Chapter Text
Sam contemplatively rolled the cherry in his mouth, as he rested in the meadow, leaning back on his elbows. Then suddenly, denuded of all flesh, the pip shot through his pursed lips and flew out into the spring grass.
Frodo sat beside him, lost in admiration. It was not the least of Sam's many talents, as he had recently discovered. "How do you do that, Sam?" he asked, in great appreciation of Sam's skill.
Sam turned to him, not entirely sure what Frodo was referring to.
"The cherry," Frodo elaborated, seeing Sam's puzzled look.
"Oh, aye, nothing at all to it," Sam chuckled then, popping another into his mouth from the basket lying beside them. "All in the tongue, Frodo," he mumbled, rather indistinctly, the aforementioned tongue obviously hard at work. The second pip shot a good foot past the first, and was just as bare.
"Ah, the tongue," Frodo breathed.
It had been nearly three months since that first, and thus far only, treasured night they had spent together. Ever since, Frodo had made sure that Sam returned home to Number Three Bagshot Row in time for supper, but their tea-time had become inviolate, even if tea often consisted of a hasty cup of tea sipped by Sam as he left, and a scone to quickly munch on the way home. Their lives, however, had become centered around late afternoons spent in Frodo's bed.
Sam was always conscientious about completing all tasks for which he was accountable, be they for the gaffer or the master of Bag End. But in the late afternoon sun of the lengthening days, he always found his way to the kitchen door of Bag End, and the hobbit who impatiently awaited him there. And then it was only the wait of a heartbeat to be in each other's arms, kissing hungrily. They would walk then down the hall of the smial, arms tight around each other's waist. Then perhaps they would pause to kiss each other again, for there was always time enough for that, always enough time for Frodo to wrap an arm around Sam's broad back, and another behind Sam's sunburned neck, and for Sam to cup Frodo's face in his work-roughened hands, and tilt his head to find Frodo's mouth, and give those kisses that stole Frodo's breath away. But then Frodo would break away with a laugh, and tug Sam impatiently down the hall.
And always, Sam's heart would beat the faster as he entered Frodo's bedroom, and always his fingers would seem all of a muddle as Frodo would rapidly strip off his own clothing and turn to Sam with eager fingers, and more kisses. And as Frodo would impatiently cast Sam's coarse work shirt over his own fine linen one lying on the floor, and then, with a sigh, eagerly run his hands over Sam's chest, Sam would cling to Frodo, and, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, would throatily whispered, "Frodo. Oh, Frodo," as Frodo would unfasten Sam's trousers and let them fall.
Then neither would be of a mind to delay any longer, but they would fall into Frodo's bed, and rolling, straining, pushing, striving against one another, they would ignite each other's passion until nothing in all of world mattered but mouth against mouth, bodies held tightly together, urgently rocking, hands stroking and caressing, until the final result could be held in check no longer.
But then there was time for them both to lay in a tangle, in the patch of late afternoon sun that slanted across the bed, trying to catch their breath again. And then Frodo would sigh contently and stretch like a cat whose fur had just been stroked in exactly the proper way, and Sam would chuckle fondly at that, and rearrange himself strategically against Frodo, so that he could watch the lowering sun gild Frodo's fair skin, and make him blink sleepily when it reached his eyes. But Frodo always made sure that Sam was gone before the sun had fully set.
This afternoon, however, the heady scent of the roses' first bloom had filled the air, and the daffodils near the green front door of Bag End had burst into the most glorious bloom, and the air was warm with only the slightest hint of coolness. Frodo had had a basket packed when Sam arrived, and taking his hand, had led him up to the field above and behind Bag End. Sam seldom chanced here, for whatever grew in this meadow did so of its own accord. Yet the grass was lush and dotted with golden dandelions, and when Sam looked about, his eyes lit with appreciation for its beauty. Frodo watched him tenderly, smiling at Sam's obvious enjoyment.
"Ah, windflower," Sam exclaimed with approval, noting a purple drift near the old yew. "I thought as we'd be seein' a bit of that this year, what with all the snow. And a fine lot o'blossom on those bushes," he nodded to further back up the hill. "Berryin'll be good, come summer."
Frodo glanced about him, noting all the details his untrained eye had missed. He had simply remembered the spot as secluded and out of view of the road, which is why he had thought of bringing Sam up here, but now that he looked about, the loveliness of the meadow impressed him as well. He flung out the worn rug that he had been carrying in the crook of one arm, and dropped the basket beside it.
"Hmm," Sam hummed appreciatively, his gaze turning to Frodo standing beside him. "You've been shut up behind those walls a bit too long, I'd be thinkin'." Winding an arm around Frodo's waist, he pulled the older hobbit closely to him. "Can't say as I'm hungry, yet," he declared with a smile, running a gentle but firm hand through Frodo's dark curls.
"Or perhaps just not for what's in the basket," Frodo teased him, planting a light kiss just under Sam's ear and then flicking the lobe lightly with his tongue.
"Ah," Sam inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping shut. Frodo gave a low chuckle. That particular spot was infallible. And it was not the only. Slowly he sank down on his knees on the rug, pulling Sam willingly down with him. Shirts were quickly shed in the warmth of the late spring afternoon, and Frodo soon found himself kneeling beside a smiling Sam, who was lying out on the old rug with his hands clasped behind his head, and his warm hazel eyes affectionately considering Frodo. And once more, Frodo felt the miraculous untwisting of a knot that had lain hidden so deep in his heart for so long.
There was a time, not too long ago, when he had once again vowed that he would never expose his heart to the loss and pain he had felt more than once. And it was a vow that he had meant to keep. Yet somehow, his heart had been wiser than he knew, and here he was, gazing down on the one he had found he could love, trust and hold to, above all others. With a rush of sudden gratitude, he bent down to nuzzle Sam's throat, his chest. Ah, the heady smell of Sam, the slightly salty intoxicating taste of him, after his hard day of work. Sam used to feel that he had ought to wash up before coming up to Bag End, but Frodo insisted that he not, and Sam had good-naturedly agreed. And there was another spot that never failed, there. Right at the base of the throat.
"Oh," Sam breathed in deeply, his eyes closing once again. But at that last tease, Frodo suddenly found strong arms wrapped around him, and somehow Sam's mouth was under his, and Frodo surrendered to the irresistibly sweet sensation of being tenderly kissed, being lovingly held, and being caressed everywhere, oh, everywhere, by the one who held his heart. And now the tables were turned, as Sam rolled over with Frodo in his arms, and it was Sam who knew just the spots to nuzzle, just the places that made Frodo gasp and squirm, for surely they were equal in their knowledge of each other's pleasure. So as Sam brushed his curls back and kissed his exposed temple, Frodo sighed deeply, and ran his hands up Sam's chest slowly. But as they reached the most sensitive zone, Sam caught his breath, and bowed his head, touching his forehead to Frodo's.
"Oh, Frodo, I love you, I do," he whispered, his voice catching just a bit on the words. There was no other reply Frodo could possibly make to that, as his heart welled up within, than to grab Sam by the shoulders forcefully, urgently, kissing him ardently, with the need to show him what he had no words for.
Once more they were in each other's arms, but now they lay side by side and there was no time to be wasted in ridding themselves of the rest of their clothing. Quickly the trousers were cast aside, and then they lay against each other, bare and at full length, as their hungry hands held to and embraced the other, and aching flesh was caressed fiercely, and everything else was lost to the need to just connect, to give, and to take in return.
It was long they lay in each other's arms afterwards, the air still warm about them, the heavy buzz of the bees passing over to the distant lavender, and the heady perfume of late spring bloom in the slight breeze. There were no words that needed to be spoken, when kisses would suffice, and a loving and tender touch said so much. At last, though, Sam's stomach gave a distinct rumble, and Frodo chuckled at Sam's rueful face. "No, my dearest Sam, you need your tea," he exclaimed fondly, sitting up and reaching for the forgotten basket. "You've been working hard all day, what with the trellis to mend, and the gaffer's vegetable plot to prepare. I should have fed you first."
"Food don't matter a bit, when you look at me the way you'd do," Sam protested, also sitting up, with a gentle smile, "but I guess I could do with a bit about now."
And as they ate, and lightly spoke of what struck their fancy, and laughed, the sun sank slowly in the skies, and Sam reluctantly dressed and headed home to Bagshot Row.
The last pink streaks of the sunset had faded into the cool blue of evening by the time Sam reached the front door of Number Three Bagshot Row. His thoughts were lost elsewhere as he entered, and he did not see the significant looks his sisters gave each other. The gaffer was still at the Green Dragon, as was his custom these days, and his sisters sat about the kitchen fire, mending in their hands, and a pot of stew waiting on the fire.
"Later every day, Samwise," May sniffed, as she stood up to dish out dinner.
"Aye, well, there'd be much to do this time o'year," Sam said hastily, sitting down with his steaming plate in his hands. "Did I miss Da?"
"You'd not be here for him to talk to, Sam," Daisy mentioned quietly from her corner. "He'd be at the Dragon."
Sam guiltily lowered his head and ate without answering. The meal was a quiet one.
May and Marigold had already gone to bed when the gaffer came home late that night. Slowly he had walked through the smial with no greeting to either Sam nor Daisy, and had sat heavily on his accustomed seat in the kitchen without a word, staring into the fire as if lost in a trance. Daisy frowned at this, and taking up the kettle, asked briskly, "Tea, Da?"
For a moment, he gave no sign of hearing her, but then, without a glance at her, shortly replied, "Aye."
Sam stood uncertainly by the fireside. Hesitantly, he looked over to Daisy, but her face was shadowed as she handed a mug to her father. "Any news from the Dragon, Da?" he asked tentatively, to break the silence that had grown thick in the quiet kitchen.
There was no answer from the old hobbit as he sat staring sightlessly into the flames, the forgotten mug at his feet.
Daisy, with a sudden sharp movement of her head, strode without a word to the small round window that faced out to the kitchen garden. The shutter was still open, for the bit of slight chill was welcome in the well-heated room, and Daisy folded her arms on the sill and bowed her forehead on them.
Sam followed her, but when she did not turn around, he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Daisy," he whispered, "please, Daisy, tell me."
Daisy remained motionless a moment more, but when she did turn around, Sam was shocked to see the traces of tears on her face. He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head fiercely, and nodded to the smial's entrance.
It was over at the side of the smial, in the sheltered nook where the seedlings were potted, that Daisy stopped. She whirled around, still a bit taller than Sam, for all they were now full-grown. "You don't see, now, do you, Sam," her voice was tight and at the edge of a sob.
Sam stopped, and grasped her hand with both of his, as he had as a child when he had been entrusted to her keeping. "What 'tis it I'd not be seein'?" he asked with foreboding.
"Why, look at Da!" she exclaimed, tears starting down her face again. "He walks about as if in a dream. He doesn't do aught but sit about, silent as a log. Even when he'd be at the Dragon, I hear he's not doing aught there, likewise. Ever since Mam… And how many years'd that be now, Sam? Aye, he never did talk to us lasses that much, but you, Sam… But it seems as now you're never here, but always up hill, with, with that,." with a look at Sam's shocked face, she sat heavily on the garden bench and covered her face with her shawl.
Sam sat slowly beside her, not knowing what to say. It had always been Daisy to whom he had looked for counsel, ever since their mother had died, Daisy on whom he had felt he could always rely for understanding. But now. He stared unseeing at his hands in his lap.
Daisy stifled her tears before too very long, a habit in which she had had much practice. She leaned her head wearily against the wall of the smial and looked over at Sam. "I know you'd be head-over-heels, Samwise Gamgee," she said at last, in resignation. "But you'd need to be thinkin' o'the rest of us." She watched him for a few minutes more, his face bowed down and hidden from her. "There's no life for you there, Sam. And there's those here as needs you."
Slowly she rose. "I'll bank the fire," she added quietly, and was gone.
It was a somber Sam that entered the Bag End kitchen the next afternoon. All day, as he had repaired the chicken coop at Number Three, and hoed the spring vegetables in Bag End's garden, he had thought of what Daisy had said the night before. He well knew that he had always been his father's favorite, the one son Hamfast Gamgee had counted on to follow after him, and the thought that his father would feel as if he had been let down was painful indeed. At the same time, though, the thought of letting go of Frodo was impossible for him to imagine. A life without Frodo's touch, without his kisses, was the most empty and barren future that he could think of. By the end of the afternoon, he longed for the comfort of Frodo's arms, the peace that he found nowhere else but in Frodo's embrace.
It only took a glance for Frodo to know that there was something amiss. Without a word, he took Sam by the hand and gently led him down to his bedroom. The unpredictable spring weather had become chill again this afternoon, and the warmth of the fire that Frodo had lit in the room was welcome. Leading Sam over to the bed, they lay down together on the coverlet, still without a word, and Frodo held Sam close, as the younger hobbit buried his face in Frodo's shirt.
It was a long while before Frodo felt the tension in Sam's shoulders begin to ease, and letting go of Sam, he propped himself up on his elbow next to him. "What's all this, my dear Sam?" he studied Sam carefully.
Sam rubbed his reddened eyes wearily. "It's just naught but family matters," he muttered. "No need to botherin' you, Frodo."
"I would help you if I could, Sam," Frodo replied hesitantly. The thought that he could possibly be the cause of a rift between Sam and his family was a cause of anxiety that he had kept hidden from Sam. The gaffer's opinion of his relationship with Sam would be, he was certain, not at all favorable.
"Aye, me dear, that I know," Sam smiled warmly at that, his hand reaching up to gently touch Frodo's face. "It's just that the gaffer'd be needin' more of my time. I'd best not be stayin' as late as I've been. But I wish.." and his voice trailed off softly.
"What do you wish, Sam?" Frodo breathed quietly, held by the look in Sam's eyes.
Sam glanced away at that, the expression Frodo had thought he had seen was gone. "For naught but what I have," he replied, his eyes returning to Frodo's, with a warm smile. "Not to fret, me dear. I'll be fine," and he pulled Frodo down into a warm kiss.
Sam accompanied the gaffer to the Dragon that evening, and realized, from the warm greetings he received there, that it had indeed been awhile. He sat in a secluded corner, pipe in hand and watched the gaffer, more sprightly than he had been in many a month, chat up his cronies. And it was impossible to avoid too, from the others' appreciative glances, how much of this was because of his presence. As the evening wore on, he sat in the shadows, putting in a word or smile when the gaffer turned towards him, but with a heart that was heavy with regret and longing.
When he returned to Number Three the next evening, Marigold was at the gate, watching for him to come down the hill. "Ah, Sam, I'd thought you'd never be puttin' a foot this way," she exclaimed, with barely suppressed excitement. Running out to him, she grasped his elbow and tugged him into the apple trees growing to the side of the path down from Bag End.
"Mari, what 'tis all the pother now?" he asked in bewilderment. "It's naught with Da, now, 'tis it?" he continued with sudden apprehension.
"Not Da!" Marigold shook her head with a giggle. " 'Tis about me…and Tom."
Sam's eyes widened at that, and a delighted smile broke across his face. "Why, Marigold Gamgee!" he cried out joyfully, and catching her around the waist, swung her about as Marigold leaned back and laughed happily, her honey colored braids coming undone about her face.
"Or 'tis Mistress Marigold Cotton, as I should be callin' you soon," Sam nodded with mock solemnity, as he set Marigold on her feet again.
"Aye, it has a pretty sound about it, does it not?" Marigold's face was glowing in the late sun as she clasped his hands and drew him farther into the grove.
"And the others, what do they say?" he asked, still smiling at her obvious joy.
"I haven't told them," she replied with a giggle. "You'd be the first, Sam."
"Well, I can't imagine Da'd be sayin' no, for all you're a tweenager," Sam shrugged. "He's always thought Tom was a fine lad, and he's nearly of age."
"So are you, Sam," Marigold's brown eyes were on him thoughtfully as they continued to walk in the grove under the trees still heavy with white blossom. "It's not too soon for you to be thinkin' o'the same."
Sam stopped suddenly at that, and withdrawing his hand from Marigold's and shoving it in his pocket, he stared uneasily at the grassy ground. " 'Tis not as easy as all o'that," he replied shortly.
"Yes, it is," Marigold faced him with determination. "Rosie Cotton would be yours in a moment, if you'd but ask, Sam. She thinks you'd be the finest as ever was."
"And she is a lovely lass, to be sure," Sam answered awkwardly, "but…"
Marigold sighed, and laid her hands on Sam's arms. "Sam," she said somberly, staring intently into his adverted eyes. "What goes on between you and Mr. Frodo?"
Sam started at that unexpected question, but then squared his shoulders and returned her gaze steadily. "He means that much to me. I'll not be marryin' Rosie Cotton, Mari," he stated firmly. But then the look in his eyes softened, and he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No worries, Mari. I'd be fine. You'd be the one with all the news. And would I not be right in thinkin' this will put May in the greatest fuss, you marryin' first?"
Marigold could not help laughing at that. "Ah, Sam, I love my sister, but you know us too well, now."
"I thought as much," Sam chuckled. " 'Tis time to go and stir up the rest of the Gamgees."
They walked back, arm and arm, through the deepening dusk, but just before they reached the smial, Sam leaned over and gave Marigold a light kiss on her cheek. "I'm very happy for you, my Mari dear, I truly am," he murmured with an affectionate smile.
"I know, Sam" she answered, her eyes shining.