, for tea and lessons. Now, under Sam's direction, the new-Master spooned butter into a small copper bowl and placed it in a pot of water warming on the stove. "The butter will separate in the heat," Sam explained. "The whey will go to the bottom and the oil to the top. You'll cook the pancakes in the butter- oil." "I see," Frodo said, and when the butter separated as Sam said it would, shot him a look as if he were the most brilliant hobbit in Middle-earth. "The stove never needs to be but so hot," Sam continued, pouring oil into the skillet. "And the iron in the skillet takes in the heat as well and builds on it. The heat is just as much a part of the cooking as anything else. Too low and nothing cooks through. Too hot and it burns. Neither make for good eating." "How do you know if it's hot enough?" Sam held his palm out over the surface of the skillet. Frodo copied the gesture. "You want to feel for the heat," Sam told him. "It should glow against your skin -- just there." "It's hot," Frodo said, with a little gasp of surprise. "It feels like the sun coming in through the study window in the afternoon." Sam nodded. "It should be about right then." "But how do you *know*?" "You know." Frodo shook his head. "I'll never understand this." "You will," Sam promised. "We'll do it together until it feels right to you. And then we'll do it together … just because." "Because why?" "Because." Sam gave a little shrug and smiled shyly. "Why do anything -- except that you like the doing of it? That being, if you do decide you like it." Frodo shook his head again and gave a soft little laugh. He took up the bowl of batter and carefully poured a thin stream into the oil, forming four little puddles, then set the bowl aside. Spatula clutched in one hand, Frodo stared at the would-be pancakes, concentrating, as if willing them to cook. Drawn, Sam touched the back of Frodo's neck lightly and let his fingertips come to rest against the nape beneath the soft fringe of curls. Frodo spared him a glance from bright, laughing eyes, then turned his attention back to cooking. "They're not burning," he observed. "There's a fine omen." Sam chuckled. "Watch now -- they'll start to bubble across the top. See?" "Yes. And that means?" "When the edge firms up and the middle goes stiff, the one side is done." "And then?" "Then you flip them over and cook the other," Sam said. "They look ready enough. Want to give it a try?" "Yes." "Here." Sam handed him a pot rag. "Keep the skillet steady but don't burn yourself." Pancakes were turned without incident. The other side cooked. Soon, four more pale yellow puddles were slowly bubbling over and firming up. A pile of pancakes began to accumulate until the batter was gone. Sam made the tea this time as Frodo removed his apron and proceeded to set plates and cutlery on the table. Within minutes they were sitting across from each other to pancakes, blueberry sauce, hot tea and anticipation. Frodo looked down at his plate, pancakes swimming in purple-blue. They looked nearly as good as anything Sam or Bilbo might have made, yet all he could do was stare. Sam looked up from his plate. "It looks a picture, me dear," he said. "You should be right pleased with yourself." Frodo nodded wordlessly. Finally, Sam said, "Are you all right?" And Frodo nodded again. "What is it then?" Sam asked. "They do look good, they hardly look real. What if they're awful?" "Only one way to find out." Sam forked off a generous wedge from the stack and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a short while. Then swallowed, not an easy thing to do with Frodo watching like he was. He smiled a moment after, savoring the taste as much as Frodo's anticipation. If it had been Mr. Merry visiting, the Brandybuck cousin might have clutched at his throat, pretended to strangle and then drop off his seat, just to see Frodo's reaction. Mr. Pippin would've dived right in, however, demanding sausages and more. There was none so impatient for his meals as the young Took, even though he never showed a pebble's weight of it. They were much alike, Frodo and his Took cousin, both fey as the fox and both needing strong hearts to care for them. But the little Took had always had his Merry and his family to look out for him. Mr. Frodo hadn't been so lucky, losing his parents like he had and then being taken off by those Sackville-Bagginses until he run away. Run away and was near lost. And lost in more ways than missing his path in the forest, Sam understood. There were still times when the wild crept back into Frodo's eyes, like a storm springing up sudden out of a clear sky. A little breeze blew in through the window carrying the scent of rain. The day would be full of it, no doubt. There wouldn't be much gardening to be done today. Perhaps he would clean up the shed a bit, sharpen some tools. "Well?" Frodo demanded eventually, patience not being one of his morning virtues. "Well, indeed," Sam returned. "I was only pondering a bit. Thinking about the first thing I ever cooked." "What did you make?" "Pie." Frodo nodded. Another thing Sam loved about him was that when Frodo listened to a person, he listened with his whole heart and all his attention. The trick, of course, was catching his ear. This was best done away from his books. "Why pie?" Frodo asked. "I liked pie and I wanted some," Sam told him. "And Mum liked pie, too." Frodo nodded again, encouraging. "How old were you?" "A bit over five years." "Five years? How did you manage a pie?" "First I made the crust. I'd seen Mum do it often enough and thought I could carry it off. The dough looked like it should, but I couldn't make it roll out proper. So I pinched off pieces and pressed them into the pan until it was all covered-like. Then I put in some berries and apples and sugar and butter and fixed a top crust and put it in the oven to cook." "You made the top crust the same way? Pinching off dough until it covered?" "Until I ran out of dough." Sam chuckled. "The bottom crust came out right thick, you know." "I can just imagine." "It left a hole in the center of the pie, so I covered it all with extra butter. When it cooked up, it looked like a smial without a door." "What did it taste like?" "Strange," Sam confessed. "The apples weren't cooked through and the berries were too cooked, if you take my meaning. But you could tell it was supposed to be pie and, with a bit of heavy cream, it wasn't but so bad. That night at supper, Mum said it was time I learned to cook for myself, so she started to teach me her ways." Frodo's expression softened. "I remember my mother cooking at home, before we moved to Brandy Hall," he said quietly. "I remember how the kitchen smelled and how warm it was. It was small, as kitchens go, but lovely. The way a kitchen should be. Sometimes she would make corn muffins with fresh corn and she'd pour some of the batter into a little bowl so I could mix it with her." "Your mum sounds like she was a right sweet lady," Sam said gently. "Just as I'd expect." "Thank you." Frodo gave him a grateful smile, then sighed. ""But I'm guessing her talents in the kitchen weren't passed on to me. They're awful, aren't they?" "How do you know?" Sam returned. "You've yet to try them. Would've thought yourself brave enough for that. Or hungry enough by now." "Indeed. I feel the hunger. The fear, too." Frodo braced up. "All right. Here I go." Under Sam's watchful eye, Frodo cut off a minute section from the stack of pancakes on his plate. He chewed carefully and swallowed. He considered a moment, then took another larger bite. Afterward, he wiped his mouth carefully with a napkin. "You're the worst tease ever, Sam Gamgee." He beamed across the table. "It tastes good. Not quite like yours -- but good. At least not terribly bad." "They're not bad at all," Sam protested, helping himself to another bite. "You've done a fine job, your first time at the stove." "My dear Sam, you are too generous." Frodo laughed, delighted. "As always. And it's not my first time at the stove as well you know." "First time learning," Sam corrected. "You'll do well enough with proper teaching." "So modest," Frodo teased. He cut off another larger triangle, raised it to his lips and bit off half, never losing eye contact with Sam. Sam faltered under that gaze and looked down at his tea. Then started and looked up again, sharp. Under the table, Frodo's foot rubbed against his. Slowly. Toes curled around Sam's heel as Frodo finished the bite on his fork, and dragged Sam's foot forward. Sam knew this game well. He brushed the top of his foot against the back of Frodo's calf and came to rest snug and solid against his leg. Frodo adopted a neutral expression and returned to eating his breakfast, but Sam knew he wouldn't be able to hold it long. He moved his other foot into play and waited. It took only a moment before Frodo shivered. Then his shoulders began to shake and, finally, he blushed and giggled audibly. He raised his head, still giggling, and Sam could see the way blue eyes tightened at the corners and how his eyebrows slanted and the way his cheeks dimpled like they always did when Frodo was very pleased. Sam smiled back, wordless, his eyes sparkling and filling with warmth that had nothing to do with stoves or hearths. Both stopped eating for a moment and looked at each other as if they scented something tastier in the air than was on their plates. The rain began to come down outside, falling softly from dove gray skies. The wind picked up a bit. It made a good smell, mixing with the odor of woodsmoke and breakfast. The Shire was being refreshed and the sound of it was pleasant, like a kind of music, comfortable. "There won't be much gardening done today," Frodo said after a short while. And Sam said, "Not outside. But there's plenty within that could stand tending to." "Whatever you think best," Frodo agreed. He dropped his gaze back to his plate, lashes lowering until they brushed the tops of his cheeks. The dimples deepened. A warm silence grew between them as they finished breakfast and indulged in a final cup of tea. When there was nothing left to eat, Sam got up and put another log on the hearth. He checked and banked the fire in the stove. Frodo closed a window where the wind had begun to blow in with a little too much vigor. Then he turned and began to clear the breakfast dishes away. Sam made a sound, not quite a word, stopping him. It was as if a long thread of time had stretched out between them. And then snapped. Sam crossed the small distance between them and closed his fingers around Frodo's arms, just below the shoulders. He didn't lean over him or draw him closer, just held him and looked at him. The need had been growing between them all morning. The touching, the kissing, hadn't diminished it. If anything, it had only stoked the burn until the want was nearly all there was. Frodo looked back, gazing steadily, as patient and as inevitable as the dawn. Sam took in a deep breath. There had been a time when to risk a glance in those wide, bright eyes was like dropping into another world, a fantastic place like out of Mr. Bilbo's tales. He couldn't have met that gaze without falling in and getting lost beyond reason. Now, Sam could look his fill, but in some ways he still got just as lost. And what a wonderful kind of lost it was, with no telling where he might find himself. The only certainty was that wherever the trail led, his Frodo would be there, too. It was wonderful, too, the way the Master looked back at him, as if his Sam were the most desirable hobbit in Middle-earth, or at least in all the Shire. Sam could only guess at the thoughts that must be going on inside that head. Frodo's breath came deep and hard; his mouth was partly open and, as Sam watched, he touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip and reached for the belt of Sam's robe. As the garment fell open, Frodo's hands slid up over Sam's chest, lingering over hardened nipples. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Sam's, tentative and curious -- like a kitten testing something new. Then stronger, almost fierce, his body swaying into Sam's. His hands slipped down to Sam's waist, fingers kneading upwards over ribs and muscle, coming to rest at his back. Sam's arms closed around Frodo, caressing in return, pressing them even closer. The barrier of fine cotton between his hands and Frodo's skin was pleasantly stimulating. Curious, he dropped his head to mouth a flat brown nipple beneath the gauze. The skin tightened and pebbled under his tongue like ripening fruit. Frodo shuddered in his arms and Sam could feel the yearning in him, something even more needful than the way their members rose and sought to thrust against each other. He slipped his hands under Frodo's nightshirt and cupped his hands around the firm swell of his bottom. Frodo made a sound, sharper than a moan, and pushed his face into Sam's neck and shoulder. He took in a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth. Then raised his head and captured Sam's lips again with his own, kissing him as if he'd eat him from the mouth down, like a second breakfast. "You taste like blueberries." Frodo's voice had both softened and deepened. "So do you," Sam murmured. "I feel like I could eat you one bite at a time." Sam swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He licked his lips and whispered close to Frodo's ear, "Let me mount you." "Your buck to my doe?" Frodo shivered, but not from cold, and Sam, nodding, whispered again, hoarse now, "Please A smile danced over Frodo's face. "I don't know if my legs will hold," he said, part tease but mostly dare. Sam closed his eyes and drank him in. His pulse quickened at the curve of his throat, at the root of his loins, until he thought it would burst the skin. His breath left him in a ragged moan and he slipped his fingers between Frodo's legs. Frodo gasped, body quivering. He raised his head and locked his hands behind Sam's neck. He stared back, wordless and breathless, blue eyes captured by blazing green. Sam's hands locked on Frodo's arms again. "When the time comes, me dear, I'll hold you up. I won't let you fall. I promise." Frodo nodded. His fingers went to the buttons at the front of his nightshirt. Sam caught his hands and shook his head. "Leave it," he said, gruffly. Frodo gave him one last, quick kiss, fingertips brushing along Sam's jaw. Then he turned and let Sam guide him into the position he wanted. Sam braced him against the table, calmer now. That Frodo agreed to this moment without question reminded Sam of how absolutely helpless he frequently felt in Frodo's presence. It helped steady him, to know that he was in charge, that Frodo trusted him. Sam had to have some control because Frodo would have none. He pushed the nightshirt up, wondering at how the material draped over his wrists, falling in folds at the small of Frodo's back. He studied the look of his skin under the fine fabric, how much darker he looked compared to Frodo -- but lighter now, too. Something like sassafras tea with cream. He ran his hands up along Frodo's back to his shoulders and down again, trailing his thumbs along the length of his spine. He needed to begin and understood that Frodo needed it too, but starting was difficult. Starting meant it would finish soon enough and he wasn't ready for endings. Sam pressed himself against Frodo without entering. He bent over to touch his lips to Frodo's back, letting his hands take his weight on the table's surface. Frodo arched back to him, head pillowed on his arms, and spread his legs wider. Sam straightened up, stroking the long, slender muscles along Frodo's spine, striving to calm him. Looking down at him made his chest feel tight. Frodo was so beautiful and he trusted Sam with that beauty so completely. Would his body always feel the pull of him, like a sunflower turning towards the light? He couldn't imagine a life without this -- without the Master of his heart. What else could there be for him? What could ever be more perfect than this? He used the whey from the copper bowl to ease the way, moving quickly now. When he finished, Frodo's hands were in fists along the tabletop, his head up and straining back. Sweat pearled his flesh and darkened the curls at the nape of his neck; the cotton clung like a second skin. Sam's hand locked onto Frodo's hip, the other guided himself to the entrance. He fitted himself inside, forcing himself to take his time as Frodo accepted him into his body. When it was safe, he slammed home, letting the power of it take him. They both cried out and Frodo arched back to him again, tightening around him like a fist, drawing Sam even deeper. Sam reached around to close on Frodo's member, squeezing, hard enough for pleasure. Then released him at Frodo's moan, dipping lower to catch and cradle their balls together. Frodo trembled beneath him and Sam pressed lips and tongue to the dear spot at the pulse behind his earlobe. He inhaled deeply, drinking in the smell of him. The taste. Frodo's head twisted to one side to return the kiss, to speak -- but both were too overwrought for words. Sam's head dipped down towards Frodo's shoulder, sinking his teeth into the thick of the muscle -- not to tear, only claim and mark. Then Sam began to move. Muscle bunched and released, riding together, taking and receiving. Sam's hips worked hard and fast, but Frodo's response was just as powerful. Sam tossed his head, equal parts disbelief and pride flowing over his face. Who would've guessed at the strength, the passion, in that slender body? Who could have guessed at the way Frodo would take him, bringing him deeper and deeper until Sam felt as if he were lunging right up under his heart? Too soon, the muscles in his lower body tightened and spasmed. Sam cried out, sinking into the depth of him, as if their bodies would fuse into a single being of heat and heart. For a moment, the world became a place of blazing white, a melting thing like fire soaring along the edge of oil. Pleasure roared over them like flame. Frodo clenched tight around him, lips drawing back on a sound too primal for words. For long seconds they held to each other, then Sam collapsed over him, propping himself up on his elbows in an effort not to crush Frodo under his weight. His forehead dropped down into the shallow valley between Frodo's shoulders. A few moments later, Sam let himself drop to the floor, carrying Frodo with him. They sprawled among table and bench legs, learning to breathe again. Sam cradled Frodo against him, murmuring breathy little words of pleasure and affection, spreading kisses along his hair, his face, his shoulder until Frodo laughed softly. "Dearest Sam, I hope your heart beats for you as well," he gasped. He cupped Sam's face in his palm and kissed him. Sam opened his mouth to respond but opted to breathe instead. Frodo's fingers gentled into a caress. "I take it then that the pancakes really were a success?" "Perhaps the best I've ever had," Sam managed. "So far." "Perhaps I should try them again sometime?" "Perhaps." "Perhaps for luncheon or supper?" Sam closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the table leg. "Perhaps we could take a bit of rest before we think about any more cooking lessons. Or anything else." "Oh, Sam -- don't be such a … such a hobbit …" Frodo scolded, grinning. "What happened to your sense of adventure?" Sam didn't say anything but he let his eyes roll up towards the ceiling for a moment. "I heard that," Frodo growled playfully. "No doubt," Sam returned, dazed and smiling, wondering if it were possible for anyone in the Shire to be this happy. Frodo blinked, nodding. He yawned, content as a cat. "Then again, the rain sounds so lovely. A nap would be nice." "On the kitchen floor?" Sam queried, perking - just a bit - at a thrill of scandal. "I'll move if you will," Frodo promised. "It's not proper." "As I said, I'll move if you will." Frodo yawned again, snuggling closer. "I'm comfortable enough here. Besides, I don't think I could bear to look at the kitchen table just now." Sam took in a deep breath. "We're getting up," he announced, determined, and surged to his feet. "Pushy proper hobbit," Frodo grumbled, dislodged from his Sam-nest. But he accepted a hand up and stumbled to his feet, slipping an arm around Sam's waist. "Pondering on it, as some hobbits are wont to do," he continued. "Where in the realm of propriety does it fall that the gardener mounts his master on the kitchen table -- in his uncle's old nightshirt, no less?" "There's no pondering on it," Sam said gruffly. He put an arm around Frodo's shoulders, deliberately turning them away from the kitchen and towards the hall. "Some things just seem proper enough at the moment, if you take my meaning. And the less said about it the better." "Until the master takes another cooking lesson, I'll wager." "Me old Gaffer would call that a fool's bet. Besides, Gamgees never gamble." "No wager then?" "None," Sam said firmly, shaking his head. The kitchen really didn't bear thinking about. Not for a while at any rate. "Hm…" Frodo mused drowsily. "Whoever would have thought that learning to cook would be so exhausting?" "You're going to be all right," Sam promised. "I don't think I'll ever be all right, as well you know." Frodo laughed again as they entered the bedroom. "But I don't believe I'll be any worse for the experience. The kitchen either." "As you will," Sam answered Frodo's laugh with a smile, then whispered, "Well … at least till next time."