Title:  True Love, part one, Awakening
Author:  Keye Goodenough
Email:  mibender@mc.net
Characters:  Frodo and Sam
Rating:  R
Genre:  Romance, Angst
Summary:  Frodo struggles with newly emerged feelings for Sam.

Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and all who inhabit it belong to the master, J.R.R.
               Tolkien.  May he forgive us.

Story notes:  Summer of 1403.  Frodo is two years of-age at thirty-five.  Sam
                is twenty-three.



Awakening by Keye Goodenough


The heat of a languorous mid summer day seeped in through the open study
window and hung still and heavy on the air.  A sweet aroma of primrose
drifted in and mingled, improbably, with the scent of old books and
candlewax, a heady fragrance.  Dust motes danced in a shaft of golden
sunlight, a sudden breeze whispering, a snatch of song.  Sam was singing, and
Frodo couldn't begin to concentrate.

The sounds grew clearer, Sam coming around to work in the front flower beds. 
Frodo held his breath, listening, as he dropped his voice into the chorus,
lower and lower, and lower still.  Frodo found himself smiling.  He'd been
hitting it more and more often.  Sam wasn't a lad anymore.  He broke off the
song and laughed suddenly, a bright happy laugh.  Frodo could see him there
kneeling among the flowers, discovering some little blossom probably that had
been hiding in the greenery and was just peeking out.

Frodo put down his quill, absently rubbing at the cramp in his hand, and he
got himself up and went to the window to lean out, just enough to see, Sam
standing there with his feet planted wide on the dusty path, his sleeves
rolled up high and his strong sunbrowned arms exposed, his ginger gold curls
plastered to the back of his sturdy neck and dripping rivulets of sweat down
into his collar.  Frodo felt the sweat prickling his own skin.  Sam wasn't a
lad anymore.  Ha.  He was standing there holding a big fat toad up to his
face, talking to it.

"You know you're right welcome to all the grubs and beetles you like, just
you leave those worms be."

Frodo pressed himself back into the window well, and watched with his heart
beating too fast, Sam's thigh muscles flexing and straining at the rough
fabric of his breeches as he crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, to
set the toad down on the grass.  He smiled a big smile, his face all aglow in
the sunshine.

"You take care, Mister Glumper, and if you've not yet paid a visit to Miss
Plumpbottom round the corner... well, I'd think about it if I was you."

Frodo dragged himself from the window.  "What are you thinking?!"  Stupid
question.  He knew perfectly well what he was thinking, he'd thought it
before, but not about Sam.  "Liar!"  He had thought it about Sam, had begun
to, and he'd been trying hard to pretend otherwise.  He forgot the work he'd
been doing, wandered out of the study and down the hall, and found himself in
the kitchen, where there was no sun shining in.  In fact, it was downright
dark and dreary since he'd let the hearthfire dwindle.  Sam was too young. 
And that wasn't even the worst of it.

He sank down to the bench at the table and put his head in his hands.  "It
wouldn't matter if he was of age and willing... you just can't... "  He
couldn't possibly.  Sam loved him and trusted him, and Frodo would rather
have his tongue ripped out than say anything, much less do anything, to hurt
him.  "You know what he would say if he knew.  You know he would try to be
whatever you want him to be.  You know better... than to even think it." 
Mercifully, the cool darkness slowly damped the fire inside him.  He knew
better.


***

Sam paused silently outside the study window, and finally leaned forward a
bit to peek in, just to get a glimpse of Frodo at his desk, but he wasn't
there.  Sam glanced up at the sun in the clear blue sky.  It wasn't even time
for elevenses, not that Frodo would take a break for that, not unless it was
set under his nose, and for sure not if he was deep into working on
something, as he'd seemed to be the last time Sam peeked in.  Which meant
he'd been disturbed from it.  It didn't take Sam much thinking to figure out
whose fault that was, making like a lark as he'd been with no thought for
anything but the beautiful day.  He dragged up the tail of his shirt to wipe
the sweat from his face, and took himself on around to the kitchen garden,
and in the back door.

It was quiet inside, always too quiet since old Mister Bilbo left.  Sam
stopped there to wash and dry his feet and hands, then he took up an armload
of kindling from the woodstack, and made his way down the long hall. 
Daylight spilled from every doorway that was open along front of the burrow,
and he glanced into each room as he quietly passed.  Frodo wasn't in any of
them.  Frodo was in the kitchen, sitting there in the shadows looking
forlorn, with just a single lamp turned down low, the hearthfire burned to
embers and the wood box empty, as expected.

Frodo jumped, looking up and finding Sam there, like he'd materialized from
thin air in answer to a wish.  Of course he hadn't.  He'd come down the hall
from the mudroom, without making a sound.  Frodo fervently hoped he hadn't
been talking to himself.
  
"Nice and cool in here, Mister Frodo."  A mite too cool.  Frodo smiled at him
back a little, but didn't say anything.  He went ahead and filled the
woodbox, wanting to ask what was wrong, but figuring he could probably guess. 
Frodo was either having trouble with some translation he was wanting to do,
or he was missing Mister Bilbo.  Sam dropped to his knees at the hearth and
set to building up a fresh fire.

Frodo kicked himself into moving.  "You don't have to do that, Sam."

Sam glanced over one shoulder and waved him back.  "There's no need you doing
it when I'm right here, sir."

Frodo sank back down and just sat there with his chin in his hands,
helplessly watching Sam as he swept the grate and stacked it, and quickly had
a blaze going, flickering warm and golden over his face and in his hair.  It
felt like he'd brought the sunshine in with him.  Frodo wistfully found a
smile.  "I heard you trying to play matchmaker with the toads in the garden."

Sam felt himself blush.  He looked at Frodo, and tried to explain himself. 
"Aw, sir, I know they don't know what I say... but they like it... and a
content toad is a toad that stays put.... and toads are good for the
garden, you know."  It sounded reasonable to him.  It made Frodo laugh, and
that was always a happy thing.

"I'm sure we must have the most contented toads in all the Shire, Sam."

Sam smiled.  "We've got the biggest, I'll warrant."  He went to the wash
basin and pumped up a kettle of water to put over the fire.  Frodo sat there
still, doing nothing.  "I can see what there is in the pantry for your
luncheon, sir... if you'd like."

Frodo supposed he had to put down his foot somewhere.  "I can feed myself,
Sam... honestly, I can."

Sam was quick to answer that.  "I never said you couldn't, Mister Frodo.  I
just thought since I'm here and on my feet, as it were... "

Frodo looked up at him, feeling a severe pang of regret.  "I know, Sam.  It's
alright.  But you do far too much for me already."

Sam thought it, only thought it, that some things didn't seem to get done
otherwise.  And there was no fault on Frodo for that, not in his eyes.  Frodo
was meant for worthier things than tending the hearth and keeping house.  He
didn't make any move to get himself something to eat, but he'd pretty well
told Sam not to, but Sam couldn't just leave him sitting there looking like
that.  "Begging pardon, Mister Frodo sir, but... why would you want to be
sitting in here on such a fine day as this?"

Why indeed?  Frodo shook his head.  "I don't, Sam.  I'm going to... fix
myself a cup of tea... and go back to the study."  What else could he do? 
Sam didn't look like he wanted to go, and Frodo didn't want him to, but he
finally said he needed to get back to work then, and went.  His softly
padding footsteps faded away into the silence, and Frodo went on sitting
there, eyes closed, seeing his smiling face in the firelight.  Having
foolishly acknowledged the thing, there didn't seem to be any stopping it.

The water started hissing in the kettle at some point, and he finally forced
himself up, and left the kitchen, wandered back down the hall to the study,
and stood there in the open doorway.  The sun was shining still through the
window, and the fragrance of summertime filled his senses.  He breathed it
in, and let it out in a slow sad sigh.  "I want him."  He didn't have any
strength left to deny it.  He wanted Sam, with a kind of want he'd only
dreamed about.  It was his burden to bear, and it wasn't going to touch Sam,
on that his mind was made up, but he just couldn't fight it anymore.

Before he could change his mind, he turned from the study and went on down
the hall to the mud room, and he pushed open the door and went outside.  The
sultry heat of the day struck him full in the face, and almost took his
breath away.  The air vibrated with a humming of cicadas, and butterflies
flittered among the flowers, flowers of nearly every color that could be
imagined, all tended to perfection.  Frodo stood there deeply breathing it
all in, giving himself one more small chance to be sensible, which he chose
not to take.

Sam was out in the vegetables, working at raking soil up around the potato
plants.  He turned, and smiled, wrapping his hands around the handle of his
hoe and leaning on it.  Frodo forged on, carefully stepping between the rows
of carrots and leeks, to stand before him at last, below him, on a slope as
they were.  Sam had been taller than he for years, a little, and he had
growing still to do.  He was only twenty three, just a lad, for all he looked
the epitome of strapping fullgrown hobbithood.  Sam's smile grew curious.

"Mister Frodo... "

Frodo gave himself over to it, looking up into those big warm velvet soft
brown eyes.  "May I help you, Sam?"  Sam's smile widened into a glorious
grin.

"Would you want to, sir?"

Frodo smiled at him back.  "I feel like playing in the dirt with you.  You
can give me a gardening lesson."

There was just about nothing that would have pleased Sam more.  They'd used
to do that, playing in the dirt as Frodo put it, back when they were both a
lot younger, before old Mister Bilbo left and not since.  He couldn't help
wondering if Frodo was quite in his right mind.  "You're not really dressed
for it, sir."  The clothes he had on were as good as Sam's best, but Frodo
just shrugged and laughed and said he didn't care.

"What shall we do?"

Sam thought about that, glancing up at the sun.  "Well... I've got to finish
hilling these taters...then I've got some cuttings I've been meaning to put
in the ground... but I was just about to have a break and something to eat. 
You can join me, sir."

Frodo was prepared to do whatever Sam wanted.  They walked up to the orchard
and sat under an apple tree in the shade, and Sam brought out his lunch and
insisted on sharing it.  "Do you have enough, Sam?"  Sam just smiled and said
he had plenty.  It was the best meal Frodo had had in longer than he could
remember, just simple homey stuff, with Sam beside him smiling and laughing.

"Well, I can tell you, sir, it just wasn't meant to be.  Daisy told him off
right and proper, and said aye to Cal Hooper instead... so now we're going to
have another wedding looks like.  Course it won't be for a couple years yet,
cause it's the Gaffer's rule we're not to marry til we're of age, and Daisy's
not thirty one yet, but she's happier than she's been forever... except I
caught her crying the other night, cleaning up from supper and dripping tears
in the washwater, and I asked her why, and she said she was sorry Mum
wouldn't be there to see her wed... so I told her what you told me, Mister
Frodo, way back then... that Mum loved us so much she wouldn't have really
left us... that she'd always be there walking close to be sure nothing bad
happened... so she'd be there to see Daisy wed just as well... and Daisy
kissed me."  He laughed.  "Daisy's not ever been much of a one for kissing,
not me anyways.  Goldy now... "  Sam almost bit his tongue, looking over at
Frodo and seeing the strangest look on his face.  "You can kick me, sir, if
you'd rather I shut up."

Frodo had no trouble finding a smile for him.  "I would never kick you, Sam,
nor want you to shut up."  Sam did anyway, for awhile, packing up his lunch
leavings, which were pretty much nil.  Frodo set to rolling his sleeves up
past his elbows.

"Better turn up your pantlegs too, Mister Frodo, or you'll be kneeling on em
and they'll be ruined for sure."

Frodo rolled the hems of his breeches a few turns, and pushed himself to his
feet.  "Where do we start then?"  Sam gave him a big smile and led off to the
shed to get him a hoe, and they finished 'hilling the taters' together.

"That's to keep the sun from the tubers, Mister Frodo, cause it makes em
bitter.  Then you make a ditch all round to hold the water, if you follow."

Frodo followed every word Sam said, and did his best to learn what he was
trying to teach, but his own efforts turned out less than perfect, when Sam
made it look so easy.  Sam smiled anyway and said it was fine.  Frodo
supposed he could come back later and fix it if it wasn't good enough, and as
long as Sam was willing to humor him, he was more than willing to suffer the
sweat dripping in his eyes and dirt under his fingernails.  They carried
water from the well to fill the moats around the plants, then they walked on
down around the lower berm, and spent the rest of the afternoon transplanting
a long and winding row of little holly saplings, kneeling in the grass below
the old hedge, which was very old Sam said and would fail someday, but
hopefully not before the new ones were big and strong enough to take over the
job.

"Course I talked to the gaffer about it, and he said he'd talked to Mister
Bilbo about it, and it was high time it was done, so I've been raising these
shoots a couple years now, cut from the best parts of that Old Hedge mind
you, so it won't be like it's really gone.  My Gaffer told me old Mister
Bilbo's da planted these hollies for old Mister Bilbo's mum way back afore he
was even born.  It'll sure be sad to see em gone, but I'm thinking this Old
Hedge might surprise the Gaffer and last another hundred years, then Bag
End'd have a double hedge, that'd be something, wouldn't it, Mister Frodo?"

Frodo knelt there mesmerized, and Sam looked around with a glint of laughter
in his eyes, and caught him at it, staring, yearning.  He couldn't think of
five words to put into a sentence that made any sense, and Sam looked at him
with a puzzled little smile, and reached out and touched a finger to his
cheek.

Sam quickly realized what he was doing, and took his hand back.  The spot
he'd touched glowed pale for a moment.  That was Frodo's color.  "You're
looking a mite pink, Mister Frodo.  May be you've had enough of this sun."

Frodo nearly raised a hand to Sam's touch on his cheek.  Somehow, he didn't. 
Somehow he put on a smile and managed to pretend he hadn't let Sam see him
looking like that.  "I can take another hour, Sam.  The sun will be dropping
below the hills soon."

Sam wasn't sure he shouldn't try to insist, but Frodo turned away from him
and went back to digging out the next hole.  Sam dropped to his knees there. 
"Here, sir, you let me do the digging, and you can put in the last few."

Frodo sat back on his heels and smeared his sweaty hair from his face, with
his dirt caked hands, smart.  He felt the sunburn then, but he wasn't ready
to let the day go, watching Sam as he neatly cut through the turf and had the
hole dug out in half the time it would have taken him, watching as he
crumpled the soil between his big strong gentle hands, then tapped the mould
from the roots of the tender sapling, and gave it to him.

"You remember how I said, Mister Frodo... you spread the roots out real
careful to fill the hole, then you sprinkle the dirt back in around, and
press it close a little, but not too much.  Seems to take more hands than
you've got, I know, but it comes with practice, not as if you'll be wanting
to do this again, sir, but it's not as hard as it looks.  You try."

Frodo did his best, not easy under Sam's watchful eye, having to know that if
he did it badly there could be a gap in Sam's hedge in years to come and it
would be his fault, but Sam said it was fine, just fine, and picked up his
trowel to go on ahead.

"You just finish filling it in then come along to the next, while I get the
rest of these holes dug, and we'll have it done."  Once Sam set his mind to
getting the job finished, the rest went quickly.  In fact, he could have done
all of it by himself in much less time, but he wasn't about to tell Frodo
that.  It was too seldom anymore that Frodo took time for simple down to
earth pleasures, too seldom anymore they had the chance to be together like
that, and for himself Sam wouldn't want it to end any sooner than it had to. 
Frodo though was looking more and more like he'd done enough and too much. 
Sam helped him put the last plant into the ground, helped him hold the roots
spread and carefully shovel in the soil, and when it was done Frodo looked
back along the row at the work they'd done, smiling and happy.

"It amazes me, Sam, the work you do... how much you accomplish... every day." 
It made Frodo feel humble, and not a little bit useless in the scheme of
things.

Sam looked out over his... Frodo's... lovingly tended gardens.  "Just little
things, Mister Frodo... but enough for the likes of me.  I feel I've been
true blessed in my life, sir."  Frodo turned those bright blue eyes on him,
looking more keen and alive than he had since before old Mister Bilbo went
away.  Doubly and triply blessed Sam was, and he knew it.  He felt it that
day like he'd never thought of feeling it.

The lowering sun slanted long shadows across the landscape and made the sweat
glisten on Sam's honey gold skin, and Frodo had to turn away again, feeling
his heart beating, feeling a tingling along his nerves, every one of them. 
It was torture, but it was sweet torture, and he couldn't stop himself if
he'd wanted to.  They loaded the tools and the last of the empty pots into
the barrow, and Sam wheeled it back up the lane to the shed.  Frodo walked
along beside him, feeling exhausted but deeply gratified, feeling the warmth
and bliss that seemed to flow off of Sam into anything he came close to.  Sam
told him a joke as they unloaded and stacked the pots, a silly innocent joke
concerning two farmers and a sack of onions, and he chortled like a fool,
until Sam was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

"Mister Frodo, sir... I sure hope you don't mind me saying... but you're a
sight."

Frodo smeared his face on his sleeve and ran his hands through his hair, but
it was doubtful that helped.  Sam smiled and motioned him to follow, around
to the well, where he pumped a bucket full of water, then hauled it up and
dumped it over his head.  It plastered his hair to his face and neck, and
soaked his shirt to his broad shoulders.  He clunked the bucket down,
laughing.

"It's a mite cool, sir, but it sure feels good."

Frodo smiled and closed his eyes, and Sam pumped up a bucket to dump over
him.  The cold water should have shocked some sense into him, but it didn't. 
It took several more buckets full, dunking each other back and forth, and he
let himself behave like a carefree tweener, let himself drink in the sight of
Sam drenched and laughing in the last of the golden sunlight.

Sam hadn't had a happier day in memory, but it was about through, and that
was all there was to it.  He forced himself to think about practical matters,
took up the brush he'd brought from the shed and handed it to Frodo, and
pumped up a stream of water so he could scrub his hands and clean the dirt
from under his fingernails, then Frodo pumped so he could get cleaned up
proper.

"Let's go up the hill, Sam.  We can sit and watch dusk fall, and let the
breeze dry us out."

Sam looked up at Frodo looking wishful, thinking they'd have to save his
supper for him if he tarried til after dark, but he couldn't say nay, so they
walked out through the orchards and up the twisting path to the top of the
Hill, and they sat there on the grass and watched the sun slowly drop out of
sight.  Frodo rolled down his sleeves and his pantlegs, then tucked up his
knees and hugged them, staring off Eastward.  Sam stretched his legs across
the grass, and struggled with himself getting it out.  "Mister Frodo... do
you think about it still... about wishing you'd gone with Mister Bilbo when
he went... "  It was a frightening thing for him to ask, always dreading the
answer he'd get, but Frodo hadn't talked to him about it in a long while and
he needed to know.

Frodo looked into Sam's big brown eyes.  "Sometimes... I do still.... but
just at the moment there isn't any place I'd rather be than right here." 
With you.  Sam ducked his head, and plucked up a handful of clover out of the
grass.  The fragrance drifted over them as he closed it in his hand and
bruised the leaves.  Frodo understood his fear on the matter.  "I'm not going
anywhere, Sam."  A warm breeze passed through, riffling Sam's ginger curls as
they dried, as the last sliver of sun sank below the hills in the west. 
Frodo wanted so badly to reach out a hand and touch his, it was almost
painful.  He hugged his knees that much tighter.  "Sam... do you remember
those fluffy eggs Uncle Bilbo used to make... with mushrooms and bacon... "

Sam smiled, meeting Frodo's gaze again.  "Aye, sir, I do."

Frodo knew he shouldn't, but...  "I think I have eggs... and mushrooms... and
bacon, surely.... if you could help me figure out how to put them
together."

It was a constant concern of Sam's that Frodo didn't eat right, because Frodo
in the kitchen wasn't a natural thing, and it was a fact plain to see that
he'd lost any plumpness he might have gained when old Mister Bilbo was
feeding him.  It was beyond Sam's power to decline a chance to see he had a
good meal for a change.  "I think I remember how it goes, sir."

"Your father won't mind if you stay late?"

Sam gave him a smile and said, "Nay."  The Gaffer would want to know what
he'd been up to, but he wasn't likely to object if it was for something
Mister Baggins wanted.

They sat there still as the daylight slowly failed, until they were sufficiently
dried out and the shadows were growing deep, then they walked back downhill
in the twilight, through the orchard and the gardens, and in Bag End's back
door at last.  Sam had taken to keeping the lamps along the hallway filled
and lit.  Frodo had a sorry tendency to not remember such things until he
found himself in the dark, so he had to be grateful.  Sam took up an armload
of kindling, and he crouched down to gather up a load for himself.

"You don't have to do that, Mister Frodo."

Frodo did anyway, took up as much as he could carry, and followed Sam along
the hall, dropping pieces as he went.  "Oh bother."

Sam smiled to himself a little.  "I'll come back for em, sir."  The kitchen
hearth was cold.  He dropped the firewood into the box, and relieved Frodo of
his, then turned up the lamp first thing, and lit another to hand to him. 
"You bring the things we'll need from the pantry, Mister Frodo, and I'll get
the fires going."  Frodo went to the pantry, and Sam went to pick up the
trail of kindling he'd left down the hall, then got a good blaze started in
the hearth, and another in the cookstove, and Frodo still hadn't come back. 
Sam went to see what the problem was, and found him just standing there, with
his eyes closed and a frown set deep between his dark brows, clutching a big
bowl of eggs to his chest.  "Mister Frodo... "

Frodo caught a breath and opened his eyes, shivering.  The chill worked.  It
cleared his mind and made him think.  "Sam.... you don't have to stay...
it isn't right of me to ask."

Sam thought he had every right.  "After all the time you've known me, sir,
I'd not like to think you don't know I'm here for you when you need me."

That little bit of Frodo's hard won resolve melted away.  Sam came and took
the bowl from him, and picked up the lamp from the floor where he'd set it
down, smiling.

"Now then, sir, you said you've got mushrooms... "  He looked around the
shelves, which were three quarters empty at least, and located the basket of
mushrooms he'd brought up himself a few days past.  He'd brought the eggs as
well, or he would have had to be leary of them.  "You get those, Mister
Frodo... ", indicating the mushrooms, "... and we'll need bacon... "  He went
on through into the coldroom, buried back deep under the hill, and found a
half slab of bacon that looked fresh enough.  "... and milk."  There was a
bottle there, but it was definitely iffy in Sam's eyes.  He set down the
eggs, and he took up the bottle and pried out the stopper to take a tentative
sniff.  It couldn't be fresh, but it smelled alright.  He held up the lamp,
with a smile at Frodo.  "Looks like we've got what we need then."

Frodo felt a bit chagrined to see Sam questioning the condition of his
larder.  "I suppose it's time I did some shopping."

Sam had to think it wouldn't hurt.  "I could do it for you, Mister Frodo. 
Don't have much pressing to do in the gardens tomorrow."  Frodo looked like
he might be considering it.  Sam handed him the milk and the bacon, and took
up the bowl of eggs again.  "I'd not mind a bit, sir."

Frodo followed him out.  "I don't know, Sam.  I really should do it myself. 
Going down to market is about the only socializing I do anymore.  I know what
they're saying about me."  Sam tossed him an intent look over one shoulder.

"And what might that be, sir?"

Frodo clenched his jaw.  "You know, Sam... the same things they said about
Uncle Bilbo... that he was out of his mind, to put it gently."

Sam set down the lamp on the table and the bowl beside it, and gave his full
attention to the shadow that had come over Frodo's face.  "Which wasn't ever
the truth, was it, Mister Frodo?  You oughtn't listen to what people say." 
Frodo looked at him back, and seemed to let it go, smiling a little, but then
Sam couldn't quite.  He took the things Frodo was carrying to set on the
table.  "What was it you heard, sir... from who?"

It wasn't anything Frodo had heard actually, more what he saw and felt of
their reactions to him, what he was afraid of hearing if he'd dared to walk
invisible among them.  He let out his breath in a sigh.  "I don't know, Sam. 
I've just never been really accepted here, have I?  I'm too much a Brandybuck
at heart."

Sam planted his hands on his hips.  "The Gamgees have accepted you, sir, and
anyone else who's bothered to see you for yourself, and if it's the
Brandybuck in you that makes you want to learn everthing there is to learn,
then I say it's a fine thing."  It was hardly the position held by most staid
and centered Hobbiton hobbits, but Sam had been learning what was right and
what was wrong at Frodo's and Mister Bilbo's knees since he was just a little
lad, and it wasn't right to condemn a soul for being different.  Frodo all of
a sudden smiled, a big bright honest smile.

"Dear Sam... what would I do without you?"

Sam didn't like to think.  "Well, then, let's see what we can do with these
eggs here, Mister Frodo, before you waste away."  That was more than he
should have said, but Frodo kindly didn't take it amiss.  Sam suggested he
should get comfortable and just watch, but he insisted he wanted to help, so
Sam started him slicing the bacon, while he got out the bowls and utensils
they'd need, and set a heavy skillet to heat, then started a pot of tea
brewing.  He turned from that at last in time to see Frodo barely miss
slicing off his thumb.  "Oh... Mister Frodo... let me do that, sir.  Here,
you clean these shrooms."

Frodo gave up the knife, supposing it was just as well, since he was truly
making a mess of the job.  Sam handed him a brush, and cautioned him to be
gentle, and he set to brushing the dirt off the mushrooms, and watching Sam,
watching his hands as they deftly sliced the bacon and chopped it into bits. 
"How did you ever learn to do that, Sam?"

Sam scooped the bacon into the hot skillet.  "My sisters taught me, sir." 
Not only did Frodo not have a mum, he had no sisters either, so it wasn't to
be much wondered at that he'd never learned such things, though it seemed old
Mister Bilbo might have shown him a thing or two.  The bacon sizzled and
started smelling good, and Frodo uttered a muffled exclamation of praise for
the aroma.  Sam looked around, and caught him popping a mushroom into his
mouth.  At least he'd got a few of them cleaned, and quite well.  Sam
confiscated those and quickly had them sliced.

Frodo looked around him at the bacon in the pan.  "Do you think that's
enough?"

Sam glanced at the skillet.  "How hungry are you, sir?"

"Hungry enough.  How hungry are you, Sam?"

Sam looked up at him.  "I'll have my supper at home, Mister Frodo."  Frodo
looked shocked, maybe even hurt.

"You will not, Sam.  I invited you to have supper with me."  He reached for
the bacon and the knife, but Sam beat him to it.

"Fine then, sir, I'll stay if you want."  He shouldn't have, but if it meant
as much to Frodo as seemed, then so be it.  What was one more lecture by the
Gaffer on keeping to his place?  He'd grown up on it, hadn't he, with Mister
Bilbo, and Frodo especially, making him feel like there wasn't any reason he
couldn't aspire to be more than he was, then going home and having the Gaffer
make clear to him otherwise.  He threw another handful of bacon into the
skillet and stirred it around, while Frodo finished cleaning the mushrooms,
and eating half of them while he was at it.  Sam could see him feeding
himself like that, just grabbing whatever he could find when the need struck,
with no one to do the cooking.  At that rate, he wasn't ever going to keep
any weight on.  "Mister Frodo, sir... I'm not the best cook, you know, still
learning as it were... but I'd be right glad to come in and fix you breakfast
mornings."

Frodo's breath caught, his mind going off on the notion of waking up to Sam
in the kitchen cooking breakfast for him, and how wrong it felt.  "Sam...
it's kind of you to offer... "

Kind of him?  Sam dropped his eyes.  "Don't know I'd call it that, Mister
Frodo."  To him, it felt almost selfish.  "I worry about you up here in this
big empty place on your own... and that's not to say I think you can't take
care of yourself... I just feel better making sure, is all."

Frodo stepped back, and sank down to the edge of the bench there with a sigh. 
"I really am hopeless."  Sam looked at him aghast.

"I never said such a thing, Mister Frodo!"  He hadn't meant to, curse his
tongue for not waiting on his brain to finish thinking a thing through.  "See
here, sir, if you ever think you've heard me say something wrong to you, you
just put it from your mind, cause I never would."

Frodo looked up at him, and found a fair enough smile.  "Sam... I'm capable
of acknowledging my shortcomings.  I am hopeless at cooking.  I am pathetic
at keeping things tidy.  I couldn't build a proper hearthfire if my life
depended on it.  If it weren't for the good Gamgees... if it weren't for you,
Sam... I would probably be sitting in the middle of a rubbish heap wondering
what ever happened to Uncle Bilbo's beloved Bag End."  With it said, it
sounded worse than he'd imagined, but it wasn't much exaggerated.  He could
see Sam working up a passionate rebuttal, and decided enough was enough. 
"It's alright, Sam... really."  He'd wanted to see Sam smiling and happy,
just for a couple of hours more.  He pushed himself back up from the bench,
and looked into his eyes with a roguish smile.  "You aren't burning that, are
you?"

Sam turned from Frodo to the stove, feeling mightily confused all of a
sudden.  The bacon was ready.  He put in the mushrooms, and set to breaking
eggs into a bowl.  Frodo leaned on the board and watched him as he salted and
seasoned and whipped the eggs, added milk, and whipped them some more.

"I remember Uncle Bilbo doing that."

"That's what makes em fluffy, sir."

Frodo rested his chin in one hand.  It was tempting the situation terribly,
but he finally couldn't resist.  "Sing for me, Sam."

Sam looked up into Frodo's clear blue eyes glittering with the firelight. 
"You've the better voice, sir."

Frodo allowed himself a wistful smile.  "I want to hear yours."

Sam paused in his beating, and thought to stir the bacon and mushrooms.  "I
don't know anything fitting, Mister Frodo."  His voice wasn't meant for the
lovely elvish ballads Frodo liked.

"Sing me the song you were singing in the garden this morning."

Sam looked at him again.  It was one thing singing to himself at his work,
and it was quite another doing it with Frodo right there watching him, but he
couldn't say nay to that look.  "Alright, Mister Frodo... but why don't you
set out the plates and forks and such while I'm about it."

Frodo willingly agreed, and just listened as he quietly lifted plates down
from the cupboard, to the sizzle of supper cooking, a crackling of the
hearthfire, and nothing else.  He looked back over his shoulder, and Sam was
standing there making faces at the eggs.  "Sam... you don't have to."

Sam took a breath, and set down the bowl.  "Just screwing myself up, sir." 
He glanced a sidelong look Frodo's way, and resigned himself.  He met Frodo's
eyes smiling, and launched into it.  Frodo grinned from ear to ear, not
laughing at him, just happy, and that was more than enough to ease
embarrassment.  The song was one he'd picked up sitting beside the Gaffer at
the Green Dragon, and it wasn't exactly respectable, but he'd already changed
a few of the more scandalous words and phrases to his own, since he'd been
singing it under Frodo's windows.

Frodo forced himself back to setting the table, and just listened, smiling,
to Sam's rich earthy tones filling the room.  The chorus came up, and he
dropped his voice down low so it seemed to rumble up out of the depths of
him, going for that deepest note.  When he hit it, Frodo felt it in the pit
of his stomach.  A shiver ran all through him, exquisite torture.  By the
time he'd half recovered, Sam was off on the next verse, cheerfully belting
it out, his reluctance thankfully forgotten.  Frodo helplessly stood there
and just watched him as he busied himself with working on supper.

The singing turned into a good thing, as it seemed to ease out the bit of
tension that had come from who knew where.  Sam gave the eggs a last good
whipping, then stirred them into the skillet of bacon and mushrooms, and
dropped his voice down low again for the chorus.  Of course, it had to fail
him when he least expected it to.  He reached for that low note, and it
sounded like someone scraping a shovel over rock.  He broke it off, with a
gulp of air, and a self conscious glance over his shoulder at Frodo, who was
watching him as he'd known.

Frodo gave him a grateful smile.  "That was wonderful, Sam, squeaks and all."

Sam laughed a little.  "It's getting better though, sir, don't you think?"

Frodo forced himself from his watching again, had to.  "Indeed I do.  You're
going to have the best singing voice in all of Hobbiton and Bywater once it
settles in."  Sam was still just a lad.

Sam laughed again, more heartily, feeling fine.  He took up a towel to grasp
the skillet handle, and jiggled it to be sure it was loose.  "Look at this,
Mister Frodo... I've been practicing."

Frodo turned back, and Sam flicked his wrist and flipped the eggs up and
over, and expertly caught them back into the pan.  He grinned, pleased. 
Frodo smiled.  "You are truly a marvel, Sam... and don't you dare think I'm
joking, because I mean it."

Sam just laughed.  "If there's bread, sir, you can put that out... and
butter... and don't forget the teacups."  The eggs puffed up beautifully, and
when they were done he divided them in half and slid them out onto the two
plates Frodo brought, and they settled across from each other at the table. 
It wasn't a feast, but it was likely a far sight better than Frodo was used
to doing for himself.  He gushed over the eggs, said they were the best he'd
had in years, and Sam couldn't help feeling awfully pleased with himself.

Frodo had been afraid for awhile he'd let on to Sam what he was feeling, but
Sam was smiling and chatty all through supper, so whatever it was had
thankfully passed.  The day was slipping away, and he'd begun to think it
wasn't something he could bear making a habit of, so he had to treasure every
laugh, every twinkle in Sam's eye, while he could.  They did the cleaning up
together, Sam washing while he dried, while he dreamed his dreams, hanging on
Sam's every word.

"You see, Mister Frodo, I thought it was right peculiar myself, you might
say, so I asked old Daddy Twofoot if he'd seen anything funny, cause I know
he's not slept well since I was just a lad, and he sits out on his front
stoop some nights until late, but It was cloudy that night said he and
there's no sense looking for trouble in the dark unless that's what you're
looking to find!, so that's about all the help I got from him, not saying I
hold it against him any for being sharp with me, seeing he's had a hard time
of it since Missus Twofoot passed on, but I think he saw something and just
don't want to say, cause... "  Sam felt his face flush.  He was doing it
again, talking Frodo's ear off, when he didn't have a thing to say that was
worth listening to.  But Frodo just smiled at him.

"What was it?"

Sam took up a towel to dry the last plate himself, shaking his head.  "To
tell the truth, sir, I think it might've been a fox... though what a fox
would be wanting with the Gaffer's string beans I can't figure."  Frodo
laughed.  He smiled.  "Anyways, the Gaffer's not happy about it, I can tell
you."

Frodo could well imagine.  Sam's father was a hobbit of honor and principle,
but he had an unsmiling disposition, and he could be sterner than stone. 
Frodo suffered a fearful vision of the Gaffer marching up to Bag End to have
a word with him concerning his intentions toward young Samwise, and he very
nearly put his face in his hands in shame.

"Well that's that, sir."

Frodo half turned away, trying to collect himself.  Was it over then?  He
suddenly felt so wretched he just wanted to find a dark hole to crawl into,
but Sam stepped up close to him to take the towel from his hands, and offered
him a straw to grasp at.

"I'll bet it's a pretty night out, Mister Frodo.  You could sit out front and
have a smoke... and I could stay a while longer... if you'd want."

Frodo managed somehow to smile and say that would be nice, and Sam said he
would be right along then dashed off down the hall.  It grew very still and
quiet, and Frodo felt a weariness settle over him.  He had to push himself into
moving, to wander out to the parlour.  It was dark, but he didn't feel like
going back for a lamp, so he just groped his way to the table beside his
chair, to get his pipe and pouch, and took it back to the kitchen to fill and
light.  It seemed an eternity before Sam came back to brighten the gloom
again.

"I've started a fire for you in the bath, Mister Frodo, and filled the
kettles... so you won't have to bother with it."

Frodo was sincerely grateful, and couldn't deny it.  "Thank you, Sam."  They
went outside and sat on the front porch step, and it was indeed a pretty
night, warm and breezy, the velvet black sky glittering with stars.  Frodo
set his pipe between his teeth and leaned back into the curve of the
doorjamb.  Sam sat forward with his arms across his knees, and said nothing
for a time, then abruptly asked him if he was lonely, so it seemed to him.

"I'd guess it must feel lonesome up here sometimes."  Sam waited, but Frodo
didn't say anything.  That he was feeling lonesome couldn't be doubted, Sam
didn't think, or else what was the day they'd just spent together all about? 
That Frodo had come to him for relief from it made his heart swell.  He
rested his chin on his arms and gazed out at the beautiful night sky.

Frodo took the pipe from his between his teeth.  It had gone out anyway.  He
dropped his hand to lay on the cool flagstone, and took in a slow thoughtful
breath.  "Yes, Sam... it does get lonely... but Uncle Bilbo lived here like
this for fifty years... and if he could do it, I suppose I can."  If Sam
wondered that it didn't occur to him to take a wife, Sam didn't voice the
thought, and he was glad of it.  A breeze rippled through, and he felt a
painfully intense desire just to touch his fingertips through the curls at
the back of Sam's neck.  Sam wouldn't think anything of it.  Sam was so
caring and innocent.  Frodo crossed his arm over his chest and clasped his
wayward hand to his shoulder to stop himself.

Sam glanced back at Frodo huddled into the shadow.  "I sure wish Mister Bilbo
hadn't gone away.  I wish he was here still to keep you company."  He turned
his face back to the stars.  "I loved Mister Bilbo... and I love you, sir."

Sam had a heart as big as all of Ea.  Unable to resist, Frodo softly
whispered back, "I love you too, Sam."

Sam's heart nearly burst his chest.  Frodo loved him.  Of course he'd always
known it, but Frodo had never said it to him out loud before, and it felt a
whole lot different hearing it, a whole lot different.  He twisted around to
look into Frodo's shining eyes, and Frodo blinked, and pushed himself up
against the door.

"You should be getting home, Sam... and I need to see about getting some work
done."

Sam slowly got to his feet, thinking things he'd never quite thought before. 
Frodo just stood there looking back at him, breathing, Sam could hear him
breathing, and it made his heart thump.

Frodo stepped back against the door and it swung inward, offering escape,
escape he didn't want but knew he had to take.  He couldn't do that to Sam,
and he shouldn't have let himself even pretend.  "Sam... thank you for
putting up with me... today... always.  It must be trying for you."

The most outrageous notion entered Sam's head, that he ought to just reach
out and put his arms around Frodo, and hug him tight.  He shoved his hands
into his pantspockets, and just smiled.  "It's not ever that, Mister Frodo. 
You can come out and play in the dirt with me whenever you feel like."

It reached unbearable.  Frodo stepped back into the cool dark of Bag End,
letting it go.  "Good night, Sam."

"Good night, Mister Frodo."  The door quietly closed, and latched.  Sam
pulled his hands from his pockets and wiped his sweating palms on his
shirtfront, and finally turned away with his heart singing.  He felt like
shouting, like laughing out loud, like doing handsprings.  He felt like
tearing off his clothes and rolling in the grass naked!  The laughter he
couldn't contain, as he trotted down around the lane to Bagshot Row, and
stopped there, staring out over the sleeping valley all awash in moonlight. 
It was late.  He should have gone home and just faced it, because he sure had
some explaining to do, but he didn't, yet.

The crickets chirping spurred him on, seeming to say to him why not.  He left
the lane and headed downslope, jumped the low hedge and ran out to the very
middle of the party field, where he threw himself to his back on the cool
damp green, with his heart wildly racing and one palm urgently pressed to his
aching hardness.  In the good few years he'd been feeling such things, he'd
never felt it quite like that.  He braced his heels in the slippery grass and
pulled loose his breeches to take himself in hand, and that was just about
all it took.  He gasped and closed his eyes tight shut as it came, and saw
Frodo's glowing pale face framed against the stars, Frodo's beautiful bright
eyes filled with love for him.

Breathless and trembling, he rode the waves of it until there was nothing
left but the joy.  His heart was doing a jig in his breast.  He had every
kind of love there was for Frodo, and nothing could have made him happier. 
He sprawled there finally staring up at the gem spangled night sky.  Frodo
had taught him to love the stars.  Frodo had taught him to love, after his
mum dying had made him think he couldn't anymore.  Frodo meant more to him
than anything, more than the Gaffer, and Marigold, and all of his family put
together, and he dearly cared for his family.

Feeling just a little bit wicked, he wiped his sticky hand on the grass and
put himself to rights, then he rolled over to his stomach and gazed off up
the hill toward Bag End.  Frodo loved him.  Frodo always had loved him. 
Nothing had changed, everything just seemed more clear of a sudden.  A warm
pulsing sensation of peace and contentment flowed through him.  He loved
Frodo in that extra special way, and if it had to be only in his dreams he
was still more whole with it than without it.


***

Frodo stood in the bath chamber doorway, thinking he might not survive what
he'd put himself through that day.  "You knew better."  And he'd gone ahead
and done it anyway.  He told himself he couldn't possibly do it again, but he
was already wishing away the night, wishing for morning, wishing for Sam to
come and sing outside his window again.  He breathed a deep heavy sigh, and
pushed himself on into the room.  He was so tired he could hardly move, but
he wanted a bath, desperately.

Sam had made a fire for him in the hearth, and filled the kettles so he
wouldn't have to do it.  The bath was half drawn and ready to be heated.  He
poured in just enough boiling water to make it tolerable, then he poked at
the fire a little in an attempt to keep it going a while longer.  He felt a
wreck, felt muscles beginning to stiffen that weren't used to being worked,
felt the blisters on his hands and the cramping in his shoulders.  He ran a
shaking hand through his tangled hair.  His face felt hot, tight and dry, and
hot, like he had a fever.

He gave up on the fire and pushed himself to his feet, and pulled the ring
from his breeches' pocket.  For a moment it felt like a heartbeat against his
palm, but it was his own pulse pounding.  He unclasped its chain from his
belt and hung it over a hook in the mantel, then unbuckled his belt and
pulled it from the loops.  His clothes were a mess, but Sam would gather them
up in the morning with the rest of the laundry to take to his sisters, and
they would come back looking like they'd never spent a gorgeous sundrenched
day wallowing in the dirt.  It was best to just blot it out, like he could.

He pulled the crumpled tail of his shirt out of his breeches, and unbuttoned
it with his fingers trembling.  "You knew better.  He loves you like he loves
his brothers.  He loves you because you were there for him... ", ... when
those around him were too grieved themselves to see that he needed more than
a pat on the head or a rub on the back, however caring.  Frodo had been
there, surrounded by well meaning grownups who thought a child who sat
quietly doing nothing after losing both parents was a good thing.

He slid the shirt off and let it fall, fumbled open the buttons of his
breeches and dropped them.  He kicked them half heartedly into a corner, then
went and picked them up, and draped them over the bench in front of the
hearth.  He'd sunburned his legs from above the knee down, in streaks and
splotches, lovely.  He pulled the tie on his drawers, slid them down, and
stepped out, shivering.  The fire caught for a moment and flickered long
eerie shadows on the walls.  He felt no warmth from it, and the water was
little more than tepid by the time he stepped over the side of the tub and
sank down into it.

Wearily, he leaned his head back and stared at the ring, glinting in the
firelight as it slowly turned on the end of its chain.  He closed his eyes,
seeing a gold that was far more precious and beautiful, the gold of a perfect
summer day and Sam.  He took in a shaky breath and trailed fingers over his
bare skin.  How he ached to be touched, to have Sam's big strong gentle hands
on him.  He swallowed a painful lump in his throat.  "Don't... "  It was too
late.  Not even the cold water could keep it down.  He cursed his hateful
body, but slid his hand under the water to grip and stroke it, too worn out
to fight it any longer, after struggling with it all day.

It was too sordid a thing to attach to Sam in any way, but he just couldn't
help himself, couldn't keep his mind from trying to imagine Sam lying there
naked against him, and still it took forever, and what strength he had left
as well.  At the last he was groaning in desperation, and there was no
pleasure in coming when he did, only release.  He dragged himself up against
the side of the tub when it was done, and just huddled there weakly hugging
his knees, dripping tears into the bathwater.


Title:  True Love, part two, Sparking
Author:  Keye Goodenough
Email:  mibender@mc.net
Characters:  Frodo and Sam
Rating:  R
Genre:  Romance, Angst
Summary:  Frodo and Sam suffer from miscommunication.

Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and all who inhabit it belong to the master, J.R.R.
               Tolkien.  May he forgive us.

Story notes:  Summer of 1403.  Frodo is two years of-age at thirty-five.  Sam
                is twenty-three.

This story follows:
True Love, part one, Awakening


Sparking by Keye Goodenough


"Samwise... time to be up!"

Sam jolted, half wakened by a pounding on the door, then brought to full
alert by the Gaffer's gruff voice on the other side of it.  He caught a
breath.  "I'm up, sir!"  He was, at that.  He held the breath he'd caught
until the Gaffer had gone on and there was no slightest sound from out in the
hallway, then he threw an arm across his mouth and slid his hand under the
sheets.  A pretty dream lingered on his senses, and he let himself drift back
into it, a little, let himself imagine pale soft bare skin against his own,
his fingers buried in silky dark hair, warm breath, sweet lips... but he
couldn't linger over it too much, just did what had to be done, and it did
have to be done or he'd have a rough morning of it for sure.  He caught it in
his hand as much as he could, with every good intention of not leaving any
evidence, but the last of it shuddered through him and he clutched his pillow
close and just lay there smiling into the darkness, imagining Frodo warm in
his arms, pleasured and happy.

"Samwise!"

Sam nearly fell out of bed making sure his feet were on the floor before he
said it again.  "I'm up, sir!"  A faintest glimmer of lamplight slipped in
around the door, and he didn't bother with lighting a candle, just stumbled
his way across the cold floor in the dark to get washed, his face and hands,
then the rest, still imagining, Frodo smiling for him, wanting him too.  No
doubting it, he was head over heels in love, and there wasn't a thing that
could bring him down from it.  Having the Gaffer grumping at him first thing
in the morning sure couldn't, it being a regular thing.

Dressed and together, he left his room and walked down the dimly lit hallway
out into the kitchen, smiling a big smile and humming a cheery tune to
himself.  Daisy and Goldy and May were all there bustling about getting the
day started, and Daisy looked up at him with a face on.

"It's too early, Sam."

Sam laughed, and quick pecked her a kiss on the cheek before she could duck
away, then turned and caught Goldy and May smiling back and forth at each
other, like they thought they knew something.  He went on smiling, not much
caring if they did, and settled at the table to have the breakfast Daisy set
before him.  The window shutters were open to let in the warmth of a balmy
mid summer night past, and a faint shimmer of beginning dawn, and he couldn't
help thinking what a pleasure it would be to sit up on top of the hill with
Frodo and watch the sun rise.  Regretfully, he knew it wasn't a likely thing
to happen, with Frodo always up half the night at his work and never awake
before the sun.  Of course that started him thinking about Frodo asleep, and
what a sight that must be.  And the sooner he got himself out and up to Bag
End, the closer he'd be to that, whether he could see it or not.  He finished
his oatmeal, and gulped down the last of his tea, was pushing himself up from
the table when the Gaffer came in from outside and gave him a looking at.

"Suppose you'll be up at Bag End all day again."

Sam sure hoped so.  "I expect, sir.  I've been helping Mister Frodo inside...
like I said... besides the gardens."  The Gaffer frowned at him.

"You think listening to you try to read is a help to Mister Baggins, do you?"

Sam dropped his eyes to the floor before his feet.  "He asked me to, sir." 
The Gaffer mumbled under his breath, and went and sat down at the table.

"Just see you mind your place, Samwise."

Sam caught a kindly smile from Marigold.  Daisy set a cup of tea on the table
for the Gaffer, who gave him a last glance.

"Well, go on then."

Sam didn't waste any more time about it.  Goldy brought him his lunch, and a
fresh loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth, for Mister Frodo's breakfast she
said, and he headed off up to Bag End at a sprightly pace.

Things had changed since That Day, almost two weeks past it was, when he'd
found out what was inside him for Frodo.  Lying in bed wide awake that night
he'd set himself goals, to take care of Frodo in the best way he could, and
Frodo was letting him do it, for the most part.  It wasn't easy sometimes,
having to hide things he couldn't help feeling when they were together, but
they were together more and more, and that was all he wanted for himself. 
When Frodo got tired of him hanging about, Frodo let him know it, and sent
him home, but most of the time Frodo seemed just as pleased to be with him.

Dawn was breaking, a rosy glow over the gardens, colors beginning to pop.  He
let himself quietly in the back door, as he had permission now to do when he
got there in the morning, to light the fires, and tidy up as he could, and
wait on Frodo to wake for breakfast.  He made his way silently down the hall,
creeping past Frodo's bedroom.  The door was closed, but he wouldn't have
looked if it hadn't been, so he told himself.  What he thought and dreamed of
couldn't be helped and caused no harm.  What he did was another matter.


***

Frodo woke from a fitful restless sleep, tangled in the bedcovers and acutely
aroused.  He kicked at the blankets to half free himself, then rolled to his
stomach with a pathetic groan and buried his face in his pillow, trying to
drive it away with the most unpleasant thoughts he could conjure up.  It
didn't work.  In the end all he could think about was Sam.  It was too hot. 
He rolled back over and curled on his side, dragging the covers down from his
face.  Early morning light streamed in the open window.  Sam would be there,
in the kitchen making breakfast for him.  He hadn't meant for that to happen,
hadn't meant for any of it to happen, but it grew harder and harder to
resist.  Sam had taken over doing for him those things he should have been
doing for himself.  Sam was always nearby, always too available.  And Lady
help him, he couldn't help himself.  Since that day, his already shaky self
esteem had steadily dwindled, and if it kept up where would that leave him? 
With nothing, since he couldn't have Sam.  That, at last, was enough to
dampen arousal, and he finally managed to force himself from his bed.

It was how he started most mornings since that day, with longing, and self
reproach, and anticipation, that too.  Sam would be in the kitchen, waiting
to shower him with caring attention.  He dragged his rumpled nightshirt off
and quickly dressed, took Uncle Bilbo's ring from the night table drawer to
slip into his pocket, and absently clipped its chain to his belt, wondering
what Bilbo would say about all of it.  "He would tell you to put your head on
straight and stop thinking nonsense."  He didn't know that really.  Uncle
Bilbo had never talked to him about such things, because he'd never asked,
knowing even then he wasn't normal.  With maturity, he'd come to believe
Bilbo might have understood quite well, but it was too late now.  Uncle Bilbo
was gone.

Drawn to the window by a titter of birdsong, he leaned there on the sill
breathing deep, being calm and focusing his thoughts, preparing himself to
deal with the day, preparing himself to deal with Sam.  Before he reached the
kitchen he could hear Sam cheerfully humming to himself, and found him there
in the firelight, exuding gladness, happily washing up the pots Frodo had
insisted they leave the night before.  He turned such a smile on Frodo it lit
up his heart, and left him feeling weak in the knees.

"Morning, Mister Frodo... you're up early, sir."

Frodo couldn't meet that with anything but a smile in return.  "It looked
like another beautiful day dawning.  I didn't want to waste it."  In fact,
he'd been unable to even think about working the night before, after the
evening they'd spent reading poetry to each other, and he'd pretty quickly
given it up and gone to bed after Sam went home.  He pushed himself on,
around the table to pick up a towel, but Sam took it from him before he could
make use of it.

"There's no need for you to be doing that, sir.  You just settle in, and I'll
pour you a cup of tea and fix your breakfast."

Frodo did as he was told and sat down at the table, and Sam brought him tea
and asked him what he'd like.  He couldn't quite make himself think about it,
and just said anything would be fine.  "You can surprise me."

Sam was more than pleased to do so, and went all out, Goldy's fresh baked
bread with butter and jam to start on, while he set about frying bacon, and
eggs, and taters with onions on the side, even came up with a slab of
leftover peach cobbler from the pantry, which was looking a mite bare again
since he'd been making good use of it.

Frodo was more dazed than surprised.  "Sam... I can't eat all this... "  He
couldn't have if he was famished, and truthfully he didn't feel like eating
at all.  "You'll have to help."

Sam didn't attempt to argue with him, just brought another plate and at least
made a show of it.  "There's not much of anything for your supper tonight,
sir, so I'm thinking I could make a trip down to the market this morn."

Frodo set his fork down on his still half full plate, and didn't pick it up
again.  "No, Sam.  I'll do it."  He hadn't been down the hill to town for
longer than he could remember, had hardly been out of Bag End for weeks,
hadn't needed to with Sam taking care of everything.  "I might go to Bywater
actually... to the booksellers."  He'd had a letter from them saying they had
something he might be interested in, and his favorite ink was running low,
and he just plain needed to get out.

Sam held a breath as he asked, suggested, "I could go with you, Mister Frodo,
to help carry things."

Frodo had expected the offer, and couldn't think for a moment that he
wouldn't enjoy Sam's company on the walk, but it seemed like he'd been trying
to make a point, that he could get by for a few hours on his own, whether he
wanted to or not.  "You must have better things to do, Sam."

Sam gave him a big smile, but didn't say it, that he couldn't think of a
better thing to do that had any possibility of happening.  "There'll be
plenty of time for the garden come afternoon, sir.  I'm glad to go along and
help."

Clearly, it was what he wanted, and Frodo couldn't bring himself to say no,
but Sam didn't wait for him to say yes.

"If we'll be going to Bywater, sir, we could stop at Bumble's for some of
those fresh sausages they make with sage and juniper, none better you'll find
without taking a hike out to Needlehole, and I heard the widow Muffet has got
a bumper crop of currants, so I could take a sack of them beets I just pulled
and maybe make a good trade, keeping the best for yourself of course, sir....
Mister Frodo... aren't you going to have the rest of your breakfast?"

Frodo looked down at his plate, and back up again, at Sam's expression of
heartfelt concern.  The last thing he wanted was to hurt Sam's feelings, but
he couldn't do it.  "It's very good, Sam, as always... but I'm just not
hungry this morning."

Nor most mornings, it would seem.  Sam pushed himself up from the table and
went about gathering the dishes.  "Well, a good walk ought to cure that right
nice, sir."  He'd find something enticing at the market, then fix up a proper
luncheon when they got back.  "I'll just quick do the washing first."

Frodo got himself up and made an effort to help, but Sam put him off.

"There's no need, Mister Frodo.  I'll have this done in no time.  You go
ahead and get together what you'll want to take."

Truthfully, there wasn't any need.  Sam wanted to do it himself, and whatever
made Sam happy, made Frodo happy, to a point.  He didn't fight it at any
rate, there were enough harder battles to wage, every day, every moment he
was near Sam.  He allowed himself a last lingering glance at Sam bustling
about with a smile on his face, then headed for the study.

Sam had Frodo's unwanted breakfast himself rather than throw it out, and had
the cleaning up done in a wink, then he went to the cold cellar to pick out
a sack of beets to take, and added a couple of nice apples as well, so he'd
have something to offer if Frodo got to looking like he wished he'd eaten his
breakfast.  He banked the hearthfire on the way back through, and found Frodo
in the front hall, emptying out his walking pack, meaning to purchase some
new books no doubt.  Nothing better than that to brighten Frodo's spirits. 
Sam gave him a happy smile.  "I'll carry that for you, sir."

Frodo accepted the smile, gladly, but enough was enough.  "I can carry it
myself, Sam."

Sam thought he saw impatience in Frodo's look and didn't offer again, not
then, later when Frodo had packed it full and was looking at carrying it back
up the hill, maybe, though he'd not like to see that look again.  Frodo
turned away from him with a kind of sigh, then turned back again and gave him
a smile, one of the sort that made him feel all warm and fluttery inside.

"Come on, Sam.  I need some fresh air."

Sam smiled at him back.  "Aye, Mister Frodo."

They stepped out into the warm breezy morning, and headed down around the
lane at a brisk walk.  With the sun well risen over the eastern hills, the
sky was a sweeping expanse of cloudless blue.  Frodo took in a deep breath,
shading his eyes to gaze out over the valley.  Sam said something about it
shaping up to be a hot one, with a suggestion perhaps that he might be
overdressed for it.  Frodo had to twist around and look over his shoulder. 
"Sam... I can't see you back there... and I can't half hear you either."

Sam gave in to what seemed necessary and moved up alongside Frodo, but not
too close, trying to keep to his place as he'd been told to time and again. 
Frodo might not care for such niceties when they were alone up at Bag End,
but out in public was a different thing.  "I just said I thought you might
get a bit warm, sir."

Frodo told Sam he was fine, but in fact it was less breezy down from the
hill, and Sam was likely to be proved right by the time they'd been all the
way to Bywater and back.  There were folk about as they passed the mill
coming into Hobbiton, and he displayed his politest demeanor, smiling at
anyone who chanced to look his way.  They smiled back, most of them, some
even greeted him.  'Good morning, Mister Baggins.'  'How do you do, Mister
Baggins.'  Always Mister Baggins.  Never Frodo, or even Mister Frodo, though
he'd known them all long enough.  Sam had fallen back to walk behind him
again, and as always when he ventured into town he felt more than a little
bit alone against the world.

Sam watched and listened, and caught the tail end here and there of what
Frodo only imagined, since they were tactful enough to at least do it behind
his back, looks and whispers passing to and fro.  Sam put on a look of his
own for any of them who'd take it, but no one paid him much heed.  Frodo led
on across the bridge, and he followed along, through the market street bustle
and out of town again on Bywater Road at last, where he rather defiantly
trotted up to walk beside Frodo again.  "What a crowd, Mister Frodo.  You
ought to let me take care of the shopping when we come back through.  You'll
be wanting to get back to Bag End by then I expect."

Frodo glanced Sam a look but kept on walking and said nothing.  It was
quieter there with less traffic on the road, a soothing sound of the Water
slipping by through the trees northward, but the sun had begun to beat down. 
As soon as they'd come under the shade of the great old chestnuts that lined
the rest of the way, he stopped to take off his weskit and stuff it into his
pack.

"It'll wrinkle in there, sir.  Let me carry it for you."

Frodo took in a slow deep breath, and let it go.  It was absurd the things he
allowed under his skin.  He wiped his sweating brow on the sleeve of his
shirt, and fumbled open his top few buttons, then he took up his pack again,
with a smile for Sam that he hoped was less tense.  "I brought it, Sam.  I'll
carry it.  And we'll do the shopping together, as planned."  Sam just stood
there looking at him, with an expression on his face Frodo had never seen
there before, a look that squeezed his already bruised heart.

Sam tore his eyes from Frodo's, and forced himself back to walking, as Frodo
did, staring straight ahead of him.

"Sam... are you angry?"

Sam unclenched his teeth. catching a startled breath.  "Not at you, Mister
Frodo, not ever!"

Frodo uneasily glanced aside at him.  "At who then?"

Sam couldn't not say.  "At those as have no sense, is all!"  He should have
stopped there, but he didn't.  "If I ever come to know someone's said
something hurtful toward you, sir... I don't like to think what I'd have to
do."

Frodo felt a chill up the back of his neck, and a thoroughly contradicting
warmth elsewhere, all at once.  The thought of Sam out there defending his
good name touched him deeply, but he couldn't possibly accept such a thing. 
"You told me I shouldn't listen to them, Sam... and neither should you."

Sam didn't quite remember saying that, and wasn't sure it was the right thing
to have said if he had.  "There's folks who'll believe everthing they hear,
whether it's the truth or nay... and they'll turn right round and say it on."

Frodo actually found a smile.  "It doesn't matter what those people think,
Sam.  And just so you know, it won't be any different in Bywater."  But in
Bywater he had a refuge, and he headed them straight for it.  The sign hung
over the shop read Tobias Puddleby, Stationer, and both Puddlebys were in,
Tobias senior and Tobias junior, as well as a couple of Puddleby daughters,
standing watch over the storefront with its shelves of parchments and
envelopes, sealing wax and inkpots.  Frodo greeted the youngers by first
name, as Bilbo always had, and he graciously thanked the elder Tobias for
writing him.  Of course, even the elder Tobias Puddleby called him Mister
Baggins, but out of respect, for Uncle Bilbo if not himself.

"Well, young Mister Baggins, I don't suppose you've had any word from your
dear uncle, sir?"

Frodo answered that with reasonable equanimity.  "Not yet, I'm afraid, but of
course I'll let you know when I do.  Uncle Bilbo was very fond of Puddleby's,
as am I... and I very much look forward to seeing this something special you
mentioned."  The elder Tobias smiled enthusiastically, and swept a gesture
toward the back room.

"I do think you're going to like this, Mister Baggins."

Sam stood rooted at the center of the floor until Frodo disappeared into the
back, then he quickly found the wherewithal to follow, into a windowless but
brightly lit chamber that smelled faintly of must and dust, with shelves of
books lining the walls, and a table spread over with dark green velvet cloth
and set all around with candles.  The shopkeeper brought out a large and
heavy looking book to lay on the table, and Frodo settled into a chair there
to look at it, with the candlelight flickering in his wide blue eyes and a
little smile just turning up the corners of his mouth.  Sam stood there
entranced.

It was beautiful, a volume of tales and poems from the days of the early
kings of Gondor, gloriously illustrated, and bound in Minas Tirith said the
elder Puddleby.  Frodo asked him, "Do you know how it came here?"

"Well, sir, as you know these things often leave their history behind, and
all I can say for certain is that my buyer in Bree got it from a pair of
gentlemen travelling The Greenway... but it's a lovely tome as I'm sure you
can see, and very well kept."

Frodo slowly turned the pages, taking it in, the fine parchment under his
fingertips and the perfect flowing script, the lavish drawings washed in
delicate colour, the binding tight and masterfully done.  It was going to
cost him a small fortune, but he had to have it.

"There's another little something here I'll include in the price, Mister
Baggins, knowing how keen you are on elvish writings."

Frodo looked up, as Puddleby set down a small battered book, not too close to
the other, like he thought its decrepitude might be catching.

"I can't tell you much about it, sir, except that it surely wasn't made by
the fair folk... copied I would guess... though where and when and by who is
a mystery to me, as it's all in elvish."

Frodo picked it up, and opened it.  The leaves were brittle, and he handled
it with utmost care.  If there had been a title page, it was missing, but it
was indeed written in elvish, and not Sindarin but Quenya, a poem, one he'd
never seen before.  "Sam... look at this... "

Sam collected his wits as best he could.  Frodo looked at him smiling, his
whole face lit up, and beckoning, wanting to share what he'd found.  It was
all Sam could do walking over there, to look over Frodo's shoulder at the
book in his hands, the page he had open.  Frodo had taught him a few words of
elvish, for speaking, but the writing and reading of it still befuddled him
for the most part, and he couldn't even try to think about it then and there,
like that.  "I can't read it, Mister Frodo sir."

Frodo slowly shook his head.  "No... I'll have a hard time with it myself...
it's Quenya... a poem... something new."  Well, hardly that, but new to him,
something they could puzzle out together.  Puddleby stood there smiling,
figuring he'd already made the deal, looking a bit smug in fact.  Frodo
closed the little book and set it back down on the table.  He wanted that one
as much as he wanted the other, but it was the other he'd have to pay for,
and Puddleby appeared to be in a mood for haggling.  This, at least, Bilbo
had taught him well.  He pushed himself up from the chair.  "I'm going to be
awhile yet, Sam.  Why don't you go ahead and see to what business you have...
then we can meet at the Green Dragon for lunch."

Sam opened his mouth, to say what?  That he wasn't sure they ought to be
lunching together at the Green Dragon?  The Gaffer wouldn't think much of the
notion, he was sure, but if it made Frodo happy, that was all there was to
that.  "Aye, sir."  He stepped back, and took himself off, as the shopkeeper
was inviting Frodo to the parlour for tea.  Sam didn't imagine the buying of
a book could take too awfully long, and he didn't mean to waste the time.

Walking through the streets of Bywater on his own, it struck him, just
how different it had been walking through Hobbiton at Frodo's heels.  Folk
smiled and waved, and asked after the Gaffer and the sisters, real friendly
just like always.  He had a bit of a hard time being friendly in return,
knowing at least a few of them would be whispering behind his back if he was
Frodo.

If he was Frodo... now there was a strange thought, and one that he quickly
dismissed.  After seeing Frodo in that place full of books and learning
looking like he'd been set aglow from inside, Sam couldn't begin to think he
understood what Frodo thought and felt.  All he could do was just love
everything Frodo was, and he did, with all his heart.  His brain got stuck
for awhile on seeing Frodo's delicate fingers touching the elvish words on
that page, and he found himself on the lane to the widow Muffet's without
knowing quite how he'd got there.

Setting aside everything from his mind but seeing Frodo happy had put him in
right good spirits again, and he had a nice chat with the widow while they
filled a sack full of currants from the bushes in her yard.  As luck would
have it, she was happy to make the trade, and he left her the apples as well,
since they were going to have lunch at the Green Dragon.  When all was said
and done, that felt like being a lad again and having someone hand him a
sweet for no reason at all.  If it didn't trouble Frodo, he wasn't going to
let it trouble him.  He wished the widow a happy day, then headed off for the
Green Dragon at an eager jog.


***

The price finally settled on was a fair and reasonable one from either side,
and though it cost Frodo plenty he didn't begrudge it for a moment.  He was
sure Uncle Bilbo would have done the same.  They wrapped the books in cloth
for him to protect them, both of them, and he carefully stuffed them into his
pack along with the ink he'd come for, and a sheaf of parchment, and several
fresh quills, then he hoisted the pack to his back and thanked all the
various Puddlebys gathered around, and he set out to meet Sam.

There was entirely too much coming and going on the streets for his comfort,
but Frodo put on his smile and nodded amiably when it was called for, and was
just glad it was a short way to the edge of town, where Sam was there outside
the Green Dragon waiting, with his sleeves rolled down and his buttons done
up, his shirt tail neatly tucked into his breeches, and the sun shining
through his tousled ginger gold hair.  Frodo found a genuine smile, raising
a hand in greeting, and Sam came to meet him wearing a grin.

"That was a piece of good timing, Mister Frodo.  I've just come up the lane
myself.  Hope you got what you were wanting, sir."  From the smile on his
face, he surely had.

"I did, Sam... and you?"

Sam held up his sack.  "Enough for Daisy to turn into jam for you, sir. 
Course I'll have to pick up those sausages fore we leave town, since it won't
do for em to sit in this heat too long."

Frodo just smiled and nodded, in no mind to think about shopping.  "Let's
have lunch then."  He was of a mind to think about that, and since he wasn't
often the whim was best catered to when it struck.  They went inside, where
it was cooler, and darker, and Frodo led the way to a back table.  The place
was bustling, and he couldn't doubt a few curious looks followed him, but he
determinedly ignored all of that.  He slid the pack from his back and gently
lowered it to the floor, and settled himself at the table.

Sam sat down across from Frodo, put down his sack, and took up a strap of the
pack to lift it a little, just testing.  Frodo made a face at him, but
smiled.

"Really, Sam, I may not have your shoulders, but I can certainly carry a
couple of books from Bywater to Bag End."

Sam wasn't about to say he couldn't, but...  "That's some heavy book, sir."

Frodo laughed.  "I paid some heavy price for it."

Sam smiled at him back, for the laughter, but steered well clear of making
jokes over what Frodo did with his money.  When someone came by, they ordered
onion soup and a loaf of fresh crusty bread for dipping, and Frodo requested
an ale, then turned to him, looking like he wished he didn't have to ask.

"Are you allowed, Sam?"

Sam smiled.  "Oh aye, sir, seeing it's for special... and past high sun, mind
you."

Frodo ordered an ale for Sam as well.  It made him feel strange, but Sam put
his elbows on the table and leaned over it a little, looking perfectly happy
with the situation.

"Did I tell you, Mister Frodo, my Gaffer thinks we'll have a real good season
with the fruit trees, and he said those pears down along the wall weren't
blighted after all, it's just cause it's been dry.  It's a right wonder to me
how he knows, but he's saying we'll have rain afore the week's through, then
things'll freshen up I guess.  Makes me think, it does... do you suppose I'd
feel the rain coming too, sir, if I was to break my leg and got to lie abed
for a month talking to the spiders like my Gaffer did?"

Frodo laughed.  "I don't know, Sam, but I hope you aren't thinking of trying
it.  I'm sure the garden would suffer severely if you weren't there to take
care of it."  As he would.

Sam smiled and said it was just a thought he'd had come to him.  Their lunch
was brought, and two brimming mugs of ale, and before they were halfway
through it, Sam was chattering away about whatever came into his head.  As
long as Frodo sat there smiling back at him, nothing else mattered.

Frodo was having a hard time not falling right into it, gazing into Sam's
eyes dark and glimmering in the lamplight.  Sooner or later it had to occur
to him, how it must look.  Sam's love for him might be as innocent as a
newborn lamb, but his love for Sam wasn't, not anymore, and maybe it showed
more than he wanted to believe, especially with Sam looking at him like that. 
He finally forced his eyes down.  "Sam... "

Sam cut himself short, dropped his gaze into his soup bowl, and gave his
attention to finishing his lunch.  He didn't need to be told what he'd done. 
He'd forgot himself in the pleasure of it all, and he'd talked too much, and
too easy, like he had a right to be talking to Frodo like that, which he
didn't.  The Gaffer would have his hide to hear him at it.  But he'd never
have thought to see Frodo take it amiss.

Frodo's nerves all tightened up.  He couldn't bring himself to look around,
to see who might be watching and listening, but he also couldn't leave Sam to
think what he must be thinking.  "Sam... I didn't mean... " ... for you to
stop, not forever, just long enough so he could think.

Sam quietly laid down his spoon on the table, and wrapped both hands around
his nearly empty mug, but he couldn't quite manage to look up.  "I'm real
sorry, Mister Frodo sir.  My Gaffer always told me I'd talk my head off one
day, and I'm guessing this might just be what he meant."  There was a
splooshing clink of Frodo's spoon settling into his bowl.

For an extremely unpleasant little while, Frodo wasn't sure he was going to
keep down what he'd eaten, but it passed, and he got his breath, and just
wanted to get out of there.  "Have you finished, Sam?"

Sam glanced up enough to see that Frodo hadn't, and though it went against
his grain to leave good food and drink go to waste, he nodded.  "Aye, sir."

With an effort of sheer will, Frodo put a decent face on it, focusing
straight ahead as they walked out, and kept walking, out of town on Bywater
Road, until there was no one in sight coming or going.  Sam was keeping
several paces behind him, silent, head down and eyes fixed on the road before
his feet, and he stopped when Frodo did.  Frodo laid a hand over his queasy
stomach for a moment, then walked back there to stand in front of him. 
"Please don't stop talking to me, Sam."

Sam felt that, and looked up to meet his eyes, "I couldn't, sir... ", and
looked down again.  "But I know I went too far, Mister Frodo, and I'm real
sorry I embarrassed you."

Frodo couldn't stop himself, reached out and gripped Sam's shoulders, and
insisted he look up.  "I didn't mean what you think I meant, Sam.  We have
every right to be together in public as friends.  It wasn't your fault in any
way.  Is that understood?"

Sam just dumbly nodded, but in truth he wasn't sure it wasn't all his fault,
because sometimes what he was feeling for Frodo seeped out of him like
rainwater through burlap, and he couldn't stop it for anything.  Frodo looked
at him like he might just be doing it that very moment, then Frodo took back
his hands, and turned away.  Sam watched him shift his pack, trying to make
it comfortable, and wanted badly to carry it for him, but didn't say a word
about it, and Frodo finally turned back, and smiled a little.

"Wasn't there something you wanted to get before we left town?"

Sam nodded again.  "Those sausages."  But they were well out of Bywater by
then, and Bumble's was all the way across town the other way.  "It don't
matter, Mister Frodo, unless you had your heart set on em."

Frodo didn't particularly.  They went on toward Hobbiton, and he deliberately
walked at Sam's side, whether Sam thought it was proper or not, and just did
his damnedest to keep his thoughts and his feelings to himself.  Thankfully,
Sam quickly got over the whole thing, seemingly, and went back to being his
Sam, if just a bit more subdued.

"You know, Mister Frodo, I was looking round the cellar up at Bag End the
other day, and there's a corner empty that'd be perfect for growing shrooms. 
We don't have a cellar at home, but I've got a little patch tucked back into
the pantry and they do alright even with all the coming and going, but down
in your cellar would be a better place by leaps.  Course it'd be a bit of
mess getting set up, but then you'd have em whenever you wanted."

Dear Sam, always thinking of him.  "It's a grand idea, Sam... but it sounds
like a lot of work to me."

Sam laughed.  "I don't mind the work, sir... if you don't mind the mess."

Frodo did his best to get over it too.  "I have created messes that would
curl the hair on your toes, Sam... as you well know.  I think one more won't
hurt."

Sam smiled, immensely relieved to have it forgotten, if Frodo was willing to. 
But when they came into Hobbiton, there was still that to get through.  Frodo
drew himself up like he thought he was facing down a dragon, and put on that
smile that wasn't really his, the one he gave to unwanted company, which
would be most anyone that came up to Bag End unasked.  Sam couldn't help
thinking folk might take to him better if he could only be more himself with
them, but then the folk of Hobbiton could have been more accepting of him
when he was a lad, and maybe he wouldn't ever have had to learn how to do
that.  It was a sad thing, but Sam didn't know how to fix it.  He quietly
asked one more time if Frodo wouldn't like to just go on home and let him do
the shopping, but Frodo had set his mind to it and wouldn't be deterred.

It was really one of Frodo's least favorite things to do, dealing with the
market, but by that token it was one of the few real challenges he still put
himself to, and he stubbornly meant to see it through.  At least he had Sam
there to comment on what looked good and what didn't, and remind him of
anything he forgot, and to help him carry things, that too, because honestly
he only had two hands.

Sam suggested as they were leaving town and heading back up the hill at last
that it might be less of a job if he was to do the shopping more often, but
Frodo didn't look like he thought that a good idea at all.  As for offering
again to carry Frodo's pack at that point, they were both thoroughly laden,
and he'd taken as much more than his share as he could.

Frodo felt his load lighten as soon as they left the lane and passed through
Bag End's garden gate, home where there was no need to pretend, where he
could smile at Sam, within reason, and not have to worry what all of Hobbiton
and Bywater were thinking, and saying.  They went in the back door, dusted
and sweaty and needing to wash up before going inside.  The bags and packages
all got stacked in the hallway, then Sam helped him off with his pack.

"I could start the kettles heating in the bath, Mister Frodo, if you'd like
to get cleaned up proper."

It was tempting actually, to settle into a hot bath and forget everything for
a time, but of course Frodo knew precisely where that would lead, the way he
felt after spending all morning with Sam, and the thought of doing such a
thing with Sam anywhere on the premises truly revolted him.  He would have
his bath after Sam left for the night, as always.  "I might go out in the
garden with you and get even sweatier... so there really wouldn't be any
point, Sam."

Sam discouraged that without delay.  "You've been out in the sun plenty for
today, sir, don't you think?  You wouldn't want to go through that again." 
That being what he'd gone through after That Day, sick with the sunburn, so
he'd said, hardly coming out of his room for days.  Sam didn't want to go
through it again, that was a fact.

Frodo turned away, not liking to even think about it, about what he'd started
that day.  He pumped fresh cool water into the basin and splashed his face,
that helped.  Going back out into the sunshine with Sam wouldn't, so Sam won
that one.  They cleaned up as well as they needed to there in the mud room,
then they gathered up the groceries and carted everything down the hall to
the kitchen and the pantries, and when it was all put away where it belonged,
Sam built up the hearthfire and put on a kettle.

"Would you like some of those honey cakes, Mister Frodo.  You left half your
lunch behind at the Green Dragon."

Frodo didn't want to think about that either.  "No thank you, Sam, not right
now... but tea would be nice.  Do you have a lot to do in the garden?"

Sam took himself out to the garden in his mind, and had a look around. 
"Well, the watering has to be done, sir... and the compost needs turning...
and there's the weeding and deadheading that needs doing every day... not too
awful much.  I'll fit it in right enough.  You might as well go on ahead to
the study, Mister Frodo, and I'll bring you your tea when its ready."

Frodo told himself he ought to be making his own damned tea, but Sam already
had it well in hand and seemed to want it just that way, so there was nothing
he could do but go on to the study.  He took up his pack on the way in, and
leaned it against the side of the desk before he sat down.  There was plenty
he needed to be doing himself, plenty he needed to be doing that he'd been
putting off, and putting off, like answering his mail.  He'd been owing
cousin Merry a letter for way too long, and though he'd never lump writing to
Merry in with the rest, he just didn't know what to say to the lad lately.

Opening a drawer, he took out the stack of mail he was obliged to answer at
some time or other.  Merry's latest letter was on top.  The rest were from
other relatives mostly, polite keeping in touch correspondence, and there
were a couple from lasses who hadn't yet given up on him completely, and
several from Aunt Lobelia, shudders, wanting to know on the surface why he
never came to visit.  He almost put the whole stack of them back in the
drawer to deal with later, almost.  Sam came in with his tea about then, and
glanced at his pack there on the floor.

"Thought you'd have your new books out, sir."  That was what he wanted to be
doing, Sam was sure.  Frodo looked up at him with a better face than the one
he'd had on.

"I'll wait for you to finish your work, Sam, then we can look at them
together."

Sam was touched to the heart, and couldn't doubt it showed.  "You don't have
to do that, Mister Frodo."

Frodo smiled at him.  "I want to, Sam."

Sam smiled at him back.  "I'll not dilly dally then, sir."  He stood there a
long moment more just the same, caught up in the two of them smiling back and
forth like that, then had to just tear himself away.

Frodo listened to Sam walking out, to the back door opening and closing, and
he heaved a great sigh, staring at Merry's letter, Merry's perky impetuous
handwriting on the envelope.  He wished Merry was there, someone he could
touch, someone he could hug and be hugged by, just for warmth and caring, if
that hadn't changed as well.  It had been a couple of months since they'd
seen each other, and things did change, he could bear witness to that.  He
had a gulp of his tea, though it was too hot, then forced himself to take out
a sheet of parchment and begin.

'Dear cousin Merry, I'm sorry I haven't written back sooner, but... '  "But
what?  But I've been too busy lusting after poor Sam to much think about
anything else!"  He dropped his quill and put a hand over his mouth,
listening intently, but there was only the sound of the breeze whispering by
outside, and a bee faintly buzzing among the flowers under the window.  He
wiped away the sweat beaded on his upper lip, and took up the quill again,
dipped it, and concentrated.  '... I've been working hard... '

The quill tip screeched, and a blob of ink spread over the parchment.  He
took in a calming breath, slid it aside to put out a fresh one, and tried
again, but found himself just sitting there, his mind flashing back to Merry
telling him that tale, of spying on two older lads lying together in a
thicket of reeds down by the river, telling it to him in excruciating detail. 
Though Merry, at barely twelve, had seemed to take it for a lark, it had
touched Frodo in ways that had disturbed him deeply, and that was pretty much
all he'd ever heard of such things, because Merry had never mentioned
anything of the kind ever again.

Frodo wished desperately that he'd had the nerve to ask Uncle Bilbo while he
had the chance.  He needed someone to talk to about it, and there wasn't
anyone.  The plain truth was he hadn't fit in at Brandy Hall then much better
than he did in Hobbiton now, and he hadn't grown up with close friends his
own age, too shy and bookish for the wild ways his Brandybuck cousins mostly
tended toward, and besides Bilbo the only father figure he'd really had in
his life since he was a teen was Master Saradoc.  He could only imagine what
Merry's father would say if he confessed to this terrible compulsion, or
where it would go from there, to his being denied Merry's friendship quite
likely, and probably Pip's as well.  Feeling pitifully sorry for himself, he
couldn't help thinking that might be best, for their sakes.

In no good frame of mind for it, he gave up on Merry's letter, and tried
writing one to Aunt Lobelia instead.  'Dear Aunt Lo... '  The quill tip
caught, and blotched the page with ink stains.  He clenched his teeth and
held his breath, and forcibly stilled the trembling in his hand, then he took
out another fresh sheet, and kept on trying.


***

Sam spent what was left of the afternoon in an untypical rush, forcing the
work he would normally have been half the day at into a couple of hours, to
the benefit of the weeds he overlooked, just the tiniest ones hiding in the
undergrowth where they couldn't be seen, yet, but not his best effort by a
long shot.  He wasn't too very proud of the work, but Frodo was waiting on
him to finish.  He turned the compost heaps, one onto the next, heaving great
forkfuls with too little care for where they landed, and leaving them
untidier than he was wont to do, though out beyond the orchard no one would
see them but him, as long as the Gaffer didn't choose that time to come up
and check on his work, not likely since the Gaffer trusted him these days to
do his best.  That gave him pause, briefly, making him think he ought to go
back and do it right, but he didn't.  Frodo was waiting.

Dripping with sweat, he made his way back down to the well to get washed. 
Since Frodo had taken to asking him in after hours, he'd taken to bringing
along an extra clean shirt, not to be more offensive than he couldn't help
being, so he unslung his braces and stripped off the soppy one he was
wearing, and cleaned up thoroughly, then he went among the flowers picking a
big handful of the best blues and whites before he went in.  Fresh sweat
broke out on his brow before the chill in the mud room had a chance to cool
him down.  He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it away, then put on his
clean shirt and made himself presentable.  He didn't stop at the open study
door, but glanced in as he very quietly passed by.  Frodo had his penknife
out, sharpening his nib, frowning at it like it had done him some harm.  Sam
wanted to just walk in there and hand him the flowers, and tell him not to
worry about it, whatever it was, but that was surely going too far.  He went
on to the kitchen, to make a fresh pot of tea.


***

'Dear cousin Merry, please forgive me for not answering your letter sooner. 
I'm afraid I have no excuse, unless it be laziness, but don't want you to
think I haven't thought of you, I have, and wish I could get away to Buckland
for a nice long visit... '  Scritch.  The quill scattered droplets of ink
every which way, and Frodo had no choice but to give it up.  He'd managed the
rest finally, had even gotten a letter written to Aunt Lobelia that was
blotch free, though filled with apology and evasion, but this one continued
to elude him, which was just what he deserved for trying to lie to Merry. 
The truth was he didn't wish to be anywhere but at Bag End, with Sam.

"Mister Frodo... "

Frodo looked up and there Sam was, with a tray of tea and cakes, and flowers,
a vase overflowing with lilies and petunias and clusters of forget me nots,
and blooms that only Sam knew the names of.  He smiled, and came to put the
tray down, and set the vase onto the desktop looking a little bashful, not
like Sam at all.  Of course, it was hardly the first time he'd brought
flowers inside to brighten the place up, but this didn't feel like that, at
all.  Frodo found a grateful smile, he hoped.  "How beautiful!"

A silly notion came into Sam's head to tell Frodo they looked like weeds in
his own beautiful presence, but that also was going too far, much as it was
the pure truth.  Frodo gave him a hopeful look.

"Are you finished working?"

Sam smiled and said, "Aye, sir.", and Frodo told him to pull up a chair, and
cleared his desk, and took out his new books, the big heavy one first.  Sam
poured their tea, and moved the plate of honey cakes to within Frodo's easy
reach, then settled down to look at the book with him.  For all the handsome
books on Frodo's shelves, even the ones up top that were his and Mister
Bilbo's favorites, Sam had never seen a handsomer one, the pages all edged
with gold and the text framed in vines and flowers, and swords and shields,
text that looked penned by someone who'd never in his life had an o come out
lumpy, and pictures, pictures Sam could have looked at for hours without
seeing all they had to say.

"You can touch it, Sam."

Sam thought not.  "Oh nay, Mister Frodo, I wouldn't want to do that."  Frodo
just smiled a little, and went on slowly turning the pages, until they'd
glanced over it once through, then he turned it back to the beginning, to a
painting of a great city that grew out the side of a mountain it seemed, with
tiers and spires and a broad river running at its feet, all soft and bright
like it was washed with moonshine.  Frodo's eyes seemed to glow.

"Uncle Bilbo would have loved this.  He always wanted to see Minas Tirith."

"Bless me, sir... that's a real place?"

Frodo smiled.  "It is indeed.  It's where this book came from... and a good
many of those as well.", with a wave of his hand toward the shelves.  Sam
stared at the picture like he was trying to make it come to life.

"Is it a place of the elves, Mister Frodo?"

Frodo solemnly shook his head.  "No... it's a city of men."

That rather confounded Sam.  "I never heard tell any place of the big folk
looked like that."

Frodo leaned his head on one hand, his focus shifted from the picture to Sam. 
"It's very far away, Sam... in the south."  Sam looked at him, and looked at
the picture again.

"Do you think old Mister Bilbo might have gone there, sir?"

Frodo considered that, not for the first time.  "I think he may have."

Sam felt his eyes go misty, and swallowed it down as best he could.  "I would
dearly love to know old Mister Bilbo had got himself to someplace special
like that... though I can't see Mister Bilbo hobnobbing with the big folk...
if you know what I mean, sir."

Frodo could, in a way.  "I've never known anyone as brave as Uncle Bilbo.  He
wouldn't have been afraid to go to the south."

Sam wholeheartedly agreed with that.  "Nay, sir, Mister Bilbo weren't afraid
of anything."  But Mister Bilbo was eleventy-three years old.  "How far would
that be, Mister Frodo?"

"To Minas Tirith... hundreds of leagues."  Frodo supposed that was a bit more
than Sam could comprehend.  His brown eyes grew wide.

"Hundreds... "  The tears went right ahead and welled up.  "I sure hope old
Mister Bilbo had some company on such a walk as that."

Frodo felt a painful twinge, and closed his eyes tight shut.  "He should
have."

Sam kicked himself, hard, but there wasn't any unsaying it.

Frodo breathed a sorrowful sigh, and opened his eyes, and Sam was staring at
him with tears running down his face.  In the emotion of the moment it was
either pull him close and hold him, or turn away, quickly.  Frodo turned
away.  If he'd gone with Uncle Bilbo as he should have, none of it would have
happened.  The Sackville-Bagginses would be in Bag End, and Sam would have
nothing worse than Aunt Lobelia to deal with.  Poor Sam wouldn't thank him
for that.  He was abruptly seized by a fit of laughter that made his chest
ache.

Sam couldn't think what that might mean, but it didn't feel like a good
thing.  He smeared his face on his shirtsleeves and ordered himself in his
head to stop blubbering, in the Gaffer's voice to be sure he took heed, and
Frodo had stopped laughing by then, was sitting there with his head in his
hand looking tired and sad.  The sight pierced Sam's heart.  "Mister Frodo...
I'm sorry... I reckon old Mister Bilbo has got all the elves and all the
dwarves and all the wizards too looking out for him."

Frodo heard the tremble in Sam's voice, and forcibly got himself together. 
It was true enough.  He needed Bilbo far more than Bilbo needed him.  "It's
alright, Sam.  I don't want you to ever feel you have to be careful of what
you say to me."

Sam looked down from Frodo's eyes.  He always tried to be careful what he
said, he just didn't always catch himself in time.  But Frodo made like it
didn't matter.  He softly blew across the page, then closed the big book and
put it aside, then he took out the one that was in elvish.

"Best for last."  Saddened to have lost Sam's smile, Frodo went out of his
way to get it back.  He well knew what would make Sam happy.  He carefully
opened the shabby little book on the desktop, and started reading from it. 
He didn't half understand what he was saying, because he'd been still
learning high elvish when Bilbo left, but he translated what he could of it
in his mind, and it began to come together, and if he'd understood none of
it, it would have soothed his soul anyway, just feeling the words sweet and
succulent on his tongue.

Sam sat there with his hands clasped in his lap, his heart purring.  There
wasn't a lovelier thing to hear than Frodo speaking elvish, and it took him
right away to moonlight falling on a quiet wood without his even having to
close his eyes, which he couldn't do anyway, not with Frodo looking like
that, like the rare precious spirit inside him was shining through.  Frodo
was just too perfect and beautiful for words.

Looking up from the page as he turned to the next, Frodo's gaze met Sam's and
his heartbeat stuttered.  The room was too still and quiet all of a sudden,
the air too hot and heavy to breathe, and they were far too close.  The light
of love in Sam's eyes made him very afraid of what was in his own, and that
fear made him push the book away and stumble to his feet.  "Sam... I think
you should go home."

Sam felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach, but if it showed on his face
at least Frodo had turned away and didn't have to see it.  He slowly stood. 
"I thought I'd be fixing your supper for you, Mister Frodo, like usual."  He
had been for the past many nights, then they would sit in the parlour and
read, or just talk.  It was what he most looked forward to all day every day. 
But Frodo had had enough, always when it seemed like everything was just
right.

"Sam... "  Frodo managed to turn back, but didn't dare look him in the face. 
"Please don't be angry with me."

Sam fixed his eyes on the floor.  "I couldn't be, sir."

Frodo helplessly raised a hand to his head.  "I have this pain... probably
from writing Aunt Lobelia... I might just go to bed early."

Sam glanced up, not sure he believed that, but wanting to.  "I could fix you
something for it, Mister Frodo... "  Nay.  Frodo just didn't want him there,
as was Frodo's right after all.

"I'll be fine, Sam.  You shouldn't have to sit up here with me night after
night."

Sam bit his tongue and said nothing to that.  "What about your supper, sir?"

Frodo took in a breath.  "I can do it.  I've been watching you."

More likely he'd just scrounge, but at least the pantry was stocked.  Sam
couldn't see any way around it.  "Alright, Mister Frodo.  I'll just take care
of the fires for you."

Frodo couldn't stand for that.  "No, Sam, you've done enough.  Go home and
spend some time with your family.  Please."

Sam finally couldn't do anything else.

Powerless not to, Frodo watched him to the study door, and out, then hugged
his arms across his middle, and called after him.  "Goodnight, Sam."  Sam's
voice reached him back, faint and subdued.

"Goodnight, Mister Frodo."

Frodo walked back to the desk, and sank down into his chair there.  His head
did ache, miserably, but it probably had little to do with Aunt Lobelia. 
He'd hurt Sam's feelings, and his own heart was in tatters.  It couldn't go
on, but he didn't know how to stop it, short of going away.  He shoved
himself up again and went to the window, in time to see Sam going out the
garden gate and heading down the lane, looking like someone had stomped all
over his favorite roses.  The urge to call him back was intense, to call him
back and just tell him, and let the chips fall where they would, but Frodo
knew just how it would fall if he were to do such a thing, on Sam pretending
it was alright at the very least, wanting to do for him at the worst, with no
regard for what Sam wanted or didn't want himself.

Sam disappeared around the curve of the hill, and the day lost all its
brightness.  It wasn't late, the sun barely touching the hilltops in the
west, but inside the shadows deepened, and the silence as well.  Frodo
finally pushed himself from the window with a sigh, and spied a bit of faded
red cloth on the floor half under the desk, Sam's handkerchief.  He walked
over there, stooped down, and picked it up, and he raised it to his face and
closed his eyes.  It smelled of Sam, of the breath he got of Sam when he
allowed himself that close, of earth and green growing things and the sweat
of honest toil, only deeper and richer, Sam's very essence.

Gripping the edge of the desktop to keep himself steady, he crouched there
feeling the heat rise in him.  He despised himself for it, but he clenched
Sam's handkerchief in his hand and kept it, dragging himself to his feet,
pushing himself out and down the hall into the dark chill bath chamber.  The
fire wasn't lit, because he'd told Sam he'd do it himself.  He turned around
and stalked back out, to the kitchen, to find a candle to light at the
hearthfire there, which also needed attending to of course.  He didn't, just
took himself back to the bath, and thankfully found the grate stacked and
ready to be lit.  Even that took some effort, but he got it going at last,
and made sure the kettles were filled, then he went back to the kitchen,
through the pantry and down the cellar steps, the candlelight flickering
weird shadows on the walls and the ceiling and the floor.

It was cold enough in the cellar to make him shiver, but the fire inside him
burned on.  He didn't linger there, just grabbed a bottle of Old Winyards
from the rack, then went back to the kitchen to open it.  His nerves grated
unreasonably at being unable to find anything appropriate to put it in, and
he finally took the bottle with him tucked into the crook of his arm, with
Sam's handkerchief clutched in one hand, and the candlestick precariously
gripped in his other, to the dining room, where he located a proper wineglass
in the fancy cabinet.  He set down the candle and the bottle, took out the
glass and filled it, and poured it down with a shudder, then filled it again.

The water in the kettles was barely simmering when he made it back to the
bath, but he couldn't wait any longer.  He forced down the last of his third
glass of wine, enough to fog thinking and help him forget just how much he
didn't want to do it.  He pulled off his clothes and left them scattered as
they landed, and sank down into the water at last with his heart beating slow
and heavy, with Sam's handkerchief still in his shaking hand.  Even half
inebriated, he knew how despicable it was, but he couldn't stop it then.  He
wrapped one hand around the pounding ache and roughly gripped it, and he
buried his face in the bittersweet smell of Sam and tortured himself one more
time.


***

Sam had his bath in glum silence, too flustered to think quite straight, with
Frodo telling him one thing, then telling him another, asking him to stay,
then saying he should go, 'Can't you stay a little longer, Sam?' then turning
right around 'I think it's time you went home, Sam.', and those eyes never
looking any less like it was the staying he really wanted.  Sam ground his
fists into his watering eyes.  It was enough to make his head spin round. 
But it wasn't enough to make his love for Frodo shine any less brilliant.

"Samwise... if you're coming for supper you'd best come now!"

The door came open, and May poked her head in.  He slid himself down into the
bathwater with a growl.  "Hey... "  She just laughed at him.

"Why aren't you singing?"

Sam tossed her a half hearted frown and mumbled, "Don't feel like it."  She
looked at him like she was sorry, and backed out.

"Better hurry, little brother.  Da's just got back from Overhill and he's
looking hungry."

She closed the door, and he dragged himself out to get dried and dressed,
then quick got himself to the supper table.  The Gaffer looked at him, and
didn't say a word, and he didn't have anything to say himself, so he just sat
there staring at his plate while they put the food on the table.  Goldy set
a big dish of braised carrots with celery right in front of him, like she was
trying to butter him up.  He glanced her a cautious look, and she gave him a
sweet smile back, just being kind.  He tried to feel better, tried to listen
to their talk and just pretend his day hadn't been eventful enough to comment
on, but he couldn't manage to much more than chase things around his plate as
far as eating went, and he was glad enough when it was over.  He pushed
himself up to help clear the dishes, but the Gaffer stopped him.

"The girls'll do that, Samwise... I want a word with you."

A lump came up in Sam's throat, but he didn't so much as open his mouth, just
stood by the front door waiting while the Gaffer took down his pipe from the
mantle, then went outside with him.  The sun had dropped and dusk was
gathering.  Sam moved to sink down to the bench below the window, where the
Gaffer did most of his after supper talking to.

"We're going to walk, lad."

Sam stopped himself in mid sit, with that lump in his throat just about to
choke him.  Walking and talking to was a sight more serious than sitting and
talking to, and that calm easy tone didn't bode well either.  The Gaffer took
out his pouch, then took out a pipe from his pocket, a new one, and handed it
to him.  He stood there holding it in his hand, with all kinds of thoughts
racing around in his head, like getting a few puffs from the Gaffer's pipe
when they had that particular talk, and if this meant they were going to have
another of those talks, why did it feel like such a bad thing?  Because it
likely meant the Gaffer Knew, and the Gaffer could forbid him to go back up
to Bag End ever again.  His stomach twisted into knots.

"How old are you, Samwise?"

Sam futilely swallowed at the lump.  "I'm twenty-three, sir."  The Gaffer
offered his pouch, and Sam filled his first pipe for the first time, with his
hands shaking so bad it was all he could do not spilling it all over the
ground.  The Gaffer bent down then and struck a match against the last stone
in their walk, and they lit their pipes from it.  Thankfully, Sam had had
enough unofficial experience not to choke on it.  The Gaffer started walking
down Bagshot Row, and he couldn't do anything but follow.

"I heard tell you went to town with Mister Baggins today.  And never you mind
who said so, it was said for your own good."

Sam attempted to wipe the look of shock from his face.  "I did, sir... to
market.  I went along to carry for him."  The Gaffer glanced him a sidelong
look, and kept on walking.

"I heard tell too you were dragging on Mister Baggins' tail like a moonstruck
calf."

Sam clenched his teeth so tight it felt like sparks shot through his brain.

"That's how it was told to me, though there's others won't say it so nice."

They just strolled, for what felt like forever, and Sam's new pipe dangled
from his hand forgotten.  They came to the stables and turned to walk back,
then he got it in full.

"If you think I've not seen the way you've been acting, Samwise, then you're
twice the fool, strutting round up at Bag End like a young banty cock. 
You're old enough to have no excuse for not seeing the effect that sort of
thing can have on the one it's aimed at."

That was a blow, because Sam hadn't thought of it that way.  The Gaffer
breathed out a puff of smoke, and seemed to sigh.

"I've tried all your life to keep your feet on the ground where they belong,
and truth be told the Bagginses haven't ever made that easy for me.  Young
Mister Frodo takes right after his uncle, he does, and more, not wanting to
see where the line ought to be drawn.  But it's not up to the Bagginses to
keep you in your place, Samwise Gamgee, it's up to you to keep yourself
there.  Taking tea with your betters and reading books aren't what you were
made for, and it's a lesson it's time you learned."

The Gaffer stopped walking, and Sam hung his head and just stood there
trembling all over.

"Nothing to say, lad?"

Nothing.  The Gaffer chuckled.

"Well, there's a new one."

Sam wanted to go home to bed, wanted to go to sleep and dream of Frodo and
never wake up again.  But the Gaffer wasn't finished with him, stood staring
up at the sky for a little while, then crossed his arms and dropped his voice
down low and quiet.

"Alright then, here tis... it's all well and good to be young and to do what
lads do, but there'll come a day you'll have to grow up, sooner than you
think, and placing your affections where they don't belong will get you a
whole lot of heartache and not much else.  Remember, Samwise, you're the one
who'll be dragging yourself up that hill every day for the rest of your life,
at least til you've got a lad of your own to take it over, and if you've got
to grit your teeth and swallow a bitter pill every day to do it, you'll have
no life worth living."

Sam couldn't get a breath into his lungs, and the Gaffer put a hand on his
shoulder and looked him straight in the eye.

"I know what I'm speaking of."

That was the shocker to beat all, no mistake.  Sam stared back into his
father's eyes in the failing twilight, and understood what he was saying, but
the Gaffer didn't give him any chance to ask further.

"I'll be taking another turn or two.  You can go on inside.  And don't you
lose that pipe first thing."

Sam found enough of his voice to promise he wouldn't, then took himself on
home and left the Gaffer standing there in the lane looking up at the stars. 
He went in and headed straight for his room, leaving the sisters paused in
their chit chat staring after him, because he had some hard thinking to do. 
Not that thinking was going to change anything.  Maybe he was doomed like the
Gaffer said to spend his life wishing for things he wasn't ever going to get,
but it couldn't be undone if he'd wanted.  He loved Frodo.

The bed creaked and groaned as he flopped himself down onto it, and lay there
staring into the blackness.  He intently caressed his fingers over the smooth
polished wood of his new pipe, wishing he'd hugged his father while there was
a chance that seemed right for it.  The Gaffer would have frowned and shooed
him off, but Sam didn't think he would have really minded.


***

Frodo sank down at Uncle Bilbo's desk in the study feeling drained and numb,
with no heart whatsoever for the work he'd been doing.  There were the new
books, but if he'd thought they might offer some distraction from Sam, he'd
been sadly mistaken, because he wanted Sam there to share them with.  He
moved them well out of the way, had enough sense still to do that, before he
poured himself another glass of Old Winyards, and tipped it up.  The shutters
were open at the window, a night breeze rustling through the garden.  He'd
dressed, thinking he might go out for a long walk and try to clear his head. 
But he didn't have the energy to try, and didn't particularly want his head
clear for that matter.  He sat there and just stared at the flowers Sam had
brought him.  He'd discussed it with himself at length, the notion of going
away, of just packing up and going off in search of Bilbo, but the awful
truth was he didn't have the courage for it, simply couldn't bear to leave
Sam, much as it hurt sometimes being near him.  He fumbled out a parchment
finally, reached for his quill and clumsily dipped it, and wrote at the top
'Dearest Sam... '  He blinked at it, not focusing well.  That was no way to
start a letter to Merry, but since he'd gone that far, he went ahead with it. 
'How I love you and yearn for you dear Sam and how it breaks my heart to see
your pure unsullied love for me and know how unworthy I am... '  He filled
the whole page with such nonsense, fully intending to rip it up into tiny
pieces when he was finished.




Title:  True Love, part three, Touching
Author:  Keye Goodenough
Email:  mibender@mc.net
Characters:  Frodo and Sam
Rating:  NC17
Genre:  Angst, Romance
Summary:  Frodo and Sam come to an understanding.

Disclaimer:  Middle Earth and all who inhabit it belong to the master, J.R.R.
               Tolkien.  May he forgive us.

Story notes:  Summer of 1403.  Frodo is two years of-age at thirty-five.  Sam
                is twenty-three.

This story follows:
True Love, part one, Awakening
True Love, part two, Sparking


Touching by Keye Goodenough


"Time to wake up, Sam."

Sam startled from a dream of Frodo to sudden wakefulness.  After lying there 
sleepless half the night, he hardly remembered getting out of his clothes and 
under the covers, but there he was, and there Marigold was, in his room 
waving a lamp in his face.  He fumbled to clutch the sheets up against him. 

"Goldy... get out... I'm naked!"  She thought that was funny.

"Silly brother, I've seen you in your skin plenty of times."

Not in a good long while she hadn't, and she wasn't about to see him like that, 
but she sat herself down on the edge of his bed and wouldn't budge.

"Are you in trouble, Sam?"

Since she seemed sincerely concerned, he forbore just shoving her off, only 
tucked himself a little farther out of her way.  "Nay.  Da gave me a pipe."
 
Of course, the Gaffer hadn't given him anything to put in it, but it was his very 
own first pipe, and he was feeling a little proud over that when all was said 
and done.  Goldy leaned back against his knee, pushing it big time.

"Da's gone already to do the Bracegirdles' hedges... so you can tell me all 
about it."

Sam tried feigning ignorance.  "Tell you all about what?"  She gave him one 
of those smiles of hers.

"You know, Sam... everything... like why've you been so chipper mornings, 
and why'd you come home all long faced last eve, and what did Da have to 
take you out in the lane to say... secrets."

The secrets Sam had been keeping were far too huge and weighty to give to 
her.  "I reckon you've got secrets of your own I'm not hearing."  She got a 
mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

Daisy appeared in the doorway and thankfully put a stop to it.

"Samwise!"

He had to defend himself, still clutching the bedcovers to him.  "It's none of 
my doing, ma'am."  She shook her finger at them.

"Don't you ma'am me, Samwise.... Marigold... out!"

Marigold got herself up and bustled out, and Daisy gave him a look.

"It's past time you were up."

She stepped out and closed the door.  Sam sank into his pillow, briefly.  The 
pleasant glow he'd wakened with was long gone, but there wasn't time 
anyway. 

He dragged himself out of bed, and washed and dressed.  He wasn't exactly 
humming that morning, but he knew with a fresh day everything would be 
alright up at Bag End again, at least for the time being.  He tucked his pipe 
into his pocket, thinking if they got as far as reading in the parlour after 
supper, Frodo would likely spare him a little weed for it.  At any rate, he'd 
have to show it off.  Daisy had breakfast waiting for him, and he downed it in 
a hurry.  Dawn was breaking through the window already, and May was 
heading off to do her housecleaning work.  Daisy came out from getting the 
laundry started.

"You've lost another kerchief, Sam.  Must we tie them round your wrist?"

Sam told her he was sorry, between gulping down his tea and pushing himself 
back up from the table.  Goldy brought him his lunch and a fresh loaf warm 
from the oven, and gave him a sly wink while she was at it, and he knew he 
hadn't heard the last of that.  She gave him a kiss on the cheek too, and since 
he was feeling quite a bit better he gave her one back, then he headed out up 
to Bag End.

The day was a fine one, but with no hint of clouds to promise the rain they 
could have used, which meant he'd have to water most everything, since he'd 
skimped on it the day before.  He busied his mind with what else had to be 
done as he passed through the garden gate, and finally let himself in the back 
door, into the still quiet.  He tiptoed past Frodo's bedroom, then stopped in his 
tracks at the study door, which was open.

Frodo was there, half sprawled across the desktop, asleep?  Sam's heart beat 
faster.  There was a mostly empty bottle standing there, and an empty goblet 
knocked over.  It wasn't like Frodo to visit the wineracks without company. 
He might have drunk himself into a stupor.  He might not be breathing. Sam 
latched onto that as a more than good enough reason to take a closer look. He 
stepped into the room, and silently made his way to the desk.  The candles 
were all burned down to cold stubs, but the window shutters were open, and 
there was daylight enough to see, Frodo's delicate hand laying there limply 
holding his quill, a pool of ink staining the blotter where the tip touched. His 
other arm pillowed his head and his face lay mostly covered by his hair, but a 
glimpse could be just had of a lass's long eyelashes feathered against the pale 
cheek.

Sam had to stop himself, and listen, to the faint soft sigh of Frodo's breathing.  
Asleep he was, and Sam didn't know quite what to do about it.  He looked 
none too comfortable, was likely to have a krick in his back if nothing worse.  
Sam wondered if it wouldn't be the kindest thing to wake him and suggest he 
go to his bed.  He quietly stepped around behind Frodo's chair, hands clasped 
behind his back just to be safe.  There was a sheet of parchment there trapped 
under Frodo's elbow, just a corner of it sticking out.  Sam leaned over, craning 
his neck, just to see if it was elvish honestly, but it wasn't, he could read it 
clear as anything, Dearest Sam.  He stepped back, and just stood there stock 
still, trying to think if Frodo might know any other Sam but himself, trying to 
think at all.  He couldn't. 
He leaned over again, trying for another look, but the rest of it was hid under 
the tumble of Frodo's dark curls.  His fingers twitched, and he unclasped his 
hands and actually reached out.

Mercifully, he stopped himself short of touching.  Whatever it was, whatever 
it meant, he wasn't going to sneak to find out.  If Frodo had wrote a letter to 
him, for some reason, Frodo would give it to him, or not.  It felt like his 
insides had all turned to melted butter.  His hand hovered, trembling, just 
wanting to feel if Frodo's hair was as silky soft as it looked, but Frodo jerked 
suddenly and he jumped back with his breath caught.  Frodo stilled again, and 
started murmuring in his sleep, things Sam couldn't understand hard as he 
tried, and he'd taken all the chances he dared to. Holding his breath and 
making no slightest sound, he slowly circled on around the desk, and just left 
everything as it was, the bottle standing open, the glass tipped on its side, the 
tea things still there from the day before, and he quietly went out to get 
himself to work.

Frodo's clothes were scattered all over the bath chamber floor, along with a
good deal of water splashed over the side of the tub.  Sam got a fire going
in the hearth first thing and started the water heating, then gathered up the
laundry and mopped the floor.  By the time he got to the kitchen and found
the cupboard doors all open and rummaged through, he'd seen signs enough 
that
maybe Frodo hadn't had any better a night of it than he had, and the Gaffer's
words came right back to him, that it might be his fault.  The Gaffer
accusing him of strutting about was a shame to him, because he never meant 
to
be like that, but it was true he'd never tried to hide from Frodo the loving
part of what he felt, and there were times lately he'd not been at all sure
he was hiding the other part, and maybe... maybe Frodo was seeing it... and
thinking about it... and maybe... wanting him too?  He couldn't ignore what
else the Gaffer had said to him, because he'd been hearing it all his life,
that he wasn't good enough for more than digging in the dirt and seeing to
his work, but Frodo didn't think like that, never had, and because of that a
part of him didn't.

Frodo had wrote Dearest Sam on a sheet of parchment.  Poor Frodo all alone
and lonely, and needing him, and he'd been lying there in his bed all alone
and lonely too.  An enormous heart tugging warmth spread all through him.  
He
wasn't his father, and Frodo wasn't Mister Bilbo either, and maybe it didn't
have to be like the Gaffer said.  He went about tidying up with hope floating
over him like a big bright sun.  He made up the fires in the kitchen and
cooked a special easy on the stomach treat for Frodo, creamed buttered
porridge with a touch of molasses, and a special tea for the head he was
likely to have after overdrinking like that.  He didn't often, and when he
did, he seemed to suffer for it more than most.

Sam finally filled a tray, and went back to the study, where Frodo was still
lying there like that, but kind of twitching a little, like he might be
trying to wake.  Sam set down the tray next to the vase with the blue and
white flowers, then he quietly moved the other chair around to the front of
the desk, and he sat down there and waited, for Frodo to finally stir and
lift his head, and blink open those eyes.  "Morning, Mister Frodo."

Frodo almost dropped his pounding head back down, but he wasn't in his bed
and Sam was there smiling at him.

"Looks like you had a party last night, sir, all by yourself."

Frodo seemed to remember drinking, and drinking some more, and not very 
much
else.  He seemed to be in the study, seemed to be lying across the desk.  He
pushed himself up, very slow and carefully, and a letter lay there, in his
own handwriting, sort of, a letter to Sam... a heartfelt letter to Sam
detailing his sins and wishes!  He slapped his hand over it, fumbled open a
drawer, and swept it out of sight.

Sam dropped his eyes.  So it wasn't meant for him to see, and maybe it wasn't
even a good thing, though he couldn't see Frodo writing Dearest Sam and then
saying something he didn't want to hear.  He made himself look up again, and
Frodo had his elbows on the desktop and his hands over his face.  Sam took
the cup of tea from the tray and set it in front of him.  "You have this,
Mister Frodo.  It'll help, or so my Gaffer says it does."

Frodo dropped his hands, one of them.  The other he clasped over his mouth,
staring at the muddy yellow green tea Sam was asking him to drink.

"It's not as bad as it looks, sir, and I sweetened it for you with a little
honey."

Frodo forced himself, to pick up the cup and take a sip.  It wasn't that bad,
though it smelled peculiar.  It was warm, and it was wet.  He took another
swallow, and it settled without too much trouble.  He took in a better
breath, and finally found a shred of his voice.  "Is it late?"  He couldn't
quite make himself turn to the window and look.

Sam said, "Nay, Mister Frodo.  You ought to just sit there and relax until
you feel better."  He didn't look like he'd be moving anywhere too soon.  Sam
reached over and uprighted the wineglass that was lying on its side, and he
quietly moved the plate of stale uneaten honey cakes to the tray he'd
brought, then he took out his pipe.  "Look what the Gaffer gave me last
night, sir."  He held it up, and Frodo looked at it and kind of smiled a
little.

It was a rite of passage, and Frodo was sure it must mean a great deal to
Sam.

"Did Mister Bilbo give you your first pipe, Mister Frodo?"

Frodo swallowed a gulp of the tea, running his hand through his tangled hair,
trying to think around the dull thudding in his head.  "No... Master Saradoc
Brandybuck did, when I was... sixteen, I think."  He hadn't taken to it until
later.  "Uncle Bilbo gave me my second."

Sam watched him finish the tea at last, then uncovered the porridge and set
that in front of him.  He didn't look at all happy about it, but Sam thought
he knew better just then what was best.  "You'll have no complaint about the
taste of that, Mister Frodo sir, and it'll make you feel right as rain in no
time.  It didn't look like you fixed yourself supper last night like you said
you would."

Frodo certainly couldn't remember doing so.  It was all rather mortifying now
that his mind was starting to work again.  "I'm sorry about this, Sam.... I
can't think... what I was thinking."  He could actually, distressing as that
was.  He'd hurt Sam's feelings, sending him home early, and here Sam was
pretending he hadn't done it, trying to take care of him.  Sam set a spoon
down by the bowl, and he didn't say a word, just picked it up and ate the
stuff, which was really very good once he'd gotten the first spoonful down.

Sam sat there with his thoughts all chasing each other through his head, 
while Frodo had his breakfast, and started looking like he felt more himself,
and Sam finally couldn't stop himself asking.  "Mister Frodo... do you think
Mister Bilbo loved my Gaffer?"  Hearing how abrupt that sounded, he tried
toning it down.  "I mean... like I love you and you... "  Frodo had only said
that to him once, but he knew Frodo loved him, and maybe Mister Bilbo had
loved the Gaffer, when he was young, when he was just Hamfast Gamgee the
gardener.  Maybe Mister Bilbo had just never known how to say it to him, or
maybe the Gaffer had loved Mister Bilbo and never had anything at all back
for it.  Frodo was sitting there with his blue eyes wide open.  It wasn't a
fair question.  Frodo couldn't know what Mister Bilbo had thought and felt,
all that long time ago.  So Sam balled up his courage, and asked Frodo a
different question, one that was surely more to the point.  "Do you think
you'll marry and have a family, sir?"

Frodo's spoon clunked to the desktop.  "I... I don't know, Sam... "  The
truth, didn't he owe Sam at least a little bit of truth?  "I can't really see
it happening."

Sam had a struggle to keep his wits.  "Well, Mister Frodo, I know it's what
I'm supposed to do... when I'm of age and all... the Gaffer's told me so
enough times.... but it don't seem right for me neither."

Frodo's first stumbling impulse told him Sam didn't know what he was saying,
then a far more painful explanation struck him.  He gripped the edge of the
desk and dragged himself to his feet.  "Sam... did you see that letter... " 
Sam looked at him shocked.

"Nay, sir, Mister Frodo, you were lying on it, you were... "  Sam shut his
mouth, but couldn't leave an untruth hanging there.  "I only saw what you
wrote at the top, sir... dearest Sam."  His heart was racing.  Frodo's eyes
held his and wouldn't let go.  "You don't know another Sam... do you, Mister
Frodo?"

Frodo started to put a hand to his aching head, and stopped himself.  "No." 
He sank back into his chair, knowing he had to deal with it then and there,
if it wasn't too late.  "Sam... you know how much I care for you... "

In fact, Sam was still groping for an answer to how much, but he nodded.
"Aye, sir."

"And you know... I get to writing... and I don't always think... where it
comes from... "

Sam did know that, Frodo had told him so, though he wasn't sure how that
applied here, still, "Aye, sir... "

"Then you'll know, I hope, that I meant no harm... "

In growing confusion Sam just followed his instincts.  "Nay, sir, no harm I
can see... I hold you dearest to me, Mister Frodo... "

With the weight of that choking him, Frodo still tried his damnedest to make
light of it.  "I got myself soused... and I was missing your cheerful
smile... that's all."

Sam's heart sank, and he dropped his eyes so Frodo wouldn't see it, when he
was looking like he felt bad enough as it was.  He got to his feet again, not
too steadily it didn't seem, and holding a hand to his stomach.  Sam put
aside his disappointment, and got himself up.  "Can I get you something,
Mister Frodo?"

Frodo half shook his head, trying to hold his breath.  "No... I'm fine... I
think I'll just go and... throw up."  It was surely unnecessary to have said
that, but he had, and that was what he needed to do.  He hoped it was excuse
enough for just walking out.

Sam followed far enough to sadly watch Frodo stagger down the hall to the
bath chamber, and heard him drop the latc