Title:  By Way of Burrows and Chubb
Series:  Tales From Middle Earth
Author:  MJ  (bonarbridgemj@yahoo.com)
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam
Category:  Romance, AU, Humor
Rating:  G to R
Summary:  Frodo gets two surprises when he and Sam visit 
Hobbiton on Marketday.  Follows Gooseberry Squash.
Disclaimer:  These characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his 
heirs.  I have merely borrowed them for these adventures.

Note:  The revised versions of the seven F/S stories preceding 
this one can be found at The Library of Moria (under series 
title) and in my LJ, The Mug and Spoon, here:

http://mj-fanfiction.livejournal.com/

Note for budding Botanists:  Liberty has been taken with 
regard to certain plants in bloom in September in the Shire.




14 September, 3017


The flash of sunlight glancing off the edge of a bright new 
kettle caught Frodo squarely in the eyes.  With a soft 
exclamation, he quickly ducked behind the drape of a parti-
colored quilt, nearly dropping his prize of the afternoon:  a 
huge round cheese fresh from Farmer Alderneath's dairy.  Not 
only was an Alderneath Cottar the finest cheese in the Four 
Corners, but it was as near to priceless as wasn't worth the 
argument.  In fact, any Baggins worth his salt would sooner 
serve day-old hash to his favorite Auntie on her Birthday than 
pass one by.

Stumbling to a stop in the welcoming shade of the quilt, Frodo 
blinked at the bright spots crawling across his vision.  "Come 
on, Sam, we'll take the path behind Burrows and Chubb.  It's 
shorter that way and we won't have to push through the crowd."

A deep wicker basket piled high with brightly colored cloth 
appeared around the edge of the quilt, followed by Sam's 
cheerful face.  "And there's less chance of anybody seein' you 
drop that cheese."

Frodo clutched his prize a little closer, eyeing Sam with 
indignation.  "I shan't have a bit of trouble.  It's not that 
long a walk and I've been getting a bit more exercise lately."

A grin lit up Sam's face.  "I don't doubt there's a few as 
would call it something besides exercise."

Frodo felt the blush begin, right at the back of his jaw.  
Eyeing Sam once more for good measure, he turned and started 
up the gently sloping path, concentrating on putting one foot 
in front of the other.  If Sam had been describing how to 
thatch a roof in just that tone of voice, Frodo would still 
have blushed, right up to the roots of his hair.  Stumbling 
over a dry rut, he grimly hoisted the cheese a bit higher and 
cleared his throat, desperately trying to recall what they'd 
been talking about before he'd ducked behind the quilts.

Still grinning, Sam watched the flush spread across Frodo's 
cheeks.  He knew his own cheeks were likely just as red and he 
very nearly consigned Farmer Alderneath to digging potatoes 
for a living.  If it weren't for that cheese, they could have 
been home by now.  Exercising.

Coming up beside Frodo, Sam shifted his basket to his right 
arm and pressed his left hand against the waistcoat folded on 
top, fresh from Mistress Banks' Very Fine Establishment.  
She'd used a great deal of midnight blue this time.  And a 
very fancy wine color.  Sam had no doubt that Frodo would 
outshine everyone at the Yule Gather, come Midwinter.  His 
smile broadened.

Suddenly, from the lane ahead came the cries and shouts of 
excited voices.  Frodo stumbled to a stop, his fingers clawing 
madly at his prize.  With no more warning than a flash of 
yellow and a rackety clatter, a large wooden hoop flashed by, 
followed by a weaving line of laughing children.  Frodo 
sidestepped quickly, staring at nearly a dozen disappearing 
heels before turning back to the path ahead.  He caught Sam 
still grinning at him and with a deep breath, pulled both his 
dignity and his grip on the sagging Cottar back in line.  
"Coming Sam?  We'd best be home before dark."

Sam chuckled and wrapped his fingers in a loose handful of 
shirt at Frodo's back.  "Aye, before dark is right.  And 
before daylight as well, or we'll find ourselves with nowhere 
to lay our heads except that fine stretch of lane up to Miss 
Lobelia's."

Frodo gave a start, his mind filled with a sudden picture of 
Sam and himself tucked away, cheese and all, in the brambly 
lane to Sackville Bank.  It was so absurd, he laughed out loud 
and turning at the gentle shove of Sam's hand against his 
back, he strode up the narrow lane, stepping smartly over a 
well-dug rut.  It was a splendid afternoon, the end of their 
first Marketday together, and they were on their way home with 
not only the rest of the evening ahead, but also the promise 
of a more than splendid cheese to put paid to the last of the 
flatbread from Cousin Esmeralda's August Parcel.

Frodo clasped his cheese and gazed at the world around him in 
great contentment.  He had never been happier in his life.  
The entire day had been beyond perfect and he had been hard 
put to keep a delighted grin from splitting his cheeks.  In 
truth, he had never had so much fun on Marketday before.  He 
and Sam had spent most of their time strolling from cart to 
barrow, from barrel to wagon, listening to the chatter and 
laughter of at least half the folk of Hobbiton and the 
surrounding villages.  Sam's old straw basket, the one he most 
often used to gather vegetables from the garden, had filled 
slowly with all the items they needed and, occasionally, a few 
items they probably could have done without.  They'd kept 
mostly to themselves, walking slowly here and there, talking 
quietly, brushing lightly against each other.  Leaning 
together over some curious item, stealing secret glances.  And 
not yet holding hands.  Marketday was such a hubbub that it 
was hardly likely anyone would have noticed, but Frodo was 
acquainted with more than half the crowd milling around the 
wares and he was still shy of possible stares.  And even 
nosier questions.

It was almost ten o'clock when they'd arrived.  Frodo hadn't 
been to a Marketday in nearly six months, but on the surface, 
everything seemed just the same:  the barrows and baskets of 
produce, the wagonloads and displays of farm equipment, the 
lines strung out with quilts and comforters and dresses and 
shirts and everything found in between.  But for some reason, 
just today, it all seemed grander and looked so much finer 
than any other time he'd come.  And of course, deep inside his 
heart, he knew why.  He was with Sam and Sam was with him.  
They were together.  And Frodo couldn't stop smiling.  When 
Sam brushed his hand, quickly squeezing his fingers, or leaned 
just a little bit into his shoulder, Frodo had to swallow the 
urge to pull him right into his arms in the fiercest hug 
possible, right in front of Mrs. Reedmire's rutabagas.  It was 
exciting, it was breathtaking, it was thrilling, all at the 
same time, and Frodo couldn't imagine a finer day.

And then, wonder of wonders, not five minutes after they'd 
decided to head for home, he'd spotted the fresh wheel of 
Farmer Alderneath's Aged Cottar, creamy and ripe within its 
bright yellow cloth, begging to be peeled and sliced and 
popped onto the tongue just as soon as a table and a sharp 
knife could be arranged.  Of course, it could have been 
delivered, but that would have meant waiting until tomorrow 
for that first mouth watering bite and Frodo decided that Bag 
End really wasn't that far away.  He'd carry it himself, no 
need for a barrow.  No need at all.

Shifting the cheese against his right arm, Frodo turned round 
for a last look at the busy Marketday square.  Most everyone 
had begun to pack up their wares, and the strollers and 
shoppers were heading home.  Stepping slowly backward, Frodo 
squinted back the way they'd come.  It looked like someone 
else had chosen the path behind Burrows and Chubb as well.  
Frodo stared a moment at the figure brushing past the last of 
the quilts.  "I wonder who..."  Then he gasped and his eyes 
opened wide.  "Mrs. Whittleburr!"  Yes, she was definitely 
headed their way.  "Sam, don't stop, don't look, and don't ask 
questions, just hurry!  Maybe she won't..."

But the clever cheese chose that very moment to shift itself 
neatly to the left and with no choice in the matter at all, 
Frodo reeled into Sam and they both stumbled to a halt.

"Halloo, Mr. Baggins!  Halloo!"

The voice warbled melodiously up the lane and Frodo sighed, 
taking a desperate grip on his cheese.  Turning to Sam, he 
hissed, "If you so much as grin...!"  But Sam was already 
nearly choking and Frodo's own snort of laughter threatened to 
dislodge his burden.  Taking a deep breath, Frodo swung back 
round, a polite smile pasted on his lips.

Bosom heaving, Mrs. Whittleburr plowed to a stop.  "Oh, my!  
Oh, dear!  You always were quick on your feet!"  A sudden 
cackle shook the remarkable wattle decorating her chin.  "And 
these old legs can't run along like they used to!  Hallo, 
young Sam."  One plump hand darted out to pat him on the 
cheek.  "My stars and garters, but you must be just about 
grown!"  Two plump fingers gave the cheek a good pinch.  "Yes, 
indeed!  How's your Dad these days?  I expect he has you 
learning a bit of the trade, eh?"

Sam nodded, his lips quivering.  One swift glance at Frodo and 
he quickly shifted his eyes down to the basket.

"Wonderful!  I'm delighted to hear it.  Now, Mr. Baggins!"  
Mushroom-colored eyes leeched onto Frodo's. "I've got some 
good news for you.  My husband's cousin Gallo's coming by next 
week.  He has important business in Bywater and he's bringing 
his youngest daughter along.  Our dear Iris-Hollyhock."  An 
alarming smirk danced across her lips.  "It seems she's been 
wandering a bit too much amongst the laddies and he'd like to 
pinch that one in the bud before it blooms up a bumper crop."

A great wheeze of laughter burst from her chest and Frodo 
watched in fascination as her bosom pitched gently from right 
to left...and back again.

She gurgled to a stop.  "And do you know what I think, Mr. 
Baggins?  A fine catch, that's what she'd be.  A fine catch, 
indeed!"

The cheese slipped a good three inches.  "But Mrs. 
Whittleburr, I'm not..."

"No need to be modest, Mr. Baggins.  No need at all!  I expect 
none of the lasses round here could come up to your high 
standards and I don't wonder at your not being married yet!  
Hobbiton isn't exactly the center of things, now is it?"

Another peal of laughter.  Growing dizzier by the second, 
Frodo pulled his eyes back up to Mrs. Whittleburr's face.  
"Well, not exactly, but..."

"So, don't you worry about a thing.  Not a thing!  I'll cook 
up a nice dinner, just me and the Mister, and you and Iris-
Hollyhock.  And won't I be surprised if there's not a wedding 
before Yuletide!"

Off to his left, Sam had just about buried his head in the 
basket and Frodo didn't dare pay attention to the muffled 
snickers.  "But Mrs. Whittleburr, I'm not..."

"Pies, cakes, tarts, flummeries!  And chicken!"  Her plump 
fingers reached out to pat the cheese.  "My, but that lass can 
cook!  Anything your heart desires.  And twenty different ways 
come May Day!"

The cheese slipped a bit more and Frodo bit back a groan.

"*And*, Mr. Baggins, she can make up a waistcoat worth any two 
you'll find in Hobbiton!"  Her eyes darted to the basket on 
Sam's arm and her nose twitched.

"Mrs. Whittleburr, thank you, but I don't think..."

"Happy as a plump goose, you'd be, and dressed finer than any 
other gentlehobbit you care to name!"

"But I can't..."

"And flowers?  Why, she has two green thumbs, Mr. Baggins!  
And I know you love your flowers!"

Her bosom suddenly chose a new direction and Frodo swayed 
against Sam's shoulder.  The wheel of aged cottar was fast 
assuming the shape of a mature eggplant.  "Please, Mrs. 
Whittleburr, I really..."

"Now, Mr. Baggins."  Her eyelids fluttered like the wings of a 
cabbage butterfly above her broad lump of nose.  "I know far 
more about these things than you do.  Just remember to bring a 
little spray of flowers.  What I like to call a Nosegay of 
Persuasion."  She winked.  "Pay attention, now!  Here's what 
you'll need.  A good bunch of Celandine to start with.  And 
some Forget-Me-Nots..."

Ladybugs.  Frodo stared.  There were ladybugs all over Mrs. 
Whittleburr's broad expanse of collar.  He wondered how many.

"Mugwort, Mr. Baggins, plenty of mugwort!  Not to mention a 
rose or two!"

Twenty.  There were twenty.  He wondered if she'd stitched 
them herself.  Or perhaps the redoubtable Iris-Hollyhock.

"And some fern to finish things off."  She smiled, intimately 
sharing a huge array of teeth.   "I'll let you know just when 
to come.  You'll see!  A fine catch!  Good day to you both!"  
Hoisting up her voluminous skirts, Mrs. Whittleburr maneuvered 
her bulk in a half-circle and waddled quickly back the way 
she'd come.

In commendable silence, Sam leaned over and tucked his hand 
under the cheese, shoving it back up to its place of honor 
under Frodo's chin.  One glance only they exchanged, eyes 
watering with pent-up laughter.  Then, still without a word 
between them, Sam gently turned Frodo around, wadded his 
fingers in the back of  his shirt, and shoved him swiftly up 
the rest of the sloping path and onto the road to Bag End.

They covered the distance in record time, silent hysterics not 
withstanding, managing by sheer perseverance to neither fall 
down nor accost several startled passers-by with other than a 
ragged 'good evening'.  But by the time they opened the big 
green door, it was all they could do to stagger down the hall 
to the kitchen, choking with laughter, faces streaming.  Frodo 
made it as far as the table before the cheese slipped from 
between his arms and slid slowly down the front of his legs to 
land with a gentle thump against his toes.  "Dear Iris-
Hollyhock," he gasped.  "In amongst the laddies."  He lowered 
the cheese to the floor and sighed away the last of his 
laughter.  "Oh, I'm sorry, Sam, but if you don't mind, I need 
a little fresh air.  I feel quite trampled for some reason."

Sam smothered a last chuckle and nodded.  "Aye, you go right 
ahead.  Take your time.  I'll put things up and get supper 
started."

Their eyes met and Frodo smiled, leaning over to place a soft 
kiss against Sam's lips.  "I love you."  He laughed softly.  
"But you know that."  Still smiling, he turned and headed for 
the hall.

Sam stood very still until he heard the front door shut.  
Then, eyeing the cheese where it lay in solitary splendor on 
the floor, he aimed a grin at it and said, "Well now, Frodo 
Baggins, it seems to me Mrs. Whittleburr just might have the 
best notion of all."  And whistling a jaunty tune, he placed 
the basket on the table and quickly began to unpack the day's 
treasures.

*  *  *

The walk had done Frodo a great deal of good and he now felt 
much more himself, even to the point of whistling an old tune 
he'd not thought of in many a day.  The melody was bold and 
happy and set his feet moving quite merrily up the lane to Bag 
End.  He whistled a few more bars and grinned at the front 
gate.  Of all the songs to remember!  It was one of Balin's 
favorites, 'The Downhill Passage'.  He'd played it on every 
visit and sometimes, after one too many refills of spiced 
wine, Bilbo would hop up and dance a merry jig and they'd all 
laugh and clap.  Frodo ran his hand gently over the fine 
scroll work atop the gate.  Dear Bilbo.  And dear Balin.  He 
hoped they were as happy as himself, wherever they were.

The latch clicked shut behind him and Frodo headed up the 
short path to the front door.  He'd stayed away a bit longer 
than he'd meant to, and his thoughts were filled with Sam and 
aged Cottar and supper, when he caught sight of something 
lying on the doorstep.

Stopping at the edge of the top step, Frodo looked down at the 
shadowy object, his brows lifted in bewilderment.  It 
certainly hadn't been there when he'd left.  Stooping down, he 
picked up the little bundle of flowers, barely enough to place 
in a window bowl.  Bound together between two delicate fronds 
of fern were stems of celandine, mugwort and forget-me-not.  
Frodo frowned, turning the posy around in his fingers.  Now 
who could have put it there?  And why?  With a sudden gasp of 
dismay, Frodo jumped for the door and dashed through, closing 
it quickly behind him.  Surely Mrs. Whittleburr hadn't come 
calling.  And if she had, surely she wasn't still here!

Standing motionless just inside the door, Frodo listened for 
all he was worth.  Neither breath nor stir of Mrs. Whittleburr 
did he hear.  Nor of Sam, for that matter.  Quiet as a mouse, 
Frodo tiptoed down the hall, eyes wide, ears perked for any 
wheeze of his unwelcome visitor.  So busy was he looking right 
and left instead of down, that it was his foot that found the 
second little nosegay, right in the center of the hall.

With an angry snort, Frodo quickly snatched it up in his free 
hand.  So, it wasn't enough to accost him in the open.  Now 
she was invading his home and tossing posies around as if he 
were some tweener who couldn't tell the difference between 
forwards and sideways.  Frodo pressed his lips tightly 
together and glared down the hall, one aromatic bunch clutched 
tightly in each fist.  If Mrs. Whittleburr thought she could 
simply push him where she wanted him to go...!  Well, she'd 
soon hear what he had to say about that.

Stepping boldly forward, Frodo marched past the dark parlor 
and into the kitchen, mouth open to demand an 
explanation...and skidded to a halt.  Not only was Mrs. 
Whittleburr not there, but neither was Sam.  So where...?  
"Sam?"  Frodo didn't care that it wasn't polite to yell, he 
was far too annoyed.  "Sam!"  Darting a bewildered glance 
around the room, Frodo's eyes lit upon something on the table.  
Something familiar.  Something very much like what he now held 
clutched tightly in both of his fists.

Drawing in an angry breath, he walked slowly to the table.  
Another one.  Just like the first two.  Frodo clenched his 
teeth, narrowing his eyes at the innocent little nosegay.  He 
didn't doubt now that Mrs. Whittleburr had totally overrun 
Sam.  Maybe even shut him in a closet.  All for dear Iris-
Hollyhock!  Nearly snarling now, Frodo crouched over the table 
and grabbed the little posy, giving it a shake.  "Sam?  Where 
are you?"  He was really shouting now.  "What did she say?"

Glaring at the double handfuls of flowers, Frodo noticed 
something he'd been too upset to see before.  Right around the 
center of each bunch was a ribbon, very thin, very fine, and 
very, very blue.  He stared, blinking in confusion.  Sam had 
gotten a little bobbin of ribbon very like this today.  He'd 
said...  A smile suddenly quirked one corner of Frodo's mouth.  
He'd said there was a place on the coverlet that wanted 
mending, a bit of ribbon should do it, and as Frodo's eyes 
were so hard to match...  But then Frodo had stepped back from 
*Sam's* eyes or he would surely have kissed him, right there 
in the center of the Market.

As suddenly as it had come, Frodo's anger melted away, 
replaced by a sudden rush of excitement.  Trembling a little, 
he pressed the bright blooms to his heart.  Celandine.  And 
forget-me-not.  "Oh, Sam."

Frodo walked slowly out of the kitchen and back into the hall.  
The only sound was the ticking of the old clock on the wall 
near the parlor.  "Sam?"  A rustle, so soft he almost didn't 
hear it, came from far down the hall and Frodo smiled.  
Turning, he walked slowly toward the bedroom, his fists full 
of dazed posies, his heart galloping in his chest.

The bedroom door was open, the flicker of firelight dancing 
along the walls, and in Frodo's path lay another nosegay, 
neatly wrapped with a deep blue ribbon.  Bending down, he 
picked it up, staring at the tiny bow gathering the delicate 
blooms together.  "Sam?"

One step brought him to the doorway.  Hardly daring to 
breathe, he peered into the room, his eyes darting from left 
to right, then widening as they reached the bed.  There, 
nestled within a soft pool of cream-colored sheets, lay the 
last posy.  Frodo leaned against the edge of the door, shaking 
with silent laughter and relief.  And with a great deal more 
besides.

"Oh, my dear Sam."  It was barely a whisper, but quicker than 
a wink, Sam was there, standing in front of the bed, skin as 
bare as the day he was born, a small red rose tucked over one 
ear.  His eyes shone wild in the firelight and Frodo forgot 
how to breathe.

"She said 'A nosegay o' persuasion'."  Sam shook his head, the 
honeyed curls drifting lazily across his forehead.  "And I 
thought, 'She's right, lad.  But you know a bit better about 
when and where to use it.'"

A gleam of wicked brown pinned Frodo to the spot.

Sam smiled, slow and sweet, and took a step closer.  
"Celandine, that's for joy to come."

Frodo's heart crept up into his throat.

"And mugwort, that's for happiness."  Sam took another step.  
"And fern for good will.  And forget-me-not for true love."  
The firelight shone on the bare skin of his shoulder.  "And a 
rose..."

The smile disappeared, but in its place was a look that pulled 
Frodo into the room with a jerk.  "A rose."  Frodo's throat 
was almost too tight to speak.  "Passion."

Sam tilted his head and the smile bloomed once more as he 
whispered, "Aye.  I think you're right."

Frodo blinked and for a moment, his vision filled with fire, 
and a roaring of thunder filled his head.  Gasping for breath, 
he blinked once more and the vision fled, and all he could do 
was stand there, swaying with the pulsing of his heart, 
waiting for Sam, waiting for his hands, for his mouth, his 
skin.

The smile never left Sam's face as he walked slowly forward 
until he was close enough that Frodo could count every single 
laugh line if he'd wanted to.  Unable to move, he fell into 
those deep brown eyes, trembling with the ache in his gut and 
a rush of desire that shook him right down to his toes.  And 
he couldn't breathe.  And his skin was so hot.  "Sam.  
Please."

Lowering his eyes, Sam placed one hand against Frodo's belly 
and moved slowly round behind his back, his free hand trailing 
gently from hip to hip, then slipping round to skip lightly up 
the line of rosewood buttons to Frodo's throat.  Frodo 
whimpered softly, melting into the warmth against his back, 
letting fall the bedraggled posies before trailing his own 
restless fingers down the outside of Sam's thighs.  Panting 
for breath, he let his head fall back as Sam unbutton his 
shirt with agonizing care, easing it over his shoulders to 
puddle on the floor.  But it was all he could do to remain 
standing when Sam's hand sought the waistband of his britches, 
dropping briefly to spread a wide-fingered caress against the 
rough weave before slowly - far, far too slowly - teasing open 
the ties and shoving the material gently down Frodo's 
quivering legs and over his feet.  A soft breath of words 
fluttered against his cheek.

"I don't think I could live without you."

Frodo leaned into the words, wanting to laugh and cry and 
sing, but the best he could do was suck in another breath and 
hold it while the hand on his belly pressed them closer 
together, so close he could almost believe they shared the 
same skin, while the whisper of Sam's breath seared the back 
of his neck.

"There's no part o' me that doesn't love you."

Frodo shuddered, his knees gone nearly to jelly as Sam tongued 
and kissed his way from one shoulder to the other.  The hand 
pressing his belly pulled him even closer and Frodo covered it 
with his own trembling fingers.  "Sam."

"And I won't never leave you."

Frodo moaned, clutching the arm braced under his ribs.  Sam's 
wandering fingers left the cluster of curls at his neck and 
slipped down to his chest, teasing the puckered skin circling 
his nipples, tracing the feathery line of hair down to his 
belly, spreading wide to explore his hips, the insides of his 
thighs, the eager hardness jutting from the dark curls between 
his legs.  Frodo sagged, his breath catching on a sob.  "Sa...  
Sam.  I can't...  I can't move."  Then he felt the room whirl 
and he staggered, caught up in strong arms that tugged him 
gently toward the bed.

"Nor do you have to, my dear.  Your Sam knows just what to 
do."

Frodo clutched desperately at Sam's arms, a sob of laughter 
threatening to choke him as he was urged onto the bed, onto 
soft swells of flannel, to crouch on trembling knees while 
Sam's gentle fingers reached behind him, kneading the 
sensitive flesh, pulling him closer, inch by inch, until they 
sat, lap to lap, legs wrapped around each other, hot streaks 
painting random patterns on their bellies.  Still kneading 
slow, smooth circles, Sam's hands found the inside of his 
thighs, his thumbs brushing the tender skin at the very edge 
of damp brown curls.  His breath whispered against Frodo's 
mouth.  "Flowers and such, they can say things that words 
can't."  The thumbs trailed in tiny circles through the wiry 
forest of curls.  "But sometimes, a cupful o' words is what 
you need.  And maybe a bit o' skin."  Frodo sucked in a quick 
breath as Sam's tongue grazed his lips, then slipped gently 
inside his mouth, deepening the kiss on a groan before pulling 
back with a suddenness that made Frodo cry out.  Then Sam's 
lips were back, softly kissing his eyelids, his jaw, the 
tender skin of his neck.  And in between, sweet kisses dipped 
hotly into his mouth in brief urgency, until Frodo was no more 
than jelly within a skin that had grown tight enough to burst.  
He cried out, but gentle hands soothed him.

"Frodo.  My dear."

A sensation of falling opened Frodo's eyes.  Bright figures of 
light danced across his vision and in sudden wonder, he stared 
at the ceiling, at the patterns shifting so quickly he could 
hardly see what they were.  He opened his mouth to tell Sam 
how beautiful the light was and ask him where it came from, 
but a shock of pleasure blinded him and the light was gone, 
and he was clutching handfuls of honey-glazed curls as tightly 
as his shaking hands would let him.  And Sam's voice was in 
his ear...

"I'll always be here.  Always."

The words matched the rhythm of his heart and Frodo pried his 
mouth open, gasping for just enough air to say all of the 
things he must.  "Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam..."  Then gentle teeth 
scraped down the inside of his thigh and all Frodo's words 
disappeared in ragged sobs.

"Never leave.  I'll never leave you.  Never."

It was barely a whisper, but Frodo eyes jerked open and he 
gazed into Sam's face, and for the space of a heartbeat, a 
second, a third, he looked deep into those soft brown eyes and 
saw something that wrapped his fingers hard into Sam's damp 
curls.  Joy shone there.  And desire and heat and passion.  
But Frodo knew it was more than this that sent Sam's demanding 
hands roaming over his body.  It was love.  Pure and 
unselfish.  He squeezed his eyes shut as a bolt of pleasure 
seared through his gut.  And deep inside, in a place that no 
one could ever touch, Frodo's heart etched Sam's name in 
letters of fire.

"Always."

Frodo's world narrowed to the span of two callused hands, to a 
mouth whose silent eloquence wrapped him in words no voice 
could ever speak, to a body whose skin he would gladly have 
burrowed into and made his home in forever.  And just when he 
knew that there couldn't possibly be more, his world narrowed 
again, to Sam's perfect hand, his warm, roughened fingers 
stroking, squeezing...pushing hard into the skin between his 
legs, into that hidden place that sent bolts of lightning 
through Frodo's gut.  Then Sam's mouth was on his, demanding 
his tongue and darting his own deep inside, as fast as Frodo 
needed, as slow as he wanted.

"Love you.  So much.  Always..."

Frodo gasped and choked and sobbed, Sam's voice whispering 
over and over in his ears, against his lips, over his heart.  
And when it came, the wave raged over him, slow and deep, like 
nothing he'd ever felt before, punching from his gut down into 
his legs and right up his back, almost too heavy to bear.  He 
opened his mouth to scream and Sam was there, swallowing his 
breath, his tears, his racking sobs as a hot stream gushed 
across his straining belly and he moaned Sam's name until his 
mouth was covered again and Sam's knees snugged close against 
his thighs, his own heat spurting wildly across Frodo's chest.  
Then the waves picked them both up and carried them far, far 
away, so far, they must surely forget the way back...

*  *  *

When Frodo opened his eyes once more, he was lying on top of 
Sam, their limbs tangled together in the flickering glow of 
the fire.  Groaning softly, he freed his arms from the jumble 
and raised up on his elbows, leaning down to press his lips 
lightly against Sam's.

Sam stirred, opening bleary eyes to gaze at Frodo's face.  
"What day is it?"  Then he grinned sleepily and clasped his 
hands behind Frodo's back.  "Or do you care?"

"Not very much.  Not if I'm with you.  Oh, Sam."  Lowering his 
head, Frodo placed a soft kiss in the hollow of Sam's throat 
before smoothing back the damp curls from his cheeks. With Sam 
at his side, nothing could ever go wrong.  "I really thought I 
knew how much I love you.  But now..."  He shook his head, 
gazing in wonder at the flicker of firelight along Sam's jaw.

"But now,"  Sam was still smiling, lazy and sweet.  "You don't 
know?"

Frodo frowned.  "Well, now I see that there's layers and 
layers.  And layers."

"Like..."  Sam thought for a moment.  "Gaffer's Cottage Pie?"

Frodo laughed in surprise.  "Gaffer's Cottage Pie?"

"Or maybe Five Berry Trifle."

Frodo laughed again.  "Maybe."

"And Cottar Cheese on flatbread."  Sam winked.  "All waitin' 
for us in the kitchen."

"Mmmm."  Frodo trailed his fingers down Sam's belly to wander 
through a thatch of reddish-brown curls.  His brows lifted as 
he eyed his thickening catch.  "Are there any sausages?"

Sam's breath hitched a moment before he managed to squeak, 
"Maybe...I could stuff you some..."

"That's quite alright, Sam, love."  Frodo shifted again, 
eyeing his handful with something akin to awe.  "That won't be 
necessary."  He squeezed gently and smiled into Sam's widening 
eyes.  "You've plenty of stuffing for the both of us, right 
here..."


End.