Title: Vigil
Author: Daisy Thistletop (wyvernwell@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: R
Summary: Sam waits for Frodo to wake up in Rivendell.
Disclaimer:  The characters "Frodo" and "Sam" both (TM) Tolkien
Enterprises
Warnings: Movie-based, het content, utter drivel.  But I know some of
you out there
might forgive me....
Authors Notes: Special thanks to Jo and Jen, my beta-babes!

*************************
Sam couldn't rightly remember how many nights had gone by, here next to
Frodo's sick bed. He was tired, not only from the skipped meals and the strange hours he
was keeping - but from the emotional strain of waiting.  Waiting.

Would his master ever wake up?  He still wondered.  Even though Elrond
had reassured him earlier that evening that Frodo's life was no longer hanging by a
thread, by this time Sam surely felt as if his own were.

By this time, too, he was used to the long, quiet hours of just sitting
and looking at his master.  Pippin and Merry had long since left the bedside.  In their
youthful optimism, the two seemed in awe of the elves' mysterious abilities, and were confident
they would cure him soon enough. So, though they cared deeply for Frodo they were passing
the tense days of waiting in the incredibly interesting company of Gandalf and the elves.  Every
so often, Merry would come striding in and demand to know why Sam was still sitting there, and
attempt a joke or two, for which Sam never had any laughs or good excuses.  Once in the late
evening, Gandalf sat with him for awhile in silence, eventually to patiently explain that dinner
and a soft bed had both been waiting for him, before giving up.  The kindly
wizard had left a tray of bread and cheese, and without saying another word, took himself off to
his room.  For some reason, even though Gandalf was obviously trying to get him to leave for his own
good, Sam's feet and legs refused to budge and his eyes remained stubbornly open, just
Frodo-gazing, his earth worn hands clenched in worry.

The familiar ivory skin of his face and hands, and dark untamed hair
were all of Frodo that lay visible above the silken coverlet.  Sam realized that they had
changed ever so subtly from two nights ago - the circles under his eyes had lost some depth, and
Frodo's curls were no longer resting limply on his sweat-sticky forehead.  Tonight he was closer to
the old Frodo Sam remembered from back in the Shire.  Not quite the same - ever since he had been
given the Ring and had it with him, his master had a haunted, somewhat distracted look - but tonight
marked Sam's first night of real hope.  *I think I'm beginning to believe Elrond,* Sam realized, and
the realization surged in him, temporarily dislodging the lump in his throat and bringing fresh
energy to his limbs.

*Perhaps tomorrow he will open his eyes...*

"Master," Sam whispered audibly, expectantly.  Teeth gritted, he waited
for some twitch of response, but the patient just lay still, as if dead.  Sam was beginning to
*really* hate that. He had gotten into the rhythm of lightly placing his hand on Frodo's
chest every so often, just to be sure there was still a heartbeat and breath.  Sam closed his eyes and
breathed with him, taking solace in the presence of his living friend. The echoes of the frightful
events at Weathertop still hovered around his consciousness like hungry ghosts, waiting to haunt
his mind with worry.  But that heartbeat was strong, and the breath was deep, and the ghosts did not
stir.  Sam kept his hand on Frodo's chest, allowing his other hand to wander to his smooth forehead
to rest.  So comforting. His head hung forward until it was just touching Frodo's breastbone.
With a jolt, he realized he had pressed a bit of the poultice that covered the severely injured
shoulder, and held his breath, expecting his master to sit up and say "Ouch!"

Of course, Frodo did no such thing, wrapped in the deep elven healing
spell. Silence hung in the air around the two hobbits like a warm fog.  Sam
could barely breathe as he found himself moving into the big, soft bed with his unconscious master.  His
hand wound itself around limp, soft fingers.  *There's just no excusin' this,* he lectured to himself,
but the warmth of his friend combined with fresh hopes was too much for Sam to bear.  *Tomorrow he'll
wake up.* His heart beat faster at the possibility.  *And after then, what will you do Sam old boy?
Follow him home,* he reassured himself.  *And what else could I do but be with Frodo, and prepare his
gardens for winter, and chop wood for him and make his tea.*

By this point almost every part of Sam's body touched Frodo's side.  As
the happy thoughts raced through his head he became gradually aware of his own arousal.  Catching
himself, he froze for a second and attempted to banish the inappropriate response, chalking it up to a
combination of happiness and exhaustion.  But the tension between his thighs was still there, and
began to make him nervous, which just made the feeling worsen.  Sam's brow was now damp with 
perspiration and his own eyes were hollowed. *What should I do now?*  He took a deep, slow breath.  
*What a foolish question, Sam Gamgee,* he chided. In a desperate feint, his brain decided that now would 
be a good time to focus on Rosie Cotton and her earthy charms.  This definitely did not help...

*Well, this just won't do, layin' this way next to your master in this
fine condition.  Got to find some distraction.  Maybe a walk - yep, a stroll 'll do you good.  So the
Gaffer always used to say.  A few sniffs of the outdoors always did one good.*

Sam set his mouth in a firm line and set his furred feet on the waxed floor with a thump. Turning his back 
on his sleeping friend, he stepped determinedly out the door and into the night air, which was somehow 
always pleasant in Rivendell.  He stopped, considering going back in to continue his vigil,
but his complete lack of emotional control was still evident beneath his trousers, and something not
unlike fear suddenly propelled him down the open corridor to his room.

Back in the guest room he had been given it was even cooler than the
outside.  The darkened fireplace gave no heat, and the bed remained neat, the covers untouched.  A
hobbit-sized nightshirt had been draped over the ornately carved headboard.  Sam's heated desire seemed 
oddly misplaced.  *Now what's the plan...*
He almost laughed aloud at his pathetic state.  Summoning Rosie's face
to his mind, he crawled into the slightly overlarge bed, not even bothering to change.

He slid his hand down into his breeches and began stroking. Guilt
pricked his mind, willing him to pause. Rosie disappeared, and an imagined Gandalf entered the room, 
looking startled.  Usually thoughts like this would have put him in a calmer mood, but his nether region 
seemed to have a mind of its own tonight and refused to be left alone.  *Well, guess I can only rest after the 
job gets done.*  He continued the motion amidst the wonderfully soft covers and started to lose himself in 
pure distraction.  He imagined her again, laughing and dancing, her cleavage swelling beneath a tight green
bodice.  Rosie waved a sun browned arm, beckoning her partner to join in the dance.  It was Frodo who 
emerged from behind the hill, barely putting on the brakes in time before coming body to body with the 
pretty lass. The impact sent them both tumbling over in laughter.  Now, surrounded by waving grasses, the 
couple kissed passionately.  Sam imagined Rosie's gentle fingers caressing Frodo's thick, glossy hair, 
imagined his master silenced with a dark gaze, imagined his bright eyes and soft mouth being held captive 
by another kiss, this one slower, deeper.  Frodo began moving against the young pretty hobbit with sudden 
urgency, and hitching up her skirt.

They began to move along a little faster now - a breath, a touch, a glimpse here and there of curly hair,
a soft chest, a plump nipple being warmed by his master's breath.  It was almost as if he could feel Frodo's
light body above his, pressing down, his mouth open, his eyes closed in
rapture.  The rhythmic movement carried him completely away now, his white arms were wrapped around 
him, yes, and he opened his eyes to gaze into his, and as his hot urgency finally exploded around him like
fireworks he thought he heard Frodo's breathy voice say "I love you" ....

Sam reclaimed his breath with a few gasps, and rested for a moment,
enjoying the reverie.  But as he rolled over to get more comfortable, something still tugged at his mind.  He
realized that at the final moment, Frodo had filled his imagination.  Even worse, he distinctly remembered
fantasizing that his master had told him he loved him.  "Now what, lad?"  he muttered aloud.  "What's to 
be, fallin' for your Frodo like that, when you know very well what you want, what Rosie wants, what the 
Gaffer wants for you..."  *Ridiculous. And to even think that Frodo would say somethin' like that to you, 
silly fat Sam!  He's a precious thing, and special, and far beyond your reach...*

He fidgeted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. Now, the raucous vision of
Merry and Pippin disturbed him, they teased him mercilessly over sloshing pints of ale.  "Poor old Sam," 
they hooted. "You really jump anything that moves, dontcha!  Kissing Frodo, kissing Frodo, and now he's 
run away...." The imagined pair began a drunken version of a kiddie tune in his head.  He sat up, put his 
hands firmly on either side of his curly head and shook, hoping to remove the offending thoughts.  But 
worry remained. *What if I'm in love with him.
What'll I do...*

Sam's legs hung limply over the bed and dangled, his head leaning low, arms stiffly at his sides.   Growing 
up as he did, just working on a farm, he couldn't remember anything being so confusing.  Now the Shire – 
he couldn't wait to go back there and have his old familiar poppy garden, mustard fields, apple trees, 
firelight, smoked sausages.  Things were right, plain, and easy there.  He always knew what to expect from 
his gardens, the seasons, his master, himself.

Were things so different now?  "No, it's same as always," he whispered, closing his eyes tightly.
After all, they had been best friends for what seemed like forever. Reflexively, he felt a smile creep to his 
lips under all that embarrassment and self-reprimand.  It seemed that happened whenever he considered 
Frodo. *Oh, blast it all!  There I go thinkin' about him.....I wonder if he's still asleep.  Well, it's worth 
another short walk.  Can't sleep anyways.*

A bit dazed and rumpled, but definitely more relaxed, Sam arose from the slightly creaky bed and 
abstractedly took the fluffy robe that had been thoughtfully placed on a hook nearby.  Tying it firmly 
around his waist, he padded back down the breezeway to the nice big carved room that held the small 
hobbit at its center like a glowing gem in an elaborate setting.  Sam felt his eyes open wide and his hands 
tremble a little as he slowly walked back up to the high bedside, face lit up by the white reflections of the 
silken bedspread, gazing at that familiar soft face with unshakable hope.  He climbed up the stool he had 
been sitting on and resumed his vigil with new resolve, without looking away for a moment. *Tomorrow 
you will wake up, I just know it.*

********************************************
Frodo drifted along in a timeless, comfortable sleep.  He remembered darkness, and pain, but as if from a 
distance through a thick blanket of fog.  Now he imagined he could see some kind of form, just over his 
shoulder, a faraway shoreline.  And ever closer, the light poured in through his eyelids and he could see all 
around him, the white bed, the dark wood, and a tanned form on his left side.  There were only these things, 
and a cool, light breeze carrying the scent of early morning, and the warmth of Sam's breath on his arm.  
But consciousness was withdrawn slightly, as if he could see forms through a hazy window, but not enter.  
No matter.  Nothing mattered, just peace, and rest, and......not feeling that intense pain in his shoulder...he 
became aware of it, still there burning him, but not unbearable.  He tried to move his arm, but found he 
could not.  Slight fear touched him, but he couldn't move his right arm either, nor his head or legs.

*Mmmm.  Wonder why.  No matter.*

He concentrated instead on Sam now, obviously collapsed in sleep against him, as if he had passed out 
from too much drink.  *My Sam,* he thought, *if I'm going to be here, wherever "here" is, it might as well 
be with you.*  Sam was more than his best friend, he was sort of an obsession, really.  If Frodo could 
chuckle to himself, he would have.  *Poor Sam, if only he knew how many excuses I could come up with 
to get him to chop wood on a hot day.  Ha.  You must be waiting for me to wake up, Samwise.  How 
devoted you are to me...maybe I will wake up now and tell you how much I love you.

Perhaps...tomorrow I will.*

END