Rating: R/NC-17 for eventual sex, both slash and het.
**WARNING**: This story is Frodo/Sam, so if you don't like hobbitslash
then best steer clear. This story is Rosie/Sam, so if het squicks you,
then best move along. This story is Frodo/Sam/Rosie, but if you can
handle both the F/S and the R/S, you really shouldn't have any complaints
by this point.
Feedback: Questions, comments and snide remarks directed to <FyrDrakken@juno.com>
will receive guaranteed responses. As an Elitist Fic Bitch in good
standing, I welcome constructive criticism -- if there's a
problem in something I've written I *really* want to know about it so I can fix
it!
Disclaimer: Tolkien must be spinning in his grave enough already without
my being able to add much insult to the injury. Obviously any characters
you recognize aren't mine.
* *
* * *
"Unexpected"
by FyrDrakken
* *
* * *
The thing of it was, he couldn't be in two places at once.
Heh, not even two places would be enough -- right now he was wanted in three,
four, a dozen places, all over the Shire. But back home in Hobbiton,
even in Bag End, he just couldn't be in two places at the same time.
Just thinking about it felt like pulling his heart near in two.
First there was Frodo -- and he was first, first in his
life, first in his bed, and after following him near-literally to hell and
back there was nothing he wouldn't do for him. And nothing he wouldn't
be given in return, either, if it were in Frodo's power to give. He
knew that.
And then there was Rosie. She'd called the business with the Ring "wasted
time" -- well, and from her standpoint he supposed it was. Couldn't
expect a lass who'd never set foot outside the Shire in her life to know
or care of dark lords and crushing armies and all of that. The closest
the Shire ever came to understanding about the fires of Isengard threatening
Tuckborough and Buckland was when Sharkey's men had settled in and started
pushing folk around. How to make them understand that the Battle of
Bywater was nothing, a mere scuffle, when compared to Helm's Deep or the
Pelennor Fields? No more deserving of the title of "battle" than a
tavern brawl.
And it rankled, it did, to see how the hobbits admired Merry and Pippin for
the fine accoutrements and airs picked up when away, and were impressed by
the Travellers' combat skills against a smattering of untrained ruffians,
but blew off the whole blasted purpose of the quest as stuff that was of
no importance at all to the proper runnings of the Shire. The Ringbearer
had the great and the wise kneeling at his feet in thanks for what he'd done,
yet back home he was a no-account eccentric considered suspiciously apt to
take up with unsavory companions and hare off for foreign parts that no proper
hobbit had any business in. Because he'd been too worn and weary of
strife to draw sword in that little scuffle against the interloping men,
he was considered lazy at best and cowardly at worst by a bunch of silly
folk who had never even heard of the king!
It was enough to make Sam want to shake some of the fools around him, who
knew nothing outside their small country and were loud in their ignorance.
He was definitely beginning to see why Frodo and Bilbo used to wish for a
taste of mayhem to shake some sense into their neighbors -- but see, they'd
had that, no thanks to Saruman, and it hadn't left the survivors any wiser
for the experience after all.
Rosie, well -- she hadn't known. She hadn't yet been told what all
had gone on while he and the master were away when she made that careless
remark. He'd gotten around to telling her the story of what they'd
seen and done, as much as he could bear to speak of, though he wasn't sure
how much of it had sunk in. The parts about how important it really
had been to get that cursed Ring dealt with proper-like, and how Mr. Frodo
really had been incredibly brave and impressive, and all that -- well, he
was no kind of a storyteller, not like Mr. Bilbo or Frodo himself, but maybe
he'd been able to make it clear enough.
Maybe she'd even pick up a bit from Frodo himself. The two of them
seemed inclined to get on together well, which was both a pleasure and a
relief to Sam. She'd been kind to Frodo while the pair of them were
staying with her family during the repairs to Bag End, and the offer of a
fine hobbit hole to live in was more than enough wedding gift to make a lass
well-disposed to the giver even if she hadn't already been anyway.
The thing was, the offer hadn't been made as a wedding gift. Not originally.
Sam knew that. Frodo had originally expected Sam to move in with him
and for it to be just the two of them. Just as it had been through
Mordor. Just as it had been after, lazing about in Minas Tirith waiting
to be ready for the long journey home. Whether alone on the plain of
Gorgoroth or surrounded by thousands in Minas Tirith or crowded into the
Cotton family hole, at the end of the day it was just Frodo and Sam tucked
in together against the night.
There were things in the night, things much less harmless than any hunting
owl or passing fox like you'd expect to find in the Shire. Sam and
Frodo knew that now. And Sam knew that, even in safe and cozy Bag End,
the night pressed in too ominously when you were in a room alone, even with
a cheerful fire lit and a properly full belly. And if he
found the dark a bit too unnerving to be gladly faced alone now, how much
worse must it be for Frodo?
So. Frodo wanted a bit of company, help to fill that empty hobbit hole.
A grand shame he'd never married -- though there'd been a lass or two he'd
apparently had his eye on, it had never gone anywhere. A sad thing,
the once-proud Baggins family thinning out the way it was, and those lovely
eyes never to be passed on to any laughing curly-haired daughters to melt
the lads' hearts in a few decades.
Sam mourned for the daughters Frodo would never have -- and the sons, too,
who would never wreak havoc raiding farmers' fields and pranking the neighbors
and tracking mud into the antique carpets of Bag End.
(When the thought occurred to him that Frodo himself might be too far gone,
too burned out to even long for those never-born children, he banished it
as quickly as it came. No good would come from dwelling on the worst
things you could imagine.)
Sam had no intention of suffering the same fate, and there was no question
of Frodo ever having expected him to, of course. Lads might make a
habit of "seeing to" their closest friends when they were in their twenties
and thirties, but they got married eventually. It didn't make their
affections any less dearly held, that there would one day be wives and children
to share them -- marrying would just cut down on the time they had available
to spend with each other. (After all, it wasn't like their wives hadn't had
a few romps themselves with their female friends before marrying -- or like
their wives wouldn't be likely to chase them off to other beds when there
was a new baby in the house and mum wanted a bit of a rest.)
Sam shouldn't have felt at all guilty about getting married -- he was of
age, and she was the right age for it, and he had a position and all he needed
to start feeding a family.
But.
But there had been that look in Frodo's eye, beneath the startlement, an
emotion almost too fleeting to be named, when Sam told him about how he and
Rosie had settled things between them. It had been barely a flicker,
but after such long and close association Sam suspected he could put a name
to it if he cared to.
He didn't care to.
The immediate counter-offer, for Sam and Rosie both to move in to Bag End,
was both generosity and compromise. Generosity, to let them set up
as newlyweds in comfort and with a roomy hobbit hole to fill with children
in the years to come. Compromise, to put all Sam's responsibilities
into one location and let him keep Frodo company while still fulfilling all
the marital obligations he would be taking up.
But.
But that still left the nights, and that was what worried him the most.
Frodo was usually fine during the daylight hours -- and just as well, since
most of Sam's duties tended to be out in the sunlight. Nights he had
free to share with Frodo -- until he'd be married, and sharing them with
Rosie as well.
Taking meals together, or sitting in front of the fire, were good things
of an evening and just as well shared. But when the fire was banked
and the lamps put out and people sought their beds -- well. In the
wee hours of the morning, when the only other folk in the house were tucked
away together in their own bed and you were far too polite to intrude on
a married couple -- you might as well be the only person alive in the world,
at that point. After all he'd seen and done, Sam knew that he
wouldn't care to spend many nights like that -- not now, at least. (Maybe
not ever -- another thought to be forgotten if at all possible.)
Getting married wouldn't stop him from sharing a bed with Frodo sometimes
-- especially with them living under the same roof. With Frodo yet
unmarried, it would be only courtesy even if they didn't already care for
each other so. But -- newlyweds were expected to spend a great deal
of time with each other -- and their single friends were expected to have
to resign themselves to finding other partners for a while, until the novelty
of the opposite sex wore off (or, more likely, until the first baby came
along and created a pause in the bedroom antics for a few months).
Though Sam hadn't quite thought of a way to raise the subject with Rosie
yet, he rather feared she would be very much opposed to his even spending
so many as half his nights with Frodo -- great affection or not, and Frodo's
great generosity and lingering ill-health notwithstanding. Whereas
Sam -- though he was looking forward to finally sharing a bed with Rosie
(very much so, truth be told) -- hated the thought of Frodo spending even
so many as half his nights all alone in the dark with his treacherous memories.
Sam definitely thought he could name what he'd seen in Frodo's eyes for a
moment. It might have been hurt, or shock, or even jealousy, under
the circumstances. But he rather thought it wasn't any of these.
It had looked far too much like fear.
Not that Frodo wasn't far braver than any other hobbit Sam knew -- and a
great many folk of other types besides. But that little flicker, at
learning that his one companion against the night wasn't going to always
be there for him...
Being left alone was a kind of fear that Sam could understand.
In a way, it was a pity Frodo hadn't been keen on taking other lovers, since
taking up with Sam all those years ago. (Not that Sam hadn't been flattered
and more than flattered that his lovely master was so content to share a
bed with his gardener that he turned down the many, many offers he no doubt
got from other lads over the years!) Sam had heard rumors that Frodo had
been in quite a few beds in Buckland before Bilbo adopted him and brought
him home, and even now he wouldn't have had any trouble "making new friends"
if he'd cared to. But only two others in the Shire apart from Sam had
any grasp of what Frodo had been through in the past year or two, and even
they hadn't been in Mordor for the very worst of it. (And were very much
wrapped up in each other besides -- though Sam rather thought they'd be not
only glad but eager to make room for their cousin.) It was no place of Sam's
to go telling Frodo where he should be sleeping -- not as his friend, not
as his more-than-occasional lover, certainly not as his servant. But
it was certainly understandable, that he would rather have someone who understood
everything that had happened and wouldn't ask uncomfortable questions about
the scars, would know what allowances to make and what subjects to avoid
at all costs. (Sam managed to keep from thinking too long on how inward Frodo
had turned, that he neither made new friends nor allowed his older ones to
regain their former closeness. The four of them had shared things that
no one else in the Shire would understand or care about, and it was only
natural for them to seek each others' company afterwards.)
The great problem here was that Frodo shouldn't be left alone for too long
or too often -- and he didn't really want anyone's company but Sam's most
of the time. Sam understood all too well, and he loved Frodo and wanted
to spend as much time with him as he could, for all the years of their lives...
but. But there was Rosie, all bright and lovely and -- not unlike Frodo
-- more than Sam would have ever thought he could rightfully aspire to.
And he wanted to spend as much time with her as he could, too, for all the
years of their lives...
Sam just couldn't be in two places at once.
He knew of a way to fix it, though.
He just didn't quite know how to put the matter to them.
* *
* * *
Rosie Cotton -- Rosie Gamgee, now, for the past two weeks -- knew that her husband loved his employer.
This was fine with her.
She hadn't been very pleased to have Mr. Baggins go running off into the
great unknown dragging Sam along with him -- but at least they'd both come
back safely. She wasn't pleased by the scars she'd found on Sam, once
they began the gentle lifelong process of familiarizing themselves with each
others' bodies after their wedding -- but there had been nothing too serious,
and certainly Mr. Frodo seemed to have gotten the worst of whatever happened
to the pair of them. (She didn't know how much to believe of that story Sam
had told her about what they'd been up to. He had been so clearly trying
to impress her with the importance of some trinket Mr. Bilbo had picked up,
and convince her that he and Mr. Frodo had been doing necessary non-time-wasting
things while away, that she suspected him of exaggerating a bit. Still,
they'd seen and done things that she hadn't, that was clear enough.)
But that Sam and Mr. Frodo loved each other -- that was fine with her.
Sam might have gone running off after his master for a bit, but at least
he'd been done well by when he got back. Mr. Bilbo's gift of the gold
was fine enough, but getting to come live in Bag End -- more, to treat the
grand home like their own, Mr. Frodo being so very determined to ignore distinctions
between social class and treat them all as equals in true eccentric Baggins
fashion -- well, clearly Sam was getting as good in the exchange as he was
giving. And Mr. Frodo could do with a bit of pampering -- she'd seen
how ill he'd taken, that spring while Sam was away with his planting.
Clearly the poor dear was better off not rattling around in that vast house
all by himself.
A pity he seemed disinclined to marry -- though Sam had told her that Mr.
Frodo had hinted about leaving everything he had to Sam, she thought this
was unlikely. Surely there were some Baggins cousins still about,
if he had no interest in taking a wife. And it wasn't like he didn't
have a horde of relatives on his mother's side, Brandybucks being such a
huge family and all. Still, it was a nice thought, and showed what
a generous nature he had, and how devoted he was to Sam. At the very
least he would be a kind employer and see that their family was well tended
to, and that was enough for her.
He had treated her with the utmost respect and courtesy in all their prior
dealings and even offered her a place in his home by extension of his offer
to Sam. In return she would quite happily fuss over the overworn hobbit
when Sam was about his duties -- whatever reckless and irresponsible things
Mr. Frodo might have been off and doing, his gentle nature and generosity
rated that much and more from her. Just as soon as he came home tomorrow
-- for he had spent the weeks immediately following their wedding in Crickhollow
with his cousins, letting the newlyweds have Bag End to themselves for a
bit. Though she appreciated the time to get used to the idea of being
Mrs. Gamgee and settle into their new home, Sam was fretting over Mr. Frodo's
absence and by this point she was ready to have him back if only for Sam's
sake.
In truth, Sam was the one who had insisted that Mr. Frodo be gone no more
than two weeks -- the offer had been made to stay gone for at least a full
month, but Sam wouldn't hear of it. Rosie might have been inclined
to argue, had she been present for that discussion, that at least a month
would be welcome -- but then again, she might not have, realizing how Sam
fretted when Mr. Frodo wasn't where he could keep an eye on his master.
She was quite happy to be alone with her Sam, and during the months he lived
with her family she had learned to be almost comfortable around Mr. Frodo,
however changed he might be from the laughing creature she remembered from
before. But whenever she was in the room with Sam and Frodo together
she had felt very much on the outside -- as though they were finishing a
conversation she'd missed the beginning of. There were things between
them that she knew nothing of. She had been almost frightened of intruding,
at times.
She hoped that might have changed, now, with her and Sam sharing a bed like
they hadn't been while he was living with her family before. Maybe
it wouldn't be so much like the pair of them shared secrets that weren't
any of her business.
Maybe she'd be on the inside now.
At the very least, she'd make an effort with Mr. Frodo, try to treat him
as well as Sam would want him to be treated. Take some of the load
off of Sam -- the poor dear, dividing his time between his gardens, his wife
and his master. He wouldn't hear of her grubbing in the gardens along
with him, but she could help take care of Mr. Frodo if the two of them would
let her. She would try to cheer the other hobbit up a bit, maybe coax
some of that old bubbling mischief back to the surface -- that would certainly
make everyone in Bag End a bit easier with each other!
Maybe then it would feel more like "the three of us" and less like "the two of them -- and me."
* *
* * *
The surprise wasn't that Sam wanted her.
Frodo had noticed, long before, that Sam's eyes followed her whenever she
was around. Surreptitiously, never openly, as though his attention
was in some way not worthy of her, as though there was no possibility she
could ever return his regard.
He recognized it, from when he and Sam had first met.
So many years ago -- covert glances, soft stumbling words, and always that unobtrusive helpfulness,
the subtle signals encoding the message of a shy young hobbit in love.
Frodo had more than enough experience to decipher the message, even newly
come to Bag End, and had almost-demurely waited for the younger lad to decide
for himself what he wanted -- until finally realizing with some amusement
that Samwise Gamgee would watch forever without daring to make a move on
his own behalf. He had taken pity on the young gardener-in-training,
offering what was so clearly desired, and been rather pleasantly surprised
-- astonished, rather -- at the depths concealed by the deceptively stolid
exterior. (But really, anyone who watched Sam at work shouldn't have been
so surprised at that gentle patience or that deep if unstated appreciation
for beauty.)
He'd spent time in a fair number of beds, as a younger lad. Some he'd
cared for more than others, but none he was especially attached to.
Pleasant activity, a way to pass a long lazy afternoon. A bit of fun
between friends. Nothing more meaningful than that. He certainly
wasn't used to being the one having to do the asking.
He'd never been touched quite like that before -- like something fragile and wonderful and unlooked-for all at once.
Frodo had stopped visiting other beds very soon after that.
He knew what Sam saw in Rosie.
It was that joy, bubbling up and out of her so that you almost see it sparkling
in the air around her. Life and light and music and more than a hint
of playful mischief.
He recognized it, from when he'd had it himself.
Sam was a watcher, and a listener. He wouldn't take it on himself to
take part unless someone else dragged him in. Frodo had been the one
to pull him along -- haul him off to the Green Dragon for a night's revelry,
shove him into the lass' arms during the dance, bring him along when the
whim struck for some new bit of fun.
Sam was a creature of the earth, still and quiet and deeply rooted.
He needed a bit of wind in his branches to make him dance, a little added
air and light and burbling water.
Frodo had once been all of that. A few short years and an entire lifetime ago.
Rosie still was.
So in kinder days when Frodo had first noticed his friend and lover had his
eye on that particular young lady, he had been pleased and amused.
In a way, it was flattering, that Sam enjoyed the gentle teasing and the
laughter and the sheer exuberance enough to be looking for the same over
again in a wife. And Frodo personally approved of Rosie -- not just
joyous but kind and gentle as well, and unless he missed his guess not oblivious
to Sam's understated charms. He had gladly encouraged Sam at every
turn, but to no avail. Sam seemed unshakeably convinced that he had
attracted a lover far beyond his deserts once, through some odd chance of
timing or streak of Brandybuck unpredictability or Frodo's sheer matchless
kindness, and to expect such a stroke of luck to repeat itself was a doomed
hope.
So that was one reason Frodo hadn't looked for Sam and Rosie to be setting
up house together any time soon. But it was the least of reasons --
Sam had grown rather more sure of himself in the time away, after what they'd
done and seen, and more comfortable in his own skin. He might have
finally decided it was time to take the chance and put the question to her.
Then again, she might have grown fed up with waiting on him -- or alarmed
by his lengthy absence -- and finally just asked him herself. Frodo
wasn't sure he'd put it past her -- she seemed like a lady who knew her own
mind, and Sam's as well.
But that wasn't the true source of his surprise.
Frodo had thought he'd be marrying himself, once. Pansy Bolger in particular
had caught his eye at one point, and he'd thought he had hers. Things
hadn't gone that way. He supposed he was glad, now, that he hadn't
had a wife and a few little ones when Black Riders were in the Shire looking
for anyone named Baggins. (The thought of trying to make the flight to Rivendell
with children in tow was a chilling one, though the thought of leaving them
to take their chances in the Shire while he fled with the Ring was even more
so.)
He couldn't see himself marrying, now. (He wouldn't wish such an empty shell
of a husband on any lass he cared for -- and saw no point in wedding any
lass he didn't.)
And Sam had been through so much of what he had. Certainly through
the worst of it, in Mordor and the Fire Mountain. He'd even carried
the Ring, so briefly. Surely he wanted no more than to curl up in Bag
End and put the smial and gardens back to rights and try to forget about
that whole accursed business, even as Frodo did.
Surely they both needed time to heal.
That Sam was already so healed as to be planning a wedding was a nasty shock.
Not just because he'd be getting less of Sam's time, though there was a bit
of that. (More than a bit, if he were ready to be fully honest with himself
-- which he wasn't, quite yet.)
But because it raised that question once again, that had been growing so much more and more troublesome as time went on.
Would he ever really be recovered from what carrying the Ring had done to him?
None of the four of them who had left the Shire would ever be quite the same
as they had been, it seemed. Merry and Pippin were the youngest, and
resilient, and destined to be the leaders of the Shire one day. They
had been to war and come home wiser and apparently the better for it.
Sam, though, had followed him -- walked with him, carried him -- into hell and home again. For Sam to have bounced back so quickly and completely was...
Well, it was certainly no more than he deserved. Sam had never asked
to be caught up in the business with the Ring, had only followed him out
of sheer loyalty -- even as Merry and Pippin had. All of them deserved
to come out of the mess as well as might be expected.
(And what of himself, who had never asked to be caught up by the Ring either?
Ah, but he'd agreed to take up the blasted thing and carry it to Mordor --
and then had tried to give it away at every turn, and then to keep it for
himself at the end, his final treachery only redeemed by another's betrayal.
He deserved no more than he'd gotten...)
He had been offered an invitation. If he could find no peace in Middle-Earth,
there was another land he could seek rest in.
He wasn't greatly tempted by the offer.
He didn't really want to go to Valinor, however beautiful it might be.
He wanted his old life back, with Bilbo and ten fingers and no scars beyond
those caused by an active boyhood and no nightmares of wraiths or eyes or
creeping dark chitinous horrors and no phantom pains striking him down twice
yearly.
He was beginning to fear that, far from ever getting his old life back, there
was really no life left for him at all in the Shire.
When Sam told him that he and Rosie had come to an understanding, he couldn't help but hear something else under the words.
"Will you be wanting me to help you with your bag, Mr. Frodo? You won't want to miss your ship..."
* *
* * *
Sam still wasn't too sure of how to put the matter to Rosie and Frodo.
After thinking it over, he figured it was better to talk to Rosie first --
somehow he couldn't see Frodo agreeing to it unless he knew Rosie was in
favor as well, so that settled the question of who to start with.
Which didn't help much with how to set it on the table in front of his wife -- and there
was something he was only just getting used to, too! It wasn't a thing
he'd been expecting for very long -- only in the last few months before he
and Mr. Frodo had left, really, had it seemed that Rosie might be willing
to have him, and then he'd gone and left like that with no reason to expect
she'd wait for him, or that she'd have him if he came back whole and sound.
But he had, and she did and she had, and now she was Mrs. Gamgee and that he didn't mind at all.
But.
But there was still Mr. Frodo to think of -- and more now than before, with
him being so left out of things now that Sam was married and all.
Rosie had told him she'd be glad and more than glad to be seeing to Mr. Frodo
while he was busy working out-of-doors and away from Bag End, and that just
went to show how good a heart the lass had and how easy it was to see that
Mr. Frodo deserved proper care.
The question was what kind of "seeing to" she'd be willing to do.
He'd had his idea well before the wedding, but decided to wait until it was
properly done and taken care of. (Truth to tell, Sam had been half afraid
of upsetting her to the point of calling the whole wedding off.) Now he'd
had a full two weeks with her as husband and wife to talk the matter over
-- and he still hadn't raised the subject.
Frodo was coming home this afternoon -- or evening, more likely, if those
scamps Merry and Pippin were coming along like they no doubt were.
Not much for early rising, that pair.
There was no time left for shilly-shallying.
Especially not since he'd left the matter alone that morning on waking --
nor brought it up at either breakfast, nor elevenses either.
Now it was lunch, and there was really no telling when Bag End would be descended
upon by Frodo and his noisy oversized cousins. (Who, if Frodo had succeeded
in rousting them out so early, would be noisily complaining about lost sleep
and missed meals, no doubt.) Talking to Mr. Frodo at least could wait until
the cousins had departed. Talking to Rosie needed to be done now, when there were none else in the house to overhear.
"Sam -- you've barely touched your lunch! Don't tell me you're already
tired of my cooking?" The tone was teasing rather than insulted, fortunately
-- not the best way to start this conversation, if Rosie had already been
unhappy with him. As Sam forced himself to pay more fitting attention
to as fine a meal as a working hobbit could wish for, she added, "Well, you've
got something on your mind, then -- might as well stop fretting over
it and say it. No need to be skimping on meals over it, whatever it
is!"
Well. There it was, then. Best to lead up to it a bit. "Mr. Frodo should be coming home today."
"And I've got his room nicely aired out and fresh linens on the bed."
"That's... that's good." Fighting down an unexpected, furtive, ridiculous
jealousy at the thought of anyone but him tending to Frodo's bedding, he
added, "And I'm sure he'll be well taken care of. But." And there
was a stopping point, as he hunted for the path from there to the destination
he wanted.
"But," she prompted, when the pause stretched out overlong. Hands neatly
tucked into the lap of her apron, she waited attentively.
"But it's not the days I'm worried about, it's the nights. And, he's
not wanting to get married, and -- just what do you think about Mr. Frodo?
How -- how much do you like him?"
Oh, bloody hell.
Well, it had almost made sense in his head.
Almost.
Rosie blinked, but refrained from accusing him of having any ninnyhammer
tendencies -- a result he had feared and expected. "Well, he's kind
enough, and takes good care of you, and he shouldn't have gone running off
to foreign parts, but so long as he stays right here in the Shire he should
be right enough."
"And?"
"And?... And I wish he would laugh more, like he used to. I wish
he would go down to the Green Dragon. I think he'd be better off going
outside and seeing other folk and not spending so much time shut away with
a book. He needs to eat more." She waited, eyebrows raised as
if to say, "Is that enough for you?"
Reassuring, in a way -- he agreed with all of it, in fact -- but not quite
what he wanted to know. The question he was really asking came closer
to, "And if -- if I hadn't come back after all, and he'd been the one to
ask you, would you have taken him? Or at least thought about it?"
"Sam! What a question!"
Oops. There it was, the reaction he'd been afraid of getting.
"What do you mean, if you hadn't come back after all! Where would you have been, if not in the Shire?"
Well, maybe not quite the response he'd feared after all.
"If I'd gotten killed, drownded in that river or stabbed by one of the Black
Riders or caught out by orcs or -- or stepped on by that cave troll, and
Mr. Frodo had come back without me -- if he'd asked you, would you have maybe
taken him?"
Rosie appeared to be almost quivering -- though whether with outrage at his
question or with alarm at the reminder that he'd so nearly not come back
to her, he couldn't say. "Questions about what might-have-been come
to no good. You might not want to really know what I might have decided,
and I know I don't want to think about it!"
"Rosie, please. Please. Just think about it a little --
if I'd not come back, or -- or not asked you, or asked someone else -- would
you have at least been a little interested, if Mr. Frodo was?"
"Sam, is this about -- oh, Sam, and with me being alone in the smial with
him so much of the day -- Sam, you know you can trust me, surely! And
with you and your Gaffer both on about what perfect gentlehobbits he and
Mr. Bilbo were, even with the travelling they did -- oh, Sam! I know
I'll behave myself, and -- don't tell me you don't trust him to be --"
"No! No, don't -- that's not..." He just managed to keep
himself from swearing out loud in front of his wife, which would have hardly
been polite. He took a deep breath, silently thanked her for having
stopped when he interrupted her, and tried again. "I know neither one
of you would be up to anything you weren't supposed to, you don't have to
tell me that. It's just -- well, he's not wanting to get married, and
I think that's too much else for him to be losing, and I really don't
want him to be left alone nights too often, and... And..." Again,
the stopping point, and this was the big one this time.
"And...?"
"And, well... My Gaffer said once or twice, about, sometimes -- sometimes,
when two lads wanted the same lass and she wasn't like to choose to between
'em, or, or maybe two lasses with the same lad -- but that's not as easy
to keep quiet about, what with the babies -- well, sometimes, some hobbits
will just keep quiet and share and it's really no one else's business
what goes on in their house. And -- and it's not like we wouldn't already
tend the house and take care of him anyway, so there wouldn't be anything extra but the -- the sleeping arrangements --"
There. There it was, out in the open, and no taking it back now if she didn't like the idea.
"Oh... Oh." She looked a bit wide-eyed at the notion,
but at least she wasn't yelling at him. "Well -- well, I can see why
you weren't eating your lunch, then, with that to say."
"A bit overmuch to think about, and I know I'm no good at that."
"Sam, stop saying that. No matter what your Gaffer told you, you're
smarter than you think." The reproach was becoming an automatic response
already -- Rosie had declared her intentions to make Sam stop calling himself
by any of his Gaffer's harsh names. "Do you -- do you want my answer now?"
"No! No, you can -- take as long as you like. Just -- think about it."
"And -- Mr. Frodo. He said he'd like to?"
"Well... I hadn't said anything to him. Wanted to see how you felt about it before I go --" trying to talk him into it "-- talking to him."
"Oh. So -- if I say 'No' he never finds out about it? And if -- if I say 'Yes,' he may still say 'No'?"
A regrettable weak point in the plan. "If he says 'No,' I'll -- I'll
tell him it was all my idea, and I talked you into it. You can say
you didn't want to anyway, if you like." Fear of rejection was something
Sam had an intimate familiarity with. He would spare Rosie as much
of it as he possibly could.
"And I -- I get to think about it before you say anything to him."
"Wouldn't say anything to him tonight, anyway -- not with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin under the same roof."
"No, I suppose not... I'll -- I'll think about it, then."
"Just -- thanks. For -- for thinking about it, at least."
* *
* * *
And think about it she had, but the rest of the afternoon was spent less
in thinking and more in trying to concentrate on her housework without frequent
pauses for disbelieving contemplation. She was trying to get the smial
into perfect condition for its master's return, but kept catching herself
staring unseeing at a bit of well-polished woodwork, or sweeping the same
bit of floor over and over again, while her thoughts chased each others'
tails. I can't believe Sam asked me to share 'sleeping arrangements' with Mr. Frodo! led to I can't believe Mr. Frodo would be interested in me anyway! and then on to I can't believe I'm considering this!
When the master of the house finally arrived with his exuberant cousins,
right before supper, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not.
On the one hand, she was kept too thoroughly distracted with the meal preparations
to have time to ponder her husband's astonishing suggestion any further --
the more so since it took threatened violence and alcoholic distraction to
get Mr. Pippin away from the kitchen and out from underfoot. On the
other hand, if it weren't for Sam's assurance that he hadn't said a word
to Mr. Frodo, she doubted she would have had the courage to look him in the
eye without blushing -- and even then she tried to stay in the kitchen and
out of sight as much as possible.
That wasn't made easy when Mr. Frodo and his cousins fussed over Sam, offering
congratulations and good-natured teasing on his newly-wedded state, before
insisting that he and his new bride eat in the same dining room and at the
same table as themselves. Which was a very inappropriate offer to make
to the servants, but Sam accepted on both their behalves with much less protest
than Rosie had expected.
Such breezy disregard of class lines was almost expected of Bilbo Baggins'
heir, but that the future Shire Thain and Master of Buckland were sharing
a table with a gardener's youngest son -- well, it provided further food
for thought, on how much Sam had changed while away, and how much the four
of the Travellers must have gone through together, and come to mean to each
other.
Certainly she'd been shown just how much one of them meant to one other earlier that day...
And yet she was expected to sit at the same table as Mr. Frodo, with that
in her thoughts, and her mind not made up yet on what to do about it!
She took refuge in the kitchen as much as possible, claiming to have "forgotten"
half a dozen things to keep herself up and away from the table as often as
she could.
Except that led to Mr. Frodo following her into the kitchen to help
fetch things, telling her on the way past, "No need for you to be waiting
on the rest of us -- you're still supposed to be on your honeymoon, lass!"
Which was rather endearing of him, actually, but did no good when she was
trying to avoid the temptation to inspect him, as though he was a pony she was considering the purchase of.
And that led to thoughts of giving him a ride to test how smooth his
gaits were. She managed to turn the giggle into a cough, reaching for
her drinking cup to hide the smile.
I suppose I could just ask Sam what kind of a ride he gives...
Fortunately, Mr. Pippin was just finishing up his story about two Bracegirdle
sisters, a cooper and a lost shoat, and her laugh mingled with that of the
others around the table.
Somewhere about the time dessert was being served, she realized that some
indefinable tension seemed to have gone out of Sam during the evening.
Was it just that he had finally told her what had been on his mind, or was
it that she seemed to be genuinely considering his odd notion?
Whichever, it was a pleasant meal despite her initial nervousness.
As the evening wore on Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry got themselves enthusiastically
drunk on the cask of ale lurking in the pantry, though she noticed Sam limited
himself to a couple of tankards and Mr. Frodo hardly drank any at all.
She managed to evade the revelry by slipping into the kitchen and starting
in on the dishes. (Not that she had anything against a good drink and a song
in friendly company -- but she had no mind to risk blurting something out
tonight. Not the way her thoughts had been tending, and most especially
not in front of Mr. Frodo's cousins.)
Besides, she was able to ponder the new thoughts that had arisen during the
meal, such as, He'd be all angles, ribs and hips and sharp elbows,
unless I can feed him up properly, or, I wonder why he
doesn't want to get married? And why Sam thinks he'd agree to having
only half a wife if he doesn't want a whole one of his own?
She was finished with the clearing-up well before the four hobbits in the
drawing room were finished with their drink and talk and song. Sam
spotted her, looking into the room undecidedly while she wondered whether
she was expected to stay up all the night with the rest of them. Coming
out into the hall with her for a few moments, he murmured, "Would you mind
very much if I -- stayed with Mr. Frodo tonight?"
It was a surprise, though it really shouldn't have been. Couldn't Mr.
Frodo and his cousins all tend to each other tonight? Ah, well, but
she'd be sharing Sam with him anyway, whether she agreed to share herself
with Mr. Frodo or not, so might as well get used to it.
At least she could get to bed at a decent hour tonight.
Accepting a goodnight kiss from her husband, she headed back to their shared
bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she had another thought. Does Sam want us all to share one bed, or would it be a different
pair of us sleeping together every night? She wasn't really
sure how that would work, all three of them in the same bed -- would they
have to take turns, or could they find things to do to each other all at
once?
She'd flippantly thought that Mr. Frodo and his cousins could all shag each
other tonight, but on reflection she wasn't sure how that
would work, either. Truth be told, she wasn't very clear on the details
of what just two lads would be inclined to do to each
other -- a vague idea of the mechanics, but not how such things were put
into practice, or how they might be found particularly enjoyable.
Of course, if Sam was thinking about the three of them all sharing a bed at once, she would no doubt be finding out for herself.
Well -- if she agreed, that was, and if Mr. Frodo agreed as well.
She had to admit, the idea did have its merits.
Of course, she would need to feed him up a good bit. But if those sharp
angles were padded out the way a hobbit lad should be, he'd actually be very
nice-looking. And he had a fetching smile, if he could just be coaxed
into using it more often. And a wonderful laugh, though it was heard
so rarely now.
She might just be able to get him into a much better frame of mind. (She
certainly had a great deal of success with Sam.) At least she could tease
him away from the books a bit.
She would sleep on the matter and see how she felt about the matter in the morning.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized that her decision had already been made.
* *
* * *
Frodo wasn't proud of himself, that first night back at Bag End after Sam's wedding.
It wasn't at all appropriate for him to be asking Sam into his bed, with
him so recently married and all. Certainly there hadn't been nearly
enough time for Rosie to be ready to let her new husband go for a night,
and with his own cousins right there under the same roof it was doubly improper.
Not that Merry and Pippin had ever asked or offered -- but then, as the younger
cousins, it wouldn't be their place to do so. They could hint, they
could imply, they could come right out and let him know they'd say "yes!"
did he ever see fit to ask the question -- but he hadn't made the invitation.
Not to them, and not to any of his other old friends or distant relations
in Buckland. And that was incomprehensibly odd, for a hobbit of his
age to be spending a full two weeks sleeping alone with neither illness nor
injury as an excuse. (Neither illness nor injury that anyone in the Shire
would recognize, rather, for the travails of being a Ringbearer were not
common lore.)
But it had been his choice, not to entangle himself in matters of the heart
or body -- or even of more-than-dear friendship -- since returning to the
Shire. Not alone because of his own lingering malaise, and not for
the way none who had not seen the War of the Ring firsthand seemed to understand
what he had been through, either.
He just hadn't been interested.
It had caused some difficulties in Minas Tirith during his and Sam's recovery,
when Sam had regained an interest in satisfying certain physical desires
long before Frodo had. Pleading exhaustion wore thin after a time,
and putting Sam off too long or too often led to him worrying that Frodo
had lost interest in him.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
Frodo had indeed lost interest in many things -- but never Sam. Sam
had been with him through all of it, the crawling dark in the tunnel and
the seared waste of Gorgoroth and the bright-burned end of everything Frodo
had ever wanted or hoped for. Sam had brought him out of spider's web,
orc's lair and mountain's fire, and home again to a Bag End grown small and
drear. (True, the eagles had more to do with the rescue from Orodruin than
Sam had -- but Frodo remembered nothing of the flight to safety, only Sam
leading him from the Cracks of Doom until they drifted from awareness hand
in hand and woke in a world made anew.)
If anything, Frodo had lost interest in all else but Sam. When
the light seemed to dim and the air went chill and drear, no fire's heat
nor blanket's wrapping seemed to help his worn-thin frame hold any amount
of warmth. Only Sam's comfortably hobbit-solid form seemed to ward
off the cold, an ailment less of temperature and more of the spirit.
Sam's soul remained unquenched by Mordor -- whereas Frodo's had burned low
and flickering.
At first, in Minas Tirith, Frodo had thought that Sam could warm him through
and through in time. As one candle might be used to light another,
so Sam's heat might feed his own until he was restored. Certainly the
curl of Sam's body sheltering him in the night helped stave off the dreams
-- or at least helped remind him on waking that the spider was driven off,
the orcs scattered, the Nazgul brought low. A reminder of calm and
safety, of gentle summer days and cozy winter nights.
But as the months passed and the others were restored to full health, Frodo's
chill remained. And though there were good days, when the sun was bright
and the world seemed cleansed and he remembered that there was joy to life
as well as pain -- still, there were not so many as Sam and his cousins had.
And they did not grow more frequent as time passed -- rather the contrary,
as his health refused to improve and the nightmares continued to disturb
his rest. Discovering that the wounds of blade and sting would sicken
him on an annual basis was a crushing blow -- for he could no longer entertain
the possibility that time would ease all or even most of his troubles.
Under the circumstances, it was unsurprising that Frodo had lost interest
in the pleasures of the flesh. The warm presence at his back in his
bed was welcome -- the lovemaking wasn't. He didn't want to hurt Sam's
feelings -- had he been able to feign interest he would have. He responded
to Sam's overtures with an almost overwilling ardor whenever he felt capable
of doing so, to make up for the times when he couldn't.
He supposed that was more than sufficient reason for Sam to have settled
the matter with Rosie. Had he still been optimistic about his eventual
recovery, he might have been almost grateful that his lover was finding a
new partner to take care of what Frodo couldn't for a while. But since
he no longer expected to get any better, it felt like Sam had replaced him.
Which was ridiculous -- a wife wasn't the same as your closest friend, even
if both shared your bed on suitable occasions, and certainly one didn't replace
the need for the other.
But.
But feelings didn't respond well to logic.
In Crickhollow for the past fortnight, he'd refused Merry and Pippin's hints
out of that same damnable lack of interest in bedroom activities -- but stayed
up drinking the night away with them whenever they were willing. It
wasn't the inebriation he sought so much as the company through most of the
night, and dreamless sleep afterwards. Sleeping during the daylight
hours came more easily, when waking blessed you with motes dancing in the
sunbeams streaming through the curtains, rather than cursing you with ominous
noises in the night. And when it came to staying up most of the night
and sleeping late into the day, Merry and Pippin were well-suited companions.
Two weeks of an empty bed was quite long enough for him to begin wishing
for Sam again, though. He wasn't exactly a tweenager anymore, but neither
was he used to sleeping alone for such a length of time. Had he not
known the date of his return to Bag End was so close, he might in fact have
given that expected invitation to one or both of his cousins. Had he
taken the full month he'd offered Sam, he almost certainly would have.
But he hadn't, and so he was able to show Sam all the interest he could have hoped for, once the door had closed behind them.
* *
* * *
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