Chapter Text
Sam was staring dully down at his beer when he first heard it.
“All that fuss about setting Bag End back to rights, when there’s a right many families still makin’ do in the rubble. As if the new master ain’t as queer as the last one.”
His head snapped up, and beside him, Merry seemed to go tense as well, though he did not pause in his apparently unaffected chatter.
The other two of the Travellers—Merry and Pippin, that was; certainly not Sam, who had been in a low mood most of the night—had gathered quite a party over to their table already; a combination of those seeking news over Eastfarthing way (for both hobbits had just returned from Crickhollow, after yet another furniture-hauling expedition), and simply from the cousins’ newfound popularity.
Or that wasn’t strictly true—both had always been popular. Now they were simply more interesting.
One or two of the hobbit-lasses that Sam privately thought were a little young to be served at The Green Dragon were pressing hopefully against the rickety booth table, leaning forward to catch Merry’s every word—and more than a couple of lads were doing the same, for that matter.
There was no doubt that, from their extra inches in height, to the springiness of the curls on their heads, the strange glittering clothes that both were known to favour on horseback, and even the slight foreign burr Merry was putting in some of his words (Sam suspected deliberately), the two recently-returned wayfarers were the object of fascination in The Green Dragon that night—and had been, perhaps, the main talking-point of the tavern ever since its reopening around Yule.
Of course, Merry had mentioned his and Pippin’s current labours, which included the business of carting Frodo’s furniture back to its rightful place in Bag End. They had just returned from their second trip, in fact.
And not all were taking the news kindly.
While the younger hobbits gushed and admired, heads full of the sight they had been treated to earlier that day—the two Travellers riding up ahead of a parade of carriages, their breastplates glinting in the sun, singing those strange-otherland songs of theirs—Ted Sandyman, by contrast, was sitting alone in a corner, nursing his drink and occasionally turning a spiteful eye over in their direction.
Now he raised his voice at last, sunken gaze seemingly finding Sam’s through the crowd; his words pointed as anything.
As if the new master ain’t as queer as the last one.
It was unclear whether Ted was referring to Lotho, the previous tenant of Bag End before Mr Frodo had returned to his rightful place—and who had met a very sorry end, even by Sam’s estimation of him. Or perhaps the miller was even daring to invoke dear old Master Bilbo, too…
Sam’s fingers clenched around the sticky sides of his glass. He’d just opened his mouth to reply when he felt Pippin kick his leg under the table, shooting him a warning gesture that was more than unusually perceptive for the younger hobbit. He too had been changed by the journey, in ways that Sam was still coming to know. Or perhaps he had simply grown up.
A few curious glances from those at the table, but most did not pay Ted any attention. He had lost a lot of favour during the Troubles last year, and most had not forgotten that it was Ted who had run the disgrace that had been the New Mill—built by Sharkey’s men, grinding its wheels out of all proportion and bleeding filth into the river.
The mill had come down only a few months ago. Ted had been seen in the pub more and more often since then, sitting by himself, hands shaking slightly as he nursed a glass.
Not that Sam felt at all sorry for him. And certainly not when he thought of the lad’s cruel, spiteful face as he’d hung over the fence that awful day—that day when Mr Frodo had laid eyes on the destruction done to his beautiful home, and Sam’s heart had broken so many times that he thought he should never be able to feel anything again.
He’d threatened to kick Ted down that day. An offer he rather regretted not carrying out.
Merry’s voice had gotten imperceptibly louder, his gestures just slightly more exuberant.
“And then, when Pippin and I had only gotten as far as Frogmorton, we realised one of the horses had taken fright and sent the third wagon rocking, so that poor old Frodo’s wardrobe nearly ended up in a ditch…”
The gathered crowd, who still could not believe that proper, full-sized horses had been employed in such a way, were held at attention.
“And what has Mr Frodo done, exactly, to deserve all this fuss?” sneered Ted, louder. His voice had a drunken slur to it, but it was none the less audible for that.
Abruptly Sam stood up. He was aware as he did so that folk were watching him—indeed, more hobbits than he’d realised. Although the gathering around their table was sizeable, there were still other faces drifting round the pub; others, like Ted, who had not shaken off the dark days of the past year, who sat quieter and dull-eyed, or with suspicious, upturned faces.
Some who had followed The Rules faithfully throughout Sharkey’s reign, and others who had not—some of whom had paid the price. Old Gracegirdle had been in the Lockholes for two months at least. One of his feet was still jittering against the chair leg, across the room.
It appeared that some of these folk had heard Ted’s remark. And though many were dismissive, there were some—at least a few—who were curious. Who had wondered the same thing, in furtive whispers.
Sam found that this made him too furious to speak.
“You—” he began, glaring over at Ted.
“Something got your tongue?” Ted asked smugly. He leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering. “‘Course, no question who that would be. Everyone round here knows that the Bagginses have you an’ your family by the leash—”
“That’s enough,” said Merry sharply.
He had stood up too, by Sam’s side, and Sam did not know whether to be grateful for this or not. The atmosphere of The Green Dragon had changed in a few moments—it had gone very quiet, an eager, anticipatory sort of silence.
“Yes, why don’t you shut up like a good lad and keep on drinking yourself into a stupor?” Pippin inquired. He was still seated, and had to look over his shoulder to see Ted properly.
Ted Sandyman laughed; a nasty, gurgling sort of laugh, and stood up, extracting his long legs out from under the table. “Not ‘til young Sam here says what he wants t’say.”
“You don’ know what you’re talkin’ about,” Sam growled, finding his voice again. “Any of it.”
Ted lumbered over to their table, the crowd parting for him like stalks of wheat. He was only slightly unsteady as he set his hands on the grimy wood, leaning toward Sam.
“Why don’t y’tell us, then?” he slurred. Then, gesturing sloppily towards the rest of the room, “I’m sure everyone here wants t’know! What exactly was old Mr Frodo makin’ you three do that were so important, that all’ve Hobbiton were left vulnerable to bandits an’ thieves? Must’ve been something really worthwhile.”
And here his face was so suggestively contorted that Sam felt a sick horror, a disgust rising up his throat like bile.
“He’s drunk!” one of the hobbits nearby called, a scrawny freckled lad that Sam recognised but didn’t know the name of.
“Aye, don’t mind him, Sam!” That was Jolly Cotton’s voice, and Sam was grateful for its encouragement.
His fury made him ignore Merry’s warning grip on his arm. It was white-hot, a feeling that had simmering beneath the surface for weeks—months, if he was honest, or perhaps longer.
“You ‘ave no idea what he did for the Shire. For the world. An’ you’re not worthy to speak his name, you sick, vile piece of—”
Ted swayed unnervingly, opening his mouth.
One of the girls shouted. “He’s going to be sick!”
But Ted was not sick. He did not seem the least bit affected by Sam’s words; perhaps he had not really heard them.
He was not alone, and that was the worst thing. Sam could see behind him—craning necks, other spiteful gazes. One of Ted’s cousins over in the corner, and some of the older folk sitting by the bar, their faces unfriendly. They seemed to have forgotten how much Ted and others had profited off their suffering—they’d forgotten his betrayals, and how it had been the four Travellers; Sam, Frodo and his cousins, who had at last thrown off the yoke of Saruman and restored them all to peace.
They all thought that Frodo was—
That he hadn’t nearly died for them all, the whole, ungrateful lot of them, over and over a thousand times on a Quest that had been most of the time a nightmare made flesh—
“Your dear master was better off never comin’ back,” Ted spat, “all broken up like he is, and if he had any sense he’d off himself and give up his treasure t’help the rest of us!”
Merry and Pippin both started forward with a growl, knocking into the table and slopping over the numerous drinks, but they were too slow.
Sam had already knocked Ted down with a single, satisfying punch.
—
Frodo was in the parlour when he heard the front door slam, and a muffled oath that sounded like it belonged to Merry.
He looked up from his book, surprised at the time. He’d meant to be in bed before the others returned, begging tiredness as his reason not to go for a beer in the first place.
Merry had apparently taken Frodo at his word, bundling the rest of them out of the house as he told a protesting Sam that Frodo-lad needs some time to himself—and that was not entirely untrue.
It was not that he was sick. He been better for over a week, in fact; even Sam did not have an idea of how ill Frodo had been mid-March, and he intended for it to stay that way.
Still, he couldn’t shake a slight pulsing headache behind his eyes, which seemed to grow worse in bright sunlight, or in boisterous crowds. Perhaps it was simply his own paranoia of becoming ill again. Like his body was a ticking clock, feeling again each hurt as it had happened; from poisoned stings to an aching, indefinable loss, right up to the dark veil that had shrouded him in October…
He shivered, a hand going reflexively to his shoulder as the blanket fell down around him.
“Everything alright out there?”
There seemed to be a lot of scuffling coming from the entrance room, a harsh whisper and then the rattling of the umbrella-stand as though someone had knocked into it with their leg.
“Sam?” Frodo stood up, the book falling from his lap.
A moment later the three of them burst into the parlour—that was the word, burst—and Frodo became aware after a moment of confusion that Merry and Pippin were holding Sam between them, holding him up, almost, even as he seemed to be struggling against them.
“Ge’roff me, will you? I’m alright,” he said, pushing away.
Merry threw up his hands. “Alright! Don’t thank us for saving your stubborn neck, then.”
Pippin sank exhausted into the nearest armchair. “Leave him, Merry, he’s not going to charge or anything.”
“What’s happened?” Frodo cried.
Immediately he crossed the room to Sam, already scanning him for injuries. Sam’s face was pale—almost deathly white, save for two rough splotches of colour over his cheeks. He was breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides.
“Sam—” Frodo reached for him, and Sam did not move away from the touch on his shoulder, though he wouldn’t meet Frodo’s eyes. “I’m alright,” he said again.
“No, he’s not,” Merry said from somewhere behind them. “And for good reason too, I’d say.”
“Will anyone please explain to me what happened,” Frodo said through his teeth.
Sam opened his mouth.
“Not you, Sam. Here.” Frodo steered him over to the couch, waiting until Sam had sat, mutely, before he turned back to his cousins. “Well?”
“It’s not our fault,” said Pippin, ruffled.
“I didn’t say it was. Though I was trusting that the three of you weren’t up to much more beyond a couple of drinks and home again. And if you’ve gotten Sam into any trouble—”
“We didn’t start the trouble,” Merry interrupted darkly. “It was that young gangly idiot who’s always hanging round the place… what was his name, Sam?”
Sam was bent forward with his elbows over his knees, hands clasped together. “Ted Sandyman,” he said in a dull voice.
“Oh,” said Frodo. Then he saw the way Sam’s knuckles looked red and raw on one hand, his tightly laced fingers. “I see.”
He knelt down to Sam’s side. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything rash for my sake, Sam.”
“He deserved it,” Sam growled.
Frodo put a hand on Sam’s knee, ignoring the other two for the moment. “I’ve no doubt he did,” he said in a quieter voice, “but it’s not worth you getting hurt.”
Sam bit his lip. He was still not quite meeting Frodo’s gaze; eyes skittering there and away again. “But if you—”
“If I what?”
“If you heard the awful things he were sayin’ about you, Mr Frodo…”
Mr Frodo, was it? Frodo raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure I wouldn’t pay any attention to them, even if I had. He’s only bitter, Sam, and trying to get a rise out of you.”
Pippin snorted from behind them. “And he certainly did.”
“Went over like a felled sapling,” said Merry.
“Eyes bulging.”
“And started snoring almost as soon as he hit the floor...”
There was another snort.
“Will you both,” Frodo said, not turning his face from Sam, “kindly shut up for a moment.”
“Alright, Frodo. But honestly—” Pippin’s voice—“it was sort of funny. And no one was hurt, really. Ted’ll just sleep it off, I expect.”
Sam was blinking fast. Abruptly he wiped a hand over his face, shielding his eyes. “They’re always sayin’ things like that, though, aren’t they. Behind our backs. That’s why I couldn’t help myself. He was right there for once, finally brave enough to say it to my face, an’ I… an’ he was just leerin’ at us…”
Frodo sank bank on his knees. He began to see what the real problem was. If he was honest with himself, he’d been expecting something like this to happen for quite some time.
Though somehow he’d always counted on himself being there, too, in order to council restraint.
“Sam…”
He put his hand over Sam’s clasped ones. After a moment Sam unclenched his fingers and fumbled for Frodo’s hand in turn. He held it tightly, so that the redness of his knuckles stood out, already swollen from the blow he must have dealt.
“I’m sorry,” Frodo said quietly. “I’m sorry for all of it. But Sam—hobbits do talk, just like they did for my uncle. Calling him mad and worse. You know Bilbo didn’t let it worry him.”
“Aye, but—”
Frodo saw what Sam really wanted to say; the pained expression in his eyes. You’re not Bilbo. And it was true. Frodo had never quite mastered that same unaffected self-sufficiency that his uncle had had decades to perfect.
“In any case,” he continued, “there’s not much we can do.”
“Only, what if…” Merry said suddenly from behind them, “there was something.”
Frodo did not particularly like the tone in his cousin’s voice as he turned, still clasping Sam’s hand. “What?”
Merry had moved to stand over by the fireplace, the light casting strange shadows over his form. He was obviously in the grip of some novel idea.
“You’re right, of course,” he began. “Hobbits talk. Hobbiton’s worse than the rest, given they were centre of all the action last winter. But—Frodo, what if we give them something to talk about?”
“Alright…” Frodo began dubiously.
“What if we—listen, they’re all curious, aren't they? Thinking you’ve got mounds of dragon-treasure or other nonsense buried up here; unsavoury rumours spread; no one can quite figure out where the four of us went and what we were up to… so what if we brought them here?”
Sam made a confused noise. Frodo slowly shook his head. “What do you mean, bring them here? To Bag End? All of Hobbiton?”
“But don’t you see?” Merry had begun to wave his hands about, which Frodo always took as a warning sign.
“Oh, don’t bother explaining yourself, Merry,” Pippin said crossly. He’d swung his legs over the side of the armchair and was dangling his head back. “I’m sure we’ll discover what you’re on about eventually…”
“I mean… a party!” Merry beamed at them. “Like old Bilbo would have done. Talk of the Shire, his eleventy-first, wasn’t it? And think of the news this time—Bag End reopening, Sharkey’s den cleared out at last, the mysterious Travellers become the generous hosts… Every hobbit with the least pinch of curiosity will be mad to get an invitation.”
Frodo felt Sam’s hand tighten in his.
“No,” he said firmly.
“You haven’t even thought about what I’m saying!”
“Yes, I am thinking about it, and it’s a terrible idea.”
“You know, I sort of see Merry’s point, actually.” Pippin had rotated himself so he was near upside down on the armchair, legs thrown up on the headrest. “We get some say on what the gossip is, rather than no influence at all.”
“Don’t encourage him, Pippin.”
“Alright then, Sam, surely you—” Merry began.
“M’not saying anything.” Sam squeezed Frodo’s fingers. “It’s Frodo’s decision. I think he should get a say about whether his home is opened up for all an’ sundry.”
Frodo was very glad of this show of support. “No,” he said again, louder, as Merry opened his mouth. “No, Merry, we are not doing a party. I am not doing a party. I did not walk hundreds of miles to death’s door and back, and endure everything I did—we all did—just to have to play host to the Boffins and Bolgers and Sackville-Bagginses all over again. Surely, surely, we’ve earned the right by now to sit back and rest, and not do anything about it?”
Judging by the startled expressions of the others, it was the most emotion they’d seen from him in days.
Pippin spoke first. “Well, course you’ve earned it. We all know that. It’s just the problem of everyone else, isn’t it?”
Frodo felt like saying that the problem of everyone else did not matter to him, very much, but he thought of Sam’s face coming through the door that evening, and wondered if for their sake, it would be worth going through the humiliation of such an effort.
“Hmph,” he said.
Merry began to pace, weaving a path to the fireplace and back. Frodo could see he was readying his next argument. He also aware of how tense Sam was next to him; though what Sam really thought about the whole business, it was difficult to say.
“Here’s what it comes down to,” Merry said. “If you accept that we’ve got to do something about managing the gossip, then it’s either the long, slow process of winning old acquaintances over, one by one… or it’s one big push that swings us back into the town’s favour.”
“I don’t need the whole town’s favour…”
“Not to mention that it ought t’be yours already,” Sam said angrily.
“Thank you Sam, and I’m sure we all agree, but let’s try and get to the point here,” Merry said.
“We’ve already heard your point, Merry,” Pippin said through a yawn.
Merry could evidently see he was losing his audience. He began to pace faster. “It’ll be work, sure… it’s a lot of work, if it’s to be anything like the scale of old Bilbo’s party, but it might—well, Frodo, that might be a good thing.”
Here Frodo was annoyed again. “We’ve been doing nothing but working! Have you forgotten that half Bag End’s furniture still needs to be installed?”
“I mean… something larger than just reorganising. I mean something for the community.”
“Have you also forgotten,” Frodo began icily, “I’m already doing three days a week as Deputy Mayor? I’d argue it’s hard to get much more community-involved, actually—”
“Alright!” Merry stopped by the fireplace again. “Alright, I’m sorry. I know you are. It’s just, well.”
Frodo sighed. He’d begun to get sore kneeling where he was, so he lifted himself up onto the couch, touching his shoulder against Sam’s. “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be curt with you, Merry.”
“I likely deserve it,” Merry said promptly. “Only… I think everyone could do with another boost of morale. Even you, Frodo. And—it would be nice, that’s all. Seeing the place be put to good use again, after everything that’s happened here.”
That was something Frodo tried actively not to think about. There were many things, of course, that he preferred not to think about, but the thought of Lotho strutting about through these halls—poor old Lotho, followed by the wizard himself, Saruman, his voice echoing through the smial, his men tearing through rooms with flint and iron… that alone seemed to change the very air of the place he’d loved for most of his life.
“Merry,” he said wearily, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight.”
“Alright. We won’t.” Merry seemed to read Frodo’s expression in an instant; he pushed back from the fireplace, hands in his pockets again. “But just… think on it, would you?”
“I’m not making any promises.” Frodo stood up, and patted Sam’s shoulder. “Now, what can I do to get you all off to bed?”
“No nightcaps, I beg,” Pippin said, righting himself. “My head’s already sore enough.”
“Likely because of all the blood that’s gone into it.” Frodo folded his arms. “Tea, then?”
“I’ll help you,” Sam said quietly, rising by his side.
“It’s alright.” Frodo kissed his cheek, ignoring the expressions of the other two. “I’ll need to find a salve for your poor hand.”
Sam blushed prettily and smiled, the warmth of his gaze following Frodo as he left the room.
“Any biscuits to go with the tea?” Pippin’s voice called hopefully after him.
“Absolutely not. There’ll be nothing for elevenses tomorrow,” Frodo answered as he went to retrieve the kettle.
—
Sam leant against the kitchen table, sipping his tea and listening to the rummaging of jars somewhere behind the pantry door.
Frodo had banned him from attempting to help, though Sam had a private suspicion that he could have located the salve much quicker than Mr Frodo might; he’d been one of the pantry’s principle reorganisers a few months back.
New shelves had been necessary after the old ones had been ripped from the wall, a sticky residue of jam preserves and broken glass that Sam had to get on his hands and knees to scrub away properly. The foodstuffs had hardened into a sweet and cloying mess, and with every corner he turned to he’d became more and more furious, at the thought of those ruffians breaking up everything Mr Frodo had known and loved…
He felt the anger simmering in him even now, pulsing in time with the stinging of his knuckles. He’d split the skin a little—probably a result of Ted’s nose—but, as Frodo had commented dryly, Sam had been lucky not to break a finger.
Ted Sandyman’s words rang in Sam’s ears, drunk and vicious.
Your dear master was better off never coming back…
Sam clenched his fists and watched a bead of blood appear between his third and fourth knuckles. He’d been more than just angry, hearing those words, he’d been—scared.
Scared for Frodo, and what his master might think if he ever heard that said about him. Sam could not let that happen. He knew it would break his own heart more than Frodo’s, but that thought was even worse. That Frodo would somehow be… resigned. Would accept Ted’s snarling words as fact.
Sam had to get used to shielding Frodo in the right sort of way, without wanting to take a blade to someone’s throat. Things were different back in the Shire, compared to the quick slashes of instinct on the road; the months of assuming that anything that moved would want Frodo’s blood, in one way or another, so that Sam had to fight tooth and nail just to keep him alive, to keep him going.
No, it was not the same here. But Sam did not know what to do with all that energy, now. That same restless fear; the feeling that he had to be by Frodo’s side at all times. Protecting him, even when he couldn’t stop such words being thrown around.
At first Sam had seen Merry’s party proposition as another sort of attack, putting Frodo under further strain. But, as the young master had continued, reminding them all of Bilbo’s party long ago—a happier, simpler time—Sam couldn’t help but feel a little longing. To see Bag End restored to its glory days (not neglecting the gardens, of course) would fill him with pride. And surely it would be just as heartening for Frodo…
Frodo’s disembodied voice floated back from the pantry, interrupting his musings. “Ah! Found the bloody thing.”
A moment later he appeared in the doorway with a familiar-looking jar of greenish paste.
“That’s yarrow-root, isn’t it?” Sam asked with interest. “My sister buys it from one of the market-stalls—”
“I know. Daisy told me.” Frodo looked a little pleased with himself. “You keep coming back scraped-up from all that forestry work, so we got talking and she told me she uses this on you. I bought a jar last Sunday.”
Sam had only gotten back on the Tuesday. He was touched at the thought that Frodo had been anticipating his return with such a simple gesture; of course, Frodo had told Sam he missed him, but still—it warmed him. The everyday affections.
“Now, let me get a look at it in the light,” Frodo ordered, and moved Sam over towards the lamp burning on the counter. The teapot stood mostly empty next to it; both Merry and Pippin had taken their cups and headed straight to their rooms, yawning goodnight as they went.
The swelling was not really so bad as wouldn’t fix on its own, Sam thought, but he was happy to let Frodo fuss over it, wiping over his split knuckles with a damp cloth and then gently rubbing in the salve. Sam winced slightly as the ointment stung. It had a pleasant, herbed smell that rose up around them.
Frodo’s hands were very gentle, though Sam could tell he was still self-conscious about his missing finger. He used his right hand to hold Sam’s wrist from underneath, hiding the old wound from sight.
“You landed quite a blow with this one, didn’t you?” Frodo’s head was bent forward, his hair spilling over his eyes.
Sam shifted a little on his feet. “Aye, I suppose.”
“You’re not one to cross, Sam,” Frodo said fondly. He looked up, still holding Sam’s hand between the two of his own. Now he was merely rubbing at the sides gently, careful not to touch the still-stinging cuts. Sam shivered a little at the sensation.
“Mm,” he said. “I hoped t’convey that.”
Frodo snorted. He dropped his hold of Sam and went to go wash his hands with the water-jug, leaving Sam a touch disappointed.
“Well,” Frodo said, turning around again, drying his hands with a towel. “I do wish you wouldn’t have.”
Sam felt his stomach twist. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologise. You’re your own hobbit, Sam. You’ve got the right to, well… to act as you see fit.” Frodo approached him slowly, tilting his head a little. “I’m only saying, I don’t like to see you get hurt over it.”
Sam bowed his head. “Just—” he began. “‘Tis just that it makes me so angry. They should be singin’ your praises, all of them. Writin’ ballads about you…”
Frodo laughed. “Well. I suppose that’s what the real thing is like. You’ve got to compose your own ballads first, these days. But I don’t mind that, Sam, really—that’s what the Red Book is for, isn’t it? Just as Bilbo wrote up his own adventures once upon a time.”
“Hmph,” said Sam. A moment later he felt Frodo’s hands settle almost meditatively on his shoulders.
“You can be sure,” Frodo said, leaning in, “that I intend to give Samwise the Stouthearted a very good feature.”
He was smiling playfully, but Sam got a little thrill all the same. “You said that…” he began. In the pass of Minas Morgul. “I didn’t think you’d remember that conversation, if I’m honest.”
“I remember everything, Sam.” Frodo’s voice dropped. “Everything with you.”
Sam did not think that was true, bless him—Mr Frodo had spent the last days of their journey in a world of his own, just him and the Ring, and Sam shouting as best he could across the cavernous divide between them—but all the same, he was touched.
“I love you,” he breathed out.
“Mm.” It was as though Frodo had been waiting for those words; he closed the remaining distance between them and kissed Sam squarely on the mouth.
It was as good as it always was. Frodo’s hands on his shoulders, Frodo’s chin tilting into his, Frodo’s warm mouth. The sinuous way he moved, as though there was no hurry to it; no hurry to anything at all, and Sam was quickly lost in it.
He brought his hand up to Frodo’s hair, careful only to use his fingers and not risk smearing the salve. He could barely feel the sting of his knuckles anymore. Or at least, he did not mind, especially when Frodo bit lightly at his lip in a way that was much more distracting.
“Frodo…”
“Shall we retire to my room?” Frodo asked, smiling, pulling back to look at him.
“I—alright.”
Sam had not stayed over yet since his return from Eastfarthing way, after spreading more of the Lady Galadriel’s precious gift and tending to the trees he could save. He’d been helping the Gaffer adjust to life in New Row, and spending the few evenings with his sisters when he couldn’t split the time with Frodo.
It had been a while since they’d slept in the same room.
In the first mad days after the battle of the Shire, Frodo and Sam had bunked in at the Cottons’ already overcrowded farmhouse, until Bag End could be properly restored—and then, when New Row had been rebuilt, Sam had spent most of the time with his gaffer, making sure the place was habitable.
If nothing else, he missed waking up with Frodo at his side. Indeed, Sam had never wanted much more than that in the first place—though there was that moment a few weeks ago, when Pippin had interrupted them by knocking loudly on the door at a quite inopportune time…
For a little while, then, Sam thought he had seen real desire in Frodo’s eyes. He’d thought about it rather a lot over the last week. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of it again now, and that was what sent his heart hammering as he followed Frodo obediently down the hall to the master bedroom, abandoning his tea as a lost cause.
The fire was lit in Frodo’s room, but burning low, and Frodo went with a murmur to go and stoke it up again, though Sam would have done it for him—instead, he was left to tug at the already-closed curtains and wait.
Frodo straightened and turned back to him, dusting his hands. “We shouldn’t freeze tonight, even if this does burn down again.”
“I wouldn’t let you come to cold anyways,” Sam said quietly, approaching him.
“No, you’re practically a furnace, Sam.” Frodo tilted up his chin, smiling. “Among many other things, of course, I’ve missed having you warm up my bed.”
Sam let Frodo’s arms come round him; began walking him slowly backwards to the wall next to the heavy hanging curtains. “I’ve missed your bed,” he said. “I’ve—missed you.”
Frodo’s eyes appeared luminous. “I know, dearest.”
“No, I mean…” Sam struggled to find the words. Frodo’s hands were running slowly up his arms and over his shoulders, and with their passage went Sam’s train of thought. “I missed you here, ‘specially. Seein’ you really at home.”
At that, Frodo wrapped his arms fully around Sam and pressed his chin against his shoulder. “It’s not home without you,” he said very quietly, his face hidden.
“Frodo.” Sam kissed his dark hair. “You do know… I’ll always be here. If you’re wantin’ me.”
“Well. That’s very good.” Frodo’s breath against his neck. “I do want you.”
“C’mere. I want t’see you.”
Sam was rewarded with Frodo lifting his head, red-cheeked and so open in his expression that he was quite overcome by the sight.
You’re beautiful, he was going to say, but he got hardly a chance before Frodo kissed him, open-mouthed, hot and wanting. Sam kissed him back with all the hazy dreams of the past few weeks, all the nights spent missing him.
He was getting better at reading Frodo’s movements, now. The way he’d tilt his head to the side, inviting Sam to take the kiss deeper. The noises he’d make when Sam was doing something right, and the way he’d go supple and silent when Sam was doing something especially right.
Now, Sam was pressing him into the wall and Frodo did not seem to mind. His hands were on Sam’s back, running down his shirt, pulling its hem and then pressing against his bare skin, tugging Sam closer.
Sam was lost. He was rapidly out of his depth again, and he did not want to hurt Frodo, clumsy and eager that he was, though he could not bring himself to pull away. He had one arm propped against the wall, and his other hand in Frodo’s hair, tugging lightly as Frodo leaned forward to catch up his mouth again.
“Frodo—”
“Yes. You’re so good…”
Frodo broke off sharply as Sam began to kiss along his jaw and down his neck, the way he knew Frodo liked, deliberate and open-mouthed. He heard Frodo’s breath change, stutter slightly, and he thought that was a good sound.
Already Sam was aroused, and the blood that hadn’t yet rushed into his cheeks felt like it was pooling around his middle. And he didn’t know if Frodo was—if he would want—
His hands were on Frodo’s arms, his rumpled shirtsleeves, and now they slid down, slowly, to rest over his hips. Frodo’s hands had somehow found their way to Sam’s hair.
And Sam had begun to move against him, almost without thought, because Frodo felt perfect like that, his firm body against the wall, and everywhere he was warm and open and inviting and it was almost—too much...
“Frodo…”
He grazed his teeth lightly over Frodo’s collarbone. Frodo’s fingers tightened in his hair. Sam had to consciously still his hips. He could hear his own heartbeat, and his master’s rather erratic breathing.
His hands were on Frodo’s waist, and he slid them ever so slowly over the waistband of Frodo’s trousers, finding the top button; pausing there, hesitant…
Sam’s knee had come up to stroke against Frodo’s thigh. He felt a corresponding shudder. He breathed out against Frodo’s shoulder, and his hand moved down, and Frodo was—
Frodo moved his head to the side. “Sam.”
It was only one word, and yet Sam was pulling back immediately, sure that something was wrong. His heartbeat was so loud in his ears. “I’m sorry—”
“No—it’s alright.” Frodo’s hands on his shoulders stopped him before he could retreat further. “Wait a moment.”
They stared at each other. There was a high flush in Frodo’s cheeks, and his hair was disheveled, his mouth parted. But there was something wrong in his expression.
Sam felt himself going red. “I… I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not you,” Frodo said quickly. “Sam, really it’s not. I just don’t…”
“I didn’t mean to push you,” Sam managed to say. His voice sounded odd and unsteady. He felt ready to die with shame. He’d touched Frodo there, in a place he ought never to have gone thinking about, and Frodo did not want it. “I can go—”
“Sam.” Frodo brought his hands up to Sam’s cheeks. “Don’t be silly. It’s my fault. I don’t think I can do anything tonight.”
“Of course.” Sam tried to look understanding. He felt a strange mix of confusion and disappointment, which he hoped wouldn’t show on his face. He had no right to expect such things of Frodo, dear Frodo, and he should not go asking for them unless Frodo indicated very explicitly that he wanted them… Only he’d stupidly thought, for a moment, that Frodo had wanted them.
“Oh, Sam.” Frodo looked anxious. “Please don’t think we won’t. Or that I don’t want to.”
“I only want what you want,” Sam said stoutly. He could feel his cheeks burning under Frodo’s palms.
“What I…”
“Anything.” Sam reached up and placed his hands over Frodo’s own.
Frodo swallowed. “I… would you hold me? Tonight?”
“Aye. Of course.” Sam breathed out the words like a sigh, full of relief that he could do this, at least, that he was permitted to stay.
He pulled Frodo forward into his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“Sam, you’re not allowed to be sorry anymore.” Frodo’s voice came muffled.
“I—alright.”
They held each other for a moment, Sam trying to slow his still racing-heart. Pushing down the rush of sensation that had been Frodo moving against him. This, at least, was familiar.
“Shall we get ready for bed?” Frodo said finally.
“Yes. Alright.” Sam reluctantly let him go.
He had to go looking for his sleep-clothes, what little possessions he had that he’d brought over to Bag End to store in one of Frodo’s many drawers. Sam undressed with his back to Frodo, giving him privacy. Feeling once again awkward and over-clumsy and intrusive.
Frodo left one candle burning at the side of the bed, and was already under the covers by the time Sam had folded his shirt and trousers, left them hanging on a chair, and checked the fire for the last time.
He pulled up the sheets and slid under them, sighing internally at how soft the beds were here, mattresses almost as pillowy as that of the elven beds at Rivendell. And somehow even more comfortable.
Frodo shuffled towards him, on his side. “You’re alright?”
“Yes. An’ you?”
“Yes.” A sigh, as Sam put his arms around him. “Thank you. I think I’ll fall straight asleep.”
“Good.”
“You know, you’ve had an even busier evening than me, Sam. You must be exhausted.”
Sam half-smiled at Frodo’s teasing tone, and kissed his shoulder before tucking his chin into the junction below Frodo’s neck. “Fairly am, aye.”
Suddenly, he didn’t know what he’d had to be awkward about—things made perfect sense again, in the half-light, with his arms where they were supposed to be and Frodo pressing a light kiss to his hair.
“We’ll talk in the morning, alright? I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Frodo did drop off to sleep first, as he’d predicted, but Sam stayed awake awhile, watching the candle flicker low, and feeling the rise and fall of Frodo’s breath against him.
Even this, just this, he told himself, was enough. To have to survived everything, and to be able to watch his master sleep soundly, hold him in perfect contentment.
It was more than he could’ve dared to ask for, once. Sam kept this thought as he dropped, somewhat unwillingly, into sleep.